11514	----	Proofreading Team. BALCONY STORIES BY GRACE KING 1892 CONTENTS THE BALCONY A DRAMA OF THREE LA GRANDE DEMOISELLE MIMI'S MARRIAGE THE MIRACLE CHAPEL THE STORY OF A DAY ANNE MARIE AND JEANNE MARIE A CRIPPLED HOPE "ONE OF US" THE LITTLE CONVENT GIRL GRANDMOTHER'S GRANDMOTHER THE OLD LADY'S RESTORATION A DELICATE AFFAIR PUPASSE LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS "WALKING AWAY WITH A SHRUG OF THE SHOULDERS" "WHERE IS THAT IDIOT, THAT DOLT, THAT SLUGGARD, THAT SNAIL, WITH MY MAIL?" CHAMPIGNY "I WEPT, I WEPT, I WEPT" "HER HEART DROVE HER TO THE WINDOW" "ALL THAT DAY WAS DESPONDENCY, DEJECTION" "THIS TIME WE HAVE CAUGHT IT!" "THE QUIET, DIM-LIGHTED ROOM OF A CONVALESCENT" "LITTLE MAMMY" "TO POSE IN ABJECT PATIENCE AND AWKWARDNESS" THE SISTERS BID HER GOOD-BY WATCHING A LANDING "TURNED TO HER DOMESTIC DUTIES" THE ROOM IN THE OLD GALLERY THE FIRST COMMUNION BALCONY STORIES THE BALCONY There is much of life passed on the balcony in a country where the summer unrolls in six moon-lengths, and where the nights have to come with a double endowment of vastness and splendor to compensate for the tedious, sun-parched days. And in that country the women love to sit and talk together of summer nights, on balconies, in their vague, loose, white garments,--men are not balcony sitters,--with their sleeping children within easy hearing, the stars breaking the cool darkness, or the moon making a show of light--oh, such a discreet show of light!--through the vines. And the children inside, waking to go from one sleep into another, hear the low, soft mother-voices on the balcony, talking about this person and that, old times, old friends, old experiences; and it seems to them, hovering a moment in wakefulness, that there is no end of the world or time, or of the mother-knowledge; but, illimitable as it is, the mother-voices and the mother-love and protection fill it all,--with their mother's hand in theirs, children are not afraid even of God,--and they drift into slumber again, their little dreams taking all kinds of pretty reflections from the great unknown horizon outside, as their fragile soap-bubbles take on reflections from the sun and clouds. Experiences, reminiscences, episodes, picked up as only women know how to pick them up from other women's lives,--or other women's destinies, as they prefer to call them,--and told as only women know how to relate them; what God has done or is doing with some other woman whom they have known--that is what interests women once embarked on their own lives,--the embarkation takes place at marriage, or after the marriageable time,--or, rather, that is what interests the women who sit of summer nights on balconies. For in those long-moon countries life is open and accessible, and romances seem to be furnished real and gratis, in order to save, in a languor-breeding climate, the ennui of reading and writing books. Each woman has a different way of picking up and relating her stories, as each one selects different pieces, and has a personal way of playing them on the piano. Each story _is_ different, or appears so to her; each has some unique and peculiar pathos in it. And so she dramatizes and inflects it, trying to make the point visible to her apparent also to her hearers. Sometimes the pathos and interest to the hearers lie only in this--that the relater has observed it, and gathered it, and finds it worth telling. For do we not gather what we have not, and is not our own lacking our one motive? It may be so, for it often appears so. And if a child inside be wakeful and precocious it is not dreams alone that take on reflections from the balcony outside: through the half-open shutters the still, quiet eyes look across the dim forms on the balcony to the star-spangled or the moon-brightened heavens beyond; while memory makes stores for the future, and germs are sown, out of which the slow, clambering vine of thought issues, one day, to decorate or hide, as it may be, the structures or ruins of life. A DRAMA OF THREE It was a regular dramatic performance every first of the month in the little cottage of the old General and Madame B----. It began with the waking up of the General by his wife, standing at the bedside with a cup of black coffee. "Hé! Ah! Oh, Honorine! Yes; the first of the month, and affairs--affairs to be transacted." On those mornings when affairs were to be transacted there was not much leisure for the household; and it was Honorine who constituted the household. Not the old dressing-gown and slippers, the old, old trousers, and the antediluvian neck-foulard of other days! Far from it. It was a case of warm water (with even a fling of cologne in it), of the trimming of beard and mustache by Honorine, and the black broadcloth suit, and the brown satin stock, and that _je ne sais quoi de dégagé_ which no one could possess or assume like the old General. Whether he possessed or assumed it is an uncertainty which hung over the fine manners of all the gentlemen of his day, who were kept through their youth in Paris to cultivate _bon ton_ and an education. It was also something of a gala-day for Madame la Générale too, as it must be a gala-day for all old wives to see their husbands pranked in the manners and graces that had conquered their maidenhood, and exhaling once more that ambrosial fragrance which once so well incensed their compelling presence. Ah, to the end a woman loves to celebrate her conquest! It is the last touch of misfortune with her to lose in the old, the ugly, and the commonplace her youthful lord and master. If one could look under the gray hairs and wrinkles with which time thatches old women, one would be surprised to see the flutterings, the quiverings, the thrills, the emotions, the coals of the heart-fires which death alone extinguishes, when he commands the tenant to vacate. Honorine's hands chilled with the ice of sixteen as she approached scissors to the white mustache and beard. When her finger-tips brushed those lips, still well formed and roseate, she felt it, strange to say, on her lips. When she asperged the warm water with cologne,--it was her secret delight and greatest effort of economy to buy this cologne,--she always had one little moment of what she called faintness--that faintness which had veiled her eyes, and chained her hands, and stilled her throbbing bosom, when as a bride she came from the church with him. It was then she noticed the faint fragrance of the cologne bath. Her lips would open as they did then, and she would stand for a moment and think thoughts to which, it must be confessed, she looked forward from month to month. What a man he had been! In truth he belonged to a period that would accept nothing less from Nature than physical beauty; and Nature is ever subservient to the period. If it is to-day all small men, and to-morrow gnomes and dwarfs, we may know that the period is demanding them from Nature. When the General had completed--let it be called no less than the ceremony of--his toilet, he took his chocolate and his _pain de Paris_. Honorine could not imagine him breakfasting on anything but _pain de Paris._ Then he sat himself in his large arm-chair before his escritoire, and began transacting his affairs with the usual-- "But where is that idiot, that dolt, that sluggard, that snail, with my mail?" Honorine, busy in the breakfast-room: [Illustration: "WHERE IS THAT IDIOT, THAT DOLT, THAT SLUGGARD, THAT SNAIL, WITH MY MAIL?"] "In a moment, husband. In a moment." "But he should be here now. It is the first of the month, it is nine o'clock, I am ready; he should be here." "It is not yet nine o'clock, husband." "Not yet nine! Not yet nine! Am I not up? Am I not dressed? Have I not breakfasted before nine?" "That is so, husband. That is so." Honorine's voice, prompt in cheerful acquiescence, came from the next room, where she was washing his cup, saucer, and spoon. "It is getting worse and worse every day. I tell you, Honorine, Pompey must be discharged. He is worthless. He is trifling. Discharge him! Discharge him! Do not have him about! Chase him out of the yard! Chase him as soon as he makes his appearance! Do you hear, Honorine?" "You must have a little patience, husband." It was perhaps the only reproach one could make to Madame Honorine, that she never learned by experience. "Patience! Patience! Patience is the invention of dullards and sluggards. In a well-regulated world there should be no need of such a thing as patience. Patience should be punished as a crime, or at least as a breach of the peace. Wherever patience is found police investigation should be made as for smallpox. Patience! Patience! I never heard the word--I assure you, I never heard the word in Paris. What do you think would be said there to the messenger who craved patience of you? Oh, they know too well in Paris--a rataplan from the walking-stick on his back, that would be the answer; and a, 'My good fellow, we are not hiring professors of patience, but legs.'" "But, husband, you must remember we do not hire Pompey. He only does it to oblige us, out of his kindness." "Oblige us! Oblige me! Kindness! A negro oblige me! Kind to me! That is it; that is it. That is the way to talk under the new régime. It is favor, and oblige, and education, and monsieur, and madame, now. What child's play to call this a country--a government! I would not be surprised"--jumping to his next position on this ever-recurring first of the month theme--"I would not be surprised if Pompey has failed to find the letter in the box. How do I know that the mail has not been tampered with? From day to day I expect to hear it. What is to prevent? Who is to interpose? The honesty of the officials? Honesty of the officials--that is good! What a farce--honesty of officials! That is evidently what has happened. The thought has not occurred to me in vain. Pompey has gone. He has not found the letter, and--well; that is the end." But the General had still another theory to account for the delay in the appearance of his mail which he always posed abruptly after the exhaustion of the arraignment of the post-office. "And why not Journel?" Journel was their landlord, a fellow of means, but no extraction, and a favorite aversion of the old gentleman's. "Journel himself? You think he is above it, _hé_? You think Journel would not do such a thing? Ha! your simplicity, Honorine--your simplicity is incredible. It is miraculous. I tell you, I have known the Journels, from father to son, for--yes, for seventy-five years. Was not his grandfather the overseer on my father's plantation? I was not five years old when I began to know the Journels. And this fellow, I know him better than he knows himself. I know him as well as God knows him. I have made up my mind. I have made it up carefully that the first time that letter fails on the first of the month I shall have Journel arrested as a thief. I shall land him in the penitentiary. What! You think I shall submit to have my mail tampered with by a Journel? Their contents appropriated? What! You think there was no coincidence in Journel's offering me his post-office box just the month--just the month, before those letters began to arrive? You think he did not have some inkling of them? Mark my words, Honorine, he did--by some of his subterranean methods. And all these five years he has been arranging his plans--that is all. He was arranging theft, which no doubt has been consummated to-day. Oh, I have regretted it--I assure you I have regretted it, that I did not promptly reject his proposition, that, in fact, I ever had anything to do with the fellow." It was almost invariably, so regularly do events run in this world,--it was almost invariably that the negro messenger made his appearance at this point. For five years the General had perhaps not been interrupted as many times, either above or below the last sentence. The mail, or rather the letter, was opened, and the usual amount--three ten-dollar bills--was carefully extracted and counted. And as if he scented the bills, even as the General said he did, within ten minutes after their delivery, Journel made his appearance to collect the rent. It could only have been in Paris, among that old retired nobility, who counted their names back, as they expressed it, "au de çà du déluge," that could have been acquired the proper manner of treating a "roturier" landlord: to measure him with the eyes from head to foot; to hand the rent--the ten-dollar bill--with the tips of the fingers; to scorn a look at the humbly tendered receipt; to say: "The cistern needs repairing, the roof leaks; I must warn you that unless such notifications meet with more prompt attention than in the past, you must look for another tenant," etc., in the monotonous tone of supremacy, and in the French, not of Journel's dictionary, nor of the dictionary of any such as he, but in the French of Racine and Corneille; in the French of the above suggested circle, which inclosed the General's memory, if it had not inclosed--as he never tired of recounting--his star-like personality. A sheet of paper always infolded the bank-notes. It always bore, in fine but sexless tracery, "From one who owes you much." There, that was it, that sentence, which, like a locomotive, bore the General and his wife far on these firsts of the month to two opposite points of the horizon, in fact, one from the other--"From one who owes you much." The old gentleman would toss the paper aside with the bill receipt. In the man to whom the bright New Orleans itself almost owed its brightness, it was a paltry act to search and pick for a debtor. Friends had betrayed and deserted him; relatives had forgotten him; merchants had failed with his money; bank presidents had stooped to deceive him; for he was an old man, and had about run the gamut of human disappointments--a gamut that had begun with a C major of trust, hope, happiness, and money. His political party had thrown him aside. Neither for ambassador, plenipotentiary, senator, congressman, not even for a clerkship, could he be nominated by it. Certes! "From one who owed him much." He had fitted the cap to a new head, the first of every month, for five years, and still the list was not exhausted. Indeed, it would have been hard for the General to look anywhere and not see some one whose obligations to him far exceeded this thirty dollars a month. Could he avoid being happy with such eyes? But poor Madame Honorine! She who always gathered up the receipts, and the "From one who owes you much"; who could at an instant's warning produce the particular ones for any month of the past half-decade. She kept them filed, not only in her armoire, but the scrawled papers--skewered, as it were, somewhere else--where women from time immemorial have skewered such unsigned papers. She was not original in her thoughts--no more, for the matter of that, than the General was. Tapped at any time on the first of the month, when she would pause in her drudgery to reimpale her heart by a sight of the written characters on the scrap of paper, her thoughts would have been found flowing thus, "One can give everything, and yet be sure of nothing." When Madame Honorine said "everything," she did not, as women in such cases often do, exaggerate. When she married the General, she in reality gave the youth of sixteen, the beauty (ah, do not trust the denial of those wrinkles, the thin hair, the faded eyes!) of an angel, the dot of an heiress. Alas! It was too little at the time. Had she in her own person united all the youth, all the beauty, all the wealth, sprinkled parsimoniously so far and wide over all the women in this land, would she at that time have done aught else with this than immolate it on the burning pyre of the General's affection? "And yet be sure of nothing." It is not necessary, perhaps, to explain that last clause. It is very little consolation for wives that their husbands have forgotten, when some one else remembers. Some one else! Ah! there could be so many some one Else's in the General's life, for in truth he had been irresistible to excess. But this was one particular some one else who had been faithful for five years. Which one? When Madame Honorine solves that enigma she has made up her mind how to act. As for Journel, it amused him more and more. He would go away from the little cottage rubbing his hands with pleasure (he never saw Madame Honorine, by the way, only the General). He would have given far more than thirty dollars a month for this drama; for he was not only rich, but a great _farceur_. LA GRANDE DEMOISELLE That was what she was called by everybody as soon as she was seen or described. Her name, besides baptismal titles, was Idalie Sainte Foy Mortemart des Islets. When she came into society, in the brilliant little world of New Orleans, it was the event of the season, and after she came in, whatever she did became also events. Whether she went, or did not go; what she said, or did not say; what she wore, and did not wear--all these became important matters of discussion, quoted as much or more than what the president said, or the governor thought. And in those days, the days of '59, New Orleans was not, as it is now, a one-heiress place, but it may be said that one could find heiresses then as one finds type-writing girls now. Mademoiselle Idalie received her birth, and what education she had, on her parents' plantation, the famed old Reine Sainte Foy place, and it is no secret that, like the ancient kings of France, her birth exceeded her education. It was a plantation, the Reine Sainte Foy, the richness and luxury of which are really well described in those fervid pictures of tropical life, at one time the passion of philanthropic imaginations, excited and exciting over the horrors of slavery. Although these pictures were then often accused of being purposely exaggerated, they seem now to fall short of, instead of surpassing, the truth. Stately walls, acres of roses, miles of oranges, unmeasured fields of cane, colossal sugar-house--they were all there, and all the rest of it, with the slaves, slaves, slaves everywhere, whole villages of negro cabins. And there were also, most noticeable to the natural, as well as to the visionary, eye--there were the ease, idleness, extravagance, self-indulgence, pomp, pride, arrogance, in short the whole enumeration, the moral _sine qua non_, as some people considered it, of the wealthy slaveholder of aristocratic descent and tastes. What Mademoiselle Idalie cared to learn she studied, what she did not she ignored; and she followed the same simple rule untrammeled in her eating, drinking, dressing, and comportment generally; and whatever discipline may have been exercised on the place, either in fact or fiction, most assuredly none of it, even so much as in a threat, ever attended her sacred person. When she was just turned sixteen, Mademoiselle Idalie made up her mind to go into society. Whether she was beautiful or not, it is hard to say. It is almost impossible to appreciate properly the beauty of the rich, the very rich. The unfettered development, the limitless choice of accessories, the confidence, the self-esteem, the sureness of expression, the simplicity of purpose, the ease of execution--all these produce a certain effect of beauty behind which one really cannot get to measure length of nose, or brilliancy of eye. This much can be said: there was nothing in her that positively contradicted any assumption of beauty on her part, or credit of it on the part of others. She was very tall and very thin with small head, long neck, black eyes, and abundant straight black hair,--for which her hair-dresser deserved more praise than she,--good teeth, of course, and a mouth that, even in prayer, talked nothing but commands; that is about all she had _en fait d'ornements_, as the modesties say. It may be added that she walked as if the Reine Sainte Foy plantation extended over the whole earth, and the soil of it were too vile for her tread. Of course she did not buy her toilets in New Orleans. Everything was ordered from Paris, and came as regularly through the custom-house as the modes and robes to the milliners. She was furnished by a certain house there, just as one of a royal family would be at the present day. As this had lasted from her layette up to her sixteenth year, it may be imagined what took place when she determined to make her début. Then it was literally, not metaphorically, _carte blanche_, at least so it got to the ears of society. She took a sheet of note-paper, wrote the date at the top, added, "I make my début in November," signed her name at the extreme end of the sheet, addressed it to her dressmaker in Paris, and sent it. It was said that in her dresses the very handsomest silks were used for linings, and that real lace was used where others put imitation,--around the bottoms of the skirts, for instance,--and silk ribbons of the best quality served the purposes of ordinary tapes; and sometimes the buttons were of real gold and silver, sometimes set with precious stones. Not that she ordered these particulars, but the dressmakers, when given _carte blanche_ by those who do not condescend to details, so soon exhaust the outside limits of garments that perforce they take to plastering them inside with gold, so to speak, and, when the bill goes in, they depend upon the furnishings to carry out a certain amount of the contract in justifying the price. And it was said that these costly dresses, after being worn once or twice, were cast aside, thrown upon the floor, given to the negroes--anything to get them out of sight. Not an inch of the real lace, not one of the jeweled buttons, not a scrap of ribbon, was ripped off to save. And it was said that if she wanted to romp with her dogs in all her finery, she did it; she was known to have ridden horseback, one moonlight night, all around the plantation in a white silk dinner-dress flounced with Alençon. And at night, when she came from the balls, tired, tired to death as only balls can render one, she would throw herself down upon her bed in her tulle skirts,--on top, or not, of the exquisite flowers, she did not care,--and make her maid undress her in that position; often having her bodices cut off her, because she was too tired to turn over and have them unlaced. That she was admired, raved about, loved even, goes without saying. After the first month she held the refusal of half the beaux of New Orleans. Men did absurd, undignified, preposterous things for her; and she? Love? Marry? The idea never occurred to her. She treated the most exquisite of her pretenders no better than she treated her Paris gowns, for the matter of that. She could not even bring herself to listen to a proposal patiently; whistling to her dogs, in the middle of the most ardent protestations, or jumping up and walking away with a shrug of the shoulders, and a "Bah!" [Illustration: "WALKING AWAY WITH A SHRUG OF THE SHOULDERS."] Well! Every one knows what happened after '59. There is no need to repeat. The history of one is the history of all. But there was this difference--for there is every shade of difference in misfortune, as there is every shade of resemblance in happiness. Mortemart des Islets went off to fight. That was natural; his family had been doing that, he thought, or said, ever since Charlemagne. Just as naturally he was killed in the first engagement. They, his family, were always among the first killed; so much so that it began to be considered assassination to fight a duel with any of them. All that was in the ordinary course of events. One difference in their misfortunes lay in that after the city was captured, their plantation, so near, convenient, and rich in all kinds of provisions, was selected to receive a contingent of troops--a colored company. If it had been a colored company raised in Louisiana it might have been different; and these negroes mixed with the negroes in the neighborhood,--and negroes are no better than whites, for the proportion of good and bad among them,--and the officers were always off duty when they should have been on, and on when they should have been off. One night the dwelling caught fire. There was an immediate rush to save the ladies. Oh, there was no hesitation about that! They were seized in their beds, and carried out in the very arms of their enemies; carried away off to the sugar-house, and deposited there. No danger of their doing anything but keep very quiet and still in their _chemises de nuit_, and their one sheet apiece, which was about all that was saved from the conflagration--that is, for them. But it must be remembered that this is all hearsay. When one has not been present, one knows nothing of one's own knowledge; one can only repeat. It has been repeated, however, that although the house was burned to the ground, and everything in it destroyed, wherever, for a year afterward, a man of that company or of that neighborhood was found, there could have been found also, without search-warrant, property that had belonged to the Des Islets. That is the story; and it is believed or not, exactly according to prejudice. How the ladies ever got out of the sugar-house, history does not relate; nor what they did. It was not a time for sociability, either personal or epistolary. At one offensive word your letter, and you, very likely, examined; and Ship Island for a hotel, with soldiers for hostesses! Madame Des Islets died very soon after the accident--of rage, they say; and that was about all the public knew. Indeed, at that time the society of New Orleans had other things to think about than the fate of the Des Islets. As for _la grande demoiselle_, she had prepared for her own oblivion in the hearts of her female friends. And the gentlemen,--her _preux chevaliers_,--they were burning with other passions than those which had driven them to her knees, encountering a little more serious response than "bahs" and shrugs. And, after all, a woman seems the quickest thing forgotten when once the important affairs of life come to men for consideration. It might have been ten years according to some calculations, or ten eternities,--the heart and the almanac never agree about time,--but one morning old Champigny (they used to call him Champignon) was walking along his levee front, calculating how soon the water would come over, and drown him out, as the Louisianians say. It was before a seven-o'clock breakfast, cold, wet, rainy, and discouraging. The road was knee-deep in mud, and so broken up with hauling, that it was like walking upon waves to get over it. A shower poured down. Old Champigny was hurrying in when he saw a figure approaching. He had to stop to look at it, for it was worth while. The head was hidden by a green barege veil, which the showers had plentifully besprinkled with dew; a tall, thin figure. Figure! No; not even could it be called a figure: straight up and down, like a finger or a post; high-shouldered, and a step--a step like a plow-man's. No umbrella; no--nothing more, in fact. It does not sound so peculiar as when first related--something must be forgotten. The feet--oh, yes, the feet--they were like waffle-irons, or frying-pans, or anything of that shape. Old Champigny did not care for women--he never had; they simply did not exist for him in the order of nature. He had been married once, it is true, about a half century before; but that was not reckoned against the existence of his prejudice, because he was _célibataire_ to his finger-tips, as any one could see a mile away. But that woman _intrigué'd_ him. He had no servant to inquire from. He performed all of his own domestic work in the wretched little cabin that replaced his old home. For Champigny also belonged to the great majority of the _nouveaux pauvres_. He went out into the rice-field, where were one or two hands that worked on shares with him, and he asked them. They knew immediately; there is nothing connected with the parish that a field-hand does not know at once. She was the teacher of the colored public school some three or four miles away. "Ah," thought Champigny, "some Northern lady on a mission." He watched to see her return in the evening, which she did, of course; in a blinding rain. Imagine the green barege veil then; for it remained always down over her face. [Illustration: CHAMPIGNY.] Old Champigny could not get over it that he had never seen her before. But he must have seen her, and, with his abstraction and old age, not have noticed her, for he found out from the negroes that she had been teaching four or five years there. And he found out also--how, is not important--that she was Idalie Sainte Foy Mortemart des Islets. _La grande demoiselle_! He had never known her in the old days, owing to his uncomplimentary attitude toward women, but he knew of her, of course, and of her family. It should have been said that his plantation was about fifty miles higher up the river, and on the opposite bank to Reine Sainte Foy. It seemed terrible. The old gentleman had had reverses of his own, which would bear the telling, but nothing was more shocking to him than this--that Idalie Sainte Foy Mortemart des Islets should be teaching a public colored school for--it makes one blush to name it--seven dollars and a half a month. For seven dollars and a half a month to teach a set of--well! He found out where she lived, a little cabin--not so much worse than his own, for that matter--in the corner of a field; no companion, no servant, nothing but food and shelter. Her clothes have been described. Only the good God himself knows what passed in Champigny's mind on the subject. We know only the results. He went and married _la grande demoiselle_. How? Only the good God knows that too. Every first of the month, when he goes to the city to buy provisions, he takes her with him--in fact, he takes her everywhere with him. Passengers on the railroad know them well, and they always have a chance to see her face. When she passes her old plantation _la grande demoiselle_ always lifts her veil for one instant--the inevitable green barege veil. What a face! Thin, long, sallow, petrified! And the neck! If she would only tie something around the neck! And her plain, coarse cottonade gown! The negro women about her were better dressed than she. Poor old Champignon! It was not an act of charity to himself, no doubt cross and disagreeable, besides being ugly. And as for love, gratitude! MIMI'S MARRIAGE This how she told about it, sitting in her little room,--her bridal chamber,--not larger, really not larger than sufficed for the bed there, the armoire here, the bureau opposite, and the washstand behind the door, the corners all touching. But a nice set of furniture, quite _comme il faut_,--handsome, in fact,--as a bride of good family should have. And she was dressed very prettily, too, in her long white _negligée_, with plenty of lace and ruffles and blue ribbons,--such as only the Creole girls can make, and brides, alas! wear,--the pretty honeymoon costume that suggests, that suggests--well! to proceed. "The poor little cat!" as one could not help calling her, so _mignonne_, so blond, with the pretty black eyes, and the rosebud of a mouth,--whenever she closed it,--a perfect kiss. "But you know, Louise," she said, beginning quite seriously at the beginning, "papa would never have consented, never, never--poor papa! Indeed, I should never have asked him; it would only have been one humiliation more for him, poor papa! So it was well he was dead, if it was God's will for it to be. Of course I had my dreams, like everybody. I was so blond, so blond, and so small; it seemed like a law I should marry a _brun_, a tall, handsome _brun_, with a mustache and a fine barytone voice. That was how I always arranged it, and--you will laugh--but a large, large house, and numbers of servants, and a good cook, but a superlatively good cuisine, and wine and all that, and long, trailing silk dresses, and theater every night, and voyages to Europe, and--well, everything God had to give, in fact. You know, I get that from papa, wanting everything God has to give! Poor papa! It seemed to me I was to meet him at any time, my handsome _brun_. I used to look for him positively on my way to school, and back home again, and whenever I would think of him I would try and walk so prettily, and look so pretty! _Mon Dieu!_ I was not ten years old yet! And afterward it was only for that that I went into society. What should girls go into society for otherwise but to meet their _brun_ or their blond? Do you think it is amusing, to economize and economize, and sew and sew, just to go to a party to dance? No! I assure you, I went into society only for that; and I do not believe what girls say--they go into society only for that too. "You know at school how we used to _tirer la bonne aventure._[1] Well, every time he was not _brun, riche, avenant_, Jules, or Raoul, or Guy, I simply would not accept it, but would go on drawing until I obtained what I wanted. As I tell you, I thought it was my destiny. And when I would try with a flower to see if he loved me,--_Il m'aime, un peu, beaucoup, passionément, pas du tout_,--if it were _pas du tout_, I would always throw the flower away, and begin tearing off the leaves from another one immediately. _Passionément_ was what I wanted, and I always got it in the end. [Footnote 1: _La bonne aventure_ is or was generally a very much battered foolscap copy-book, which contained a list of all possible elements of future (school-girl) happiness. Each item answered a question, and had a number affixed to it. To draw one's fortune consisted in asking question after question, and guessing a number, a companion volunteering to read the answers. To avoid cheating, the books were revised from time to time, and the numbers changed.] "But papa, poor papa, he never knew anything of that, of course. He would get furious when any one would come to see me, and sometimes, when he would take me in society, if I danced with a 'nobody,'--as he called no matter whom I danced with,--he would come up and take me away with such an air--such an air! It would seem that papa thought himself better than everybody in the world. But it went worse and worse with papa, not only in the affairs of the world, but in health. Always thinner and thinner, always a cough; in fact, you know, I am a little feeble-chested myself, from papa. And Clementine! Clementine with her children--just think, Louise, eight! I thank God my mama had only me, if papa's second wife had to have so many. And so naughty! I assure you, they were all devils; and no correction, no punishment, no education--but you know Clementine! I tell you, sometimes on account of those children I used to think myself in 'ell [making the Creole's attempt and failure to pronounce the h], and Clementine had no pride about them. If they had shoes, well; if they had not shoes, well also. [Illustration] "'But Clementine!' I would expostulate, I would pray-- "'But do not be a fool, Mimi,' she would say. 'Am I God? Can I do miracles? Or must I humiliate your papa?' "That was true. Poor papa! It would have humiliated papa. When he had money he gave; only it was a pity he had no money. As for what he observed, he thought it was Clementine's negligence. For, it is true, Clementine had no order, no industry, in the best of fortune as in the worst. But to do her justice, it was not her fault this time, only she let him believe it, to save his pride; and Clementine, you know, has a genius for stories. I assure you, Louise, I was desperate. I prayed to God to help me, to advise me. I could not teach--I had no education; I could not go into a shop--that would be dishonoring papa--and _enfin_, I was too pretty. 'And proclaim to the world,' Clementine would cry, 'that your papa does not make money for his family.' That was true. The world is so malicious. You know, Louise, sometimes it seems to me the world is glad to hear that a man cannot support his family; it compliments those who can. As if papa had not intelligence, and honor, and honesty! But they do not count now as in old times, 'before the war.' "And so, when I thought of that, I laughed and talked and played the thoughtless like Clementine, and made bills. We made bills--we had to--for everything; we could do that, you know, on our old name and family. But it is too long! I am sure it is too long and tiresome! What egotism on my part! Come, we will take a glass of anisette, and talk of something else--your trip, your family. No? no? You are only asking me out of politeness! You are so _aimable_, so kind. Well, if you are not _ennuyée_--in fact, I want to tell you. It was too long to write, and I detest a pen. To me there is no instrument of torture like a pen. "Well, the lady next door, she was an American, and common, very common, according to papa. In comparison to us she had no family whatever. Our little children were forbidden even to associate with her little children. I thought that was ridiculous--not that I am a democrat, but I thought it ridiculous. But the children cared; they were so disobedient and they were always next door, and they always had something nice to eat over there. I sometimes thought Clementine used to encourage their disobedience, just for the good things they got to eat over there. But papa was always making fun of them; you know what a sharp tongue he had. The gentleman was a clerk; and, according to papa, the only true gentlemen in the world had family and a profession. We did not dare allow ourselves to think it, but Clementine and I knew that they, in fact, were in more comfortable circumstances than we. "The lady, who also had a great number of children, sent one day, with all the discretion and delicacy possible, and asked me if I would be so kind as to--guess what, Louise! But only guess! But you never could! Well, to darn some of her children's stockings for her. It was God who inspired her, I am sure, on account of my praying so much to him. You will be shocked, Louise, when I tell you. It sounds like a sin, but I was not in despair when papa died. It was a grief,--yes, it seized the heart, but it was not despair. Men ought not to be subjected to the humiliation of life; they are not like women, you know. We are made to stand things; they have their pride,--their _orgueil_, as we say in French,--and that is the point of honor with some men. And Clementine and I, we could not have concealed it much longer. In fact, the truth was crying out everywhere, in the children, in the house, in our own persons, in our faces. The darning did not provide a superfluity, I guarantee you! "Poor papa! He caught cold. He was condemned from the first. And so all his fine qualities died; for he had fine qualities--they were too fine for this age, that was all. Yes; it was a kindness of God to take him before he found out. If it was to be, it was better. Just so with Clementine as with me. After the funeral--crack! everything went to pieces. We were at the four corners for the necessaries of life, and the bills came in--my dear, the bills that came in! What memories! what memories! Clementine and I exclaimed; there were some bills that we had completely forgotten about. The lady next door sent her brother over when papa died. He sat up all night, that night, and he assisted us in all our arrangements. And he came in afterward, every evening. If papa had been there, there would have been a fine scene over it; he would have had to take the door, very likely. But now there was no one to make objections. And so when, as I say, we were at the four corners for the necessaries of life, he asked Clementine's permission to ask me to marry him. "I give you my word, Louise, I had forgotten there was such a thing as marriage in the world for me! I had forgotten it as completely as the chronology of the Merovingian dynasty, alas! with all the other school things forgotten. And I do not believe Clementine remembered there was such a possibility in the world for me. _Mon Dieu!_ when a girl is poor she may have all the beauty in the world--not that I had beauty, only a little prettiness. But you should have seen Clementine! She screamed for joy when she told me. Oh, there was but one answer according to her, and according to everybody she could consult, in her haste. They all said it was a dispensation of Providence in my favor. He was young, he was strong; he did not make a fortune, it was true, but he made a good living. And what an assistance to have a man in the family!--an assistance for Clementine and the children. But the principal thing, after all, was, he wanted to marry me. Nobody had ever wanted that before, my dear! "Quick, quick, it was all arranged. All my friends did something for me. One made my _peignoirs_ for me, one this, one that--_ma foi!_ I did not recognize myself. One made all the toilet of the bureau, another of the bed, and we all sewed on the wedding-dress together. And you should have seen Clementine, going out in all her great mourning, looking for a house, looking for a servant! But the wedding was private on account of poor papa. But you know, Loulou, I had never time to think, except about Clementine and the children, and when I thought of all those poor little children, poor papa's children, I said 'Quick, quick,' like the rest. "It was the next day, the morning after the wedding, I had time to think. I was sitting here, just as you see me now, in my pretty new _negligée_. I had been looking at all the pretty presents I have shown you, and my trousseau, and my furniture,--it is not bad, as you see,--my dress, my veil, my ring, and--I do not know--I do not know--but, all of a sudden, from everywhere came the thought of my _brun_, my handsome _brun_ with the mustache, and the _bonne aventure, ricke, avenant_, the Jules, Raoul, Guy, and the flower leaves, and '_il m'aime, un pen, beaucoup, pas du tout,' passionnément_, and the way I expected to meet him walking to and from school, walking as if I were dancing the steps, and oh, my plans, my plans, my plans,--silk dresses, theater, voyages to Europe,--and poor papa, so fine, so tall, so aristocratic. I cannot tell you how it all came; it seized my heart, and, _mon Dieu!_ I cried out, and I wept, I wept, I wept. How I wept! It pains me here now to remember it. Hours, hours it lasted, until I had no tears in my body, and I had to weep without them, with sobs and moans. But this, I have always observed, is the time for reflection--after the tears are all out. And I am sure God himself gave me my thoughts. 'Poor little Mimi!' I thought, '_fi done_! You are going to make a fool of yourself now when it is all over, because why? It is God who manages the world, and not you. You pray to God to help you in your despair, and he has helped you. He has sent you a good, kind husband who adores you; who asks only to be a brother to your sisters and brothers, and son to Clementine; who has given you more than you ever possessed in your life--but because he did not come out of the _bonne aventure_--and who gets a husband out of the _bonne aventure?_--and would your _brun_ have come to you in your misfortune?' I am sure God inspired those thoughts in me. [Illustration: "I wept, I wept, I wept."] "I tell you, I rose from that bed--naturally I had thrown myself upon it. Quick I washed my face, I brushed my hair, and, you see these bows of ribbons,--look, here are the marks of the tears,--I turned them. _Hé,_ Loulou, it occurs to me, that if you examined the blue bows on a bride's _negligée_, you might always find tears on the other side; for do they not all have to marry whom God sends? and am I the only one who had dreams? It is the end of dreams, marriage; and that is the good thing about it. God lets us dream to keep us quiet, but he knows when to wake us up, I tell you. The blue bows knew! And now, you see, I prefer my husband to my _brun_; in fact, Loulou, I adore him, and I am furiously jealous about him. And he is so good to Clementine and the poor little children; and see his photograph--a blond, and not good-looking, and small! "But poor papa! If he had been alive, I am sure he never would have agreed with God about my marriage." THE MIRACLE CHAPEL Every heart has a miracle to pray for. Every life holds that which only a miracle can cure. To prove that there have never been, that there can never be, miracles does not alter the matter. So long as there is something hoped for,--that does not come in the legitimate channel of possible events,--so long as something does come not to be hoped or expected in the legitimate channel of possible events, just so long will the miracle be prayed for. The rich and the prosperous, it would seem, do not depend upon God so much, do not need miracles, as the poor do. They do not have to pray for the extra crust when starvation hovers near; for the softening of an obdurate landlord's heart; for strength in temptation, light in darkness, salvation from vice; for a friend in friendlessness; for that miracle of miracles, an opportunity to struggling ambition; for the ending of a dark night, the breaking of day; and, oh! for God's own miracle to the bedside-watchers--the change for the better, when death is there and the apothecary's skill too far, far away. The poor, the miserable, the unhappy, they can show their miracles by the score; that is why God is called the poor man's friend. He does not mind, so they say, going in the face of logic and reason to relieve them; for often the kind and charitable are sadly hampered by the fetters of logic and reason, which hold them, as it were, away from their own benevolence. But the rich have their miracles, no doubt, even in that beautiful empyrean of moneyed ease in which the poor place them. Their money cannot buy all they enjoy, and God knows how much of their sorrow it assuages. As it is, one hears now and then of accidents among them, conversions to better thoughts, warding off of danger, rescue of life; and heirs are sometimes born, and husbands provided, and fortunes saved, in such surprising ways, that even the rich, feeling their limitations in spite of their money, must ascribe it privately if not publicly to other potencies than their own. These cathedral _tours de force_, however, do not, if the truth be told, convince like the miracles of the obscure little chapel. There is always a more and a most obscure little miracle chapel, and as faith seems ever to lead unhesitatingly to the latter one, there is ever rising out of humility and obscurity, as in response to a demand, some new shrine, to replace the wear and tear and loss of other shrines by prosperity. For, alas! it is hard even for a chapel to remain obscure and humble in the face of prosperity and popularity. And how to prevent such popularity and prosperity? As soon as the noise of a real miracle in it gets abroad, every one is for hurrying thither at once with their needs and their prayers, their candles and their picayunes; and the little miracle chapel, perhaps despite itself, becomes with mushroom growth a church, and the church a cathedral, from whose resplendent altars the cheap, humble ex-voto tablets, the modest beginnings of its ecclesiastical fortunes, are before long banished to dimly lighted lateral shrines. The miracle chapel in question lay at the end of a very confusing but still intelligible route. It is not in truth a chapel at all, but a consecrated chamber in a very small, very lowly cottage, which stands, or one might appropriately, if not with absolute novelty, say which kneels, in the center of a large garden, a garden primeval in rusticity and size, its limits being defined by no lesser boundaries than the four intersecting streets outside, and its culture showing only the careless, shiftless culture of nature. The streets outside were miracles themselves in that, with their liquid contents, they were streets and not bayous. However, they protected their island chapel almost as well as a six-foot moat could have done. There was a small paved space on the sidewalk that served to the pedestrian as an indication of the spot in the tall, long, broad fence where a gate might be sought. It was a small gate with a strong latch. It required a strong hand to open it. At the sound of the click it made, the little street ragamuffin, who stood near, peeping through the fence, looked up. He had worked quite a hole between the boards with his fingers. Such an anxious expression passed over his face that even a casual passer-by could not help relieving it by a question--any question: "Is this the miracle chapel, little boy?" "Yes, ma'am; yes." Then his expression changed to one of eagerness, yet hardly less anxious. "Here. Take this--" He did not hold out his hand, the coin had to seek it. At its touch he refused to take it. "I ain't begging." "What are you looking at so through the fence?" He was all sadness now. "Just looking." "Is there anything to see inside?" He did not answer. The interrogation was repeated. "I can't see nothing. I'm blind," putting his eyes again to the hole, first one, then the other. "Come, won't you tell me how this came to be a miracle chapel?" "Oh, ma'am,"--he turned his face from the fence, and clasped his hands in excitement,--"it was a poor widow woman who come here with her baby that was a-dying, and she prayed to the Virgin Mary, and the Virgin Mary made the baby live--" He dropped his voice, the words falling slower and slower. As he raised his face, one could see then that he was blind, and the accident that had happened to him, in fording the street. What sightless eyes! What a wet, muddy little skeleton! Ten? No; hardly ten years of age. "The widow woman she picked up her baby, and she run down the walk here, and out into the street screaming--she was so glad,"--putting his eyes to the peep-hole again,--"and the Virgin Mary come down the walk after her, and come through the gate, too; and that was all she seed--the widow woman." "Did you know the widow woman?" He shook his head. "How do you know it?" "That was what they told me. And they told me, the birds all begun to sing at once, and the flowers all lighted up like the sun was shining on them. They seed her. And she come down the walk, and through the gate," his voice lowering again to a whisper. Aye, how the birds must have sung, and the flowers shone, to the widowed mother as she ran, nay, leaped, down that rose-hedged walk, with her restored baby clasped to her bosom! "_They_ seed her," repeated the little fellow. "And that is why you stand here--to see her, too?" His shoulder turned uneasily in the clasp upon it. "They seed her, and they ain't got no eyes." "Have you no mother?" "Ain't never had no mother." A thought struck him. "Would that count, ma'am? Would that count? The little baby that was dying--yes, ma'am, it had a mother; and it's the mothers that come here constant with their children; I sometimes hear 'em dragging them in by the hand." "How long have you been coming here?" "Ever since the first time I heard it, ma'am." Street ragamuffins do not cry: it would be better if they did so, when they are so young and so blind; it would be easier for the spectator, the auditor. "They seed her--I might see her ef--ef I could see her once--ef--ef I could see anything once." His voice faltered; but he stiffened it instantly. "She might see me. She can't pass through this gate without seeing me; and--and--ef she seed me--and I didn't even see her--oh, I'm so tired of being blind!" "Did you never go inside to pray?" How embarrassing such a question is, even to a child! "No, ma'am. Does that count, too? The little baby didn't pray, the flowers didn't go inside, nor the birds. And they say the birds broke out singing all at once, and the flowers shined, like the sun was shining on 'em--like the sun was shining in 'em," he corrected himself. "The birds they can see, and the flowers they can't see, and they seed her." He shivered with the damp cold--and perhaps too with hunger. "Where do you live?" He wouldn't answer. "What do you live on?" He shook his head. "Come with me." He could not resist the grasp on his shoulder, and the firm directing of his bare, muddy feet through the gate, up the walk, and into the chamber which the Virgin found that day. He was turned to the altar, and pressed down on his knees. One should not look at the face of a blind child praying to the Virgin for sight. Only the Virgin herself should see that--and if she once saw that little boy! There were hearts, feet, hands, and eyes enough hanging around to warrant hope at least, if not faith; the effigies of the human aches and pains that had here found relief, if not surcease; feet and hands beholden to no physician for their exorcism of rheumatism; eyes and ears indebted to no oculist or aurist; and the hearts,--they are always in excess,--and, to the most skeptical, there is something sweetly comforting in the sight of so many cured hearts, with their thanks cut deep, as they should be, in the very marble thereof. Where the bed must have stood was the altar, rising by easy gradations, brave in ecclesiastical deckings, to the plaster figure of her whom those yearning hearts were seeing, whom those murmuring lips were addressing. Hearts must be all alike to her at such a distance, but the faces to the looker-on were so different. The eyes straining to look through all the experiences and troubles that their life has held to plead, as only eyes can plead, to one who can, if she will, perform their miracle for them. And the mouths,--the sensitive human mouths,--each one distorted by the tragedy against which it was praying. Their miracles! their miracles! what trifles to divinity! Perhaps hardly more to humanity! How far a simple looker-on could supply them if so minded! Perhaps a liberal exercise of love and charity by not more than half a dozen well-to-do people could answer every prayer in the room! But what a miracle that would be, and how the Virgin's heart would gladden thereat, and jubilate over her restored heart-dying children, even as the widowed mother did over her one dying babe! And the little boy had stopped praying. The futility of it--perhaps his own impotence--had overcome him. He was crying, and past the shame of showing it--crying helplessly, hopelessly. Tears were rolling out of his sightless eyes over his wordless lips. He could not pray; he could only cry. What better, after all, can any of us do? But what a prayer to a woman--to even the plaster figure of a woman! And the Virgin did hear him; for she had him taken without loss of a moment to the hospital, and how easy she made it for the physician to remove the disability! To her be the credit. THE STORY OF A DAY It is really not much, the story; it is only the arrangement of it, as we would say of our dresses and our drawing-rooms. It began with the dawn, of course; and the skiff for our voyage, silvered with dew, waiting in the mist for us, as if it had floated down in a cloud from heaven to the bayou. When repeated, this sounds like poor poetry; but that is the way one thinks at day dawn, when the dew is yet, as it were, upon our brains, and our ideas are still half dreams, and our waking hearts, alas! as innocent as waking babies playing with their toes. Our oars waked the waters of the bayou, as motionless as a sleeping snake under its misty covert--to continue the poetical language or thought. The ripples ran frightened and shivering into the rooty thicknesses of the sedge-grown banks, startling the little birds bathing there into darting to the nearest, highest rush-top, where, without losing their hold on their swaying, balancing perches, they burst into all sorts of incoherent songs, in their excitement to divert attention from the near-hidden nests: bird mothers are so much like women mothers! It soon became day enough for the mist to rise. The eyes that saw it ought to be able to speak to tell fittingly about it. Not all at once, nor all together, but a thinning, a lifting, a breaking, a wearing away; a little withdrawing here, a little withdrawing there; and now a peep, and now a peep; a bride lifting her veil to her husband! Blue! White! Lilies! Blue lilies! White lilies! Blue and white lilies! And still blue and white lilies! And still! And still! Wherever the veil lifted, still and always the bride! Not in clumps and bunches, not in spots and patches, not in banks, meadows, acres, but in--yes; for still it lifted beyond and beyond and beyond; the eye could not touch the limit of them, for the eye can touch only the limit of vision; and the lilies filled the whole sea-marsh, for that is the way spring comes to the sea-marshes. The sedge-roots might have been unsightly along the water's edge, but there were morning-glories, all colors, all shades--oh, such morning-glories as we of the city never see! Our city morning-glories must dream of them, as we dream of angels. Only God could be so lavish! Dropping from the tall spear-heads to the water, into the water, under the water. And then, the reflection of them, in all their colors, blue, white, pink, purple, red, rose, violet! To think of an obscure little Acadian bayou waking to flow the first thing in the morning not only through banks of new-blown morning-glories, but sown also to its depths with such reflections as must make it think itself a bayou in heaven, instead of in Paroisse St. Martin. Perhaps that is the reason the poor poets think themselves poets, on account of the beautiful things that are only reflected into their minds from what is above? Besides the reflections, there were alligators in the bayou, trying to slip away before we could see them, and watching us with their stupid, senile eyes, sometimes from under the thickest, prettiest flowery bowers; and turtles splashing into the water ahead of us; and fish (silver-sided perch), looking like reflections themselves, floating through the flower reflections, nibbling their breakfast. Our bayou had been running through swamp only a little more solid than itself; in fact, there was no solidity but what came from the roots of grasses. Now, the banks began to get firmer, from real soil in them. We could see cattle in the distance, up to their necks in the lilies, their heads and sharp-pointed horns coming up and going down in the blue and white. Nothing makes cattle's heads appear handsomer, with the sun just rising far, far away on the other side of them. The sea-marsh cattle turned loose to pasture in the lush spring beauty--turned loose in Elysium! But the land was only partly land yet, and the cattle still cattle to us. The rising sun made revelations, as our bayou carried us through a drove in their Elysium, or it might have always been an Elysium to us. It was not all pasturage, all enjoyment. The rising and falling feeding head was entirely different, as we could now see, from the rising and falling agonized head of the bogged--the buried alive. It is well that the lilies grow taller and thicker over the more treacherous places; but, misery! misery! not much of the process was concealed from us, for the cattle have to come to the bayou for water. Such a splendid black head that had just yielded breath! The wide-spreading ebony horns thrown back among the morning-glories, the mouth open from the last sigh, the glassy eyes staring straight at the beautiful blue sky above, where a ghostly moon still lingered, the velvet neck ridged with veins and muscles, the body already buried in black ooze. And such a pretty red-and-white-spotted heifer, lying on her side, opening and shutting her eyes, breathing softly in meek resignation to her horrible calamity! And, again, another one was plunging and battling in the act of realizing her doom: a fierce, furious, red cow, glaring and bellowing at the soft, yielding inexorable abysm under her, the bustards settling afar off, and her own species browsing securely just out of reach. They understand that much, the sea-marsh cattle, to keep out of reach of the dead combatant. In the delirium of anguish, relief cannot be distinguished from attack, and rescue of the victim has been proved to mean goring of the rescuer. The bayou turned from it at last, from our beautiful lily world about which our pleasant thoughts had ceased to flow even in bad poetry. Our voyage was for information, which might be obtained at a certain habitation; if not there, at a second one, or surely at a third and most distant settlement. The bayou narrowed into a canal, then widened into a bayou again, and the low, level swamp and prairie advanced into woodland and forest. Oak-trees began, our beautiful oak-trees! Great branches bent down almost to the water,--quite even with high water,--covered with forests of oak, parasites, lichens, and with vines that swept our heads as we passed under them, drooping now and then to trail in the water, a plaything for the fishes, and a landing-place for amphibious insects. The sun speckled the water with its flickering patterns, showering us with light and heat. We have no spring suns; our sun, even in December, is a summer one. And so, with all its grace of curve and bend, and so--the description is longer than the voyage--we come to our first stopping-place. To the side, in front of the well-kept fertile fields, like a proud little showman, stood the little house. Its pointed shingle roof covered it like the top of a chafing-dish, reaching down to the windows, which peeped out from under it like little eyes. A woman came out of the door to meet us. She had had time during our graceful winding approach to prepare for us. What an irrevocable vow to old maidenhood! At least twenty-five, almost a possible grandmother, according to Acadian computation, and well in the grip of advancing years. She was dressed in a stiff, dark red calico gown, with a white apron. Her black hair, smooth and glossy under a varnish of grease, was plaited high in the back, and dropped regular ringlets, six in all, over her forehead. That was the epoch when her calamity came to her, when the hair was worn in that fashion. A woman seldom alters her coiffure after a calamity of a certain nature happens to her. The figure had taken a compact rigidity, an unfaltering inflexibility, all the world away from the elasticity of matronhood; and her eyes were clear and fixed like her figure, neither falling, nor rising, nor puzzling under other eyes. Her lips, her hands, her slim feet, were conspicuously single, too, in their intent, neither reaching, nor feeling, nor running for those other lips, hands, and feet which should have doubled their single life. That was Adorine Mérionaux, otherwise the most industrious Acadian and the best cottonade-weaver in the parish. It had been short, her story. A woman's love is still with those people her story. She was thirteen when she met him. That is the age for an Acadian girl to meet him, because, you know, the large families--the thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, twenty children--take up the years; and when one wishes to know one's great-great-grandchildren (which is the dream of the Acadian girl) one must not delay one's story. She had one month to love him in, and in one week they were to have the wedding. The Acadians believe that marriage must come _au point_, as cooks say their sauces must be served. Standing on the bayou-bank in front of the Mérionaux, one could say "Good day" with the eyes to the Zévérin Theriots--that was the name of the parents of the young bridegroom. Looking under the branches of the oaks, one could see across the prairie,--prairie and sea-marsh it was,--and clearly distinguish another little red-washed house like the Mérionaux, with a painted roof hanging over the windows, and a staircase going up outside to the garret. With the sun shining in the proper direction, one might distinguish more, and with love shining like the sun in the eyes, one might see, one might see--a heart full. It was only the eyes, however, which could make such a quick voyage to the Zévérin Theriots; a skiff had a long day's journey to reach them. The bayou sauntered along over the country like a negro on a Sunday's pleasuring, trusting to God for time, and to the devil for means. Oh, nothing can travel quickly over a bayou! Ask any one who has waited on a bayou-bank for a physician or a life-and-death message. Thought refuses to travel and turn and double over it; thought, like the eye, takes the shortest cut--straight over the sea-marsh; and in the spring of the year, when the lilies are in bloom, thought could not take a more heavenly way, even from beloved to beloved. It was the week before marriage, that week when, more than one's whole life afterward, one's heart feels most longing--most--well, in fact, it was the week before marriage. From Sunday to Sunday, that was all the time to be passed. Adorine--women live through this week by the grace of God, or perhaps they would be as unreasonable as the men--Adorine could look across the prairie to the little red roof during the day, and could think across it during the night, and get up before day to look across again--longing, longing all the time. Of course one must supply all this from one's own imagination or experience. But Adorine could sing, and she sang. One might hear, in a favorable wind, a gunshot, or the barking of a dog from one place to the other, so that singing, as to effect, was nothing more than the voicing of her looking and thinking and longing. When one loves, it is as if everything was known of and seen by the other; not only all that passes in the head and heart, which would in all conscience be more than enough to occupy the other, but the talking, the dressing, the conduct. It was then that the back hair was braided and the front curled more and more beautifully every day, and that the calico dresses became stiffer and stiffer, and the white crochet lace collar broader and lower in the neck. At thirteen she was beautiful enough to startle one, they say, but that was nothing; she spent time and care upon these things, as if, like other women, her fate seriously depended upon them. There is no self-abnegation like that of a woman in love. It was her singing, however, which most showed that other existence in her existence. When she sang at her spinning-wheel or her loom, or knelt battling clothes on the bank of the bayou, her lips would kiss out the words, and the tune would rise and fall and tremble, as if Zepherin were just across there, anywhere; in fact, as if every blue and white lily might hide an ear of him. It was the time of the new moon, fortunately, when all sit up late in the country. The family would stop in their talking about the wedding to listen to her. She did not know it herself, but it--the singing--was getting louder and clearer, and, poor little thing, it told everything. And after the family went to bed they could still hear her, sitting on the bank of the bayou, or up in her window, singing and looking at the moon traveling across the lily prairie--for all its beauty and brightness no more beautiful and bright than a heart in love. It was just past the middle of the week, a Thursday night. The moon was so bright the colors of the lilies could be seen, and the singing, so sweet, so far-reaching--it was the essence of the longing of love. Then it was that the miracle happened to her. Miracles are always happening to the Acadians. She could not sleep, she could not stay in bed. Her heart drove her to the window, and kept her there, and--among the civilized it could not take place, but here she could sing as she pleased in the middle of the night; it was nobody's affair, nobody's disturbance. "Saint Ann! Saint Joseph! Saint Mary!" She heard her song answered! She held her heart, she bent forward, she sang again. Oh, the air was full of music! It was all music! She fell on her knees; she listened, looking at the moon; and, with her face in her hands, looking at Zepherin. It was God's choir of angels, she thought, and one with a voice like Zepherin! Whenever it died away she would sing again, and again, and again-- [Illustration: "HER HEART DROVE HER TO THE WINDOW".] But the sun came, and the sun is not created, like the moon, for lovers, and whatever happened in the night, there was work to be done in the day. Adorine worked like one in a trance, her face as radiant as the upturned face of a saint. They did not know what it was, or rather they thought it was love. Love is so different out there, they make all kinds of allowances for it. But, in truth, Adorine was still hearing her celestial voices or voice. If the cackling of the chickens, the whir of the spinning-wheel, or the "bum bum" of the loom effaced it a moment, she had only to go to some still place, round her hand over her ear, and give the line of a song, and--it was Zepherin--Zepherin she heard. She walked in a dream until night. When the moon came up she was at the window, and still it continued, so faint, so sweet, that answer to her song. Echo never did anything more exquisite, but she knew nothing of such a heathen as Echo. Human nature became exhausted. She fell asleep where she was, in the window, and dreamed as only a bride can dream of her groom. When she awoke, "Adorine! Adorine!" the beautiful angel voices called to her; "Zepherin! Zepherin!" she answered, as if she, too, were an angel, signaling another angel in heaven. It was too much. She wept, and that broke the charm. She could hear nothing more after that. All that day was despondency, dejection, tear-bedewed eyes, and tremulous lips, the commonplace reaction, as all know, of love exaltation. Adorine's family, Acadian peasants though they were, knew as much about it as any one else, and all that any one knows about it is that marriage is the cure-all, and the only cure-all, for love. [Illustration: "ALL THAT DAY WAS DESPONDENCY, DEJECTION."] And Zepherin? A man could better describe his side of that week; for it, too, has mostly to be described from imagination or experience. What is inferred is that what Adorine longed and thought and looked in silence and resignation, according to woman's way, he suffered equally, but in a man's way, which is not one of silence or resignation,--at least when one is a man of eighteen,--the last interview, the near wedding, her beauty, his love, her house in sight, the full moon, the long, wakeful nights. He took his pirogue; but the bayou played with his impatience, maddened his passion, bringing him so near, to meander with him again so far away. There was only a short prairie between him and ----, a prairie thick with lily-roots--one could almost walk over their heads, so close, and gleaming in the moonlight. But this is all only inference. The pirogue was found tethered to the paddle stuck upright in the soft bank, and--Adorine's parents related the rest. Nothing else was found until the summer drought had bared the swamp. There was a little girl in the house when we arrived--all else were in the field--a stupid, solemn, pretty child, the child of a brother. How she kept away from Adorine, and how much that testified! It would have been too painful. The little arms around her neck, the head nestling to her bosom, sleepily pressing against it. And the little one might ask to be sung to sleep. Sung to sleep! The little bed-chamber, with its high mattressed bed, covered with the Acadian home-spun quilt, trimmed with netting fringe, its bit of mirror over the bureau, the bottle of perfumed grease to keep the locks black and glossy, the prayer-beads and blessed palms hanging on the wall, the low, black polished spinning-wheel, the loom,--the _métier d' Adorine_ famed throughout the parish,--the ever goodly store of cotton and yarn hanks swinging from the ceiling, and the little square, open window which looked under the mossy oak-branches to look over the prairie; and once again all blue and white lilies--they were all there, as Adorine was there; but there was more--not there. ANNE MARIE AND JEANNE MARIE Old Jeanne Marie leaned her hand against the house, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. She had not wept since she buried her last child. With her it was one trouble, one weeping, no more; and her wrinkled, hard, polished skin so far had known only the tears that come after death. The trouble in her heart now was almost exactly like the trouble caused by death; although she knew it was not so bad as death, yet, when she thought of this to console herself, the tears rolled all the faster. She took the end of the red cotton kerchief tied over her head, and wiped them away; for the furrows in her face did not merely run up and down--they ran in all directions, and carried her tears all over her face at once. She could understand death, but she could not understand this. It came about in this way: Anne Marie and she lived in the little red-washed cabin against which she leaned; had lived there alone with each other for fifty years, ever since Jeanne Marie's husband had died, and the three children after him, in the fever epidemic. The little two-roomed cabin, the stable where there used to be a cow, the patch of ground planted with onions, had all been bought and paid for by the husband; for he was a thrifty, hard-working Gascon, and had he lived there would not have been one better off, or with a larger family, either in that quarter or in any of the red-washed suburbs with which Gascony has surrounded New Orleans. His women, however,--the wife and sister-in-law,--had done their share in the work: a man's share apiece, for with the Gascon women there is no discrimination of sex when it comes to work. And they worked on just the same after he died, tending the cow, digging, hoeing, planting, watering. The day following the funeral, by daylight Jeanne Marie was shouldering around the yoke of milk-cans to his patrons, while Anne Marie carried the vegetables to market; and so on for fifty years. They were old women now,--seventy-five years old,--and, as they expressed it, they had always been twins. In twins there is always one lucky and one unlucky one: Jeanne Marie was the lucky one, Anne Marie the unlucky one. So much so, that it was even she who had to catch the rheumatism, and to lie now bedridden, months at a time, while Jeanne Marie was as active in her sabots as she had ever been. In spite of the age of both, and the infirmity of one, every Saturday night there was some little thing to put under the brick in the hearth, for taxes and license, and the never-to-be-forgotten funeral provision. In the husband's time gold pieces used to go in, but they had all gone to pay for the four funerals and the quadrupled doctor's bill. The women laid in silver pieces; the coins, however, grew smaller and smaller, and represented more and more not so much the gain from onions as the saving from food. It had been explained to them how they might, all at once, make a year's gain in the lottery; and it had become their custom always, at the end of every month, to put aside one silver coin apiece, to buy a lottery ticket with--one ticket each, not for the great, but for the twenty-five-cent, prizes. Anne Marie would buy hers round about the market; Jeanne Marie would stop anywhere along her milk course and buy hers, and they would go together in the afternoon to stand with the little crowd watching the placard upon which the winning numbers were to be written. And when they were written, it was curious, Jeanne Marie's numbers would come out twice as often as Anne Marie's. Not that she ever won anything, for she was not lucky enough to have them come out in the order to win; they only came out here and there, singly: but it was sufficient to make old Anne Marie cross and ugly for a day or two, and injure the sale of the onion-basket. When she became bedridden, Jeanne Marie bought the ticket for both, on the numbers, however, that Anne Marie gave her; and Anne Marie had to lie in bed and wait, while Jeanne Marie went out to watch the placard. One evening, watching it, Jeanne Marie saw the ticket-agent write out the numbers as they came on her ticket, in such a way that they drew a prize--forty dollars. When the old woman saw it she felt such a happiness; just as she used to feel in the old times right after the birth of a baby. She thought of that instantly. Without saying a word to any one, she clattered over the _banquette_ as fast as she could in her sabots, to tell the good news to Anne Marie. But she did not go so fast as not to have time to dispose of her forty dollars over and over again. Forty dollars! That was a great deal of money. She had often in her mind, when she was expecting a prize, spent twenty dollars; for she had never thought it could be more than that. But forty dollars! A new gown apiece, and black silk kerchiefs to tie over their heads instead of red cotton, and the little cabin new red-washed, and soup in the pot, and a garlic sausage, and a bottle of good, costly liniment for Anne Marie's legs; and still a pile of gold to go under the hearth-brick--a pile of gold that would have made the eyes of the defunct husband glisten. She pushed open the picket-gate, and came into the room where her sister lay in bed. "Eh, Anne Marie, my girl," she called in her thick, pebbly voice, apparently made purposely to suit her rough Gascon accent; "this time we have caught it!" [Illustration: "THIS TIME WE HAVE CAUGHT IT!"] "Whose ticket?" asked Anne Marie, instantly. In a flash all Anne Marie's ill luck ran through Jeanne Marie's mind; how her promised husband had proved unfaithful, and Jeanne Marie's faithful; and how, ever since, even to the coming out of her lottery numbers, even to the selling of vegetables, even to the catching of the rheumatism, she had been the loser. But above all, as she looked at Anne Marie in the bed, all the misery came over Jeanne Marie of her sister's not being able, in all her poor old seventy-five years of life, to remember the pressure of the arms of a husband about her waist, nor the mouth of a child on her breast. As soon as Anne Marie had asked her question, Jeanne Marie answered it. "But your ticket, _Coton-Maï!_"[1] [Footnote 1: _Coton-Maï_ is an innocent oath invented by the good, pious priest as a substitute for one more harmful.] "Where? Give it here! Give it here!" The old woman, who had not been able to move her back for weeks, sat bolt upright in bed, and stretched out her great bony fingers, with the long nails as hard and black as rake-prongs from groveling in the earth. Jeanne Marie poured the money out of her cotton handkerchief into them. Anne Marie counted it, looked at it; looked at it, counted it; and if she had not been so old, so infirm, so toothless, the smile that passed over her face would have made it beautiful. Jeanne Marie had to leave her to draw water from the well to water the plants, and to get her vegetables ready for next morning. She felt even happier now than if she had just had a child, happier even than if her husband had just returned to her. "Ill luck! _Coton-Maï!_ Ill luck! There's a way to turn ill luck!" And her smile also should have beautified her face, wrinkled and ugly though it was. She did not think any more of the spending of the money, only of the pleasure Anne Marie would take in spending it. The water was low in the well, and there had been a long drought. There are not many old women of seventy-five who could have watered so much ground as abundantly as she did; but whenever she thought of the forty dollars and Anne Marie's smile she would give the thirsting plant an extra bucketful. The twilight was gaining. She paused. "_Coton-Maï_" she exclaimed aloud. "But I must see the old woman smile again over her good luck." Although it was "my girl" face to face, it was always "the old woman" behind each other's back. There was a knot-hole in the plank walls of the house. In spite of Anne Marie's rheumatism they would never stop it up, needing it, they said, for light and air. Jeanne Marie slipped her feet out of her sabots and crept easily toward it, smiling, and saying "_Coton-Maï_!" to herself all the way. She put her eye to the hole. Anne Marie was not in the bed, she who had not left her bed for two months! Jeanne Marie looked through the dim light of the room until she found her. Anne Marie, in her short petticoat and nightsack, with bare legs and feet, was on her knees in the corner, pulling up a plank, hiding--peasants know hiding when they see it--hiding her money away--away--away from whom?--muttering to herself and shaking her old grayhaired head. Hiding her money away from Jeanne Marie! And this was why Jeanne Marie leaned her head against the side of the house and wept. It seemed to her that she had never known her twin sister at all. A CRIPPLED HOPE You must picture to yourself the quiet, dim-lighted room of a convalescent; outside, the dreary, bleak days of winter in a sparsely settled, distant country parish; inside, a slow, smoldering log-fire, a curtained bed, the infant sleeping well enough, the mother wakeful, restless, thought-driven, as a mother must be, unfortunately, nowadays, particularly in that parish, where cotton worms and overflows have acquired such a monopoly of one's future. [Illustration: "THE QUIET, DIM-LIGHTED ROOM OF A CONVALESCENT."] God is always pretty near a sick woman's couch; but nearer even than God seems the sick-nurse--at least in that part of the country, under those circumstances. It is so good to look through the dimness and uncertainty, moral and physical, and to meet those little black, steadfast, all-seeing eyes; to feel those smooth, soft, all-soothing hands; to hear, across one's sleep, that three-footed step--the flat-soled left foot, the tiptoe right, and the padded end of the broomstick; and when one is so wakeful and restless and thought-driven, to have another's story given one. God, depend upon it, grows stories and lives as he does herbs, each with a mission of balm to some woe. She said she had, and in truth she had, no other name than "little Mammy"; and that was the name of her nature. Pure African, but bronze rather than pure black, and full-sized only in width, her growth having been hampered as to height by an injury to her hip, which had lamed her, pulling her figure awry, and burdening her with a protuberance of the joint. Her mother caused it by dropping her when a baby, and concealing it, for fear of punishment, until the dislocation became irremediable. All the animosity of which little Mammy was capable centered upon this unknown but never-to-be-forgotten mother of hers; out of this hatred had grown her love--that is, her destiny, a woman's love being her destiny. Little Mammy's love was for children. The birth and infancy (the one as accidental as the other, one would infer) took place in--it sounds like the "Arabian Nights" now!--took place in the great room, caravansary, stable, behind a negro-trader's auction-mart, where human beings underwent literally the daily buying and selling of which the world now complains in a figure of speech--a great, square, dusty chamber where, sitting cross-legged, leaning against the wall, or lying on foul blanket pallets on the floor, the bargains of to-day made their brief sojourn, awaiting transformation into the profits of the morrow. The place can be pointed out now, is often pointed out; but no emotion arises at sight of it. It is so plain, so matter-of-fact an edifice that emotion only comes afterward in thinking about it, and then in the reflection that such an edifice could be, then as now, plain and matter-of-fact. For the slave-trader there was no capital so valuable as the physical soundness of his stock; the moral was easily enough forged or counterfeited. Little Mammy's good-for-nothing mother was sold as readily as a vote, in the parlance of to-day; but no one would pay for a crippled baby. The mother herself would not have taken her as a gift, had it been in the nature of a negro-trader to give away anything. Some doctoring was done,--so little Mammy heard traditionally,--some effort made to get her marketable. There were attempts to pair her off as a twin sister of various correspondencies in age, size, and color, and to palm her off, as a substitute, at migratory, bereaved, overfull breasts. Nothing equaled a negro-trader's will and power for fraud, except the hereditary distrust and watchfulness which it bred and maintained. And so, in the even balance between the two categories, the little cripple remained a fixture in the stream of life that passed through that back room, in the fluxes and refluxes of buying and selling; not valueless, however--rely upon a negro-trader for discovering values as substitutes, as panaceas. She earned her nourishment, and Providence did not let it kill the little animal before the emancipation of weaning arrived. [Illustration: "LITTLE MAMMY."] How much circumstances evoked, how much instinct responded, belongs to the secrets which nature seems to intend keeping. As a baby she had eyes, attention, solely for other babies. One cannot say while she was still crawling, for she could only crawl years after she should have been walking, but, before even precocious walking-time, tradition or the old gray-haired negro janitor relates, she would creep from baby to baby to play with it, put it to sleep, pat it, rub its stomach (a negro baby, you know, is all stomach, and generally aching stomach at that). And before she had a lap, she managed to force one for some ailing nursling. It was then that they began to call her "little Mammy." In the transitory population of the "pen" no one stayed long enough to give her another name; and no one ever stayed short enough to give her another one. Her first recollection of herself was that she could not walk--she was past crawling; she cradled herself along, as she called sitting down flat, and working herself about with her hands and her one strong leg. Babbling babies walked all around her,--many walking before they babbled,--and still she did not walk, imitate them as she might and did. She would sit and "study" about it, make another trial, fall; sit and study some more, make another trial, fall again. Negroes, who believe that they must give a reason for everything even if they have to invent one, were convinced that it was all this studying upon her lameness that gave her such a large head. And now she began secretly turning up the clothes of every negro child that came into that pen, and examining its legs, and still more secretly examining her own, stretched out before her on the ground. How long it took she does not remember; in fact, she could not have known, for she had no way of measuring time except by her thoughts and feelings. But in her own way and time the due process of deliberation was fulfilled, and the quotient made clear that, bowed or not, all children's legs were of equal length except her own, and all were alike, not one full, strong, hard, the other soft, flabby, wrinkled, growing out of a knot at the hip. A whole psychological period apparently lay between that conclusion and--a broom-handle walking-stick; but the broomstick came, as it was bound to come,--thank heaven!--from that premise, and what with stretching one limb to make it longer, and doubling up the other to make it shorter, she invented that form of locomotion which is still carrying her through life, and with no more exaggerated leg-crookedness than many careless negroes born with straight limbs display. This must have been when she was about eight or nine. Hobbling on a broomstick, with, no doubt, the same weird, wizened face as now, an innate sense of the fitness of things must have suggested the kerchief tied around her big head, and the burlaps rag of an apron in front of her linsey-woolsey rag of a gown, and the bit of broken pipe-stem in the corner of her mouth, where the pipe should have been, and where it was in after years. That is the way she recollected herself, and that is the way one recalls her now, with a few modifications. The others came and went, but she was always there. It wasn't long before she became "little Mammy" to the grown folks too; and the newest inmates soon learned to cry: "Where's little Mammy?" "Oh, little Mammy! little Mammy! Such a misery in my head [or my back, or my stomach]! Can't you help me, little Mammy?" It was curious what a quick eye she had for symptoms and ailments, and what a quick ear for suffering, and how apt she was at picking up, remembering, and inventing remedies. It never occurred to her not to crouch at the head or the foot of a sick pallet, day and night through. As for the nights, she said she dared not close her eyes of nights. The room they were in was so vast, and sometimes the negroes lay so thick on the floor, rolled in their blankets (you know, even in the summer they sleep under blankets), all snoring so loudly, she would never have heard a groan or a whimper any more than they did, if she had slept, too. And negro mothers are so careless and such heavy sleepers. All night she would creep at regular intervals to the different pallets, and draw the little babies from under, or away from, the heavy, inert impending mother forms. There is no telling how many she thus saved from being overlaid and smothered, or, what was worse, maimed and crippled. Whenever a physician came in, as he was sometimes called, to look at a valuable investment or to furbish up some piece of damaged goods, she always managed to get near to hear the directions; and she generally was the one to apply them also, for negroes always would steal medicines most scurvily one from the other. And when death at times would slip into the pen, despite the trader's utmost alertness and precautions,--as death often "had to do," little Mammy said,--when the time of some of them came to die, and when the rest of the negroes, with African greed of eye for the horrible, would press around the lowly couch where the agonizing form of a slave lay writhing out of life, she would always to the last give medicines, and wipe the cold forehead, and soothe the clutching, fearsome hands, hoping to the end, and trying to inspire the hope that his or her "time" had not come yet; for, as she said, "Our time doesn't come just as often as it does come." And in those sad last offices, which somehow have always been under reproach as a kind of shame, no matter how young she was, she was always too old to have the childish avoidance of them. On the contrary, to her a corpse was only a kind of baby, and she always strove, she said, to make one, like the other, easy and comfortable. And in other emergencies she divined the mysteries of the flesh, as other precocities divine the mysteries of painting and music, and so become child wonders. Others came and went. She alone remained there. Babies of her babyhood--the toddlers she, a toddler, had nursed--were having babies themselves now; the middle-aged had had time to grow old and die. Every week new families were coming into the great back chamber; every week they passed out: babies, boys, girls, buxom wenches, stalwart youths, and the middle-aged--the grave, serious ones whom misfortune had driven from their old masters, and the ill-reputed ones, the trickish, thievish, lazy, whom the cunning of the negro-trader alone could keep in circulation. All were marketable, all were bought and sold, all passed in one door and out the other--all except her, little Mammy. As with her lameness, it took time for her to recognize, to understand, the fact. She could study over her lameness, she could in the dull course of time think out the broomstick way of palliation. It would have been almost better, under the circumstances, for God to have kept the truth from her; only--God keeps so little of the truth from us women. It is his system. Poor little thing! It was not now that her master _could_ not sell her, but he _would_ not! Out of her own intelligence she had forged her chains; the lameness was a hobble merely in comparison. She had become too valuable to the negro-trader by her services among his crew, and offers only solidified his determination not to sell her. Visiting physicians, after short acquaintance with her capacities, would offer what were called fancy prices for her. Planters who heard of her through their purchases would come to the city purposely to secure, at any cost, so inestimable an adjunct to their plantations. Even ladies--refined, delicate ladies--sometimes came to the pen personally to back money with influence. In vain. Little Mammy was worth more to the negro-trader, simply as a kind of insurance against accidents, than any sum, however glittering the figure, and he was no ignorant expert in human wares. She can tell it; no one else can for her. Remember that at times she had seen the streets outside. Remember that she could hear of the outside world daily from the passing chattels--of the plantations, farms, families; the green fields, Sunday woods, running streams; the camp-meetings, corn-shuckings, cotton-pickings, sugar-grindings; the baptisms, marriages, funerals, prayer-meetings; the holidays and holy days. Remember that, whether for liberty or whether for love, passion effloresces in the human being--no matter when, where, or how--with every spring's return. Remember that she was, even in middle age, young and vigorous. But no; do not remember anything. There is no need to heighten the coloring. It would be tedious to relate, although it was not tedious to hear her relate it, the desperations and hopes of her life then. Hardly a day passed that she did not see, looking for purchases (rummaging among goods on a counter for bargains), some master whom she could have loved, some mistress whom she could have adored. Always her favorite mistresses were there--tall, delicate matrons, who came themselves, with great fatigue, to select kindly-faced women for nurses; languid-looking ladies with smooth hair standing out in wide _bandeaux_ from their heads, and lace shawls dropping from their sloping shoulders, silk dresses carelessly held up in thumb and finger from embroidered petticoats that were spread out like tents over huge hoops which covered whole groups of swarming piccaninnies on the dirty floor; ladies, pale from illnesses that she might have nursed, and over-burdened with children whom she might have reared! And not a lady of that kind saw her face but wanted her, yearned for her, pleaded for her, coming back secretly to slip silver, and sometimes gold, pieces into her hand, patting her turbaned head, calling her "little Mammy" too, instantly, by inspiration, and making the negro-trader give them, with all sorts of assurances, the refusal of her. She had no need for the whispered "Buy me, master!" "Buy me, mistress!" "You'll see how I can work, master!" "You'll never be sorry, mistress!" of the others. The negro-trader--like hangmen, negro-traders are fitted by nature for their profession--it came into his head--he had no heart, not even a negro-trader's heart--that it would be more judicious to seclude her during these shopping visits, so to speak. She could not have had any hopes then at all; it must have been all desperations. That auction-block, that executioner's block, about which so much has been written--Jacob's ladder, in his dream, was nothing to what that block appeared nightly in her dreams to her; and the climbers up and down--well, perhaps Jacob's angels were his hopes, too. At times she determined to depreciate her usefulness, mar her value, by renouncing her heart, denying her purpose. For days she would tie her kerchief over her ears and eyes, and crouch in a corner, strangling her impulses. She even malingered, refused food, became dumb. And she might have succeeded in making herself salable through incipient lunacy, if through no other way, had she been able to maintain her role long enough. But some woman or baby always was falling into some emergency of pain and illness. How it might have ended one does not like to think. Fortunately, one does not need to think. There came a night. She sat alone in the vast, dark caravansary--alone for the first time in her life. Empty rags and blankets lay strewn over the floor, no snoring, no tossing in them more. A sacrificial sale that day had cleared the counters. Alarm-bells rang in the streets, but she did not know them for alarm-bells; alarm brooded in the dim space around her, but she did not even recognize that. Her protracted tension of heart had made her fear-blind to all but one peradventure. Once or twice she forgot herself, and limped over to some heap to relieve an imaginary struggling babe or moaning sleeper. Morning came. She had dozed. She looked to see the rag-heaps stir; they lay as still as corpses. The alarm-bells had ceased. She looked to see a new gang enter the far door. She listened for the gathering buzzing of voices in the next room, around the auction-block. She waited for the trader. She waited for the janitor. At nightfall a file of soldiers entered. They drove her forth, ordering her in the voice, in the tone, of the negro-trader. That was the only familiar thing in the chaos of incomprehensibility about her. She hobbled through the auction-room. Posters, advertisements, papers, lay on the floor, and in the torch-light glared from the wall. Her Jacob's ladder, her stepping-stone to her hopes, lay overturned in a corner. You divine it. The negro-trader's trade was abolished, and he had vanished in the din and smoke of a war which he had not been entirely guiltless of producing, leaving little Mammy locked up behind him. Had he forgotten her? One cannot even hope so. She hobbled out into the street, leaning on her nine-year-old broomstick (she had grown only slightly beyond it; could still use it by bending over it), her head tied in a rag kerchief, a rag for a gown, a rag for an apron. Free, she was free! But she had not hoped for freedom. The plantation, the household, the delicate ladies, the teeming children,--broomsticks they were in comparison to freedom, but,--that was what she had asked, what she had prayed for. God, she said, had let her drop, just as her mother had done. More than ever she grieved, as she crept down the street, that she had never mounted the auctioneer's block. An ownerless free negro! She knew no one whose duty it was to help her; no one knew her to help her. In the whole world (it was all she had asked) there was no white child to call her mammy, no white lackey or gentleman (it was the extent of her dreams) beholden to her as to a nurse. And all her innumerable black beneficiaries! Even the janitor, whom she had tended as the others, had deserted her like his white prototype. She tried to find a place for herself, but she had no indorsers, no recommenders. She dared not mention the name of the negro-trader; it banished her not only from the households of the whites, but from those of the genteel of her own color. And everywhere soldiers sentineled the streets--soldiers whose tone and accent reminded her of the negro-trader. Her sufferings, whether imaginary or real, were sufficiently acute to drive her into the only form of escape which once had been possible to friendless negroes. She became a runaway. With a bundle tied to the end of a stick over her shoulder, just as the old prints represent it, she fled from her homelessness and loneliness, from her ignoble past, and the heart-disappointing termination of it. Following a railroad track, journeying afoot, sleeping by the roadside, she lived on until she came to the one familiar landmark in life to her--a sick woman, but a white one. And so, progressing from patient to patient (it was a time when sick white women studded the country like mile-posts), she arrived at a little town, a kind of a refuge for soldiers' wives and widows. She never traveled further. She could not. Always, as in the pen, some emergency of pain and illness held her. That is all. She is still there. The poor, poor women of that stricken region say that little Mammy was the only alleviation God left them after Sheridan passed through; and the richer ones say very much the same thing-- But one should hear her tell it herself, as has been said, on a cold, gloomy winter day in the country, the fire glimmering on the hearth; the overworked husband in the fields; the baby quiet at last; the mother uneasy, restless, thought-driven; the soft black hand rubbing backward and forward, rubbing out aches and frets and nervousness. The eyelids droop; the firelight plays fantasies on the bed-curtains; the ear drops words, sentences; one gets confused--one sleeps--one dreams. "ONE OF US" At the first glance one might have been inclined to doubt; but at the second anybody would have recognized her--that is, with a little mental rehabilitation: the bright little rouge spots in the hollow of her cheek, the eyebrows well accentuated with paint, the thin lips rose-tinted, and the dull, straight hair frizzed and curled and twisted and turned by that consummate rascal and artist, the official beautifier and rectifier of stage humanity, Robert, the opera _coiffeur_. Who in the world knows better than he the gulf between the real and the ideal, the limitations between the natural and the romantic? Yes, one could see her, in that time-honored thin silk dress of hers stiffened into brocade by buckram underneath; the high, low-necked waist, hiding any evidences of breast, if there were such evidences to hide, and bringing the long neck into such faulty prominence; and the sleeves, crisp puffs of tulle divided by bands of red velvet, through which the poor lean arm runs like a wire, stringing them together like beads. Yes, it was she, the whilom _dugazon_ of the opera troupe. Not that she ever was a _dugazon_, but that was what her voice once aspired to be: a _dugazon manquée_ would better describe her. What a ghost! But they always appeared like mere evaporations of real women. For what woman of flesh and blood can seriously maintain through life the rôle of sham attendant on sham sensations, and play public celebrant of other women's loves and lovers, singing, or rather saying, nothing more enlivening than: "Oh, madame!" and "Ah, madame!" and "_Quelle ivresse!_" or "_Quelle horreur!_" or, in recitative, detailing whatever dreary platitudes and inanities the librettist and Heaven connive to put upon the tongues of confidantes and attendants? [Illustration: "TO POSE IN ABJECT PATIENCE AND AWKWARDNESS."] Looking at her--how it came over one! The music, the lights, the scene; the fat soprano confiding to her the fact of the "amour extrême" she bears for the tenor, to which she, the _dugazon_, does not even try to listen; her eyes wandering listlessly over the audience. The calorous secret out, and in her possession, how she stumbles over her train to the back of the stage, there to pose in abject patience and awkwardness, while the gallant baritone, touching his sword, and flinging his cape over his shoulder, defies the world and the tenor, who is just recovering from his "ut de poitrine" behind the scenes. She was talking to me all the time, apologizing for the intrusion, explaining her mission, which involved a short story of her life, as women's intrusions and missions usually do. But my thoughts, also as usual, distracted me from listening, as so often they have distracted me from following what was perhaps more profitable. The composer, of course, wastes no music upon her; flinging to her only an occasional recitative in two notes, but always ending in a reef of a scale, trill, or roulade, for her to wreck her voice on before the audience. The _chef d'orchestre_, if he is charitable, starts her off with a contribution from his own lusty lungs, and then she--oh, her voice is always thinner and more osseous than her arms, and her smile no more graceful than her train! As well think of the simulated trees, water-falls, and chateaux leaving the stage, as the _dugazon_! One always imagines them singing on into dimness, dustiness, unsteadiness, and uselessness, until, like any other piece of stage property, they are at last put aside and simply left there at the end of some season--there seems to be a superstition against selling or burning useless and dilapidated stage property. As it came to me, the idea was not an impossibility. The last representation of the season is over. She, tired beyond judgment--haply, beyond feeling--by her tireless rôle, sinks upon her chair to rest in her dressing-room; sinks, further, to sleep. She has no maid. The troupe, hurrying away to France on the special train waiting not half a dozen blocks away, forget her--the insignificant are so easily forgotten! The porter, more tired, perhaps, than any one of the beautiful ideal world about him, and savoring already in advance the good onion-flavored _grillade_ awaiting him at home, locks up everything fast and tight; the tighter and faster for the good fortnight's vacation he has promised himself. No doubt if the old opera-house were ever cleaned out, just such a heap of stiff, wire-strung bones would be found, in some such hole as the _dugazon's_ dressing-room, desiccating away in its last costume--perhaps in that very costume of _Inez_; and if one were venturesome enough to pass Allhallowe'en there, the spirit of those bones might be seen availing itself of the privilege of unasperged corpses to roam. Not singing, not talking--it is an anachronism to say that ghosts talk: their medium of communication must be pure thought; and one should be able to see their thoughts working, just as one sees the working of the digestive organs in the clear viscera of transparent animalcule. The hard thing of it is that ghosts are chained to the same scenes that chained their bodies, and when they sleep-walk, so to speak, it must be through phases of former existence. What a nightmare for them to go over once again the lived and done, the suffered and finished! What a comfort to wake up and find one's self dead, well dead! I could have continued and put the whole opera troupe in "costume de ghost," but I think it was the woman's eyes that drew me back to her face and her story. She had a sensible face, now that I observed her naturally, as it were; and her hands,--how I have agonized over those hands on the stage!--all knuckles and exaggerated veins, clutching her dress as she sang, or, petrified, outstretched to _Leonore's_ "Pourquoi ces larmes?"--her hands were the hands of an honest, hard-working woman who buckrams her own skirts, and at need could scrub her own floor. Her face (my description following my wandering glance)--her face was careworn, almost to desuetude; not dissipation-worn, as, alas! the faces of the more gifted ladies of opera troupes too often are. There was no fattening in it of pastry, truffles, and bonbons; upon it none of the tracery left by nightly champagne tides and ripples; and consequently her figure, under her plain dress, had not that for display which the world has conventioned to call charms. Where a window-cord would hardly have sufficed to girdle _Leonore_, a necklace would have served her. She had not beauty enough to fear the flattering dangers of masculine snares and temptations,--or there may have been other reasons,--but as a wife--there was something about her that guaranteed it--she would have blossomed love and children as a fig-tree does figs. In truth, she was just talking about children. The first part of her story had passed: her birthplace, education, situation; and now she was saying: "I have always had the temptation, but I have always resisted it. Now,"--with a blush at her excuse,--"it may be your spring weather, your birds, your flowers, your sky--and your children in the streets. The longing came over me yesterday: I thought of it on the stage, I thought of it afterward--it was better than sleeping; and this morning"--her eyes moistened, she breathed excitedly--"I was determined. I gave up, I made inquiry, I was sent to you. Would it be possible? Would there be any place" ("any rôle," she said first) "in any of your asylums, in any of your charitable institutions, for me? I would ask nothing but my clothes and food, and very little of that; the recompense would be the children--the little girl children," with a smile--can you imagine the smile of a woman dreaming of children that might be? "Think! Never to have held a child in my arms more than a moment, never to have felt a child's arms about my neck! Never to have known a child! Born on a stage, my mother born on a stage!" Ah, there were tragic possibilities in that voice and movement! "Pardon, madam. You see how I repeat. And you must be very wearied hearing about me. But I could be their nurse and their servant. I would bathe and dress them, play with them, teach them their prayers; and when they are sick they would see no difference. They would not know but what their mother was there!" Oh, she had her program all prepared; one could see that. "And I would sing to them--no! no!" with a quick gesture, "nothing from the stage; little songs and lullabys I have picked up traveling around, and," hesitating, "little things I have composed myself--little things that I thought children would like to hear some day." What did she not unconsciously throw into those last words? "I dream of it," she pursued, talking with as little regard to me as on the stage she sang to the prima donna. "Their little arms, their little faces, their little lips! And in an asylum there would be so many of them! When they cried and were in trouble I would take them in my lap, and I would say to them, with all sorts of tenderness--" She had arranged that in her program, too--all the minutiae of what she would say to them in their distress. But women are that way. When once they begin to love, their hearts are magnifying-lenses for them to feel through. "And my heart hungers to commence right here, now, at once! It seems to me I cannot wait. Ah, madam, no more stage, no more opera!" speaking quickly, feverishly. "As I said, it may be your beautiful spring, your flowers, your birds, and your numbers of children. I have always loved that place most where there are most children; and you have more children here than I ever saw anywhere. Children are so beautiful! It is strange, is it not, when you consider my life and my rearing?" Her life, her rearing, how interesting they must have been! What a pity I had not listened more attentively! "They say you have much to do with asylums here." Evidently, when rôles do not exist in life for certain characters, God has to create them. And thus He had to create a rôle in an asylum for my friend, for so she became from the instant she spoke of children as she did. It was the poorest and neediest of asylums; and the poor little orphaned wretches--but it is better not to speak of them. How can God ever expect to rear children without their mothers! But the rôle I craved to create for my friend was far different--some good, honest bourgeois interior, where lips are coarse and cheeks are ruddy, and where life is composed of real scenes, set to the real music of life, the homely successes and failures, and loves and hates, and embraces and tears, that fill out the orchestra of the heart; where romance and poetry abound _au naturel_; and where--yes, where children grow as thick as nature permits: the domestic interior of the opera porter, for instance, or the clockmaker over the way. But what a loss the orphan-asylum would have suffered, and the dreary lacking there would have been in the lives of the children! For there must have been moments in the lives of the children in that asylum when they felt, awake, as they felt in their sleep when they dreamed their mothers were about them. THE LITTLE CONVENT GIRL She was coming down on the boat from Cincinnati, the little convent girl. Two sisters had brought her aboard. They gave her in charge of the captain, got her a state-room, saw that the new little trunk was put into it, hung the new little satchel up on the wall, showed her how to bolt the door at night, shook hands with her for good-by (good-bys have really no significance for sisters), and left her there. After a while the bells all rang, and the boat, in the awkward elephantine fashion of boats, got into midstream. The chambermaid found her sitting on the chair in the state-room where the sisters had left her, and showed her how to sit on a chair in the saloon. And there she sat until the captain came and hunted her up for supper. She could not do anything of herself; she had to be initiated into everything by some one else. She was known on the boat only as "the little convent girl." Her name, of course, was registered in the clerk's office, but on a steamboat no one thinks of consulting the clerk's ledger. It is always the little widow, the fat madam, the tall colonel, the parson, etc. The captain, who pronounced by the letter, always called her the little _convent_ girl. She was the beau-ideal of the little convent girl. She never raised her eyes except when spoken to. Of course she never spoke first, even to the chambermaid, and when she did speak it was in the wee, shy, furtive voice one might imagine a just-budding violet to have; and she walked with such soft, easy, carefully calculated steps that one naturally felt the penalties that must have secured them--penalties dictated by a black code of deportment. [Illustration: THE SISTERS BID HER GOOD-BY.] She was dressed in deep mourning. Her black straw hat was trimmed with stiff new crape, and her stiff new bombazine dress had crape collar and cuffs. She wore her hair in two long plaits fastened around her head tight and fast. Her hair had a strong inclination to curl, but that had been taken out of it as austerely as the noise out of her footfalls. Her hair was as black as her dress; her eyes, when one saw them, seemed blacker than either, on account of the bluishness of the white surrounding the pupil. Her eyelashes were almost as thick as the black veil which the sisters had fastened around her hat with an extra pin the very last thing before leaving. She had a round little face, and a tiny pointed chin; her mouth was slightly protuberant from the teeth, over which she tried to keep her lips well shut, the effort giving them a pathetic little forced expression. Her complexion was sallow, a pale sallow, the complexion of a brunette bleached in darkened rooms. The only color about her was a blue taffeta ribbon from which a large silver medal of the Virgin hung over the place where a breast pin should have been. She was so little, so little, although she was eighteen, as the sisters told the captain; otherwise they would not have permitted her to travel all the way to New Orleans alone. Unless the captain or the clerk remembered to fetch her out in front, she would sit all day in the cabin, in the same place, crocheting lace, her spool of thread and box of patterns in her lap, on the handkerchief spread to save her new dress. Never leaning back--oh, no! always straight and stiff, as if the conventual back board were there within call. She would eat only convent fare at first, notwithstanding the importunities of the waiters, and the jocularities of the captain, and particularly of the clerk. Every one knows the fund of humor possessed by a steamboat clerk, and what a field for display the table at meal-times affords. On Friday she fasted rigidly, and she never began to eat, or finished, without a little Latin movement of the lips and a sign of the cross. And always at six o'clock of the evening she remembered the angelus, although there was no church bell to remind her of it. She was in mourning for her father, the sisters told the captain, and she was going to New Orleans to her mother. She had not seen her mother since she was an infant, on account of some disagreement between the parents, in consequence of which the father had brought her to Cincinnati, and placed her in the convent. There she had been for twelve years, only going to her father for vacations and holidays. So long as the father lived he would never let the child have any communication with her mother. Now that he was dead all that was changed, and the first thing that the girl herself wanted to do was to go to her mother. The mother superior had arranged it all with the mother of the girl, who was to come personally to the boat in New Orleans, and receive her child from the captain, presenting a letter from the mother superior, a facsimile of which the sisters gave the captain. It is a long voyage from Cincinnati to New Orleans, the rivers doing their best to make it interminable, embroidering themselves _ad libitum_ all over the country. Every five miles, and sometimes oftener, the boat would stop to put off or take on freight, if not both. The little convent girl, sitting in the cabin, had her terrible frights at first from the hideous noises attendant on these landings--the whistles, the ringings of the bells, the running to and fro, the shouting. Every time she thought it was shipwreck, death, judgment, purgatory; and her sins! her sins! She would drop her crochet, and clutch her prayer-beads from her pocket, and relax the constraint over her lips, which would go to rattling off prayers with the velocity of a relaxed windlass. That was at first, before the captain took to fetching her out in front to see the boat make a landing. Then she got to liking it so much that she would stay all day just where the captain put her, going inside only for her meals. She forgot herself at times so much that she would draw her chair a little closer to the railing, and put up her veil, actually, to see better. No one ever usurped her place, quite in front, or intruded upon her either with word or look; for every one learned to know her shyness, and began to feel a personal interest in her, and all wanted the little convent girl to see everything that she possibly could. [Illustration: WATCHING A LANDING.] And it was worth seeing--the balancing and _chasséeing_ and waltzing of the cumbersome old boat to make a landing. It seemed to be always attended with the difficulty and the improbability of a new enterprise; and the relief when it did sidle up anywhere within rope's-throw of the spot aimed at! And the roustabout throwing the rope from the perilous end of the dangling gang-plank! And the dangling roustabouts hanging like drops of water from it--dropping sometimes twenty feet to the land, and not infrequently into the river itself. And then what a rolling of barrels, and shouldering of sacks, and singing of Jim Crow songs, and pacing of Jim Crow steps; and black skins glistening through torn shirts, and white teeth gleaming through red lips, and laughing, and talking and--bewildering! entrancing! Surely the little convent girl in her convent walls never dreamed of so much unpunished noise and movement in the world! The first time she heard the mate--it must have been like the first time woman ever heard man--curse and swear, she turned pale, and ran quickly, quickly into the saloon, and--came out again? No, indeed! not with all the soul she had to save, and all the other sins on her conscience. She shook her head resolutely, and was not seen in her chair on deck again until the captain not only reassured her, but guaranteed his reassurance. And after that, whenever the boat was about to make a landing, the mate would first glance up to the guards, and if the little convent girl was sitting there he would change his invective to sarcasm, and politely request the colored gentlemen not to hurry themselves--on no account whatever; to take their time about shoving out the plank; to send the rope ashore by post-office--write him when it got there; begging them not to strain their backs; calling them mister, colonel, major, general, prince, and your royal highness, which was vastly amusing. At night, however, or when the little convent girl was not there, language flowed in its natural curve, the mate swearing like a pagan to make up for lost time. The captain forgot himself one day: it was when the boat ran aground in the most unexpected manner and place, and he went to work to express his opinion, as only steamboat captains can, of the pilot, mate, engineer, crew, boat, river, country, and the world in general, ringing the bell, first to back, then to head, shouting himself hoarser than his own whistle--when he chanced to see the little black figure hurrying through the chaos on the deck; and the captain stuck as fast aground in midstream as the boat had done. In the evening the little convent girl would be taken on the upper deck, and going up the steep stairs there was such confusion, to keep the black skirts well over the stiff white petticoats; and, coming down, such blushing when suspicion would cross the unprepared face that a rim of white stocking might be visible; and the thin feet, laced so tightly in the glossy new leather boots, would cling to each successive step as if they could never, never make another venture; and then one boot would (there is but that word) hesitate out, and feel and feel around, and have such a pause of helpless agony as if indeed the next step must have been wilfully removed, or was nowhere to be found on the wide, wide earth. It was a miracle that the pilot ever got her up into the pilot-house; but pilots have a lonely time, and do not hesitate even at miracles when there is a chance for company. He would place a box for her to climb to the tall bench behind the wheel, and he would arrange the cushions, and open a window here to let in air, and shut one there to cut off a draft, as if there could be no tenderer consideration in life for him than her comfort. And he would talk of the river to her, explain the chart, pointing out eddies, whirlpools, shoals, depths, new beds, old beds, cut-offs, caving banks, and making banks, as exquisitely and respectfully as if she had been the River Commission. It was his opinion that there was as great a river as the Mississippi flowing directly under it--an underself of a river, as much a counterpart of the other as the second story of a house is of the first; in fact, he said they were navigating through the upper story. Whirlpools were holes in the floor of the upper river, so to speak; eddies were rifts and cracks. And deep under the earth, hurrying toward the subterranean stream, were other streams, small and great, but all deep, hurrying to and from that great mother-stream underneath, just as the small and great overground streams hurry to and from their mother Mississippi. It was almost more than the little convent girl could take in: at least such was the expression of her eyes; for they opened as all eyes have to open at pilot stories. And he knew as much of astronomy as he did of hydrology, could call the stars by name, and define the shapes of the constellations; and she, who had studied astronomy at the convent, was charmed to find that what she had learned was all true. It was in the pilot-house, one night, that she forgot herself for the first time in her life, and stayed up until after nine o'clock. Although she appeared almost intoxicated at the wild pleasure, she was immediately overwhelmed at the wickedness of it, and observed much more rigidity of conduct thereafter. The engineer, the boiler-men, the firemen, the stokers, they all knew when the little convent girl was up in the pilot-house: the speaking-tube became so mild and gentle. With all the delays of river and boat, however, there is an end to the journey from Cincinnati to New Orleans. The latter city, which at one time to the impatient seemed at the terminus of the never, began, all of a sudden, one day to make its nearingness felt; and from that period every other interest paled before the interest in the immanence of arrival into port, and the whole boat was seized with a panic of preparation, the little convent girl with the others. Although so immaculate was she in person and effects that she might have been struck with a landing, as some good people might be struck with death, at any moment without fear of results, her trunk was packed and repacked, her satchel arranged and rearranged, and, the last day, her hair was brushed and plaited and smoothed over and over again until the very last glimmer of a curl disappeared. Her dress was whisked, as if for microscopic inspection; her face was washed; and her finger-nails were scrubbed with the hard convent nail-brush, until the disciplined little tips ached with a pristine soreness. And still there were hours to wait, and still the boat added up delays. But she arrived at last, after all, with not more than the usual and expected difference between the actual and the advertised time of arrival. There was extra blowing and extra ringing, shouting, commanding, rushing up the gangway and rushing down the gangway. The clerks, sitting behind tables on the first deck, were plied, in the twinkling of an eye, with estimates, receipts, charges, countercharges, claims, reclaims, demands, questions, accusations, threats, all at topmost voices. None but steamboat clerks could have stood it. And there were throngs composed of individuals every one of whom wanted to see the captain first and at once: and those who could not get to him shouted over the heads of the others; and as usual he lost his temper and politeness, and began to do what he termed "hustle." "Captain! Captain!" a voice called him to where a hand plucked his sleeve, and a letter was thrust toward him. "The cross, and the name of the convent." He recognized the envelop of the mother superior. He read the duplicate of the letter given by the sisters. He looked at the woman--the mother--casually, then again and again. The little convent girl saw him coming, leading some one toward her. She rose. The captain took her hand first, before the other greeting, "Good-by, my dear," he said. He tried to add something else, but seemed undetermined what. "Be a good little girl--" It was evidently all he could think of. Nodding to the woman behind him, he turned on his heel, and left. One of the deck-hands was sent to fetch her trunk. He walked out behind them, through the cabin, and the crowd on deck, down the stairs, and out over the gangway. The little convent girl and her mother went with hands tightly clasped. She did not turn her eyes to the right or left, or once (what all passengers do) look backward at the boat which, however slowly, had carried her surely over dangers that she wot not of. All looked at her as she passed. All wanted to say good-by to the little convent girl, to see the mother who had been deprived of her so long. Some expressed surprise in a whistle; some in other ways. All exclaimed audibly, or to themselves, "Colored!" It takes about a month to make the round trip from New Orleans to Cincinnati and back, counting five days' stoppage in New Orleans. It was a month to a day when the steamboat came puffing and blowing up to the wharf again, like a stout dowager after too long a walk; and the same scene of confusion was enacted, as it had been enacted twelve times a year, at almost the same wharf for twenty years; and the same calm, a death calmness by contrast, followed as usual the next morning. The decks were quiet and clean; one cargo had just been delivered, part of another stood ready on the levee to be shipped. The captain was there waiting for his business to begin, the clerk was in his office getting his books ready, the voice of the mate could be heard below, mustering the old crew out and a new crew in; for if steamboat crews have a single principle,--and there are those who deny them any,--it is never to ship twice in succession on the same boat. It was too early yet for any but roustabouts, marketers, and church-goers; so early that even the river was still partly mist-covered; only in places could the swift, dark current be seen rolling swiftly along. "Captain!" A hand plucked at his elbow, as if not confident that the mere calling would secure attention. The captain turned. The mother of the little convent girl stood there, and she held the little convent girl by the hand. "I have brought her to see you," the woman said. "You were so kind--and she is so quiet, so still, all the time, I thought it would do her a pleasure." She spoke with an accent, and with embarrassment; otherwise one would have said that she was bold and assured enough. "She don't go nowhere, she don't do nothing but make her crochet and her prayers, so I thought I would bring her for a little visit of 'How d' ye do' to you." There was, perhaps, some inflection in the woman's voice that might have made known, or at least awakened, the suspicion of some latent hope or intention, had the captain's ear been fine enough to detect it. There might have been something in the little convent girl's face, had his eye been more sensitive--trifle paler, maybe, the lips a little tighter drawn, the blue ribbon a shade faded. He may have noticed that, but-- And the visit of "How d' ye do" came to an end. They walked down the stairway, the woman in front, the little convent girl--her hand released to shake hands with the captain--following, across the bared deck, out to the gangway, over to the middle of it. No one was looking, no one saw more than a flutter of white petticoats, a show of white stockings, as the little convent girl went under the water. The roustabout dived, as the roustabouts always do, after the drowning, even at the risk of their good-for-nothing lives. The mate himself jumped overboard; but she had gone down in a whirlpool. Perhaps, as the pilot had told her whirlpools always did, it may have carried her through to the underground river, to that vast, hidden, dark Mississippi that flows beneath the one we see; for her body was never found. GRANDMOTHER'S GRANDMOTHER As the grandmother related it fresh from the primeval sources that feed a grandmother's memory, it happened thus: In the early days of the settlement of Georgia--ah, how green and rustic appears to us now the world in the early days of the settlement of Georgia! Sometimes to women, listening to the stories of their grandmothers, it seems better to have lived then than now--her grandmother was at that time a young wife. It was the day of arduous, if not of long, courtship before marriage, when every wedding celebrated the close of an original romance; and when young couples, for bridal trips, went out to settle new States, riding on a pillion generally, with their trousseaux following as best they could on sumpter mules; to hear the grandmother describe it made one long to be a bride of those days. The young husband had the enumeration of qualities that went to the making of a man of that period, and if the qualities were in the proportion of ten physical to one intellectual, it does not follow that the grandmother's grandfather was not a man of parts. For, to obtain the hand of his bride, an only child and an heiress, he had to give test of his mettle by ignoring his fortune, studying law, and getting his license before marriage, and binding himself to live the first year afterward on the proceeds of his practice; a device of the time thought to be a wholesome corrective of the corrupting influence of over-wealth in young domesticities. Although he had already chosen the sea for his profession, and was a midshipman at the time, with more of a reputation for living than for learning, such was he, and such, it may be said, was the incentive genius of his choice, that almost before his resignation as midshipman was accepted, his license as a lawyer was signed. As for practice, it was currently remarked at his wedding, at the sight of him flying down the room in the reel with his bride for partner, that his tongue was as nimble as his heels, and that if he only turned his attention to criminal practice, there was no man in the country who would make a better prosecuting attorney for the State. And with him for prosecuting attorney, it was warranted that sirrahs the highwaymen would not continue to hold Georgia judge-and-jury justice in quite such contemptible estimation, and that the gallows would not be left so long bereft of their legitimate swingings. As for fees, it was predicted that the young fellow as he stood, or rather "chassé'd," could snap his fingers at both his and his bride's trustees. He did turn his attention to criminal law, was made prosecuting attorney for the State in his county, and, before his six months had passed, was convincing the hitherto high and mighty, lordly, independent knights of the road that other counties in Georgia furnished more secure pasturage for them. It was a beautiful spring morning. The young wife bade him a hearty good-by, and stood in the doorway watching him, gay and _debonair_, riding off, on his stout black charger Beetle, in the direction of the town in which court was to be held that week. She herself feeling as full of ambition and work as if she also were prosecuting attorney, with a perennial spring of eloquence bubbling in her brain, turned to her domestic duties, and, without going into the detail of them, it suffices to say that, according to the grandmother's estimation, one morning's list of duties for a healthy young bride of that period would shame the week's work of a syndicate of them to-day. Finding herself nearing the limit of diminution of several household necessities, and the spring suggesting the beginning of new ones, she made up her mind to profit by her husband's absence and the fair weather to make a trading visit to the neighboring town next day. [Illustration: "TURNED TO HER DOMESTIC DUTIES."] So, early in a morning as beautiful as the preceding one, mounted on her own stanch mare Maid Marion, she ambled down the green over-hung forest-road, in the vista of which she had watched her husband disappear the day before; thinking about what she had to buy, and thinking, no doubt, much more, as brides will, of the absent lord and master--as brides of those days loved to consider and denominate their husbands. Coming into the little town, the freshly painted, swinging sign-board of the new tavern, "The Honest Georgian," as usual was the thing to catch her eye; but the instant after what should she see but Black Beetle hitched to the rack under the tree that shadowed the hostelry! It was not decorous; but she was young, and the day of her first separation from her husband had been so long; and was he not also, against the firmest of resolutions and plans, hastening back to her, the separation being too long for him also? Slipping her foot from the stirrup, she jumped to the ground, and ran into the tavern. There he stood calling hastily for a drink; and her heart more than her eyes took in his, to her, consecrated signalment--the riding-boots, short clothes, blue coat, cocked hat, ruffles. She crept up behind to surprise him, her face, with its delight and smiles, beyond her control. She crept, until she saw his watch-fob dangling against the counter, and then her heart made a call. He turned. He was not her husband! Another man was in her husband's clothes, a man with a villainous countenance! With a scream she gave the alarm. The stranger turned, dropped his drink, bounded to the door and out, leaped to the back of Beetle, gave rein and spur, and the black horse made good his reputation. In a second all was hue-and-cry and pursuit. While men and horses made, for all they were worth, down the road after Beetle, she on Maid Marion galloped for her life in the opposite direction, the direction of the court town whither her husband had journeyed. The mare's hide made acquaintance with the whip that day if never before, for not even the willing Maid Marion could keep pace with the apprehensions on her back. Scouring with her eyes the highway ahead of her, shooting hawk's glances into the forest on each side of her, the wife rode through the distance all, all day, praying that the day might be long enough, might equal the distance. The sun set, and night began to fall; but she and Maid Marion were none the less fresh, except in the heart. The moon rose straight before them down the road, lighting it and them through the threatened obscurity. And so they came to trampled earth and torn grass, and so she uncovered concealed footsteps, and so, creeping on her hands and knees, she followed traces of blood, through thicket and glade, into the deep forest, to a hastily piled hillock of earth, gravel, and leaves. Burrowing with her hands, she came to it, the naked body of her young husband, cold and stiff, foully murdered. Maid Marion approached at her call. She wrapped him in her cloak, and--a young wife of those times alone would do it--put him in the saddle before her: the good mare Maid Marion alone knows the rest. In the early gray dawn, from one highway there rode into the town the baffled pursuers, from the other the grandmother's grandmother, clasping the corpse of her husband with arms as stiff as his own; loving him, so the grandmother used to say, with a love which, if ever love could do so, would have effected a resurrection. THE OLD LADY'S RESTORATION The news came out in the papers that the old lady had been restored to her fortune. She had been deprived of it so long ago that the real manner of her dispossession had become lost, or at least hidden under the many versions that had been invented to replace lapses of memory, or to remedy the unpicturesqueness of the original truth. The face of truth, like the face of many a good woman, is liable to the accident of ugliness, and the desire to embellish one as well as the other need not necessarily proceed from anything more harmful than an overweighted love of the beautiful. If the old lady had not been restored to her fortune, her _personalia_ would have remained in the oblivion which, as one might say, had accumulated upon everything belonging to her. But after that newspaper paragraph, there was such a flowering of memory around her name as would have done credit to a whole cemetery on All Saints. It took three generations to do justice to the old lady, for so long and so slow had been her descent into poverty that a grandmother was needed to remember her setting out upon the road to it. She set out as most people do, well provided with money, diamonds, pretty clothing, handsome residence, equipage, opera-box, beaus (for she was a widow), and so many, many friends that she could never indulge in a small party--she always had to give a grand ball to accommodate them. She made quite an occasion of her first reverse,--some litigation decided against her,--and said it came from the court's' having only one ear, and that preempted by the other party. She always said whatever she thought, regardless of the consequences, because she averred truth was so much more interesting than falsehood. Nothing annoyed her more in society than to have to listen to the compositions women make as a substitute for the original truth. It was as if, when she went to the theater to hear Shakspere and Molière, the actors should try to impose upon the audience by reciting lines of their own. Truth was the wit of life and the wit of books. She traveled her road from affluence so leisurely that nothing escaped her eyes or her feelings, and she signaled unhesitatingly every stage in it. "My dear, do you know there is really such a thing as existence without a carriage and horses?"--"I assure you it is perfectly new to me to find that an opera-box is not a necessity. It is a luxury. In theory one can really never tell the distinction between luxuries and necessities."--"How absurd! At one time I thought hair was given us only to furnish a profession to hair-dressers; just as we wear artificial flowers to support the flower-makers."--"Upon my word, it is not uninteresting. There is always some _haute nouveauté_ in economy. The ways of depriving one's self are infinite. There is wine, now."--"Not own your residence! As soon not own your tomb as your residence! My mama used to scream that in my ears. According to her, it was not _comme il faut_ to board or live in a rented house. How little she knew!" When her friends, learning her increasing difficulties, which they did from the best authority (herself), complimented her, as they were forced to do, upon her still handsome appearance, pretty laces, feathers, jewelry, silks, "Fat," she would answer--"fat. I am living off my fat, as bears do in winter. In truth, I remind myself of an animal in more ways than one." And so every one had something to contribute to the conversation about her--bits which, they said, affection and admiration had kept alive in their memory. Each city has its own roads to certain ends, its ways of Calvary, so to speak. In New Orleans the victim seems ever to walk down Royal street and up Chartres, or _vice versa_. One would infer so, at least, from the display in the shops and windows of those thorough-fares. Old furniture, cut glass, pictures, books, jewelry, lace, china--the fleece (sometimes the flesh still sticking to it) left on the brambles by the driven herd. If there should some day be a trump of resurrection for defunct fortunes, those shops would be emptied in the same twinkling of the eye allowed to tombs for their rendition of property. The old lady must have made that promenade many, many times, to judge by the samples of her "fat or fleece" displayed in the windows. She took to hobbling, as if from tired or sore feet. "It is nothing," in answer to an inquiry. "Made-to-order feet learning to walk in ready-made shoes: that is all. One's feet, after all, are the most unintelligent part of one's body." Tea was her abomination, coffee her adoration; but she explained: "Tea, you know, is so detestable that the very worst is hardly worse than the very best; while coffee is so perfect that the smallest shade of impurity is not to be tolerated. The truly economical, I observe, always drink tea." "At one time I thought if all the luxuries of the world were exposed to me, and but one choice allowed, I should select gloves. Believe me, there is no superfluity in the world so easily dispensed with." As may be supposed, her path led her farther and farther away from her old friends. Even her intimates became scarce; so much so, that these observations, which, of course, could be made only to intimates, became fewer and fewer, unfortunately, for her circumstances were becoming such that the remarks became increasingly valuable. The last thing related of her was apropos of friends. "My friends! My dear, I cannot tell you just so, on the spur of the moment, but with a little reflection and calculation I could tell you, to a picayune, the rent of every friend in the market. You can lease, rent, or hire them, like horses, carriages, opera-boxes, servants, by year, month, day, or hour; and the tariff is just as fixed. "Christians! Christians are the most discreet people in the world. If you should ask me what Christianity has most promoted in the world, I should answer without hesitation, discretion. Of course, when I say the world I mean society, and when I say Christianity I mean our interpretation of it. If only duns could be pastors, and pastors duns! But of course you do not know what duns are; they are the guardian angels of the creditor, the pursuing fiends of the debtor." After that, the old lady made her disappearance under the waves of that sea into the depths of which it is very improbable that a single friend ever attempted to pursue her. And there she remained until the news came that she was restored to fortune. A week passed, two weeks; no sight or sound of her. It was during this period that her old friends were so occupied resuscitating their old friendships for her--when all her antique sayings and doings became current ball-room and dinner-table gossip--that she arose from her obscurity like Cinderella from her ashes, to be decked with every gift that fairy minds could suggest. Those who had known her intimately made no effort to conceal their importance. Those who did not know her personally put forward claims of inherited friendship, and those who did not know her traditionally or otherwise--the _nouveaux riches_ and _parvenus_, who alone feel the moneyed value of such social connections--began making their resolutions to capture her as soon as she came in sight of society. The old residence was to be re-bought, and refurnished from France; the _avant scène_ at the opera had been engaged; the old cook was to be hired back from the club at a fabulous price; the old balls and the old dinners were to gladden the city--so said they who seemed to know. Nothing was to be spared, nothing stinted--at her age, with no child or relative, and life running short for pleasure. Diamonds, laces, velvets, champagne, Château Yquem--"Grand Dieu Seigneur!" the old Creole servants exclaimed, raising their hands at the enumeration of it. Where the news came from nobody knew, but everything was certified and accepted as facts, although, as between women, the grain of salt should have been used. Impatience waxed, until nearly every day some one would ring the bell of the old residence, to ask when the mistress was going to move in. And such affectionate messages! And people would not, simply could not, be satisfied with the incomprehensible answers. And then it leaked out. The old lady was simply waiting for everything to arrive--furniture, toilets, carriage, etc.--to make a grand _entrée_ into her old sphere; to come riding on a throne, as it were. And still the time passed, and she did not come. Finally two of the clever-heads penetrated the enigma: _mauvaise honte_, shyness--so long out of the world, so old; perhaps not sure of her welcome. So they determined to seek her out. [Illustration: THE ROOM IN THE OLD GALLERY.] "We will go to her, like children to a grandmother, etc. The others have no delicacy of sentiment, etc. And she will thus learn who really remember, really love her, etc." Provided with congratulatory bouquets, they set forth. It is very hard to find a dweller on the very sea-bottom of poverty. Perhaps that is why the effort is so seldom made. One has to ask at grocers' shops, groggeries, market-stalls, Chinese restaurants; interview corner cobblers, ragpickers, gutter children. But nothing is impossible to the determined. The two ladies overcame all obstacles, and needled their way along, where under other circumstances they would not have glanced, would have thought it improper to glance. They were directed through an old, old house, out on an old, old gallery, to a room at the very extreme end. "Poor thing! Evidently she has not heard the good news yet. We will be the first to communicate it," they whispered, standing before the dilapidated, withered-looking door. Before knocking, they listened, as it is the very wisdom of discretion to do. There was life inside, a little kind of voice, like some one trying to hum a song with a very cracked old throat. The ladies opened the door. "Ah, my friend!" "Ah, my friend!" "Restored!" "Restored!" "At last!" "At last!" "Just the same!" "Exactly the same!" It was which one would get to her first with bouquet and kiss, competition almost crowding friendship. "The good news!" "The good news!" "We could not stay!" "We had to come!" "It has arrived at last!" "At last it has arrived!" The old lady was very much older, but still the same. "You will again have a chance!" "Restored to your friends!" "The world!" "Your luxuries!" "Your comforts!" "Comforts! Luxuries!" At last the old lady had an opportunity to slip in a word. "And friends! You say right." There was a pause--a pause which held not a small measure of embarrassment. But the two visitors, although they were women of the world, and so dreaded an embarrassment more than they did sin, had prepared themselves even to stand this. The old lady standing there--she was very much thinner, very much bent, but still the same--appeared to be looking not at them, but at their enumeration. "Comfort!" She opened a pot bubbling on the fire. "Bouillon! A good five-cent bouillon. Luxury!" She picked up something from a chair, a handful of new cotton chemises. "Luxury!" She turned back her bedspread: new cotton sheets. "Did you ever lie in your bed at night and dream of sheets? Comfort! Luxury! I should say so! And friends! My dear, look!" Opening her door, pointing to an opposite gallery, to the yard, her own gallery; to the washing, ironing, sewing women, the cobbling, chair-making, carpentering men; to the screaming, laughing, crying, quarreling, swarming children. "Friends! All friends--friends for fifteen years. Ah, yes, indeed! We are all glad--elated in fact. As you say. I am restored." The visitors simply reported that they had found the old lady, and that she was imbecile; mind completely gone under stress of poverty and old age. Their opinion was that she should be interdicted. A DELICATE AFFAIR "But what does this extraordinary display of light mean?" ejaculated my aunt, the moment she entered the parlor from the dining-room. "It looks like the kingdom of heaven in here! Jules! Jules!" she called, "come and put out some of the light!" Jules was at the front door letting in the usual Wednesday-evening visitor, but now he came running in immediately with his own invention in the way of a gas-stick,--a piece of broom-handle notched at the end,--and began turning one tap after the other, until the room was reduced to complete darkness. "But what do you mean now, Jules?" screamed the old lady again. "Pardon, madame," answered Jules, with dignity; "it is an accident. I thought there was one still lighted." "An accident! An accident! Do you think I hire you to perform accidents for me? You are just through telling me that it was accident made you give me both soup and gumbo for dinner today." "But accidents can always happen, madame," persisted Jules, adhering to his position. The chandelier, a design of originality in its day, gave light by what purported to be wax candles standing each in a circlet of pendent crystals. The usual smile of ecstatic admiration spread over Jules's features as he touched the match to the simulated wicks, and lighted into life the rainbows in the prisms underneath. It was a smile that did not heighten the intelligence of his features, revealing as it did the toothless condition of his gums. "What will madame have for her dinner tomorrow," looking benignantly at his mistress, and still standing under his aureole. "Do I ever give orders for one dinner, with the other one still on my lips?" "I only asked madame; there is no harm in asking." He walked away, his long stiff white apron rattling like a petticoat about him. Catching sight of the visitor still standing at the threshold: "Oh, madame, here is Mr. Horace. Shall I let him in?" "Idiot! Every Wednesday you ask me that question, and every Wednesday I answer the same way. Don't you think I could tell you when not to let him in without your asking?" "Oh, well, madame, one never knows; it is always safe to ask." The appearance of the gentleman started a fresh subject of excitement. "Jules! Jules! You have left that front door unlocked again!" "Excuse me," said Mr. Horace; "Jules did not leave the front door unlocked. It was locked when I rang, and he locked it again most carefully after letting me in. I have been standing outside all the while the gas was being extinguished and relighted." "Ah, very well, then. And what is the news?" She sank into her arm-chair, pulled her little card-table closer, and began shuffling the cards upon it for her game of solitaire. "I never hear any news, you know. She [nodding toward me] goes out, but she never learns anything. She is as stupid tonight as an empty bottle." After a few passes her hands, which were slightly tremulous, regained some of their wonted steadiness and brilliancy of movement, and the cards dropped rapidly on the table. Mr. Horace, as he had got into the habit of doing, watched her mechanically, rather absent-mindedly retailing what he imagined would interest her, from his week's observation and hearsay. And madame's little world revolved, complete for her, in time, place, and personality. It was an old-fashioned square room with long ceiling, and broad, low windows heavily curtained with stiff silk brocade, faded by time into mellowness. The tall white-painted mantel carried its obligation of ornaments well: a gilt clock which under a glass case related some brilliant poetical idyl, and told the hours only in an insignificant aside, according to the delicate politeness of bygone French taste; flanked by duplicate continuations of the same idyl in companion candelabra, also under glass; Sèvres, or imitation Sèvres vases, and a crowd of smaller objects to which age and rarity were slowly contributing an artistic value. An oval mirror behind threw replicas of them into another mirror, receiving in exchange the reflected portrait of madame in her youth, and in the partial nudity in which innocence was limned in madame's youth. There were besides mirrors on the other three walls of the room, all hung with such careful intent for the exercise of their vocation that the apartment, in spots, extended indefinitely; the brilliant chandelier was thereby quadrupled, and the furniture and ornaments multiplied everywhere and most unexpectedly into twins and triplets, producing such sociabilities among them, and forcing such correspondences between inanimate objects with such hospitable insistence, that the effect was full of gaiety and life, although the interchange in reality was the mere repetition of one original, a kind of phonographic echo. The portrait of monsieur, madame's handsome young husband, hung out of the circle of radiance, in the isolation that, wherever they hang, always seems to surround the portraits of the dead. Old as the parlors appeared, madame antedated them by the sixteen years she had lived before her marriage, which had been the occasion of their furnishment. She had traveled a considerable distance over the sands of time since the epoch commemorated by the portrait. Indeed, it would require almost documentary evidence to prove that she, who now was arriving at eighty, was the same Atalanta that had started out so buoyantly at sixteen. Instead of a cap, she wore black lace over her head, pinned with gold brooches. Her white hair curled naturally over a low forehead. Her complexion showed care--and powder. Her eyes were still bright, not with the effete intelligence of old age, but with actual potency. She wore a loose black sack flowered in purple, and over that a black lace mantle, fastened with more gold brooches. She played her game of solitaire rapidly, impatiently, and always won; for she never hesitated to cheat to get out of a tight place, or into a favorable one, cheating with the quickness of a flash, and forgetting it the moment afterward. Mr. Horace was as old as she, but he looked much younger, although his dress and appearance betrayed no evidence of an effort in that direction. Whenever his friend cheated, he would invariably call her attention to it; and as usual she would shrug her shoulders, and say, "Bah! lose a game for a card!" and pursue the conversation. He happened to mention mushrooms--fresh mushrooms. She threw down her cards before the words were out of his mouth, and began to call, "Jules! Jules!" Mr. Horace pulled the bell-cord, but madame was too excitable for that means of communication. She ran into the antechamber, and put her head over the banisters, calling, "Jules! Jules!" louder and louder. She might have heard Jules's slippered feet running from the street into the corridor and up-stairs, had she not been so deaf. He appeared at the door. "But where have you been? Here I have been raising the house a half-hour, calling you. You have been in the street. I am sure you have been in the street." "Madame is very much mistaken," answered Jules, with resentful dignity. He had taken off his white apron of waiter, and was disreputable in all the shabbiness of his attire as cook. "When madame forbids me to go into the street, I do not go into the street. I was in the kitchen; I had fallen asleep. What does madame desire?" smiling benevolently. "What is this I hear? Fresh mushrooms in the market!" "Eh, madame?" "Fresh mushrooms in the market, and you have not brought me any!" "Madame, there are fresh mushrooms everywhere in the market," waving his hand to show their universality. "Everybody is eating them--" "Old Pomponnette," Jules continued, "only this morning offered me a plate, piled up high, for ten cents." "Idiot! Why did you not buy them?" "If madame had said so; but madame did not say so. Madame said, 'Soup, Jules; carrots, rice,'" counting on his fingers. "And the gumbo?" "I have explained that that was an accident. Madame said 'Soup,'" enumerating his menu again; "madame never once said mushrooms." "But how could I know there were mushrooms in the market? Do I go to market?" "That is it!" and Jules smiled at the question thus settled. "If you had told me there were mushrooms in the market--" pursued madame, persisting in treating Jules as a reasonable being. "Why did not madame ask me? If madame had asked me, surely I would have told madame. Yesterday Caesar brought them to the door--a whole bucketful for twenty-five cents. I had to shut the door in his face to get rid of him," triumphantly. "And you brought me yesterday those detestable peas!" "Ah," shrugging his shoulders, "madame told me to buy what I saw. I saw peas. I bought them." "Well, understand now, once for all: whenever you see mushrooms, no matter what I ordered, you buy them. Do you hear?" "No, madame. Surely I cannot buy mushrooms unless madame orders them. Madame's disposition is too quick." "But I do order them. Stupid! I do order them. I tell you to buy them every day." "And if there are none in the market every day?" "Go away! Get out of my sight! I do not want to see you. Ah, it is unendurable! I must--I must get rid of him!" This last was not a threat, as Jules knew only too well. It was merely a habitual exclamation. During the colloquy Mr. Horace, leaning back in his arm-chair, raised his eyes, and caught the reflected portrait of madame in the mirror before him--the reflection so much softer and prettier, so much more ethereal, than the original painting. Indeed, seen in the mirror, that way, the portrait was as refreshing as the most charming memory. He pointed to it when madame, with considerable loss of temper, regained her seat. "It is as beautiful as the past," he explained most unnaturally, for he and his friend had a horror of looking at the long, long past, which could not fail to remind them of--what no one cares to contemplate out of church. Making an effort toward some determination which a subtle observer might have noticed weighing upon him all the evening, he added: "And, apropos of the past--" "_Hein_?" interrogated the old lady, impatiently, still under the influence of her irascibility about the mushrooms. He moved his chair closer, and bent forward, as if his communication were to be confidential. "Ah, bah! Speak louder!" she cried. "One would suppose you had some secret to tell. What secrets can there be at our age?" She took up her cards and began to play. There could be no one who bothered herself less about the forms of politeness. "Yes, yes," answered Mr. Horace, throwing himself back into his chair; "what secrets can there be at our age?" The remark seemed a pregnant one to him; he gave himself up to it. One must evidently be the age of one's thoughts. Mr. Horace's thoughts revealed him the old man he was. The lines in his face deepened into wrinkles; his white mustache could not pretend to conceal his mouth, worsened by the loss of a tooth or two; and the long, thin hand that propped his head was crossed with blue, distended veins. "At the last judgment"--it was a favorite quotation with him--"the book of our conscience will be read aloud before the whole company." But the old lady, deep in her game, paid no more heed to his quotation than to him. He made a gesture toward her portrait. "When that was painted, Josephine--" Madame threw a glance after the gesture. The time was so long ago, the mythology of Greece hardly more distant! At eighty the golden age of youth must indeed appear an evanescent myth. Madame's ideas seemed to take that direction. "Ah, at that time we were all nymphs, and you all demigods." "Demigods and nymphs, yes; but there was one among us who was a god with you all." The allusion--a frequent one with Mr. Horace--was to madame's husband, who in his day, it is said, had indeed played the god in the little Arcadia of society. She shrugged her shoulders. The truth is so little of a compliment The old gentleman sighed in an abstracted way, and madame, although apparently absorbed in her game, lent her ear. It is safe to say that a woman is never too old to hear a sigh wafted in her direction. "Josephine, do you remember--in your memory--" She pretended not to hear. Remember? Who ever heard of her forgetting? But she was not the woman to say, at a moment's notice, what she remembered or what she forgot. "A woman's memory! When I think of a woman's memory--in fact, I do not like to think of a woman's memory. One can intrude in imagination into many places; but a woman's memory--" Mr. Horace seemed to lose his thread. It had been said of him in his youth that he wrote poetry--and it was said against him. It was evidently such lapses as these that had given rise to the accusation. And as there was no one less impatient under sentiment or poetry than madame, her feet began to agitate themselves as if Jules were perorating some of his culinary inanities before her. "And a man's memory!" totally misunderstanding him. "It is not there that I either would penetrate, my friend. A man--" When madame began to talk about men she was prompted by imagination just as much as was Mr. Horace when he talked about women. But what a difference in their sentiments! And yet he had received so little, and she so much, from the subjects of their inspiration. But that seems to be the way in life--or in imagination. "That you should"--he paused with the curious shyness of the old before the word "love"--"that you two should--marry--seemed natural, inevitable, at the time." Tradition records exactly the same comment by society at the time on the marriage in question. Society is ever fatalistic in its comments. "But the natural--the inevitable--do we not sometimes, I wonder, perform them as Jules does his accidents?" "Ah, do not talk about that idiot! An idiot born and bred! I won't have him about me! He is a monstrosity! I tell his grandmother that every day when she comes to comb me. What a farce--what a ridiculous farce comfortable existence has become with us! Fresh mushrooms in market, and bring me carrots!" The old gentleman, partly from long knowledge of her habit, or from an equally persistent bend of his own, quietly held on to his idea. "One cannot tell. It seems so at the time. We like to think it so; it makes it easier. And yet, looking back on our future as we once looked forward to it--" "Eh! but who wants to look back on it, my friend? Who in the world wants to look back on it?" One could not doubt madame's energy of opinion on that question to hear her voice. "We have done our future, we have performed it, if you will. Our future! It is like the dinners we have eaten; of course we cannot remember the good without becoming exasperated over the bad: but"--shrugging her shoulders--"since we cannot beat the cooks, we must submit to fate," forcing a queen that she needed at the critical point of her game. "At sixteen and twenty-one it is hard to realize that one is arranging one's life to last until sixty, seventy, forever," correcting himself as he thought of his friend, the dead husband. If madame had ever possessed the art of self-control, it was many a long day since she had exercised it; now she frankly began to show ennui. "When I look back to that time,"--Mr. Horace leaned back in his chair and half closed his eyes, perhaps to avoid the expression of her face,--"I see nothing but lights and flowers, I hear nothing but music and laughter; and all--lights and flowers and music and laughter--seem to meet in this room, where we met so often to arrange our--inevitabilities." The word appeared to attract him. "Josephine,"--with a sudden change of voice and manner,--"Josephine, how beautiful you were!" The old lady nodded her head without looking from her cards. "They used to say," with sad conviction of the truth of his testimony--"the men used to say that your beauty was irresistible. None ever withstood you. None ever could." That, after all, was Mr. Horace's great charm with madame; he was so faithful to the illusions of his youth. As he looked now at her, one could almost feel the irresistibility of which he spoke. "It was only their excuse, perhaps; we could not tell at the time; we cannot tell even now when we think about it. They said then, talking as men talk over such things, that you were the only one who could remain yourself under the circumstances; you were the only one who could know, who could will, under the circumstances. It was their theory; men can have only theories about such things." His voice dropped, and he seemed to drop too, into some abysm of thought. Madame looked into the mirror, where she could see the face of the one who alone could retain her presence of mind under the circumstances suggested by Mr. Horace. She could also have seen, had she wished it, among the reflected bric-a-brac of the mantel, the corner of the frame that held the picture of her husband, but peradventure, classing it with the past which held so many unavenged bad dinners, she never thought to link it even by a look with her emotions of the present. Indeed, it had been said of her that in past, present, and future there had ever been but the one picture to interest her eyes--the one she was looking at now. This, however, was the remark of the uninitiated, for the true passion of a beautiful woman is never so much for her beauty as for its booty; as the passion of a gamester is for his game, not for his luck. "How beautiful _she_ was!" It was apparently down in the depths of his abysm that he found the connection between this phrase and his last, and it was evidently to himself he said it. Madame, however, heard and understood too; in fact, traced back to a certain period, her thoughts and Mr. Horace's must have been fed by pretty much the same subjects. But she had so carefully barricaded certain issues in her memory as almost to obstruct their flow into her life; if she were a cook, one would say that it was her bad dinners which she was trying to keep out of remembrance. "You there, he there, she there, I there." He pointed to the places on the carpet, under the chandelier; he could have touched them with a walking-stick, and the recollection seemed just as close. "She was, in truth, what we men called her then; it was her eyes that first suggested it--Myosotis, the little blue flower, the for-get-me-not. It suited her better than her own name. We always called her that among ourselves. How beautiful she was!" He leaned his head on his hand and looked where he had seen her last--so long, such an eternity, ago. It must be explained for the benefit of those who do not live in the little world where an allusion is all that is necessary to put one in full possession of any drama, domestic or social, that Mr. Horace was speaking of the wedding-night of madame, when the bridal party stood as he described under the chandelier; the bride and groom, with each one's best friend. It may be said that it was the last night or time that madame had a best friend of her own sex. Social gossip, with characteristic kindness, had furnished reasons to suit all tastes, why madame had ceased that night to have a best friend of her own sex. If gossip had not done so, society would still be left to its imagination for information, for madame never tolerated the smallest appeal to her for enlightenment. What the general taste seemed most to relish as a version was that madame in her marriage had triumphed, not conquered; and that the night of her wedding she had realized the fact, and, to be frank, had realized it ever since. In short, madame had played then to gain at love, as she played now to gain at solitaire; and hearts were no more than cards to her--and, "Bah! Lose a game for a card!" must have been always her motto. It is hard to explain it delicately enough, for these are the most delicate affairs in life; but the image of Myosotis had passed through monsieur's heart, and Myosotis does mean "forget me not." And madame well knew that to love monsieur once was to love him always, in spite of jealousy, doubt, distrust, nay, unhappiness (for to love him meant all this and more). He was that kind of man, they said, whom women could love even against conscience. Madame never forgave that moment. Her friend, at least, she could put aside out of her intercourse; unfortunately, we cannot put people out of our lives. God alone can do that, and so far he had interfered in the matter only by removing monsieur. It was known to notoriety that since her wedding madame had abandoned, destroyed, all knowledge of her friend. And the friend? She had disappeared as much as is possible for one in her position and with her duties. "What there is in blue eyes, light hair, and a fragile form to impress one, I cannot tell; but for us men it seems to me it is blue-eyed, light-haired, and fragile-formed women that are the hardest to forget." "The less easy to forget," corrected madam. He paid no attention to the remark. "They are the women that attach themselves in one's memory. If necessary to keep from being forgotten, they come back into one's dreams. And as life rolls on, one wonders about them,--'Is she happy? Is she miserable? Goes life well or ill with her?'" Madame played her cards slowly, one would say, for her, prosaically. "And there is always a pang when, as one is so wondering, the response comes,--that is, the certainty in one's heart responds,--'She is miserable, and life goes ill with her.' Then, if ever, men envy the power of God." Madame threw over the game she was in, and began a new one. "Such women should not be unhappy; they are too fragile, too sensitive, too trusting. I could never understand the infliction of misery upon them. I could send death to them, but not--not misfortune." Madame, forgetting again to cheat in time, and losing her game, began impatiently to shuffle her cards for a new deal. "And yet, do you know, Josephine, those women are the unhappy ones of life. They seem predestined to it, as others"--looking at madame's full-charmed portrait--"are predestined to triumph and victory. They"--unconscious, in his abstraction, of the personal nature of his simile--"never know how to handle their cards, and they always play a losing game." "Ha!" came from madame, startled into an irate ejaculation. "It is their love always that is sacrificed, their hearts always that are bruised. One might say that God himself favors the black-haired ones!" As his voice sank lower and lower, the room seemed to become stiller and stiller. A passing vehicle in the street, however, now and then drew a shiver of sound from the pendent prisms of the chandelier. "She was so slight, so fragile, and always in white, with blue in her hair to match her eyes--and--God knows what in her heart, all the time. And yet they stand it, they bear it, they do not die, they live along with the strongest, the happiest, the most fortunate of us," bitterly; "and"--raising his eyes to his old friend, who thereupon immediately began to fumble her cards--"whenever in the street I see a poor, bent, broken woman's figure, I know, without verifying it any more by a glance, that it is the wreck of a fair woman's figure; whenever I hear of a bent, broken existence, I know, without asking any more, that it is the wreck of a fair woman's life." Poor Mr. Horace spoke with the unreason of a superstitious bigot. "I have often thought, since, in large assemblies, particularly in weddings, Josephine, of what was going on in the women's hearts there, and I have felt sorry for them; and when I think of God's knowing what is in their hearts, I have felt sorry for the men. And I often think now, Josephine,--think oftener and oftener of it,--that if the resurrection trumpet of our childhood should sound some day, no matter when, out there, over the old St. Louis cemetery, and we should all have to rise from our long rest of oblivion, what would be the first thing we should do? And though there were a God and a heaven awaiting us,--by that same God, Josephine, I believe that our first thought in awakening would be the last in dying,--confession,--and that our first rush would be to the feet of one another for forgiveness. For there are some offenses that must outlast the longest oblivion, and a forgiveness that will be more necessary than God's own. Then our hearts will be bared to one another; for if, as you say, there are no secrets at our age, there can still be less cause for them after death." His voice ended in the faintest whisper. The table crashed over, and the cards flew wide-spread on the floor. Before we could recover, madame was in the antechamber, screaming for Jules. One would have said that, from her face, the old lady had witnessed the resurrection described by Mr. Horace, the rush of the spirits with their burdens of remorse, the one to the feet of the other; and she must have seen herself and her husband, with a unanimity of purpose never apparent in their short married life, rising from their common tomb and hastening to that other tomb at the end of the alley, and falling at the feet of the one to whom in life he had been recreant in love, she in friendship. Of course Jules answered through the wrong door, rushing in with his gas-stick, and turning off the gas. In a moment we were involved in darkness and dispute. "But what does he mean? What does the idiot mean? He--" It was impossible for her to find a word to do justice to him and to her exasperation at the same time. "Pardon, madame; it is not I. It is the cathedral bell; it is ringing nine o'clock." "But--" "Madame can hear it herself. Listen!" We could not see it, but we were conscious of the benign, toothless smile spreading over his face as the bell-tones fell in the room. "But it is not the gas. I--" "Pardon, madame; but it is the gas. Madame said, 'Jules, put out the gas every night when the bell rings.' Madame told me that only last night. The bell rings: I put out the gas." "Will you be silent? Will you listen?" "If madame wishes; just as madame says." But the old lady had turned to Mr. Horace. "Horace, you have seen--you know--" and it was a question now of overcoming emotion. "I--I--I--a carriage, my friend, a carriage." "Madame--" Jules interrupted his smile to interrupt her. She was walking around the room, picking up a shawl here, a lace there; for she was always prepared against draughts. "Madame--" continued Jules, pursuing her. "A carriage." "If madame would only listen, I was going to say--but madame is too quick in her disposition--the carriage has been waiting since a long hour ago. Mr. Horace said to have it there in a half hour." It was then she saw for the first time that it had all been prepared by Mr. Horace. The rest was easy enough: getting into the carriage, and finding the place of which Mr. Horace had heard, as he said, only that afternoon. In it, on her bed of illness, poverty, and suffering, lay the patient, wasted form of the beautiful fair one whom men had called in her youth Myosotis. But she did not call her Myosotis. "_Mon Amour!_" The old pet name, although it had to be fetched across more than half a century of disuse, flashed like lightning from madame's heart into the dim chamber. "_Ma Divine!_" came in counter-flash from the curtained bed. In the old days women, or at least young girls, could hazard such pet names one upon the other. These--think of it!--dated from the first communion class, the dating period of so much of friendship. "My poor Amour!" "My poor, poor Divine!" The voices were together, close beside the pillow. "I--I--" began Divine. "It could not have happened if God had not wished it," interrupted poor Amour, with the resignation that comes, alas! only with the last drop of the bitter cup. And that was about all. If Mr. Horace had not slipped away, he might have noticed the curious absence of monsieur's name, and of his own name, in the murmuring that followed. It would have given him some more ideas on the subject of woman. At any rate, the good God must thank him for having one affair the less to arrange when the trumpet sounds out there over the old St. Louis cemetery. And he was none too premature; for the old St. Louis cemetery, as was shortly enough proved, was a near reach for all three of the old friends. PUPASSE Every day, every day, it was the same overture in Madame Joubert's room in the Institute St. Denis; the strident: "Mesdemoiselles; à vos places! Notre Père qui est dans le ciel--Qui a fait ce bruit?" "It's Pupasse, madame! It's Pupasse!" The answer invariably was unanimous. "But, Madame Joubert,--I assure you, Madame Joubert,--I could not help it! They know I could not help it!" By this time the fresh new fool's cap made from yesterday's "Bee" would have been pinned on her head. "Quelle injustice! Quelle injustice!" This last apostrophe in a high, whining nasal voice, always procured Pupasse's elevation on the tall three-legged stool in the corner. It was a theory of the little girls in the primary class that Madame Joubert would be much more lenient to their own little inevitabilities of bad conduct and lessons if Pupasse did not invariably comb her the wrong way every morning after prayers, by dropping something, or sniffling, or sneezing. Therefore, while they distractedly got together books, slates, and copy-books, their infantile eyes found time to dart deadly reproaches toward the corner of penitence, and their little lips, still shaped from their first nourishment, pouted anything but sympathy for the occupant of it. Indeed, it would have been a most startling unreality to have ever entered Madame Joubert's room and not seen Pupasse in that corner, on that stool, her tall figure shooting up like a post, until her tall, pointed _bonnet d' âne_ came within an inch or two of the ceiling. It was her hoop-skirt that best testified to her height. It was the period of those funnel-shaped hoop-skirts that spread out with such nice mathematical proportions, from the waist down, that it seemed they must have emanated from the brains of astronomers, like the orbits, and diameters, and other things belonging to the heavenly bodies. Pupasse could not have come within three feet of the wall with her hoop-skirt distended. To have forced matters was not to be thought of an instant. So even in her greatest grief and indignation, she had to pause before the three-legged black stool, and gather up steel after steel of her circumference in her hands behind, until her calico skirt careened and flattened; and so she could manage to accommodate herself to the limited space of her punishment, the circles drooping far over her feet as she stood there, looking like the costumed stick of a baby's rattle. Her thinness continued into her face, which, unfortunately, had nothing in the way of toilet to assist it. Two little black eyes fixed in the sides of a mere fence of a nose, and a mouth with the shape and expression of all mouths made to go over sharp-pointed teeth planted very far apart; the smallest amount possible of fine, dry, black hair--a perfect rat-tail when it was plaited in one, as almost all wore their hair. But sometimes Pupasse took it into her head to plait it in two braids, as none but the thick-haired ventured to wear it. As the little girls said, it was a petition to Heaven for "eau Quinquina." When Marcelite, the hair-dresser, came at her regular periods to visit the hair of the boarders, she would make an effort with Pupasse, plaiting her hundred hairs in a ten-strand braid. The effect was a half yard of black worsted galloon; nothing more, or better. Had Pupasse possessed as many heads as the hydra, she could have "coiffe'd" them all with fools' caps during one morning's recitations. She entirely monopolized the "Daily Bee." Madame Joubert was forced to borrow from "madame" the stale weekly "Courrier des Etats-Unis" for the rest of the room. From grammar, through sacred history, arithmetic, geography, mythology, down to dictation, Pupasse could pile up an accumulation of penitences that would have tasked the limits of the current day had not recreation been wisely set as a term which disbarred, by proscription, previous offenses. But even after recreation, with that day's lessons safely out, punished and expiated, Pupasse's doom seemed scarcely lightened; there was still a whole criminal code of conduct to infract. The only difference was that instead of books, slates, or copy-books, leathern medals, bearing various legends and mottos, were hung around her neck--a travestied decoration worse than the books for humiliation. The "abécédaires," their torment for the day over, thankful for any distraction from the next day's lessons, and eager for any relief from the intolerable ennui of goodness, were thankful enough now for Pupasse. They naturally watched her in preference to Madame Joubert, holding their books and slates quite cunningly to hide their faces. Pupasse had not only the genius, but that which sometimes fails genius, the means for grimacing: little eyes, long nose, foolish mouth, and pointed tongue. And she was so amusing, when Madame Joubert's head was turned, that the little girls, being young and innocent, would forget themselves and all burst out laughing. It sounded like a flight of singing birds through the hot, close, stupid little room; but not so to Madame Joubert. "Young ladies! But what does this mean?" And, terror-stricken, the innocents would call out with one voice, "It's Pupasse, madame! It's Pupasse who made us laugh!" There was nothing but fools' caps to be gained by prevaricating, and there was frequently nothing less gained by confession. And oh, the wails and the sobs as the innocents would be stood up, one by one, in their places! Even the pigtails at the backs of their little heads were convulsed with grief. Oh, how they hated Pupasse then! When their _bonnes_ came for them at three o'clock,--washing their tear-stained faces at the cistern before daring to take them through the streets,--how passionately they would cry out, the tears breaking afresh into the wet handkerchiefs: "It's that Pupasse! It's that _vilaine_ Pupasse!" To Pupasse herself would be meted out that "peine forte et dure," that acme of humiliation and disgrace, so intensely horrible that many a little girl in that room solemnly averred and believed she would kill herself before submitting to it. Pupasse's voluminous calico skirt would be gathered up by the hem and tied up over her head! Oh, the horrible monstrosity on the stool in the corner then! There were no eyes in that room that had any desire to look upon it. And the cries and the "Quelle injustice!" that fell on the ears then from the hidden feelings had all the weirdness of the unseen, but heard. And all the other girls in the room, in fear and trembling, would begin to move their lips in a perfect whirlwind of study, or write violently on their slates, or begin at that very instant to rule off their copy-books for the next day's verb. Pupasse--her name was Marie Pupasse but no one thought of calling her anything but Pupasse, with emphasis on the first syllable and sibilance on the last--had no parents only a grandmother, to describe whom, all that is necessary to say is that she was as short as Pupasse was tall, and that her face resembled nothing so much as a little yellow apple shriveling from decay. The old lady came but once a week, to fetch Pupasse fresh clothes, and a great brown paper bag of nice things to eat. There was no boarder in the school who received handsomer bags of cake and fruit than Pupasse. And although, not two hours before, a girl might have been foremost in the shrill cry, "It is Pupasse who made the noise! It is Pupasse who made me laugh!" there was nothing in that paper bag reserved even from such a one. When the girl herself with native delicacy would, under the circumstances, judge it discreet to refuse, Pupasse would plead, "Oh, but take it to give me pleasure!" And if still the refusal continued, Pupasse would take her bag and go into the summer-house in the corner of the garden, and cry until the unforgiving one would relent. But the first offering of the bag was invariably to the stern dispenser of fools' caps and the unnamed humiliation of the reversed skirt: Madame Joubert. Pupasse was in the fifth class. The sixth--the abécédaires--was the lowest in the school. Green was the color of the fifth; white--innocence--of the abécédaires. Exhibition after exhibition, the same green sash and green ribbons appeared on Pupasse's white muslin, the white muslin getting longer and longer every year, trying to keep up with her phenomenal growth; and always, from all over the room, buzzed the audience's suppressed merriment at Pupasse's appearance in the ranks of the little ones of nine and ten. It was that very merriment that brought about the greatest change in the Institute St. Denis. The sitting order of the classes was reversed. The first class--the graduates--went up to the top step of the _estrade_; and the little ones put on the lowest, behind the pianos. The graduates grumbled that it was not _comme il faut_ to have young ladies of their position stepping like camels up and down those great steps; and the little girls said it was a shame to hide them behind the pianos after their mamas had taken so much pains to make them look pretty. But madame said--going also to natural history for her comparison--that one must be a rhinoceros to continue the former routine. Religion cannot be kept waiting forever on the intelligence. It was always in the fourth class that the first communion was made; that is, when the girls stayed one year in each class. But Pupasse had spent three years in the sixth class, and had already been four in the fifth, and Madame Joubert felt that longer delay would be disrespectful to the good Lord. It was true that Pupasse could not yet distinguish the ten commandments from the seven capital sins, and still would answer that Jeanne d'Arc was the foundress of the "Little Sisters of the Poor." But, as Madame Joubert always said in the little address she made to the catechism class every year before handing it over to Father Dolomier, God judged from the heart, and not from the mind. Father Dolomier--from his face he would have been an able contestant of _bonnets d'âne_ with Pupasse, if subjected to Madame Joubert's discipline--evidently had the same method of judging as God, although the catechism class said they could dance a waltz on the end of his long nose without his perceiving it. There is always a little air of mystery about the first communion: not that there is any in reality, but the little ones assume it to render themselves important. The going to early mass, the holding their dog-eared catechisms as if they were relics, the instruction from the priest, even if he were only old Father Dolomier--it all put such a little air of devotion into their faces that it imposed (as it did every year) upon their companions, which was a vastly gratifying effect. No matter how young and innocent she may be, a woman's devotion always seems to have two aims--God and her own sex. The week of retreat came. Oh, the week of retreat! That was the _bonne bouche_ of it all, for themselves and for the others. It was the same every year. By the time the week of retreat arrived, interest and mystery had been frothed to the point of indiscretion; so that the little girls would stand on tiptoe to peep through the shutters at the postulants inside, and even the larger girls, to whom first communion was a thing of an infantile past, would condescend to listen to their reports with ill-feigned indifference. As the day of the first communion neared, the day of the general confession naturally neared too, leading it. And then the little girls, peeping through the shutters, and holding their breath to see better, saw what they beheld every year; but it was always new and awesome--mysterious scribbling in corners with lead-pencils on scraps of paper; consultations; rewritings; copyings; the list of their sins, of all the sins of their lives. "_Ma chère!_"--pigtails and sunbonnets hiving outside would shudder. "Oh, _Mon Dieu!_ To have to confess all--but _all_ your sins! As for me, it would kill me, sure!" And the frightful recoils of their consciences would make all instantly blanch and cross themselves. "And look at Pupasse's sins! Oh, but they are long! _Ma chère_, but look! But look, I ask you, at them!" The longest record was of course the most complimentary and honorable to the possessor, as each girl naturally worked not only for absolution but for fame. Between catechisms and instructions Madame Joubert would have "La Vie des Saints" read aloud, to stimulate their piety and to engage their thoughts; for the thoughts of first communicants are worse than flies for buzzing around the forbidden. The lecture must have been a great quickener of conscience; for they would dare punishment and cheat Madame Joubert, under her own eyes, in order surreptitiously to add a new sin to their list. Of course the one hour's recreation could not afford time enough for observation now, and the little girls were driven to all sorts of excuses to get out of the classroom for one moment's peep through the shutters; at which whole swarms of them would sometimes be caught and sent into punishment. Only two days more. Madame Joubert put them through the rehearsal, a most important part of the preparation, almost as important as catechism--how to enter the church, how to hold the candle, how to advance, how to kneel, retire--everything, in fact. Only one day more, the quietest, most devotional day of all. Pupasse lost her sins! Of course every year the same accident happened to some one. But it was a new accident to Pupasse. And such a long list! The commotion inside that retreat! Pupasse's nasal whine, carrying her lament without any mystery to the outside garden. Such searching of pockets, rummaging of corners, microscopic examination of the floor! Such crimination and recrimination, protestation, asseveration, assurances, backed by divine and saintly invocations! Pupasse accused companion after companion of filching her sins, which each after each would violently deny, producing each her own list from her own pocket,--proof to conviction of innocence, and, we may say, of guilt also. Pupasse declared they had niched it to copy, because her list was the longest and most complete. She could not go to confession without her sins; she could not go to communion without confession. The tears rolled down her long thin nose unchecked, for she never could remember to use her handkerchief until reminded by Madame Joubert. She had committed it to memory, as all the others had done theirs; but how was she to know without the list if she had not forgotten something? And to forget one thing in a general confession they knew was a mortal sin. "I shall tell Madame Joubert! I shall tell Madame Joubert!" "_Ma chère_!'" whispered the little ones outside. "Oh, but look at them! _Elles font les quatre cents coups_!" which is equivalent to "cutting up like the mischief." And with reason. As if such an influx of the world upon them at this moment were not sufficient of itself to damn them. But to tell Madame Joubert! With all their dresses made and ready, wreaths, veils, candles, prayer-books, picture-cards, mother-of-pearl prayer-beads, and festival breakfasts with admiring family and friends prepared. Tell Madame Joubert! She would simply cancel it all. In a body they chorused: "But, Pupasse!" "_Chère_ Pupasse!" "_Voyons_, Pupasse!" "I assure you, Pupasse!" "On the cross, Pupasse!" "Ah, Pupasse!" "We implore you, Pupasse!" The only response--tears, and "I shall tell Madame Joubert." Consultations, caucuses, individual appeals, general outbursts. Pupasse stood in the corner. Curiously, she always sought refuge in the very sanctum of punishment, her face hidden in her bended arms, her hoops standing out behind, vouchsafing nothing but tears, and the promise to tell Madame Joubert. And three o'clock approaching! And Madame Joubert imminent! But Pupasse really could not go to confession without her sins. They all recognized that; they were reasonable, as they assured her. A crisis quickens the wits. They heard the cathedral clock strike the quarter to three. They whispered, suggested, argued--bunched in the farthest corner from Pupasse. "Console yourself, Pupasse! We will help you, Pupasse! Say no more about it! We will help you!" A delegate was sent to say that. She was only four feet and a half high, and had to stand on tiptoe to pluck the six-foot Pupasse's dress to gain her attention. And they did help her generously. A new sheet of fool's-cap was procured, and torn in two, lengthwise, and pinned in a long strip. One by one, each little girl took it, and, retiring as far as possible, would put her hand into her pocket, and, extracting her list, would copy it in full on the new paper. Then she would fold it down, and give it to the next one, until all had written. "Here, Pupasse; here are all our sins. We give them to you; you can have them." Pupasse was radiant; she was more than delighted, and the more she read the better pleased she was. Such a handsome long list, and so many sins she had never thought of--never dreamed of! She set herself with zeal to commit them to memory. But a hand on the door--Madame Joubert! You never could have told that those little girls had not been sitting during the whole time, with their hands clasped and eyes cast up to the ceiling, or moving their lips as the prayer-beads glided through their fingers. Their versatility was really marvelous. [Illustration: THE FIRST COMMUNION.] Poor Pupasse! God solved the dilemma of her education, and madame's increasing sensitiveness about her appearance in the fifth class, by the death of the old grandmother. She went home to the funeral, and never returned--or at least she returned, but only for madame. There was a little scene in the parlor: Pupasse, all dressed in black, with her bag of primary books in her hand, ready and eager to get back to her classes and fools' caps; madame, hesitating between her interests and her fear of ridicule; Madame Joubert, between her loyalty to school and her conscience. Pupasse the only one free and untrammeled, simple and direct. That little school parlor had been the stage for so many scenes! Madame Joubert detested acting--the comedy, as she called it. There was nothing she punished with more pleasure up in her room. And yet-- "Pupasse, _ma fille_, give me your grammar." The old battered, primitive book was gotten out of the bag, the string still tied between the leaves for convenience in hanging around the neck. "Your last punishment: the rule for irregular verbs. Commence!" "I know it, Madame Joubert; I know it perfectly, I assure you." "Commence!" "Irregular verbs--but I assure you I know it--I know it by heart--" "Commence, _ma fille!_" "Irregular verbs--irregular verbs--I know it, Madame Joubert--one moment--" and she shook her right hand, as girls do to get inspiration, they say. "Irregular verbs--give me one word, Madame Joubert; only one word!" "That--" "Irregular verbs, that--irregular verbs, that--" "See here, Pupasse; you do not know that lesson any more than a cat does"--Madame Joubert's favorite comparison. "Yes, I do, Madame Joubert! Yes, I do!" "Silence!" "But, Madame Joubert--" "Will you be silent!" "Yes, Madame Joubert; only--" "Pupasse, one more word--and--" Madame Joubert was forgetting her comedy--"Listen, Pupasse, and obey! You go home and learn that lesson. When you know it, you can reënter your class. That is the punishment I have thought of to correct your 'want of attention.'" That was the way Madame Joubert put it--"want of attention." Pupasse looked at her--at madame, a silent but potent spectator. To be sent from home because she did not know the rule of the irregular verbs! To be sent from home, family, friends!--for that was the way Pupasse put it. She had been in that school--it may only be whispered--fifteen years. Madame Joubert knew it; so did madame, although they accounted for only four or five years in each class. That school was her home; Madame Joubert--God help her!--her mother; madame, her divinity; fools' caps and turned-up skirts, her life. The old grandmother--she it was who had done everything for her (a _ci-devant_ rag-picker, they say); she it was who was nothing to her. Madame must have felt something of it besides the loss of the handsome salary for years from the little old withered woman. But conventionality is inexorable; and the St. Denis's great recommendation was its conventionality. Madame Joubert must have felt something of it,--she must have felt something of it,--for why should she volunteer? Certainly madame could not have imposed _that_ upon _her. It must_ have been an inspiration of the moment, or a movement, a _tressaillement_, of the heart. "Listen, Pupasse, my child. Go home, study your lesson well. I shall come every evening myself and hear it; and as soon as you know it, I shall fetch you back myself. You know I always keep my word." Keep her word! That she did. Could the inanimate past testify, what a fluttering of fools' caps in that parlor--"Daily Bees," and "Weekly Couriers," by the year-full! What could Pupasse say or do? It settled the question, as Madame Joubert assured madame, when the tall, thin black figure with the bag of books disappeared through the gate. Madame Joubert was never known to break her word; that is all one knows about her part of the bargain. One day, not three years ago, ringing a bell to inquire for a servant, a familiar murmuring fell upon the ear, and an old abécédaire's eyes could not resist the temptation to look through the shutters. There sat Pupasse; there was her old grammar; there were both fingers stopping her ears--as all studious girls do, or used to do; and there sounded the old words composing the rule for irregular verbs. And you all remember how long it is since we wore funnel-shaped hoop-skirts! 
10234	----	Proofreading Team. OLD CREOLE DAYS A STORY OF CREOLE LIFE BY GEORGE W. CABLE 1907 CONTENTS MADAME DELPHINE CAFÉ DES EXILÉS BELLES DEMOISELLES PLANTATION "POSSON JONE'" JEAN-AH POQUELIN 'TITE POULETTE 'SIEUR GEORGE MADAME DÉLICIEUSE MADAME DELPHINE. CHAPTER I. AN OLD HOUSE. A few steps from the St. Charles Hotel, in New Orleans, brings you to and across Canal Street, the central avenue of the city, and to that corner where the flower-women sit at the inner and outer edges of the arcaded sidewalk, and make the air sweet with their fragrant merchandise. The crowd--and if it is near the time of the carnival it will be great--will follow Canal Street. But you turn, instead, into the quiet, narrow way which a lover of Creole antiquity, in fondness for a romantic past, is still prone to call the Rue Royale. You will pass a few restaurants, a few auction-rooms, a few furniture warehouses, and will hardly realize that you have left behind you the activity and clatter of a city of merchants before you find yourself in a region of architectural decrepitude, where an ancient and foreign-seeming domestic life, in second stories, overhangs the ruins of a former commercial prosperity, and upon every thing has settled down a long sabbath of decay. The vehicles in the street are few in number, and are merely passing through; the stores are shrunken into shops; you see here and there, like a patch of bright mould, the stall of that significant fungus, the Chinaman. Many great doors are shut and clamped and grown gray with cobweb; many street windows are nailed up; half the balconies are begrimed and rust-eaten, and many of the humid arches and alleys which characterize the older Franco-Spanish piles of stuccoed brick betray a squalor almost oriental. Yet beauty lingers here. To say nothing of the picturesque, sometimes you get sight of comfort, sometimes of opulence, through the unlatched wicket in some _porte-cochère_--red-painted brick pavement, foliage of dark palm or pale banana, marble or granite masonry and blooming parterres; or through a chink between some pair of heavy batten window-shutters, opened with an almost reptile wariness, your eye gets a glimpse of lace and brocade upholstery, silver and bronze, and much similar rich antiquity. The faces of the inmates are in keeping; of the passengers in the street a sad proportion are dingy and shabby; but just when these are putting you off your guard, there will pass you a woman--more likely two or three--of patrician beauty. Now, if you will go far enough down this old street, you will see, as you approach its intersection with ----. Names in that region elude one like ghosts. However, as you begin to find the way a trifle more open, you will not fail to notice on the right-hand side, about midway of the square, a small, low, brick house of a story and a half, set out upon the sidewalk, as weather-beaten and mute as an aged beggar fallen asleep. Its corrugated roof of dull red tiles, sloping down toward you with an inward curve, is overgrown with weeds, and in the fall of the year is gay with the yellow plumes of the golden-rod. You can almost touch with your cane the low edge of the broad, overhanging eaves. The batten shutters at door and window, with hinges like those of a postern, are shut with a grip that makes one's knuckles and nails feel lacerated. Save in the brick-work itself there is not a cranny. You would say the house has the lockjaw. There are two doors, and to each a single chipped and battered marble step. Continuing on down the sidewalk, on a line with the house, is a garden masked from view by a high, close board-fence. You may see the tops of its fruit-trees--pomegranate, peach, banana, fig, pear, and particularly one large orange, close by the fence, that must be very old. The residents over the narrow way, who live in a three-story house, originally of much pretension, but from whose front door hard times have removed almost all vestiges of paint, will tell you: "Yass, de 'ouse is in'abit; 'tis live in." And this is likely to be all the information you get--not that they would not tell, but they cannot grasp the idea that you wish to know--until, possibly, just as you are turning to depart, your informant, in a single word and with the most evident non-appreciation of its value, drops the simple key to the whole matter: "Dey's quadroons." He may then be aroused to mention the better appearance of the place in former years, when the houses of this region generally stood farther apart, and that garden comprised the whole square. Here dwelt, sixty years ago and more, one Delphine Carraze; or, as she was commonly designated by the few who knew her, Madame Delphine. That she owned her home, and that it had been given her by the then deceased companion of her days of beauty, were facts so generally admitted as to be, even as far back as that sixty years ago, no longer a subject of gossip. She was never pointed out by the denizens of the quarter as a character, nor her house as a "feature." It would have passed all Creole powers of guessing to divine what you could find worthy of inquiry concerning a retired quadroon woman; and not the least puzzled of all would have been the timid and restive Madame Delphine herself. CHAPTER II. MADAME DELPHINE. During the first quarter of the present century, the free quadroon caste of New Orleans was in its golden age. Earlier generations--sprung, upon the one hand, from the merry gallants of a French colonial military service which had grown gross by affiliation with Spanish-American frontier life, and, upon the other hand from comely Ethiopians culled out of the less negroidal types of African live goods, and bought at the ship's side with vestiges of quills and cowries and copper wire still in their head-dresses,--these earlier generations, with scars of battle or private rencontre still on the fathers, and of servitude on the manumitted mothers, afforded a mere hint of the splendor that was to result from a survival of the fairest through seventy-five years devoted to the elimination of the black pigment and the cultivation of hyperian excellence and nymphean grace and beauty. Nor, if we turn to the present, is the evidence much stronger which is offered by the _gens de couleur_ whom you may see in the quadroon quarter this afternoon, with "Ichabod" legible on their murky foreheads through a vain smearing of toilet powder, dragging their chairs down to the narrow gateway of their close-fenced gardens, and staring shrinkingly at you as you pass, like a nest of yellow kittens. But as the present century was in its second and third decades, the _quadroones_ (for we must contrive a feminine spelling to define the strict limits of the caste as then established) came forth in splendor. Old travellers spare no terms to tell their praises, their faultlessness of feature, their perfection of form, their varied styles of beauty,--for there were even pure Caucasian blondes among them,--their fascinating manners, their sparkling vivacity, their chaste and pretty wit, their grace in the dance, their modest propriety, their taste and elegance in dress. In the gentlest and most poetic sense they were indeed the sirens of this land where it seemed "always afternoon"--a momentary triumph of an Arcadian over a Christian civilization, so beautiful and so seductive that it became the subject of special chapters by writers of the day more original than correct as social philosophers. The balls that were got up for them by the male _sang-pur_ were to that day what the carnival is to the present. Society balls given the same nights proved failures through the coincidence. The magnates of government,--municipal, state, federal,--those of the army, of the learned professions and of the clubs,--in short, the white male aristocracy in every thing save the ecclesiastical desk,--were there. Tickets were high-priced to insure the exclusion of the vulgar. No distinguished stranger was allowed to miss them. They were beautiful! They were clad in silken extenuations from the throat to the feet, and wore, withal, a pathos in their charm that gave them a family likeness to innocence. Madame Delphine, were you not a stranger, could have told you all about it; though hardly, I suppose, without tears. But at the time of which we would speak (1821-22) her day of splendor was set, and her husband--let us call him so for her sake--was long dead. He was an American, and, if we take her word for it, a man of noble heart and extremely handsome; but this is knowledge which we can do without. Even in those days the house was always shut, and Madame Delphine's chief occupation and end in life seemed to be to keep well locked up in-doors. She was an excellent person, the neighbors said,--a very worthy person; and they were, maybe, nearer correct then they knew. They rarely saw her save when she went to or returned from church; a small, rather tired-looking, dark quadroone of very good features and a gentle thoughtfulness of expression which would take long to describe: call it a widow's look. In speaking of Madame Delphine's house, mention should have been made of a gate in the fence on the Royal-street sidewalk. It is gone now, and was out of use then, being fastened once for all by an iron staple clasping the cross-bar and driven into the post. Which leads us to speak of another person. CHAPTER III. CAPITAINE LEMAITRE. He was one of those men that might be any age,--thirty, forty, forty-five; there was no telling from his face what was years and what was only weather. His countenance was of a grave and quiet, but also luminous, sort, which was instantly admired and ever afterward remembered, as was also the fineness of his hair and the blueness of his eyes. Those pronounced him youngest who scrutinized his face the closest. But waiving the discussion of age, he was odd, though not with the oddness that he who had reared him had striven to produce. He had not been brought up by mother or father. He had lost both in infancy, and had fallen to the care of a rugged old military grandpa of the colonial school, whose unceasing endeavor had been to make "his boy" as savage and ferocious a holder of unimpeachable social rank as it became a pure-blooded French Creole to be who would trace his pedigree back to the god Mars. "Remember, my boy," was the adjuration received by him as regularly as his waking cup of black coffee, "that none of your family line ever kept the laws of any government or creed." And if it was well that he should bear this in mind, it was well to reiterate it persistently, for, from the nurse's arms, the boy wore a look, not of docility so much as of gentle, _judicial_ benevolence. The domestics of the old man's house used to shed tears of laughter to see that look on the face of a babe. His rude guardian addressed himself to the modification of this facial expression; it had not enough of majesty in it, for instance, or of large dare-deviltry; but with care these could be made to come. And, true enough, at twenty-one (in Ursin Lemaitre), the labors of his grandfather were an apparent success. He was not rugged, nor was he loud-spoken, as his venerable trainer would have liked to present him to society; but he was as serenely terrible as a well-aimed rifle, and the old man looked upon his results with pride. He had cultivated him up to that pitch where he scorned to practise any vice, or any virtue, that did not include the principle of self-assertion. A few touches only were wanting here and there to achieve perfection, when suddenly the old man died. Yet it was his proud satisfaction, before he finally lay down, to see Ursin a favored companion and the peer, both in courtesy and pride, of those polished gentlemen famous in history, the brothers Lafitte. The two Lafittes were, at the time young Lemaitre reached his majority (say 1808 or 1812), only merchant-blacksmiths, so to speak, a term intended to convey the idea of blacksmiths who never soiled their hands, who were men of capital, stood a little higher than the clergy, and moved in society among its autocrats. But they were full of possibilities, men of action, and men, too, of thought, with already a pronounced disbelief in the custom-house. In these days of big carnivals they would have been patented as the dukes of Little Manchac and Barataria. Young Ursin Lemaitre (in full the name was Lemaitre-Vignevielle) had not only the hearty friendship of these good people, but also a natural turn for accounts; and as his two friends were looking about them with an enterprising eye, it easily resulted that he presently connected himself with the blacksmithing profession. Not exactly at the forge in the Lafittes' famous smithy, among the African Samsons, who, with their shining black bodies bared to the waist, made the Rue St. Pierre ring with the stroke of their hammers; but as a--there was no occasion to mince the word in those days--smuggler. Smuggler--patriot--where was the difference? Beyond the ken of a community to which the enforcement of the revenue laws had long been merely so much out of every man's pocket and dish, into the all-devouring treasury of Spain. At this date they had come under a kinder yoke, and to a treasury that at least echoed when the customs were dropped into it; but the change was still new. What could a man be more than Capitaine Lemaitre was--the soul of honor, the pink of courtesy, with the courage of the lion, and the magnanimity of the elephant; frank--the very exchequer of truth! Nay, go higher still: his paper was good in Toulouse Street. To the gossips in the gaming-clubs he was the culminating proof that smuggling was one of the sublimer virtues. Years went by. Events transpired which have their place in history. Under a government which the community by and by saw was conducted in their interest, smuggling began to lose its respectability and to grow disreputable, hazardous, and debased. In certain onslaughts made upon them by officers of the law, some of the smugglers became murderers. The business became unprofitable for a time until the enterprising Lafittes--thinkers--bethought them of a corrective--"privateering". Thereupon the United States Government set a price upon their heads. Later yet it became known that these outlawed pirates had been offered money and rank by Great Britain if they would join her standard, then hovering about the water-approaches to their native city, and that they had spurned the bribe; wherefore their heads were ruled out of the market, and, meeting and treating with Andrew Jackson, they were received as lovers of their country, and as compatriots fought in the battle of New Orleans at the head of their fearless men, and--here tradition takes up the tale--were never seen afterward. Capitaine Lemaitre was not among the killed or wounded, but he was among the missing. CHAPTER IV. THREE FRIENDS. The roundest and happiest-looking priest in the city of New Orleans was a little man fondly known among his people as Père Jerome. He was a Creole and a member of one of the city's leading families. His dwelling was a little frame cottage, standing on high pillars just inside a tall, close fence, and reached by a narrow out-door stair from the green batten gate. It was well surrounded by crape myrtles, and communicated behind by a descending stair and a plank-walk with the rear entrance of the chapel over whose worshippers he daily spread his hands in benediction. The name of the street--ah! there is where light is wanting. Save the Cathedral and the Ursulines, there is very little of record concerning churches at that time, though they were springing up here and there. All there is certainty of is that Père Jerome's frame chapel was some little new-born "down-town" thing, that may have survived the passage of years, or may have escaped "Paxton's Directory" "so as by fire." His parlor was dingy and carpetless; one could smell distinctly there the vow of poverty. His bed-chamber was bare and clean, and the bed in it narrow and hard; but between the two was a dining-room that would tempt a laugh to the lips of any who looked in. The table was small, but stout, and all the furniture of the room substantial, made of fine wood, and carved just enough to give the notion of wrinkling pleasantry. His mother's and sister's doing, Père Jerome would explain; they would not permit this apartment--or department--to suffer. Therein, as well as in the parlor, there was odor, but of a more epicurean sort, that explained interestingly the Père Jerome's rotundity and rosy smile. In this room, and about this miniature round table, used sometimes to sit with Père Jerome two friends to whom he was deeply attached--one, Evariste Varrillat, a playmate from early childhood, now his brother in-law; the other, Jean Thompson, a companion from youngest manhood, and both, like the little priest himself, the regretful rememberers of a fourth comrade who was a comrade no more. Like Père Jerome, they had come, through years, to the thick of life's conflicts,--the priest's brother-in-law a physician, the other an attorney, and brother-in-law to the lonely wanderer,--yet they loved to huddle around this small board, and be boys again in heart while men in mind. Neither one nor another was leader. In earlier days they had always yielded to him who no longer met with them a certain chieftainship, and they still thought of him and talked of him, and, in their conjectures, groped after him, as one of whom they continued to expect greater things than of themselves. They sat one day drawn thus close together, sipping and theorizing, speculating upon the nature of things in an easy, bold, sophomoric way, the conversation for the most part being in French, the native tongue of the doctor and priest, and spoken with facility by Jean Thompson the lawyer, who was half Américain; but running sometimes into English and sometimes into mild laughter. Mention had been made of the absentee. Père Jerome advanced an idea something like this: "It is impossible for any finite mind to fix the degree of criminality of any human act or of any human life. The Infinite One alone can know how much of our sin is chargeable to us, and how much to our brothers or our fathers. We all participate in one another's sins. There is a community of responsibility attaching to every misdeed. No human since Adam--nay, nor Adam himself--ever sinned entirely to himself. And so I never am called upon to contemplate a crime or a criminal but I feel my conscience pointing at me as one of the accessories." "In a word," said Evariste Varrillat, the physician, "you think we are partly to blame for the omission of many of your Paternosters, eh?" Father Jerome smiled. "No; a man cannot plead so in his own defence; our first father tried that, but the plea was not allowed. But, now, there is our absent friend. I tell you truly this whole community ought to be recognized as partners in his moral errors. Among another people, reared under wiser care and with better companions, how different might he not have been! How can we speak of him as a law-breaker who might have saved him from that name?" Here the speaker turned to Jean Thompson, and changed his speech to English. "A lady sez to me to-day: 'Père Jerome, 'ow dat is a dreadfool dat 'e gone at de coas' of Cuba to be one corsair! Ain't it?' 'Ah, madame,' I sez, ''tis a terrible! I 'ope de good God will fo'give me an' you fo' dat!'" Jean Thompson answered quickly: "You should not have let her say that." "_Mais_, fo' w'y?" "Why, because, if you are partly responsible, you ought so much the more to do what you can to shield his reputation. You should have said,"--the attorney changed to French,--"'He is no pirate; he has merely taken out letters of marque and reprisal under the flag of the republic of Carthagena!'" "_Ah, bah_!" exclaimed Doctor Varrillat, and both he and his brother-in-law, the priest, laughed. "Why not?" demanded Thompson. "Oh!" said the physician, with a shrug, "say id thad way iv you wand." Then, suddenly becoming serious, he was about to add something else, when Père Jerome spoke. "I will tell you what I could have said, I could have said: 'Madame, yes; 'tis a terrible fo' him. He stum'le in de dark; but dat good God will mek it a _mo' terrible fo'_ dat man oohever he is, w'at put 'at light out!'" "But how do you know he is a pirate?" demanded Thompson, aggressively. "How do we know?" said the little priest, returning to French. "Ah! there is no other explanation of the ninety-and-nine stories that come to us, from every port where ships arrive from the north coast of Cuba, of a commander of pirates there who is a marvel of courtesy and gentility"--[1] [Footnote 1: See gazettes of the period.] "And whose name is Lafitte," said the obstinate attorney. "And who, nevertheless, is not Lafitte," insisted Père Jerome. "Daz troo, Jean," said Doctor Varrillat. "We hall know daz troo." Père Jerome leaned forward over the board and spoke, with an air of secrecy, in French. "You have heard of the ship which came into port here last Monday. You have heard that she was boarded by pirates, and that the captain of the ship himself drove them off." "An incredible story," said Thompson. "But not so incredible as the truth. I have it from a passenger. There was on the ship a young girl who was very beautiful. She came on deck, where the corsair stood, about to issue his orders, and, more beautiful than ever in the desperation of the moment, confronted him with a small missal spread open, and her finger on the Apostles' Creed, commanded him to read. He read it, uncovering his head as he read, then stood gazing on her face, which did not quail; and then with a low bow, said: 'Give me this book and I will do your bidding.' She gave him the book and bade him leave the ship, and he left it unmolested." Père Jerome looked from the physician to the attorney and back again, once or twice, with his dimpled smile. "But he speaks English, they say," said Jean Thompson. "He has, no doubt, learned it since he left us," said the priest. "But this ship-master, too, says his men called him Lafitte." "Lafitte? No. Do you not see? It is your brother-in-law, Jean Thompson! It is your wife's brother! Not Lafitte, but" (softly) "Lemaitre! Lemaitre! Capitaine Ursin Lemaitre!" The two guests looked at each other with a growing drollery on either face, and presently broke into a laugh. "Ah!" said the doctor, as the three rose up, "you juz kip dad cog-an'-bull fo' yo' negs summon." Père Jerome's eyes lighted up-- "I goin' to do it!" "I tell you," said Evariste, turning upon him with sudden gravity, "iv dad is troo, I tell you w'ad is sure-sure! Ursin Lemaitre din kyare nut'n fo' doze creed; _he fall in love!_" Then, with a smile, turning to Jean Thompson, and back again to Père Jerome: "But anny'ow you tell it in dad summon dad 'e hyare fo' dad creed." Père Jerome sat up late that night, writing a letter. The remarkable effects upon a certain mind, effects which we shall presently find him attributing solely to the influences of surrounding nature, may find for some a more sufficient explanation in the fact that this letter was but one of a series, and that in the rover of doubted identity and incredible eccentricity Père Jerome had a regular correspondent. CHAPTER V. THE CAP FITS. About two months after the conversation just given, and therefore somewhere about the Christmas holidays of the year 1821, Père Jerome delighted the congregation of his little chapel with the announcement that he had appointed to preach a sermon in French on the following sabbath--not there, but in the cathedral. He was much beloved. Notwithstanding that among the clergy there were two or three who shook their heads and raised their eyebrows, and said he would be at least as orthodox if he did not make quite so much of the Bible and quite so little of the dogmas, yet "the common people heard him gladly." When told, one day, of the unfavorable whispers, he smiled a little and answered his informant,--whom he knew to be one of the whisperers himself,--laying a hand kindly upon his shoulder: "Father Murphy,"--or whatever the name was,--"your words comfort me." "How is that?" "Because--_'Voe quum benedixerint mihi homines!'_" [1] [Footnote 1: "Woe unto me when all men speak well of me!"] The appointed morning, when it came, was one of those exquisite days in which there is such a universal harmony, that worship rises from the heart like a spring. "Truly," said Père Jerome to the companion who was to assist him in the mass, "this is a sabbath day which we do not have to make holy, but only to _keep_ so." Maybe it was one of the secrets of Père Jerome's success as a preacher, that he took more thought as to how he should feel, than as to what he should say. The cathedral of those days was called a very plain old pile, boasting neither beauty nor riches; but to Père Jerome it was very lovely; and before its homely altar, not homely to him, in the performance of those solemn offices, symbols of heaven's mightiest truths, in the hearing of the organ's harmonies, and the yet more elegant interunion of human voices in the choir, in overlooking the worshipping throng which knelt under the soft, chromatic lights, and in breathing the sacrificial odors of the chancel, he found a deep and solemn joy; and yet I guess the finest thought of his the while was one that came thrice and again: "Be not deceived, Père Jerome, because saintliness of feeling is easy here; you are the same priest who overslept this morning, and over-ate yesterday, and will, in some way, easily go wrong to-morrow and the day after." He took it with him when--the _Veni Creator_ sung--he went into the pulpit. Of the sermon he preached, tradition has preserved for us only a few brief sayings, but they are strong and sweet. "My friends," he said,--this was near the beginning,--"the angry words of God's book are very merciful--they are meant to drive us home; but the tender words, my friends, they are sometimes terrible! Notice these, the tenderest words of the tenderest prayer that ever came from the lips of a blessed martyr--the dying words of the holy Saint Stephen, 'Lord, lay not this sin to their charge.' Is there nothing dreadful in that? Read it thus: 'Lord, lay not this sin to their charge.' Not to the charge of them who stoned him? To whose charge then? Go ask the holy Saint Paul. Three years afterward, praying in the temple at Jerusalem, he answered that question: 'I stood by and consented.' He answered for himself only; but the Day must come when all that wicked council that sent Saint Stephen away to be stoned, and all that city of Jerusalem, must hold up the hand and say: 'We, also, Lord--we stood by.' Ah! friends, under the simpler meaning of that dying saint's prayer for the pardon of his murderers is hidden the terrible truth that we all have a share in one another's sins." Thus Père Jerome touched his key-note. All that time has spared us beside may be given in a few sentences. "Ah!" he cried once, "if it were merely my own sins that I had to answer for, I might hold up my head before the rest of mankind; but no, no, my friends--we cannot look each other in the face, for each has helped the other to sin. Oh, where is there any room, in this world of common disgrace, for pride? Even if we had no common hope, a common despair ought to bind us together and forever silence the voice of scorn!" And again, this: "Even in the promise to Noë, not again to destroy the race with a flood, there is a whisper of solemn warning. The moral account of the antediluvians was closed off, and the balance brought down in the year of the deluge; but the account of those who come after runs on and on, and the blessed bow of promise itself warns us that God will not stop it till the Judgment Day! O God, I thank thee that that day must come at last, when thou wilt destroy the world, and stop the interest on my account!" It was about at this point that Père Jerome noticed, more particularly than he had done before, sitting among the worshippers near him, a small, sad-faced woman, of pleasing features, but dark and faded, who gave him profound attention. With her was another in better dress, seemingly a girl still in her teens, though her face and neck were scrupulously concealed by a heavy veil, and her hands, which were small, by gloves. "Quadroones," thought he, with a stir of deep pity. Once, as he uttered some stirring word, he saw the mother and daughter (if such they were), while they still bent their gaze upon him, clasp each other's hand fervently in the daughter's lap. It was at these words: "My friends, there are thousands of people in this city of New Orleans to whom society gives the ten commandments of God with all the _nots_ rubbed out! Ah! good gentlemen! if God sends the poor weakling to purgatory for leaving the right path, where ought some of you to go who strew it with thorns and briers!" The movement of the pair was only seen because he watched for it. He glanced that way again as he said: "O God, be very gentle with those children who would be nearer heaven this day had they never had a father and mother, but had got their religious training from such a sky and earth as we have in Louisiana this holy morning! Ah! my friends, nature is a big-print catechism!" The mother and daughter leaned a little farther forward, and exchanged the same spasmodic hand-pressure as before. The mother's eyes were full of tears. "I once knew a man," continued the little priest, glancing to a side aisle where he had noticed Evariste and Jean sitting against each other, "who was carefully taught, from infancy to manhood, this single only principle of life: defiance. Not justice, not righteousness, not even gain; but defiance: defiance to God, defiance to man, defiance to nature, defiance to reason; defiance and defiance and defiance." "He is going to tell it!" murmured Evariste to Jean. "This man," continued Père Jerome, "became a smuggler and at last a pirate in the Gulf of Mexico. Lord, lay not that sin to his charge alone! But a strange thing followed. Being in command of men of a sort that to control required to be kept at the austerest distance, he now found himself separated from the human world and thrown into the solemn companionship with the sea, with the air, with the storm, the calm the heavens by day, the heavens by night. My friends, that was the first time in his life that he ever found himself in really good company. "Now, this man had a great aptness for accounts. He had kept them--had rendered them. There was beauty, to him, in a correct, balanced, and closed account. An account unsatisfied was a deformity. The result is plain. That man, looking out night after night upon the grand and holy spectacle of the starry deep above and the watery deep below, was sure to find himself, sooner or later, mastered by the conviction that the great Author of this majestic creation keeps account of it; and one night there came to him, like a spirit walking on the sea, the awful, silent question: 'My account with God--how does it stand?' Ah! friends, that is a question which the book of nature does not answer. "Did I say the book of nature is a catechism? Yes. But, after it answers the first question with 'God,' nothing but questions follow; and so, one day, this man gave a ship full of merchandise for one little book which answered those questions. God help him to understand it! and God help you, monsieur, and you, madame, sitting here in your _smuggled clothes_, to beat upon the breast with me and cry, 'I, too, Lord--I, too, stood by and consented.'" Père Jerome had not intended these for his closing words; but just there, straight away before his sight and almost at the farthest door, a man rose slowly from his seat and regarded him steadily with a kind, bronzed, sedate face, and the sermon, as if by a sign of command, was ended. While the Credo was being chanted he was still there; but when, a moment after its close, the eye of Père Jerome returned in that direction, his place was empty. As the little priest, his labor done and his vestments changed, was turning into the Rue Royale and leaving the cathedral out of sight, he just had time to understand that two women were purposely allowing him to overtake them, when the one nearer him spoke in the Creole _patois,_ saying, with some timid haste: "Good-morning, Père--Père Jerome; Père Jerome, we thank the good God for that sermon." "Then, so do I," said the little man. They were the same two that he had noticed when he was preaching. The younger one bowed silently; she was a beautiful figure, but the slight effort of Père Jerome's kind eyes to see through the veil was vain. He would presently have passed on, but the one who had spoken before said: "I thought you lived in the Rue des Ursulines." "Yes; but I am going this way to see a sick person." The woman looked up at him with an expression of mingled confidence and timidity. "It must be a blessed thing to be so useful as to be needed by the good God," she said. Père Jerome smiled: "God does not need me to look after his sick; but he allows me to do it, just as you let your little boy in frocks carry in chips." He might have added that he loved to do it, quite as much. It was plain the woman had somewhat to ask, and was trying to get courage to ask it. "You have a little boy?" asked the priest. "No, I have only my daughter;" she indicated the girl at her side. Then she began to say something else, stopped, and with much nervousness asked: "Père Jerome, what was the name of that man?" "His name?" said the priest. "You wish to know his name?" "Yes, Monsieur" (or _Miché_, as she spoke it); "it was such a beautiful story." The speaker's companion looked another way. "His name," said Father Jerome,--"some say one name and some another. Some think it was Jean Lafitte, the famous; you have heard of him? And do you go to my church, Madame----?" "No, Miché; not in the past; but from this time, yes. My name"--she choked a little, and yet it evidently gave her pleasure to offer this mark of confidence--"is Madame Delphine--Delphine Carraze." CHAPTER VI. A CRY OF DISTRESS. Père Jerome's smile and exclamation, as some days later he entered his parlor in response to the announcement of a visitor, were indicative of hearty greeting rather than surprise. "Madame Delphine!" Yet surprise could hardly have been altogether absent, for though another Sunday had not yet come around, the slim, smallish figure sitting in a corner, looking very much alone, and clad in dark attire, which seemed to have been washed a trifle too often, was Delphine Carraze on her second visit. And this, he was confident, was over and above an attendance in the confessional, where he was sure he had recognized her voice. She rose bashfully and gave her hand, then looked to the floor, and began a faltering speech, with a swallowing motion in the throat, smiled weakly and commenced again, speaking, as before, in a gentle, low note, frequently lifting up and casting down her eyes while shadows of anxiety and smiles of apology chased each other rapidly across her face. She was trying to ask his advice. "Sit down," said he; and when they had taken seats she resumed, with downcast eyes: "You know,--probably I should have said this in the confessional, but"-- "No matter, Madame Delphine; I understand; you did not want an oracle, perhaps; you want a friend." She lifted her eyes, shining with tears, and dropped them again. "I"--she ceased. "I have done a"--she dropped her head and shook it despondingly--"a cruel thing." The tears rolled from her eyes as she turned away her face. Père Jerome remained silent, and presently she turned again, with the evident intention of speaking at length. "It began nineteen years ago--by"--her eyes, which she had lifted, fell lower than ever, her brow and neck were suffused with blushes, and she murmured--"I fell in love." She said no more, and by and by Père Jerome replied: "Well, Madame Delphine, to love is the right of every soul. I believe in love. If your love was pure and lawful I am sure your angel guardian smiled upon you; and if it was not, I cannot say you have nothing to answer for, and yet I think God may have said 'She is a quadroone; all the rights of her womanhood trampled in the mire, sin made easy to her--almost compulsory,--charge it to account of whom it may concern.'" "No, no!" said Madame Delphine, looking up quickly, "some of it might fall upon"--Her eyes fell, and she commenced biting her lips and nervously pinching little folds in her skirt. "He was good--as good as the law would let him be--better, indeed, for he left me property, which really the strict law does not allow. He loved our little daughter very much. He wrote to his mother and sisters, owning all his error and asking them to take the child and bring her up. I sent her to them when he died, which was soon after, and did not see my child for sixteen years. But we wrote to each other all the time, and she loved me. And then--at last"--Madame Delphine ceased speaking, but went on diligently with her agitated fingers, turning down foolish hems lengthwise of her lap. "At last your mother-heart conquered," said Père Jerome. She nodded. "The sisters married, the mother died; I saw that even where she was she did not escape the reproach of her birth and blood, and when she asked me to let her come"--The speaker's brimming eyes rose an instant. "I know it was wicked, but--I said, come." The tears dripped through her hands upon her dress. "Was it she who was with you last Sunday?" "Yes." "And now you do not know what to do with her?" "_Ah! c'est ça oui_!--that is it." "Does she look like you, Madame Delphine?" "Oh, thank God", no! you would never believe she was my daughter, she is white and beautiful!" "You thank God for that which is your main difficulty, Madame Delphine." "Alas! yes." Père Jerome laid his palms tightly across his knees with his arms bowed out, and fixed his eyes upon the ground, pondering. "I suppose she is a sweet, good daughter?" said he, glancing at Madame Delphine, without changing his attitude. Her answer was to raise her eyes rapturously. "Which gives us the dilemma in its fullest force," said the priest, speaking as if to the floor. "She has no more place than if she had dropped upon a strange planet." He suddenly looked up with a brightness which almost as quickly passed away, and then he looked down again. His happy thought was the cloister; but he instantly said to himself: "They cannot have overlooked that choice, except intentionally--which they have a right to do." He could do nothing but shake his head. "And suppose you should suddenly die," he said; he wanted to get at once to the worst. The woman made a quick gesture, and buried her head in her handkerchief, with the stifled cry: "Oh, Olive, my daughter!" "Well, Madame Delphine," said Père Jerome, more buoyantly, "one thing is sure: we _must_ find a way out of this trouble." "Ah!" she exclaimed, looking heavenward, "if it might be!" "But it must be!" said the priest. "But how shall it be?" asked the desponding woman. "Ah!" said Père Jerome, with a shrug, "God knows." "Yes," said the quadroone, with a quick sparkle in her gentle eye; "and I know, if God would tell anybody, He would tell you!" The priest smiled and rose. "Do you think so? Well, leave me to think of it. I will ask Him." "And He will tell you!" she replied. "And He will bless you!" She rose and gave her hand. As she withdrew it she smiled. "I had such a strange dream," she said, backing toward the door. "Yes?" "Yes. I got my troubles all mixed up with your sermon. I dreamed I made that pirate the guardian of my daughter." Père Jerome smiled also, and shrugged. "To you, Madame Delphine, as you are placed, every white man in this country, on land or on water, is a pirate, and of all pirates, I think that one is, without doubt, the best." "Without doubt," echoed Madame Delphine, wearily, still withdrawing backward. Père Jerome stepped forward and opened the door. The shadow of some one approaching it from without fell upon the threshold, and a man entered, dressed in dark blue cottonade, lifting from his head a fine Panama hat, and from a broad, smooth brow, fair where the hat had covered it, and dark below, gently stroking back his very soft, brown locks. Madame Delphine slightly started aside, while Père Jerome reached silently, but eagerly, forward, grasped a larger hand than his own, and motioned its owner to a seat. Madame Delphine's eyes ventured no higher than to discover that the shoes of the visitor were of white duck. "Well, Père Jerome," she said, in a hurried undertone, "I am just going to say Hail Marys all the time till you find that out for me!" "Well, I hope that will be soon, Madame Carraze. Good-day, Madame Carraze." And as she departed, the priest turned to the newcomer and extended both hands, saying, in the same familiar dialect in which he had been addressing the quadroone: "Well-a-day, old playmate! After so many years!" They sat down side by side, like husband and wife, the priest playing with the other's hand, and talked of times and seasons past, often mentioning Evariste and often Jean. Madame Delphine stopped short half-way home and returned to Père Jerome's. His entry door was wide open and the parlor door ajar. She passed through the one and with downcast eyes was standing at the other, her hand lifted to knock, when the door was drawn open and the white duck shoes passed out. She saw, besides, this time the blue cottonade suit. "Yes," the voice of Père Jerome was saying, as his face appeared in the door--"Ah! Madame"-- "I lef' my para_sol_," said Madame Delphine, in English. There was this quiet evidence of a defiant spirit hidden somewhere down under her general timidity, that, against a fierce conventional prohibition, she wore a bonnet instead of the turban of her caste, and carried a parasol. Père Jerome turned and brought it. He made a motion in the direction in which the late visitor had disappeared. "Madame Delphine, you saw dat man?" "Not his face." "You couldn' billieve me iv I tell you w'at dat man purpose to do!" "Is dad so, Père Jerome?" "He's goin' to hopen a bank!" "Ah!" said Madame Delphine, seeing she was expected to be astonished. Père Jerome evidently longed to tell something that was best kept secret; he repressed the impulse, but his heart had to say something. He threw forward one hand and looking pleasantly at Madame Delphine, with his lips dropped apart, clenched his extended hand and thrusting it toward the ground, said in a solemn undertone: "He is God's own banker, Madame Delphine." CHAPTER VII. MICHÉ VIGNEVIELLE. Madame Delphine sold one of the corner lots of her property. She had almost no revenue, and now and then a piece had to go. As a consequence of the sale, she had a few large bank-notes sewed up in her petticoat, and one day--maybe a fortnight after her tearful interview with Père Jerome--she found it necessary to get one of these changed into small money. She was in the Rue Toulouse, looking from one side to the other for a bank which was not in that street at all, when she noticed a small sign hanging above a door, bearing the name "Vignevielle." She looked in. Père Jerome had told her (when she had gone to him to ask where she should apply for change) that if she could only wait a few days, there would be a new concern opened in Toulouse Street,--it really seemed as if Vignevielle was the name, if she could judge; it looked to be, and it was, a private banker's,--"U.L. Vignevielle's," according to a larger inscription which met her eyes as she ventured in. Behind the counter, exchanging some last words with a busy-mannered man outside, who, in withdrawing, seemed bent on running over Madame Delphine, stood the man in blue cottonade, whom she had met in Père Jerome's doorway. Now, for the first time, she saw his face, its strong, grave, human kindness shining softly on each and every bronzed feature. The recognition was mutual. He took pains to speak first, saying, in a re-assuring tone, and in the language he had last heard her use: "'Ow I kin serve you, Madame?" "Iv you pliz, to mague dad bill change, Miché." She pulled from her pocket a wad of dark cotton handkerchief, from which she began to untie the imprisoned note. Madame Delphine had an uncommonly sweet voice, and it seemed so to strike Monsieur Vignevielle. He spoke to her once or twice more, as he waited on her, each time in English, as though he enjoyed the humble melody of its tone, and presently, as she turned to go, he said: "Madame Carraze!" She started a little, but bethought herself instantly that he had heard her name in Père Jerome's parlor. The good father might even have said a few words about her after her first departure; he had such an overflowing heart. "Madame Carraze," said Monsieur Vignevielle, "doze kine of note wad you '_an_' me juz now is bein' contrefit. You muz tek kyah from doze kine of note. You see"--He drew from his cash-drawer a note resembling the one he had just changed for her, and proceeded to point out certain tests of genuineness. The counterfeit, he said, was so and so. "Bud," she exclaimed, with much dismay, "dad was de manner of my bill! Id muz be--led me see dad bill wad I give you,--if you pliz, Miché." Monsieur Vigneville turned to engage in conversation with an employé and a new visitor, and gave no sign of hearing Madame Delphine's voice. She asked a second time, with like result, lingered timidly, and as he turned to give his attention to a third visitor, reiterated: "Miché Vignevielle, I wizh you pliz led"-- "Madame Carraze," he said, turning so suddenly as to make the frightened little woman start, but extending his palm with a show of frankness, and assuming a look of benignant patience, "'ow I kin fine doze note now, mongs' all de rez? Iv you p'iz nod to mague me doze troub'." The dimmest shadow of a smile seemed only to give his words a more kindly authoritative import, and as he turned away again with a manner suggestive of finality, Madame Delphine found no choice but to depart. But she went away loving the ground beneath the feet of Monsieur U.L. Vignevielle. "Oh, Père Jerome!" she exclaimed in the corrupt French of her caste, meeting the little father on the street a few days later, "you told the truth that day in your parlor. _Mo conné li à c't heure_. I know him now; he is just what you called him." "Why do you not make him _your_ banker, also, Madame Delphine?" "I have done so this very day!" she replied, with more happiness in her eyes than Père Jerome had ever before seen there. "Madame Delphine," he said, his own eyes sparkling, "make _him_ your daughter's guardian; for myself, being a priest, it would not be best; but ask him; I believe he will not refuse you." Madame Delphine's face grew still brighter as he spoke. "It was in my mind," she said. Yet to the timorous Madame Delphine many trifles became, one after another, an impediment to the making of this proposal, and many weeks elapsed before further delay was positively without excuse. But at length, one day in May, 1822, in a small private office behind Monsieur Vignevielle's banking-room,--he sitting beside a table, and she, more timid and demure than ever, having just taken a chair by the door,--she said, trying, with a little bashful laugh, to make the matter seem unimportant, and yet with some tremor of voice: "Miché Vignevielle, I bin maguing my will." (Having commenced their acquaintance in English, they spoke nothing else.) "'Tis a good idy," responded the banker. "I kin mague you de troub' to kib dad will fo' me Miché Vignevielle?" "Yez." She looked up with grateful re-assurance; but her eyes dropped again as she said: "Miché Vignevielle"--Here she choked, and began her peculiar motion of laying folds in the skirt of her dress, with trembling fingers. She lifted her eyes, and as they met the look of deep and placid kindness that was in his face, some courage returned, and she said: "Miché." "Wad you wand?" asked he, gently. "If it arrive to me to die"-- "Yez?" Her words were scarcely audible: "I wand you teg kyah my lill' girl." "You 'ave one lill' gal, Madame Carraze?" She nodded with her face down. "An' you godd some mo' chillen?" "No." "I nevva know dad, Madame Carraze. She's a lill small gal?" Mothers forget their daughters' stature. Madame Delphine said: "Yez." For a few moments neither spoke, and then Monsieur Vignevielle said: "I will do dad." "Lag she been you' h-own?" asked the mother, suffering from her own boldness. "She's a good lill' chile, eh?" "Miché, she's a lill' hangel!" exclaimed Madame Delphine, with a look of distress. "Yez; I teg kyah 'v 'er, lag my h-own. I mague you dad promise." "But"--There was something still in the way, Madame Delphine seemed to think. The banker waited in silence. "I suppose you will want to see my lill' girl?" He smiled; for she looked at him as if she would implore him to decline. "Oh, I tek you' word fo' hall dad, Madame Carraze. It mague no differend wad she loog lag; I don' wan' see 'er." Madame Delphine's parting smile--she went very shortly--was gratitude beyond speech. Monsieur Vignevielle returned to the seat he had left, and resumed a newspaper,--the _Louisiana Gazette_ in all probability,--which he had laid down upon Madame Delphine's entrance. His eyes fell upon a paragraph which had previously escaped his notice. There they rested. Either he read it over and over unwearyingly, or he was lost in thought. Jean Thompson entered. "Now," said Mr. Thompson, in a suppressed tone bending a little across the table, and laying one palm upon a package of papers which lay in the other, "it is completed. You could retire, from your business any day inside of six hours without loss to anybody." (Both here and elsewhere, let it be understood that where good English is given the words were spoken in good French.) Monsieur Vignevielle raised his eyes and extended the newspaper to the attorney, who received it and read the paragraph. Its substance was that a certain vessel of the navy had returned from a cruise in the Gulf of Mexico and Straits of Florida, where she had done valuable service against the pirates--having, for instance, destroyed in one fortnight in January last twelve pirate vessels afloat, two on the stocks, and three establishments ashore. "United States brig _Porpoise_" repeated Jean Thompson. "Do you know her?" "We are acquainted," said Monsieur Vignevielle. CHAPTER VIII SHE. A quiet footstep, a grave new presence on financial sidewalks, a neat garb slightly out of date, a gently strong and kindly pensive face, a silent bow, a new sign in the Rue Toulouse, a lone figure with a cane, walking in meditation in the evening light under the willows of Canal Marigny, a long-darkened window re-lighted in the Rue Conti--these were all; a fall of dew would scarce have been more quiet than was the return of Ursin Lemaitre-Vignevielle to the precincts of his birth and early life. But we hardly give the event its right name. It was Capitaine Lemaìtre who had disappeared; it was Monsieur Vignevielle who had come back. The pleasures, the haunts, the companions, that had once held out their charms to the impetuous youth, offered no enticements to Madame Delphine's banker. There is this to be said even for the pride his grandfather had taught him, that it had always hald him above low indulgences; and though he had dallied with kings, queens, and knaves through all the mazes of Faro, Rondeau, and Craps, he had done it loftily; but now he maintained a peaceful estrangement from all. Evariste and Jean, themselves, found him only by seeking. "It is the right way," he said to Père Jerome, the day we saw him there. "Ursin Lemaìtre is dead. I have buried him. He left a will. I am his executor." "He is crazy," said his lawyer brother-in-law, impatiently. "On the contr-y," replied the little priest, "'e 'as come ad hisse'f." Evariste spoke. "Look at his face, Jean. Men with that kind of face are the last to go crazy." "You have not proved that," replied Jean, with an attorney's obstinacy. "You should have heard him talk the other day about that newspaper paragraph I have taken Ursin Lemaitre's head; I have it with me; I claim the reward, but I desire to commute it to citizenship.' He is crazy." Of course Jean Thompson did not believe what he said; but he said it, and, in his vexation, repeated it, on the _banquettes_ and at the clubs; and presently it took the shape of a sly rumor, that the returned rover was a trifle snarled in his top-hamper. This whisper was helped into circulation by many trivial eccentricities of manner, and by the unaccountable oddness of some of his transactions in business. "My dear sir!" cried his astounded lawyer, one day, "you are not running a charitable institution!" "How do you know?" said Monsieur Vignevielle. There the conversation ceased. "Why do you not found hospitals and asylums at once," asked the attorney, at another time, with a vexed laugh, "and get the credit of it?" "And make the end worse than the beginning,' said the banker, with a gentle smile, turning away to a desk of books. "Bah!" muttered Jean Thompson. Monsieur Vignevielle betrayed one very bad symptom. Wherever he went he seemed looking for somebody. It may have been perceptible only to those who were sufficiently interested in him to study his movements; but those who saw it once saw it always. He never passed an open door or gate but he glanced in; and often, where it stood but slightly ajar, you might see him give it a gentle push with his hand or cane It was very singular. He walked much alone after dark. The _gurchinangoes_ (garroters, we might say), at those times the city's particular terror by night, never crossed his path. He was one of those men for whom danger appears to stand aside. One beautiful summer night, when all nature seemed hushed in ecstasy, the last blush gone that told of the sun's parting, Monsieur Vignevielle, in the course of one of those contemplative, uncompanioned walks which it was his habit to take, came slowly along the more open portion of the Rue Royale, with a step which was soft without intention, occasionally touching the end of his stout cane gently to the ground and looking upward among his old acquaintances, the stars. It was one of those southern nights under whose spell all the sterner energies of the mind cloak themselves and lie down in bivouac, and the fancy and the imagination, that cannot sleep, slip their fetters and escape, beckoned away from behind every flowering bush and sweet-smelling tree, and every stretch of lonely, half-lighted walk, by the genius of poetry. The air stirred softly now and then, and was still again, as if the breezes lifted their expectant pinions and lowered them once more, awaiting the rising of the moon in a silence which fell upon the fields, the roads, the gardens, the walls, and the suburban and half-suburban streets, like a pause in worship. And anon she rose. Monsieur Vignevielle's steps were bent toward the more central part of the town, and he was presently passing along a high, close, board-fence, on the right hand side of the way, when, just within this enclosure, and almost overhead, in the dark boughs of a large orange-tree, a mocking-bird began the first low flute-notes of his all-night song. It may have been only the nearness of the songster that attracted the passer's attention, but he paused and looked up. And then he remarked something more,--that the air where he had stopped was filled with the overpowering sweetness of the night-jasmine. He looked around; it could only be inside the fence. There was a gate just there. Would he push it, as his wont was? The grass was growing about it in a thick turf, as though the entrance had not been used for years. An iron staple clasped the cross-bar, and was driven deep into the gate-post. But now an eye that had been in the blacksmithing business--an eye which had later received high training as an eye for fastenings--fell upon that staple, and saw at a glance that the wood had shrunk from it, and it had sprung from its hold, though without falling out. The strange habit asserted itself; he laid his large hand upon the cross-bar; the turf at the base yielded, and the tall gate was drawn partly open. At that moment, as at the moment whenever he drew or pushed a door or gate, or looked in at a window, he was thinking of one, the image of whose face and form had never left his inner vision since the day it had met him in his life's path and turned him face about from the way of destruction. The bird ceased. The cause of the interruption, standing within the opening, saw before him, much obscured by its own numerous shadows, a broad, ill-kept, many-flowered garden, among whose untrimmed rose-trees and tangled vines, and often, also, in its old walks of pounded shell, the coco-grass and crab-grass had spread riotously, and sturdy weeds stood up in bloom. He stepped in and drew the gate to after him. There, very near by, was the clump of jasmine, whose ravishing odor had tempted him. It stood just beyond a brightly moonlit path, which turned from him in a curve toward the residence, a little distance to the right, and escaped the view at a point where it seemed more than likely a door of the house might open upon it. While he still looked, there fell upon his ear, from around that curve, a light footstep on the broken shells--one only, and then all was for a moment still again. Had he mistaken? No. The same soft click was repeated nearer by, a pale glimpse of robes came through the tangle, and then, plainly to view, appeared an outline--a presence--a form--a spirit--a girl! From throat to instep she was as white as Cynthia. Something above the medium height, slender, lithe, her abundant hair rolling in dark, rich waves back from her brows and down from her crown, and falling in two heavy plaits beyond her round, broadly girt waist and full to her knees, a few escaping locks eddying lightly on her graceful neck and her temples,--her arms, half hid in a snowy mist of sleeve, let down to guide her spotless skirts free from the dewy touch of the grass,--straight down the path she came! Will she stop? Will she turn aside? Will she espy the dark form in the deep shade of the orange, and, with one piercing scream, wheel and vanish? She draws near. She approaches the jasmine; she raises her arms, the sleeves falling like a vapor down to the shoulders; rises upon tiptoe, and plucks a spray. O Memory! Can it be? _Can it be_? Is this his quest, or is it lunacy? The ground seems to Monsieur Vignevielle the unsteady sea, and he to stand once more on a deck. And she? As she is now, if she but turn toward the orange, the whole glory of the moon will shine upon her face. His heart stands still; he is waiting for her to do that. She reaches up again; this time a bunch for her mother. That neck and throat! Now she fastens a spray in her hair. The mockingbird cannot withhold; he breaks into song--she turns--she turns her face--it is she, it is she! Madame Delphine's daughter is the girl he met on the ship. CHAPTER IX. OLIVE She was just passing seventeen--that beautiful year when the heart of the maiden still beats quickly with the surprise of her new dominion, while with gentle dignity her brow accepts the holy coronation of womanhood. The forehead and temples beneath her loosely bound hair were fair without paleness, and meek without languor. She had the soft, lack-lustre beauty of the South; no ruddiness of coral, no waxen white, no pink of shell; no heavenly blue in the glance; but a face that seemed, in all its other beauties, only a tender accompaniment for the large, brown, melting eyes, where the openness of child-nature mingled dreamily with the sweet mysteries of maiden thought. We say no color of shell on face or throat; but this was no deficiency, that which took its place being the warm, transparent tint of sculptured ivory. This side doorway which led from Madame Delphine's house into her garden was over-arched partly by an old remnant of vine-covered lattice, and partly by a crape-myrtle, against whose small, polished trunk leaned a rustic seat. Here Madame Delphine and Olive loved to sit when the twilights were balmy or the moon was bright. "_Chérie_," said Madame Delphine on one of those evenings, "why do you dream so much?" She spoke in the _patois_ most natural to her, and which her daughter had easily learned. The girl turned her face to her mother, and smiled, then dropped her glance to the hands in her own lap; which were listlessly handling the end of a ribbon. The mother looked at her with fond solicitude. Her dress was white again; this was but one night since that in which Monsieur Vignevielle had seen her at the bush of night-jasmine. He had not been discovered, but had gone away, shutting the gate, and leaving it as he had found it. Her head was uncovered. Its plaited masses, quite black in the moonlight, hung down and coiled upon the bench, by her side. Her chaste drapery was of that revived classic order which the world of fashion was again laying aside to re-assume the medaeval bondage of the staylace; for New Orleans was behind the fashionable world, and Madame Delphine and her daughter were behind New Orleans. A delicate scarf, pale blue, of lightly netted worsted, fell from either shoulder down beside her hands. The look that was bent upon her changed perforce to one of gentle admiration. She seemed the goddess of the garden. Olive glanced up. Madame Delphine was not prepared for the movement, and on that account repeated her question: "What are you thinking about?" The dreamer took the hand that was laid upon hers between her own palms, bowed her head, and gave them a soft kiss. The mother submitted. Wherefore, in the silence which followed, a daughter's conscience felt the burden of having withheld an answer, and Olive presently said, as the pair sat looking up into the sky: "I was thinking of Père Jerome's sermon." Madame Delphine had feared so. Olive had lived on it ever since the day it was preached. The poor mother was almost ready to repent having ever afforded her the opportunity of hearing it. Meat and drink had become of secondary value to her daughter; she fed upon the sermon. Olive felt her mother's thought and knew that her mother knew her own; but now that she had confessed, she would ask a question: "Do you think, _maman_, that Père Jerome knows it was I who gave that missal?" "No," said Madame Delphine, "I am sure he does not." Another question came more timidly: "Do--do you think he knows _him_?" "Yes, I do. He said in his sermon he did." Both remained for a long time very still, watching the moon gliding in and through among the small dark-and-white clouds. At last the daughter spoke again. "I wish I was Père--I wish I was as good as Père Jerome." "My child," said Madame Delphine, her tone betraying a painful summoning of strength to say what she had lacked the courage to utter,--"my child, I pray the good God you will not let your heart go after one whom you may never see in this world!" The maiden turned her glance, and their eyes met. She cast her arms about her mother's neck, laid her cheek upon it for a moment, and then, feeling the maternal tear, lifted her lips, and, kissing her, said: "I will not! I will not!" But the voice was one, not of willing consent, but of desperate resolution. "It would be useless, anyhow," said the mother, laying her arm around her daughter's waist. Olive repeated the kiss, prolonging it passionately. "I have nobody but you," murmured the girl; "I am a poor quadroone!" She threw back her plaited hair for a third embrace, when a sound in the shrubbery startled them. "_Qui ci pa?_" called Madame Delphine, in a frightened voice, as the two stood up, holding to each other. No answer. "It was only the dropping of a twig," she whispered, after a long holding of the breath. But they went into the house and barred it everywhere. It was no longer pleasant to sit up. They retired, and in course of time, but not soon, they fell asleep, holding each other very tight, and fearing, even in their dreams, to hear another twig fall. CHAPTER X. BIRDS. Monsieur Vigneville looked in at no more doors or windows; but if the disappearance of this symptom was a favorable sign, others came to notice which were especially bad,--for instance, wakefulness. At well-nigh any hour of the night, the city guard, which itself dared not patrol singly, would meet him on his slow, unmolested, sky-gazing walk. "Seems to enjoy it," said Jean Thompson; "the worst sort of evidence. If he showed distress of mind, it would not be so bad; but his calmness,--ugly feature." The attorney had held his ground so long that he began really to believe it was tenable. By day, it is true, Monsieur Vignevielle was at his post in his quiet "bank." Yet here, day by day, he was the source of more and more vivid astonishment to those who held preconceived notions of a banker's calling. As a banker, at least, he was certainly out of balance; while as a promenader, it seemed to those who watched him that his ruling idea had now veered about, and that of late he was ever on the quiet alert, not to find, but to evade, somebody. "Olive, my child," whispered Madame Delphine one morning, as the pair were kneeling side by side on the tiled floor of the church, "yonder is Miché Vignevielle! If you will only look at once--he is just passing a little in--Ah, much too slow again; he stepped out by the side door." The mother thought it a strange providence that Monsieur Vignevielle should always be disappearing whenever Olive was with her. One early dawn, Madame Delphine, with a small empty basket on her arm, stepped out upon the _banquette_ in front of her house, shut and fastened the door very softly, and stole out in the direction whence you could faintly catch, in the stillness of the daybreak, the songs of the Gascon butchers and the pounding of their meat-axes on the stalls of the distant market-house. She was going to see if she could find some birds for Olive,--the child's appetite was so poor; and, as she was out, she would drop an early prayer at the cathedral. Faith and works. "One must venture something, sometimes, in the cause of religion," thought she, as she started timorously on her way. But she had not gone a dozen steps before she repented her temerity. There was some one behind her. There should not be any thing terrible in a footstep merely because it is masculine; but Madame Delphine's mind was not prepared to consider that. A terrible secret was haunting her. Yesterday morning she had found a shoe-track in the garden. She had not disclosed the discovery to Olive, but she had hardly closed her eyes the whole night. The step behind her now might be the fall of that very shoe. She quickened her pace, but did not leave the sound behind. She hurried forward almost at a run; yet it was still there--no farther, no nearer. Two frights were upon her at once--one for herself, another for Olive, left alone in the house; but she had but the one prayer--"God protect my child!" After a fearful time she reached a place of safety, the cathedral. There, panting, she knelt long enough to know the pursuit was, at least, suspended, and then arose, hoping and praying all the saints that she might find the way clear for her return in all haste to Olive. She approached a different door from that by which she had entered, her eyes in all directions and her heart in her throat. "Madame Carraze." She started wildly and almost screamed, though the voice was soft and mild. Monsieur Vignevielle came slowly forward from the shade of the wall. They met beside a bench, upon which she dropped her basket. "Ah, Miché Vignevielle, I thang de good God to mid you!" "Is dad so, Madame Carraze? Fo' w'y dad is?" "A man was chase me all dad way since my 'ouse!" "Yes, Madame, I sawed him." "You sawed 'im? Oo it was?" "'Twas only one man wad is a foolizh. De people say he's crezzie. _Mais_, he don' goin' to meg you no 'arm." "But I was scare' fo' my lill' girl." "Noboddie don' goin' trouble you' lill' gal, Madame Carraze." Madame Delphine looked up into the speaker's strangely kind and patient eyes, and drew sweet reassurance from them. "Madame," said Monsieur Vignevielle, "wad pud you bout so hearly dis morning?" She told him her errand. She asked if he thought she would find any thing. "Yez," he said, "it was possible--a few lill' _bécassines-de-mer_, ou somezin' ligue. But fo' w'y you lill' gal lose doze hapetide?" "Ah, Miché,"--Madame Delphine might have tried a thousand times again without ever succeeding half so well in lifting the curtain upon the whole, sweet, tender, old, old-fashioned truth,--"Ah, Miché, she wone tell me!" "Bud, anny'ow, Madame, wad you thing?" "Miché," she replied, looking up again with a tear standing in either eye, and then looking down once more as she began to speak, "I thing--I thing she's lonesome." "You thing?" She nodded. "Ah! Madame Carraze," he said, partly extending his hand, "you see? 'Tis impossible to mague you' owze shud so tighd to priv-en dad. Madame, I med one mizteg." "Ah, _non_, Miché!" "Yez. There har nod one poss'bil'ty fo' me to be dad guardian of you' daughteh!" Madame Delphine started with surprise and alarm. "There is ondly one wad can be," he continued. "But oo, Miché?" "God." "Ah, Miché Vignevielle"--She looked at him appealingly. "I don' goin' to dizzerd you, Madame Carraze," he said. She lifted her eyes. They filled. She shook her head, a tear fell, she bit her lip, smiled, and suddenly dropped her face into both hands, sat down upon the bench and wept until she shook. "You dunno wad I mean, Madame Carraze?" She did not know. "I mean dad guardian of you' daughteh godd to fine 'er now one 'uzban'; an' noboddie are hable to do dad egceb de good God 'imsev. But, Madame, I tell you wad I do." She rose up. He continued: "Go h-open you' owze; I fin' you' daughteh dad uzban'." Madame Delphine was a helpless, timid thing; but her eyes showed she was about to resent this offer. Monsieur Vignevielle put forth his hand--it touched her shoulder--and said, kindly still, and without eagerness: "One w'ite man, Madame: 'tis prattycabble. I know 'tis prattycabble. One w'ite jantleman, Madame. You can truz me. I goin' fedge 'im. H-ondly you go h-open you' owze." Madame Delphine looked down, twining her handkerchief among her fingers. He repeated his proposition. "You will come firz by you'se'f?" she asked. "Iv you wand." She lifted up once more her eye of faith. That was her answer. "Come," he said, gently, "I wan' sen' some bird ad you' lill' gal." And they went away, Madame Delphine's spirit grown so exaltedly bold that she said as they went, though a violent blush followed her words: "Miché Vignevielle, I thing Père Jerome mighd be ab'e to tell you someboddie." CHAPTER XI. FACE TO FACE. Madame Delphine found her house neither burned nor rifled. "_Ah! ma, piti sans popa_! Ah I my little fatherless one!" Her faded bonnet fell back between her shoulders, hanging on by the strings, and her dropped basket, with its "few lill' _bécassines-de-mer_" dangling from the handle, rolled out its okra and soup-joint upon the floor. "_Ma piti_! kiss!--kiss!--kiss!" "But is it good news you have, or bad?" cried the girl, a fourth or fifth time. "_Dieu sait, ma cère; mo pas conné!_"--God knows, my darling; I cannot tell! The mother dropped into a chair, covered her face with her apron, and burst into tears, then looked up with an effort to smile, and wept afresh. "What have you been doing?" asked the daughter, in a long-drawn, fondling tone. She leaned forward and unfastened her mother's bonnet-strings. "Why do you cry?" "For nothing at all, my darling; for nothing--I am such a fool." The girl's eyes filled. The mother looked up into her face and said: "No, it is nothing, nothing, only that"--turning her head from side to side with a slow, emotional emphasis, "Miché Vignevielle is the best--_best_ man on the good Lord's earth!" Olive drew a chair close to her mother, sat down and took the little yellow hands into her own white lap, and looked tenderly into her eyes. Madame Delphine felt herself yielding; she must make a show of telling something: "He sent you those birds!" The girl drew her face back a little. The little woman turned away, trying in vain to hide her tearful smile, and they laughed together, Olive mingling a daughter's fond kiss with her laughter. "There is something else," she said, "and you shall tell me." "Yes," replied Madame Delphine, "only let me get composed." But she did not get so. Later in the morning she came to Olive with the timid yet startling proposal that they would do what they could to brighten up the long-neglected front room. Olive was mystified and troubled, but consented, and thereupon the mother's spirits rose. The work began, and presently ensued all the thumping, the trundling, the lifting and letting down, the raising and swallowing of dust, and the smells of turpentine, brass, pumice and woollen rags that go to characterize a housekeeper's _émeute_; and still, as the work progressed, Madame Delphine's heart grew light, and her little black eyes sparkled. "We like a clean parlor, my daughter, even though no one is ever coming to see us, eh?" she said, as entering the apartment she at last sat down, late in the afternoon. She had put on her best attire. Olive was not there to reply. The mother called but got no answer. She rose with an uneasy heart, and met her a few steps beyond the door that opened into the garden, in a path which came up from an old latticed bower. Olive was approaching slowly, her face pale and wild. There was an agony of hostile dismay in the look, and the trembling and appealing tone with which, taking the frightened mother's cheeks between her palms, she said: "_Ah! ma mère, qui vini 'ci ce soir_?"--Who is coming here this evening? "Why, my dear child, I was just saying, we like a clean"-- But the daughter was desperate: "Oh, tell me, my mother, _who_ is coming?" "My darling, it is our blessed friend, Miché Vignevielle!" "To see me?" cried the girl. "Yes." "Oh, my mother, what have you done?" "Why, Olive, my child," exclaimed the little mother, bursting into tears, "do you forget it is Miché Vignevielle who has promised to protect you when I die?" The daughter had turned away, and entered the door; but she faced around again, and extending her arms toward her mother, cried: "How can--he is a white man--I am a poor"-- "Ah! _chérie_," replied Madame Delphine, seizing the outstretched hands, "it is there--it is there that he shows himself the best man alive! He sees that difficulty; he proposes to meet it; he says he will find you a suitor!" Olive freed her hands violently, motioned her mother back, and stood proudly drawn up, flashing an indignation too great for speech; but the next moment she had uttered a cry, and was sobbing on the floor. The mother knelt beside her and threw an arm about her shoulders. "Oh, my sweet daughter, you must not cry! I did not want to tell you at all! I did not want to tell you! It isn't fair for you to cry so hard. Miché Vignevielle says you shall have the one you wish, or none at all, Olive, or none at all." "None at all! none at all! None, none, none!" "No, no, Olive," said the mother, "none at all. He brings none with him to-night, and shall bring none with him hereafter." Olive rose suddenly, silently declined her mother's aid, and went alone to their chamber in the half-story. Madame Delphine wandered drearily from door to window, from window to door, and presently into the newly-furnished front room which now seemed dismal beyond degree. There was a great Argand lamp in one corner. How she had labored that day to prepare it for evening illumination! A little beyond it, on the wall, hung a crucifix. She knelt under it, with her eyes fixed upon it, and thus silently remained until its outline was indistinguishable in the deepening shadows of evening. She arose. A few minutes later, as she was trying to light the lamp, an approaching step on the sidewalk seemed to pause. Her heart stood still. She softly laid the phosphorus-box out of her hands. A shoe grated softly on the stone step, and Madame Delphine, her heart beating in great thuds, without waiting for a knock, opened the door, bowed low, and exclaimed in a soft perturbed voice: "Miché Vignevielle!" He entered, hat in hand, and with that almost noiseless tread which we have noticed. She gave him a chair and closed the door; then hastened, with words of apology, back to her task of lighting the lamp. But her hands paused in their work again,--Olive's step was on the stairs; then it came off the stairs; then it was in the next room, and then there was the whisper of soft robes, a breath of gentle perfume, and a snowy figure in the door. She was dressed for the evening. "Maman?" Madame Delphine was struggling desperately with the lamp, and at that moment it responded with a tiny bead of light. "I am here, my daughter." She hastened to the door, and Olive, all unaware of a third presence, lifted her white arms, laid them about her mother's neck, and, ignoring her effort to speak, wrested a fervent kiss from her lips. The crystal of the lamp sent out a faint gleam; it grew; it spread on every side; the ceiling, the walls lighted up; the crucifix, the furniture of the room came back into shape. "Maman!" cried Olive, with a tremor of consternation. "It is Miché Vignevielle, my daughter"-- The gloom melted swiftly away before the eyes of the startled maiden, a dark form stood out against the farther wall, and the light, expanding to the full, shone clearly upon the unmoving figure and quiet face of Capitaine Lemaitre. CHAPTER XII. THE MOTHER BIRD. One afternoon, some three weeks after Capitaine Lemaitre had called on Madame Delphine, the priest started to make a pastoral call and had hardly left the gate of his cottage, when a person, overtaking him, plucked his gown: "Père Jerome"-- He turned. The face that met his was so changed with excitement and distress that for an instant he did not recognize it. "Why, Madame Delphine"-- "Oh, Père Jerome! I wan' see you so bad, so bad! _Mo oulé dit quiç'ose_,--I godd some' to tell you." The two languages might be more successful than one, she seemed to think. "We had better go back to my parlor," said the priest, in their native tongue. They returned Madame Delphine's very step was altered,--nervous and inelastic. She swung one arm as she walked, and brandished a turkey-tail fan. "I was glad, yass, to kedge you," she said, as they mounted the front, outdoor stair; following her speech with a slight, unmusical laugh, and fanning herself with unconscious fury. "_Fé chaud_," she remarked again, taking the chair he offered and continuing to ply the fan. Père Jerome laid his hat upon a chest of drawers, sat down opposite her, and said, as he wiped his kindly face: "Well, Madame Carraze?" Gentle as the tone was, she started, ceased fanning, lowered the fan to her knee, and commenced smoothing its feathers. "Père Jerome"--She gnawed her lip and shook her head. "Well?" She burst into tears. The priest rose and loosed the curtain of one of the windows. He did it slowly--as slowly as he could, and, as he came back, she lifted her face with sudden energy, and exclaimed: "Oh, Père Jerome, de law is brogue! de law is brogue! I brogue it! 'Twas me! 'Twas me!" The tears gushed out again, but she shut her lips very tight, and dumbly turned away her face. Père Jerome waited a little before replying; then he said, very gently: "I suppose dad muss 'ave been by accyden', Madame Delphine?" The little father felt a wish--one which he often had when weeping women were before him--that he were an angel instead of a man, long enough to press the tearful cheek upon his breast, and assure the weeper God would not let the lawyers and judges hurt her. He allowed a few moments more to pass, and then asked: "_N'est-ce-pas_, Madame Delphine? Daz ze way, ain't it?' "No, Père Jerome, no. My daughter--oh, Père Jerome, I bethroath my lill' girl--to a w'ite man!" And immediately Madame Delphine commenced savagely drawing a thread in the fabric of her skirt with one trembling hand, while she drove the fan with the other. "Dey goin' git marry." On the priest's face came a look of pained surprise. He slowly said: "Is dad possib', Madame Delphine?" "Yass," she replied, at first without lifting her eyes; and then again, "Yass," looking full upon him through her tears, "yaas, 'tis tru'." He rose and walked once across the room, returned, and said, in the Creole dialect: "Is he a good man--without doubt?" "De bez in God's world!" replied Madame Delphine, with a rapturous smile. "My poor, dear friend," said the priest, "I am afraid you are being deceived by somebody." There was the pride of an unswerving faith in the triumphant tone and smile with which she replied, raising and slowly shaking her head: "Ah-h, no-o-o, Miché! Ah-h, no, no! Not by Ursin Lemaitre-Vignevielle!" Père Jerome was confounded. He turned again, and, with his hands at his back and his eyes cast down, slowly paced the floor. "He _is_ a good man," he said, by and by, as if he thought aloud. At length he halted before the woman "Madame Delphine"-- The distressed glance with which she had been following his steps was lifted to his eyes. "Suppose dad should be true w'at doze peop' say 'bout Ursin." "_Qui ci ca_? What is that?" asked the quadroone, stopping her fan. "Some peop' say Ursin is crezzie." "Ah, Père Jerome!" She leaped to her feet as if he had smitten her, and putting his words away with an outstretched arm and wide-open palm, suddenly lifted hands and eyes to heaven, and cried: "I wizh to God--_I wizh to God_--de whole worl' was crezzie dad same way!" She sank, trembling, into her chair. "Oh, no, no," she continued, shaking her head, "'tis not Miché Vignevielle w'at's crezzie." Her eyes lighted with sudden fierceness. "'Tis dad _law_! Dad _law_ is crezzie! Dad law is a fool!" A priest of less heart-wisdom might have replied that the law is--the law; but Père Jerome saw that Madame Delphine was expecting this very response. Wherefore he said, with gentleness: "Madame Delphine, a priest is not a bailiff, but a physician. How can I help you?" A grateful light shone a moment in her eyes, yet there remained a piteous hostility in the tone in which she demanded: "_Mais, pou'quoi yé, fé cette méchanique là?_"--What business had they to make that contraption? His answer was a shrug with his palms extended and a short, disclamatory "Ah." He started to resume his walk, but turned to her again and said: "Why did they make that law? Well, they made it to keep the two races separate." Madame Delphine startled the speaker with a loud, harsh, angry laugh. Fire came from her eyes and her lip curled with scorn. "Then they made a lie, Père Jerome! Separate! No-o-o! They do not want to keep us separated; no, no! But they _do_ want to keep us despised!" She laid her hand on her heart, and frowned upward with physical pain. "But, very well! from which race do they want to keep my daughter separate? She is seven parts white! The law did not stop her from being that; and now, when she wants to be a white man's good and honest wife, shall that law stop her? Oh, no!" She rose up. "No; I will tell you what that law is made for. It is made to--punish--my--child--for--not--choosing--her--father! Père Jerome--my God, what a law!" She dropped back into her seat. The tears came in a flood, which she made no attempt to restrain. "No," she began again--and here she broke into English--"fo' me I don' kyare; but, Père Jerome,--'tis fo' dat I came to tell you,--dey _shall not_ punizh my daughter!" She was on her feet again, smiting her heaving bosom with the fan. "She shall marrie oo she want!" Père Jerome had heard her out, not interrupting by so much as a motion of the hand. Now his decision was made, and he touched her softly with the ends of his fingers. "Madame Delphine, I want you to go at 'ome Go at 'ome." "Wad you goin' mague?" she asked. "Nottin'. But go at 'ome. Kip quite; don put you'se'f sig. I goin' see Ursin. We trah to figs dat aw fo' you." "You kin figs dad!" she cried, with a gleam of joy. "We goin' to try, Madame Delphine. Adieu!" He offered his hand. She seized and kissed it thrice, covering it with tears, at the same time lifting up her eyes to his and murmuring: "De bez man God evva mague!" At the door she turned to offer a more conventional good-by; but he was following her out, bareheaded. At the gate they paused an instant, and then parted with a simple adieu, she going home and he returning for his hat, and starting again upon his interrupted business. * * * * * Before he came back to his own house, he stopped at the lodgings of Monsieur Vignevielle, but did not find him in. "Indeed," the servant at the door said, "he said he might not return for some days or weeks." So Père Jerome, much wondering, made a second detour toward the residence of one of Monsieur Vignevielle's employés. "Yes," said the clerk, "his instructions are to hold the business, as far as practicable, in suspense, during his absence. Every thing is in another name." And then he whispered: "Officers of the Government looking for him. Information got from some of the prisoners taken months ago by the United States brig _Porpoise_. But"--a still softer whisper--"have no fear; they will never find him: Jean Thompson and Evariste Varrillat have hid him away too well for that." CHAPTER XIII TRIBULATION. The Saturday following was a very beautiful day. In the morning a light fall of rain had passed across the town, and all the afternoon you could see signs, here and there upon the horizon, of other showers. The ground was dry again, while the breeze was cool and sweet, smelling of wet foliage and bringing sunshine and shade in frequent and very pleasing alternation. There was a walk in Père Jerome's little garden, of which we have not spoken, off on the right side of the cottage, with his chamber window at one end, a few old and twisted, but blossom-laden, crape-myrtles on either hand, now and then a rose of some unpretending variety and some bunches of rue, and at the other end a shrine, in whose blue niche stood a small figure of Mary, with folded hands and uplifted eyes. No other window looked down upon the spot, and its seclusion was often a great comfort to Père Jerome. Up and down this path, but a few steps in its entire length, the priest was walking, taking the air for a few moments after a prolonged sitting in the confessional. Penitents had been numerous this afternoon. He was thinking of Ursin. The officers of the Government had not found him, nor had Père Jerome seen him; yet he believed they had, in a certain indirect way, devised a simple project by which they could at any time "figs dad law," providing only that these Government officials would give over their search; for, though he had not seen the fugitive, Madame Delphine had seen him, and had been the vehicle of communication between them. There was an orange-tree, where a mocking-bird was wont to sing and a girl in white to walk, that the detectives wot not of. The law was to be "figs" by the departure of the three frequenters of the jasmine-scented garden in one ship to France, where the law offered no obstacles. It seemed moderately certain to those in search of Monsieur Vignevielle (and it was true) that Jean and Evariste were his harborers; but for all that the hunt, even for clews, was vain. The little banking establishment had not been disturbed. Jean Thompson had told the searchers certain facts about it, and about its gentle proprietor as well, that persuaded them to make no move against the concern, if the same relations did not even induce a relaxation of their efforts for his personal discovery. Père Jerome was walking to and fro, with his hands behind him, pondering these matters. He had paused a moment at the end of the walk farthest from his window, and was looking around upon the sky, when, turning, he beheld a closely veiled female figure standing at the other end, and knew instantly that it was Olive. She came forward quickly and with evident eagerness. "I came to confession," she said, breathing hurriedly, the excitement in her eyes shining through her veil, "but I find I am too late." "There is no too late or too early for that; I am always ready," said the priest. "But how is your mother?" "Ah!"-- Her voice failed. "More trouble?" "Ah, sir, I have made trouble. Oh, Père Jerome, I am bringing so much trouble upon my poor mother!" Père Jerome moved slowly toward the house, with his eyes cast down, the veiled girl at his side. "It is not your fault," he presently said. And after another pause: "I thought it was all arranged." He looked up and could see, even through the veil, her crimson blush. "Oh, no," she replied, in a low, despairing voice, dropping her face. "What is the difficulty?" asked the priest, stopping in the angle of the path, where it turned toward the front of the house. She averted her face, and began picking the thin scales of bark from a crape-myrtle. "Madame Thompson and her husband were at our house this morning. _He_ had told Monsieur Thompson all about it. They were very kind to me at first, but they tried"--She was weeping. "What did they try to do?" asked the priest. "They tried to make me believe he is insane." She succeeded in passing her handkerchief up under her veil. "And I suppose then your poor mother grew angry, eh?" "Yes; and they became much more so, and said if we did not write, or send a writing, to _him_, within twenty-four hours, breaking the"-- "Engagement," said Père Jerome. "They would give him up to the Government. Oh, Père Jerome, what shall I do? It is killing my mother!" She bowed her head and sobbed. "Where is your mother now?" "She has gone to see Monsieur Jean Thompson. She says she has a plan that will match them all. I do not know what it is. I begged her not to go; but oh, sir, _she is_ crazy,--and I am no better." "My poor child," said Père Jerome, "what you seem to want is not absolution, but relief from persecution." "Oh, father, I have committed mortal sin,--I am guilty of pride and anger." "Nevertheless," said the priest, starting toward his front gate, "we will put off your confession. Let it go until to-morrow morning; you will find me in my box just before mass; I will hear you then. My child, I know that in your heart, now, you begrudge the time it would take; and that is right. There are moments when we are not in place even on penitential knees. It is so with you now. We must find your mother Go you at once to your house; if she is there, comfort her as best you can, and _keep her in, if possible_, until I come. If she is not there, stay; leave me to find her; one of you, at least, must be where I can get word to you promptly. God comfort and uphold you. I hope you may find her at home; tell her, for me, not to fear,"--he lifted the gate-latch,--"that she and her daughter are of more value than many sparrows; that God's priest sends her that word from Him. Tell her to fix her trust in the great Husband of the Church and she shall yet see her child receiving the grace-giving sacrament of matrimony. Go; I shall, in a few minutes, be on my way to Jean Thompson's, and shall find her, either there or wherever she is. Go; they shall not oppress you. Adieu!" A moment or two later he was in the street himself. CHAPTER XIV. BY AN OATH. Père Jerome, pausing on a street-corner in the last hour of sunlight, had wiped his brow and taken his cane down from under his arm to start again, when somebody, coming noiselessly from he knew not where, asked, so suddenly as to startle him: "_Miché, commin yé pellé la rie ici_?--how do they call this street here?" It was by the bonnet and dress, disordered though they were, rather than by the haggard face which looked distractedly around, that he recognized the woman to whom he replied in her own _patois_: "It is the Rue Burgundy. Where are you going, Madame Delphine?" She almost leaped from the ground. "Oh, Père Jerome! _mo pas conné_,--I dunno. You know w'ere's dad 'ouse of Miché Jean Tomkin? _Mo courri 'ci, mo courri là,--mo pas capabe li trouvé_. I go (run) here--there--I cannot find it," she gesticulated. "I am going there myself," said he; "but why do you want to see Jean Thompson, Madame Delphine?" "I _'blige'_ to see 'im!" she replied, jerking herself half around away, one foot planted forward with an air of excited pre-occupation; "I godd some' to tell 'im wad I _'blige'_ to tell 'im!" "Madame Delphine"-- "Oh! Père Jerome, fo' de love of de good God, show me dad way to de 'ouse of Jean Tomkin!" Her distressed smile implored pardon for her rudeness. "What are you going to tell him?" asked the priest. "Oh, Père Jerome,"--in the Creole _patois_ again,--"I am going to put an end to all this trouble--only I pray you do not ask me about it now; every minute is precious!" He could not withstand her look of entreaty. "Come," he said, and they went. * * * * * Jean Thompson and Doctor Varrillat lived opposite each other on the Bayou road, a little way beyond the town limits as then prescribed. Each had his large, white-columned, four-sided house among the magnolias, --his huge live-oak overshadowing either corner of the darkly shaded garden, his broad, brick walk leading down to the tall, brick-pillared gate, his square of bright, red pavement on the turf-covered sidewalk, and his railed platform spanning the draining-ditch, with a pair of green benches, one on each edge, facing each other crosswise of the gutter. There, any sunset hour, you were sure to find the householder sitting beside his cool-robed matron, two or three slave nurses in white turbans standing at hand, and an excited throng of fair children, nearly all of a size. Sometimes, at a beckon or call, the parents on one side of the way would join those on the other, and the children and nurses of both families would be given the liberty of the opposite platform and an ice-cream fund! Generally the parents chose the Thompson platform, its outlook being more toward the sunset. Such happened to be the arrangement this afternoon. The two husbands sat on one bench and their wives on the other, both pairs very quiet, waiting respectfully for the day to die, and exchanging only occasional comments on matters of light moment as they passed through the memory. During one term of silence Madame Varrillat, a pale, thin-faced, but cheerful-looking lady, touched Madame Thompson, a person of two and a half times her weight, on her extensive and snowy bare elbow, directing her attention obliquely up and across the road. About a hundred yards distant, in the direction of the river, was a long, pleasantly shaded green strip of turf, destined in time for a sidewalk. It had a deep ditch on the nearer side, and a fence of rough cypress palisades on the farther, and these were overhung, on the one hand, by a row of bitter-orange-trees inside the enclosure, and, on the other, by a line of slanting china-trees along the outer edge of the ditch. Down this cool avenue two figures were approaching side by side. They had first attracted Madame Varrillat's notice by the bright play of sunbeams which, as they walked, fell upon them in soft, golden flashes through the chinks between the palisades. Madame Thompson elevated a pair of glasses which were no detraction from her very good looks, and remarked, with the serenity of a reconnoitring general. "_Père Jerome et cette milatraise_." All eyes were bent toward them. "She walks like a man," said Madame Varrillat, in the language with which the conversation had opened. "No," said the physician, "like a woman in a state of high nervous excitement." Jean Thompson kept his eyes on the woman, and said: "She must not forget to walk like a woman in the State of Louisiana,"--as near as the pun can be translated. The company laughed. Jean Thompson looked at his wife, whose applause he prized, and she answered by an asseverative toss of the head, leaning back and contriving, with some effort, to get her arms folded. Her laugh was musical and low, but enough to make the folded arms shake gently up and down. "Père Jerome is talking to her," said one. The priest was at that moment endeavoring, in the interest of peace, to say a good word for the four people who sat watching his approach. It was in the old strain: "Blame them one part, Madame Delphine, and their fathers, mothers, brothers, and fellow-citizens the other ninety-nine." But to every thing she had the one amiable answer which Père Jerome ignored: "I am going to arrange it to satisfy everybody, all together. _Tout à fait_." "They are coming here," said Madame Varrillat, half articulately. "Well, of course," murmured another; and the four rose up, smiling courteously, the doctor and attorney advancing and shaking hands with the priest. No--Père Jerome thanked them--he could not sit down. "This, I believe you know, Jean, is Madame Delphine"-- The quadroone courtesied. "A friend of mine," he added, smiling kindly upon her, and turning, with something imperative in his eye, to the group. "She says she has an important private matter to communicate." "To me?" asked Jean Thompson. "To all of you; so I will--Good-evening." He responded nothing to the expressions of regret, but turned to Madame Delphine. She murmured something. "Ah! yes, certainly." He addressed the company "She wishes me to speak for her veracity; it is unimpeachable. Well, good-evening." He shook hands and departed. The four resumed their seats, and turned their eyes upon the standing figure. "Have you something to say to us?" asked Jean Thompson, frowning at her law-defying bonnet. "Oui," replied the woman, shrinking to one side, and laying hold of one of the benches, "_mo oulé di' tou' ç'ose_"--I want to tell every thing. "_Miché Vignevielle la plis bon homme di moune_"--the best man in the world; "_mo pas capabe li fé tracas_"--I cannot give him trouble. "_Mo pas capable, non; m'olé di' tous ç'ose_." She attempted to fan herself, her face turned away from the attorney, and her eyes rested on the ground. "Take a seat," said Doctor Varrillat, with some suddenness, starting from his place and gently guiding her sinking form into the corner of the bench. The ladies rose up; somebody had to stand; the two races could not both sit down at once--at least not in that public manner. "Your salts," said the physician to his wife. She handed the vial. Madame Delphine stood up again. "We will all go inside," said Madame Thompson, and they passed through the gate and up the walk, mounted the steps, and entered the deep, cool drawing-room. Madame Thompson herself bade the quadroone be seated. "Well?" said Jean Thompson, as the rest took chairs. "_C'est drole_"--it's funny--said Madame Delphine, with a piteous effort to smile, "that nobody thought of it. It is so plain. You have only to look and see. I mean about Olive." She loosed a button in the front of her dress and passed her hand into her bosom. "And yet, Olive herself never thought of it. She does not know a word." The hand came out holding a miniature. Madame Varrillat passed it to Jean Thompson. "_Ouala so popa_," said Madame Delphine. "That is her father." It went from one to another, exciting admiration and murmured praise. "She is the image of him," said Madame Thompson, in an austere undertone, returning it to her husband. Doctor Varrillat was watching Madame Delphine. She was very pale. She had passed a trembling hand into a pocket of her skirt, and now drew out another picture, in a case the counterpart of the first. He reached out for it, and she handed it to him. He looked at it a moment, when his eyes suddenly lighted up and he passed it to the attorney. "_Et là_"--Madame Delphine's utterance failed--"_et là ouala sa moman_. That is her mother." The three others instantly gathered around Jean Thompson's chair. They were much impressed. "It is true beyond a doubt!" muttered Madame Thompson. Madame Varrillat looked at her with astonishment. "The proof is right there in the faces," said Madame Thompson. "Yes! yes!" said Madame Delphine, excitedly; "the proof is there! You do not want any better! I am willing to swear to it! But you want no better proof! That is all anybody could want! My God! you cannot help but see it!" Her manner was wild. Jean Thompson looked at her sternly. "Nevertheless you say you are willing to take your solemn oath to this." "Certainly"-- "You will have to do it." "Certainly, Miché Thompson, _of course_ I shall; you will make out the paper and I will swear before God that it is true! Only"--turning to the ladies--"do not tell Olive; she will never believe it. It will break her heart! It"-- A servant came and spoke privately to Madame Thompson, who rose quickly and went to the hall Madame Delphine continued, rising unconsciously: "You see, I have had her with me from a baby. She knows no better. He brought her to me only two months old. Her mother had died in the ship, coming out here. He did not come straight from home here. His people never knew he was married!" The speaker looked around suddenly with a startled glance. There was a noise of excited speaking in the hall. "It is not true, Madame Thompson!" cried a girl's voice. Madame Delphine's look became one of wildest distress and alarm, and she opened her lips in a vain attempt to utter some request, when Olive appeared a moment in the door, and then flew into her arms. "My mother! my mother! my mother!" Madame Thompson, with tears in her eyes, tenderly drew them apart and let Madame Delphine down into her chair, while Olive threw herself upon her knees, continuing to cry: "Oh, my mother! Say you are my mother!" Madame Delphine looked an instant into the upturned face, and then turned her own away, with a long, low cry of pain, looked again, and laying both hands upon the suppliant's head, said: "_Oh, chère piti à moin, to pa' ma fie_!"--Oh, my darling little one, you are not my daughter!--Her eyes closed, and her head sank back; the two gentlemen sprang to her assistance, and laid her upon a sofa unconscious. When they brought her to herself, Olive was kneeling at her head silently weeping. "_Maman, chère maman_!" said the girl softly, kissing her lips. "_Ma courri c'ez moin_"--I will go home--said the mother, drearily. "You will go home with me," said Madame Varrillat, with great kindness of manner--"just across the street here; I will take care of you till you feel better. And Olive will stay here with Madame Thompson. You will be only the width of the street apart." But Madame Delphine would go nowhere but to her home. Olive she would not allow to go with her. Then they wanted to send a servant or two to sleep in the house with her for aid and protection; but all she would accept was the transient service of a messenger to invite two of her kinspeople--man and wife--to come and make their dwelling with her. In course of time these two--a poor, timid, helpless pair--fell heir to the premises. Their children had it after them; but, whether in those hands or these, the house had its habits and continued in them; and to this day the neighbors, as has already been said, rightly explain its close-sealed, uninhabited look by the all-sufficient statement that the inmates "is quadroons." CHAPTER XV. KYRIE ELEISON. The second Saturday afternoon following was hot and calm. The lamp burning before the tabernacle in Père Jerome's little church might have hung with as motionless a flame in the window behind. The lilies of St. Joseph's wand, shining in one of the half opened panes, were not more completely at rest than the leaves on tree and vine without, suspended in the slumbering air. Almost as still, down under the organ-gallery, with a single band of light falling athwart his box from a small door which stood ajar, sat the little priest, behind the lattice of the confessional, silently wiping away the sweat that beaded on his brow and rolled down his face. At distant intervals the shadow of some one entering softly through the door would obscure, for a moment, the band of light, and an aged crone, or a little boy, or some gentle presence that the listening confessor had known only by the voice for many years, would kneel a few moments beside his waiting ear, in prayer for blessing and in review of those slips and errors which prove us all akin. The day had been long and fatiguing. First, early mass; a hasty meal; then a business call upon the archbishop in the interest of some projected charity; then back to his cottage, and so to the banking-house of "Vignevielle," in the Rue Toulouse. There all was open, bright, and re-assured, its master virtually, though not actually, present. The search was over and the seekers gone, personally wiser than they would tell, and officially reporting that (to the best of their knowledge and belief, based on evidence, and especially on the assurances of an unexceptionable eye-witness, to wit, Monsieur Vignevielle, banker) Capitaine Lemaitre was dead and buried. At noon there had been a wedding in the little church. Its scenes lingered before Père Jerome's vision now--the kneeling pair: the bridegroom, rich in all the excellences of man, strength and kindness slumbering interlocked in every part and feature; the bride, a saintly weariness on her pale face, her awesome eyes lifted in adoration upon the image of the Saviour; the small knots of friends behind: Madame Thompson, large, fair, self-contained; Jean Thompson, with the affidavit of Madame Delphine showing through his tightly buttoned coat; the physician and his wife, sharing one expression of amiable consent; and last--yet first--one small, shrinking female figure, here at one side, in faded robes and dingy bonnet. She sat as motionless as stone, yet wore a look of apprehension, and in the small, restless black eyes which peered out from the pinched and wasted face, betrayed the peacelessness of a harrowed mind; and neither the recollection of bride, nor of groom, nor of potential friends behind, nor the occupation of the present hour, could shut out from the tired priest the image of that woman, or the sound of his own low words of invitation to her, given as the company left the church--"Come to confession this afternoon." By and by a long time passed without the approach of any step, or any glancing of light or shadow, save for the occasional progress from station to station of some one over on the right who was noiselessly going the way of the cross. Yet Père Jerome tarried. "She will surely come," he said to himself; "she promised she would come." A moment later, his sense, quickened by the prolonged silence, caught a subtle evidence or two of approach, and the next moment a penitent knelt noiselessly at the window of his box, and the whisper came tremblingly, in the voice he had waited to hear: "_Bénissez-moin, mo' Père, pa'ce que mo péché._" (Bless me, father, for I have sinned.) He gave his blessing. "Ainsi soit-il--Amen," murmured the penitent, and then, in the soft accents of the Creole _patois_, continued: "'I confess to Almighty God, to the blessed Mary, ever Virgin, to blessed Michael the Archangel, to blessed John the Baptist, to the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, and to all the saints, that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and deed, _through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault._' I confessed on Saturday, three weeks ago, and received absolution, and I have performed the penance enjoined. Since then"--There she stopped. There was a soft stir, as if she sank slowly down, and another as if she rose up again, and in a moment she said: "Olive _is_ my child. The picture I showed to Jean Thompson is the half-sister of my daughter's father, dead before my child was born. She is the image of her and of him; but, O God! Thou knowest! Oh, Olive, my own daughter!" She ceased, and was still. Père Jerome waited, but no sound came. He looked through the window. She was kneeling, with her forehead resting on her arms--motionless. He repeated the words of absolution. Still she did not stir. "My daughter," he said, "go to thy home in peace." But she did not move. He rose hastily, stepped from the box, raised her in his arms, and called her by name: "Madame Delphine!" Her head fell back in his elbow; for an instant there was life in the eyes--it glimmered--it vanished, and tears gushed from his own and fell upon the gentle face of the dead, as he looked up to heaven and cried: "Lord, lay not this sin to her charge!" CAFÉ DES EXILÉS. That which in 1835--I think he said thirty-five--was a reality in the Rue Burgundy--I think he said Burgundy--is now but a reminiscence. Yet so vividly was its story told me, that at this moment the old Café des Exilés appears before my eye, floating in the clouds of revery, and I doubt not I see it just as it was in the old times. An antiquated story-and-a-half Creole cottage sitting right down on the banquette, as do the Choctaw squaws who sell bay and sassafras and life-everlasting, with a high, close board-fence shutting out of view the diminutive garden on the southern side. An ancient willow droops over the roof of round tiles, and partly hides the discolored stucco, which keeps dropping off into the garden as though the old café was stripping for the plunge into oblivion--disrobing for its execution. I see, well up in the angle of the broad side gable, shaded by its rude awning of clapboards, as the eyes of an old dame are shaded by her wrinkled hand, the window of Pauline. Oh for the image of the maiden, were it but for one moment, leaning out of the casement to hang her mocking-bird and looking down into the garden,--where, above the barrier of old boards, I see the top of the fig-tree, the pale green clump of bananas, the tall palmetto with its jagged crown, Pauline's own two orange-trees holding up their bands toward the window, heavy with the promises of autumn; the broad, crimson mass of the many-stemmed oleander, and the crisp boughs of the pomegranate loaded with freckled apples, and with here and there a lingering scarlet blossom. The Café des Exilés, to use a figure, flowered, bore fruit, and dropped it long ago--or rather Time and Fate, like some uncursed Adam and Eve, came side by side and cut away its clusters, as we sever the golden burden of the banana from its stem; then, like a banana which has borne its fruit, it was razed to the ground and made way for a newer, brighter growth. I believe it would set every tooth on edge should I go by there now,--now that I have heard the story,--and see the old site covered by the "Shoo-fly Coffee-house." Pleasanter far to close my eyes and call to view the unpretentious portals of the old café, with her children--for such those exiles seem to me--dragging their rocking-chairs out, and sitting in their wonted group under the long, out-reaching eaves which shaded the banquette of the Rue Burgundy. It was in 1835 that the Café des Exilés was, as one might say, in full blossom. Old M. D'Hemecourt, father of Pauline and host of the café, himself a refugee from San Domingo, was the cause--at least the human cause--of its opening. As its white-curtained, glazed doors expanded, emitting a little puff of his own cigarette smoke, it was like the bursting of catalpa blossoms, and the exiles came like bees, pushing into the tiny room to sip its rich variety of tropical sirups, its lemonades, its orangeades, its orgeats, its barley-waters, and its outlandish wines, while they talked of dear home--that is to say, of Barbadoes, of Martinique, of San Domingo, and of Cuba. There were Pedro and Benigno, and Fernandez and Francisco, and Benito. Benito was a tall, swarthy man, with immense gray moustachios, and hair as harsh as tropical grass and gray as ashes. When he could spare his cigarette from his lips, he would tell you in a cavernous voice, and with a wrinkled smile that he was "a-t-thorty-seveng." There was Martinez of San Domingo, yellow as a canary, always sitting with one leg curled under him and holding the back of his head in his knitted fingers against the back of his rocking-chair. Father, mother, brother, sisters, all, had been massacred in the struggle of '21 and '22; he alone was left to tell the tale, and told it often, with that strange, infantile insensibility to the solemnity of his bereavement so peculiar to Latin people. But, besides these, and many who need no mention, there were two in particular, around whom all the story of the Café des Exilés, of old M. D'Hemecourt and of Pauline, turns as on a double centre. First, Manuel Mazaro, whose small, restless eyes were as black and bright as those of a mouse, whose light talk became his dark girlish face, and whose redundant locks curled so prettily and so wonderfully black under the fine white brim of his jaunty Panama. He had the hands of a woman, save that the nails were stained with the smoke of cigarettes. He could play the guitar delightfully, and wore his knife down behind his coat-collar. The second was "Major" Galahad Shaughnessy. I imagine I can see him, in his white duck, brass-buttoned roundabout, with his sabreless belt peeping out beneath, all his boyishness in his sea-blue eyes, leaning lightly against the door-post of the Café des Exilés as a child leans against his mother, running his fingers over a basketful of fragrant limes, and watching his chance to strike some solemn Creole under the fifth rib with a good old Irish joke. Old D'Hemecourt drew him close to his bosom. The Spanish Creoles were, as the old man termed it, both cold and hot, but never warm. Major Shaughnessy was warm, and it was no uncommon thing to find those two apart from the others, talking in an undertone, and playing at confidantes like two schoolgirls. The kind old man was at this time drifting close up to his sixtieth year. There was much he could tell of San Domingo, whither he had been carried from Martinique in his childhood, whence he had become a refugee to Cuba, and thence to New Orleans in the flight of 1809. It fell one day to Manuel Mazaro's lot to discover, by sauntering within earshot, that to Galahad Shaughnessy only, of all the children of the Café des Exilés, the good host spoke long and confidentially concerning his daughter. The words, half heard and magnified like objects seem in a fog, meaning Manuel Mazaro knew not what, but made portentous by his suspicious nature, were but the old man's recital of the grinding he had got between the millstones of his poverty and his pride, in trying so long to sustain, for little Pauline's sake, that attitude before society which earns respect from a surface-viewing world. It was while he was telling this that Manuel Mazaro drew near; the old man paused in an embarrassed way; the Major, sitting sidewise in his chair, lifted his cheek from its resting-place on his elbow; and Mazaro, after standing an awkward moment, turned away with such an inward feeling as one may guess would arise in a heart full of Cuban blood, not unmixed with Indian. As he moved off, M. D'Hemecourt resumed: that in a last extremity he had opened, partly from dire want, partly for very love to homeless souls, the Café des Exilés. He had hoped that, as strong drink and high words were to be alike unknown to it, it might not prejudice sensible people; but it had. He had no doubt they said among themselves, "She is an excellent and beautiful girl and deserving all respect;" and respect they accorded, but their _respects_ they never came to pay. "A café is a café," said the old gentleman. "It is nod possib' to ezcape him, aldough de Café des Exilés is differen from de rez." "It's different from the Café des Réfugiés," suggested the Irishman. "Differen' as possib'," replied M. D'Hemecourt He looked about upon the walls. The shelves were luscious with ranks of cooling sirups which he alone knew how to make. The expression of his face changed from sadness to a gentle pride, which spoke without words, saying--and let our story pause a moment to hear it say: "If any poor exile, from any island where guavas or mangoes or plantains grow, wants a draught which will make him see his home among the cocoa-palms, behold the Café des Exilés ready to take the poor child up and give him the breast! And if gold or silver he has them not, why Heaven and Santa Maria, and Saint Christopher bless him! It makes no difference. Here is a rocking-chair, here a cigarette, and here a light from the host's own tinder. He will pay when he can." As this easily pardoned pride said, so it often occurred; and if the newly come exile said his father was a Spaniard--"Come!" old M. D'Hemecourt would cry; "another glass; it is an innocent drink; my mother was a Castilian." But, if the exile said his mother was a Frenchwoman, the glasses would be forthcoming all the same, for "My father," the old man would say, "was a Frenchman of Martinique, with blood as pure as that wine and a heart as sweet as this honey; come, a glass of orgeat;" and he would bring it himself in a quart tumbler. Now, there are jealousies and jealousies. There are people who rise up quickly and kill, and there are others who turn their hot thoughts over silently in their minds as a brooding bird turns her eggs in the nest. Thus did Manuel Mazaro, and took it ill that Galahad should see a vision in the temple while he and all the brethren tarried without. Pauline had been to the Café des Exilés in some degree what the image of the Virgin was to their churches at home; and for her father to whisper her name to one and not to another was, it seemed to Mazaro, as if the old man, were he a sacristan, should say to some single worshiper, "Here, you may have this madonna; I make it a present to you." Or, if such was not the handsome young Cuban's feeling, such, at least, was the disguise his jealousy put on. If Pauline was to be handed down from her niche, why, then, farewell Café des Exilés. She was its preserving influence, she made the place holy; she was the burning candles on the altar. Surely the reader will pardon the pen that lingers in the mention of her. And yet I know not how to describe the forbearing, unspoken tenderness with which all these exiles regarded the maiden. In the balmy afternoons, as I have said, they gathered about their mother's knee, that is to say, upon the banquette outside the door. There, lolling back in their rocking-chairs, they would pass the evening hours with oft-repeated tales of home; and the moon would come out and glide among the clouds like a silver barge among islands wrapped in mist, and they loved the silently gliding orb with a sort of worship, because from her soaring height she looked down at the same moment upon them and upon their homes in the far Antilles. It was somewhat thus that they looked upon Pauline as she seemed to them held up half way to heaven, they knew not how. Ah, those who have been pilgrims; who have wandered out beyond harbor and light; whom fate hath led in lonely paths strewn with thorns and briers not of their own sowing; who, homeless in a land of homes, see windows gleaming and doors ajar, but not for them,--it is they who well understand what the worship is that cries to any daughter of our dear mother Eve whose footsteps chance may draw across the path, the silent, beseeching cry, "Stay a little instant that I may look upon you. Oh, woman, beautifier of the earth! Stay till I recall the face of my sister; stay yet a moment while I look from afar, with helpless-hanging hands, upon the softness of thy cheek, upon the folded coils of thy shining hair; and my spirit shall fall down and say those prayers which I may never again--God knoweth--say at home." She was seldom seen; but sometimes, when the lounging exiles would be sitting in their afternoon circle under the eaves, and some old man would tell his tale of fire and blood and capture and escape, and the heads would lean forward from the chair-backs and a great stillness would follow the ending of the story, old M. D'Hemecourt would all at once speak up and say, laying his hands upon the narrator's knee, "Comrade, your throat is dry, here are fresh limes; let my dear child herself come and mix you a lemonade." Then the neighbors over the way, sitting about their doors, would by and by softly say, "See, see! there is Pauline!" and all the exiles would rise from their rocking-chairs, take off their hats and stand as men stand in church, while Pauline came out like the moon from a cloud, descended the three steps of the café door, and stood with waiter and glass, a new Rebecca with her pitcher, before the swarthy wanderer. What tales that would have been tear-compelling, nay, heart-rending, had they not been palpable inventions, the pretty, womanish Mazaro from time to time poured forth, in the ever ungratified hope that the goddess might come down with a draught of nectar for him, it profiteth not to recount; but I should fail to show a family feature of the Café des Exilés did I omit to say that these make-believe adventures were heard with every mark of respect and credence; while, on the other hand, they were never attempted in the presence of the Irishman. He would have moved an eyebrow, or made some barely audible sound, or dropped some seemingly innocent word, and the whole company, spite of themselves, would have smiled. Wherefore, it may be doubted whether at any time the curly-haired young Cuban had that playful affection for his Celtic comrade, which a habit of giving little velvet taps to Galahad's cheek made a show of. Such was the Café des Exilés, such its inmates, such its guests, when certain apparently trivial events began to fall around it as germs of blight fall upon corn, and to bring about that end which cometh to all things. The little seed of jealousy, dropped into the heart of Manuel Mazaro, we have already taken into account. Galahad Shaughnessy began to be specially active in organizing a society of Spanish Americans, the design of which, as set forth in its manuscript constitution, was to provide proper funeral honors to such of their membership as might be overtaken by death; and, whenever it was practicable, to send their ashes to their native land. Next to Galahad in this movement was an elegant old Mexican physician, Dr.--,--his name escapes me--whom the Café des Exilés sometimes took upon her lap--that is to say door-step--but whose favorite resort was the old Café des Réfugiés in the Rue Royale (Royal Street, as it was beginning to be called). Manuel Mazaro was made secretary. It was for some reason thought judicious for the society to hold its meetings in various places, now here, now there; but the most frequent rendezvous was the Café des Exilés; it was quiet; those Spanish Creoles, however they may afterward cackle, like to lay their plans noiselessly, like a hen in a barn. There was a very general confidence in this old institution, a kind of inward assurance that "mother wouldn't tell;" though, after all, what great secrets could there be connected with a mere burial society? Before the hour of meeting, the Café des Exilés always sent away her children and closed her door. Presently they would commence returning, one by one, as a flock of wild fowl will do, that has been startled up from its accustomed haunt. Frequenters of the Café des Réfugiés also would appear. A small gate in the close garden-fence let them into a room behind the café proper, and by and by the apartment would be full of dark-visaged men conversing in the low, courteous tone common to their race. The shutters of doors and windows were closed and the chinks stopped with cotton; some people are so jealous of observation. On a certain night after one of these meetings had dispersed in its peculiar way, the members retiring two by two at intervals, Manuel Mazaro and M. D'Hemecourt were left alone, sitting close together in the dimly lighted room, the former speaking, the other, with no pleasant countenance, attending. It seemed to the young Cuban a proper precaution--he was made of precautions--to speak in English. His voice was barely audible. "---- sayce to me, 'Manuel, she t-theeng I want-n to marry hore.' Senor, you shouth 'ave see' him laugh!" M. D'Hemecourt lifted up his head, and laid his hand upon the young man's arm. "Manuel Mazaro," he began, "iv dad w'ad you say is nod"-- The Cuban interrupted. "If is no' t-thrue you will keel Manuel Mazaro?--a' r-r-right-a!" "No," said the tender old man, "no, bud h-I am positeef dad de Madjor will shood you." Mazaro nodded, and lifted one finger for attention. "---- sayce to me, 'Manuel, you goin' tell-a Senor D'Hemecourt, I fin'-a you some nigh' an' cut-a you' heart ou'. An' I sayce to heem-a, 'Boat-a if Senor D'Hemecourt he fin'-in' ou' frone Pauline'"-- "_Silence!_" fiercely cried the old man. "My God! 'Sieur Mazaro, neider you, neider somebody helse s'all h'use de nem of me daughter. It is nod possib' dad you s'all spick him! I cannot pearmid thad." While the old man was speaking these vehement words, the Cuban was emphatically nodding approval. "Co-rect-a, co-rect-a, Senor," he replied. "Senor, you' r-r-right-a; escuse-a me, Senor, escuse-a me. Senor D'Hemecourt, Mayor Shanghness', when he talkin' wi' me he usin' hore-a name o the t-thime-a!" "My fren'," said M. D'Hemecourt, rising and speaking with labored control, "I muz tell you good nighd. You 'ave sooprise me a verry gred deal. I s'all _in_vestigade doze ting; an', Manuel Mazaro, h-I am a hole man; bud I will requez you, iv dad wad you say is nod de true, my God! not to h-ever ritturn again ad de Café des Exilés." Mazaro smiled and nodded. His host opened the door into the garden, and, as the young man stepped out, noticed even then how handsome was his face and figure, and how the odor of the night jasmine was filling the air with an almost insupportable sweetness. The Cuban paused a moment, as if to speak, but checked himself, lifted his girlish face, and looked up to where the daggers of the palmetto-tree were crossed upon the face of the moon, dropped his glance, touched his Panama, and silently followed by the bare-headed old man, drew open the little garden-gate, looked cautiously out, said good-night, and stepped into the street. As M. D'Hemecourt returned to the door through which he had come, he uttered an ejaculation of astonishment. Pauline stood before him. She spoke hurriedly in French. "Papa, papa, it is not true." "No, my child," he responded, "I am sure it is not true: I am sure it is all false; but why do I find you out of bed so late, little bird? The night is nearly gone." He laid his hand upon her cheek. "Ah, papa, I cannot deceive you. I thought Manuel would tell you something of this kind, and I listened." The father's face immediately betrayed a new and deeper distress. "Pauline, my child," he said with tremulous voice, "if Manuel's story is all false, in the name of Heaven how could you think he was going to tell it?" He unconsciously clasped his hands. The good child had one trait which she could not have inherited from her father; she was quick-witted and discerning; yet now she stood confounded. "Speak, my child," cried the alarmed old man; "speak! let me live, and not die." "Oh, papa," she cried, "I do not know!" The old man groaned. "Papa, papa," she cried again, "I felt it; I know not how; something told me." "Alas!" exclaimed the old man, "if it was your conscience!" "No, no, no, papa," cried Pauline, "but I was afraid of Manuel Mazaro, and I think he hates him--and I think he will hurt him in any way he can--and I _know_ he will even try to kill him. Oh! my God!" She struck her hands together above her head, and burst into a flood of tears. Her father looked upon her with such sad sternness as his tender nature was capable of. He laid hold of one of her arms to draw a hand from the face whither both hands had gone. "You know something else," he said; "you know that the Major loves you, or you think so: is it not true?" She dropped both hands, and, lifting her streaming eyes that had nothing to hide straight to his, suddenly said: "I would give worlds to think so!" and sunk upon the floor. He was melted and convinced in one instant. "Oh, my child, my child," he cried, trying to lift her. "Oh, my poor little Pauline, your papa is not angry. Rise, my little one; so; kiss me; Heaven bless thee. Pauline, treasure, what shall I do with thee? Where shall I hide thee?" "You have my counsel already, papa." "Yes, my child, and you were right. The Café des Exilés never should have been opened. It is no place for you; no place at all." "Let us leave it," said Pauline. "Ah! Pauline, I would close it to-morrow if I could, but now it is too late; I cannot." "Why?" asked Pauline, pleadingly. She had cast an arm about his neck. Her tears sparkled with a smile. "My daughter, I cannot tell you; you must go now to bed; good-night--or good-morning; God keep you!" "Well, then, papa," she said, "have no fear; you need not hide me; I have my prayer-book, and my altar, and my garden, and my window; my garden is my fenced city, and my window my watch-tower; do you see?" "Ah! Pauline," responded the father, "but I have been letting the enemy in and out at pleasure." "Good-night," she answered, and kissed him three times on either cheek; "the blessed Virgin will take care of us; good-night; _he_ never said those things; not he; good-night." The next evening Galahad Shaughnessy and Manuel Mazaro met at that "very different" place, the Café des Réfugiés. There was much free talk going on about Texan annexation, about chances of war with Mexico, about San Domingan affairs, about Cuba and many et-ceteras. Galahad was in his usual gay mood. He strode about among a mixed company of Louisianais, Cubans, and Américains, keeping them in a great laugh with his account of one of Ole Bull's concerts, and how he had there extorted an invitation from M. and Mme. Devoti to attend one of their famous children's fancy dress balls. "Halloo!" said he as Mazaro approached, "heer's the etheerial Angelica herself. Look-ut heer, sissy, why ar'n't ye in the maternal arms of the Café des Exilés?" Mazaro smiled amiably and sat down. A moment after, the Irishman, stepping away from his companions, stood before the young Cuban, and asked with a quiet business air: "D'ye want to see me, Mazaro?" The Cuban nodded, and they went aside. Mazaro, in a few quick words, looking at his pretty foot the while, told the other on no account to go near the Café des Exilés, as there were two men hanging about there, evidently watching for him, and-- "Wut's the use o' that?" asked Galahad; "I say, wut's the use o' that?" Major Shaughnessy's habit of repeating part of his words arose from another, of interrupting any person who might be speaking. "They must know--I say they must know that whenever I'm nowhurs else I'm heer. What do they want?" Mazaro made a gesture, signifying caution and secrecy, and smiled, as if to say, "You ought to know." "Aha!" said the Irishman softly. "Why don't they come here?" "Z-afrai'," said Mazaro; "d'they frai' to do an'teen een d-these-a crowth." "That's so," said the Irishman; "I say, that's so. If I don't feel very much like go-un, I'll not go; I say, I'll not go. We've no business to-night, eh Mazaro?" "No, Senor." A second evening was much the same, Mazaro repeating his warning. But when, on the third evening, the Irishman again repeated his willingness to stay away from the Café des Exilés unless he should feel strongly impelled to go, it was with the mental reservation that he did feel very much in that humor, and, unknown to Mazaro, should thither repair, if only to see whether some of those deep old fellows were not contriving a practical joke. "Mazaro," said he, "I'm go-un around the caurnur a bit; I want ye to wait heer till I come back. I say I want ye to wait heer till I come back; I'll be gone about three-quarters of an hour." Mazaro assented. He saw with satisfaction the Irishman start in a direction opposite that in which lay the Café des Exilés, tarried fifteen or twenty minutes, and then, thinking he could step around to the Café des Exilés and return before the expiration of the allotted time, hurried out. Meanwhile that peaceful habitation sat in the moonlight with her children about her feet. The company outside the door was somewhat thinner than common. M. D'Hemecourt was not among them, but was sitting in the room behind the café. The long table which the burial society used at their meetings extended across the apartment, and a lamp had been placed upon it. M. D'Hemecourt sat by the lamp. Opposite him was a chair, which seemed awaiting an expected occupant. Beside the old man sat Pauline. They were talking in cautious undertones, and in French. "No," she seemed to insist; "we do not know that he refuses to come. We only know that Manuel says so." The father shook his head sadly. "When has he ever staid away three nights together before?" he asked. "No, my child; it is intentional. Manuel urges him to come, but he only sends poor excuses." "But," said the girl, shading her face from the lamp and speaking with some suddenness, "why have you not sent word to him by some other person?" M. D'Hemecourt looked up at his daughter a moment, and then smiled at his own simplicity. "Ah!" he said. "Certainly; and that is what I will--run away, Pauline. There is Manuel, now, ahead of time!" A step was heard inside the café. The maiden, though she knew the step was not Mazaro's, rose hastily, opened the nearest door, and disappeared. She had barely closed it behind her when Galahad Shaughnessy entered the apartment. M'Hemecourt rose up, both surprised and confused. "Good-evening, Munsher D'Himecourt," said the Irishman. "Munsher D'Himecourt, I know it's against rules--I say, I know it's against rules to come in here, but"--smiling,--"I want to have a private wurd with ye. I say, I want to have a private wurd with ye." In the closet of bottles the maiden smiled triumphantly. She also wiped the dew from her forehead, for the place was very close and warm. With her father was no triumph. In him sadness and doubt were so mingled with anger that he dared not lift his eyes, but gazed at the knot in the wood of the table, which looked like a caterpillar curled up. Mazaro, he concluded, had really asked the Major to come. "Mazaro tol' you?" he asked. "Yes," answered the Irishman. "Mazaro told me I was watched, and asked"-- "Madjor," unluckily interrupted the old man, suddenly looking up and speaking with subdued fervor, "for w'y--iv Mazaro tol' you--for w'y you din come more sooner? Dad is one 'eavy charge again' you." "Didn't Mazaro tell ye why I didn't come?" asked the other, beginning to be puzzled at his host's meaning. "Yez," replied M. D'Hemecourt, "bud one brev zhenteman should not be afraid of"-- The young man stopped him with a quiet laugh, "Munsher D'Himecourt," said he, "I'm nor afraid of any two men living--I say I'm nor afraid of any two men living, and certainly not of the two that's bean a-watchin' me lately, if they're the two I think they are." M. D'Hemecourt flushed in a way quite incomprehensible to the speaker, who nevertheless continued: "It was the charges," he said, with some slyness in his smile. "They _are_ heavy, as ye say, and that's the very reason--I say that's the very reason why I staid away, ye see, eh? I say that's the very reason I staid away." Then, indeed, there was a dew for the maiden to wipe from her brow, unconscious that every word that was being said bore a different significance in the mind of each of the three. The old man was agitated. "Bud, sir," he began, shaking his head and lifting his hand. "Bless yer soul, Munsher D'Himecourt," interrupted the Irishman. "Wut's the use o' grapplin' two cut-throats, when"-- "Madjor Shaughnessy!" cried M. D'Hemecourt, losing all self-control. "H-I am nod a cud-troad, Madjor Shaughnessy, h-an I 'ave a r-r-righd to wadge you." The Major rose from his chair. "What d'ye mean?" he asked vacantly, and then: "Look-ut here, Munsher D'Himecourt, one of uz is crazy. I say one"-- "No, sar-r-r!" cried the other, rising and clenching his trembling fist. "H-I am not crezzy. I 'ave de righd to wadge dad man wad mague rimark aboud me dotter." "I never did no such a thing." "You did." "I never did no such a thing." "Bud you 'ave jus hacknowledge'--" "I never did no such a _thing_, I tell ye, and the man that's told ye so is a liur!" "Ah-h-h-h!" said the old man, wagging his finger "Ah-h-h-h! You call Manuel Mazaro one liar?" The Irishman laughed out. "Well, I should say so!" He motioned the old man into his chair, and both sat down again. "Why, Munsher D'Himecourt, Mazaro's been keepin' me away from heer with a yarn about two Spaniards watchin' for me. That's what I came in to ask ye about. My dear sur, do ye s'pose I wud talk about the goddess--I mean, yer daughter--to the likes o' Mazaro--I say to the likes o' Mazaro?" To say the old man was at sea would be too feeble an expression--he was in the trough of the sea, with a hurricane of doubts and fears whirling around him. Somebody had told a lie, and he, having struck upon its sunken surface, was dazed and stunned. He opened his lips to say he knew not what, when his ear caught the voice of Manuel Mazaro, replying to the greeting of some of his comrades outside the front door. "He is comin'!" cried the old man. "Mague you'sev hide, Madjor; do not led 'im kedge you, Mon Dieu!" The Irishman smiled. "The little yellow wretch!" said he quietly, his blue eyes dancing. "I'm goin' to catch _him_." A certain hidden hearer instantly made up her mind to rush out between the two young men and be a heroine. "_Non, non!_" exclaimed M. D'Hemecourt excitedly. "Nod in de Café des Exilés--nod now, Madjor. Go in dad door, hif you pliz, Madjor. You will heer 'im w'at he 'ave to say. Mague you'sev de troub'. Nod dad door--diz one." The Major laughed again and started toward the door indicated, but in an instant stopped. "I can't go in theyre," he said. "That's yer daughter's room." "_Oui, oui, mais!_" cried the other softly, but Mazaro's step was near. "I'll just slip in heer," and the amused Shaughnessy tripped lightly to the closet door, drew it open in spite of a momentary resistance from within which he had no time to notice, stepped into a small recess full of shelves and bottles, shut the door, and stood face to face--the broad moonlight shining upon her through a small, high-grated opening on one side--with Pauline. At the same instant the voice of the young Cuban sounded in the room. Pauline was in a great tremor. She made as if she would have opened the door and fled, but the Irishman gave a gesture of earnest protest and re-assurance. The re-opened door might make the back parlor of the Café des Exilés a scene of blood. Thinking of this, what could she do? She staid. "You goth a heap-a thro-vle, Senor," said Manuel Mazaro, taking the seat so lately vacated. He had patted M. D'Hemecourt tenderly on the back and the old gentleman had flinched; hence the remark, to which there was no reply. "Was a bee crowth a' the _Café the Réfugiés_," continued the young man. "Bud, w'ere dad Madjor Shaughnessy?" demanded M. D'Hemecourt, with the little sternness he could command. "Mayor Shaughness'--yez-a; was there; boat-a," with a disparaging smile and shake of the head, "_he_ woon-a come-a to you. Senor, oh' no." The old man smiled bitterly. "_Non?_" he asked. "Oh, no, Senor!" Mazaro drew his chair closer. "Senor;" he paused,--"eez a-vary bath-a fore-a you thaughter, eh?" "W'at?" asked the host, snapping like a tormented dog. "D-theze talkin' 'bou'," answered the young man; "d-theze coffee-howces noth a goo' plaze-a fore hore, eh?" The Irishman and the maiden looked into each other's eyes an instant, as people will do when listening; but Pauline's immediately fell, and when Mazaro's words were understood, her blushes became visible even by moonlight. "He's r-right!" emphatically whispered Galahad. She attempted to draw back a step, but found herself against the shelves. M. D'Hemecourt had not answered. Mazaro spoke again. "Boat-a you canno' help-a, eh? I know, 'out-a she gettin' marry, eh?" Pauline trembled. Her father summoned all his force and rose as if to ask his questioner to leave him; but the handsome Cuban motioned him down with a gesture that seemed to beg for only a moment more. "Senor, if a-was one man whath lo-va you' thaughter, all is possiblee to lo-va." Pauline, nervously braiding some bits of wire which she had unconsciously taken from a shelf, glanced up--against her will,--into the eyes of Galahad. They were looking so steadily down upon her that with a great leap of the heart for joy she closed her own and half turned away. But Mazaro had not ceased. "All is possiblee to lo-va, Senor, you shouth-a let marry hore an' tak'n 'way frone d'these plaze, Senor." "Manuel Mazaro," said M. D'Hemecourt, again rising, "you 'ave say enough." "No, no, Senor; no, no; I want tell-a you--is a-one man--_whath lo-va_ you' thaughter; an' I _knowce_ him!" Was there no cause for quarrel, after all? Could it be that Mazaro was about to speak for Galahad? The old man asked in his simplicity: "Madjor Shaughnessy?" Mazaro smiled mockingly. "Mayor Shaughness'," he said; "oh, no; not Mayor Shaughness'!" Pauline could stay no longer; escape she must, though it be in Manuel Mazaro's very face. Turning again and looking up into Galahad's face in a great fright, she opened her lips to speak, but-- "Mayor Shaughness'," continued the Cuban; "_he_ nev'r-a lo-va you' thaughter." Galahad was putting the maiden back from the door with his hand. "Pauline," he said, "it's a lie!" "An', Senor," pursued the Cuban, "if a was possiblee you' thaughter to lo-va heem, a-wouth-a be worse-a kine in worlt; but, Senor, _I_"-- M. D'Hemecourt made a majestic sign for silence. He had resumed his chair, but be rose up once more, took the Cuban's hat from the table and tendered it to him. "Manuel Mazaro, you 'ave"-- "Senor, I goin' tell you"-- "Manuel Mazaro, you"-- "Boat-a Senor"-- "Bud, Manuel Maz"-- "Senor, escuse-a me"-- "Huzh!" cried the old man. "Manuel Mazaro, you ave deceive' me! You 'ave _mocque_ me, Manu"-- "Senor," cried Mazaro, "I swear-a to you that all-a what I sayin' ees-a"-- He stopped aghast. Galahad and Pauline stood before him. "Is what?" asked the blue-eyed man, with a look of quiet delight on his face, such as Mazaro instantly remembered to have seen on it one night when Galahad was being shot at in the Sucking Calf Restaurant in St. Peter Street. The table was between them, but Mazaro's hand went upward toward the back of his coat-collar. "Ah, ah!" cried the Irishman, shaking his head with a broader smile and thrusting his hand threateningly into his breast; "don't ye do that! just finish yer speech." "Was-a notthin'," said the Cuban, trying to smile back. "Yer a liur," said Galahad. "No," said Mazaro, still endeavoring to smile through his agony; "z-was on'y tellin' Senor D'Hemecourt someteen z-was t-thrue." "And I tell ye," said Galahad, "ye'r a liur, and to be so kind an' get yersel' to the front stoop, as I'm desiruz o' kickin' ye before the crowd." "Madjor!" cried D'Hemecourt-- "Go," said Galahad, advancing a step toward the Cuban. Had Manuel Mazaro wished to personate the prince of darkness, his beautiful face had the correct expression for it. He slowly turned, opened the door into the café, sent one glowering look behind, and disappeared. Pauline laid her hand upon her lover's arm. "Madjor," began her father. "Oh, Madjor and Madjor," said the Irishman; "Munsher D'Hemecourt, just say 'Madjor, heer's a gude wife fur ye,' and I'll let the little serpent go." Thereupon, sure enough, both M. D'Hemecourt and his daughter, rushing together, did what I have been hoping all along, for the reader's sake, they would have dispensed with; they burst into tears; whereupon the Major, with his Irish appreciation of the ludicrous, turned away to hide his smirk and began good-humoredly to scratch himself first on the temple and then on the thigh. Mazaro passed silently through the group about the door-steps, and not many minutes afterward, Galahad Shaughnessy, having taken a place among the exiles, rose with the remark that the old gentleman would doubtless be willing to tell them good-night. Good-night was accordingly said, the Café des Exilés closed her windows, then her doors, winked a moment or two through the cracks in the shutters and then went fast asleep. The Mexican physician, at Galahad's request, told Mazaro that at the next meeting of the burial society he might and must occupy his accustomed seat without fear of molestation; and he did so. The meeting took place some seven days after the affair in the back parlor, and on the same ground. Business being finished, Galahad, who presided, stood up, looking, in his white duck suit among his darkly-clad companions, like a white sheep among black ones, and begged leave to order "dlasses" from the front room. I say among black sheep; yet, I suppose, than that double row of languid, effeminate faces, one would have been taxed to find a more harmless-looking company. The glasses were brought and filled. "Gentlemen," said Galahad, "comrades, this may be the last time we ever meet together an unbroken body." Martinez of San Domingo, he of the horrible experience, nodded with a lurking smile, curled a leg under him and clasped his fingers behind his head. "Who knows," continued the speaker, "but Senor Benito, though strong and sound and har'ly thirty-seven"--here all smiled--"may be taken ill tomorrow?" Martinez smiled across to the tall, gray Benito on Galahad's left, and he, in turn, smilingly showed to the company a thin, white line of teeth between his moustachios like distant reefs. "Who knows," the young Irishman proceeded to inquire, "I say, who knows but Pedro, theyre, may be struck wid a fever?" Pedro, a short, compact man of thoroughly mixed blood, and with an eyebrow cut away, whose surname no one knew, smiled his acknowledgments. "Who knows?" resumed Galahad, when those who understood English had explained in Spanish to those who did not, "but they may soon need the services not only of our good doctor heer, but of our society; and that Fernandez and Benigno, and Gonzalez and Dominguez, may not be chosen to see, on that very schooner lying at the Picayune Tier just now, their beloved remains and so forth safely delivered into the hands and lands of their people. I say, who knows bur it may be so!" The company bowed graciously as who should say, "Well-turned phrases, Senor--well-turned." "And _amigos_, if so be that such is their approoching fate, I will say:" He lifted his glass, and the rest did the same. "I say, I will say to them, Creoles, countrymen, and lovers, boun voyadge an' good luck to ye's." For several moments there was much translating, bowing, and murmured acknowledgments; Mazaro said: "_Bueno!_" and all around among the long double rank of moustachioed lips amiable teeth were gleaming, some white, some brown, some yellow, like bones in the grass. "And now, gentlemen," Galahad recommenced, "fellow-exiles, once more. Munsher D'Himecourt, it was yer practice, until lately, to reward a good talker with a dlass from the hands o' yer daughter." (_Si, si!_) "I'm bur a poor speaker." (_Si, si, Senor, z-a-fine-a kin'-a can be; si!_) "However, I'll ask ye, not knowun bur it may be the last time we all meet together, if ye will not let the goddess of the Café des Exilés grace our company with her presence for just about one minute?" (_Yez-a, Senor; si; yez-a; oui._) Every head was turned toward the old man, nodding the echoed request. "Ye see, friends," said Galahad in a true Irish whisper, as M. D'Hemecourt left the apartment, "her poseetion has been a-growin' more and more embarrassin' daily, and the operaytions of our society were likely to make it wurse in the future; wherefore I have lately taken steps--I say I tuke steps this morn to relieve the old gentleman's distresses and his daughter's"-- He paused. M. D'Hemecourt entered with Pauline, and the exiles all rose up. Ah!--but why say again she was lovely? Galahad stepped forward to meet her, took her hand, led her to the head of the board, and turning to the company, said: "Friends and fellow-patriots, Misthress Shaughnessy." There was no outburst of astonishment--only the same old bowing, smiling, and murmuring of compliment. Galahad turned with a puzzled look to M. D'Hemecourt, and guessed the truth. In the joy of an old man's heart he had already that afternoon told the truth to each and every man separately, as a secret too deep for them to reveal, but too sweet for him to keep. The Major and Pauline were man and wife. The last laugh that was ever heard in the Café des Exilés sounded softly through the room. "Lads," said the Irishman. "Fill yer dlasses. Here's to the Café des Exilés, God bless her!" And the meeting slowly adjourned. Two days later, signs and rumors of sickness began to find place about the Café des Réfugiés, and the Mexican physician made three calls in one day. It was said by the people around that the tall Cuban gentleman named Benito was very sick in one of the back rooms. A similar frequency of the same physician's calls was noticed about the Café des Exilés. "The man with one eyebrow," said the neighbors, "is sick. Pauline left the house yesterday to make room for him." "Ah! is it possible?" "Yes, it is really true; she and her husband. She took her mocking-bird with her; he carried it; he came back alone." On the next afternoon the children about the Café des Réfugiés enjoyed the spectacle of the invalid Cuban moved on a trestle to the Café des Exilés, although he did not look so deathly sick as they could have liked to see him, and on the fourth morning the doors of the Café des Exilés remained closed. A black-bordered funeral notice, veiled with crape, announced that the great Caller-home of exiles had served his summons upon Don Pedro Hernandez (surname borrowed for the occasion), and Don Carlos Mendez y Benito. The hour for the funeral was fixed at four P.M. It never took place. Down at the Picayune Tier on the river bank there was, about two o'clock that same day, a slight commotion, and those who stood aimlessly about a small, neat schooner, said she was "seized." At four there suddenly appeared before the Café des Exilés a squad of men with silver crescents on their breasts--police officers. The old cottage sat silent with closed doors, the crape hanging heavily over the funeral notice like a widow's veil, the little unseen garden sending up odors from its hidden censers, and the old weeping-willow bending over all. "Nobody here?" asks the leader. The crowd which has gathered stares without answering. As quietly and peaceably as possible the officers pry open the door. They enter, and the crowd pushes in after. There are the two coffins, looking very heavy and solid, lying in state but unguarded. The crowd draws a breath of astonishment. "Are they going to wrench the tops off with hatchet and chisel?" Bap, rap, rap; wrench, rap, wrench. Ah! the cases come open. "Well kept?" asks the leader flippantly. "Oh, yes," is the reply. And then all laugh. One of the lookers-on pushes up and gets a glimpse within. "What is it?" ask the other idlers. He tells one quietly. "What did he say?" ask the rest, one of another. "He says they are not dead men, but new muskets"-- "Here, clear out!" cries an officer, and the loiterers fall back and by and by straggle off. The exiles? What became of them, do you ask? Why, nothing; they were not troubled, but they never all came together again. Said a chief-of-police to Major Shaughnessy years afterward: "Major, there was only one thing that kept your expedition from succeeding--you were too sly about it. Had you come out flat and said what you were doing, we'd never a-said a word to you. But that little fellow gave us the wink, and then we had to stop you." And was no one punished? Alas! one was. Poor, pretty, curly-headed traitorous Mazaro! He was drawn out of Carondelet Canal--cold, dead! And when his wounds were counted--they were just the number of the Café des Exilés' children, less Galahad. But the mother--that is, the old café--did not see it; she had gone up the night before in a chariot of fire. In the files of the old "Picayune" and "Price-Current" of 1837 may be seen the mention of Galahad Shaughnessy among the merchants--"our enterprising and accomplished fellow-townsman," and all that. But old M. D'Hemecourt's name is cut in marble, and his citizenship is in "a city whose maker and builder is God." Only yesterday I dined with the Shaughnessys--fine old couple and handsome. Their children sat about them and entertained me most pleasantly. But there isn't one can tell a tale as their father can--'twas he told me this one, though here and there my enthusiasm may have taken liberties. He knows the history of every old house in the French Quarter; or, if he happens not to know a true one, he can make one up as he goes along. BELLES DEMOISELLES PLANTATION. The original grantee was Count----, assume the name to be De Charleu; the old Creoles never forgive a public mention. He was the French king's commissary. One day, called to France to explain the lucky accident of the commissariat having burned down with his account-books inside, he left his wife, a Choctaw Comptesse, behind. Arrived at court, his excuses were accepted, and that tract granted him where afterwards stood Belles Demoiselles Plantation. A man cannot remember every thing! In a fit of forgetfulness he married a French gentlewoman, rich and beautiful, and "brought her out." However, "All's well that ends well;" a famine had been in the colony, and the Choctaw Comptesse had starved, leaving nought but a half-caste orphan family lurking on the edge of the settlement, bearing our French gentlewoman's own new name, and being mentioned in Monsieur's will. And the new Comptesse--she tarried but a twelvemonth, left Monsieur a lovely son, and departed, led out of this vain world by the swamp-fever. From this son sprang the proud Creole family of De Charleu. It rose straight up, up, up, generation after generation, tall, branchless, slender, palm-like; and finally, in the time of which I am to tell, flowered with all the rare beauty of a century-plant, in Artemise, Innocente, Felicité, the twins Marie and Martha, Leontine and little Septima; the seven beautiful daughters for whom their home had been fitly named Belles Demoiselles. The Count's grant had once been a long Pointe, round which the Mississippi used to whirl, and seethe, and foam, that it was horrid to behold. Big whirlpools would open and wheel about in the savage eddies under the low bank, and close up again, and others open, and spin, and disappear. Great circles of muddy surface would boil up from hundreds of feet below, and gloss over, and seem to float away,--sink, come back again under water, and with only a soft hiss surge up again, and again drift off, and vanish. Every few minutes the loamy bank would tip down a great load of earth upon its besieger, and fall back a foot,--sometimes a yard,--and the writhing river would press after, until at last the Pointe was quite swallowed up, and the great river glided by in a majestic curve, and asked no more; the bank stood fast, the "caving" became a forgotten misfortune, and the diminished grant was a long, sweeping, willowy bend, rustling with miles of sugar-cane. Coming up the Mississippi in the sailing craft of those early days, about the time one first could descry the white spires of the old St. Louis Cathedral, you would be pretty sure to spy, just over to your right under the levee, Belles Demoiselles Mansion, with its broad veranda and red painted cypress roof, peering over the embankment, like a bird in the nest, half hid by the avenue of willows which one of the departed De Charleus,--he that married a Marot,--had planted on the levee's crown. The house stood unusually near the river, facing eastward, and standing four-square, with an immense veranda about its sides, and a flight of steps in front spreading broadly downward, as we open arms to a child. From the veranda nine miles of river were seen; and in their compass, near at hand, the shady garden full of rare and beautiful flowers; farther away broad fields of cane and rice, and the distant quarters of the slaves, and on the horizon everywhere a dark belt of cypress forest. The master was old Colonel De Charleu,--Jean Albert Henri Joseph De Charleu-Marot, and "Colonel" by the grace of the first American governor. Monsieur,--he would not speak to any one who called him "Colonel,"--was a hoary-headed patriarch. His step was firm, his form erect, his intellect strong and clear, his countenance classic, serene, dignified, commanding, his manners courtly, his voice musical, --fascinating. He had had his vices,--all his life; but had borne them, as his race do, with a serenity of conscience and a cleanness of mouth that left no outward blemish on the surface of the gentleman. He had gambled in Royal Street, drunk hard in Orleans Street, run his adversary through in the duelling-ground at Slaughter-house Point, and danced and quarrelled at the St. Philippe-street-theatre quadroon balls. Even now, with all his courtesy and bounty, and a hospitality which seemed to be entertaining angels, he was bitter-proud and penurious, and deep down in his hard-finished heart loved nothing but himself, his name, and his motherless children. But these!--their ravishing beauty was all but excuse enough for the unbounded idolatry of their father. Against these seven goddesses he never rebelled. Had they even required him to defraud old De Carlos-- I can hardly say. Old De Carlos was his extremely distant relative on the Choctaw side. With this single exception, the narrow thread-like line of descent from the Indian wife, diminished to a mere strand by injudicious alliances, and deaths in the gutters of old New Orleans, was extinct. The name, by Spanish contact, had become De Carlos; but this one surviving bearer of it was known to all, and known only, as Injin Charlie. One thing I never knew a Creole to do. He will not utterly go back on the ties of blood, no matter what sort of knots those ties may be. For one reason, he is never ashamed of his or his father's sins; and for another,--he will tell you--he is "all heart!" So the different heirs of the De Charleu estate had always strictly regarded the rights and interests of the De Carloses, especially their ownership of a block of dilapidated buildings in a part of the city, which had once been very poor property, but was beginning to be valuable. This block had much more than maintained the last De Carlos through a long and lazy lifetime, and, as his household consisted only of himself, and an aged and crippled negress, the inference was irresistible that he "had money." Old Charlie, though by _alias_ an "Injin," was plainly a dark white man, about as old as Colonel De Charleu, sunk in the bliss of deep ignorance, shrewd, deaf, and, by repute at least, unmerciful. The Colonel and he always conversed in English. This rare accomplishment, which the former had learned from his Scotch wife,--the latter from up-river traders,--they found an admirable medium of communication, answering, better than French could, a similar purpose to that of the stick which we fasten to the bit of one horse and breast-gear of another, whereby each keeps his distance. Once in a while, too, by way of jest, English found its way among the ladies of Belles Demoiselles, always signifying that their sire was about to have business with old Charlie. Now a long-standing wish to buy out Charlie troubled the Colonel. He had no desire to oust him unfairly; he was proud of being always fair; yet he did long to engross the whole estate under one title. Out of his luxurious idleness he had conceived this desire, and thought little of so slight an obstacle as being already somewhat in debt to old Charlie for money borrowed, and for which Belles Demoiselles was, of course, good, ten times over. Lots, buildings, rents, all, might as well be his, he thought, to give, keep, or destroy. "Had he but the old man's heritage. Ah! he might bring that into existence which his _belles demoiselles_ had been begging for, 'since many years;' a home,--and such a home,--in the gay city. Here he should tear down this row of cottages, and make his garden wall; there that long rope-walk should give place to vine-covered ardors; the bakery yonder should make way for a costly conservatory; that wine warehouse should come down, and the mansion go up. It should be the finest in the State. Men should never pass it, but they should say--'the palace of the De Charleus; a family of grand descent, a people of elegance and bounty, a line as old as France, a fine old man, and seven daughters as beautiful as happy; whoever dare attempt to marry there must leave his own name behind him!' "The house should be of stones fitly set, brought down in ships from the land of 'les Yankees,' and it should have an airy belvedere, with a gilded image tiptoeing and shining on its peak, and from it you should see, far across the gleaming folds of the river, the red roof of Belles Demoiselles, the country-seat. At the big stone gate there should be a porter's lodge, and it should be a privilege even to see the ground." Truly they were a family fine enough, and fancy-free enough to have fine wishes, yet happy enough where they were, to have had no wish but to live there always. To those, who, by whatever fortune, wandered into the garden of Belles Demoiselles some summer afternoon as the sky was reddening towards evening, it was lovely to see the family gathered out upon the tiled pavement at the foot of the broad front steps, gayly chatting and jesting, with that ripple of laughter that comes so pleasingly from a bevy of girls. The father would be found seated in their midst, the centre of attention and compliment, witness, arbiter, umpire, critic, by his beautiful children's unanimous appointment, but the single vassal, too, of seven absolute sovereigns. Now they would draw their chairs near together in eager discussion of some new step in the dance, or the adjustment of some rich adornment. Now they would start about him with excited comments to see the eldest fix a bunch of violets in his button-hole. Now the twins would move down a walk after some unusual flower, and be greeted on their return with the high pitched notes of delighted feminine surprise. As evening came on they would draw more quietly about their paternal centre. Often their chairs were forsaken, and they grouped themselves on the lower steps, one above another, and surrendered themselves to the tender influences of the approaching night. At such an hour the passer on the river, already attracted by the dark figures of the broad-roofed mansion, and its woody garden standing against the glowing sunset, would hear the voices of the hidden group rise from the spot in the soft harmonies of an evening song; swelling clearer and clearer as the thrill of music warmed them into feeling, and presently joined by the deeper tones of the father's voice; then, as the daylight passed quite away, all would be still, and he would know that the beautiful home had gathered its nestlings under its wings. And yet, for mere vagary, it pleased them not to be pleased. "Arti!" called one sister to another in the broad hall, one morning,--mock amazement hi her distended eyes,--"something is goin' to took place!" "_Comm-e-n-t?_"--long-drawn perplexity. "Papa is goin' to town!" The news passed up stairs. "Inno!"--one to another meeting in a doorway,--"something is goin' to took place!" "_Qu'est-ce-que c'est!_"--vain attempt at gruffness. "Papa is goin' to town!" The unusual tidings were true. It was afternoon of the same day that the Colonel tossed his horse's bridle to his groom, and stepped up to old Charlie, who was sitting on his bench under a China-tree, his head as was his fashion, bound in a Madras handkerchief The "old man" was plainly under the effect of spirits and smiled a deferential salutation without trusting himself to his feet. "Eh, well Charlie!"--the Colonel raised his voice to suit his kinsman's deafness,--"how is those times with my friend Charlie?" "Eh?" said Charlie, distractedly. "Is that goin' well with my friend Charlie?" "In de house,--call her,"--making a pretence of rising. "_Non, non!_ I don't want,"--the speaker paused to breathe--"ow is collection?" "Oh!" said Charlie, "every day he make me more poorer!" "What do you hask for it?" asked the planter indifferently, designating the house by a wave of his whip. "Ask for w'at?" said Injin Charlie. "De _house!_ What you ask for it?" "I don't believe," said Charlie. "What you would _take_ for it!" cried the planter. "Wait for w'at?" "What you would _take_ for the whole block?" "I don't want to sell him!" "I'll give you _ten thousand dollah_ for it." "Ten t'ousand dollah for dis house? Oh, no, dat is no price. He is blame good old house,--dat old house." (Old Charlie and the Colonel never swore in presence of each other.) "Forty years dat old house didn't had to be paint! I easy can get fifty t'ousand dollah for dat old house." "Fifty thousand picayunes; yes," said the Colonel. "She's a good house. Can make plenty money," pursued the deaf man. "That's what make you so rich, eh, Charlie?" "_Non_, I don't make nothing. Too blame clever, me, dat's de troub'. She's a good house,--make money fast like a steamboat,--make a barrel full in a week! Me, I lose money all de days. Too blame clever." "Charlie!" "Eh?" "Tell me what you'll take." "Make? I don't make _nothing_. Too blame clever." "What will you _take?_" "Oh! I got enough already,--half drunk now." "What will you take for the 'ouse?" "You want to buy her?" "I don't know,"--(shrug),--"may_be_,--if you sell it cheap." "She's a bully old house." There was a long silence. By and by old Charlies commenced-- "Old Injin Charlie is a low-down dog." "_C'est vrai, oui!_" retorted the Colonel in an undertone. "He's got Injin blood in him." "But he's got some blame good blood, too, ain't it?" The Colonel nodded impatiently. "_Bien!_ Old Charlie's Injin blood says, 'sell de house, Charlie, you blame old fool!' _Mais_, old Charlie's good blood says, 'Charlie! if you sell dat old house, Charlie, you low-down old dog, Charlie, what de Compte De Charleu make for you grace-gran'muzzer, de dev' can eat you, Charlie, I don't care.'" "No!" And the _no_ rumbled off in muttered oaths like thunder out on the Gulf. The incensed old Colonel wheeled and started off. "Curl!" (Colonel) said Charlie, standing up unsteadily. The planter turned with an inquiring frown. "I'll trade with you!" said Charlie. The Colonel was tempted. "'Ow'l you trade?" he asked. "My house for yours!" The old Colonel turned pale with anger. He walked very quickly back, and came close up to his kinsman. "Charlie!" he said. "Injin Charlie,"--with a tipsy nod. But by this time self-control was returning. "Sell Belles Demoiselles to you?" he said in a high key, and then laughed "Ho, ho, ho!" and rode away. A cloud, but not a dark one, overshadowed the spirits of Belles Demoiselles' plantation. The old master, whose beaming presence had always made him a shining Saturn, spinning and sparkling within the bright circle of his daughters, fell into musing fits, started out of frowning reveries, walked often by himself, and heard business from his overseer fretfully. No wonder. The daughters knew his closeness in trade, and attributed to it his failure to negotiate for the Old Charlie buildings,--so to call them. They began to depreciate Belles Demoiselles. If a north wind blew, it was too cold to ride. If a shower had fallen, it was too muddy to drive. In the morning the garden was wet. In the evening the grasshopper was a burden. _Ennui_ was turned into capital; every headache was interpreted a premonition of ague; and when the native exuberance of a flock of ladies without a want or a care burst out in laughter in the father's face, they spread their French eyes, rolled up their little hands, and with rigid wrists and mock vehmence vowed and vowed again that they only laughed at their misery, and should pine to death unless they could move to the sweet city. "Oh! the theatre! Oh! Orleans Street! Oh! the masquerade! the Place d'Armes! the ball!" and they would call upon Heaven with French irreverence, and fall into each other's arms, and whirl down the hall singing a waltz, end with a grand collision and fall, and, their eyes streaming merriment, lay the blame on the slippery floor, that would some day be the death of the whole seven. Three times more the fond father, thus goaded, managed, by accident,--business accident,--to see old Charlie and increase his offer; but in vain. He finally went to him formally. "Eh?" said the deaf and distant relative. "For what you want him, eh? Why you don't stay where you halways be 'appy? Dis is a blame old rat-hole,--good for old Injin Charlie,--da's all. Why you don't stay where you be halways 'appy? Why you don't buy somewheres else?" "That's none of yonr business," snapped the planter. Truth was, his reasons were unsatisfactory even to himself. A sullen silence followed. Then Charlie spoke: "Well, now, look here; I sell you old Charlie's house." "_Bien!_ and the whole block," said the Colonel. "Hold on," said Charlie. "I sell you de 'ouse and de block. Den I go and git drunk, and go to sleep de dev' comes along and says, 'Charlie! old Charlie, you blame low-down old dog, wake up! What you doin' here? Where's de 'ouse what Monsieur le Compte give your grace-gran-muzzer? Don't you see dat fine gentyman, De Charleu, done gone and tore him down and make him over new, you blame old fool, Charlie, you low-down old Injin dog!'" "I'll give you forty thousand dollars," said the Colonel. "For de 'ouse?" "For all." The deaf man shook his head. "Forty-five!" said the Colonel. "What a lie? For what you tell me 'What a lie?' I don't tell you no lie." "_Non, non!_ I give you _forty-five!_" shouted the Colonel. Charlie shook his head again. "Fifty!" He shook it again. The figures rose and rose to-- "Seventy-five!" The answer was an invitation to go away and let the owner alone, as he was, in certain specified respects, the vilest of living creatures, and no company for a fine gentyman. The "fine gentyman" longed to blaspheme--but before old Charlie!--in the name of pride, how could he? He mounted and started away. "Tell you what I'll make wid you," said Charlie. The other, guessing aright, turned back without dismounting, smiling. "How much Belles Demoiselles hoes me now?" asked the deaf one. "One hundred and eighty thousand dollars," said the Colonel, firmly. "Yass," said Charlie. "I don't want Belle Demoiselles." The old Colonel's quiet laugh intimated it made no difference either way. "But me," continued Charlie, "me,--I'm got le Compte De Charleu's blood in me, any'ow,--a litt' bit, any'ow, ain't it?" The Colonel nodded that it was. "_Bien!_ If I go out of dis place and don't go to Belles Demoiselles, de peoples will say,--dey will say, 'Old Charlie he been all doze time tell a blame _lie!_ He ain't no kin to his old grace-gran-muzzer, not a blame bit! He don't got nary drop of De Charleu blood to save his blame low-down old Injin soul!' No, sare! What I want wid money, den? No, sare! My place for yours!" He turned to go into the house, just too soon to see the Colonel make an ugly whisk at him with his riding-whip. Then the Colonel, too, moved off. Two or three times over, as he ambled homeward, laughter broke through his annoyance, as he recalled old Charlie's family pride and the presumption of his offer. Yet each time he could but think better of--not the offer to swap, but the preposterous ancestral loyalty. It was so much better than he could have expected from his "low-down" relative, and not unlike his own whim withal--the proposition which went with it was forgiven. This last defeat bore so harshly on the master of Belles Demoiselles, that the daughters, reading chagrin in his face, began to repent. They loved their father as daughters can, and when they saw their pretended dejection harassing him seriously they restrained their complaints, displayed more than ordinary tenderness, and heroically and ostentatiously concluded there was no place like Belles Demoiselles. But the new mood touched him more than the old, and only refined his discontent. Here was a man, rich without the care of riches, free from any real trouble, happiness as native to his house as perfume to his garden, deliberately, as it were with premeditated malice, taking joy by the shoulder and bidding her be gone to town, whither he might easily have followed, only that the very same ancestral nonsense that kept Injin Charlie from selling the old place for twice its value prevented him from choosing any other spot for a city home. But by and by the charm of nature and the merry hearts around him prevailed; the fit of exalted sulks passed off, and after a while the year flared up at Christmas, flickered, and went out. New Year came and passed; the beautiful garden of Belles Demoiselles put on its spring attire; the seven fair sisters moved from rose to rose; the cloud of discontent had warmed into invisible vapor in the rich sunlight of family affection, and on the common memory the only scar of last year's wound was old Charlie's sheer impertinence in crossing the caprice of the De Charleus. The cup of gladness seemed to fill with the filling of the river. How high that river was! Its tremendous current rolled and tumbled and spun along, hustling the long funeral flotillas of drift,--and how near shore it came! Men were out day and night, watching the levee. On windy nights even the old Colonel took part, and grew light-hearted with occupation and excitement, as every minute the river threw a white arm over the levee's top, as though it would vault over. But all held fast, and, as the summer drifted in, the water sunk down into its banks and looked quite incapable of harm. On a summer afternoon of uncommon mildness, old Colonel Jean Albert Henri Joseph De Charleu-Marot, being in a mood for revery, slipped the custody of his feminine rulers and sought the crown of the levee, where it was his wont to promenade. Presently he sat upon a stone bench,--a favorite seat. Before him lay his broad-spread fields; near by, his lordly mansion; and being still,--perhaps by female contact,--somewhat sentimental, he fell to musing on his past. It was hardly worthy to be proud of. All its morning was reddened with mad frolic, and far toward the meridian it was marred with elegant rioting. Pride had kept him well-nigh useless, and despised the honors won by valor; gaming had dimmed prosperity; death had taken his heavenly wife; voluptuous ease had mortgaged his lands; and yet his house still stood, his sweet-smelling fields were still fruitful, his name was fame enough; and yonder and yonder, among the trees and flowers, like angels walking in Eden, were the seven goddesses of his only worship. Just then a slight sound behind him brought him to his feet. He cast his eyes anxiously to the outer edge of the little strip of bank between the levee's base and the river. There was nothing visible. He paused, with his ear toward the water, his face full of frightened expectation. Ha! There came a single plashing sound, like some great beast slipping into the river, and little waves in a wide semi-circle came out from under the bank and spread over the water! "My God!" He plunged down the levee and bounded through the low weeds to the edge of the bank. It was sheer, and the water about four feet below. He did not stand quite on the edge, but fell upon his knees a couple of yards away, wringing his hands, moaning and weeping, and staring through his watery eyes at a fine, long crevice just discernible under the matted grass, and curving outward on either hand toward the river. "My God!" he sobbed aloud; "my God!" and even while he called, his God answered: the tough Bermuda grass stretched and snapped, the crevice slowly became a gape, and softly, gradually, with no sound but the closing of the water at last, a ton or more of earth settled into the boiling eddy and disappeared. At the same instant a pulse of the breeze brought from the garden behind, the joyous, thoughtless laughter of the fair mistresses of Belles Demoiselles. The old Colonel sprang up and clambered over the levee. Then forcing himself to a more composed movement he hastened into the house and ordered his horse. "Tell my children to make merry while I am gone," he left word. "I shall be back to-night," and the horse's hoofs clattered down a by-road leading to the city. "Charlie," said the planter, riding up to a window, from which the old man's nightcap was thrust out, "what you say, Charlie,--my house for yours, eh, Charlie--what you say?" "Ello!" said Charlie; "from where you come from dis time of to-night?" "I come from the Exchange in St. Louis Street." (A small fraction of the truth.) "What you want?" said matter-of-fact Charlie. "I come to trade." The low-down relative drew the worsted off his ears. "Oh! yass," he said with an uncertain air. "Well, old man Charlie, what you say: my house for yours,--like you said,--eh, Charlie?" "I dunno," said Charlie; "it's nearly mine now. Why you don't stay dare youse'f?" "_Because I don't want!_" said the Colonel savagely. "Is dat reason enough for you? You better take me in de notion, old man, I tell you,--yes!" Charlie never winced; but how his answer delighted the Colonel! Quoth Charlie: "I don't care--I take him!--_mais_, possession give right off." "Not the whole plantation, Charlie; only"-- "I don't care," said Charlie; "we easy can fix dat _Mais_, what for you don't want to keep him? I don't want him. You better keep him." "Don't you try to make no fool of me, old man," cried the planter. "Oh, no!" said the other. "Oh, no! but you make a fool of yourself, ain't it?" The dumbfounded Colonel stared; Charlie went on: "Yass! Belles Demoiselles is more wort' dan tree block like dis one. I pass by dare since two weeks. Oh, pritty Belles Demoiselles! De cane was wave in de wind, de garden smell like a bouquet, de white-cap was jump up and down on de river; seven _belles demoiselles_ was ridin' on horses. 'Pritty, pritty, pritty!' says old Charlie. Ah! _Monsieur le Père_, 'ow 'appy, 'appy, 'appy!" "Yass!" he continued--the Colonel still staring--"le Compte De Charleu have two familie. One was low-down Choctaw, one was high up _noblesse_. He gave the low-down Choctaw dis old rat-hole; he give Belles Demoiselles to you gran-fozzer; and now you don't be _satisfait_. What I'll do wid Belles Demoiselles? She'll break me in two years, yass. And what you'll do wid old Charlie's house, eh? You'll tear her down and make you'se'f a blame old fool. I rather wouldn't trade!" The planter caught a big breathful of anger, but Charlie went straight on: "I rather wouldn't, _mais_ I will do it for you;--just the same, like Monsieur le Compte would say, 'Charlie, you old fool, I want to shange houses wid you.'" So long as the Colonel suspected irony he was angry, but as Charlie seemed, after all, to be certainly in earnest, he began to feel conscience-stricken. He was by no means a tender man, but his lately-discovered misfortune had unhinged him, and this strange, undeserved, disinterested family fealty on the part of Charlie touched his heart. And should he still try to lead him into the pitfall he had dug? He hesitated;--no, he would show him the place by broad daylight, and if he chose to overlook the "caving bank," it would be his own fault;--a trade's a trade. "Come," said the planter, "come at my house to-night; to-morrow we look at the place before breakfast, and finish the trade." "For what?" said Charlie. "Oh, because I got to come in town in the morning." "I don't want," said Charlie. "How I'm goin' to come dere?" "I git you a horse at the liberty stable." "Well--anyhow--I don't care--I'll go." And they went. When they had ridden a long time, and were on the road darkened by hedges of Cherokee rose, the Colonel called behind him to the "low-down" scion: "Keep the road, old man." "Eh?" "Keep the road." "Oh, yes; all right; I keep my word; we don't goin' to play no tricks, eh?" But the Colonel seemed not to hear. His ungenerous design was beginning to be hateful to him. Not only old Charlie's unprovoked goodness was prevailing; the eulogy on Belles Demoiselles had stirred the depths of an intense love for his beautiful home. True, if he held to it, the caving of the bank, at its present fearful speed, would let the house into the river within three months; but were it not better to lose it so, than sell his birthright? Again,--coming back to the first thought,--to betray his own blood! It was only Injin Charlie; but had not the De Charleu blood just spoken out in him? Unconsciously he groaned. After a time they struck a path approaching the plantation in the rear, and a little after, passing from behind a clump of live-oaks, they came in sight of the villa. It looked so like a gem, shining through its dark grove, so like a great glow-worm in the dense foliage, so significant of luxury and gayety, that the poor master, from an overflowing heart, groaned again. "What?" asked Charlie. The Colonel only drew his rein, and, dismounting mechanically, contemplated the sight before him. The high, arched doors and windows were thrown wide to the summer air; from every opening the bright light of numerous candelabra darted out upon the sparkling foliage of magnolia and bay, and here and there in the spacious verandas a colored lantern swayed in the gentle breeze. A sound of revel fell on the ear, the music of harps; and across one window, brighter than the rest, flitted, once or twice, the shadows of dancers. But oh! the shadows flitting across the heart of the fair mansion's master! "Old Charlie," said he, gazing fondly at his house, "You and me is both old, eh?" "Yaas," said the stolid Charlie. "And we has both been bad enough in our times eh, Charlie?" Charlie, surprised at the tender tone, repeated "Yaas." "And you and me is mighty close?" "Blame close, yaas." "But you never know me to cheat, old man!" "No,"--impassively. "And do you think I would cheat you now?" "I dunno," said Charlie. "I don't believe." "Well, old man, old man,"--his voice began to quiver,--"I sha'n't cheat you now. My God!--old man, I tell you--you better not make the trade!" "Because for what?" asked Charlie in plain anger; but both looked quickly toward the house! The Colonel tossed his hands wildly in the air, rushed forward a step or two, and giving one fearful scream of agony and fright, fell forward on his face in the path. Old Charlie stood transfixed with horror. Belles Demoiselles, the realm of maiden beauty, the home of merriment, the house of dancing, all in the tremor and glow of pleasure, suddenly sunk, with one short, wild wail of terror--sunk, sunk, down, down, down, into the merciless, unfathomable flood of the Mississippi. Twelve long months were midnight to the mind of the childless father; when they were only half gone, he took his bed; and every day, and every night, old Charlie, the "low-down," the "fool," watched him tenderly, tended him lovingly, for the sake of his name, his misfortunes, and his broken heart. No woman's step crossed the floor of the sick-chamber, whose western dormer-windows overpeered the dingy architecture of old Charlie's block; Charlie and a skilled physician, the one all interest, the other all gentleness, hope, and patience--these only entered by the door; but by the window came in a sweet-scented evergreen vine, transplanted from the caving bank of Belles Demoiselles. It caught the rays of sunset in its flowery net and let then softly in upon the sick man's bed; gathered the glancing beams of the moon at midnight, and often wakened the sleeper to look, with his mindless eyes, upon their pretty silver fragments strewn upon the floor. By and by there seemed--there was--a twinkling dawn of returning reason. Slowly, peacefully, with an increase unseen from day to day, the light of reason came into the eyes, and speech became coherent; but withal there came a failing of the wrecked body, and the doctor said that monsieur was both better and worse. One evening, as Charlie sat by the vine-clad window with his fireless pipe in his hand, the old Colonel's eyes fell full upon his own, and rested there. "Charl--," he said with an effort, and his delighted nurse hastened to the bedside and bowed his best ear. There was an unsuccessful effort or two, and then he whispered, smiling with sweet sadness,-- "We didn't trade." The truth, in this case, was a secondary matter to Charlie; the main point was to give a pleasing answer. So he nodded his head decidedly, as who should say--"Oh yes, we did, it was a bona-fide swap!" but when he saw the smile vanish, he tried the other expedient and shook his head with still more vigor, to signify that they had not so much as approached a bargain; and the smile returned. Charlie wanted to see the vine recognized. He stepped backward to the window with a broad smile, shook the foliage, nodded and looked smart. "I know," said the Colonel, with beaming eyes,"--many weeks." The next day-- "Charl--" The best ear went down. "Send for a priest." The priest came, and was alone with him a whole afternoon. When he left, the patient was very haggard and exhausted, but smiled and would not suffer the crucifix to be removed from his breast. One more morning came. Just before dawn Charlie, lying on a pallet in the room, thought he was called, and came to the bedside. "Old man," whispered the failing invalid, "is it caving yet?" Charlie nodded. "It won't pay you out." "Oh, dat makes not'ing," said Charlie. Two big tears rolled down his brown face. "Dat makes not'in." The Colonel whispered once more: "_Mes belles demoiselles!_ in paradise;--in the garden--I shall be with them at sunrise;" and so it was. "POSSON JONE'." [1] [Footnote 1: Published in Appletons' Journal. Republished by permission.] To Jules St.-Ange--elegant little heathen--there yet remained at manhood a remembrance of having been to school, and of having been taught by a stony-headed Capuchin that the world is round--for example, like a cheese. This round world is a cheese to be eaten through, and Jules had nibbled quite into his cheese-world already at twenty-two. He realized this as he idled about one Sunday morning where the intersection of Royal and Conti Streets some seventy years ago formed a central corner of New Orleans. Yes, yes, the trouble was he had been wasteful and honest. He discussed the matter with that faithful friend and confidant, Baptiste, his yellow body-servant. They concluded that, papa's patience and _tante's_ pin-money having been gnawed away quite to the rind, there were left open only these few easily-enumerated resorts: to go to work--they shuddered; to join Major Innerarity's filibustering expedition; or else--why not?--to try some games of confidence. At twenty-two one must begin to be something. Nothing else tempted; could that avail? One could but try. It is noble to try; and, besides, they were hungry. If one could "make the friendship" of some person from the country, for instance, with money, not expert at cards or dice, but, as one would say, willing to learn, one might find cause to say some "Hail Marys." The sun broke through a clearing sky, and Baptiste pronounced it good for luck. There had been a hurricane in the night. The weed-grown tile-roofs were still dripping, and from lofty brick and low adobe walls a rising steam responded to the summer sunlight. Up-street, and across the Rue du Canal, one could get glimpses of the gardens in Faubourg Ste.-Marie standing in silent wretchedness, so many tearful Lucretias, tattered victims of the storm. Short remnants of the wind now and then came down the narrow street in erratic puffs heavily laden with odors of broken boughs and torn flowers, skimmed the little pools of rain-water in the deep ruts of the unpaved street, and suddenly went away to nothing, like a juggler's butterflies or a young man's money. It was very picturesque, the Rue Royale. The rich and poor met together. The locksmith's swinging key creaked next door to the bank; across the way, crouching, mendicant-like, in the shadow of a great importing-house, was the mud laboratory of the mender of broken combs. Light balconies overhung the rows of showy shops and stores open for trade this Sunday morning, and pretty Latin faces of the higher class glanced over their savagely-pronged railings upon the passers below. At some windows hung lace certains, flannel duds at some, and at others only the scraping and sighing one-hinged shutter groaning toward Paris after its neglectful master. M. St.-Ange stood looking up and down the street for nearly an hour. But few ladies, only the inveterate mass-goers, were out. About the entrance of the frequent _cafés_ the masculine gentility stood leaning on canes, with which now one and now another beckoned to Jules, some even adding pantomimic hints of the social cup. M. St.-Ange remarked to his servant without turning his head that somehow he felt sure he should soon return those _bons_ that the mulatto had lent him. "What will you do with them?" "Me!" said Baptiste, quickly; "I will go and see the bull-fight in the Place Congo." "There is to be a bull-fight? But where is M. Cayetano?" "Ah, got all his affairs wet in the tornado. Instead of his circus, they are to have a bull-fight--not an ordinary bull-fight with sick horses, but a buffalo-and-tiger fight. I would not miss it"-- Two or three persons ran to the opposite corner, and commenced striking at something with their canes. Others followed. Can M. St.-Ange and servant, who hasten forward--can the Creoles, Cubans, Spaniards, San Domingo refugees, and other loungers--can they hope it is a fight? They hurry forward. Is a man in a fit? The crowd pours in from the side-streets. Have they killed a so-long snake? Bareheaded shopmen leave their wives, who stand upon chairs. The crowd huddles and packs. Those on the outside make little leaps into the air, trying to be tall. "What is the matter?" "Have they caught a real live rat?" "Who is hurt?" asks some one in English. "_Personne_," replies a shopkeeper; "a man's hat blow' in the gutter; but he has it now. Jules pick' it. See, that is the man, head and shoulders on top the res'." "He in the homespun?" asks a second shopkeeper. "Humph! an _Américain_--a West-Floridian; bah!" "But wait; 'st! he is speaking; listen!" "To who is he speak----?" "Sh-sh-sh! to Jules." "Jules who?" "Silence, you! To Jules St.-Ange, what howe me a bill since long time. Sh-sh-sh!" Then the voice was heard. Its owner was a man of giant stature, with a slight stoop in his shoulders, as if he was making a constant, good-natured attempt to accommodate himself to ordinary doors and ceilings. His bones were those of an ox. His face was marked more by weather than age, and his narrow brow was bald and smooth. He had instantaneously formed an opinion of Jules St.-Ange, and the multitude of words, most of them lingual curiosities, with which he was rasping the wide-open ears of his listeners, signified, in short, that, as sure as his name was Parson Jones, the little Creole was a "plum gentleman." M. St.-Ange bowed and smiled, and was about to call attention, by both gesture and speech, to a singular object on top of the still uncovered head, when the nervous motion of the _Américain_ anticipated him, as, throwing up an immense hand, he drew down a large roll of bank-notes. The crowd laughed, the West-Floridian joining, and began to disperse. "Why, that money belongs to Smyrny Church," said the giant. "You are very dengerous to make your money expose like that, Misty Posson Jone'," said St.-Ange, counting it with his eyes. The countryman gave a start and smile of surprise. "How d'dyou know my name was Jones?" he asked; but, without pausing for the Creole's answer, furnished in his reckless way some further specimens of West-Floridian English; and the conciseness with which he presented full intelligence of his home, family, calling, lodging-house, and present and future plans, might have passed for consummate art, had it not been the most run-wild nature. "And I've done been to Mobile, you know, on busi_ness_ for Bethesdy Church. It's the on'yest time I ever been from home; now you wouldn't of believed that, would you? But I admire to have saw you, that's so. You've got to come and eat with me. Me and my boy ain't been fed yit. What might one call yo' name? Jools? Come on, Jools. Come on, Colossus. That's my niggah--his name's Colossus of Rhodes. Is that yo' yallah boy, Jools? Fetch him along, Colossus. It seems like a special provi_dence_.--Jools, do you believe in a special provi_dence?_" Jules said he did. The new-made friends moved briskly off, followed by Baptiste and a short, square, old negro, very black and grotesque, who had introduced himself to the mulatto, with many glittering and cavernous smiles, as "d'body-sarvant of d'Rev'n' Mr. Jones." Both pairs enlivened their walk with conversation. Parson Jones descanted upon the doctrine he had mentioned, as illustrated in the perplexities of cotton-growing, and concluded that there would always be "a special provi_dence_ again' cotton untell folks quits a-pressin' of it and haulin' of it on Sundays!" "_Je dis_," said St.-Ange, in response, "I thing you is juz right. I believe, me, strong-strong in the improvidence, yes. You know my papa he hown a sugah-plantation, you know. 'Jules, me son,' he say one time to me, 'I goin' to make one baril sugah to fedge the moze high price in New Orleans.' Well, he take his bez baril sugah--I nevah see a so careful man like me papa always to make a so beautiful sugah _et sirop_. 'Jules, go at Father Pierre an' ged this lill pitcher fill with holy water, an' tell him sen' his tin bucket, and I will make it fill with _quitte_.' I ged the holy-water; my papa sprinkle it over the baril, an' make one cross on the 'ead of the baril." "Why, Jools," said Parson Jones, "that didn't do no good." "Din do no good! Id broughd the so great value! You can strike me dead if thad baril sugah din fedge the more high cost than any other in the city. _Parce-que_, the man what buy that baril sugah he make a mistake of one hundred pound"--falling back--"_Mais_ certainlee!" "And you think that was growin' out of the holy-water?" asked the parson. "_Mais_, what could make it else? Id could not be the _quitte_, because my papa keep the bucket, an' forget to sen' the _quitte_ to Father Pierre." Parson Jones was disappointed. "Well, now, Jools, you know, I don't think that was right. I reckon you must be a plum Catholic." M. St.-Ange shrugged. He would not deny his faith. "I am a _Catholique, mais_"--brightening as he hoped to recommend himself anew--"not a good one." "Well, you know," said Jones--"where's Colossus? Oh! all right. Colossus strayed off a minute in Mobile, and I plum lost him for two days. Here's the place; come in. Colossus and this boy can go to the kitchen.--Now, Colossus, what _air_ you a-beckonin' at me faw?" He let his servant draw him aside and address him in a whisper. "Oh, go 'way!" said the parson with a jerk. "Who's goin' to throw me? What? Speak louder. Why, Colossus, you shayn't talk so, saw. 'Pon my soul, you're the mightiest fool I ever taken up with. Jest you go down that alley-way with this yalla boy, and don't show yo' face untell yo' called!" The negro begged; the master wrathily insisted. "Colossus, will you do ez I tell you, or shell I hev to strike you, saw?" "O Mahs Jimmy, I--I's gwine; but"--he ventured nearer--"don't on no account drink nothin', Mahs Jimmy." Such was the negro's earnestness that he put one foot in the gutter, and fell heavily against his master. The parson threw him off angrily. "Thar, now! Why, Colossus, you most of been dosted with sumthin'; yo' plum crazy.--Humph, come on, Jools, let's eat! Humph! to tell me that when I never taken a drop, exceptin' for chills, in my life--which he knows so as well as me!" The two masters began to ascend a stair. "_Mais_, he is a sassy; I would sell him, me," said the young Creole. "No, I wouldn't do that," replied the parson; "though there is people in Bethesdy who says he is a rascal. He's a powerful smart fool. Why, that boy's got money, Jools; more money than religion, I reckon. I'm shore he fallen into mighty bad company"--they passed beyond earshot. Baptiste and Colossus, instead of going to the tavern kitchen, passed to the next door and entered the dark rear corner of a low grocery, where, the law notwithstanding, liquor was covertly sold to slaves. There, in the quiet company of Baptiste and the grocer, the colloquial powers of Colossus, which were simply prodigious, began very soon to show themselves. "For whilst," said he, "Mahs Jimmy has eddication, you know--whilst he has eddication, I has 'scretion. He has eddication and I has 'scretion, an' so we gits along." He drew a black bottle down the counter, and, laying half his length upon the damp board, continued: "As a p'inciple I discredits de imbimin' of awjus liquors. De imbimin' of awjus liquors, de wiolution of de Sabbaf, de playin' of de fiddle, and de usin' of by-words, dey is de fo' sins of de conscience; an' if any man sin de fo' sins of de conscience, de debble done sharp his fork fo' dat man.--Ain't that so, boss?" The grocer was sure it was so. "Neberdeless, mind you"--here the orator brimmed his glass from the bottle and swallowed the contents with a dry eye--"mind you, a roytious man, sech as ministers of de gospel and dere body-sarvants, can take a _leetle_ for de weak stomach." But the fascinations of Colossus's eloquence must not mislead us; this is the story of a true Christian; to wit, Parson Jones. The parson and his new friend ate. But the coffee M. St.-Ange declared he could not touch; it was too wretchedly bad. At the French Market, near by, there was some noble coffee. This, however, would have to be bought, and Parson Jones had scruples. "You see, Jools, every man has his conscience to guide him, which it does so in"-- "Oh, yes!" cried St.-Ange, "conscien'; thad is the bez, Posson Jone'. Certainlee! I am a _Catholique_, you is a _schismatique_; you thing it is wrong to dring some coffee--well, then, it _is_ wrong; you thing it is wrong to make the sugah to ged the so large price--well, then, it _is_ wrong; I thing it is right--well, then, it is right; it is all 'abit; _c'est tout_. What a man thing is right, _is right_; 'tis all 'abit. A man muz nod go again' his conscien'. My faith! do you thing I would go again' my conscien'? _Mais allons_, led us go and ged some coffee." "Jools." "W'at?" "Jools, it ain't the drinkin' of coffee, but the buyin' of it on a Sabbath. You must really excuse me, Jools, it's again' conscience, you know." "Ah!" said St.-Ange, "_c'est_ very true. For you it would be a sin, _mais_ for me it is only 'abit. Rilligion is a very strange; I know a man one time, he thing it was wrong to go to cock-fight Sunday evening. I thing it is all 'abit. _Mais_, come, Posson Jone'; I have got one friend, Miguel; led us go at his house and ged some coffee. Come; Miguel have no familie; only him and Joe--always like to see friend; _allons_, led us come yonder." "Why, Jools, my dear friend, you know," said the shamefaced parson, "I never visit on Sundays." "Never w'at?" asked the astounded Creole. "No," said Jones, smiling awkwardly. "Never visite?" "Exceptin' sometimes amongst church-members." said Parson Jones. "_Mais_," said the seductive St.-Ange, "Miguel and Joe is church-member'--certainlee! They love to talk about rilligion. Come at Miguel and talk about some rilligion. I am nearly expire for me coffee." Parson Jones took his hat from beneath his chair and rose up. "Jools," said the weak giant, "I ought to be in church right now." "_Mais_, the church is right yonder at Miguel', yes. Ah!" continued St.-Ange, as they descended the stairs, "I thing every man muz have the rilligion he like' the bez--me, I like the _Catholique_ rilligion the bez--for me it _is_ the bez. Every man will sure go to heaven if he like his rilligion the bez." "Jools," said the West-Floridian, laying his great hand tenderly upon the Creole's shoulder, as they stepped out upon the _banquette_, "do you think you have any shore hopes of heaven?" "Yass!" replied St.-Ange; "I am sure-sure. I thing everybody will go to heaven. I thing you will go, _et_ I thing Miguel will go, _et_ Joe--everybody, I thing--_mais_, hof course, not if they not have been christen'. Even I thing some niggers will go." "Jools," said the parson, stopping in his walk--"Jools, I _don't_ want to lose my niggah." "Yon will not loose him. With Baptiste he _cannot_ ged loose." But Colossus's master was not re-assured. "Now," said he, still tarrying, "this is jest the way; had I of gone to church"-- "Posson Jone'," said Jules. "What?" "I tell you. We goin' to church!" "Will you?" asked Jones, joyously. "_Allons_, come along," said Jules, taking his elbow. They walked down the Rue Chartres, passed several corners, and by and by turned into a cross street. The parson stopped an instant as they were turning and looked back up the street. "W'at you lookin'?" asked his companion. "I thought I saw Colossus," answered the parson, with an anxious face; "I reckon 'twa'n't him, though." And they went on. The street they now entered was a very quiet one. The eye of any chance passer would have been at once drawn to a broad, heavy, white brick edifice on the lower side of the way, with a flag-pole standing out like a bowsprit from one of its great windows, and a pair of lamps hanging before a large closed entrance. It was a theatre, honey-combed with gambling-dens. At this morning hour all was still, and the only sign of life was a knot of little barefoot girls gathered within its narrow shade, and each carrying an infant relative. Into this place the parson and M. St.-Ange entered, the little nurses jumping up from the sills to let them pass in. A half-hour may have passed. At the end of that time the whole juvenile company were laying alternate eyes and ears to the chinks, to gather what they could of an interesting quarrel going on within. "I did not, saw! I given you no cause of offence, saw! It's not so, saw! Mister Jools simply mistaken the house, thinkin' it was a Sabbath-school! No such thing, saw; I _ain't_ bound to bet! Yes, I kin git out. Yes, without bettin'! I hev a right to my opinion; I reckon I'm a _white man_, saw! No saw! I on'y said I didn't think you could get the game on them cards. 'Sno such thing, saw! I do _not_ know how to play! I wouldn't hev a rascal's money ef I should win it! Shoot, ef you dare! You can kill me, but you cayn't scare me! No, I shayn't bet! I'll die first! Yes, saw; Mr. Jools can bet for me if he admires to; I ain't his mostah." Here the speaker seemed to direct his words to St.-Ange. "Saw, I don't understand you, saw. I never said I'd loan you money to bet for me. I didn't suspicion this from you, saw. No, I won't take any more lemonade; it's the most notorious stuff I ever drank, saw!" M. St.-Ange's replies were in _falsetto_ and not without effect; for presently the parson's indignation and anger began to melt. "Don't ask me, Jools, I can't help you. It's no use; it's a matter of conscience with me, Jools." "_Mais oui!_ 'tis a matt' of conscien' wid me, the same." "But, Jools, the money's none o' mine, nohow; it belongs to Smyrny, you know." "If I could make jus' _one_ bet," said the persuasive St.-Ange, "I would leave this place, fas'-fas', yes. If I had thing--_mais_ I did not soupspicion this from you, Posson Jone'"-- "Don't, Jools, don't!" "No! Posson Jone'." "You're bound to win?" said the parson, wavering. "_Mais certainement!_ But it is not to win that I want;'tis me conscien'--me honor!" "Well, Jools, I hope I'm not a-doin' no wrong. I'll loan you some of this money if you say you'll come right out 'thout takin' your winnin's." All was still. The peeping children could see the parson as he lifted his hand to his breast-pocket. There it paused a moment in bewilderment, then plunged to the bottom. It came back empty, and fell lifelessly at his side. His head dropped upon his breast, his eyes were for a moment closed, his broad palms were lifted and pressed against his forehead, a tremor seized him, and he fell all in a lump to the floor. The children ran off with their infant-loads, leaving Jules St.-Ange swearing by all his deceased relatives, first to Miguel and Joe, and then to the lifted parson, that he did not know what had become of the money "except if" the black man had got it. In the rear of ancient New Orleans, beyond the sites of the old rampart, a trio of Spanish forts, where the town has since sprung up and grown old, green with all the luxuriance of the wild Creole summer, lay the Congo Plains. Here stretched the canvas of the historic Cayetano, who Sunday after Sunday sowed the sawdust for his circus-ring. But to-day the great showman had fallen short of his printed promise. The hurricane had come by night, and with one fell swash had made an irretrievable sop of every thing. The circus trailed away its bedraggled magnificence, and the ring was cleared for the bull. Then the sun seemed to come out and work for the people. "See," said the Spaniards, looking up at the glorious sky with its great, white fleets drawn off upon the horizon--"see--heaven smiles upon the bull-fight!" In the high upper seats of the rude amphitheatre sat the gayly-decked wives and daughters of the Gascons, from the _métaries_ along the Ridge, and the chattering Spanish women of the Market, their shining hair un-bonneted to the sun. Next below were their husbands and lovers in Sunday blouses, milkmen, butchers, bakers, black-bearded fishermen, Sicilian fruiterers, swarthy Portuguese sailors, in little woollen caps, and strangers of the graver sort; mariners of England, Germany, and Holland. The lowest seats were full of trappers, smugglers, Canadian _voyageurs_, drinking and singing; _Américains_, too--more's the shame--from the upper rivers--who will not keep their seats--who ply the bottle, and who will get home by and by and tell how wicked Sodom is; broad-brimmed, silver-braided Mexicans, too, with their copper cheeks and bat's eyes and their tinkling spurred heels. Yonder, in that quieter section, are the quadroon women in their black lace shawls--and there is Baptiste; and below them are the turbaned black women, and there is--but he vanishes--Colossus. The afternoon is advancing, yet the sport, though loudly demanded, does not begin. The _Américains_ grow derisive and find pastime in gibes and raillery They mock the various Latins with their national inflections, and answer their scowls with laughter. Some of the more aggressive shout pretty French greetings to the women of Gascony, and one bargeman, amid peals of applause, stands on a seat and hurls a kiss to the quadroons. The mariners of England, Germany, and Holland, as spectators, like the fun, while the Spaniards look black and cast defiant imprecations upon their persecutors. Some Gascons, with timely caution, pick their women out and depart, running a terrible fire of gallantries. In hope of truce, a new call is raised for the bull: "The bull, the bull!--hush!" In a tier near the ground a man is standing and calling--standing head and shoulders above the rest--callimg in the _Américaine_ tongue. Another man, big and red, named Joe, and a handsome little Creole in elegant dress and full of laughter, wish to stop him, but the flat-boatmen, ha-ha-ing and cheering, will not suffer it. Ah, through some shameful knavery of the men, into whose hands he has fallen, he is drunk! Even the women can see that; and now he throws his arms wildly and raises his voice until the whole great circle hears it. He is preaching! Ah! kind Lord, for a special providence now! The men of his own nation--men from the land of the open English Bible and temperance cup and song are cheering him on to mad disgrace. And now another call for the appointed sport is drowned by the flat-boatmen singing the ancient tune of Mear. You can hear the words-- "Old Grimes is dead, that good old soul" --from ribald lips and throats turned brazen with laughter, from singers who toss their hats aloft and roll in their seats; the chorus swells to the accompaniment of a thousand brogans-- "He used to wear an old gray coat All buttoned down before." A ribboned man in the arena is trying to be heard, and the Latins raise one mighty cry for silence. The big red man gets a hand over the parson's mouth, and the ribboned man seizes his moment. "They have been endeavoring for hours," he says, "to draw the terrible animals from their dens, but such is their strength and fierceness, that"-- His voice is drowned. Enough has been heard to warrant the inference that the beasts cannot be whipped out of the storm-drenched cages to which menagerie-life and long starvation have attached them, and from the roar of indignation the man of ribbons flies. The noise increases. Men are standing up by hundreds, and women are imploring to be let out of the turmoil. All at once, like the bursting of a dam, the whole mass pours down into the ring. They sweep across the arena and over the showman's barriers. Miguel gets a frightful trampling. Who cares for gates or doors? They tear the beasts' houses bar from bar, and, laying hold of the gaunt buffalo, drag him forth by feet, ears, and tail; and in the midst of the _mêlée_, still head and shoulders above all, wilder, with the cup of the wicked, than any beast, is the man of God from the Florida parishes! In his arms he bore--and all the people shouted at once when they saw it--the tiger. He had lifted it high up with its back to his breast, his arms clasped under its shoulders; the wretched brute had curled up caterpillar-wise, with its long tail against its belly, and through its filed teeth grinned a fixed and impotent wrath. And Parson Jones was shouting: "The tiger and the buffler _shell_ lay down together! You dah to say they shayn't and I'll comb you with this varmint from head to foot! The tiger and the buffler _shell_ lay down together. They _shell!_ Now, you, Joe! Behold! I am here to see it done. The lion and the buffler _shell_ lay down together!" Mouthing these words again and again, the parson forced his way through the surge in the wake of the buffalo. This creature the Latins had secured by a lariat over his head, and were dragging across the old rampart and into a street of the city. The northern races were trying to prevent, and there was pommelling and knocking down, cursing and knife-drawing, until Jules St.-Ange was quite carried away with the fun, laughed, clapped his hands, and swore with delight, and ever kept close to the gallant parson. Joe, contrariwise, counted all this child's-play an interruption. He had come to find Colossus and the money. In an unlucky moment he made bold to lay hold of the parson, but a piece of the broken barriers in the hands of a flat-boatman felled him to the sod, the terrible crowd swept over him, the lariat was cut and the giant parson hurled the tiger upon the buffalo's back. In another instant both brutes were dead at the hands of the mob; Jones was lifted from his feet, and prating of Scripture and the millennium, of Paul at Ephesus and Daniel in the "buffler's" den, was borne aloft upon the shoulders of the huzzaing _Américains_. Half an hour later he was sleeping heavily on the floor of a cell in the _calaboza_. When Parson Jones awoke, a bell was somewhere tolling for midnight. Somebody was at the door of his cell with a key. The lock grated, the door swung, the turnkey looked in and stepped back, and a ray of moonlight fell upon M. Jules St.-Ange. The prisoner sat upon the empty shackles and ring-bolt in the centre of the floor. "Misty Posson Jone'," said the visitor, softly. "O Jools!" "_Mais_, w'at de matter, Posson Jone'?" "My sins, Jools, my sins!" "Ah! Posson Jone', is that something to cry, because a man get sometime a litt' bit intoxicate? _Mais_, if a man keep _all the time_ intoxicate, I think that is again' the conscien'." "Jools, Jools, your eyes is darkened--oh I Jools, Where's my pore old niggah?" "Posson Jone', never min'; he is wid Baptiste." "Where?" "I don' know w'ere--_mais_ he is wid Baptiste. Baptiste is a beautiful to take care of somebody." "Is he as good as you, Jools?" asked Parson Jones, sincerely. Jules was slightly staggered. "You know, Posson Jone', you know, a nigger cannot be good as a w'ite man--_mais_ Baptiste is a good nigger." The parson moaned and dropped his chin into his hands. "I was to of left for home to-morrow, sun-up, on the Isabella schooner. Pore Smyrny!" He deeply sighed. "Posson Jone'," said Jules, leaning against the wall and smiling, "I swear you is the moz funny man I ever see. If I was you I would say, me, 'Ah! 'ow I am lucky! the money I los', it was not mine, anyhow!' My faith! shall a man make hisse'f to be the more sorry because the money he los' is not his? Me, I would say, 'it is a specious providence.' "Ah! Misty Posson Jone'," he continued, "you make a so droll sermon ad the bull-ring. Ha! ha! I swear I thing you can make money to preach thad sermon many time ad the theatre St. Philippe. Hah! you is the moz brave dat I never see, _mais_ ad the same time the moz rilligious man. Where I'm goin' to fin' one priest to make like dat? _Mais,_ why you can't cheer up an' be 'appy? Me, if I should be miserabl' like that I would kill meself." The countryman only shook his head. "_Bien,_ Posson Jone', I have the so good news for you." The prisoner looked up with eager inquiry. "Las' evening when they lock' you, I come right off at M. De Blanc's house to get you let out of de calaboose; M. De Blanc he is the judge. So soon I was entering--'Ah! Jules, me boy, juz the man to make complete the game!' Posson Jone', it was a specious providence! I win in t'ree hours more dan six hundred dollah! Look." He produced a mass of bank-notes, _bons_, and due-bills. "And you got the pass?" asked the parson, regarding the money with a sadness incomprehensible to Jules. "It is here; it take the effect so soon the daylight." "Jools, my friend, your kindness is in vain." The Creole's face became a perfect blank. "Because," said the parson, "for two reasons: firstly, I hare broken the laws, and ought to stand the penalty; and secondly--you must really excuse me, Jools, you know, but the pass has been got onfairly, I'm afeerd. You told the judge I was innocent; and in neither case it don't become a Christian (which I hope I can still say I am one) to 'do evil that good may come.' I muss stay." M. St.-Ange stood up aghast, and for a moment speechless, at this exhibition of moral heroism; but an artifice was presently hit upon. "_Mais_, Posson Jone'!"--in his old _falsetto_--"de order--you cannot read it, it is in French--compel you to go hout, sir!" "Is that so?" cried the parson, bounding up with radiant face--"is that so, Jools?" The young man nodded, smiling; but, though he smiled, the fountain of his tenderness was opened. He made the sign of the cross as the parson knelt in prayer, and even whispered "Hail Mary," etc., quite through, twice over. Morning broke in summer glory upon a cluster of villas behind the city, nestled under live-oaks and magnolias on the banks of a deep bayou, and known as Suburb St. Jean. With the first beam came the West-Floridian and the Creole out upon the bank below the village. Upon the parson's arm hung a pair of antique saddle-bags. Baptiste limped wearily behind; both his eyes were encircled with broad, blue rings, and one cheek-bone bore the official impress of every knuckle of Colossus's left hand. The "beautiful to take care of somebody" had lost his charge. At mention of the negro he became wild, and, half in English, half in the "gumbo" dialect, said murderous things. Intimidated by Jules to calmness, he became able to speak confidently on one point; he could, would, and did swear that Colossus had gone home to the Florida parishes; he was almost certain; in fact, he thought so. There was a clicking of pulleys as the three appeared upon the bayou's margin, and Baptiste pointed out, in the deep shadow of a great oak, the Isabella, moored among the bulrushes, and just spreading her sails for departure. Moving down to where she lay, the parson and his friend paused on the bank, loath to say farewell. "O Jools!" said the parson, "supposin' Colossus ain't gone home! O Jools, if you'll look him out for me, I'll never forget you--I'll never forget you, nohow, Jools. No, Jools, I never will believe he taken that money. Yes, I know all niggahs will steal"--he set foot upon the gang-plank--"but Colossus wouldn't steal from me. Good-by." "Misty Posson Jone,'" said St.-Ange, putting his hand on the parson's arm with genuine affection, "hol' on. You see dis money--w'at I win las' night? Well, I win' it by a specious providence, ain't it?" "There's no tellin'," said the humbled Jones. "Providence 'Moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform.'" "Ah!" cried the Creole, "_c'est_ very true. I ged this money in the mysterieuze way. _Mais_, if I keep dis money, you know where it goin' be to-night?" "I really can't say," replied the parson. "Goin' to de dev'," said the sweetly-smiling yonng man. The schooner-captain, leaning against the shrouds, and even Baptiste, laughed outright. "O Jools, you mustn't!" "Well, den, w'at I shall do wid _it?_" "Any thing!" answered the parson; "better donate it away to some poor man"-- "Ah! Misty Posson Jone', dat is w'at I want. You los' five hondred dollar'--'twas me fault." "No, it wa'n't, Jools." "_Mais_, it was!" "No!" "It _was_ me fault! I _swear_ it was me fault! _Mais_, here is five hondred dollar'; I wish you shall take it. Here! I don't got no use for money.--Oh, my faith! Posson Jone', you must not begin to cry some more." Parson Jones was choked with tears. When he found voice he said: "O Jools, Jools, Jools! my pore, noble, dear, misguidened friend! ef you hed of hed a Christian raisin'! May the Lord show you your errors better'n I kin, and bless you for your good intentions--oh, no! I cayn't touch that money with a ten-foot pole; it wa'n't rightly got; you must really excuse me, my dear friend, but I cayn't touch it." St.-Ange was petrified. "Good-by, dear Jools," continued the parson. "I'm in the Lord's haynds, and he's very merciful, which I hope and trust you'll find it out. Good-by!"--the schooner swang slowly off before the breeze--"good-by!" St.-Ange roused himself. "Posson Jone'! make me hany'ow _dis_ promise: you never, never, _never_ will come back to New Orleans." "Ah, Jools, the Lord willin', I'll never leave home again!" "All right!" cried the Creole; "I thing he's willin'. Adieu, Posson Jone'. My faith'! you are the so fighting an' moz rilligious man as I never saw! Adieu! Adieu!" Baptiste uttered a cry and presently ran by his master toward the schooner, his hands full of clods. St.-Ange looked just in time to see the sable form of Colossus of Rhodes emerge from the vessel's hold, and the pastor of Smyrna and Bethesda seize him in his embrace. "O Colossus! you outlandish old nigger! Thank the Lord! Thank the Lord!" The little Creole almost wept. He ran down the tow-path, laughing and swearing, and making confused allusion to the entire _personnel_ and furniture of the lower regions. By odd fortune, at the moment that St.-Ange further demonstrated his delight by tripping his mulatto into a bog, the schooner came brushing along the reedy bank with a graceful curve, the sails flapped, and the crew fell to poling her slowly along. Parson Jones was on the deck, kneeling once more in prayer. His hat had fallen before him; behind him knelt his slave. In thundering tones he was confessing himself "a plum fool," from whom "the conceit had been jolted out," and who had been made to see that even his "nigger had the longest head of the two." Colossus clasped his hands and groaned. The parson prayed for a contrite heart. "Oh, yes!" cried Colossus. The master acknowledged countless mercies. "Dat's so!" cried the slave. The master prayed that they might still be "piled on." "Glory!" cried the black man, clapping his hands; "pile on!" "An' now," continued the parson, "bring this pore, backslidin' jackace of a parson and this pore ole fool nigger back to thar home in peace!" "Pray fo' de money!" called Colossus. But the parson prayed for Jules. "Pray fo' de _money!_" repeated the negro. "And oh, give thy servant back that there lost money!" Colossus rose stealthily, and tiptoed by his still shouting master. St.-Ange, the captain, the crew, gazed in silent wonder at the strategist. Pausing but an instant over the master's hat to grin an acknowledgment of his beholders' speechless interest, he softly placed in it the faithfully-mourned and honestly-prayed-for Smyrna fund; then, saluted by the gesticulative, silent applause of St.-Ange and the schooner-men, he resumed his first attitude behind his roaring master. "Amen!" cried Colossus, meaning to bring him to a close. "Onworthy though I be"--cried Jones. "_Amen!_" reiterated the negro. "A-a-amen!" said Parson Jones. He rose to his feet, and, stooping to take up his hat, beheld the well-known roll. As one stunned, he gazed for a moment upon his slave, who still knelt with clasped hands and rolling eyeballs; but when he became aware of the laughter and cheers that greeted him from both deck and shore, he lifted eyes and hands to heaven, and cried like the veriest babe. And when he looked at the roll again, and hugged and kissed it, St.-Ange tried to raise a second shout, but choked, and the crew fell to their poles. And now up runs Baptiste, covered with slime, and prepares to cast his projectiles. The first one fell wide of the mark; the schooner swung round into a long reach of water, where the breeze was in her favor; another shout of laughter drowned the maledictions of the muddy man; the sails filled; Colossus of Rhodes, smiling and bowing as hero of the moment, ducked as the main boom swept round, and the schooner, leaning slightly to the pleasant influence, rustled a moment over the bulrushes, and then sped far away down the rippling bayou. M. Jules St.-Ange stood long, gazing at the receding vessel as it now disappeared, now re-appeared beyond the tops of the high undergrowth; but, when an arm of the forest hid it finally from sight, he turned townward, followed by that fagged-out spaniel, his servant, saying, as he turned, "Baptiste." "_Miché?_" "You know w'at I goin' do wid dis money?" "_Non, m'sieur._" "Well, you can strike me dead if I don't goin' to pay hall my debts! _Allons!_" He began a merry little song to the effect that his sweetheart was a wine-bottle, and master and man, leaving care behind, returned to the picturesque Rue Royale. The ways of Providence are indeed strange. In all Parson Jones's after-life, amid the many painful reminiscences of his visit to the City of the Plain, the sweet knowledge was withheld from him that by the light of the Christian virtue that shone from him even in his great fall, Jules St.-Ange arose, and went to his father an honest man. JEAN-AH POQUELIN. In the first decade of the present century, when the newly established American Government was the most hateful thing in Louisiana--when the Creoles were still kicking at such vile innovations as the trial by jury, American dances, anti-smuggling laws, and the printing of the Governor's proclamation in English--when the Anglo-American flood that was presently to burst in a crevasse of immigration upon the delta had thus far been felt only as slippery seepage which made the Creole tremble for his footing--there stood, a short distance above what is now Canal Street, and considerably back from the line of villas which fringed the river-bank on Tchoupitoulas Road, an old colonial plantation-house half in ruin. It stood aloof from civilization, the tracts that had once been its indigo fields given over to their first noxious wildness, and grown up into one of the horridest marshes within a circuit of fifty miles. The house was of heavy cypress, lifted up on pillars, grim, solid, and spiritless, its massive build a strong reminder of days still earlier, when every man had been his own peace officer and the insurrection of the blacks a daily contingency. Its dark, weatherbeaten roof and sides were hoisted up above the jungly plain in a distracted way, like a gigantic ammunition-wagon stuck in the mud and abandoned by some retreating army. Around it was a dense growth of low water willows, with half a hundred sorts of thorny or fetid bushes, savage strangers alike to the "language of flowers" and to the botanist's Greek. They were hung with countless strands of discolored and prickly smilax, and the impassable mud below bristled with _chevaux de frise_ of the dwarf palmetto. Two lone forest-trees, dead cypresses, stood in the centre of the marsh, dotted with roosting vultures. The shallow strips of water were hid by myriads of aquatic plants, under whose coarse and spiritless flowers, could one have seen it, was a harbor of reptiles, great and small, to make one shudder to the end of his days. The house was on a slightly raised spot, the levee of a draining canal. The waters of this canal did not run; they crawled, and were full of big, ravening fish and alligators, that held it against all comers. Such was the home of old Jean Marie Poquelin, once an opulent indigo planter, standing high in the esteem of his small, proud circle of exclusively male acquaintances in the old city; now a hermit, alike shunned by and shunning all who had ever known him. "The last of his line," said the gossips. His father lies under the floor of the St. Louis Cathedral, with the wife of his youth on one side, and the wife of his old age on the other. Old Jean visits the spot daily. His half-brother--alas! there was a mystery; no one knew what had become of the gentle, young half brother, more than thirty years his junior, whom once he seemed so fondly to love, but who, seven years ago, had disappeared suddenly, once for all, and left no clew of his fate. They had seemed to live so happily in each other's love. No father, mother, wife to either, no kindred upon earth. The elder a bold, frank, impetuous, chivalric adventurer; the younger a gentle, studious, book-loving recluse; they lived upon the ancestral estate like mated birds, one always on the wing, the other always in the nest. There was no trait in Jean Marie Poquelin, said the old gossips, for which he was so well known among his few friends as his apparent fondness for his "little brother." "Jacques said this," and "Jacques said that;" he "would leave this or that, or any thing to Jacques," for "Jacques was a scholar," and "Jacques was good," or "wise," or "just," or "far-sighted," as the nature of the case required; and "he should ask Jacques as soon as he got home," since Jacques was never elsewhere to be seen. It was between the roving character of the one brother, and the bookishness of the other, that the estate fell into decay. Jean Marie, generous gentleman, gambled the slaves away one by one, until none was left, man or woman, but one old African mute. The indigo-fields and vats of Louisiana had been generally abandoned as unremunerative. Certain enterprising men had substituted the culture of sugar; but while the recluse was too apathetic to take so active a course, the other saw larger, and, at time, equally respectable profits, first in smuggling, and later in the African slave-trade. What harm could he see in it? The whole people said it was vitally necessary, and to minister to a vital public necessity,--good enough, certainly, and so he laid up many a doubloon, that made him none the worse in the public regard. One day old Jean Marie was about to start upon a voyage that was to be longer, much longer, than any that he had yet made. Jacques had begged him hard for many days not to go, but he laughed him off, and finally said, kissing him: "_Adieu, 'tit frère_." "No," said Jacques, "I shall go with you." They left the old hulk of a house in the sole care of the African mute, and went away to the Guinea coast together. Two years after, old Poquelin came home without his vessel. He must have arrived at his house by night. No one saw him come. No one saw "his little brother;" rumor whispered that he, too, had returned, but he had never been seen again. A dark suspicion fell upon the old slave-trader. No matter that the few kept the many reminded of the tenderness that had ever marked his bearing to the missing man. The many shook their heads. "You know he has a quick and fearful temper;" and "why does he cover his loss with mystery?" "Grief would out with the truth." "But," said the charitable few, "look in his face; see that expression of true humanity." The many did look in his face, and, as he looked in theirs, he read the silent question: "Where is thy brother Abel?" The few were silenced, his former friends died off, and the name of Jean Marie Poquelin became a symbol of witchery, devilish crime, and hideous nursery fictions. The man and his house were alike shunned. The snipe and duck hunters forsook the marsh, and the wood-cutters abandoned the canal. Sometimes the hardier boys who ventured out there snake-shooting heard a slow thumping of oar-locks on the canal. They would look at each other for a moment half in consternation, half in glee, then rush from their sport in wanton haste to assail with their gibes the unoffending, withered old man who, in rusty attire, sat in the stern of a skiff, rowed homeward by his white-headed African mute. "O Jean-ah Poquelin! O Jean-ah! Jean-ah Poquelin!" It was not necessary to utter more than that. No hint of wickedness, deformity, or any physical or moral demerit; merely the name and tone of mockery: "Oh, Jean-ah Poquelin!" and while they tumbled one over another in their needless haste to fly, he would rise carefully from his seat, while the aged mute, with downcast face, went on rowing, and rolling up his brown fist and extending it toward the urchins, would pour forth such an unholy broadside of French imprecation and invective as would all but craze them with delight. Among both blacks and whites the house was the object of a thousand superstitions. Every midnight they affirmed, the _feu follet_ came out of the marsh and ran in and out of the rooms, flashing from window to window. The story of some lads, whose words in ordinary statements were worthless, was generally credited, that the night they camped in the woods, rather than pass the place after dark, they saw, about sunset, every window blood-red, and on each of the four chimneys an owl sitting, which turned his head three times round, and moaned and laughed with a human voice. There was a bottomless well, everybody professed to know, beneath the sill of the big front door under the rotten veranda; whoever set his foot upon that threshold disappeared forever in the depth below. What wonder the marsh grew as wild as Africa! Take all the Faubourg Ste. Marie, and half the ancient city, you would not find one graceless dare-devil reckless enough to pass within a hundred yards of the house after nightfall. * * * * * The alien races pouring into old New Orleans began to find the few streets named for the Bourbon princes too strait for them. The wheel of fortune, beginning to whirl, threw them off beyond the ancient corporation lines, and sowed civilization and even trade upon the lands of the Graviers and Girods. Fields became roads, roads streets. Everywhere the leveller was peering through his glass, rodsmen were whacking their way through willow-brakes and rose-hedges, and the sweating Irishmen tossed the blue clay up with their long-handled shovels. "Ha! that is all very well," quoth the Jean-Baptistes, fueling the reproach of an enterprise that asked neither co-operation nor advice of them, "but wait till they come yonder to Jean Poquelin's marsh; ha! ha! ha!" The supposed predicament so delighted them, that they put on a mock terror and whirled about in an assumed stampede, then caught their clasped hands between their knees in excess of mirth, and laughed till the tears ran; for whether the street-makers mired in the marsh, or contrived to cut through old "Jean-ah's" property, either event would be joyful. Meantime a line of tiny rods, with bits of white paper in their split tops, gradually extended its way straight through the haunted ground, and across the canal diagonally. "We shall fill that ditch," said the men in mud-boots, and brushed close along the chained and padlocked gate of the haunted mansion. Ah, Jean-ah Poquelin, those were not Creole boys, to be stampeded with a little hard swearing. He went to the Governor. That official scanned the odd figure with no slight interest. Jean Poquelin was of short, broad frame, with a bronzed leonine face. His brow was ample and deeply furrowed. His eye, large and black, was bold and open like that of a war-horse, and his jaws shut together with the firmness of iron. He was dressed in a suit of Attakapas cottonade, and his shirt unbuttoned and thrown back from the throat and bosom, sailor-wise, showed a herculean breast; hard and grizzled. There was no fierceness or defiance in his look, no harsh ungentleness, no symptom of his unlawful life or violent temper; but rather a peaceful and peaceable fearlessness. Across the whole face, not marked in one or another feature, but as it were laid softly upon the countenance like an almost imperceptible veil, was the imprint of some great grief. A careless eye might easily overlook it, but, once seen, there it hung--faint, but unmistakable. The Governor bowed. "_Parlez-vous français_?" asked the figure. "I would rather talk English, if you can do so," said the Governor. "My name, Jean Poquelin." "How can I serve you, Mr. Poquelin?" "My 'ouse is yond'; _dans le marais là-bas_." The Governor bowed. "Dat _marais_ billong to me." "Yes, sir." "To me; Jean Poquelin; I hown 'im meself." "Well, sir?" "He don't billong to you; I get him from me father." "That is perfectly true, Mr. Poquelin, as far as I am aware." "You want to make strit pass yond'?" "I do not know, sir; it is quite probable; but the city will indemnify you for any loss you may suffer--you will get paid, you understand." "Strit can't pass dare." "You will have to see the municipal authorities about that, Mr. Poquelin." A bitter smile came upon the old man's face: "_Pardon, Monsieur_, you is not _le Gouverneur_?" "Yes." "_Mais_, yes. You har _le Gouverneur_--yes. Veh-well. I come to you. I tell you, strit can't pass at me 'ouse." "But you will have to see"-- "I come to you. You is _le Gouverneur_. I know not the new laws. I ham a Fr-r-rench-a-man! Fr-rench-a-man have something _aller au contraire_--he come at his _Gouverneur_. I come at you. If me not had been bought from me king like _bossals_ in the hold time, ze king gof--France would-a-show _Monsieur le Gouverneur_ to take care his men to make strit in right places. _Mais_, I know; we billong to _Monsieur le Président_. I want you do somesin for me, eh?" "What is it?" asked the patient Governor. "I want you tell _Monsieur le Président_, strit--can't--pass--at--me--'ouse." "Have a chair, Mr. Poquelin;" but the old man did not stir. The Governor took a quill and wrote a line to a city official, introducing Mr. Poquelin, and asking for him every possible courtesy. He handed it to him, instructing him where to present it. "Mr. Poquelin," he said with a conciliatory smile, "tell me, is it your house that our Creole citizens tell such odd stories about?" The old man glared sternly upon the speaker, and with immovable features said: "You don't see me trade some Guinea nigga'?" "Oh, no." "You don't see me make some smuggling" "No, sir; not at all." "But, I am Jean Marie Poquelin. I mine me hown bizniss. Dat all right? Adieu." He put his hat on and withdrew. By and by he stood, letter in hand, before the person to whom it was addressed. This person employed an interpreter. "He says," said the interpreter to the officer, "he come to make you the fair warning how you muz not make the street pas' at his 'ouse." The officer remarked that "such impudence was refreshing;" but the experienced interpreter translated freely. "He says: 'Why you don't want?'" said the interpreter. The old slave-trader answered at some length. "He says," said the interpreter, again turning to the officer, "the marass is a too unhealth' for peopl' to live." "But we expect to drain his old marsh; it's not going to be a marsh." "_Il dit_"--The interpreter explained in French. The old man answered tersely. "He says the canal is a private," said the interpreter. "Oh! _that_ old ditch; that's to be filled up. Tell the old man we're going to fix him up nicely." Translation being duly made, the man in power was amused to see a thunder-cloud gathering on the old man's face. "Tell him," he added, "by the time we finish, there'll not be a ghost left in his shanty." The interpreter began to translate, but-- "_J' comprends, J' comprends_," said the old man, with an impatient gesture, and burst forth, pouring curses upon the United States, the President, the Territory of Orleans, Congress, the Governor and all his subordinates, striding out of the apartment as he cursed, while the object of his maledictions roared with merriment and rammed the floor with his foot. "Why, it will make his old place worth ten dollars to one," said the official to the interpreter. "'Tis not for de worse of de property," said the interpreter. "I should guess not," said the other, whittling his chair,--"seems to me as if some of these old Creoles would liever live in a crawfish hole than to have a neighbor" "You know what make old Jean Poquelin make like that? I will tell you. You know"-- The interpreter was rolling a cigarette, and paused to light his tinder; then, as the smoke poured in a thick double stream from his nostrils, he said, in a solemn whisper: "He is a witch." "Ho, ho, ho!" laughed the other. "You don't believe it? What you want to bet?" cried the interpreter, jerking himself half up and thrusting out one arm while he bared it of its coat-sleeve with the hand of the other. "What you want to bet?" "How do you know?" asked the official. "Dass what I goin' to tell you. You know, one evening I was shooting some _grosbec_. I killed three, but I had trouble to fine them, it was becoming so dark. When I have them I start' to come home; then I got to pas' at Jean Poquelin's house." "Ho, ho, ho!" laughed the other, throwing his leg over the arm of his chair. "Wait," said the interpreter. "I come along slow, not making some noises; still, still"-- "And scared," said the smiling one. "_Mais_, wait. I get all pas' the 'ouse. 'Ah!' I say; 'all right!' Then I see two thing' before! Hah! I get as cold and humide, and shake like a leaf. You think it was nothing? There I see, so plain as can be (though it was making nearly dark), I see Jean--Marie--Po-que-lin walkin' right in front, and right there beside of him was something like a man--but not a man--white like paint!--I dropp' on the grass from scared--they pass'; so sure as I live 'twas the ghos' of Jacques Poquelin, his brother!" "Pooh!" said the listener. "I'll put my han' in the fire," said the interpreter. "But did you never think," asked the other, "that that might be Jack Poquelin, as you call him, alive and well, and for some cause hid away by his brother?" "But there har' no cause!" said the other, and the entrance of third parties changed the subject. Some months passed and the street was opened. A canal was first dug through the marsh, the small one which passed so close to Jean Poquelin's house was filled, and the street, or rather a sunny road, just touched a corner of the old mansion's dooryard. The morass ran dry. Its venomous denizens slipped away through the bulrushes; the cattle roaming freely upon its hardened surface trampled the superabundant undergrowth. The bellowing frogs croaked to westward. Lilies and the flower-de-luce sprang up in the place of reeds; smilax and poison-oak gave way to the purple-plumed iron-weed and pink spiderwort; the bindweeds ran everywhere blooming as they ran, and on one of the dead cypresses a giant creeper hung its green burden of foliage and lifted its scarlet trumpets. Sparrows and red-birds flitted through the bushes, and dewberries grew ripe beneath. Over all these came a sweet, dry smell of salubrity which the place had not known since the sediments of the Mississippi first lifted it from the sea. But its owner did not build. Over the willow-brakes, and down the vista of the open street, bright new houses, some singly, some by ranks, were prying in upon the old man's privacy. They even settled down toward his southern side. First a wood-cutter's hut or two, then a market gardener's shanty, then a painted cottage, and all at once the faubourg had flanked and half surrounded him and his dried-up marsh. Ah! then the common people began to hate him. "The old tyrant!" "You don't mean an old _tyrant_?" "Well, then, why don't he build when the public need demands it? What does he live in that unneighborly way for?" "The old pirate!" "The old kidnapper!" How easily even the most ultra Louisianians put on the imported virtues of the North when they could be brought to bear against the hermit. "There he goes, with the boys after him! Ah! ha! ha! Jean-ah Poquelin! Ah! Jean-ah! Aha! aha! Jean-ah Marie! Jean-ah Poquelin! The old villain!" How merrily the swarming Américains echo the spirit of persecution! "The old fraud," they say--"pretends to live in a haunted house, does he? We'll tar and feather him some day. Guess we can fix him." He cannot be rowed home along the old canal now; he walks. He has broken sadly of late, and the street urchins are ever at his heels. It is like the days when they cried: "Go up, thou bald-head," and the old man now and then turns and delivers ineffectual curses. To the Creoles--to the incoming lower class of superstitious Germans, Irish, Sicilians, and others--he became an omen and embodiment of public and private ill-fortune. Upon him all the vagaries of their superstitions gathered and grew. If a house caught fire, it was imputed to his machinations. Did a woman go off in a fit, he had bewitched her. Did a child stray off for an hour, the mother shivered with the apprehension that Jean Poquelin had offered him to strange gods. The house was the subject of every bad boy's invention who loved to contrive ghostly lies. "As long as that house stands we shall have bad luck. Do you not see our pease and beans dying, our cabbages and lettuce going to seed and our gardens turning to dust, while every day you can see it raining in the woods? The rain will never pass old Poquelin's house. He keeps a fetich. He has conjured the whole Faubourg St. Marie. And why, the old wretch? Simply because our playful and innocent children call after him as he passes." A "Building and Improvement Company," which had not yet got its charter, "but was going to," and which had not, indeed, any tangible capital yet, but "was going to have some," joined the "Jean-ah Poquelin" war. The haunted property would be such a capital site for a market-house! They sent a deputation to the old mansion to ask its occupant to sell. The deputation never got beyond the chained gate and a very barren interview with the African mute. The President of the Board was then empowered (for he had studied French in Pennsylvania and was considered qualified) to call and persuade M. Poquelin to subscribe to the company's stock; but-- "Fact is, gentlemen," he said at the next meeting, "it would take us at least twelve months to make Mr. Pokaleen understand the rather original features of our system, and he wouldn't subscribe when we'd done; besides, the only way to see him is to stop him on the street." There was a great laugh from the Board; they couldn't help it. "Better meet a bear robbed of her whelps," said one. "You're mistaken as to that," said the President. "I did meet him, and stopped him, and found him quite polite. But I could get no satisfaction from him; the fellow wouldn't talk in French, and when I spoke in English he hoisted his old shoulders up, and gave the same answer to every thing I said." "And that was--?" asked one or two, impatient of the pause. "That it 'don't worse w'ile?'" One of the Board said: "Mr. President, this market-house project, as I take it, is not altogether a selfish one; the community is to be benefited by it. We may feel that we are working in the public interest [the Board smiled knowingly], if we employ all possible means to oust this old nuisance from among us. You may know that at the time the street was cut through, this old Poquelann did all he could to prevent it. It was owing to a certain connection which I had with that affair that I heard a ghost story [smiles, followed by a sudden dignified check]--ghost story, which, of course, I am not going to relate; but I _may_ say that my profound conviction, arising from a prolonged study of that story, is, that this old villain, John Poquelann, has his brother locked up in that old house. Now, if this is so, and we can fix it on him, I merely _suggest_ that we can make the matter highly useful. I don't know," he added, beginning to sit down, "but that it is an action we owe to the community--hem!" "How do you propose to handle the subject?" asked the President. "I was thinking," said the speaker, "that, as a Board of Directors, it would be unadvisable for us to authorize any action involving trespass; but if you, for instance, Mr. President, should, as it were, for mere curiosity, _request_ some one, as, for instance, our excellent Secretary, simply as a personal favor, to look into the matter--this is merely a suggestion." The Secretary smiled sufficiently to be understood that, while he certainly did not consider such preposterous service a part of his duties as secretary, he might, notwithstanding, accede to the President's request; and the Board adjourned. Little White, as the Secretary was called, was a mild, kind-hearted little man, who, nevertheless, had no fear of any thing, unless it was the fear of being unkind. "I tell you frankly," he privately said to the President, "I go into this purely for reasons of my own." The next day, a little after nightfall, one might have descried this little man slipping along the rear fence of the Poquelin place, preparatory to vaulting over into the rank, grass-grown yard, and bearing himself altogether more after the manner of a collector of rare chickens than according to the usage of secretaries. The picture presented to his eye was not calculated to enliven his mind. The old mansion stood out against the western sky, black and silent. One long, lurid pencil-stroke along a sky of slate was all that was left of daylight. No sign of life was apparent; no light at any window, unless it might have been on the side of the house hidden from view. No owls were on the chimneys, no dogs were in the yard. He entered the place, and ventured up behind a small cabin which stood apart from the house. Through one of its many crannies he easily detected the African mute crouched before a flickering pine-knot, his head on his knees, fast asleep. He concluded to enter the mansion, and, with that view, stood and scanned it. The broad rear steps of the veranda would not serve him; he might meet some one midway. He was measuring, with his eye, the proportions of one of the pillars which supported it, and estimating the practicability of climbing it, when he heard a footstep. Some one dragged a chair out toward the railing, then seemed to change his mind and began to pace the veranda, his footfalls resounding on the dry boards with singular loudness. Little White drew a step backward, got the figure between himself and the sky, and at once recognized the short, broad-shouldered form of old Jean Poquelin. He sat down upon a billet of wood, and, to escape the stings of a whining cloud of mosquitoes, shrouded his face and neck in his handkerchief, leaving his eyes uncovered. He had sat there but a moment when he noticed a strange, sickening odor, faint, as if coming from a distance, but loathsome and horrid. Whence could it come? Not from the cabin; not from the marsh, for it was as dry as powder. It was not in the air; it seemed to come from the ground. Rising up, he noticed, for the first time, a few steps before him a narrow footpath leading toward the house. He glanced down it--ha! right there was some one coming--ghostly white! Quick as thought, and as noiselessly, he lay down at full length against the cabin. It was bold strategy, and yet, there was no denying it, little White felt that he was frightened. "It is not a ghost," he said to himself. "I _know_ it cannot be a ghost;" but the perspiration burst out at every pore, and the air seemed to thicken with heat. "It is a living man," he said in his thoughts. "I hear his footstep, and I hear old Poquelin's footsteps, too, separately, over on the veranda. I am not discovered; the thing has passed; there is that odor again; what a smell of death! Is it coming back? Yes. It stops at the door of the cabin. Is it peering in at the sleeping mute? It moves away. It is in the path again. Now it is gone." He shuddered. "Now, if I dare venture, the mystery is solved." He rose cautiously, close against the cabin, and peered along the path. The figure of a man, a presence if not a body--but whether clad in some white stuff or naked the darkness would not allow him to determine--had turned, and now, with a seeming painful gait, moved slowly from him. "Great Heaven! can it be that the dead do walk?" He withdrew again the hands which had gone to his eyes. The dreadful object passed between two pillars and under the house. He listened. There was a faint sound as of feet upon a staircase; then all was still except the measured tread of Jean Poquelin walking on the veranda, and the heavy respirations of the mute slumbering in the cabin. The little Secretary was about to retreat; but as he looked once more toward the haunted Louse a dim light appeared in the crack of a closed window, and presently old Jean Poquelin came, dragging his chair, and sat down close against the shining cranny. He spoke in a low, tender tone in the French tongue, making some inquiry. An answer came from within. Was it the voice of a human? So unnatural was it--so hollow, so discordant, so unearthly--that the stealthy listener shuddered again from head to foot, and when something stirred in some bushes near by--though it may have been nothing more than a rat--and came scuttling through the grass, the little Secretary actually turned and fled. As he left the enclosure he moved with bolder leisure through the bushes; yet now and then he spoke aloud: "Oh, oh! I see, I understand!" and shut his eyes in his hands. How strange that henceforth little White was the champion of Jean Poquelin! In season and out of season--wherever a word was uttered against him--the Secretary, with a quiet, aggressive force that instantly arrested gossip, demanded upon what authority the statement or conjecture was made; but as he did not condescend to explain his own remarkable attitude, it was not long before the disrelish and suspicion which had followed Jean Poquelin so many years fell also upon him. It was only the next evening but one after his adventure that he made himself a source of sullen amazement to one hundred and fifty boys, by ordering them to desist from their wanton hallooing. Old Jean Poquelin, standing and shaking his cane, rolling out his long-drawn maledictions, paused and stared, then gave the Secretary a courteous bow and started on. The boys, save one, from pure astonishment, ceased but a ruffianly little Irish lad, more daring than any had yet been, threw a big hurtling clod, that struck old Poquelin between the shoulders and burst like a shell. The enraged old man wheeled with uplifted staff to give chase to the scampering vagabond; and--he may have tripped, or he may not, but he fell full length. Little White hastened to help him up, but he waved him off with a fierce imprecation and staggering to his feet resumed his way homeward. His lips were reddened with blood. Little White was on his way to the meeting of the Board. He would have given all he dared spend to have staid away, for he felt both too fierce and too tremulous to brook the criticisms that were likely to be made. "I can't help it, gentlemen; I can't help you to make a case against the old man, and I'm not going to." "We did not expect this disappointment, Mr. White." "I can't help that, sir. No, sir; you had better not appoint any more investigations. Somebody'll investigate himself into trouble. No, sir; it isn't a threat, it is only my advice, but I warn you that whoever takes the task in hand will rue it to his dying day--which may be hastened, too." The President expressed himself "surprised." "I don't care a rush," answered little White, wildly and foolishly. "I don't care a rush if you are, sir. No, my nerves are not disordered; my head's as clear as a bell. No, I'm _not_ excited." A Director remarked that the Secretary looked as though he had waked from a nightmare. "Well, sir, if you want to know the fact, I have; and if you choose to cultivate old Poquelin's society you can have one, too." "White," called a facetious member, but White did not notice. "White," he called again. "What?" demanded White, with a scowl. "Did you see the ghost?" "Yes, sir; I did," cried White, hitting the table, and handing the President a paper which brought the Board to other business. The story got among the gossips that somebody (they were afraid to say little White) had been to the Poquelin mansion by night and beheld something appalling. The rumor was but a shadow of the truth, magnified and distorted as is the manner of shadows. He had seen skeletons walking, and had barely escaped the clutches of one by making the sign of the cross. Some madcap boys with an appetite for the horrible plucked up courage to venture through the dried marsh by the cattle-path, and come before the house at a spectral hour when the air was full of bats. Something which they but half saw--half a sight was enough--sent them tearing back through the willow-brakes and acacia bushes to their homes, where they fairly dropped down, and cried: "Was it white?" "No--yes--nearly so--we can't tell--but we saw it." And one could hardly doubt, to look at their ashen faces, that they had, whatever it was. "If that old rascal lived in the country we come from," said certain Américains, "he'd have been tarred and feathered before now, wouldn't he, Sanders?" "Well, now he just would." "And we'd have rid him on a rail, wouldn't we?" "That's what I allow." "Tell you what you _could_ do." They were talking to some rollicking Creoles who had assumed an absolute necessity for doing _something_. "What is it you call this thing where an old man marries a young girl, and you come out with horns and"-- "_Charivari_?" asked the Creoles. "Yes, that's it. Why don't you shivaree him?" Felicitous suggestion. Little White, with his wife beside him, was sitting on their doorsteps on the sidewalk, as Creole custom had taught them, looking toward the sunset. They had moved into the lately-opened street. The view was not attractive on the score of beauty. The houses were small and scattered, and across the flat commons, spite of the lofty tangle of weeds and bushes, and spite of the thickets of acacia, they needs must see the dismal old Poquelin mansion, tilted awry and shutting out the declining sun. The moon, white and slender, was hanging the tip of its horn over one of the chimneys. "And you say," said the Secretary, "the old black man has been going by here alone? Patty, suppose old Poquelin should be concocting some mischief; he don't lack provocation; the way that clod hit him the other day was enough to have killed him. Why, Patty, he dropped as quick as _that_! No wonder you haven't seen him. I wonder if they haven't heard something about him up at the drug-store. Suppose I go and see." "Do," said his wife. She sat alone for half an hour, watching that sudden going out of the day peculiar to the latitude. "That moon is ghost enough for one house," she said, as her husband returned. "It has gone right down the chimney." "Patty," said little White, "the drug-clerk says the boys are going to shivaree old Poquelin to-night. I'm going to try to stop it." "Why, White," said his wife, "you'd better not. You'll get hurt." "No, I'll not." "Yes, you will." "I'm going to sit out here until they come along. They're compelled to pass right by here." "Why, White, it may be midnight before they start; you're not going to sit out here till then." "Yes, I am." "Well, you're very foolish," said Mrs. White in an undertone, looking anxious, and tapping one of the steps with her foot. They sat a very long time talking over little family matters. "What's that?" at last said Mrs. White. "That's the nine-o'clock gun," said White, and they relapsed into a long-sustained, drowsy silence. "Patty, you'd better go in and go to bed," said he at last. "I'm not sleepy." "Well, you're very foolish," quietly remarked little White, and again silence fell upon them. "Patty, suppose I walk out to the old house and see if I can find out any thing." "Suppose," said she, "you don't do any such--listen!" Down the street arose a great hubbub. Dogs and boys were howling and barking; men were laughing, shouting, groaning, and blowing horns, whooping, and clanking cow-bells, whinnying, and howling, and rattling pots and pans. "They are coming this way," said little White. "You had better go into the house, Patty." "So had you." "No. I'm going to see if I can't stop them." "Why, White!" "I'll be back in a minute," said White, and went toward the noise. In a few moments the little Secretary met the mob. The pen hesitates on the word, for there is a respectable difference, measurable only on the scale of the half century, between a mob and a _charivari_. Little White lifted his ineffectual voice. He faced the head of the disorderly column, and cast himself about as if he were made of wood and moved by the jerk of a string. He rushed to one who seemed, from the size and clatter of his tin pan, to be a leader. "_Stop these fellows, Bienvenu, stop them just a minute, till I tell them something_." Bienvenu turned and brandished his instruments of discord in an imploring way to the crowd. They slackened their pace, two or three hushed their horns and joined the prayer of little White and Bienvenu for silence. The throng halted. The hush was delicious. "Bienvenu," said little White, "don't shivaree old Poquelin to-night; he's"-- "My fwang," said the swaying Bienvenu, "who tail you I goin' to chahivahi somebody, eh? Yon sink bickause I make a little playfool wiz zis tin pan zat I am _dhonk_?" "Oh, no, Bienvenu, old fellow, you're all right. I was afraid you might not know that old Poquelin was sick, you know, but you're not going there, are you?" "My fwang, I vay soy to tail you zat you ah dhonk as de dev'. I am _shem_ of you. I ham ze servan' of ze _publique_. Zese _citoyens_ goin' to wickwest Jean Poquelin to give to the Ursuline' two hondred fifty dolla'"-- "_Hé quoi_!" cried a listener, "_Cinq cent piastres, oui_!" "_Oui_!" said Bienvenu, "and if he wiffuse we make him some lit' _musique_; ta-ra ta!" He hoisted a merry hand and foot, then frowning, added: "Old Poquelin got no bizniz dhink s'much w'isky." "But, gentlemen," said little White, around whom a circle had gathered, "the old man is very sick." "My faith!" cried a tiny Creole, "we did not make him to be sick. W'en we have say we going make _le charivari_, do you want that we hall tell a lie? My faith! 'sfools!" "But you can shivaree somebody else," said desperate little White. "_Oui_" cried Bienvenu, "_et chahivahi_ Jean-ah Poquelin tomo'w!" "Let us go to Madame Schneider!" cried two or three, and amid huzzas and confused cries, among which was heard a stentorian Celtic call for drinks, the crowd again began to move. "_Cent piastres pour l'hôpital de charité_!" "Hurrah!" "One hongred dolla' for Charity Hospital!" "Hurrah!" "Whang!" went a tin pan, the crowd yelled, and Pandemonium gaped again. They were off at a right angle. Nodding, Mrs. White looked at the mantle-clock. "Well, if it isn't away after midnight." The hideous noise down street was passing beyond earshot. She raised a sash and listened. For a moment there was silence. Some one came to the door. "Is that you, White?" "Yes." He entered. "I succeeded, Patty." "Did you?" said Patty, joyfully. "Yes. They've gone down to shivaree the old Dutchwoman who married her step-daughter's sweetheart. They say she has got to pay a hundred dollars to the hospital before they stop." The couple retired, and Mrs. White slumbered. She was awakened by her husband snapping the lid of his watch. "What time?" she asked. "Half-past three. Patty, I haven't slept a wink. Those fellows are out yet. Don't you hear them?" "Why, White, they're coming this way!" "I know they are," said White, sliding out of bed and drawing on his clothes, "and they're coming fast. You'd better go away from that window, Patty. My! what a clatter!" "Here they are," said Mrs. White, but her husband was gone. Two or three hundred men and boys pass the place at a rapid walk straight down the broad, new street, toward the hated house of ghosts. The din was terrific. She saw little White at the head of the rabble brandishing his arms and trying in vain to make himself heard; but they only shook their heads laughing and hooting the louder, and so passed, bearing him on before them. Swiftly they pass out from among the houses, away from the dim oil lamps of the street, out into the broad starlit commons, and enter the willowy jungles of the haunted ground. Some hearts fail and their owners lag behind and turn back, suddenly remembering how near morning it is. But the most part push on, tearing the air with their clamor. Down ahead of them in the long, thicket-darkened way there is--singularly enough--a faint, dancing light. It must be very near the old house; it is. It has stopped now. It is a lantern, and is under a well-known sapling which has grown up on the wayside since the canal was filled. Now it swings mysteriously to and fro. A goodly number of the more ghost-fearing give up the sport; but a full hundred move forward at a run, doubling their devilish howling and banging. Yes; it is a lantern, and there are two persons under the tree. The crowd draws near--drops into a walk; one of the two is the old African mute; he lifts the lantern up so that it shines on the other; the crowd recoils; there is a hush of all clangor, and all at once, with a cry of mingled fright and horror from every throat, the whole throng rushes back, dropping every thing, sweeping past little White and hurrying on, never stopping until the jungle is left behind, and then to find that not one in ten has seen the cause of the stampede, and not one of the tenth is certain what it was. There is one huge fellow among them who looks capable of any villany. He finds something to mount on, and, in the Creole _patois_, calls a general halt. Bienvenu sinks down, and, vainly trying to recline gracefully, resigns the leadership. The herd gather round the speaker; he assures them that they have been outraged. Their right peaceably to traverse the public streets has been trampled upon. Shall such encroachments be endured? It is now daybreak. Let them go now by the open light of day and force a free passage of the public highway! A scattering consent was the response, and the crowd, thinned now and drowsy, straggled quietly down toward the old house. Some drifted ahead, others sauntered behind, but every one, as he again neared the tree, came to a stand-still. Little White sat upon a bank of turf on the opposite side of the way looking very stern and sad. To each new-comer he put the same question: "Did you come here to go to old Poquelin's?" "Yes." "He's dead." And if the shocked hearer started away he would say: "Don't go away." "Why not?" "I want you to go to the funeral presently." If some Louisianian, too loyal to dear France or Spain to understand English, looked bewildered, some one would interpret for him; and presently they went. Little White led the van, the crowd trooping after him down the middle of the way. The gate, that had never been seen before unchained, was open. Stern little White stopped a short distance from it; the rabble stopped behind him. Something was moving out from under the veranda. The many whisperers stretched upward to see. The African mute came very slowly toward the gate, leading by a cord in the nose a small brown bull, which was harnessed to a rude cart. On the flat body of the cart, under a black cloth, were seen the outlines of a long box. "Hats off, gentlemen," said little White, as the box came in view, and the crowd silently uncovered. "Gentlemen," said little White, "here come the last remains of Jean Marie Poquelin, a better man, I'm afraid, with all his sins,--yes a better--a kinder man to his blood--a man of more self-forgetful goodness--than all of you put together will ever dare to be." There was a profound hush as the vehicle came creaking through the gate; but when it turned away from them toward the forest, those in front started suddenly. There was a backward rush, then all stood still again staring one way; for there, behind the bier, with eyes cast down and labored step, walked the living remains--all that was left--of little Jacques Poquelin, the long-hidden brother--a leper, as white as snow. Dumb with horror, the cringing crowd gazed upon the walking death. They watched, in silent awe, the slow _cortége_ creep down the long, straight road and lessen on the view, until by and by it stopped where a wild, unfrequented path branched off into the undergrowth toward the rear of the ancient city. "They are going to the _Terre aux Lépreux_," said one in the crowd. The rest watched them in silence. The little bull was set free; the mute, with the strength of an ape, lifted the long box to his shoulder. For a moment more the mute and the leper stood in sight, while the former adjusted his heavy burden; then, without one backward glance upon the unkind human world, turning their faces toward the ridge in the depths of the swamp known as the Leper's Land, they stepped into the jungle, disappeared, and were never seen again. TITE POULETTE. Kristian Koppig was a rosy-faced, beardless young Dutchman. He was one of that army of gentlemen who, after the purchase of Louisiana, swarmed from all parts of the commercial world, over the mountains of Franco-Spanish exclusiveness, like the Goths over the Pyrenees, and settled down in New Orleans to pick up their fortunes, with the diligence of hungry pigeons. He may have been a German; the distinction was too fine for Creole haste and disrelish. He made his home in a room with one dormer window looking out, and somewhat down, upon a building opposite, which still stands, flush with the street, a century old. Its big, round-arched windows in a long, second-story row, are walled up, and two or three from time to time have had smaller windows let into them again, with odd little latticed peep-holes in their batten shutters. This had already been done when Kristian Koppig first began to look at them from his solitary dormer window. All the features of the building lead me to guess that it is a remnant of the old Spanish Barracks, whose extensive structure fell by government sale into private hands a long time ago. At the end toward the swamp a great, oriental-looking passage is left, with an arched entrance, and a pair of ponderous wooden doors. You look at it, and almost see Count O'Reilly's artillery come bumping and trundling out, and dash around into the ancient Plaza to bang away at King St. Charles's birthday. I do not know who lives there now. You might stand about on the opposite _banquette_ for weeks and never find out. I suppose it is a residence, for it does not look like one. That is the rule in that region. In the good old times of duels, and bagatelle-clubs, and theatre-balls, and Cayetano's circus, Kristian Koppig rooming as described, there lived in the portion of this house, partly overhanging the archway, a palish handsome woman, by the name--or going by the name--of Madame John. You would hardly have thought of her being "colored." Though fading, she was still of very attractive countenance, fine, rather severe features, nearly straight hair carefully kept, and that vivid black eye so peculiar to her kind. Her smile, which came and went with her talk, was sweet and exceedingly intelligent; and something told you, as you looked at her, that she was one who had had to learn a great deal in this troublesome life. "But!"--the Creole lads in the street would say--"--her daughter!" and there would be lifting of arms, wringing of fingers, rolling of eyes, rounding of mouths, gaspings and clasping of hands. "So beautiful, beautiful, beautiful! White?--white like a water lily! White--like a magnolia!" Applause would follow, and invocation of all the saints to witness. And she could sing. "Sing?" (disdainfully)--"if a mocking-bird can _sing_! Ha!" They could not tell just how old she was; they "would give her about seventeen." Mother and daughter were very fond. The neighbors could hear them call each other pet names, and see them sitting together, sewing, talking happily to each other in the unceasing French way, and see them go out and come in together on their little tasks and errands. "'Tite Poulette," the daughter was called; she never went out alone. And who was this Madame John? "Why, you know!--she was"--said the wig-maker at the corner to Kristian Koppig--"I'll tell you. You know?--she was"--and the rest atomized off in a rasping whisper. She was the best yellow-fever nurse in a thousand yards round; but that is not what the wig-maker said. A block nearer the river stands a house altogether different from the remnant of old barracks. It is of frame, with a deep front gallery over which the roof extends. It has become a den of Italians, who sell fuel by daylight, and by night are up to no telling what extent of deviltry. This was once the home of a gay gentleman, whose first name happened to be John. He was a member of the Good Children Social Club. As his parents lived with him, his wife would, according to custom, have been called Madame John but he had no wife. His father died, then his mother; last of all, himself. As he is about to be off, in comes Madame John, with 'Tïte Poulette, then an infant, on her arm. "Zalli," said he, "I am going." She bowed her head, and wept. "You have been very faithful to me, Zalli." She wept on. "Nobody to take care of you now, Zalli." Zalli only went on weeping. "I want to give you this house, Zalli; it is for you and the little one." An hour after, amid the sobs of Madame John, she and the "little one" inherited the house, such as it was. With the fatal caution which characterizes ignorance, she sold the property and placed the proceeds in a bank, which made haste to fail. She put on widow's weeds, and wore them still when 'Tite Poulette "had seventeen," as the frantic lads would say. How they did chatter over her. Quiet Kristian Koppig had never seen the like. He wrote to his mother, and told her so. A pretty fellow at the corner would suddenly double himself up with beckoning to a knot of chums; these would hasten up; recruits would come in from two or three other directions; as they reached the corner their countenances would quickly assume a genteel severity, and presently, with her mother, 'Tite Poulette would pass--tall, straight, lithe, her great black eyes made tender by their sweeping lashes, the faintest tint of color in her Southern cheek, her form all grace, her carriage a wonder of simple dignity. The instant she was gone every tongue was let slip on the marvel of her beauty; but, though theirs were only the loose New Orleans morals of over fifty years ago, their unleashed tongues never had attempted any greater liberty than to take up the pet name, 'Tite Poulette. And yet the mother was soon to be, as we shall discover, a paid dancer at the _Salle de Condé_. To Zalli, of course, as to all "quadroon ladies," the festivities of the Conde-street ball-room were familiar of old. There, in the happy days when dear Monsieur John was young, and the eighteenth century old, she had often repaired under guard of her mother--dead now, alas!--and Monsieur John would slip away from the dull play and dry society of Théâtre d'Orléans, and come around with his crowd of elegant friends; and through the long sweet hours of the ball she had danced, and laughed, and coquetted under her satin mask, even to the baffling and tormenting of that prince of gentlemen, dear Monsieur John himself. No man of questionable blood dare set his foot within the door. Many noble gentlemen were pleased to dance with her. Colonel De ---- and General La ----: city councilmen and officers from the Government House. There were no paid dancers then. Every thing was decorously conducted indeed! Every girl's mother was there, and the more discreet always left before there was too much drinking. Yes, it was gay, gay!--but sometimes dangerous. Ha! more times than a few had Monsieur John knocked down some long-haired and long-knifed rowdy, and kicked the breath out of him for looking saucily at her; but that was like him, he was so brave and kind;--and he is gone! There was no room for widow's weeds there. So when she put these on, her glittering eyes never again looked through her pink and white mask, and she was glad of it; for never, never in her life had they so looked for anybody but her dear Monsieur John, and now he was in heaven--so the priest said--and she was a sick-nurse. Living was hard work; and, as Madame John had been brought up tenderly, and had done what she could to rear her daughter in the same mistaken way, with, of course, no more education than the ladies in society got, they knew nothing beyond a little music and embroidery. They struggled as they could, faintly; now giving a few private dancing lessons, now dressing hair, but ever beat back by the steady detestation of their imperious patronesses; and, by and by, for want of that priceless worldly grace known among the flippant as "money-sense," these two poor children, born of misfortune and the complacent badness of the times, began to be in want. Kristian Koppig noticed from his dormer window one day a man standing at the big archway opposite, and clanking the brass knocker on the wicket that was in one of the doors. He was a smooth man, with his hair parted in the middle, and his cigarette poised on a tiny gold holder. He waited a moment, politely cursed the dust, knocked again, threw his slender sword-cane under his arm, and wiped the inside of his hat with his handkerchief. Madame John held a parley with him at the wicket. 'Tite Poulette was nowhere seen. He stood at the gate while Madame John went up-stairs. Kristian Koppig knew him. He knew him as one knows a snake. He was the manager of the _Salle de Condé_. Presently Madame John returned with a little bundle, and they hurried off together. And now what did this mean? Why, by any one of ordinary acuteness the matter was easily understood, but, to tell the truth, Kristian Koppig was a trifle dull, and got the idea at once that some damage was being planned against 'Tite Poulette. It made the gentle Dutchman miserable not to be minding his own business, and yet-- "But the woman certainly will not attempt"--said he to himself--"no, no! she cannot." Not being able to guess what he meant, I cannot say whether she could or not. I know that next day Kristian Koppig, glancing eagerly over the "_Ami des Lois_," read an advertisement which he had always before skipped with a frown. It was headed, "_Salle de Condé_," and, being interpreted, signified that a new dance was to be introduced, the _Danse de Chinois_, and that _a young lady_ would follow it with the famous "_Danse du Shawl_." It was the Sabbath. The young man watched the opposite window steadily and painfully from early in the afternoon until the moon shone bright; and from the time the moon shone bright until Madame John!--joy!--Madame John! and not 'Tite Poulette, stepped through the wicket, much dressed and well muffled, and hurried off toward the _Rue Condé_. Madame John was the "young lady;" and the young man's mind, glad to return to its own unimpassioned affairs, relapsed into quietude. Madame John danced beautifully. It had to be done. It brought some pay, and pay was bread; and every Sunday evening, with a touch here and there of paint and powder, the mother danced the dance of the shawl, the daughter remaining at home alone. Kristian Koppig, simple, slow-thinking young Dutchman, never noticing that he staid at home with his window darkened for the very purpose, would see her come to her window and look out with a little wild, alarmed look in her magnificent eyes, and go and come again, and again, until the mother, like a storm-driven bird, came panting home. Two or three months went by. One night, on the mother's return, Kristian Koppig coming to his room nearly at the same moment, there was much earnest conversation, which he could see, but not hear. "'Tite Poulette," said Madame John, "you are seventeen." "True, Maman." "Ah! my child, I see not how you are to meet the future." The voice trembled plaintively. "But how, Maman?" "Ah! you are not like others; no fortune, no pleasure, no friend." "Maman!" "No, no;--I thank God for it; I am glad you are not; but you will be lonely, lonely, all your poor life long. There is no place in this world for us poor women. I wish that we were either white or black!"--and the tears, two "shining ones," stood in the poor quadroon's eyes. Tha daughter stood up, her eyes flashing. "God made us, Maman," she said with a gentle, but stately smile. "Ha!" said the mother, her keen glance darting through her tears, "Sin made _me_, yes." "No," said 'Tite Poulette, "God made us. He made us Just as we are; not more white, not more black." "He made you, truly!" said Zalli. "You are so beautiful; I believe it well." She reached and drew the fair form to a kneeling posture. "My sweet, white daughter!" Now the tears were in the girl's eyes. "And could I be whiter than I am?" she asked. "Oh, no, no! 'Tite Poulette," cried the other; "but if we were only _real white!_--both of us; so that some gentleman might come to see me and say 'Madame John, I want your pretty little chick. She is so beautiful. I want to take her home. She is so good--I want her to be my wife.' Oh, my child, my child, to see that I would give my life--I would give my soul! Only you should take me along to be your servant. I walked behind two young men to-night; they ware coming home from their office; presently they began to talk about you." 'Tite Poulette's eyes flashed fire. "No, my child, they spoke only the best things One laughed a little at times and kept saying 'Beware!' but the other--I prayed the Virgin to bless him, he spoke such kind and noble words. Such gentle pity; such a holy heart! 'May God defend her,' he said, _chérie_; he said, 'May God defend her, for I see no help for her.' The other one laughed and left him. He stopped in the door right across the street. Ah, my child, do you blush? Is that something to bring the rose to your cheek? Many fine gentlemen at the ball ask me often, 'How is your daughter, Madame John?'". The daughter's face was thrown into the mother's lap, not so well satisfied, now, with God's handiwork. Ah, how she wept! Sob, sob, sob; gasps and sighs and stifled ejaculations, her small right hand clinched and beating on her mother's knee; and the mother weeping over her. Kristian Koppig shut his window. Nothing but a generous heart and a Dutchman's phlegm could have done so at that moment. And even thou, Kristian Koppig!--for the window closed very slowly. He wrote to his mother, thus: "In this wicked city, I see none so fair as the poor girl who lives opposite me, and who, alas! though so fair, is one of those whom the taint of caste has cursed. She lives a lonely, innocent life in the midst of corruption, like the lilies I find here in the marshew, and I have great pity for her. 'God defend her,' I said to-night to a fellow clerk, 'I see no help for her.' I know there is a natural, and I think proper, horror of mixed blood (excuse the mention, sweet mother), and I feel it, too; and yet if she were in Holland today, not one of a hundred suitors would detect the hidden blemish." In such strain this young man wrote on trying to demonstrate the utter impossibility of his ever loving the lovable unfortunate, until the midnight tolling of the cathedral clock sent him to bed. About the same hour Zalli and 'Tite Poulette were kissing good-night. "'Tite Poulette, I want you to promise me one thing." "Well, Maman?" "If any gentleman should ever love you and ask you to marry,--not knowing, you know,--promise me you will not tell him you are not white." "It can never be," said 'Tite Poulette. "But if it should," said Madame John pleadingly. "And break the law?" asked 'Tite Poulette, impatiently. "But the law is unjust," said the mother. "But it is the law!" "But you will not, dearie, will you?" "I would surely tell him!" said the daughter. When Zalli, for some cause, went next morning to the window, she started. "'Tite Poulette!"--she called softly without moving. The daughter came. The young man, whose idea of propriety had actuated him to this display, was sitting in the dormer window, reading. Mother and daughter bent a steady gaze at each other. It meant in French, "If he saw us last night!"-- "Ah! dear," said the mother, her face beaming with fun-- "What can it be, Maman?" "He speaks--oh! ha, ha!--he speaks--such miserable French!" It came to pass one morning at early dawn that Zalli and 'Tite Poulette, going to mass, passed a café, just as--who should be coming out but Monsieur, the manager of the _Salle de Condé_. He had not yet gone to bed. Monsieur was astonished. He had a Frenchman's eye for the beautiful, and certainly there the beautiful was. He had heard of Madame John's daughter, and had hoped once to see her, but did not but could this be she? They disappeared within the cathedral. A sudden pang of piety moved him; he followed. 'Tite Poulette was already kneeling in the aisle. Zalli, still in the vestibule, was just taking her hand from the font of holy-water. "Madame John," whispered the manager. She courtesied. "Madame John, that young lady--is she your daughter?" "She--she--is my daughter," said Zalli, with somewhat of alarm in her face, which the manager misinterpreted. "I think not, Madame John." He shook his head, smiling as one too wise to be fooled. "Yes, Monsieur, she is my daughter." "O no, Madame John, it is only make-believe, I think." "I swear she is, Monsieur de la Rue." "Is that possible?" pretending to waver, but convinced in his heart of hearts, by Zalli's alarm, that she was lying. "But how? Why does she not come to our ball-room with you?" Zalli, trying to get away from him, shrugged and smiled. "Each to his taste, Monsieur; it pleases her not." She was escaping, but he followed one step more. "I shall come to see you, Madame John." She whirled and attacked him with her eyes. "Monsieur must not give himself the trouble!" she said, the eyes at the same time adding, "Dare to come!" She turned again, and knelt to her devotions. The manager dipped in the font, crossed himself, and departed. Several weeks went by, and M. de la Rue had not accepted the fierce challenge of Madame John's eyes. One or two Sunday nights she had succeeded in avoiding him, though fulfilling her engagement in the _Salle_; but by and by pay-day,--a Saturday,--came round, and though the pay was ready, she was loath to go up to Monsieur's little office. It was an afternoon in May. Madame John came to her own room, and, with a sigh, sank into a chair. Her eyes were wet. "Did you go to his office, dear mother?" asked 'Tite Poulette. "I could not," she answered, dropping her face in her hands. "Maman, he has seen me at the window!" "While I was gone?" cried the mother. "He passed on the other side of the street. He looked up purposely, and saw me." The speaker's cheeks were burning red. Zalli wrung her hands. "It is nothing, mother; do not go near him." "But the pay, my child." "The pay matters not." "But he will bring it here; he wants the chance." That was the trouble, sure enough. About this time Kristian Koppig lost his position in the German importing house where, he had fondly told his mother, he was indispensable. "Summer was coming on," the senior said, "and you see our young men are almost idle. Yes, our engagement _was_ for a year, but ah--we could not foresee"--etc., etc., "besides" (attempting a parting flattery), "your father is a rich gentleman, and you can afford to take the summer easy. If we can ever be of any service to you," etc., etc. So the young Dutchman spent the afternoons at his dormer window reading and glancing down at the little casement opposite, where a small, rude shelf had lately been put out, holding a row of cigar-boxes with wretched little botanical specimens in them trying to die. 'Tite Poulette was their gardener; and it was odd to see,--dry weather or wet,--how many waterings per day those plants could take. She never looked up from her task; but I know she performed it with that unacknowledged pleasure which all girls love and deny, that of being looked upon by noble eyes. On this peculiar Saturday afternoon in May, Kristian Koppig had been witness of the distressful scene over the way. It occurred to 'Tite Poulette that such might be the case, and she stepped to the casement to shut it. As she did so, the marvellous delicacy of Kristian Koppig moved him to draw in one of his shutters. Both young heads came out at one moment, while at the same instant-- "Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap!" clanked the knocker on the wicket. The black eyes of the maiden and the blue over the way, from looking into each other for the first time in life, glanced down to the arched doorway upon Monsieur the manager. Then the black eyes disappeared within, and Kristian Koppig thought again, and re-opening his shutter, stood up at the window prepared to become a bold spectator of what might follow. But for a moment nothing followed. "Trouble over there," thought the rosy Dutchman, and waited. The manager waited too, rubbing his hat and brushing his clothes with the tips of his kidded fingers. "They do not wish to see him," slowly concluded the spectator. "Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap!" quoth the knocker, and M. de la Rue looked up around at the windows opposite and noticed the handsome young Dutchman looking at him. "Dutch!" said the manager softly, between his teeth. "He is staring at me," said Kristian Koppig to himself;--"but then I am staring at him, which accounts for it." A long pause, and then another long rapping. "They want him to go away," thought Koppig. "Knock hard!" suggested a street youngster, standing by. "Rap, rap"--The manager had no sooner recommenced than several neighbors looked out of doors and windows. "Very bad," thought our Dutchman; "somebody should make him go off. I wonder what they will do." The manager stepped into the street, looked up at the closed window, returned to the knocker, and stood with it in his hand. "They are all gone out, Monsieur," said the street-youngster. "You lie!" said the cynosure of neighboring eyes. "Ah!" thought Kristian Koppig; "I will go down and ask him"--Here his thoughts lost outline; he was only convinced that he had somewhat to say to him, and turned to go down stairs. In going he became a little vexed with himself because he could not help hurrying. He noticed, too, that his arm holding the stair-rail trembled in a silly way, whereas he was perfectly calm. Precisely as he reached the street-door the manager raised the knocker; but the latch clicked and the wicket was drawn slightly ajar. Inside could just be descried Madame John. The manager bowed, smiled, talked, talked on, held money in his hand, bowed, smiled, talked on, flourished the money, smiled, bowed, talked on and plainly persisted in some intention to which Madame John was steadfastly opposed. The window above, too,--it was Kristian Koppig who noticed that,--opened a wee bit, like the shell of a terrapin; Presently the manager lifted his foot and put forward an arm, as though he would enter the gate by pushing, but as quick as gunpowder it clapped--in his face! You could hear the fleeing feet of Zalli pounding up the staircase. As the panting mother re-entered her room, "See, Maman," said 'Tite Poulette, peeping at the window, "the young gentleman from over the way has crossed!" "Holy Mary bless him!" said the mother. "I will go over," thought Kristian Koppig, "and ask him kindly if he is not making a mistake." "What are they doing, dear?" asked the mother, with clasped hands. "They are talking; the young man is tranquil, but 'Sieur de la Rue is very angry," whispered the daughter; and just then--pang! came a sharp, keen sound rattling up the walls on either side of the narrow way, and "Aha!" and laughter and clapping of female hands from two or three windows. "Oh! what a slap!" cried the girl, half in fright, half in glee, jerking herself back from the casement simultaneously with the report. But the "ahas" and laughter, and clapping of feminine hands, which still continued, came from another cause. 'Tite Poulette's rapid action had struck the slender cord that held up an end of her hanging garden, and the whole rank of cigar-boxes slid from their place, turned gracefully over as they shot through the air, and emptied themselves plump upon the head of the slapped manager. Breathless, dirty, pale as whitewash, he gasped a threat to be heard from again, and, getting round the corner as quick as he could walk, left Kristian Koppig, standing motionless, the most astonished man in that street. "Kristian Koppig, Kristian Koppig," said Greatheart to himself, slowly dragging up-stairs, "what a mischief you have done. One poor woman certainly to be robbed of her bitter wages, and another--so lovely!--put to the burning shame of being the subject of a street brawl! What will this silly neighborhood say? 'Has the gentleman a heart as well as a hand?' 'Is it jealousy?'" There he paused, afraid himself to answer the supposed query; and then--"Oh! Kristian Koppig, you have been such a dunce!" "And I cannot apologize to them. Who in this street would carry my note, and not wink and grin over it with low surmises? I cannot even make restitution. Money? They would not dare receive it. Oh! Kristian Koppig, why did you not mind your own business? Is she any thing to you? Do you love her? _Of course not_! Oh!--such a dunce!" The reader will eagerly admit that however faulty this young man's course of reasoning, his conclusion was correct. For mark what he did. He went to his room, which was already growing dark, shut his window, lighted his big Dutch lamp, and sat down to write. "Something _must_ be done," said he aloud, taking up his pen; "I will be calm and cool; I will be distant and brief; but--I shall have to be kind or I may offend. Ah! I shall have to write in French; I forgot that; I write it so poorly, dunce that I am, when all my brothers and sisters speak it so well." He got out his French dictionary. Two hours slipped by. He made a new pen, washed and refilled his inkstand, mended his "abominable!" chair, and after two hours more made another attempt, and another failure. "My head aches," said he, and lay down on his couch, the better to frame his phrases. He was awakened by the Sabbath sunlight. The bells of the Cathedral and the Ursulines' chapel were ringing for high mass, and a mocking-bird, perching on a chimney-top above Madame John's rooms, was carolling, whistling, mewing, chirping, screaming, and trilling with the ecstasy of a whole May in his throat. "Oh! sleepy Kristian Koppig," was the young man's first thought, "--such a dunce!" Madame John and daughter did not go to mass. The morning wore away, and their casement remained closed. "They are offended," said Kristian Koppig, leaving the house, and wandering up to the little Protestant affair known as Christ Church. "No, possibly they are not," he said, returning and finding the shutters thrown back. By a sad accident, which mortified him extremely, he happened to see, late in the afternoon,--hardly conscious that he was looking across the street,--that Madame John was--dressing. Could it be that she was going to the _Salle de Condé_? He rushed to his table, and began to write. He had guessed aright. The wages were too precious to be lost. The manager had written her a note. He begged to assure her that he was a gentleman of the clearest cut. If he had made a mistake the previous afternoon, he was glad no unfortunate result had followed except his having been assaulted by a ruffian; that the _Danse du Shawl_ was promised in his advertisement, and he hoped Madame John (whose wages were in hand waiting for her) would not fail to assist as usual. Lastly, and delicately put, he expressed his conviction that Mademoiselle was wise and discreet in declining to entertain gentlemen at her home. So, against much beseeching on the part of 'Tite Poulette, Madame John was going to the ball-room. "Maybe I can discover what 'Sieur de la Rue is planning against Monsieur over the way," she said, knowing certainly the slap would not be forgiven; and the daughter, though tremblingly, at once withdrew her objections. The heavy young Dutchman, now thoroughly electrified, was writing like mad. He wrote and tore up, wrote and tore up, lighted his lamp, started again, and at last signed his name. A letter by a Dutchman in French!--what can be made of it in English? We will see: "MADAME AND MADEMOISELLE: "A stranger, seeking not to be acquainted, but seeing and admiring all days the goodness and high honor, begs to be pardoned of them for the mistakes, alas! of yesterday, and to make reparation and satisfaction in destroying the ornaments of the window, as well as the loss of compensation from Monsieur the manager, with the enclosed bill of the _Banque de la Louisiane_ for fifty dollars ($50). And, hoping they will seeing what he is meaning, remains, respectfully, "KRISTIAN KOPPIG. "P.S.--Madame must not go to the ball." He must bear the missive himself. He must speak in French. What should the words be? A moment of study--he has it, and is off down the long three-story stairway. At the same moment Madame John stepped from the wicket, and glided off to the _Salle de Condé_, a trifle late. "I shall see Madame John, of course," thought the young man, crushing a hope, and rattled the knocker. 'Tite Poulette sprang up from praying for her mother's safety. "What has she forgotten?" she asked herself, and hastened down. The wicket opened. The two innocents were stunned. "Aw--aw"--said the pretty Dutchman, "aw,"--blurted out something in virgin Dutch, ... handed her the letter, and hurried down street. "Alas! what have I done?" said the poor girl, bending over her candle, and bursting into tears that fell on the unopened letter. "And what shall I do! It may be wrong to open it--and worse not to." Like her sex, she took the benefit of the doubt, and intensified her perplexity and misery by reading and misconstruing the all but unintelligible contents. What then? Not only sobs and sighs, but moaning and beating of little fists together, and outcries of soul-felt agony stifled against the bedside, and temples pressed into knitted palms, because of one who "sought _not to be_ acquainted," but offered money--money!--in pity to a poor--shame on her for saying that!--a poor _nigresse_. And now our self-confessed dolt turned back from a half-hour's walk, concluding there might be an answer to his note. "Surely Madame John will appear this time." He knocked. The shutter stirred above, and something white came fluttering wildly down like a shot dove. It was his own letter containing the fifty-dollar bill. He bounded to the wicket, and softly but eagerly knocked again. "Go away," said a trembling voice from above. "Madame John?" said he; but the window closed, and he heard a step, the same step on the stair. Step, step, every step one step deeper into his heart. 'Tite Poulette came to the closed door. "What will you?" said the voice within. "I--I--don't wish to see you. I wish to see Madame John." "I must pray Monsieur to go away. My mother is at the _Salle de Condé_." "At the ball!" Kristian Koppig strayed off, repeating the words for want of definite thought. All at once it occurred to him that at the ball he could make Madame John's acquaintance with impunity. "Was it courting sin to go?" By no means; he should, most likely, save a woman from trouble, and help the poor in their distress. Behold Kristian Koppig standing on the floor of the _Salle de Condé_. A large hall, a blaze of lamps, a bewildering flutter of fans and floating robes, strains of music, columns of gay promenaders, a long row of turbaned mothers lining either wall, gentlemen of the portlier sort filling the recesses of the windows, whirling waltzers gliding here and there--smiles and grace, smiles and grace; all fair, orderly, elegant, bewitching. A young Creole's laugh mayhap a little loud, and--truly there were many sword-canes. But neither grace nor foulness satisfied the eye of the zealous young Dutchman. Suddenly a muffled woman passed him, leaning on a gentleman's arm. It looked like--it must be, Madame John. Speak quick, Kristian Koppig; do not stop to notice the man! "Madame John"--bowing--"I am your neighbor, Kristian Koppig." Madame John bows low, and smiles--a ball-room smile, but is frightened, and her escort,--the manager,--drops her hand and slips away. "Ah! Monsieur," she whispers excitedly, "you will be killed if you stay here a moment. Are you armed? No. Take this." She tried to slip a dirk into his hands, but he would not have it. "Oh, my dear young man, go! Go quickly!" she plead, glancing furtively down the hall. "I wish you not to dance," said the young man. "I have danced already; I am going home. Come; be quick! we will go together." She thrust her arm through his, and they hastened into the street. When a square had been passed there came a sound of men running behind them. "Run, Monsieur, run!" she cried, trying to drag him; but Monsieur Dutchman would not. "_Run,_ Monsieur! Oh, my God! it is 'Sieur"-- "_That_ for yesterday!" cried the manager, striking fiercely with his cane. Kristian Koppig's fist rolled him in the dirt. "_That_ for 'Tite Poulette!" cried another man dealing the Dutchman a terrible blow from behind. "And _that_ for me!" hissed a third, thrusting at him with something bright. "_That_ for yesterday!" screamed the manager, bounding like a tiger; "That!" "THAT!" "Ha!" Then Kristian Koppig knew that he was stabbed. "That!" and "That!" and "That!" and the poor Dutchman struck wildly here and there, grasped the air, shut his eyes, staggered, reeled, fell, rose half up, fell again for good, and they were kicking him and jumping on him. All at once they scampered. Zalli had found the night-watch. "Buz-z-z-z!" went a rattle. "Buz-z-z-z!" went another. "Pick him up." "Is he alive?" "Can't tell; hold him steady; lead the way, misses." "He's bleeding all over my breeches." "This way--here--around this corner." "This way now--only two squares more." "Here we are." "Rap-rap-rap!" on the old brass knocker. Curses on the narrow wicket, more on the dark archway, more still on the twisting stairs. Up at last and into the room. "Easy, easy, push this under his head: never mind his boots!" So he lies--on 'Tite Poulette's own bed. The watch are gone. They pause under the corner lamp to count profits;--a single bill--_Banque de la Louisiane_, fifty dollars. Providence is kind--tolerably so. Break it at the "Guillaume Tell." "But did you ever hear any one scream like that girl did?" And there lies the young Dutch neighbor. His money will not flutter back to him this time; nor will any voice behind a gate "beg Monsieur to go away." O, Woman!--that knows no enemy so terrible as man! Come nigh, poor Woman, you have nothing to fear. Lay your strange, electric touch upon the chilly flesh; it strikes no eager mischief along the fainting veins. Look your sweet looks upon the grimy face, and tenderly lay back the locks from the congested brows; no wicked misinterpretation lurks to bite your kindness. Be motherly, be sisterly, fear nought. Go, watch him by night; you may sleep at his feet and he will not stir. Yet he lives, and shall live--may live to forget you, who knows? But for all that, be gentle and watchful; be womanlike, we ask no more; and God reward you! Even while it was taking all the two women's strength to hold the door against Death, the sick man himself laid a grief upon them. "Mother," he said to Madame John, quite a master of French in his delirium, "dear mother, fear not; trust your boy; fear nothing. I will not marry 'Tite Poulette; I cannot. She is fair, dear mother, but ah! she is not--don't you know, mother? don't you know? The race! the race! Don't you know that she is jet black. Isn't it?" The poor nurse nodded "Yes," and gave a sleeping draught; but before the patient quite slept he started once and stared. "Take her away,"--waving his hand--"take your beauty away. She is jet white. Who could take a jet white wife? O, no, no, no, no!" Next morning his brain was right. "Madame," he weakly whispered, "I was delirious last night?" Zalli shrugged. "Only a very, very, wee, wee trifle of a bit." "And did I say something wrong or--foolish?" "O, no, no," she replied; "you only clasped your hands, so, and prayed, prayed all the time to the dear Virgin." "To the virgin?" asked the Dutchman, smiling incredulously. "And St. Joseph--yes, indeed," she insisted; "you may strike me dead." And so, for politeness' sake, he tried to credit the invention, but grew suspicions instead. Hard was the battle against death. Nurses are sometimes amazons, and such were these. Through the long, enervating summer, the contest lasted; but when at last the cool airs of October came stealing in at the bedside like long-banished little children, Kristian Koppig rose upon his elbow and smiled them a welcome. The physician, blessed man, was kind beyond measure; but said some inexplicable things, which Zalli tried in vain to make him speak in an undertone. "If I knew Monsieur John?" he said, "certainly! Why, we were chums at school. And he left you so much as that, Madame John? Ah! my old friend John, always noble! And you had it all in that naughty bank? Ah, well, Madame John, it matters little. No, I shall not tell 'Tite Poulette. Adieu." And another time:--"If I will let you tell me something? With pleasure, Madame John. No, and not tell anybody, Madame John. No, Madame, not even 'Tite Poulette. What?"--a long whistle--"is that pos-si-ble?--and Monsieur John knew it?--encouraged it?--eh, well, eh, well!--But--can I believe you, Madame John? Oh! you have Monsieur John's sworn statement. Ah! very good, truly, but--you _say_ you have it; but where is it? Ah! to-morrow!" a sceptical shrug. "Pardon me, Madame John, I think perhaps, _perhaps_ you are telling the truth. "If I think you did right? Certainly! What nature keeps back, accident sometimes gives, Madame John; either is God's will. Don't cry. 'Stealing from the dead?' No! It was giving, yes! They are thanking you in heaven, Madame John." Kristian Koppig, lying awake, but motionless and with closed eyes, hears in part, and, fancying he understands, rejoices with silent intensity. When the doctor is gone he calls Zalli. "I give you a great deal of trouble, eh, Madame John?" "No, no; you are no trouble at all. Had you the yellow fever--ah! then!" She rolled her eyes to signify the superlative character of the tribulations attending yellow fever. "I had a lady and gentleman once--a Spanish lady and gentleman, just off the ship; both sick at once with the fever--delirious--could not tell their names. Nobody to help me but sometimes Monsieur John! I never had such a time,--never before, never since,--as that time. Four days and nights this head touched not a pillow." "And they died!" said Kristian Koppig. "The third night the gentleman went. Poor Senor! 'Sieur John,--he did not know the harm,--gave him some coffee and toast! The fourth night it rained and turned cool, and just before day the poor lady"-- "Died!" said Koppig. Zalli dropped her arms listlessly into her lap and her eyes ran brimful. "And left an infant!" said the Dutchman, ready to shout with exultation. "Ah! no, Monsieur," said Zalli. The invalid's heart sank like a stone. "Madame John,"--his voice was all in a tremor,--"tell me the truth. Is 'Tite Poulette your own child?" "Ah-h-h, ha! ha! what foolishness! Of course she is my child!" And Madame gave vent to a true Frenchwoman's laugh. It was too much for the sick man. In the pitiful weakness of his shattered nerves he turned his face into his pillow and wept like a child. Zalli passed into the next room to hide her emotion. "Maman, dear Maman," said 'Tite Poulette, who had overheard nothing, but only saw the tears. "Ah! my child, my child, my task--my task is too great--too great for me. Let me go now--another time. Go and watch at his bedside." "But, Maman,"--for 'Tite Poulette was frightened,--"he needs no care now." "Nay, but go, my child; I wish to be alone." The maiden stole in with averted eyes and tiptoed to the window--_that window_. The patient, already a man again, gazed at her till she could feel the gaze. He turned his eyes from her a moment to gather resolution. And now, stout heart, farewell; a word or two of friendly parting--nothing more. "'Tite Poulette." The slender figure at the window turned and came to the bedside. "I believe I owe my life to you," he said. She looked down meekly, the color rising in her cheek. "I must arrange to be moved across the street tomorrow, on a litter." She did not stir or speak. "And I must now thank you, sweet nurse, for your care. Sweet nurse! Sweet nurse!" She shook her head in protestation. "Heaven bless you, 'Tite Poulette!" Her face sank lower. "God has made you very beautiful, Tite Poulette!" She stirred not. He reached, and gently took her little hand, and as he drew her one step nearer, a tear fell from her long lashes. From the next room, Zalli, with a face of agonized suspense, gazed upon the pair, undiscovered. The young man lifted the hand to lay it upon his lips, when, with a mild, firm force, it was drawn away, yet still rested in his own upon the bedside, like some weak thing snared, that could only not get free. "Thou wilt not have my love, 'Tite Poulette?" No answer. "Thou wilt not, beautiful?" "Cannot!" was all that she could utter, and upon their clasped hands the tears ran down. "Thou wrong'st me, 'Tite Poulette. Thou dost not trust me; thou fearest the kiss may loosen the hands. But I tell thee nay. I have struggled hard, even to this hour, against Love, but I yield me now; I yield; I am his unconditioned prisoner forever. God forbid that I ask aught but that you will be my wife." Still the maiden moved not, looked not up, only rained down tears. "Shall it not be, 'Tite Poulette?" He tried in vain to draw her. "'Tite Poulette?" So tenderly he called! And then she spoke. "It is against the law." "It is not!" cried Zalli, seizing her round the waist and dragging her forward. "Take her! she is thine. I have robbed God long enough. Here are the sworn papers--here! Take her; she is as white as snow--so! Take her, kiss her; Mary be praised! I never had a child--she is the Spaniard's daughter!" 'SIEUR GEORGE. In the heart of New Orleans stands a large four-story brick building, that has so stood for about three-quarters of a century. Its rooms are rented to a class of persons occupying them simply for lack of activity to find better and cheaper quarters elsewhere. With its gray stucco peeling off in broad patches, it has a solemn look of gentility in rags, and stands, or, as it were, hangs, about the corner of two ancient streets, like a faded fop who pretends to be looking for employment. Under its main archway is a dingy apothecary-shop. On one street is the bazaar of a _modiste en robes et chapeaux_ and other humble shops; on the other, the immense batten doors with gratings over the lintels, barred and bolted with masses of cobwebbed iron, like the door of a donjon, are overhung by a creaking sign (left by the sheriff), on which is faintly discernible the mention of wines and liquors. A peep through one of the shops reveals a square court within, hung with many lines of wet clothes, its sides hugged by rotten staircases that seem vainly trying to clamber out of the rubbish. The neighborhood is one long since given up to fifth-rate shops, whose masters and mistresses display such enticing mottoes as "_Au gagne petit!_" Innumerable children swarm about, and, by some charm of the place, are not run over, but obstruct the sidewalks playing their clamorous games. The building is a thing of many windows, where passably good-looking women appear and disappear, clad in cotton gowns, watering little outside shelves of flowers and cacti, or hanging canaries' cages. Their husbands are keepers in wine-warehouses, rent-collectors for the agents of old Frenchmen who have been laid up to dry in Paris, custom-house supernumeraries and court-clerks' deputies (for your second-rate Creole is a great seeker for little offices). A decaying cornice hangs over, dropping bits of mortar on passers below, like a boy at a boarding-house. The landlord is one Kookoo, an ancient Creole of doubtful purity of blood, who in his landlordly old age takes all suggestions of repairs as personal insults. He was but a stripling when his father left him this inheritance, and has grown old and wrinkled and brown, a sort of periodically animate mummy, in the business. He smokes cascarilla, wears velveteen, and is as punctual as an executioner. To Kookoo's venerable property a certain old man used for many years to come every evening, stumbling through the groups of prattling children who frolicked about in the early moonlight--whose name no one knew, but whom all the neighbors designated by the title of 'Sieur George. It was his wont to be seen taking a straight--too straight--course toward his home, never careening to right or left, but now forcing himself slowly forward, as though there were a high gale in front, and now scudding briskly ahead at a ridiculous little dog-trot, as if there were a tornado behind. He would go up the main staircase very carefully, sometimes stopping half-way up for thirty or forty minutes' doze, but getting to the landing eventually, and tramping into his room in the second story, with no little elation to find it still there. Were it not for these slight symptoms of potations, he was such a one as you would pick out of a thousand for a miser. A year or two ago he suddenly disappeared. A great many years ago, when the old house was still new, a young man with no baggage save a small hair-trunk, came and took the room I have mentioned and another adjoining. He supposed he might stay fifty days--and he staid fifty years and over. This was a very fashionable neighborhood, and he kept the rooms on that account month after month. But when he had been here about a year something happened to him, so it was rumored, that greatly changed the tenor of his life; and from that time on there began to appear in him and to accumulate upon each other in a manner which became the profound study of Kookoo, the symptoms of a decay, whose cause baffled the landlord's limited powers of conjecture for well-nigh half a century. Hints of a duel, of a reason warped, of disinheritance, and many other unauthorized rumors, fluttered up and floated off, while he became recluse, and, some say, began incidentally to betray the unmanly habit which we have already noticed. His neighbors would have continued neighborly had he allowed them, but he never let himself be understood, and _les Américains_ are very droll anyhow; so, as they could do nothing else, they cut him. So exclusive he became that (though it may have been for economy) he never admitted even a housemaid, but kept his apartments himself. Only the merry serenaders, who in those times used to sing under the balconies, would now and then give him a crumb of their feast for pure fun's sake; and after a while, because they could not find out his full name, called him, at hazard, George--but always prefixing Monsieur. Afterward, when he began to be careless in his dress, and the fashion of serenading had passed away, the commoner people dared to shorten the title to "'Sieur George." Many seasons came and went. The city changed like a growing boy; gentility and fashion went uptown, but 'Sieur George still retained his rooms. Every one knew him slightly, and bowed, but no one seemed to know him well, unless it were a brace or so of those convivial fellows in regulation-blue at little Fort St. Charles. He often came home late, with one of these on either arm, all singing different tunes and stopping at every twenty steps to tell secrets. But by and by the fort was demolished, church and goverment property melted down under the warm demand for building-lots, the city spread like a ringworm,--and one day 'Sieur George steps out of the old house in full regimentals! The Creole neighbors rush bareheaded into the middle of the street, as though there were an earthquake or a chimney on fire. What to do or say or think they do not know; they are at their wits' ends, therefore well-nigh happy. However, there is a German blacksmith's shop near by, and they watch to see what _Jacob_ will do. Jacob steps into the street with every eye upon him; he approaches Monsieur--he addresses to him a few remarks--they shake hands--they engage in some conversation--Monsieur places his hand on his sword!--now Monsieur passes. The populace crowd around the blacksmith, children clap their hands softly and jump up and down on tiptoes of expectation--'Sieur George is going to the war in Mexico! "Ah!" says a little girl in the throng, '"Sieur George's two rooms will be empty; I find that very droll." The landlord,--this same Kookoo,--is in the group. He hurls himself into the house and up the stairs. "Fifteen years pass since he have been in those room!" He arrives at the door--it is shut--"It is lock!" In short, further investigation revealed that a youngish lady in black, who had been seen by several neighbors to enter the house, but had not, of course, been suspected of such remarkable intentions, had, in company with a middle-aged slave-woman, taken these two rooms, and now, at the slightly-opened door, proffered a month's rent in advance. What could a landlord do but smile? Yet there was a pretext left "the rooms must need repairs?"--"No, sir; he could look in and see." Joy! he looked in. All was neatness. The floor unbroken, the walls cracked but a little, and the cracks closed with new plaster, no doubt by the jealous hand of 'Sieur George himself Kookoo's eyes swept sharply round the two apartments. The furniture was all there. Moreover, there was Monsieur's little hair-trunk. He should not soon forget that trunk. One day, fifteen years or more before, he had taken hold of that trunk to assist Monsieur to arrange his apartment, and Monsieur had drawn his fist back and cried to him to "drop it!" _Mais!_ there it was, looking very suspicious in Kookoo's eyes, and the lady's domestic, as tidy as a yellow-bird, went and sat on it. Could that trunk contain treasure? It might, for Madame wanted to shut the door, and, in fact, did so. The lady was quite handsome--had been more so, but was still young--spoke the beautiful language, and kept, in the inner room, her discreet and taciturn mulattress, a tall, straight woman, with a fierce eye, but called by the young Creoles of the neighborhood "confound' good lookin'." Among _les Américaines_, where the new neighbor always expects to be called upon by the older residents, this lady might have made friends in spite of being as reserved as 'Sieur George; but the reverse being the Creole custom, and she being well pleased to keep her own company, chose mystery rather than society. The poor landlord was sorely troubled; it must not that any thing _de trop_ take place in his house. He watched the two rooms narrowly, but without result, save to find that Madame plied her needle for pay, spent her money for little else besides harpstrings, and took good care of the little trunk of Monsieur. This espionage was a good turn to the mistress and maid, for when Kookoo announced that all was proper, no more was said by outsiders. Their landlord never got but one question answered by the middle-aged maid: "Madame, he feared, was a litt' bit embarrass' _pour_ money, eh?" "_Non_; Mademoiselle [Mademoiselle, you notice!] had some property, but did not want to eat it up." Sometimes lady-friends came, in very elegant private carriages, to see her, and one or two seemed to beg her--but in vain--to go away with them; but these gradually dropped off, until lady and servant were alone in the world. And so years, and the Mexican war, went by. The volunteers came home; peace reigned, and the city went on spreading up and down the land; but 'Sieur George did not return. It overran the country like cocoa-grass. Fields, roads, woodlands, that were once 'Sieur George's places of retreat from mankind, were covered all over with little one-story houses in the "Old Third," and fine residences and gardens up in "Lafayette." Streets went slicing like a butcher's knife, through old colonial estates, whose first masters never dreamed of the city reaching them,--and 'Sieur George was still away. The four-story brick got old and ugly, and the surroundings dim and dreamy. Theatres, processions, dry-goods stores, government establishments, banks, hotels, and all spirit of enterprise were gone to Canal Street and beyond, and the very beggars were gone with them. The little trunk got very old and bald, and still its owner lingered; still the lady, somewhat the worse for lapse of time, looked from the balcony-window in the brief southern twilights, and the maid every morning shook a worn rug or two over the dangerous-looking railing; and yet neither had made friends or enemies. The two rooms, from having been stingily kept at first, were needing repairs half the time, and the occupants were often moving, now into one, now back into the other; yet the hair-trunk was seen only by glimpses, the landlord, to his infinite chagrin, always being a little too late in offering his services, the women, whether it was light or heavy, having already moved it. He thought it significant. Late one day of a most bitter winter,--that season when, to the ecstatic amazement of a whole city-full of children, snow covered the streets ankle-deep,--there came a soft tap on the corridor-door of this pair of rooms. The lady opened it, and beheld a tall, lank, iron-gray man, a total stranger, standing behind--Monsieur George! Both men were weather-beaten, scarred, and tattered. Across 'Sieur George's crown, leaving a long, bare streak through his white hair, was the souvenir of a Mexican sabre. The landlord had accompanied them to the door: it was a magnificent opportunity. Mademoiselle asked them all in, and tried to furnish a seat to each; but failing, 'Sieur George went straight across the room and _sat on the hair-trunk_. The action was so conspicuous, the landlord laid it up in his penetrative mind. 'Sieur George was quiet, or, as it appeared, quieted. The mulattress stood near him, and to her he addressed, in an undertone, most of the little he said, leaving Mademoiselle to his companion. The stranger was a warm talker, and seemed to please the lady from the first; but if he pleased, nothing else did. Kookoo, intensely curious, sought some pretext for staying, but found none. They were, altogether, an uncongenial company. The lady seemed to think Kookoo had no business there; 'Sieur George seemed to think the same concerning his companion; and the few words between Mademoiselle and 'Sieur George were cool enough. The maid appeared nearly satisfied, but could not avoid casting an anxious eye at times upon her mistress. Naturally the visit was short. The next day but one the two gentlemen came again in better attire. 'Sieur George evidently disliked his companion, yet would not rid himself of him. The stranger was a gesticulating, stagy fellow, much Monsieur's junior, an incessant talker in Creole-French, always excited on small matters and unable to appreciate a great one. Once, as they were leaving, Kookoo,--accidents will happen,--was under the stairs. As they began to descend the tall man was speaking: "--better to bury it,"--the startled landlord heard him say, and held his breath, thinking of the trunk; but no more was uttered. A week later they came again. A week later they came again. A week later they came yet again! The landlord's eyes began to open. There must be a courtship in progress. It was very plain now why 'Sieur George had wished not to be accompanied by the rail gentleman; but since his visits had become regular and frequent, it was equally plain why he did not get rid of him;--because it would not look well to be going and coming too often alone. Maybe it was only this tender passion that the tall man had thought "better to bury." Lately there often came sounds of gay conversation from the first of the two rooms, which had been turned into a parlor; and as, week after week, the friends came down-stairs, the tall man was always in high spirits and anxious to embrace 'Sieur George, who,--"sly dog," thought the landlord,--would try to look grave, and only smiled in an embarrassed way. "Ah! Monsieur, you tink to be varry conning; _mais_ you not so conning as Kookoo, no;" and the inquisitive little man would shake his head and smile, and shake his head again, as a man has a perfect right to do under the conviction that he has been for twenty years baffled by a riddle and is learning to read it at last; he had guessed what was in 'Sieur George's head, he would by and by guess what was in the trunk. A few months passed quickly away, and it became apparent to every eye in or about the ancient mansion that the landlord's guess was not so bad; in fact, that Mademoiselle was to be married. On a certain rainy spring afternoon, a single hired hack drove up to the main entrance of the old house, and after some little bustle and the gathering of a crowd of damp children about the big doorway, 'Sieur George, muffled in a newly-repaired overcoat, jumped out and went up-stairs. A moment later he re-appeared, leading Mademoiselle, wreathed and veiled, down the stairway. Very fair was Mademoiselle still. Her beauty was mature,--fully ripe,--maybe a little too much so, but only a little; and as she came down with the ravishing odor of bridal flowers floating about her, she seemed the garlanded victim of a pagan sacrifice. The mulattress in holiday gear followed behind. The landlord owed a duty to the community. He arrested the maid on the last step: "Your mistress, she goin' _pour marier_ 'Sieur George? It make me glad, glad, glad!" "Marry 'Sieur George? Non, Monsieur." "Non? Not marrie 'Sieur George? _Mais comment_?" "She's going to marry the tall gentleman." "_Diable!_ ze long gentyman!"--With his hands upon his forehead, he watched the carriage trundle away. It passed out of sight through the rain; he turned to enter the house, and all at once tottered under the weight of a tremendous thought--they had left the trunk! He hurled himself up-stairs as he had done seven years before, but again--"Ah, bah!!"--the door was locked, and not a picayune of rent due. Late that night a small square man, in a wet overcoat, fumbled his way into the damp entrance of the house, stumbled up the cracking stairs, unlocked, after many languid efforts, the door of the two rooms, and falling over the hair-trunk, slept until the morning sunbeams climbed over the balcony and in at the window, and shone full on the back of his head. Old Kookoo, passing the door just then, was surprised to find it slightly ajar--pushed it open silently, and saw, within, 'Sieur George in the act of rising from his knees beside the mysterious trunk! He had come back to be once more the tenant of the two rooms. 'Sieur George, for the second time, was a changed man--changed from bad to worse; from being retired and reticent, he had come, by reason of advancing years, or mayhap that which had left the terrible scar on his face, to be garrulous. When, once in a while, employment sought him (for he never sought employment), whatever remuneration he received went its way for something that left him dingy and threadbare. He now made a lively acquaintance with his landlord, as, indeed, with every soul in the neighborhood, and told all his adventures in Mexican prisons and Cuban cities; including full details of the hardships and perils experienced jointly with the "long gentleman" who had married Mademoiselle, and who was no Mexican or Cuban, but a genuine Louisianian. "It was he that fancied me," he said, "not I him; but once he had fallen in love with me I hadn't the force to cast him off. How Madame ever should have liked him was one of those woman's freaks that a man mustn't expect to understand. He was no more fit for her than rags are fit for a queen; and I could have choked his head off the night he hugged me round the neck and told me what a suicide she had committed. But other fine women are committing that same folly every day, only they don't wait until they're thirty-four or five to do it.--'Why don't I like him?' Well, for one reason, he's a drunkard!" Here Kookoo, whose imperfect knowledge of English prevented his intelligent reception of the story, would laugh as if the joke came in just at this point. However, with all Monsieur's prattle, he never dropped a word about the man he had been before he went away; and the great hair-trunk puzzle was still the same puzzle, growing greater every day. Thus the two rooms had been the scene of some events quite queer, if not really strange; but the queerest that ever they presented, I guess, was 'Sieur George coming in there one day, crying like a little child, and bearing in his arms an infant--a girl--the lovely offspring of the drunkard whom he so detested, and poor, robbed, spirit-broken and now dead Madame. He took good care of the orphan, for orphan she was very soon. The long gentleman was pulled out of the Old Basin one morning, and 'Sieur George identified the body at the Trémé station. He never hired a nurse--the father had sold the lady's maid quite out of sight; so he brought her through all the little ills and around all the sharp corners of baby-life and childhood, without a human hand to help him, until one evening, having persistently shut his eyes to it for weeks and months, like one trying to sleep in the sunshine, he awoke to the realization that she was a woman. It was a smoky one in November, the first cool day of autumn. The sunset was dimmed by the smoke of burning prairies, the air was full of the ashes of grass and reeds, ragged urchins were lugging home sticks of cordwood, and when a bit of coal fell from a cart in front of Kookoo's old house, a child was boxed half across the street and robbed of the booty by a _blanchisseuse de fin_ from over the way. The old man came home quite steady. He mounted the stairs smartly without stopping to rest, went with a step unusually light and quiet to his chamber and sat by the window opening upon the rusty balcony. It was a small room, sadly changed from what it had been in old times; but then so was 'Sieur George. Close and dark it was, the walls stained with dampness and the ceiling full of bald places that showed the lathing. The furniture was cheap and meagre, including conspicuously the small, curious-looking hair-trunk. The floor was of wide slabs fastened down with spikes, and sloping up and down in one or two broad undulations, as if they had drifted far enough down the current of time to feel the tide-swell. However, the floor was clean, the bed well made, the cypress table in place, and the musty smell of the walls partly neutralized by a geranium on the window-sill. He so coming in and sitting down, an unseen person called from the room adjoining (of which, also, he was still the rentee), to know if he were he, and being answered in the affirmative, said, "Papa George guess who was here to-day?" "Kookoo, for the rent?" "Yes, but he will not come back." "No? why not?" "Because you will not pay him." "No? and why not?" "Because I have paid him." "Impossible! where did you get the money?" "Cannot guess?--Mother Nativity." "What, not for embroidery?" "No? and why not? _Mais oui!_"--saying which, and with a pleasant laugh, the speaker entered the room. She was a girl of sixteen or thereabout, very beautiful, with very black hair and eyes. A face and form more entirely out of place you could not have found in the whole city. She sat herself at his feet, and, with her interlocked hands upon his knee, and her face, full of childish innocence mingled with womanly wisdom, turned to his, appeared for a time to take principal part in a conversation which, of course, could not be overheard in the corridor outside. Whatever was said, she presently rose, he opened his arms, and she sat on his knee and kissed him. This done, there was a silence, both smiling pensively and gazing out over the rotten balcony into the street. After a while she started up, saying something about the change of weather, and, slipping away, thrust a match between the bars of the grate. The old man turned about to the fire, and she from her little room brought a low sewing-chair and sat beside him, laying her head on his knee, and he stroking her brow with his brown palm. And then, in an altered--a low, sad tone--he began a monotonous recital. Thus they sat, he talking very steadily and she listening, until all the neighborhood was wrapped in slumber,--all the neighbors, but not Kookoo. Kookoo in his old age had become a great eavesdropper; his ear and eye took turns at the keyhole that night, for he tells things that were not intended for outside hearers. He heard the girl sobbing, and the old man saying, "But you must go now. You cannot stay with me safely or decently, much as I wish it. The Lord only knows how I'm to bear it, or where you're to go; but He's your Lord, child, and He'll make a place for you. I was your grandfather's death; I frittered your poor, dead mother's fortune away: let that be the last damage I do. "I have always meant everything for the best," he added half in soliloquy. From all Kookoo could gather, he must have been telling her the very story just recounted. She had dropped quite to the floor, hiding her face in her hands, and was saying between her sobs, "I cannot go, Papa George; oh, Papa George, I cannot go!" Just then 'Sieur George, kaving kept a good resolution all day, was encouraged by the orphan's pitiful tones to contemplate the most senseless act he ever attempted to commit. He said to the sobbing girl that she was not of his blood; that she was nothing to him by natural ties; that his covenant was with her grandsire to care for his offspring; and though it had been poorly kept, it might be breaking it worse than ever to turn her out upon ever so kind a world. "I have tried to be good to you all these years. When I took you, a wee little baby, I took you for better or worse. I intended to do well by you all your childhood-days, and to do best at last. I thought surely we should be living well by this time, and you could choose from a world full of homes and a world full of friends. "I don't see how I missed it!" Here he paused a moment in meditation, and presently resumed with some suddenness: "I thought that education, far better than Mother Nativity has given you, should have afforded your sweet charms a noble setting; that good mothers and sisters would be wanting to count you into their families, and that the blossom of a happy womanhood would open perfect and full of sweetness. "I would have given my life for it. I did give it, such as it was; but it was a very poor concern, I know--my life--and not enough to buy any good thing. "I have had a thought of something, but I'm afraid to tell it. It didn't come to me to-day or yesterday; it has beset me a long time--for months." The girl gazed into the embers, listening intensely. "And oh! dearie, if I could only get you to think the same way, you might stay with me then." "How long?" she asked, without stirring. "Oh, is long as heaven should let us. But there is only one chance," he said, as it were feeling his way. "only one way for us to stay together. Do you understand me?" She looked up at the old man with a glance of painful inquiry. "If you could be--my wife, dearie?" She uttered a low, distressful cry, and, gliding swiftly into her room, for the first time in her young life turned the key between them. And the old man sat and wept. Then Kookoo, peering through the keyhole, saw that they had been looking into the little trunk. The lid was up, but the back was toward the door, and he could see no more than if it had been closed. He stooped and stared into the aperture until his dry old knees were ready to crack. It seemed as if 'Sieur George was stone, only stone couldn't weep like that. Every separate bone in his neck was hot with pain. He would have given ten dollars--ten sweet dollars!--to have seen 'Sieur George get up and turn that trunk around. There! 'Sieur George rose up--what a face! He started toward the bed, and as he came to the trunk he paused, looked at it, muttered something about "ruin," and something about "fortune," kicked the lid down and threw himself across the bed. Small profit to old Kookoo that he went to his own couch; sleep was not for the little landlord. For well-nigh half a century he had suspected his tenant of having a treasure hidden in his house, and to-night he had heard his own admission that in the little trunk was a fortune. Kookoo had never felt so poor in all his days before. He felt a Creole's anger, too, that a tenant should be the holder of wealth while his landlord suffered poverty. And he knew very well, too, did Kookoo, what the tenant would do. If he did not know what he kept in the trunk, he knew what he kept behind it, and he knew he would take enough of it to-night to make him sleep soundly. No one would ever have supposed Kookoo capable of a crime. He was too fearfully impressed with the extra-hazardous risks of dishonesty; he was old, too, and weak, and, besides all, intensely a coward. Nevertheless, while it was yet two or three hours before daybreak, the sleep-forsaken little man arose, shuffled into his garments, and in his stocking-feet sought the corridor leading to 'Sieur George's apartment. The November night, as it often does in that region, had grown warm and clear; the stars were sparkling like diamonds pendent in the deep blue heavens, and at every window and lattice and cranny the broad, bright moon poured down its glittering beams upon the hoary-headed thief, as he crept along the mouldering galleries and down the ancient corridor that led to 'Sieur George's chamber. 'Sieur George's door, though ever so slowly opened, protested with a loud creak. The landlord, wet with cold sweat from head to foot, and shaking till the floor trembled, paused for several minutes, and then entered the moon-lit apartment. The tenant, lying as if he had not moved, was sleeping heavily. And now the poor coward trembled so, that to kneel before the trunk, without falling, he did not know how. Twice, thrice, he was near tumbling headlong. He became as cold as ice. But the sleeper stirred, and the thought of losing his opportunity strung his nerves up in an instant. He went softly down upon his knees, laid his hands upon the lid, lifted it, and let in the intense moonlight. The trunk was full, full, crowded down and running over full, of the tickets of the Havana Lottery! A little after daybreak, Kookoo from his window saw the orphan, pausing on the corner. She stood for a moment, and then dove into the dense fog which had floated in from the river, and disappeared. He never saw her again. But her Lord is taking care of her. Once only she has seen 'Sieur George. She had been in the belvedere of the house which she now calls home, looking down upon the outspread city. Far away southward and westward the great river glistened in the sunset. Along its sweeping bends the chimneys of a smoking commerce, the magazines of surplus wealth, the gardens of the opulent, the steeples of a hundred sanctuaries and thousands on thousands of mansions and hovels covered the fertile birthright arpents which 'Sieur George, in his fifty years' stay, had seen tricked away from dull colonial Esaus by their blue-eyed brethren of the North. Nearer by she looked upon the forlornly silent region of lowly dwellings, neglected by legislation and shunned by all lovers of comfort, that once had been the smiling fields of her own grandsire's broad plantation; and but a little way off, trudging across the marshy commons, her eye caught sight of 'Sieur George following the sunset out upon the prairies to find a night's rest in the high grass. She turned at once, gathered the skirt of her pink calico uniform, and, watching her steps through her tears, descended the steep winding-stair to her frequent kneeling-place under the fragrant candles of the chapel-altar in Mother Nativity's asylum. 'Sieur George is houseless. He cannot find the orphan. Mother Nativity seems to know nothing of her. If he could find her now, and could get from her the use of ten dollars for but three days, he knows a combination which would repair all the past; it could not fail, he--thinks. But he cannot find her, and the letters he writes--all containing the one scheme--disappear in the mail-box, and there's an end. MADAME DÉLICIEUSE Just adjoining the old Café de Poésie on the corner, stood the little one-story, yellow-washed tenement of Dr. Mossy, with its two glass doors protected by batten shutters, and its low, weed-grown tile roof sloping out over the sidewalk. You were very likely to find the Doctor in, for he was a great student and rather negligent of his business--as business. He was a small, sedate, Creole gentleman of thirty or more, with a young-old face and manner that provoked instant admiration. He would receive you--be you who you may--in a mild, candid manner, looking into your face with his deep blue eyes, and re-assuring you with a modest, amiable smile, very sweet and rare on a man's mouth. To be frank, the Doctor's little establishment was dusty and disorderly--very. It was curious to see the jars, and jars, and jars. In them were serpents and hideous fishes and precious specimens of many sorts. There were stuffed birds on broken perches; and dried lizards, and eels, and little alligators, and old skulls with their crowns sawed off, and ten thousand odd scraps of writing-paper strewn with crumbs of lonely lunches, and interspersed with long-lost spatulas and rust-eaten lancets. All New Orleans, at least all Creole New Orleans, knew, and yet did not know, the dear little Doctor. So gentle, so kind, so skilful, so patient, so lenient; so careless of the rich and so attentive to the poor; a man, all in all, such as, should you once love him, you would love him forever. So very learned, too, but with apparently no idea of how to _show himself_ to his social profit,--two features much more smiled at than respected, not to say admired, by a people remote from the seats of learning, and spending most of their esteem upon animal heroisms and exterior display. "Alas!" said his wealthy acquaintances, "what a pity; when he might as well be rich." "Yes, his father has plenty." "Certainly, and gives it freely. But intends his son shall see none of it." "His son? You dare not so much as mention him." "Well, well, how strange! But they can never agree--not even upon their name. Is not that droll?--a man named General Villivicencio, and his son, Dr. Mossy!" "Oh, that is nothing; it is only that the Doctor drops the _de Villivicencio_." "Drops the _de Villivicencio?_ but I think the _de Villivicencio_ drops him, ho, ho, ho,--_diable!_" Next to the residence of good Dr. Mossy towered the narrow, red-brick-front mansion of young Madame Délicieuse, firm friend at once and always of those two antipodes, General Villivicencio and Dr. Mossy. Its dark, covered carriage-way was ever rumbling, and, with nightfall, its drawing-rooms always sent forth a luxurious light from the lace-curtained windows of the second-story balconies. It was one of the sights of the Rue Royale to see by night its tall, narrow outline reaching high up toward the stars, with all its windows aglow. The Madame had had some tastes of human experience; had been betrothed at sixteen (to a man she did not love, "being at that time a fool," as she said); one summer day at noon had been a bride, and at sundown--a widow. Accidental discharge of the tipsy bridegroom's own pistol. Pass it by! It left but one lasting effect on her, a special detestation of quarrels and weapons. The little maidens whom poor parentage has doomed to sit upon street door-sills and nurse their infant brothers have a game of "choosing" the beautiful ladies who sweep by along the pavement; but in Rue Royale there was no choosing; every little damsel must own Madame Délicieuse or nobody, and as that richly adorned and regal favorite of old General Villivicencio came along they would lift their big, bold eyes away up to her face and pour forth their admiration in a universal--"Ah-h-h-h!" But, mark you, she was good Madame Délicieuse as well as fair Madame Délicieuse: her principles, however, not constructed in the austere Anglo-Saxon style, exactly (what need, with the lattice of the Confessional not a stone's throw off?). Her kind offices and beneficent schemes were almost as famous as General Villivicencio's splendid alms; if she could at times do what the infantile Washington said he could not, why, no doubt she and her friends generally looked upon it as a mere question of enterprise. She had charms, too, of intellect--albeit not such a sinner against time and place as to be an "educated woman"--charms that, even in a plainer person, would have brought down the half of New Orleans upon one knee, with both hands on the left side. _She_ had the _whole_ city at her feet, and, with the fine tact which was the perfection of her character, kept it there contented. Madame was, in short, one of the kind that gracefully wrest from society the prerogative of doing as they please, and had gone even to such extravagant lengths as driving out in the _Américain_ faubourg, learning the English tongue, talking national politics, and similar freaks whereby she provoked the unbounded worship of her less audacious lady friends. In the centre of the cluster of Creole beauties which everywhere gathered about her, and, most of all, in those incomparable companies which assembled in her own splendid drawing-rooms, she was always queen lily. Her house, her drawing-rooms, etc.; for the little brown aunt who lived with her was a mere piece of curious furniture. There was this notable charm about Madame Délicieuse, she improved by comparison. She never looked so grand as when, hanging on General Villivicencio's arm at some gorgeous ball, these two bore down on you like a royal barge lashed to a ship-of-the-line. She never looked so like her sweet name, as when she seated her prettiest lady adorers close around her, and got them all a-laughing. Of the two balconies which overhung the _banquette_ on the front of the Délicieuse house, one was a small affair, and the other a deeper and broader one, from which Madame and her ladies were wont upon gala days to wave handkerchiefs and cast flowers to the friends in the processions. There they gathered one Eighth of January morning to see the military display. It was a bright blue day, and the group that quite filled the balcony had laid wrappings aside, as all flower-buds are apt to do on such Creole January days, and shone resplendent in spring attire. The sight-seers passing below looked up by hundreds and smiled at the ladies' eager twitter, as, flirting in humming-bird fashion from one subject to another, they laughed away the half-hours waiting for the pageant. By and by they fell a-listening, for Madame Délicieuse had begun a narrative concerning Dr. Mossy. She sat somewhat above her listeners, her elbow on the arm of her chair, and her plump white hand waving now and then in graceful gesture, they silently attending with eyes full of laughter and lips starting apart. "_Vous savez_," she said (they conversed in French of course), "you know it is now long that Dr. Mossy and his father have been in disaccord. Indeed, when have they not differed? For, when Mossy was but a little boy, his father thought it hard that he was not a rowdy. He switched him once because he would not play with his toy gun and drum. He was not so high when his father wished to send him to Paris to enter the French army; but he would not go. We used to play often together on the _banquette_--for I am not so very many years younger than he, no indeed--and, if I wanted some fun, I had only to pull his hair and run into the house; he would cry, and monsieur papa would come out with his hand spread open and"-- Madame gave her hand a malicious little sweep, and Joined heartily in the laugh which followed. "That was when they lived over the way. But wait! you shall see: I have something. This evening the General"-- The houses of Rue Royale gave a start and rattled their windows. In the long, irregular line of balconies the beauty of the city rose up. Then the houses jumped again and the windows rattled; Madame steps inside the window and gives a message which the housemaid smiles at in receiving. As she turns the houses shake again, and now again; and now there comes a distant strain of trumpets, and by and by the drums and bayonets and clattering hoofs, and plumes and dancing banners; far down the long street stretch out the shining ranks of gallant men, and the fluttering, over-leaning swarms of ladies shower down their sweet favors and wave their countless welcomes. In the front, towering above his captains, rides General Villivicencio, veteran of 1814-15, and, with the gracious pomp of the old-time gentleman, lifts his cocked hat, and bows, and bows. Madame Délicieuse's balcony was a perfect maze of waving kerchiefs. The General looked up for the woman of all women; she was not there. But he remembered the other balcony, the smaller one, and cast his glance onward to it. There he saw Madame and one other person only. A small blue-eyed, broad-browed, scholarly-looking man whom the arch lady had lured from his pen by means of a mock professional summons, and who now stood beside her, a smile of pleasure playing on his lips and about his eyes. "_Vite!_" said Madame, as the father's eyes met the son's. Dr. Mossy lifted his arm and cast a bouquet of roses. A girl in the crowd bounded forward, caught it in the air, and, blushing, handed it to the plumed giant. He bowed low, first to the girl, then to the balcony above; and then, with a responsive smile, tossed up two splendid kisses, one to Madame, and one, it seemed-- "For what was that cheer?" "Why, did you not see? General Villivicencio cast a kiss to his son." The staff of General Villivicencio were a faithful few who had not bowed the knee to any abomination of the Américains, nor sworn deceitfully to any species of compromise; their beloved city was presently to pass into the throes of an election, and this band, heroically unconscious of their feebleness, putting their trust in "re-actions" and like delusions, resolved to make one more stand for the traditions of their fathers. It was concerning this that Madame Délicieuse was incidentally about to speak when interrupted by the boom of cannon; they had promised to meet at her house that evening. They met. With very little discussion or delay (for their minds were made up beforehand), it was decided to announce in the French-English newspaper that, at a meeting of leading citizens, it had been thought consonant with the public interest to place before the people the name of General Hercule Mossy de Villivicencio. No explanation was considered necessary. All had been done in strict accordance with time-honored customs, and if any one did not know it it was his own fault. No eulogium was to follow, no editorial indorsement. The two announcements were destined to stand next morning, one on the English side and one on the French, in severe simplicity, to be greeted with profound gratification by a few old gentlemen in blue cottonade, and by roars of laughter from a rampant majority. As the junto were departing, sparkling Madame Délicieuse detained the General at the head of the stairs that descended into the tiled carriage-way, to wish she was a man, that she might vote for him. "But, General," she said, "had I not a beautiful bouquet of ladies on my balcony this morning?" The General replied, with majestic gallantry, that "it was as magnificent as could be expected with the central rose wanting." And so Madame was disappointed, for she was trying to force the General to mention his son. "I will bear this no longer; he shall not rest," she had said to her little aunt, "until he has either kissed his son or quarrelled with him." To which the aunt had answered that, "_coûte que coûte_, she need not cry about it;" nor did she. Though the General's compliment had foiled her thrust, she answered gayly to the effect that enough was enough; "but, ah! General," dropping her voice to an undertone, "if you had heard what some of those rosebuds said of you!" The old General pricked up like a country beau. Madame laughed to herself, "Monsieur Peacock, I have thee;" but aloud she said gravely: "Come into the drawing-room, if you please, and seat yourself. You must be greatly fatigued." The friends who waited below overheard the invitation. "_Au revoir, Général_," said they. "_Au revoir, Messieurs,_" he answered, and followed the lady. "General," said she, as if her heart were overflowing, "you have been spoken against. Please sit down." "Is that true, Madame?" "Yes, General." She sank into a luxurious chair. "A lady said to-day--but you will be angry with me, General." "With you, Madame? That is not possible." "I do not love to make revelations, General; but when a noble friend is evil spoken of"--she leaned her brow upon her thumb and forefinger, and looked pensively at her slipper's toe peeping out at the edge of her skirt on the rich carpet--"one's heart gets very big." "Madame, you are an angel! But what said she, Madame?" "Well, General, I have to tell you the whole truth, if you will not be angry. We were all speaking at once of handsome men. She said to me: 'Well, Madame Délicieuse, you may say what you will of General Villivicencio, and I suppose it is true; but everybody knows'--pardon me, General, but just so she said--'all the world knows he treats his son very badly.'" "It is not true," said the General. "If I wasn't angry!" said Madame, making a pretty fist. 'How can that be?' I said. 'Well,' she said, 'mamma says he has been angry with his son for fifteen years.' 'But what did his son do?' I said. 'Nothing,' said she. '_Ma foi_,' I said, 'me, I too would be angry if my son had done nothing for fifteen years'--ho, ho, ho!" "It is not true," said the General. The old General cleared his throat, and smiled as by compulsion. "You know, General," said Madame, looking distressed, "it was nothing to joke about, but I had to say so, because I did not know what your son had done, nor did I wish to hear any thing against one who has the honor to call you his father." She paused a moment to let the flattery take effect, and then proceeded: "But then another lady said to me; she said, 'For shame, Clarisse, to laugh at good Dr. Mossy; nobody--neither General Villivicencio, neither any other, has a right to be angry against that noble, gentle, kind, brave'"-- "Brave!" said the General, with a touch of irony. "So she said," answered Madame Délicieuse, "and I asked her, 'how brave?' 'Brave?' she said, 'why, braver than _any soldier_, in tending the small-pox, the cholera, the fevers, and all those horrible things. Me, I saw his father once run from a snake; I think _he_ wouldn't fight the small-pox--my faith!' she said, 'they say that Dr. Mossy does all that and never wears a scapula!--and does it nine hundred and ninety-nine times in a thousand for nothing! _Is_ that brave, Madame Délicieuse, or is it not?'--And, General,--what could I say?" Madame dropped her palms on either side of her spreading robes and waited pleadingly for an answer. There was no sound but the drumming of the General's fingers on his sword-hilt. Madame resumed: "I said, 'I do not deny that Mossy is a noble gentleman;'--I had to say that, had I not, General?" "Certainly, Madame," said the General, "my son is a gentleman, yes." "'But,' I said, 'he should not make Monsieur, his father, angry.'" "True," said the General, eagerly. "But that lady said: 'Monsieur, his father, makes himself angry,' she said. 'Do you know, Madame, why his father is angry so long?' Another lady says, 'I know!' 'For what?' said I. 'Because he refused to become a soldier; mamma told me that.' 'It cannot be!' I said." The General flushed. Madame saw it, but relentlessly continued: "'_Mais oui_,' said that lady. 'What!' I said, 'think you General Villivicencio will not rather be the very man most certain to respect a son who has the courage to be his own master? Oh, what does he want with a poor fool of a son who will do only as he says? You think he will love him less for healing instead of killing? Mesdemoiselles, you do not know that noble soldier!'" The noble soldier glowed, and bowed his acknowledgments in a dubious, half remonstrative way, as if Madame might be producing material for her next confession, as, indeed, she diligently was doing; but she went straight on once more, as a surgeon would. "But that other lady said: 'No, Madame, no, ladies, but I am going to tell you why Monsieur, the General, is angry with his son.' 'Very well, why?'--'Why? It is just--because--he is--a little man!'" General Villivicencio stood straight up. "Ah! mon ami," cried the lady, rising excitedly, "I have wounded you and made you angry, with my silly revelations. Pardon me, my friend. Those were foolish girls, and, anyhow, they admired you. They said you looked glorious--grand--at the head of the procession." Now, all at once, the General felt the tremendous fatigues of the day; there was a wild, swimming, whirling sensation in his head that forced him to let his eyelids sink down; yet, just there, in the midst of his painful bewilderment, he realized with ecstatic complacency that the most martial-looking man in Louisiana was standing in his spurs with the hand of Louisiana's queenliest woman laid tenderly on his arm. "I am a wretched tattler!" said she. "Ah! no, Madame, you are my dearest friend, yes.' "Well, anyhow, I called them fools. 'Ah! innocent creatures,' I said, 'think you a man of his sense and goodness, giving his thousands to the sick and afflicted, will cease to love his only son because he is not big like a horse or quarrelsome like a dog? No, ladies, there is a great reason which none of you know.' 'Well, well,' they cried, 'tell it; he has need of a very good reason; tell it now.' 'My ladies,' I said, 'I must not'--for, General, for all the world I knew not a reason why you should be angry against your son; you know, General, you have never told me." The beauty again laid her hand on his arm and gazed, with round-eyed simplicity, into his sombre countenance. For an instant her witchery had almost conquered. "Nay, Madame, some day I shall tell you; I have more than one burden _here_. But let me ask you to be seated, for I have a question, also, for you, which I have longed to ask. It lies heavily upon my heart; I must ask it now. A matter of so great importance"-- Madame's little brown aunt gave a faint cough from a dim corner of the room. "'Tis a beautiful night," she remarked, and stepped out on the balcony. Then the General asked his question. It was a very long question, or, maybe, repeated twice or thrice; for it was fully ten minutes before he moved out of the room, saying good-evening. Ah! old General Villivicencio. The most martial-looking man in Louisiana! But what would the people, the people who cheered in the morning, have said, to see the fair Queen Délicieuse at the top of the stair, sweetly bowing you down into the starlight,--humbled, crestfallen, rejected! The campaign opened. The Villivicencio ticket was read in French and English with the very different sentiments already noted. In the Exchange, about the courts, among the "banks," there was lively talking concerning its intrinsic excellence and extrinsic chances. The young gentlemen who stood about the doors of the so-called "coffee-houses" talked with a frantic energy alarming to any stranger, and just when you would have expected to see them jump and bite large mouthfuls out of each other's face, they would turn and enter the door, talking on in the same furious manner, and, walking up to the bar, click their glasses to the success of the Villivicencio ticket. Sundry swarthy and wrinkled remnants of an earlier generation were still more enthusiastic. There was to be a happy renaissance; a purging out of Yankee ideas; a blessed home-coming of those good old Bourbon morals and manners which Yankee notions had expatriated. In the cheerfulness of their anticipations they even went the length of throwing their feet high in air, thus indicating how the Villivicencio ticket was going to give "doze Américains" the kick under the nose. In the three or four weeks which followed, the General gathered a surfeit of adulation, notwithstanding which he was constantly and with pain imagining a confused chatter of ladies, and when he shut his eyes with annoyance, there was Madame Délicieuse standing, and saying, "I knew not a reason why you should be angry against your son," gazing in his face with hardened simplicity, and then--that last scene on the stairs wherein he seemed still to be descending, down, down. Madame herself was keeping good her resolution. "Now or never," she said, "a reconciliation or a quarrel." When the General, to keep up appearances, called again, she so moved him with an account of certain kindly speeches of her own invention, which she imputed to Dr. Mossy, that he promised to call and see his son; "perhaps;" "pretty soon;" "probably." Dr. Mossy, sitting one February morning among his specimens and books of reference, finishing a thrilling chapter on the cuticle, too absorbed to hear a door open, suddenly realized that something was in his light, and, looking up, beheld General Villivicencio standing over him. Breathing a pleased sigh, he put down his pen, and, rising on tiptoe, laid his hand upon his father's shoulder, and lifting his lips like a little wife, kissed him. "Be seated, papa," he said, offering his own chair, and perching on the desk. The General took it, and, clearing his throat, gazed around upon the jars and jars with their little Adams and Eves in zoölogical gardens. "Is all going well, papa?" finally asked Dr. Mossy. "Yes." Then there was a long pause. "'Tis a beautiful day," said the son. "Very beautiful," rejoined the father. "I thought there would have been a rain, but it has cleared off," said the son. "Yes," responded the father, and drummed on the desk. "Does it appear to be turning cool?" asked the son. "No; it does not appear to be turning cool at all," was the answer. "H'm 'm!" said Dr. Mossy. "Hem!" said General Villivicencio. Dr. Mossy, not realizing his own action, stole a glance at his manuscript. "I am interrupting you," said the General, quickly, and rose. "No, no! pardon me; be seated; it gives me great pleasure to--I did not know what I was doing. It is the work with which I fill my leisure moments." So the General settled down again, and father and son sat very close to each other--in a bodily sense; spiritually they were many miles apart. The General's finger-ends, softly tapping the desk, had the sound of far-away drums. "The city--it is healthy?" asked the General. "Did you ask me if"--said the little Doctor, starting and looking up. "The city--it has not much sickness at present?" repeated the father. "No, yes--not much," said Mossy, and, with utter unconsciousness, leaned down upon his elbow and supplied an omitted word to the manuscript. The General was on his feet as if by the touch of a spring. "I must go!" "Ah! no, papa," said the son. "But, yes, I must." "But wait, papa, I had just now something to speak of"-- "Well?" said the General, standing with his hand on the door, and with rather a dark countenance. Dr. Mossy touched his fingers to his forehead, trying to remember. "I fear I have--ah! I rejoice to see your name before the public, dear papa, and at the head of the ticket." The General's displeasure sank down like an eagle's feathers. He smiled thankfully, and bowed. "My friends compelled me," he said. "They think you will be elected?" "They will not doubt it. But what think you, my son?" Now the son had a conviction which it would have been madness to express, so he only said: "They could not elect one more faithful." The General bowed solemnly. "Perhaps the people will think so; my friends believe they will." "Your friends who have used your name should help you as much as they can, papa," said the Doctor. "Myself, I should like to assist you, papa, if I could." "A-bah!" said the pleased father, incredulously. "But, yes," said the son. A thrill of delight filled the General's frame. _This_ was like a son. "Thank you, my son! I thank you much. Ah, Mossy, my dear boy, you make me happy!" "But," added Mossy, realizing with a tremor how far he had gone, "I see not how it is possible." The General's chin dropped. "Not being a public man," continued the Doctor; "unless, indeed, my pen--you might enlist my pen." He paused with a smile of bashful inquiry. The General stood aghast for a moment, and then caught the idea. "Certainly! cer-tain-ly! ha, ha, ha!"--backing out of the door--"certainly! Ah! Mossy, you are right, to be sure; to make a complete world we must have swords _and_ pens. Well, my son, '_au revoir;_' no, I cannot stay--I will return. I hasten to tell my friends that the pen of Dr. Mossy is on our side! Adieu, dear son." Standing outside on the _banquette_ he bowed--not to Dr. Mossy, but to the balcony of the big red-brick front--a most sunshiny smile, and departed. The very next morning, as if fate had ordered it, the Villivicencio ticket was attacked--ambushed, as it were, from behind the Américain newspaper. The onslaught was--at least General Villivicencio said it was--absolutely ruffianly. Never had all the lofty courtesies and formalities of chivalric contest been so completely ignored. Poisoned balls--at least personal epithets--were used. The General himself was called "antiquated!" The friends who had nominated him, they were positively sneered at; dubbed "fossils," "old ladies," and their caucus termed "irresponsible"--thunder and lightning! gentlemen of honor to be termed "not responsible!" It was asserted that the nomination was made secretly, in a private house, by two or three unauthorized harum-scarums (that touched the very bone) who had with more caution than propriety withheld their names. The article was headed, "The Crayfish-eaters' Ticket." It continued further to say that, had not the publication of this ticket been regarded as a dull hoax, it would not have been suffered to pass for two weeks unchallenged, and that it was now high time the universal wish should be realized in its withdrawal. Among the earliest readers of this production was the young Madame. She first enjoyed a quiet gleeful smile over it, and then called: "Ninide, here, take this down to Dr. Mossy--stop." She marked the communication heavily with her gold pencil. "No answer; he need not return it." About the same hour, and in a neighboring street, one of the "not responsibles" knocked on the Villivicencio castle gate. The General invited him into his bedroom. With a short and strictly profane harangue the visitor produced the offensive newspaper, and was about to begin reading, when one of those loud nasal blasts, so peculiar to the Gaul, resounded at the gate, and another "not responsible" entered, more excited, if possible, than the first. Several minutes were spent in exchanging fierce sentiments and slapping the palm of the left hand rapidly with the back of the right. Presently there was a pause for breath. "Alphonse, proceed to read," said the General, sitting up in bed. "De Crayfish-eaters' Ticket"--began Alphonse; but a third rapping at the gate interrupted him, and a third "irresponsible" re-enforced their number, talking loudly and wildly to the waiting-man as he came up the hall. Finally, Alphonse read the article. Little by little the incensed gentlemen gave it a hearing, now two words and now three, interrupting it to rip out long, rasping maledictions, and wag their forefingers at each other as they strode ferociously about the apartment. As Alphonse reached the close, and dashed the paper to the floor, the whole quartet, in terrific unison, cried for the blood of the editor. But hereupon the General spoke with authority. "No, Messieurs," he said, buttoning his dressing-gown, savagely, "you shall not fight him. I forbid it--you shall not!" "But," cried the three at once, "one of us must fight, and you--you cannot; if _you_ fight our cause is lost! The candidate must not fight." "Hah-h! Messieurs," cried the hero, beating his breast and lifting his eyes, "_grace au ciel_. I have a son. Yes, my beloved friends, a son who shall call the villain out and make him pay for his impudence with blood, or eat his words in to-morrow morning's paper. Heaven be thanked that gave me a son for this occasion! I shall see him at once--as soon as I can dress." "We will go with you." "No, gentlemen, let me see my son alone. I can meet you at Maspero's in two hours. Adieu, my dear friends." He was resolved. "_Au, revoir,_," said the dear friends. Shortly after, cane in hand, General Villivicencio moved with an ireful stride up the _banquette_ of Rue Royale. Just as he passed the red-brick front one of the batten shutters opened the faintest bit, and a certain pair of lovely eyes looked after him, without any of that round simplicity which we have before discovered in them. As he half turned to knock at his son's door he glanced at this very shutter, but it was as tightly closed as though the house were an enchanted palace. Dr. Mossy's door, on the contrary, swung ajar when he knocked, and the General entered. "Well, my son, have you seen that newspaper? No, I think not. I _see_ you have not, since your cheeks are not red with shame and anger." Dr. Mossy looked up with astonishment from the desk where he sat writing. "What is that, papa?" "My faith! Mossy, is it possible you have not heard of the attack upon me, which has surprised and exasperated the city this morning?" "No," said Dr. Mossy, with still greater surprise, and laying his hand on the arm of his chair. His father put on a dying look. "My soul!" At that moment his glance fell upon the paper which had been sent in by Madame Délicieuse. "But, Mossy, my son," he screamed, "_there_ it is!" striking it rapidly with one finger--"there! there! there! read it! It calls me 'not responsible!' 'not responsible' it calls me! Read! read!" "But, papa," said the quiet little Doctor, rising, and accepting the crumpled paper thrust at him, "I have read this. If this is it, well, then, already I am preparing to respond to it." The General seized him violently, and, spreading a suffocating kiss on his face, sealed it with an affectionate oath. "Ah, Mossy, my boy, you are glorious! You had begun already to write! You are glorious! Read to me what you have written, my son." The Doctor took up a bit of manuscript, and resuming his chair, began: "MESSRS. EDITORS: On your journal of this morning"-- "Eh! how! you have not written it in English, is it, son?" "But, yes, papa." "'Tis a vile tongue," said the General; "but, if it is necessary--proceed." "MESSRS. EDITORS: On your journal of this morning is published an editorial article upon the Villivicencio ticket, which is plentiful and abundant with mistakes. Who is the author or writer of the above said editorial article your correspondent does at present ignore, but doubts not he is one who, hasty to form an opinion, will yet, however, make his assent to the correction of some errors and mistakes which"-- "Bah!" cried the General. Dr. Mossy looked up, blushing crimson. "Bah!" cried the General, still more forcibly. "Bêtise!" "How?" asked the gentle son. "'Tis all nonsent!" cried the General, bursting into English. "Hall you 'ave to say is: ''Sieur Editeurs! I want you s'all give de nem of de indignan' scoundrel who meek some lies on you' paper about mon Père et ses amis!" "Ah-h!" said Dr. Mossy, in a tone of derision and anger. His father gazed at him in mute astonishment. He stood beside his disorderly little desk, his small form drawn up, a hand thrust into his breast, and that look of invincibility in his eyes such as blue eyes sometimes surprise us with. "You want me to fight," he said. "My faith!" gasped the General, loosening in all his joints. "I believe--you may cut me in pieces if I do not believe you were going to reason it out in the newspaper! Fight? If I want you to fight? Upon my soul, I believe you do not want to fight!" "No," said Mossy. "My God!" whispered the General. His heart seemed to break. "Yes," said the steadily gazing Doctor, his lips trembling as he opened them. "Yes, your God. I am afraid"-- "Afraid!" gasped the General. "Yes," rang out the Doctor, "afraid; afraid! God forbid that I should not be afraid. But I will tell you what I do not fear--I do not fear to call your affairs of honor--murder!" "My son!" cried the father. "I retract," cried the son; "consider it unsaid. I will never reproach my father." "It is well," said the father. "I was wrong. It is my quarrel. I go to settle it myself." Dr. Mossy moved quickly between his father and the door. General Villivicencio stood before him utterly bowed down. "What will you?" sadly demanded the old man. "Papa," said the son, with much tenderness, "I cannot permit you. Fifteen years we were strangers, and yesterday were friends. You must not leave me so. I will even settle this quarrel for you. You must let me. I am pledged to your service." The peace-loving little doctor did not mean "to settle," but "to adjust." He felt in an instant that he was misunderstood; yet, as quiet people are apt to do, though not wishing to deceive, he let the misinterpretation stand. In his embarrassment he did not know with absolute certainty what he should do himself. The father's face--he thought of but one way to settle a quarrel--began instantly to brighten. "I would myself do it," he said, apologetically, "but my friends forbid it." "And so do I," said the Doctor, "but I will go myself now, and will not return until all is finished. Give me the paper." "My son, I do not wish to compel you." There was something acid in the Doctor's smile as he answered: "No; but give me the paper, if you please." The General handed it. "Papa," said the son, "you must wait here for my return." "But I have an appointment at Maspero's at"-- "I will call and make excuse for you," said the son. "Well," consented the almost happy father, "go, my son; I will stay. But if some of your sick shall call?" "Sit quiet," said the son. "They will think no one is here." And the General noticed that the dust lay so thick on the panes that a person outside would have to put his face close to the glass to see within. In the course of half an hour the Doctor had reached the newspaper office, thrice addressed himself to the wrong person, finally found the courteous editor, and easily convinced him that his father had been imposed upon; but when Dr. Mossy went farther, and asked which one of the talented editorial staff had written the article: "You see, Doctor," said the editor--"just step into my private office a moment." They went in together. The next minute saw Dr. Mossy departing hurriedly from the place, while the editor complacently resumed his pen, assured that he would not return. General Villivicencio sat and waited among the serpents and innocents. His spirits began to droop again. Revolving Mossy's words, he could not escape the fear that possibly, after all, his son might compromise the Villivicencio honor in the interests of peace. Not that he preferred to put his son's life in jeopardy; he would not object to an adjustment, provided the enemy should beg for it. But if not, whom would his son select to perform those friendly offices indispensable in polite quarrels? Some half-priest, half-woman? Some spectacled book-worm? He suffered. The monotony of his passive task was relieved by one or two callers who had the sagacity (or bad manners) to peer through the dirty glass, and then open the door, to whom, half rising from his chair, he answered, with a polite smile, that the Doctor was out, nor could he say how long he might be absent. Still the time dragged painfully, and he began at length to wonder why Mossy did not return. There came a rap at the glass door different from all the raps that had forerun it--a fearless, but gentle, dignified, graceful rap; and the General, before he looked round, felt in all his veins that it came from the young Madame. Yes, there was her glorious outline thrown side wise upon the glass. He hastened and threw open the door, bending low at the same instant, and extending his hand. She extended hers also, but not to take his. With a calm dexterity that took the General's breath, she reached between him and the door, and closed it. "What is the matter?" anxiously asked the General--for her face, in spite of its smile, was severe. "General," she began, ignoring his inquiry--and, with all her Creole bows, smiles, and insinuating phrases, the severity of her countenance but partially waned--"I came to see my physician--your son. Ah! General, when I find you reconciled to your son, it makes me think I am in heaven. You will let me say so? You will not be offended with the old playmate of your son?" She gave him no time to answer. "He is out, I think, is he not? But I am glad of it. It gives us occasion to rejoice together over his many merits. For you know, General, in all the years of your estrangement, Mossy had no friend like myself. I am proud to tell you so now; is it not so?" The General was so taken aback that, when he had thanked her in a mechanical way, he could say nothing else. She seemed to fall for a little while into a sad meditation that embarrassed him beyond measure. But as he opened his mouth to speak, she resumed: "Nobody knew him so well as I; though I, poor me, I could not altogether understand him; for look you, General, he was--what do you think?--_a great man_!--nothing less." "How?" asked the General, not knowing what else to respond. "You never dreamed of that, eh?" continued the lady. "But, of course not; nobody did but me. Some of those Américains, I suppose, knew it; but who would ever ask them? Here in Royal Street, in New Orleans, where we people know nothing and care nothing but for meat, drink, and pleasure, he was only Dr. Mossy, who gave pills. My faith! General, no wonder you were disappointed in your son, for you thought the same. Ah! yes, you did! But why did you not ask me, his old playmate? I knew better. I could have told you how your little son stood head and shoulders above the crowd. I could have told you some things too wonderful to believe. I could have told you that his name was known and honored in the scientific schools of Paris, of London, of Germany! Yes! I could have shown you"--she warmed as she proceeded--"I could have shown you letters (I begged them of him), written as between brother and brother, from the foremost men of science and discovery!" She stood up, her eyes flashing with excitement. "But why did you never tell me?" cried the General. "He never would allow me--but you--why did you not ask me? I will tell you; you were too proud to mention your son. But he had pride to match yours--ha!--achieving all--every thing--with an assumed name! 'Let me tell your father,' I implored him; but--'let him find me out,' he said, and you never found him out. Ah! there he was fine. He would not, he said, though only for your sake, re-enter your affections as any thing more or less than just--your son. Ha!" And so she went on. Twenty times the old General was astonished anew, twenty times was angry or alarmed enough to cry out, but twenty times she would not be interrupted. Once he attempted to laugh, but again her hand commanded silence. "Behold, Monsieur, all these dusty specimens, these revolting fragments. How have you blushed to know that our idle people laugh in their sleeves at these things! How have you blushed--and you his father! But why did you not ask me? I could have told you: 'Sir, your son is not an apothecary; not one of these ugly things but has helped him on in the glorious path of discovery; discovery, General--your son--known in Europe as a scientific discoverer!' Ah-h! the blind people say, 'How is that, that General Villivicencio should be dissatisfied with his son? He is a good man, and a good doctor, only a little careless, that's all.' But _you_ were more blind still, for you shut your eyes tight like this; when, had you searched for his virtues as you did for his faults, you, too, might have known before it was too late what nobility, what beauty, what strength, were in the character of your poor, poor son!" "Just Heaven! Madame, you shall not speak of my son as of one dead and buried! But, if you have some bad news"-- "Your son took your quarrel on his hands, eh?" "I believe so--I think"-- "Well; I saw him an hour ago in search of your slanderer!" "He must find him!" said the General, plucking up. "But if the search is already over," slowly responded Madame. The father looked one instant in her face, then rose with an exclamation: "Where is my son? What has happened? Do you think I am a child, to be trifled with--a horse to be teased? Tell me of my son!" Madame was stricken with genuine anguish. "Take your chair," she begged; "wait; listen; take your chair." "Never!" cried the General; "I am going to find my son--my God! Madame, you have _locked this door_! What are you, that you should treat me so? Give me, this instant"-- "Oh! Monsieur, I beseech you to take your chair, and I will tell you all. You can do nothing now. Listen! suppose you should rush out and find that your son had played the coward at last! Sit down and"-- "Ah! Madame, this is play!" cried the distracted man. "But no; it is not play. Sit down; I want to ask you something." He sank down and she stood over him, anguish and triumph strangely mingled in her beautiful face. "General, tell me true; did you not force this quarrel into your son's hand? I _know_ he would not choose to have it. Did you not do it to test his courage, because all these fifteen years you have made yourself a fool with the fear that he became a student only to escape being a soldier? Did you not?" Her eyes looked him through and through. "And if I did?" demanded he with faint defiance. "Yes! and if he has made dreadful haste and proved his courage?" asked she. "Well, then,"--the General straightened up triumphantly--"then he is my son!" He beat the desk. "And heir to your wealth, for example?" "Certainly." The lady bowed in solemn mockery. "It will make him a magnificent funeral!" The father bounded up and stood speechless, trembling from head to foot. Madame looked straight in his eye. "Your son has met the writer of that article." "Where?" the old man's lips tried to ask. "Suddenly, unexpectedly, in a passage-way." "My God! and the villain"-- "Lives!" cried Madame. He rushed to the door, forgetting that it was locked. "Give me that key!" he cried, wrenched at the knob, turned away bewildered, turned again toward it, and again away; and at every step and turn he cried, "Oh! my son, my son! I have killed my son! Oh! Mossy, my son, my little boy! Oh! my son, my son!" Madame buried her face in her hands and sobbed aloud. Then the father hushed his cries and stood for a moment before her. "Give me the key, Clarisse, let me go." She rose and laid her face on his shoulder. "What is it, Clarisse?" asked he. "Your son and I were ten years betrothed." "Oh, my child!" "Because, being disinherited, he would not be me husband." "Alas! would to God I had known it! Oh! Mossy, my son." "Oh! Monsieur," cried the lady, clasping her hands, "forgive me--mourn no more--your son is unharmed! I wrote the article--I am your recanting slanderer! Your son is hunting for me now. I told my aunt to misdirect him. I slipped by him unseen in the carriage-way." The wild old General, having already staggered back and rushed forward again, would have seized her in his arms, had not the little Doctor himself at that instant violently rattled the door and shook his finger at them playfully as he peered through the glass. "Behold!" said Madame, attempting a smile: "open to your son; here is the key." She sank into a chair. Father and son leaped into each other's arms; then turned to Madame: "Ah! thou lovely mischief-maker"-- She had fainted away. "Ah! well, keep out of the way, if you please, papa," said Dr. Mossy, as Madame presently reopened her eyes; "no wonder you fainted; you have finished some hard work--see; here; no; Clarisse, dear, take this." Father and son stood side by side, tenderly regarding her as she revived. "Now, papa, you may kiss her; she is quite herself again, already." "My daughter!" said the stately General; "this--is my son's ransom; and, with this,--I withdraw the Villivicencio ticket." "You shall not," exclaimed the laughing lady, throwing her arms about his neck. "But, yes!" he insisted; "my faith! you will at least allow me to remove my dead from the field." "But, certainly;" said the son; "see, Clarisse, here is Madame, your aunt, asking us all into the house. Let us go." The group passed out into the Rue Royale, Dr. Mossy shutting the door behind them. The sky was blue, the air was soft and balmy, and on the sweet south breeze, to which the old General bared his grateful brow, floated a ravishing odor of-- "Ah! what is it?" the veteran asked of the younger pair, seeing the little aunt glance at them with a playful smile. Madame Délicieuse for almost the first time in her life, and Dr. Mossy for the thousandth--blushed. It was the odor of orange-blossoms. 
15881	----	[Frontispiece: Yesterday, for the first time, at that same corner, he had encountered this fair stranger and her urchin escort.] THE FLOWER OF THE CHAPDELAINES BY GEORGE W. CABLE WITH FRONTISPIECE BY F. C. YOHN NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1918 COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS Published March, 1918 The Flower of the Chapdelaines I Next morning he saw her again. He had left his very new law office, just around in Bienville Street, and had come but a few steps down Royal, when, at the next corner below, she turned into Royal, toward him, out of Conti, coming from Bourbon. The same nine-year-old negro boy was at her side, as spotless in broad white collar and blue jacket as on the morning before, and carrying the same droll air of consecration, awe, and responsibility. The young man envied him. Yesterday, for the first time, at that same corner, he had encountered this fair stranger and her urchin escort, abruptly, as they were making the same turn they now repeated, and all in a flash had wondered who might be this lovely apparition. Of such patrician beauty, such elegance of form and bearing, such witchery of simple attire, and such un-Italian yet Latin type, in this antique Creole, modernly Italianized quarter--who and what, so early in the day, down here among the shops, where so meagre a remnant of the old high life clung on in these balconied upper stories--who, what, whence, whither, and wherefore? In that flash of time she had passed, and the very liveliness of his interest, combined with the urchin's consecrated awe--not to mention his own mortifying remembrance of one or two other-day lapses from the austerities of the old street--restrained him from a backward glance until he could cross the way as if to enter the great, white, lately completed court-house. Then both she and her satellite had vanished. He turned again, but not to enter the building. His watch read but half past eight, and his first errand of the day, unless seeing her had been his first, was to go one square farther on, for a look at the wreckers tearing down the old Hotel St. Louis. As he turned, a man neat of dress and well beyond middle age made him a suave gesture. "Sir, if you please. You are, I think, Mr. Chester, notary public and attorney at law?" "That is my name and trade, sir." Evidently Mr. Geoffry Chester was also an American, a Southerner. "Pardon," said his detainer, "I have only my business card." He tendered it: "Marcel Castanado, Masques et Costumes, No. 312, rue Royale, entre Bienville et Conti." "I diz-ire your advice," he continued, "on a very small matter neither notarial, neither of the law. Yet I must pay you for that, if you can make your charge as--as small as the matter." The young lawyer's own matters were at a juncture where a fee was a godsend, yet he replied: "If your matter is not of the law I can make you no charge." The costumer shrugged: "Pardon, in that case I must seek elsewhere." He would have moved on, but Chester asked: "What kind of advice do you want if not legal?" "Literary." The young man smiled: "Why, I'm not literary." "I think yes. You know Ovide Landry? Black man? Secon'-han' books, Chartres Street, just yonder?" "Yes, very pleasantly, for I love old books." "Yes, and old buildings, and their histories. I know. You are now going down, as I have just been, to see again the construction of that old dome they are dim-olishing yonder, of the once state-house, previously Hotel St. Louis. I know. Twice a day you pass my shop. I am compelled to see, what Ovide also has told me, that, like me and my wife, you have a passion for the _poétique_ and the _pittoresque_!" "Yes," Chester laughed, "but that's my limit. I've never written a line for print----" "This writing is done, since fifty years." "I've never passed literary judgment on a written page and don't suppose I ever shall." "The judgment is passed. The value of the article is pronounced great--by an expert amateur." "SHE?" the youth silently asked himself. He spoke: "Why, then what advice do you still want--how to find a publisher?" "No, any publisher will jump at that. But how to so nig-otiate that he shall not be the lion and we the lamb!" Chester smiled again: "Why, if that's the point--" he mused. The hope came again that this unusual shopman and his wish had something to do with _her_. "If that's the advice you want," he resumed, "I think we might construe it as legal, though worth at the most a mere notarial fee." "And contingent on--?" the costumer prompted. "Contingent, yes, on the author's success." "Sir! I am not the author of a manuscript fifty years old!" "Well, then, on the holder's success. You can agree to that, can't you?" "'Tis agreed. You are my counsel. When will you see the manuscript?" "Whenever you choose to leave it with me." The costumer's smile was firm: "Sir, I cannot permit that to pass from my hand." "Oh! then have a copy typed for me." The Creole soliloquized: "That would be expensive." Then to Chester: "Sir, I will tell you; to-night come at our parlor, over the shop. I will read you that!" "Shall we be alone?" asked Chester, hoping his client would say no. "Only excepting my"--a tender brightness--"my wife!" Then a shade of regret: "We are without children, me and my wife." His wife. H'mm! _She_? That amazing one who had vanished within a few yards of his bazaar of "masques et costumes"? Though to Chester New Orleans was still new, and though fat law-books and a slim purse kept him much to himself, he was aware that, while some Creoles grew rich, many of them, women, once rich, were being driven even to stand behind counters. Yet no such plight could he imagine of that bewildering young--young luminary who, this second time, so out of time, had gleamed on him from mystery's cloud. His earlier hope came a third time: "Excepting only your wife, you say? Why not also your amateur expert?" "I am sorry, but"--the Latin shrug--"that is--that is not possible." "Have I ever seen your wife? She's not a tallish, slender young-----?" "No, my wife is neither. She's never in the street or shop. She has no longer the cap-acity. She's become so extraordinarily _un_-slender that the only way she can come down-stair' is backward. You'll see. Well,"--he waved--"till then--ah, a word: my close bargaining--I must explain you that--in confidence. 'Tis because my wife and me we are anxious to get every picayune we can get for the owners--of that manuscript." Chester thought to be shrewd: "Oh! is _she_ hard up? the owner?" "The owners are three," Castanado calmly said, "and two dip-end on the earnings of a third." He bowed himself away. A few hours later Chester received from him a note begging indefinite postponement of the evening appointment. Mme. Castanado had fever and probably _la grippe_. II Early one day some two weeks after the foregoing incident the young lawyer came out of his _pension francaise_, opposite his office, and stood a moment in thought. In those two weeks he had not again seen Mr. Castanado. Once more it was scant half past eight. He looked across to the windows of his office and of one bare third-story sleeping-room over it. Eloquent windows! Their meanness reminded him anew how definitely he had chosen not merely the simple but the solitary life. Yet now he turned toward Royal Street. But at the third or fourth step he faced about toward Chartres. The distance to the courthouse was the same either way, and its entrances were alike on both streets. Thought he as he went the Chartres Street way: "If I go _one more time_ by way of Royal I shall owe an abject apology, and yet to try to offer it would only make the matter worse." He went grimly, glad to pay this homage of avoidance which would have been more to his credit paid a week or so earlier. His frequent failure to pay it had won him, each time, a glimpse of _her_ and an itching fear that prying eyes were on him inside other balconied windows besides those of the unslender Mme. Castanado. Temptation is a sly witch. Down at Conti Street, on the court-house's upper riverside corner, he paused to take in the charm of one of the most picturesque groups of old buildings in the _vieux carré_. But there, to gather in all the effect, one must turn, sooner or later, and include the upper side of Conti Street from Chartres to Royal; and as Chester did so, yonder, once more, coming from Bourbon and turning from Conti into Royal, there she was again, the avoided one! Her black cupid was at her side, tiny even for nine years. They disappeared conversing together. With his heart in his throat Chester turned away, resumed his walk, and passed into the marble halls where justice dreamt she dwelt. Up and down one of these, little traversed so early, he paced, with a question burning in his breast, which every new sigh of mortification fanned hotter: _Had she seen him_?--this time? those other times? And did those Castanados suspect? Was that why Mme. Castanado had the grippe, and the manuscript was yet unread? A voice spoke his name and he found himself facing the very black dealer in second-hand books. "I was yonder at Toulouse Street," said Ovide Landry, "coming up-town, when I saw you at Conti coming down. I have another map of the old city for you. At that rate, Mr. Chester, you'll soon have as good a collection as the best." The young man was pleased: "Does it show exactly where Maspero's Exchange stood?" he asked. Ovide said come to the shop and see. "I will, to-day; at six." Another man came up, "Ah, Mr. Castanado! How--how is your patient?" "Madame"--the costumer smiled happily--"is once more well. I was looking for you. You didn't pass in Royal Street this morning." [Ah, those eyes behind those windows behind those balconies!] "No, I--oh! going, Landry? Good day. No, Mr. Castanado, I----" "Madame hopes Mr. Chezter can at last, this evening, come at home for that reading." "Mr. Castanado, I can't! I'm mighty sorry! My whole evening's engaged. So is to-morrow's. May I come the next evening after? . . . Thank you. . . . Yes, at seven. Just the three of us, of course? Yes." III Six o'clock found Chester in Ovide's bookshop. Had its shelves borne law-books, or had he not needed for law-books all he dared spend, he might have known the surprisingly informed and refined shopman better. Ovide had long been a celebrity. Lately a brief summary of his career had appeared incidentally in a book, a book chiefly about others, white people. "You can't write a Southern book and keep us out," Ovide himself explained. Even as it was, Chester had allowed himself that odd freedom with Landry which Southerners feel safe in under the plate armor of their race distinctions. Receiving his map he asked, as he looked along a shelf or two: "Have you that book that tells of you--as a slave? your master letting you educate yourself; your once refusing your freedom, and your being private secretary to two or three black lieutenant-governors?" "I had a copy," Landry said, "but I've sold it. Where did you hear of it? From Réné Ducatel, in his antique-shop, whose folks 'tis mostly about?" "Yes. An antique himself, in spirit, eh? Yet modern enough to praise you highly." "H'mm! but only for the virtues of a slave." Chester smiled round from the shelves: "I noticed that! I'm afraid we white folks, the world over, are prone to do that--with you-all." "Yes, when you speak of us at all." "Ducatel's opposite neighbor," Chester remarked, "is an antique even more interesting." "Ah, yes! Castanado is antique only in that art spirit which the tourist trade is every day killing even in Royal Street." "That's the worst decay in this whole decaying quarter," the young man said. "And in all this deluge of trade spirit," Ovide continued, "the best dry land left of it--of that spirit of art--is----" "Castanado's shop, I dare say." "Castanado's and three others in that one square you pass every day without discovering the fact. But that's natural; you are a busy lawyer." "Not so very. What are the other three?" "First, the shop of Seraphine Alexandre, embroideries; then of Scipion Beloiseau, ornamental ironwork, opposite Mme. Seraphine and next below Ducatel--Ducatel, alas, he don't count; and third, of Placide La Porte, perfumeries, next to Beloiseau. That's all." "Not the watchmaker on the square above?" "Ah! distantly he's of them: and there _was_ old Manouvrier, taxidermist; but he's gone--where the spirits of art and of worship are twin." Chester turned sharply again to the shelves and stood rigid. From an inner room, its glass door opened by Ovide's silver-spectacled wife, came the little black cupid and his charge. Ah, once more what perfection in how many points! As she returned to Ovide an old magazine, at last he heard her voice--singularly deep and serene. She thanked the bookman for his loan and, with the child, went out. It disturbed the Southern youth to unbosom himself to a black man, but he saw no decent alternative: "Landry, I had not the faintest idea that that young lady was nearer than Castanado's shop!" Ovide shook his head: "You seem yourself to forget that you are here by business appointment. And what of it if you have seen her, or she seen you, here--or anywhere?" "Only this: that I've met her so often by pure--by chance, on that square you speak of, I bound for the court-house, she for I can't divine where--for I've never looked behind me!--that I've had to take another street to show I'm a gentleman. This very morn'--oh!--and now! here! How can I explain--or go unexplained?" Ovide lifted a hand: "Will you leave that to my wife, so unlearned yet so wise and good? For the young lady's own sake my wife, _without_ explaining, will see that you are not misjudged." "Good! Right! Any explanation would simply belie itself. Yes, let her do it! But, Landry----" "Yes?" "For heaven's sake don't let her make me out a goody-goody. I haven't got this far into life without making moral mistakes, some of them huge. But in this thing--I say it only to you--I'm making none. I'm neither a marrying man, a villain, nor an ass." Ovide smiled: "My wife can manage that. Maybe it's good you came here. It may well be that the young lady herself would be glad if some one explained her to you." "Hoh! does an angel need an explanation?" "I should say, in Royal Street, yes." "Then for mercy's sake give it! right here! you! come!" The youth laughed. "Mercy to me, I mean. But--wait! Tell me; couldn't Castanado have given it, as easily as you?" "You never gave Castanado this chance." "How do you know that? Oh, never mind, go ahead--full speed." "Well, she's an orphan, of a fine old family----" "Obviously! Creole, of course, the family?" "Yes, though always small in Louisiana. Creole except one New England grandmother. But for that one she would not have been here just now." "Humph! that's rather obscure but--go on." "Her parents left her without a sou or a relation except two maiden aunts as poor as she." "Antiques?" "Yes. She earns their living and her own." "You don't care to say how?" "She wouldn't like it. 'Twould be to say where." "She seems able to dress exquisitely." "Mr. Chester, a woman would see with what a small outlay that is done. She has that gift for the needle which a poet has for the pen." "Ho! that's _charmingly_ antique. But now tell me how having a Yankee grandmother caused her to drop in here just now. Your logic's dim." "You are soon to go to Castanado's to see that manuscript story, are you not?" "Oh, is it a story? Have you read it?" "Yes, I've read it, 'tis short. They wanted my opinion. And 'tis a story, though true." "A story! Love story? very absorbing?" "No, it is not of love--except love of liberty. Whether 'twill absorb you or no I cannot say. Me it absorbed because it is the story of some of my race, far from here and in the old days, trying, in the old vain way, to gain their freedom." "Has--has mademoiselle read it?" "Certainly. It is her property; hers and her two aunts'. Those two, they bought it lately, of a poor devil--drinking man--for a dollar. They had once known his mother, from the West Indies." "He wrote it, or his mother?" "The mother, long ago. 'Tis not too well done. It absorbs mademoiselle also, but that is because 'tis true. When I saw that effect I told her of a story like it, yet different, and also seeming true, in this old magazine. And when I began to tell it she said, 'It _is_ true! My Vermont _grand'mère_ wrote that! It happened to her!'" "How queer! And, Landry, I see the connection. Your magazine being one of a set, you couldn't let her read it anywhere but here." "I have to keep my own rules." "Let me see it. . . . Oh, now, why not? What was the use of either of us explaining if--if----?" But Ovide smilingly restored the thing to its stack. "Now," he said, "'tis Mr. Chester's logic that fails." Yet as he turned to a customer he let Chester take it down. "My job requires me," the youth said, "to study character. Let's see what a _grand'mère_ of a '_tite-fille_, situated so and so, will do." Ovide escorted his momentary customer to the sidewalk door. As he returned, Chester, rolling map and magazine together, said: "It's getting dark. No, don't make a light, it's your closing time and I've a strict engagement. Here's a deposit for this magazine; a fifty. It's all I have--oh, yes, take it, we'll trade back to-morrow. You must keep your own rules and I must read this thing before I touch my bed." "Even the first few lines absorb you?" "No, far from it. Look here." Chester read out: "'_Now, Maud,' said my uncle_--Oh, me! Landry, if the tale's true why that old story-book pose?" "It may be that the writer preferred to tell it as fiction, and that only something in me told me 'tis true. Something still tells me so." "'_Now, Maud_,'" Chester smilingly thought to himself when, the evening's later engagement being gratifyingly fulfilled, he sat down with the story. "And so you were grand'mère to our Royal Street miracle. And you had a Southern uncle! So had I! though yours was a planter, mine a lawyer, and yours must have been fifty years the older. Well, '_Now, Maud_,' for my absorption!" It came. Though the tale was unamazing amazement came. The four chief characters were no sooner set in motion than Chester dropped the pamphlet to his knee, agape in recollection of a most droll fact a year or two old, which now all at once and for the first time arrested his attention. He also had a manuscript! That lawyer uncle of his, saying as he spared him a few duplicate volumes from his law library, "Burn that if you don't want it," had tossed him a fat document indorsed: "_Memorandum of an Early Experience_." Later the nephew had glanced it over, but, like "Maud's" story, its first few lines had annoyed his critical sense and he had never read it carefully. The amazing point was that "_Now, Maud_" and this "_Memorandum_" most incredibly--with a ridiculous nicety--fitted each other. He lifted the magazine again and, beginning at the beginning a third time, read with a scrutiny of every line as though he studied a witness's deposition. And this was what he read: IV THE CLOCK IN THE SKY "Now, Maud," said uncle jovially as he, aunt, and I drove into the confines of their beautiful place one spring afternoon of 1860, "don't forget that to be too near a thing is as bad for a good view of it as to be too far away." I was a slim, tallish girl of scant sixteen, who had never seen a slaveholder on his plantation, though I had known these two for years, and loved them dearly, as guests in our Northern home before it was broken up by the death of my mother. Father was an abolitionist, and yet he and they had never had a harsh word between them. If the general goodness of those who do some particular thing were any proof that that particular thing is good to do, they would have convinced me, without a word, that slaveholding was entirely right. But they were not trying to do any such thing. "Remember," continued my uncle, smiling round at me, "your dad's trusting you not to bring back our honest opinion--of anything--in place of your own." "Maud," my aunt hurried to put in, for she knew the advice I had just heard was not the kind I most needed, "you're going to have for your own maid the blackest girl you ever saw." "And the best," added my uncle; "she's as good as she is black." "She's no common darky, that Sidney," said aunt. "She'll keep you busy answering questions, my dear, and I say now, you may tell her anything she wants to know; we give you perfect liberty; and you may be just as free with Hester; that's her mother; or with her father, Silas." "We draw the line at Mingo," said uncle. "And who is Mingo?" I inquired. "Mingo? he's her brother; a very low and trailing branch of the family tree." As we neared the house I was told more of the father and mother; their sweet content, their piety, their diligence. "If we lived in town, where there's better chance to pick up small earnings," remarked uncle, "those two and Sidney would have bought their freedom by now, and Mingo's too. Silas has got nearly enough to buy his own, as it is." Silas, my aunt explained, was a carpenter. "He hands your uncle so much a week; all he can make beyond that he's allowed to keep." The carriage stopped at the door; half a dozen servants came, smiling, and I knew Sidney and Hester at a glance, they were so finely different from their fellows. That night the daughter and I made acquaintance. She was eighteen, tall, lithe and as straight as an arrow. She had not one of the physical traits that so often make her race uncomely to our eyes; even her nose was good; her very feet were well made, her hands were slim and shapely, the fingers long and neatly jointed, and there was nothing inky in her amazing blackness, her red blood so enriched it. Yet she was as really African in her strong, eager mind as in her color, and the English language, on her tongue, was like a painter's palette and brushes in the hands of a monkey. Her first question to me after my last want was supplied came cautiously, after a long gaze at my lighted lamp, from a seat on the floor. "Miss Maud, when was de conwention o' coal-oil 'scuvvud?" And to her good night she added, in allusion to my eventual return to the North, "I hope it be a long time afo' you make dat repass!" At the next bedtime she began on me with the innocent question of my favorite flower, but I had not answered three other questions before she had placed me where I must either say I did not believe in the right to hold slaves, or must keep silence; and when I kept silence of course she knew. For a long moment she dropped her eyes, and then, with a soft smile, asked if I would tell her some Bible stories, preferably that of "Moses in de boundaries o' Egyp'." She listened in gloating silence, rarely interrupting; but at the words, "Thus saith the Lord God of Israel, 'Let my people go,'" the response, "Pra-aise Gawd!" rose from her lips in such volume that she threw her hands to her mouth. After that she spoke only soft queries, but they grew more and more significant, and I soon saw that her supposed content was purely a pious endurance, and that her soul felt bondage as her body would have felt a harrow. So I left the fugitives of Egyptian slavery under the frown of the Almighty in the wilderness of Sin; Sidney was trusting me; uncle and aunt were trusting me; and between them I was getting into a narrow corner. After a meditative silence my questioner asked: "Miss Maud, do de Bible anywhuz capitulate dat Moses aw Aaron aw Joshaway aw Cable _buy_ his freedom--wid money?" Her manner was childlike, yet she always seemed to come up out of deep thought when she asked a question; she smiled diffidently until the reply began to come, then took on a reverential gravity, and as soon as it was fully given sank back into thought. "Miss Maud, don't you reckon dat ef Moses had a-save' up money enough to a-boughtened his freedom, dat'd a-been de wery sign mos' pleasin' to Gawd dat he 'uz highly fitten to be sot free widout paying?" To that puzzle she waited for no answer beyond the distress I betrayed, but turned to matters less speculative, and soon said good night. On the third evening--my! If I could have given all the topography of the entire country between uncle's plantation and my native city on the margin of the Great Lakes, with full account of its every natural and social condition, her questions would have wholly gathered them in. She asked if our climate was very hard on negroes; what clothing we wore in summer, and how we kept from freezing in midwinter; about wages, the price of food, what crops were raised, and what the "patarolers" did with a negro when they caught one at night without a pass. She made me desperate, and when the fourth night saw her crouched on my floor it found me prepared; I plied her with questions from start to finish. She yielded with a perfect courtesy; told of the poor lot of the few free negroes of whom she knew, and of the time-serving and shifty indolence, the thievishness, faithlessness, and unaspiring torpidity of "some niggehs"; and when I opened the way for her to speak of uncle and aunt she poured forth their praises with an ardor that brought her own tears. I asked her if she believed she could ever be happy away from them. She smiled with brimming eyes: "Why, I dunno, Miss Maud; whatsomeveh come, and whensomeveh, and howsomeveh de Lawd sen' it, ef us feels his ahm und' us, us ought to be 'shame' not to be happy, oughtn't us?" All at once she sprang half up: "I tell you de Lawd neveh gi'n no niggeh de rights to snuggle down anywhuz an' fo'git de auction-block!" As suddenly the outbreak passed, yet as she settled down again her exaltation still showed through her fond smile. "You know what dat inqui'ance o' yone bring to my 'memb'ance? Dass ow ole Canaan hymn---- "'O I mus' climb de stony hill Pas' many a sweet desiah, De flow'ry road is not fo' me, I follows cloud an' fiah.'" After she was gone I lay trying so to contrive our next conversation that it should not flow, as all before it had so irresistibly done, into that one deep channel of her thoughts which took in everything that fell upon her mind, as a great river drinks the rains of all its valleys. Presently the open window gave me my cue: the stars! the unvexed and unvexing stars, that shone before human wrongs ever began, and that will be shining after all human wrongs are ended--our talk should be of them. V At the supper-table on the following evening I became convinced of something which I had felt coming for two or three days, wondering the while whether Sidney did not feel the same thing. When we rose aunt drew me aside and with caressing touches on my brow and temples said she was sorry to be so slow in bringing me into social contact with the young people of the neighboring plantations, but that uncle, on his arrival at home, had found a letter whose information had kept him, and her as well, busy every waking hour since. "And this evening," she continued, "we can't even sit down with you around the parlor lamp. Can you amuse yourself alone, dear, or with Sidney, while your uncle and I go over some pressing matters together?" Surely I could. "Auntie, was the information--bad news?" "It wasn't good, my dear; I may tell you about it to-morrow." "Hadn't I better go back to father at once?" "Oh, my child, not for our sake; if you're not too lonesome we'd rather keep you. Let me see; has Mingo ever danced for you? Why, tell Sidney to make Mingo come dance for you." Mingo came; his leaps, turns, postures, steps, and outcries were a most laughable wonder, and I should have begged for more than I did, but I saw that it was a part of Sidney's religion to disapprove the dance. "Sidney," I said, "did you ever hear of the great clock in the sky? Yes, there's one there; it's made all of stars." We were at the foot of some veranda steps that faced the north, and as she and Mingo were about to settle down at my feet I said if they would follow me to the top of the flight I would tell this marvel: what the learned believed those eternal lamps to be; why some were out of view three-fourths of the night, others only half, others not a quarter; how a very few never sank out of sight at all except for daylight or clouds, and yet went round and round with all the others; and why I called those the clock of heaven; which gained, each night, four minutes, and only four, on the time we kept by the sun. "Pra-aise Gawd!" murmured Sidney. "Miss Maud, please hol' on tell Mingo run' fetch daddy an' mammy; dey don't want dat sto'y f'om me secon' haynded!" Mingo darted off and we waited. "Miss Maud, what de white folks mean by de nawth stah? Is dey sich a stah as de nawth stah?" I tried to explain that since all this seeming movement of the stars around us was but our own daily and yearly turning, there would necessarily be two opposite points on our earth which would never move at all, and that any star directly in line with those two points would seem as still as they. "Like de p'int o' de spin'le on de spinnin'-wheel, Miss Maud? Oh, yass, I b'lieve I un'stand dat; I un'stan' it some." I showed her the north star, and told her how to find it; and then I took from my watch-guard a tiny compass and let her see how it forever picked out from among all the stars of heaven that one small light, and held quiveringly to it. She hung over it with ecstatic sighs. "Do it _see_ de stah, Miss Maud, like de wise men o' de Eas' see de stah o' Jesus?" I tried to make plain the law it was obeying. "And do it p'int dah dess de same in de broad day, an' all day long?--Pra-aise Gawd! And do it p'int dah in de rain, an' in de stawmy win' a-fulfillin' of his word, when de ain't a single stah admissible in de ske-eye?--De Lawd's na-ame be pra-aise'!" Her father, mother, and brother were all looking at it with her, now, and she glanced from one to another with long heavings of rapture. "Miss Maud," said Silas, in a subdued voice, "dat little trick mus' 'a' cos' you a mint o' money." "Silas," put in Hester, "you know dass not a pullite question!" But she was ravening for its answer, and I said I had bought it for twenty-five cents. They laughed with delight. Yet, when I told Sidney she might have it, her thanks were but two words, which her lips seemed to drop unconsciously while she gazed on the trinket. They all sat down on the steps nearest below me, and presently, beginning where I had begun with Sidney, I went on to point out the polar constellations and to relate the age-worn story of Cepheus and Cassiopeia, Andromeda and the divine Perseus. "Lawd, my Lawd !" whispered the mother, "was dey--was dey colo'd?" I said two of them were king and queen of Ethiopia, and a third was their daughter. "Chain' to de rock, an' yit sa-ave at las'!" exclaimed Sidney. While her husband and children still gazed at the royal stars, Hester spoke softly to me again. "Miss Maud, dass a tryin' sawt o' sto'y to tell to a bunch o' po' niggehs; did you dess make dat up--fo' us?" "Why, Hester," I said, "that was an old, old story before this country was ever known to white folks, or black," and the eyes of all four were on me as the daughter asked: "Ain't it in de Bi-ible?" As all but Sidney bade me good night, I heard her say; "I don' care, I b'lieb dat be'n in de Bible an' git drap out by mista-ake!" In my room she grew queerly playful, and continued so until she had drawn off my shoes and stockings. But then abruptly, she took my feet in her slim black hands, and with eyes lifted tenderly to mine, said: "How bu'ful 'pon de mountain is dem wha' funnish good tidin's!" She leaned her forehead on my insteps: "Us bleeged to paht some day, Miss Maud." I made a poor effort to lift her, but she would not be displaced. "Cayn't no two people count fo' sho' on stayin' togetheh al'ays in dis va-ain worl'," and all at once I found my face in my hands and the salt drops searching through my fingers; Sidney was kissing my feet and wetting them with her tears. At close of the next day, a Sabbath, my uncle and aunt called all their servants around the front steps of the house and with tears more bitter than any of Sidney's or mine, told them that by the folly of others, far away, they had lost their whole fortune at one stroke and must part with everything, and with them, by sale. Their dark hearers wept with them, and Silas, Hester, and Sidney, after the rest had gone back to the quarters, offered the master and mistress, through many a quaintly misquoted scripture, the consolations of faith. "I wish we had set you free, Silas," said uncle, "you and yours, when we could have done it. Your mistress and I are going to town to-morrow solely to get somebody to buy you, all four, together." "Mawse Ben," cried the slave, with strange earnestness, "don't you do dat! Don't you was'e no time dat a-way! You go see what you can sa-ave fo' you-all an' yone!" "For the creditors, you mean, Silas," said my aunt; "that's done." Hester had a question. "Do it all go to de credito's anyhow, Miss 'Liza, no matteh how much us bring?" and when aunt said yes, Sidney murmured to her mother, "I tol' you dat." I wondered when she had told her. Uncle and aunt tried hard to find one buyer for the four, but failed; nobody who wanted the other three had any use for Mingo. It was after nightfall when they came dragging home. "Now don't you fret one bit 'bout dat, Mawse Ben," exclaimed Sidney, with a happy heroism in her eyes that I remembered afterward. "'De Lawd is perwide!'" "Strange," said my aunt to uncle and me aside, smiling in pity, "how slight an impression disaster makes on their minds!" and that too I remembered afterward. As soon as we were alone in my chamber, Sidney and I, she asked me to tell her again of the clock in the sky, and at the end of her service and of my recital she drew me to my window and showed me how promptly she could point out the pole-star at the centre of the clock's vast dial, although at our right a big moon was leaving the tree tops and flooding the sky with its light. Toward this she turned, and lifting an arm with the reverence of a priestess said, in impassioned monotone: "'De moon shine full at His comman' An' all de stahs obey.'" She kissed my hand as she added good-by. "Why, Sidney!" I laughed, "you mean good night, don't you?" She bent low, tittered softly, and then, with a swift return to her beautiful straightness, said: "But still, Miss Maud, who eveh know when dey say good night dat it ain't good-by?" She fondled my hand between her two as she backed away, kissed it fervently again, and was gone. When I awoke my aunt stood in broad though sunless daylight at the bedside, with the waking cup of coffee which it was Sidney's wont to bring. I started from the pillow. "Oh! what--who--wh'--where's Sidney? Why--how long has it been raining?" "It began at break of day," she replied, adding pensively, "thank God." "Oh! were we in such bad need of rain?" "_They_ were--precisely when it came. Rain never came straighter from heaven." "They?"--I stared. "Yes; Silas and Hester--and Sidney--and Mingo. They must have started soon after moonrise, and had the whole bright night, with its black shadows, for going." "For going where, auntie; going where?" "Then the rain came in God's own hour," she continued, as if wholly to herself, "and washed out their trail." I sprang from the bed. "Aunt 'Liza!" "Yes, Maud, they've run away, and if only they may _get_ away. God be praised!" Of course, I cried like an infant. I threw myself upon her bosom. "Oh, auntie, auntie, I'm afraid it's my fault! But when I tell you how far I was from meaning it----" "Don't tell me a word, my child; I wish it were my fault; I'd like to be in your shoes. And, I don't care how right slavery is, I'll never own a darky again!" One day some two months after, at home again with father. Just as I was leaving the house on some errand, Sidney--ragged, wet, and bedraggled as a lost dog--sprang into my arms. When I had got her reclothed and fed I eagerly heard her story. Three of the four had come safely through; poor Mingo had failed; if I ever tell of him it must be at some other time. In the course of her tale I asked about the compass. "Dat little trick?" she said fondly. "Oh, yass'm, it wah de salvation o' de Lawd 'pon cloudy nights; but time an' ag'in us had to sepa'ate, 'llowin' fo' to rejine togetheh on de bank o' de nex' creek, an' which, de Lawd a-he'pin' of us, h-it al'ays come to pass; an' so, afteh all, Miss Maud, de one thing what stan' us de bes' frien' night 'pon night, next to Gawd hisse'f, dat wah his clock in de ske-eye." VI "Landry," Chester said next day, bringing back the magazine barely half an hour after the book-shop had reopened, "that's a true story!" "Ah, something inside tells you?" "No need! You remember this, near the end? '_Poor Mingo had failed [to escape]; if I ever tell of him it must be at another time_.' Landry, it's so absurd that I hardly have the face to say it; I've got--ha-ha-ha!--I've got a manuscript! and it fills that gap!" The speaker whipped out the "Memorandum"; "Here's the story, by my own uncle, of how the three got over the border and how Mingo failed. I'd totally forgotten I had it. I disliked its beginning far more than I did 'Maud's' yesterday. For I hate masks and costumes as much as Mr. Castanado loves them; and a practical joke--which is what the story begins with, in costume, though it soon leaves it behind--nauseates me. Comical situation it makes for me, this 'Memorandum,' doesn't it--turning up this way?" Ovide replied meditatively: "To lend it, even to me, would seem as though you sought----" "It would put me in a false light! I don't like false lights." "It would mask and costume you." "Why, not so badly as if I were really in society; as, you know, I'm not! The only place where any man, but especially a society man, can properly seek a girl's society is in society. The more he's worthy to meet her, the more hopelessly--I needn't say hopelessly, but completely--he's cut off from meeting her any other way. Isn't that a gay situation? Ha-ha-ha!" "You would probably move much in society, even Creole society, without meeting mademoiselle; she has less time for it than you." "Is that so?" Cupid, the evening before, had carried a flat, square parcel like a shop's account-books to be written up under the home lamp. Staring at Landry, Chester rather dropped the words than spoke them: "Think of it! The awful pity! For the like of her! Of her! Why, how on earth--? No, don't tell! I know what I'd think of any other man following in her wake and asking questions while hard fortune writes her history. A girl like her, Landry, has no business with a history!" "Mr. Chester." "Yes?" "Has that 'Memorandum' never been printed? I can find out for you, in _Poole's Index_." "Do it! It's good enough, and it's named as if to be printed. See? 'The Angel of----'" "Then why not have Mr. Castanado, while selecting a publisher for mademoiselle's manuscript, select for both?" Chester shone: "Why--why, happy thought! I'll consider that, indeed I will! Well, good mor'----" "Mr. Chester." "Well?" "Why did you want that new book yesterday?" "I've met that nice old man the book calls 'the judge,' and he's coaxed me to break my rules and dine with him, at his home uptown, to-night." "I'm glad. Madame, his wife, was my young mistress when I was a slave. I wish her granddaughter and his grandson--they also are married--were not over in the war--Red Cross. You'd like them--and they would like you." "Do they know mademoiselle?" "Indeed, yes! They are the best of her very few friends. But--the Atlantic rolls between." Chester went out. In the rear door Ovide's wife appeared, knitting. "Any close-ter?" she asked over her silver-bowed spectacles. "Some," he said, taking down _Poole's Index_. She came to his side and they placidly conversed. As she began to leave him, "No," she said, "we kin wish, but we mustn' meddle. All any of us want' or got any rights to want is to see 'em on speakin' terms. F'om dat on, hands off. Leave de rest to de fitness o' things, de everlast'n' fitness o' things!" VII At the Castanados', the second evening after, Chester was welcomed into a specially pretty living-room. But he found three other visitors. Madame, seated on a sort of sofa for one, made no effort to rise. Her face, for all its breadth, was sweet in repose and sweeter when she spoke or smiled. Her hands were comparatively small and the play of her vast arms was graceful as she said to a slim, tallish, comely woman with an abundance of soft, well-arranged hair: "Seraphine, allow me to pres-ent Mr. Chezter." She explained that this Mme. Alexandre was her "neighbor of the next door," and Chester remembered her sign: "Laces and Embroideries." "Scipion," said Castanado to a short, swarthy, broad-bearded man, "I have the honor to make you acquaint' with my friend Mr. Chezter." Chester pressed the enveloping hand of "S. Beloiseau, Artisan in Ornamental Iron-work." "Also, Mr. Chezter, Mr. Rene Ducatel; but with him you are already acquaint', I think, eh?" Chester shook hands with a small, dapper, early-gray, superdignified man, recalling his sign: "Antiques in Furniture, Glass, Bronze, Plate, China, and Jewelry." M. Ducatel seemed to be already taking leave. His "anceztral 'ome," he said, was far up-town; he had dropped in solely to borrow--showing it--the _Courrier des Etats-Unis_. That journal, Castanado remarked to Chester as at a corner table he poured him a glass of cordial, brought the war, the trenches, the poilu and the boche closer than any other they knew. Beloiseau and Mme. Alexandre, he softly explained, had come in quite unlooked-for to discuss the great strife and might depart at any moment. Then the reading! But Chester himself interested those two and they stayed. When he said that Beloiseau's sidewalk samples had often made him covet some excuse for going in and seeing both the stock and the craftsman, "That was excuse ab-undant!" was the prompt response, and Castanado put in: "Scipion he'd rather, always, a non-buying connoisseur than a buying Philistine." "Come any day! any hour!" said Beloiseau. Presently all five were talking of the surviving poetry of both artistic and historic Royal Street. "Twenty year' ag-o," said the ironworker, "looking down-street from my shop, there was not a building in sight without a romantic story. My God! for example, that Hotel St. Louis!" Chester--"had heard one or two of its episodes only the evening before, at that up-town dinner, from a fine old down-town Creole, a fellow guest, with whom he was to dine the next week." "Aha-a-a! precizely ac-rozz the street from Mme. Alexandre!" said the hostess. "M'sieu' et Madame De l'Isle! Now I detec' that!" "Have they no son?--or--or daughter?" he asked. "Not any," Mme. Alexandre broke in with a significant sparkle; "juz' the two al-lone." "They live over my shop," Beloiseau said. "You muz' know that double gate nex' adjoining me." "Oh, that lovely piece of ironwork? I took that for a part of your establishment." "I have only the uze of it with them. My _grandpère_ he made those gate', for the father of Mme. De l'Isle, same year he made those great openwork gate' of Hotel St. Louis. You speak of episode'! One summer, renovating that hotel, they paint' those gate'--of iron openwork--in imitation--_mon Dieu_!--of marbl'! _Ciel_! the tragedy of _that_! Yes, they live over me; in the whole square, both side' the street, last remaining of the 'igh society." When Mme. Alexandre finally rose to go, and had kissed the upturned brow of her hostess, she went by an inner door and rear balcony. And when Chester and Beloiseau began to take leave their host said to Chester: "You dine with M. De l'Isle Tuesday. Well, if you'll come again here the next evening we'll attend to--that business." "Wouldn't that be losing time? I can just as well come sooner." "No," said madame, "better that Wednesday." Chester was nettled, but he recovered when the ironworker walked with him around into Bienville Street and at his _pension_ door lamented the pathetic decay of the useful arts and of artistic taste, since the advent of castings and machinery. The pair took such liking for each other's tenets of beauty, morals, art, and life that Chester walked back to the De l'Isle gates, and their parting at last was at the corner half-way between their two domiciles. Meanwhile madame was saying to her spouse, "Aha! you see? The power of prayer! Ab-ove all, for the he'pless! By day the fo' corner' of my room, by night the fo' post' of my bed, are----" "Yes, _chérie_, I know." "Yes, they're to me for Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John! Since three days every time I heard the cathedral clock I've prayed to them; and now----!" "Well, my angel? Now?" "Well, now! He's dining there next Tuesday!" "Truly. Yet even now we can only hope----" "Ah, no! Me, I can also continue to supplicate! From now till Wednesday, every time that clock, I'll pray those four _évangélistes_! and Thursday you'll see--the power of prayer! Oh, 'tis like _magique_, that power of prayer!" VIII On Tuesday evening Chester, a country boy yet now and then, was first at the De l'Isles'. Madame lauded him. "Punctualitie! tha'z the soul of pleasure!" She had begun to explain why her other guests included but one young lady, when here they came. First, the Prieurs, a still handsome Creole couple whom he never met again. Then that youthful-aged up-town pair, the Thorndyke-Smiths. And last--while Smith held Chester captive to tell him he knew his part of Dixie, having soldiered there in the Civil War--the one young lady, Mlle. Chapdelaine. As Chester turned toward her she turned away, but her back view was enough to startle him. "Aline," the hostess began as she brought them face to face, but whatever she said more might as well have been a thunderbolt through the roof. For Aline Chapdelaine was SHE. They went out together. What a stately dining-room! What carvings! What old china and lace on the board, under what soft, rich illumination! The Prieurs held the seats of honor. Chester was on the hostess's left. Mademoiselle sat between him and Mr. Smith. It would be pleasant to tell with what poise the youth and she dropped into conversation, each intensely mindful--intensely aware that the other was mindful--of that Conti Street corner, of Ovide's shop, and of "The Clock in the Sky," and both alike hungry to know how much each had been told about the other. Calmly they ignored all earlier encounter and entered into acquaintance on the common ground of the poetry of the narrow region of decay in which this lovely home lay hid "like a lost jewel." "Ah, not quite lost yet," the girl protested. "No," he conceded, "not while the poetry remains," and Smith, on her other hand, said: "Not while this cluster of shops beneath us is kept by those who now keep them." "My faith!" the hostess broke in, "to real souls 'tis they are the wonder--and the _poésie_--and the jewels! Ask Aline!" "Ask me," Chester said, as if for mademoiselle's rescue; "I discovered them only last week." "And then also," quietly said Aline, "ask me, for I did not discover them only last week." M. Prieur joining in enabled Chester to murmur: "May I ask you something?" "You need not. You would ask if I knew you had discovered them--M. Castanado and the rest." "And you would answer?" "That I knew they had discovered you." "Discovered, you mean, my spiritual substance?" "Yes, your spiritual substance. That's a capital expression, Mr. Chester, your 'spiritual substance.' I must add that to my English." "Your English is wonderfully correct. May I ask something else?" "I can answer without. Yes, I know where you're going to-morrow and for what; to read that old manuscript. Mr. Chester, that other story--of my _grand'mére_, 'Maud'; how did you like that?" "It left me in love with your _grand'mére_." "Notwithstanding she became what they used to call--you know the word." "Yes, 'nigger-stealer.' How did you ever add that to your English?" "My father _was_ one. Right here in Royal Street. Hotel St. Louis. Else he might never have married my--that's too long to tell here." "May I not hear it soon, at your home?" "Assuredly. Sooner or later. My aunts they are born raconteurs." "Oh! your aunts. Hem! Do you know? I had an uncle who once was your grandfather's sort of robber, though a Southerner born and bred." "Yes, Ovide's wife told me. Will you permit me a question?" "No," laughed Chester, "but I can answer it. Yes. Those four poor runaways to whom your sweet Maud showed the clock in the sky were the same four my uncle helped on--oh, you've not heard it, and it also is too long. I can lend you his 'Memorandum' if you'll have it." She hesitated. "N-no," she said. "Ah, no! I couldn't bear that responsibility! Listen; Mr. Smith is going to tell a war story of the city." But no, that gentleman's story was yet another too long for the moment even when the men were left to their cigars. Instead he and Chester made further acquaintance. When they returned to the ladies, "I want you to talk with my wife," said Mr. Smith, and Chester obeyed. Yet soon he was at mademoiselle's side again and she was saying in a dropped voice: "To-morrow when you're at the Castanados' to read, so privately, would you be willing for Mme. De l'Isle to be there--just madame alone?" Oh, but men are dull! "I'd be honored!" he said. "They can modify the privacy as they please." Oh, but men are dull! There he had to give place to M. Prieur and presently accepted some kind of social invitation, seeing no way out of it, from the Smiths. So ended the evening. Mlle. Chapdelaine was taken to her home, "close by," as she said, in the Prieurs' carriage. "They are juz' arround in Bourbon Street, those Chapdelaines," said the De l'Isles to Chester, last to go. "Y'ought to see their li'l' flower-garden. Like those two aunt' that maintain it, 'tis unique. Y'ought to see that--and them." "I have mademoiselle's permission," he replied. "Ah, well, then!--ha, ha!" The pair exchanged a smile which seemed to the parting guest to say: "After all he's not so utterly deficient!" IX Again the Castanados' dainty parlor, more dainty than ever. No one there was in evening dress, though with its privacy "modified as the Castanados pleased," it had gathered a company of seven. Chester, not yet come, would make an eighth. Madame was in her special chair. And here, besides her husband, were both M. and Mme. De l'Isle, Mme. Alexandre and Scipion Beloiseau. The seventh was M. Placide Dubroca, perfumer; a man of fifty or so, his black hair and mustache inclined to curl and his eyes spirited yet sympathetic. Just entered, he was telling how consumed with regret his wife was, to be kept away--by an old promise to an old friend to go with her to that wonderful movie, "Les Trois Mousquetaires," when Chester came in and almost at once a general debate on Mlle. Chapdelaine's manuscript was in full coruscation. "In the firs' place," one said--though the best place he could seize was the seventeenth--"firs' place of all--competition! My frien's, we cannot hope to nig-otiate with that North in the old manner which we are proud, a few of us yet, to _con_-tinue in the rue Royale. Every publisher----" Mme. Castanado had a quotation that could not wait: "We got to be 'wise like snake' an' innocent like pigeon'!'" "Precizely! Every publisher approach' mus' know he's bidding agains' every other! Maybe they are honess men, and _if_ so they'll be rij-oice'!" A non-listener was trying to squeeze in: "And sec'--and sec'--and secon' thing--if not firs'--is guarantee! They mus' pay so much profit in advance. Else it be better to publish without a publisher, and with advertisement' front and back! Tiffany, Royal Baking-Powder, Ivory Soap it Float'! Ten thousand dolla' the page that _Ladies' 'Ome Journal_ get', and if we get even ten dolla' the page--I know a man what make that way three hundred dolla'!" "He make that net or gross?" some one asked. "Ah! I think, not counting his time _sol_-iciting those advertisement', he make it _nearly_ net." Chester made show of breaking in and three speakers at once begged him to proceed: "How much of a book," he asked Mme. Castanado, "will the manuscript make? How long is it?" She looked falteringly to her husband: "'Tis about a foot long, nine inch' wide. Marcel, pazz that to monsieur." The husband complied. Chester counted the lines of one of the pages. Madame watched him anxiously. "Tha'z too wide?" she inquired. "It isn't long enough to make a book. To do that would take--oh--seven times as much." "Ah!" Madame's voice grew in sweetness as it rose: "So much the better! So much the more room for those advertisement'!--and picture'!" "And portrait of mademoiselle!" said Mme. Alexandre, and Mme. De l'Isle smiled assent. Yet a disappointed silence followed, presently broken by the perfumer: "All the same, what is the matter to make it a pamphlet?" Beloiseau objected: "No, then you compete aggains' those magazine'. But if you permit one of those magazine' to buy it you get the advantage of all the picture' in the whole magazine." "Ah!" several demurred, "and let that magazine swallow whole all those profit' of all those advertisement'!" Chester spoke: "I have an idea--" But others had ideas and the floor besides. Castanado lifted a hand: "Frien'--our counsel." Counsel tried again: "I have a conviction that we should first offer this to a magazine--through--yes, of course, through some influential friend. If one doesn't want it another may----" Chorus: "Ho! they will all want it! That was not written laz' night! 'Tis fivty year' old; they cannot rif-use that!" "However," Chester persisted, "if they should--if all should--I'd advise----" "Frien's," Castanado pleaded, "let us hear." "I should advise that we gather together as many such old narratives as we can find, especially such as can be related to one another----" "They need not be ril-ated!" cried Dubroca. "_We_ are not ril-ated, and yet see! Ril-ated? where you are goin' to find them, ril-ated?" "Royal Street!" Scipion retorted. "Royal Street is pave' with old narration'!" "Already," said Castanado, "we chanze to have three or four. Mademoiselle has that story of her _grand'mère_, and Mr. Chezter he has--sir, you'll not care if I tell that?--Mr. Chezter has _the sequal to that_, and written by his uncle!" "Yes," Chester put in, "but Ovide Landry finds it was printed years ago." "Proof!" proclaimed Mme. Alexandre, "proof that 'tis good to print ag-ain! The people that read that before, they are mozely dead." "At the same time," Chester responded, rising and addressing the chair, his hostess, "because that is a sequel to the _grand'-mère's_ story, and because _this_--this West Indian episode--is not a sequel and has no sequel, and particularly because we ought to let mademoiselle be first to judge whether my uncle's _memorandum_ is fit company for her two stories, I propose, I say, that before we read this West Indian thing we read my uncle's _memorandum_, and that we send and beg her to come and hear it with us. It's in my pocket." Patter, patter, patter, went a dozen hands. "Marcel," the hostess cried in French, "go!" "I will go with you," Mme. Alexandra proposed, "she will never come without me." "Tis but a step," said Mme. De l'Isle, "the three of us will go together." They went. Those who waited talked on of their city's true stories. The vastest and most monstrous war in human history was smoking and roaring just across the Atlantic, and in it they had racial, national, personal interests; but for the moment they left all that aside. "One troub'," Dubroca said, "'tis that all those three stone'--and all I can rim-ember--even that story of M'sieu' Smith about the fall of the city--1862--they all got in them _somewhere_, alas! the nigger. The _publique_ they are not any longer pretty easy to fascinate on that subjec'." "Ho!" Beloiseau rejoined, "_au contraire_, he's an advantage! If only you keep him for the back-_ground_; biccause in the mind of every-_body_ tha'z where he is, and that way he has the advantage to ril-ate those storie' together and----" Mademoiselle came. Her arrival, reception, installation near the hostess and opposite Chester are good enough untold. If elsewhere in that wide city a like number ever settled down to listen to an untamed writer's manuscript in as sweet content with one another _their_ story ought to be printed. "Well," Mme. Castanado chanted, "commence." And Chester read: X THE ANGEL OF THE LORD When I was twenty-four I lived at the small capital of my native Southern State. My parental home was three counties distant. My father, a slaveholding planter, was a noble gentleman, whom I loved as he loved me. But we could not endure each other's politics and I was trying to exist on my professional fees, in the law office of one of our ex-governors. I was kindly tolerated by everybody about me but had neglected social relations, being a black sheep on every hot question of the time--1860. In the world's largest matters my Southern mother had the sanest judgment I ever knew, and it was from her I had absorbed my notions on slavery. It was at least as much in sympathy for the white man as for the black that she deprecated it, yet she pointed out to me how idle it was to fancy that any mere manumission of our slaves would cure us of a whole philosophy of wealth, society, and government as inbred as it was antiquated. One evening my two fellow boarders--state-house clerks, good boys--so glaringly left me out of their plan for a whole day's fishing on the morrow, that I smarted. I was so short of money that I could not have supplied my own tackle, but no one knew that, and it stung me to be slighted by two chaps I liked so well. I determined to be revenged in some playful way that would make us better friends, and as I walked down-street next morning I hit out a scheme. They had been gone since daybreak and I was on my way to see a client who kept a livery-stable. Now, in college, where I had intended to leave all silly tricks behind me, my most taking pranks had been played in female disguise; for at twenty-four I was as beardless as a child. My errand to the stableman was to collect some part of my fee in a suit I had won for him. But I got not a cent, for as to cash his victory had been a barren one. However, a part of his booty was an old coach built when carriage people made long journeys in their own equipages. This he would "keep on sale for me free of charge," etc. "Which means you'll never sell it," I said. Oh, he could sell it if any man could! I smiled. Could he lend me, I asked, for half a day or so, a good span of horses? He could. "Then hitch up the coach and let me try it." He bristled: "What are you going to find out by 'trying' it? What d'you 'llow it'll do? Blow up? Who'll drive it? _I_ can't spare any one." I was glad. Any man of his would know me, and my scheme called for a stranger to both me and the coach. I must find such a person. "If I send a driver," I said, "you'll lend me the span, won't you?" "Oh, yes." But all at once I decided to do without the whole rig. I went back to my room and had an hour's enjoyment making myself up as a lady dressed for travel. For a woman I was of just a fine stature. In years I looked a refined forty. My hands were not too big for black lace mitts, my bosom was a success, and my feet, in thin morocco, were out of sight and nobody's business. A little oil and a burnt match darkened my eyebrows, my wig sat straight, under the weest of bonnets I wore a chignon, behind one ear a bunch of curls, and, unseen at one side of a modest bustle, my revolver. Though I say it myself, I managed my crinoline with grace. ["That was pritty co'rect," the costumer remarked. "Humph!" said Chester. The three mesdames exchanged glances, and the reading went on.] XI Leaving a note on her door to tell our landlady that business would keep me away an indefinite time, I got out at the front gate unobserved, and with a sweet dignity that charmed me with myself walked away under a bewitching parasol, well veiled. I knew where to find my two sportsmen. A few hundred paces put the town and an open field at my back; a few more down a bushy lane brought me where a dense wood overhung both sides of the narrow way, and the damp air was full of the smell of penny-royal and of creek sands. From here I proposed to saunter down through the woods to the creek, locate my fishermen, and draw them my way by cries of distress. On their reaching my side my story, told through my veil and between meanings and clingings, was to be that while on a journey in my own coach, a part of its running-gear having broken, I had sent it on to be mended; that through love of trees and wild flowers I had ventured to stay alone meantime among them, and that a snake had bitten me on the ankle. I should describe a harmless one but insist I was poisoned, and yet refuse to show the wound or be borne back to the road, or to let either man stay with me alone while the other went for a doctor, or to drink their whiskey for a cure. On getting back to the road--with the two fellows for crutches--I should send both to town for my coach, keeping with me their tackle and fish. Then I should get myself and my spoils back to our dwelling as best I could and--await the issue. If this poor performance had so come off--but see what occurred instead! I had shut my parasol and moved into hiding behind some wild vines to mop my face, when near by on the farther side of the way came slyly into view a negro and negress. They were in haste to cross the road yet quite as wishful to cross unseen. One, in home-spun gown and sunbonnet, was ungainly, shoeless, bird-heeled, fan-toed, ragged, and would have been painfully ugly but for a grotesqueness almost winsome. "She's a field-hand," was my thought. The other, in very clean shirt, trousers, and shoes, looking ten years younger and hardly full-grown, was shapely and handsome. "That boy," thought I, "is a house-servant. The two don't belong in the same harness. And yet I'd bet a new hat they're runaways." Now they gathered courage to come over. With a childish parade of unconcern and with all their glances up and down the road, they came, and were within seven steps of me before they knew I was near. I shall never forget the ludicrous horror that flashed white and black from the eyes in that sun-bonnet, nor the snort with which its owner, like a frightened heifer, crashed off a dozen yards into the brush and as suddenly stopped. "Good morning, boy," I said to the other, who had gulped with consternation, yet stood still. "Good mawnin', mist'ess." The feminine title came luckily. I had forgotten my disguise, so disarmed was I by the refined dignity of the dark speaker's mellow voice and graceful modesty. After all, my prejudices were Southern. I had rarely seen negroes, at worship, work, or play, without an inward groan for some way--righteous way--by which our land might be clean rid of them. But here, in my silly disguise, confronting this unmixed young African so manifestly superior to millions of our human swarm white or black, my unsympathetic generalizations were clear put to shame. The customary challenge, "Who' d'you belong to?" failed on my lips, and while those soft eyes passed over me from bonnet to mitts I gave my head as winsome a tilt as I could and inquired: "What is your name?" "Me?" "Yes, you; what is it?" "I'm name', eh, Euonymus; yass'm." "Oh, boy, where'd your mother get that name?" "Why, mist'ess, ain't dat a Bible name?" "Oh, yes," I said, remembering Onesimus. With my parasol I indicated the other figure, sunbonneted, motionless, gazing on us through the brush. "Has she a Bible name too?" "Yass'm; Robelia." Robelia brought chin and shoulder together and sniggered. "Euonymus," I asked, "have you seen two young gentlemen, fishing, anywhere near here?" "Yass'm, dey out 'pon a san'bar 'bout two hund'ed yards up de creek." The black finger that pointed was as clean as mine. "You and this woman," thought I again, "are dodging those men." With a smile as of curiosity I looked my slim informant over once more. I had never seen slavery so flattered yet so condemned. All at once I said in my heart: "You, my lad, I'll help to escape!" But when I looked again at the absurd Robelia I saw I must help both alike. "Euonymus, did you ever drive a lady's coach?" "Me? No'm, I never drove no lady's coach." "Well, boy, I'm travelling--in my own outfit." "Yass'm." "But I hire a new driver and span at each town and send the others back." "Yass'm," said Euonymus. Robelia came nearer. "My coach is now at a livery-stable in town, and I want a driver and a lady's maid." "Yass'm." "I'd prefer free colored people. They could come with me as far as they pleased, and I shouldn't be responsible for their return." "Yass'm," said Euonymus, edging away from Robelia's nudge. "Now, Euonymus, I judge by your being out here in the woods this time of day, idle, that you're both free, you and your sister, h'm?" "Ro'--Robelia an' me? Eh, ye'--yass'm, as you may say, in a manneh, yass'm." "She is your sister, is she not?" "Yass'm," clapped in Robelia, with a happy grin, and Euonymus quietly added: "Us full sisteh an' brotheh--in a manneh." "Umh'm. Could you drive my coach, Euonymus?" "What, me, mist'ess? Why, eh, o' co'se I kin drive _some_, but--" The soft, honest eyes, seeking Robelia's, betrayed a mental conflict. I guessed there were more than two runaways, and that Euonymus was debating whether for Robelia's sake to go with me and leave the others behind, or not. "You kin drive de coach," blurted the one-ideaed Robelia. "You knows you kin." "No, mi'ss, takin' all roads as dey come I ain't no ways fitt'n'; no'm." "Well, daddy's fitt'n'!" said the sun-bonnet. Euonymus flinched, yet smilingly said: "Yass, da's so, but I ain't daddy, no mo'n you is." "Well, us kin go fetch him--in th'ee shakes." Euonymus flinched again, yet showed generalship. "Yass'm, us kin go ax daddy." I smiled. "Let Robelia go and you stay here." Robelia waited on tiptoe. "Go fetch him," murmured Euonymus, "an' make has'e." "Wait! You're a good boy, Euonymus, ain't you?" "I cayn't say dat, mi'ss; but I'm glad ef you thinks so." "Y' is good!" said Robelia. "You knows you is!" "Never mind," I said; "do you belong to--Zion?" The dark face grew radiant. "Yass'm, I does!" "Euonymus, how many more of you-all are there besides _daddy and mammy_?" The surprise was cruel. The runaway's eyes let out a gleam of alarm and then, as I lighted with kindness, filled with rapt wonder at my miraculous knowledge: "Be'--be'--beside'--beside' d-daddy an' m-mammy? D'ain't no mo', m-mist'ess; no'm!" "Yass'm," put in Robelia, "da's all; us fo'." "Just you four. Euonymus, a bit ago I noticed on your sister's ankles some white mud." "Yass'm." Another gleam of alarm and then a fine, awesome courage. Robelia stared in panic. "The nearest white mud--marl--in the State, Robelia, is forty miles south of here." "Is d'--dat so, mist'ess?" "Yes, and so you also are travellers, Euonymus." "Trav'--y'--yass'm, I--I reckon you mought call us trav'luz, in a manneh, yass'm." "Well, my next town is thirty miles north of----" "Nawth!" Euonymus broke in, thinking furiously. "Now, if instead of hiring just your sister and her daddy I should----" "Yass'm!" "Suppose I should take all four of you along, as though you were my slaves----" "De time bein'," Euonymus alertly slipped in. "Certainly, that's all. How would that do?" "Oh, mist'ess! kin you work dat miracle?" "I can do it if it suits you." "Lawd, it suit' _us_! Dey couldn't be noth'n' mo' rep'ehensible!" Robelia vanished. Euonymus gazed into my eyes. [Had my disguise failed?] "What is it, boy?" "May I ax you a question, mi'ss?" "You may ask if you won't tell." "Oh, I won't tell! Is you a sho' enough 'oman?--Lawd, I knowd you wa'n't! No mo'n you is a man! I seen it f'om de beginnin'!" "Why, boy, what do you imagine I am?" "Oh, I don't 'magine, I knows! 'T'uz me prayed Gawd to sen' you. Y' ain't man, y' ain't 'oman! an' yit yo' bofe! Yo' de same what visit Ab'am, an' Lot, an' Dan'l, and de motheh de Lawd!" "Stop! Stop! Never mind who I am; I've got to put you fifty miles from here before bedtime." "Yes, my Lawd. Oh, yes, my Lawd!" "Euonymus! you mustn't call me that!" "Ain't dat what Ab'am called you?" "I forget! but--call me mistress!--only!" "Yass, suh--yass, mi'ss!" "Good. Now, lad, I can take you alone, horseback, which'll be far swifter, safer, surer----" A new alarm, a new exaltation--"Oh, no, my--mist'ess; no, no! you knows you on'y a-temptin' o' dy servant!" "You wouldn't leave daddy and mammy?" "Oh, daddy kin stick to mammy, an' her to he! but Robelia got neither faith nor gumption, an' let me never see de salvation o' de Lawd ef I cayn't stick by dat--by--by my po' Robelia!" "But suppose, my boy, we should be mistaken for runaways and tracked and run down." "Yass'm, o' co'se. Yass'm." "Can you fight--for your sister?" "Yass, my La'--yass'm, I kin an' I will. I's qualified my soul to' dat, suh; yass'm." "Dogs?" "Yass'm, dawgs. Notinstandin' de dawgs come pass me roun' about, in de name o' de Lawd will I lif up my han' an' will perwail." "Have you only your hands?" "Da's all David had, ag'in lion an' bah." "True. Euonymus, I need a man's clothes." "Yass'm, on a pinch dey mowt come handy." XII Here Robelia came again, conducting "Luke" and "Rebecca." Luke's garments were amusingly, heroically patched, yet both seniors were thoroughly attractive; not handsome, but reflecting the highest, gentlest rectitude. One of their children had inherited all that was best from both parents, beautifully exalting it; the other all that was poorest in earlier ancestors. They were evolution and reversion personified. The father was frank yet deferential. Our parley was brief. His only pomp lay in his manner of calling me madam. I felt myself a queen. Handing him a note to the stable-keeper, "You can read," I said, "can't you? Or your son can?" "No, madam, I regrets to say we's minus dat." I hid my pleasure. "Well, at the stable, if they seem to think this note is from a man, or that the coach is owned by a man----" "Keep silent," put in Euonymus, "an' see de counsel o' de Lawd ovehcome." Luke went. I pencilled another note. It requested my landlady to give Euonymus a hat, boots, and suit from my armoire and speed him back all she could. (To avoid her queries.) Rebecca gazed anxiously after this second messenger. Robelia, near by, munched blackberries. "Rebecca, did you ever think what you'd do if both your children were in equal danger?" "Why, yass'm, I is studie' dat, dis ve'y day, ef de trufe got to be tol'." Thought I: "If anything else has to be told, Robelia'll be my only helper." I asked Rebecca which one she would try to save first. "Why, mist'ess, I could tell dat a heap sight betteh when de time come. De Lawd mowt move me to do most fo' de one what least fitt'n' to"--she choked--"to die. An' yit ag'in dat mowt depen' on de circumstances o' de time bein'." "Well, it mustn't, Rebecca, it mustn't!" "Y'--yass'm--no'm'm! Mustn' it?" "No, in any case you must do as I tell you." "Oh, o' co'se! yass'm!" "So promise, now, that in any pinch you'll try first to save your son." "Yass'm." A pang of duplicity showed in her uplifted glance, yet she murmured again: "Yass'm, I promise you dat." Nevertheless, I had my doubts. A hum of voices told us my two anglers were approaching, and with Rebecca's quieting hand on the pusillanimous Robelia we drew into hiding and saw them cross the corner of a clearing and vanish again downstream. Then, hearing the coach, we went to meet it. Both messengers were on the box. Euonymus passed me my bundle of stuff. The coach turned round. Bidding Euonymus stay on the box I had Rebecca and Robelia take the front seat inside. Following in I remarked: "Good boy, that of yours, Luke." Luke bowed so reverently that I saw Euonymus's belief in me was not his alone. "We thaynk de Lawd," Luke replied, "fo' boy an' gal alike; de good Lawd sawnt 'em bofe." "Yet extra thanks for the son wouldn't hurt." Robelia buried a sob of laughter in the nearest cushion, and as we rolled away gaped at me with a face on which a dozen flies danced and played tag. And so we went----. Chester ceased reading and stood up. For Mlle. Chapdelaine was rising. All the men rose. "And so, also," she said, "I too must go." "Oh, but the story is juz' big-inning," Mme. Alexandra protested, and Mme. De l'Isle said: "I'm sure 'twill turn out magnificent, yes!" Mademoiselle declared the tale fascinating. She "would be enchanted to stay," but her aunts _must_ be considered, etc.; and when Chester confessed the reading would require another session anyhow Mmes. De l'Isle and Alexandre arose, and M. Castanado asked aloud if there was any of the company who could not return a week from that evening. No one was so unlucky. "But!" cried Mme. Alexandre, "why not to my parlor?" "Because!" said Mme. Castanado, to Chester's vivid enlightenment, "every week-day, all day, you have mademoiselle with you." "With me, ah, no! me forever down in my shop, and mademoiselle incessantly upstair'!" Mme. Castanado prevailed. That same room, one week later. Scipion and Dubroca escorted Mme. De l'Isle across to her beautiful gates, and Chester, not in dream but in fact, with M. De l'Isle and Mme. Alexandre following well in the rear, walked with mademoiselle to the high fence and green batten wicket of her olive-scented garden in the rue Bourbon. So walking, and urged by him, she began to tell of matters in her father's life, the old Hotel St. Louis life before hers began--matters that gave to "The Clock in the Sky" and "The Angel of the Lord" a personal interest beyond all academic values. "We'll finish about that another time," she said, and with "another time" singing in his heart like a taut wire he verily enjoyed the rasping of the wicket's big lock as he turned away. The week wore round. Except M. De l'Isle, kept away by a meeting of the Athénée Louisianais, all were regathered; one thing alone delayed the reading. Each of the three women had separately asked her father confessor how far one might justly--well--lie--to those seeking the truth only for cruel and wicked ends. But as no two had received the same answer, and as Chester's uncle was gone to his reward--or penalty--the question was early tabled. "Well," Mme. Castanado said: "'And so we went--' in the coach. Go on, read." XIII And so we went, not through the town but around it. My attendants were heavy with sleep. Seating Rebecca next me I called Euonymus into the coach and let mother, son, and daughter slumber at ease. To the few persons we met I paraded my bonnet and curls. Some, in Southern fashion, I questioned. I was a widow who had sold her plantation in order to go and live with a widowed brother. Euonymus too I showed off, who, waking at every halt, presented a face that seemed any boy's rather than a runaway's. So natural to these Africans was the supernatural that I could be one of the men who plucked Lot from Sodom and yet a becurled widow. When at noon, at a farmhouse, we had fed horses and dined, I at the planter's board, my "slaves" under the house-grove trees, Euonymus took the lines, and for five hours Luke slept inside. Then they changed places again, and Euonymus and I, face to face, watched the long hot day wane, and pass through gorgeous changes into twilight. Often I saw questions in the young eyes that watched me so reverently, but I dared not encourage them; dared not be a talkative angel. Also my brain had its questions. How was I to get out of the most perilous trap into which a sane man--if sane I was--ever thrust himself? There was no sign that we were being pursued, but it was a harrowing puzzle how, without drawing suspicion upon the runaways, to get them once more separated from me and the coach while I should vanish as a lady and reappear as a gentleman. "Euonymus, boy, if I should by and by dress as a man could you put these woman things on, over what you're wearing, and be a lady in my place?" "Why, eh, y'--yass'm. Oh, yass'm, ef you say so, my--mistress; howsomever, you know what de good book say' 'bout de Ethiopium." "Can't change--yes, I know; but this would be only for an hour or two and in the dark." "It'd have to be pow'ful dahk," sighed Euonymus, and from Robelia's sunbonnet came--"Unh!" Rebecca interposed: "An' still, o' co'se, we all gwine do ezac'ly what you say." "Well," I responded, "maybe we won't do that." And we never did. I was still "Mrs. Southmayd," as we came into a small railway station. At the ticket-window I asked if any one had come up in the train of half an hour before, inquiring for a lady in a coach. "No, ma'am, nobody got off that train. But there's another train at half past eight." "Oh," I whined, "he won't come on that; he's overrated my speed and gone on to the next station, making five miles more going for me!" "Why, no, you can give three of your servants a pass to go on with the carriage, keep your maid and wait for the train." "Ah, no! No lady can choose to travel by rail where she can go in her own coach!" They said no more except to warn Luke of a bad piece of road about two miles on. Sure enough, in its very middle--crack!--we broke down. "De kingbolt done gone clean in two!" said Luke, and Robelia repeated the news explosively. "We'll leave the coach," I announced. "Fold the lap-robes on the backs of the two horses, for Rebecca and me. You-all can walk beside us." After a while, so going, we passed a large plantation house, its windows ruddy with home cheer. A second quarter-mile brought dimly to view a railroad water-tank and an empty flag-station house, and in the next bit of woods I spoke to Euonymus: "Have you that bundle? Ah, yes. Luke, this boy and I are going off here a step for me to change my dress. If any passer questions you, say I'll be right back." "Yass, madam, but, er, eh--wouldn' you sooner take yo' maid, Robelia, instid?" "No, for as to dress I'll be as much of a man, when I get back, as Euonymus." "Is Euonymus gwine change dress too?" "No, these things that I take off, your wife and Robelia may divide between them." I started away but Luke lifted a hand. I thought he was going to claim every dud for Robelia. Not so. "We all thanks you mighty much, madam, but in fac', ef de trufe got to be tol'----" "It hasn't got to be told _me_, Luke, if I----" "Oh, no, madam, o' co'se. I 'uz on'y gwine say--a-concernin' Euonymus----" I hurried off while the wife chided her good man: "Why don't you dess hide all dem thing' in yo' heart like _dey_ used to do when d' angel 'pear' unto _dem_?" Alone with Euonymus, as I whipped off my feminine garb and whirled into the other, I began to say that however suddenly I might leave the fugitives they must rest assured that I was not deserting them. To which---- "Oh, my Lawd," Euonymus replied, "us know dat!" We reached the pike again. "Rebecca, dismount. Hand me your bridle. Luke, for you-all's better safety I'm going back and return these horses. We may not see one another again----" "Oh, Lawdy, Lawdy!" moaned Rebecca. "In dis vain worl' you mean," Luke said. "That's all. Come, don't waste time. You'd better walk on for a short way in the pike before taking to the woods. Now go all night for all you're worth. Good-by." I turned abruptly. But my led horse was averse to abruptness, and all the family except the torpid Robelia poured up their blessings and rained kisses on my very feet. In my half-intelligent plan I intended first to stop at the house we had gone by, and had reached the gate of its front lane when I met one of its household, a lad of sixteen, on the pike. "Yes, he had just seen the disabled coach." I said that by business appointment with the lady who had just left the coach I had gone to the next railway station northward in order to meet her. That I had come down the turnpike on a hired horse and met her and her servants pushing forward to our appointment as best they could. Now, I said, our business, a law matter, was accomplished and she was gone on on my hired horse. This span I was taking back to the stable whence I had hired them for her in the morning. The boy's graciousness shamed me through and through. "Why, certainly! He would have the coach drawn up to the house before sunrise and would keep it as long as I liked." He asked me in, but I went on to the little railway town, repeated my tarradiddle at its "hotel," and soon was asleep. ["'Tarradi'l','" said Mme. Castanado, "tha'z may be a species of paternoster, I suppose, eh?" "No," said Scipion, "I think tha'z juz' a fashion of speech that he took a drink. I do that myself, going to bed." Chester explained, but said that to admit one's untruthfulness by even a nickname implied _some_ compunction. Whereat two or three put in: "Ah! if he acknowledge' his compunction he's all right! But we are stopping the story." It went on.] XIV I was awakened, after the breakfast hour, by a tap on my door. Why it gave me consternation I could not have told; I dare say my inveracities of the day before had failed to digest. "Come in," I called, and in stepped my two fishermen. Their good mornings were pleasant, but, "Fact is," said one, "we're bothered about your client." "The lady who passed through here last evening?" "Yes, it looks as though----" "Go on while I dress. Looks as though--what?" "As though she wa'n't what you thought, or else----" I smiled aggressively: "Pardon, I _know_ that lady. 'Or else,' you say? What else? Go on." "Oh, you go on dressing. Do you know them darkies are hers?" "Hoh! Are your teeth yours? Why do you ask?" He handed me a newspaper clipping: Two Hundred Dollars Reward. Ran away from my plantation in ---- county of this State, on the ------ day of ------ the following named and described slaves; father, mother, daughter, and son: . . . A reward of fifty dollars will be paid to any person for the capture and imprisonment in any jail, of each or either of the above named. Etc. With a laugh I returned the thing and went on dressing. "It doesn't," I said aloud to my busy image in the mirror, "describe my client's darkies at all." I faced round: "Why, gentlemen, if this isn't the most astonishing----" "Ho-old on. Ho-old on! Finish your dressing. We're told it does describe two of them and we thought we'd just come and see for ourselves." "And you followed the unprotected lady?" "We followed four runaway niggers, sir! Else why did they take to the woods inside of a mile from that house where you left the coach? Oh, you're dressed; come along; time's flying!" Determined to waste all the time I could, "Wait," I said, strapping on my pistol. "Now, gentlemen, we'll follow this matter to the end, beginning now, instantly. But it must be done as----" "Oh, as privately as possible! Certainly!" "Certainly. You want the reward and you want it all. But understand, I know you're in error, and I go with you solely to prove you are. Now, by your theory----" "Oh, come along!" We went. I killed time over my coffee, and in getting a saddle for one of my hired span. "You must excuse us if we're not polite," my friends apologized after another flash of impatience. "Of course those niggers are not on the run in broad day, but their trail's getting cold!" "You're not as bad-mannered as I am," I laughed as we mounted, but their allusion to hounds made me enjoy the burden of my six-shooter. As we ambled off, "What were you going to say," one asked me, "about our 'theory,' or something?" "Oh! I see you think Mrs. Southmayd must have met up with company and left her servants to follow on to the next station alone." "Exactly. We tracked the darkies along the edge of the road; but her horse tracks--we could only see that no horse tracks left the road where any of their man tracks left it." When we had gone a mile or so one of the boys turned to leave us by a neighborhood road, saying: "I'll rejoin you, 'cross fields, where you turned back last night. I'm going for the dogs." "Stop! Gentlemen, this is too high-handed. Do you reckon I'll let you run down those four innocent creatures with hounds? I _swear_ you shan't do it, sirs." "See here," said the one still with me, "come on. We'll show you the very spots where those innocents left the road one by one, and if you don't say they've used every trick known to a nigger to kill their trail, we'll just quit and go home. Does that suit you?" "Not by a long chalk!" I retorted as I moved with him up the pike. "Those poor simpletons--alone in a strange land, maybe without a pass, at any moment liable to meet a patrol--how easy for them to make the fatal mistake of leaving the road and hiding their tracks!" "All right, come ahead, you'll see fair play." We passed the scene of the breakdown and then the house to which the coach had been drawn. I saw the coach in a stable door. By and by a turn in the pike revealed the other clerk and a tall, slim horseman just dismounting among four lop-eared, black-and-brown dogs coupled two and two by light steel breast-yokes. With a heavy whip and without a frown this man gave one of them a quick cut over the face as the brute ventured to lift a voice as hollow and melodious as a bell. "He's a puppy I'm breaking in," said the man. "Now here, you see"--he pointed to the middle of the road--"is where you, sir, met up with the madam and her niggers, and given her yo' hoss and taken her span. Here's the tracks o' the span, you takin' 'em back; you can see they're the same as these comin' this way. T'other critter's tracks I don't make out, but no matter, here's the niggers' along here--and here, see? and here--here--there." We rode for ten minutes or so. Then halting again: "Look yonder in that lock o' fence. There's where one went over into the brush." Beyond the high worm fence grew a stubborn tangle of briers, vines, and cane. "Mind you," I began to call after the nigger-chaser, but one of my companions spoke for me: "Mr. Hardy, we got to be dead sure they're runaways before we put the dogs on." "No, we ain't," Hardy called through the back of his head. "Dandy and Charmer'll tell us if they're not, before we've gone three hundred yards, and I can call 'em off so quick it'll turn 'em a somerset." He dismounted, and, while unyoking the two older hounds, spoke softly a few words of gusto that put them into a dumb ecstasy. One of the boys pressed his horse up to mine. "There's the place," he said. "Now watch the dogs find it." As the pair sprang from Hardy's hands one began to nose the air, the other the earth, to left, to right, and to cross each other's short, swift circuits. With stony face while assuming a voice of wildest eagerness he cried in searching whispers: "Niggeh thah, Dandy! Niggeh thah, Charmer! Take him, my lady!" Skimming the ground with hungry noses, the dogs answered each cry with a single keen yap of preoccupied affirmation. Almost at once Charmer came to the spot pointed out to me, reared her full length upon the rails and let out a new note; long, musical, fretful, overjoyed. Hardy mounted breast-high to the fence's top, wreathed two fingers in the willing brute's collar, lifted her, and dropped her on the other side. There she instantly resumed her search. At the same time her yoke-mate's deep bay pealed like a trumpet, from a few yards up the roadway. He had struck the broad, frank trail of the other three negroes. The "puppy," still in leash, replied in a note hardly less deep and mellow, but the whip of cool discipline cut him off. From an ox-horn the master blew a short, sharp recall and at once Dandy returned and began his work over, knowing now which runaway to single out. Hardy remained on the fence, watching his favorite, over in the brush. By a stir of the bushes, now here, now there, we could see how busy she was, and every now and then she sent us, as if begging our patience, her eager promissory yelp. Suddenly her master had a new thought. He stepped onward to the next lock of the fence, scrutinized its top rail, moved to, the next lock, examining the top rail there, then to the next, the next, the next, and at the seventh or eighth beckoned us. "See, here?" he asked. "Think that ain't a runaway nigger? Look." A splinter had been newly rubbed off the rail. "What you reckon done that, sir; a bird or a fish? That's where he jumped. Look yonder, where he landed and lit out." The merest fraction of a note from the horn brought the two free dogs to their master, and before he could lift Dandy over the fence Charmer was on the trail. She threw her head high and for the first time filled the resounding timber with the music of her bay. ["Mr. Chester," murmured Mlle. Chapdelaine, and once more he ceased to read. Mme. Castanado had laid her hands tightly to her face. Yet now she smilingly dropped them, saying: "Seraphine--Marcel--please to pazz around that cake an' wine. Well, I su'pose there are yet in the worl'--in Afrique--Asia--even Europe--several kin' of cuztom mo' wicked than that. And still I'm sorry that ever tranzpire. But, Mr. Chezter, if you'll resume?" Chester once more resumed.] XV Hardy's incitements were no longer whispers. "Dandy! Dandy!" he cried, with wild elation of voice and still no emotion in his face. "Niggeh-fellah thah. Dandy! Ah, Dandy! look him out!" The music swelled from Dandy's throat. Away went the pair. The younger couple, in yoke, trembled and moaned to be after them. The two clerks had swung down three or four rails from the fence, and with Hardy were hurrying their horses through, when the youngest dog, nose to the ground and tugging his yokemate along, let go a cry of discovery and began to dig furiously under a bottom rail. His master threw him off and drew from under it "Mrs. Southmayd's" tiny beflowered bonnet. "Good God!" exclaimed one of the boys as he held it up, "they've made way with her!" "Now, none of _that_ nonsense!" I cried; "she's given it to one of them and they've feared 'twould get them into trouble!" But the three had spurred off and I could only toss it away and follow. The baying had ceased and an occasional half-smothered yap told that the scent was broken. A huge grape-vine end, hanging from a lofty bough, had enabled the run-away to take a long sidewise swing clear of the ground; but as I came up the brutes had recovered the trail and sped on, once more breaking the still air, far and wide, into deep waves of splendid sound. Close after them, as best they might in yoke, scuttled the younger pair, dragging each other this way and that, their broad ears trailing to their feet, and Hardy riding close behind them, reciting their pedigrees and their distinguishing whims. Presently we issued from the woods, at the edge of wide fields surrounding a plantation-house and slave-quarters, and I hoped to find the trail broken again; but without a pause the chase turned along a line of fence as if to half encircle the plantation. The master of the hounds, in nervy yet placid words, explained that a runaway knew better than to cross open ground by night and set the house-dogs a-barking. It was only on seeing no workers in the fields that I remembered it was Sunday, and feared intensely that the pious fugitives might have shortened their flight. From the plantation's farther bound we ran down a long, gentle slope of beautiful open woods. At the bottom of it a clear stream rippled between steep banks shrouded with strong vines. Here the scent had failed and it was wonderful to see the docile faith and intelligence with which the dogs resigned the whole work to their master, and followed beside him while he sought a crossing-place for his horse. This took many minutes, but by and by they scrambled over, he bidding us wait where we were until the dogs should open again; and as he started down-stream along the farther bank the older hounds, at a single word, ran circling out before him in the tangle, electrified by the steel-cold eagerness of his implorings. But now, to my joy, he found their hungry snufflings as futile as his own scrutinizings and divinations, and after following the stream until my companions fretted openly at the delay, he dropped a note from his horn, rode back with the four dogs, recrossed, and passed down on our side with them at his heels, frowning at last and scanning the tangled growth of the opposite bank. And now again he came back: "You see, this stream runs so nigh the way they wanted to go that there's no tellin' how fur they waded down it or whether they was two, three, or four of 'em rej'ined together. They're shore to 'a' been all together when they left it, but where that was hell only knows. Come on." We plunged across after him and followed down the farther bank, and at the point where he had turned back he put the hounds on again. "How do you know there were more than one here?" I asked. "Because, if noth'n' else, this trail at first was a fool's trail and now it's as smart as cats a-fight'n'--_look 'em out, Dandy_! Every time the rascals struck a swimmin'-hole they swum it, the men sort o' tote'n' the women, I reckon--_ah, my Charmer! Yes, my sweet lady! take 'em! take 'em_!" As the stream emerged into an old field--"Sun's pow'ful hot for you-all!" Hardy added. "Ain't see' such a day this time o' year fo' a coon's age. Hosses feel'n' it. Hard to say which is hottest, sun or brush." We had skirted the branch a full mile, beating its margin thoroughly, and were in deep woods again, when all at once Charmer let out a glad peal. Her mate echoed it and with the stream at their back they were off and away in full cry. The trail was broad and strong and with rare breaks continued so for an hour. Often the dogs made us trot; in open grounds we galloped. Once, in a thickety wet tract where the still air was suffocating and a sluggish runlet meandered widely, Hardy was forced, after long hinderance, to drop the trail and recover it on a rising ground beyond. There once more we were making good speed when we burst into an open grove where about a small, unpainted frame church a saddle-horse was tied under every swinging limb. Before the church a gang of boys had sprung up from their whittling to be our gleeful spectators. Hardy waved them off with the assurance that we wanted neither their help nor company, and though the trail took us at slackened speed around two sides of the building we passed and were gone while the worshippers were in the first stanza of a hymn started to keep them on their benches. Noon, afternoon; we made no pause. "It's ketch 'em before night," said Hardy as we bent low under beech boughs, "or not till noon to-morrow." About mid-afternoon one of the court-house boys, who had been talking softly with the other, turned back with a bare good-by. His friend explained: "Got to be at his desk early in the morning. But I'm with you till you run 'em down." Happy for me that he was mistaken. Two hours more were hardly gone when, "My Prince is sick!" he cried, drew in, and under a smoke of his own curses began wildly to unsaddle. Hardy rode on. "You'll have to get another mount," I said. "Another hell! I wouldn't leave this horse sick in strange hands for a thousand dollars!" Suddenly he struck an imploring key: "Look here! I'll give you fifty dollars cash to stay with me till I get him out o' this!" "Five hundred," I called, trotting after Hardy, "wouldn't hire me." Till I was out of earshot I could hear him damning and cursing me in snorts and shouts as a sneak who would wear my coat of tar and feathers yet, and I was still wondering whether I ought to or not, when I overhauled the nigger-chaser cheering on his dogs. Their prey had again tricked them, and again the cry was, "Take him, Dandy!" and "Hi, Charmer, hi!" Between shouts: "Is yo' nag gwine to hold out?" "He's got to or perish," I laughed. In time we found ourselves under a vast roof of towering pines. The high green grass beneath them had been burned over within a year. The declining sun gilded both the grass and the lower sides of the soaring boughs. Even Hardy glanced back exaltedly to bid me mark the beauty of the scene. But I dared not. The dogs were going more swiftly than ever, and there was a ticklish chance of one's horse breaking a leg in one of the many holes left by burnt-out pine roots. The main risk, moreover, was not to Hardy's trained hunter but to my worn-out livery "nag." "We've started 'em, all four, on the run," he called, "but if we don't tree 'em befo' they make the river we'll lose 'em after all." The land began a steady descent. Soon once more we were in underbrush and presently came square against a staked-and-ridered worm fence around a "deadening" dense with tall corn. Charmer and Dandy had climbed directly over it, scampered through the corn, and were waking every echo in a swamp beyond. The younger pair, still yoked, stood under the fence, yelping for Hardy's aid. He sprang down and unyoked them and over they scrambled and were gone, ringing like fire-bells. Outside the fence, both right and left, the ground was miry, yet for us it was best to struggle round through the bushy slough; which we had barely done when with sudden curses Hardy spurred forward. The younger dogs were off on a separate chase of their own. For at the river-bank the four negroes had divided by couples and gone opposite ways. "Call them back!" I urged. "Blow your horn!" But I was ignored. XVI [Chester sat looking at a newly turned page as though it were illegible. "I'm wondering," he lightly said, "what public enormity of to-day the next generation will be as amazed at as we are at this." "Ah," Mme. Castanado responded, "never mine! Tha'z but the moral! Aline and me we are insane for the story to finizh!" And the story was resumed, to suffer no further interruption.] At the river we burst out upon a broad, gentle bend up and down which we could see both heavily wooded banks for a good furlong either way. The sun's last beams shone straight up the lower arm of the bend. On the upper bayed Charmer and Dandy, unseen. On the lower we heard the younger pair. On the upper we saw only the clear waters crinkling in a wide shallow over a gravel-bar, but down-stream we instantly discovered Luke and his wife. Silhouetted against the level sunlight, heaving forward with arms upthrown, waist deep in the main current, they were more than half-way across. At that moment two small dark objects, the two dogs, moved out from the shore, after them, each with its wake of two long silvery ripples. The "puppy" was leading. With a curse their master threw the horn to his lips and blew an imperious note. The rear dog turned his head and would have reversed his course, but seeing his leader keep on he kept on with him. Again the angry horn re-echoed, and the rear dog promptly turned back though the other swam on. Rebecca threw a look behind and it was pitiful to hear her outcry of despair and terror. But Luke faced about and, backing after her through the flood, prepared to meet the hound naked-handed. Hardy sprang to his tiptoes in the stirrups, his curses pealing across the water. "If you hurt that dog," he yelled, "I'll shoot you dead!" Up-stream the other two runaways were out on the gravel-bar, Euonymus behind Robelia and Robelia splashing ludicrously across the shoal, tearing off and kicking off--in preparation for deep water--sunbonnet, skirt, waist, petticoat, and howling in the self-concern of abject cowardice. "Thank heaven, she's a swimmer," thought I, "and won't drown her brother!" For only a swimmer ever cast off garments that way. The flight of Euonymus, too, was bare-headed and swift, but it was unfrenzied and silent. Neither of them saw Luke or Rebecca; the sun was in their eyes and at that instant Charmer and Dandy, having met some momentary delay, once more bayed joyously and sprang into view. Like Luke, Euonymus faced the brutes. With another fierce outcry Hardy blew his recall of all the four dogs. Three turned at once but the youngster launched himself at Luke's throat where he stood breast-high in the glassing current. The slave caught the dog's whole windpipe in both hands and went with him under the flood. Hardy's supreme care for Charmer had lost him the strategic moment, but he fired straight at Rebecca. She did not fall and his weapon flew up for a second shot! but by some sheer luck I knocked the pistol spinning yards away into the river. While it spun I saw other things: Rebecca clasping a wounded arm; Luke and the dog reappearing apart, the dog about to repeat his onset; and Hardy dumb with rage. "Call the puppy!" I cried, "you'll save him yet." The master winded his horn, and the dog swam our way. At the same time his fellows came about us, while on the farther bank Luke helped his wife writhe up through the waterside vines, and with her disappeared. Only Euonymus remained in the water, at the far edge of the gravel-bar. I was so happy that I laughed. "All right," I cried, "I'll pay for the revolver." Foul epithets were Hardy's reply while he spurred madly to and fro in search of an opening in the vines to let his horse down into the stream. I rode with him, knee to knee. "You'll pay for this with your life !" he yelled down my throat. "I'll kill you, so help me God! _Charmer! Dandy! go, take the nigger!_" The whole baying pack darted off for Euonymus's crossing. "_Take the nigger, Charmer! Ah! take him, my lady!_" We saw that Euonymus could not swim. Still knee to knee with Hardy, I drew and fired. "Puppy's" mate yelped and rolled over, dead. "Call them back," I said, holding my weapon high; but Hardy only shrieked curses and cried: "_Take the nigger, Charmer, take him!_" I fired again. Poor Dandy! He sprang aside howling piteously, with melting eyes on his master. "Oh, God!" cried Hardy, leaping down beside the wailing dog, that pushed its head into his bosom like a sick child. "Oh, God, but you shall die for this!" He was half right but so was I and I checked up barely enough to cry back: "Call 'em off! Call 'em off or I'll shoot Charmer!" With Dandy clasped close and with eyes streaming he blew the recall. Looking for its effect, I saw Euonymus trying to swim and Charmer quitting the chase. But the young dog kept on. The current was carrying Euonymus away. Twice through vines and brush, while I cried: "Catch the fallen tree below you! Catch the tree!" I tried to spur my horse down into the stream, and on the third trial I succeeded. The flood had cut the bank from under a great buttonwood. It hung prone over the water, and one dipping fork seized and held the fainting swimmer. The dog was close, but had entered the current too far down and was breasting it while he bayed in protest to his master's horn. Now, as Euonymus struggled along the tree the brute struck for the bank, and the two gained it together. Euonymus ran, but on a bit of open grass dropped to one knee, at bay. The dog sprang. In the negro fashion the runaway's head ducked forward to receive the onset, while both hands clutched the brute's throat. Not dreaming that they would keep their hold till I could get there, I leaped down in the shoal to fire; but the grip held, though the dog's teeth sank into legs and arms, and all at once Euonymus straightened to full stature, lifting the dog till his hind legs could but just tiptoe the ground. "Right!" I cried; "bully, my boy! Lift him one inch higher and he's whipped!" But Euonymus could barely hold him off from face and throat. "Turn him broadside to me!" I shouted, having come into water breast-deep. "Let me put a hole through him!" But the fugitive's only response was: "Run, Robelia! 'Ever mind me! Run! Run!" And here came Hardy across the gravel-bar, in the saddle. I aimed at him: "Stand, sir! Stand!" He hauled in and lifted the horn. Euonymus had heaved the dog from his feet. The horn rang, and with a howl of terror the brute writhed free, leaped into the river and swam toward his master. I sprang on my horse and took the deep water: "Wait, boy! Wait!" It was hard getting ashore. When I reached the spot of grass I found only the front half of the runaway's hickory shirt, in bloody rags. I spurred to a gap in the bushes, and there, face down, lay Euonymus, insensible. I knelt and turned the slender form; and then I whipped off my coat and laid it over the still, black bosom. For Euonymus was a girl. XVII Her eyelids quivered, opened. For a moment the orbs were vacant, but as she drew a deep breath she saw me. Her shapely hand sought her throat-button, and finding my coat instead she turned once more to the sod, moaning, "Brother! Mingo!" "Is he Robelia?" I asked. "Come, we'll find him." Clutching my coat to her breast, she staggered up. I helped her put the coat on and sprang into the saddle. "Now mount behind me," I said, reaching for her hand; but with an anguished look: "Whah Mingo?" she asked. "Is dey kotch Mingo?" "No, not yet. Your hand--now spring!" She landed firmly and we sped into the woods. My merely wounding Dandy was fortunate. It kept Hardy from following me hotfooted or rousing the neighborhood. I dare say he wanted no one but himself to have the joy of killing me. At a "store" and telegraph-station I let my charge down into a wild plum-patch, bought a hickory shirt, left my half-dead beast, telegraphed my livery-stable client where to find him, and so avoided the complication of being a horse-thief. Then I recovered Euonymus and about ten that night the five of us met on the bank of a creek. Near its farther shore, on a lonely railroad siding, we found a waiting freight-train and stole into one of its empty cars; and when at close of the next day hunger drove us out our pursuers were beating the bush a hundred miles behind. Fed from a negro-cabin and guided by the stars, we fled all of another night afoot, and on the following day lost Mingo. At broad noon, with an overseer and his gang close by in a corn-field, the seductions of a melon-patch overcame him and he howled away his freedom in the jaws of a bear-trap. His father and mother wept dumb tears and laid their faces to the ground in prayer. Euonymus was frantic. With all her superior sanity, she would not have left the region could she have persuaded us to go on without her. Well! Day by day we lay in the brush, and night after night fled on. I could tell much about the sweet, droll piety of my three fellow runaways, and the humble generosity of their hearts. No ancient Israelite ever looked forward to the coming of a political Messiah with more pious confidence than they to a day when their whole dark race should be free and enjoy every right that any other race enjoys. "Even a right to cross two races?" I once asked Luke, smilingly, though with intense aversion. "No, suh; no, suh! De same Lawd what give' ev'y man a wuck he cayn't do ef he ain't dat man, give' ev'y ra-ace a wuck dey cayn't do ef dey ain't dat ra-ace." I fancy he had been years revolving that into a formula; or--he may have merely heard some master or mistress say it. "Still," I suggested, "races have crossed, and made new and better ones." "I don't 'spute dat, suh; no, suh. But de Lawd ain't neveh gwine to make a betteh ra-ace by cross'n' one what done-done e'en-a' most all what even yit been done, on to anotheh what, eh----" Sidney (Onesimus) put in: "What ain't neveh yit done noth'n'!" And her mother sighed, "Amen!" XVIII "Yes?" inquired Mme. Castanado. "Well?" "Ah, surely!" cried several, "Tha'z not all?" Mme. De l'Isle appealed to her husband: "Even two, three hun'red mile', that din'n' bring the line of Canada, I think." "No, but, I suppose, of the Ohio." "And that undergroun' railway!" said Scipion. "Yes," Mme. Alexandre agreed, "but that story remain' unfinizh' whiles that uncle of Mr. Chezter couldn' return at his home." "Not even his State," ventured mademoiselle. "But he did," Chester said; "he came back." M. Dubroca spoke up: "Oh, 'tis easy to insert that, at the en'--foot-note." "And Hardy?" asked Beloiseau, "him and yo' uncle, they di'n' shoot either the other?" "I believe they did, each the other. I never quite understood the hints I got of it, till now. I know that six months in bed with a back full of _somebody's_ buckshot saved my uncle's life." "From lynching! That also muz' be insert'!" Chester thought not. "No, centre the interest in the runaway family, as in mademoiselle's 'Clock in the Sky.'" And so all agreed. A second time he walked home with mademoiselle, under the same lenient escort as before. One thus occupied, by moonlight, can moralize as he cannot with any larger number. "It's hard enough at best," he said, "for us, in our pride of race, to sympathize--seriously--in the joys, the hopes, the sufferings of souls under dark skins yet as human as ours if not as white." "Yes, 'tis true. Only one man, Mr. Chester, I ever knew, myself, who did that." "Your father?" "Yes, my dear father." "Will you not some day tell me his story?" "Mr. Castanado will tell you it. Any of those will tell you." "I can't question them about you, and besides----" "Well, here is my gate. 'And besides--' what?" "Besides, why can't you tell me?" "Ah, I'll do that--'some day,' as you say." The gate-key went into the lock. "But, mademoiselle, our 'Clock in the Sky'--our 'Angel of the Lord'--shan't we join them?" "Ah, they are already one, but you have yet to hear that _first_ manuscript, and that is so very separate--as you will see." "Isn't it also a story of dark skins?" "Ah, but barely at all of souls under them; those souls we find it so hard to remember." "_Chère fille_"--M. De l'Isle had come up, with Mme. Alexandre--"the three will go _gran'ly_ together! Not I al-lone perceive that, but Scipion also--Castanado--Dubroca. Mr. Chester, my dear sir, the pewblication of that book going to be heard roun' the worl'! Tha'z going produse an epoch, that book; yet same time--a bes'-seller!" Mademoiselle beamed. "Does Mr. Chester think 'twill be that? A best-seller?" Chester couldn't prophesy that of any book. "They say not even a publisher can tell." "Hah!" monsieur cried, "those cunning pewblisher'! they pref-er _not_ to tell." "Some poetry," Chester continued, urged by mademoiselle's eyes, "doesn't pay the poets over a few thousand a year--per volume; while some novels pay their authors--well--fortunes." "That they go," madame broke in, "and buy some _palaces in Italie_! And tha'z but the biginning; you have not count' the dramatization--hundreds the week! and those movie'--the same! and those tranzlation'!" "Well, I think we will be satisfied, Mr. Chester, with the tenth of that, eh?" Chester's reply was drowned in monsieur's: "No, my child! But nine-tenth' _maybe_, yes! No-no-no! if those pewblisher' find out you are satisfi' by one-tenth, one-tenth is all you'll ever see!" "Ah," said mademoiselle to madame, "even the one-tenth I mustn't tell to my aunts. They wouldn't sleep to-night. And myself--'publication, dramatization, movies, translation'--I believe I'll lie awake till daylight, making that into a song--a hymn!" A wonderful sight she was, pausing in the open gate, with the little high-fenced garden at her back, a street-lamp lighting her face. Chester harked back to that first manuscript. It "ought not to wait another week," he declared. "No," monsieur said, "and since we all have read that egcept only you." Chester looked to mademoiselle: "Then I suppose I might read it with the Castanados alone." "No," madame put in, "you see, you can't riturn at Castanado's immediately to-morrow or next day. That next day, tha'z Sunday, but you don't know if madame goin' to have the stren'th for that fati-gue. Yet same time you can't wait forever! And bisside', yo' Aunt Corinne, Aunt Yvonne--Mr. Chezter he's never have that lugsury to meet them, and that will be a very choice o'casion for Mr. Chezter to do that, if----" "If he'll take the pains," the niece broke in, "to call Sunday afternoon. Then I'll have the manuscript back from Mr. Castanado and we'll read it to my Aunt Corinne and my Aunt Yvonne, all four together in the garden." "Yes, yet not in this li'l' garden in the front, but in the large, far back from the house, in the h-arbor of 'oneysuckle and by the side of the li'l' lake, eh?" So prompted madame. "Assuredly," said the smiling girl; "not in the front, where is no room for a place to sit down!" Chester's acceptance was eager. Then once more the batten gate closed and the key grated between him and Aline--marvellous, marvellous Aline Chapdelaine. XIX The sunbeams of a tedious Sabbath began noticeably to slant. For two days, night, morning, noon, and afternoon, Geoffry Chester had silently speculated on what he was to see, hear, and otherwise experience when, as early as he might in keeping with the Chapdelaine dignity and his, he should pull the tiny brass bell-knob on their tall gate-post. Chapdelaine! Impressive, patrician title. Impressive too those baptismal names; implying a refinement invincible in the vale of adversity. Killing time up one street and down another--Rampart, Ursuline, Burgundy--he pictured personalities to fit them: for Corinne a presence stately in advanced years and preserved beauty; for Yvonne a fragile form suggestive of mother-o'-pearl, of antique lace. Knowledge of Aline justified such inferences--within bounds. With other charms she had all these, and must have got them from ancestral sources as truly Mlle. Corinne's and Mlle. Yvonne's as hers. "Oh, of course," he pondered, "there are contrary possibilities. They may easily fall short, far short, of her, in outer graces, and show their kinship only in a reflection of her inner fineness. They may be no more surprising than those dear old De l'Isles, or the Prieurs, or than Mrs. Thorndyke-Smith. So let it be! Aline----" "Aline-Aline!" alarmingly echoed his heart. "Aline is enough." Enough? Alas, too much! He felt himself far too forthpushing in--he would not confess more--a solicitude for her which he could not stifle; an inextinguishable wish to disentangle her from the officious care of those by whom she was surrounded--encumbered. "I've no right to this state of mind," he thought; "none." He reached the gate. He rang. A footfall of daintiest lightness came running! ["Aline-Aline!"] So might Allegro have tripped it. The key rasped round, ["Aline-Aline!"] the portal drew in, and he found himself getting his first front view of Cupid, the small black satellite. A pleasing object. Smaller than ever. White-collared as ever, starched and brushed to the sheen of a new penny and ugly of face as a gargoyle--ugly as his goddess was beautiful. Not merely negroidal, in lips, nose, ears, and tight black wool divided on the absolute equator; not racially but uniquely ugly--till he smiled--and spoke. He smiled and spoke with a joy of soul, a transparency of innocence, a rapture of love, that made his ugliness positively endearing even apart from the entranced recognition they radiated. "Ladies at home? Yassuh," he said, with an ecstasy as if he announced the world's war suddenly over, all oceans safe, all peoples free. He led the way up the cramped white-shell walk with a ceremonial precision that gave the caller time to notice the garden. It was hardly an empire. It lay on either side in two right-angled figures, each, say, of sixty by fourteen feet, every foot repeating florally the smile of the child. The rigid beds were curbed with brick water-painted as red as Cupid's gums. The three fences were green with vines, and here and there against them bloomed tall evergreen shrubs. At one upper corner of the main path was a camellia and at the other a crape-myrtle, symbols respectively, to the visitor, of Aunt Corinne and Aunt Yvonne. The brick doorstep smiled as red as the garden borders, and as he reached the open door Aline, with her two aunts at her back, received him. "Mr. Chester--Mlle. Chapdelaine. Mr. Chester--my Aunt Yvonne." Never had the niece seemed quite so fair--in face, dress, figure, or mental poise. She wore that rose whose petals are deep red in their outer circle and pass from middle pink to central white and deepen in tints with each day's age. If that rose could have been a girl, mind, soul, and all, a Creole girl, there would have been two on one stem. And there, on either side of her sat the aunts: the elder much too lean, the younger much too dishevelled, and both as sun-tanned as harvesters, betraying their poverty in flimsy, faded gowns which the dismayed youth named to himself not draperies but hangings. Yet they were sweet-mannered, fluent, gay, cordial, and unreserved, though fluttering, twittering, and ultra-feminine. The room was like the pair. "Doubtlezz Aline she's told you ab-out that 'ouse. No? Ah, chère! is that possible? 'Tis an ancient relique, that 'ouse. At the present they don't build any mo' like that 'ouse is build'! You see those wall', those floor'? Every wall they are not of lath an' plazter, like to-day; they are of solid plank' of a thicknezz of two-inch'--and from Kentucky!" The guest recognized the second-hand lumber of broken-up flatboats. "Tha'z a genuine antique, that 'ouse! Sometime' we think we ought to egspose that 'ouse, to those tourist', admission ten cent'." [A gay laugh.] "But tha'z only when Aline want' to compel us to buy some new dresses. And tha'z pritty appropriate, that antique 'ouse, for two sizter' themselve' pritty antique--ha, ha, ha!--as well as their anceztors." "I fancy they're from 'way back," said Chester. "We are granddaughter' of two _émigrés_ of the Revolution. The other two they were decapitalize' on that gui'otine. Yet, still, ad the same time, we don't _feel_ antique. We don't feel mo' than ten year'! And especially when we are showing those souvenir' of our in-_fancy_. And there is nothing we love like that." "Aline, _chère_, doubtlezz Mr. Chezter will be very please' to see yo' li'l' dress of baptism! Long time befo', that was also for me, and my sizter. That has the lace and embro'derie of a hundred years aggo, that li'l' dress of baptism. Show him that! Oh, that is no trouble, that is a _dil_-ight! and if you are please' to enjoy that we'll show you our two doll', age' forty-three!--bride an' bri'groom. Go, _you_, Yvonne, fedge them." The sister rose but lingered: "Mr. Chezter, you will egscuse if that bride an' groom don't look pritty fresh; biccause eighteen seventy-three they have not change' their clothingg!" "_Chérie_," said Aline, "I think first we better read the manuscript, and _then_." After a breath of hesitation--"Yes! read firs' and _then_. Alway' businezz biffo'!" All went into the garden; not the part Chester had come through, but another only a trifle less pinched, at the back of the house. A few steps of straight path led them through its stiff ranks of larkspurs, carnations, and the like, to a bower of honeysuckle enclosing two rough wooden benches that faced each other across a six-by-nine goldfish pool. There they had hardly taken seats when Cupid reappeared bearing to the visitor, on a silver tray, the manuscript. It was not opened and dived into with the fine flurry of the modern stage. Its recipient took time to praise the bower and pool, and the sisters laughed gratefully, clutched hands, and merrily called their niece "tantine." "You know, Mr. Chezter, 'tantine' tha'z 'auntie,' an' tha'z j'uz' a li'l' name of affegtion for her, biccause she takes so much mo' care of us than we of her; you see? But that bower an' that li'l' lake, my sizter an' me we construc' them both, that bower an' that li'l' lake." Without blazoning it they would have him know they had not squandered "tantine's" hard earnings on architects and contractors. "And we assure you that was not ladies' work. 'Twas not till weeks we achieve' that. That geniuz Aline! _she_ was the arshetec'. And those goldfishes--like Aline--are self-su'porting! We dispose them at the apothecary, Dauphine and Toulouse Street--ha, ha, ha! Corinne, tha'z the egstent of commerce we ever been ab'e to make, eh?" "And now," said Aline, "the story." "Ah, yes," responded Mlle. Corinne, "at laz' the manuscrip'!" and Mlle. Yvonne echoed, with a queer guilt in her gayety: "The manuscrip'! the myzteriouz manuscrip'!" But there the gate bell sounded and she sprang to her feet. Cupid could answer it, but some one must be indoors to greet the caller. "Yes, you, Yvonne," the elder sister said, and Aline added: "We'll not read till you return." "Ah, yes, yes! Read without me!" "No-no-no-no-no! We'll wait!" "We'll wait, Yvonne." The sister went. Chester smoothed out the pages, but then smilingly turned them face downward, and Aline said: "First, Hector will tell us who's there." Hector was Cupid. He came again, murmuring a name to Mlle. Corinne. She rose with hands clasped. "C'est M. et Mme. Rene Ducatel!" "Well? Hector will give your excuses; you are imperatively engaged." "Ah, _chère_, on Sunday evening! Tha'z an incredibility! Must you not let me go? You 'ave 'Ector." "Ah-h! and we are here to read this momentous document to Hector?" The sparkle of amused command was enchanting to at least one besides Cupid. Yet it did not win. "Chère, you make me tremble. Those Ducatel', they've come so far! How can we show them so li'l' civilization when they've come so far? An' me I'm convince', and Yvonne she's convince', that you an' Mr. Chezter you'll be ab'e to judge that manuscrip' better al-lone. Oh, yes! we are convince' of that, biccause, you know--I'm _sorrie_--we are prejudice' in its favor!" Aline's lifted brows appealed to Chester. "Maybe hearing it," he half-heartedly said, "may correct your aunts' judgment." The aunt shook her head in a babe's despair. "No, we've tri' that." Her smile was tearful. "Ah, _chérie_, you both muz' pardon. Laz' night we was both so af-raid about that, an' of a so affegtionate curio-zitie, that we was _compel_' to read that manuscrip' through! An' we are convince'--though tha'z not ab-out clocks, neither angels, neither lovers--yet same time tha'z a moz' marvellouz manuscrip'. Biccause, you know, tha'z a true story, that 'Holy Crozz.' Tha'z concerning an insurregtion of slave'--there in Santa Cruz. And 'a slave insurregtion,' tha'z what they ought to call it, yes!--to prom-ote the sale. Already laz' night Yvonne she say she's convince' that in those Northron citie', where they are since lately _so fon_' of that subjec', there be people by _dozen_'--will _devour_ that story!" She tripped off to the house. "Hector," said Aline, "you may sit down." Cupid slid into the vacated seat. Chester dropped the document into his pocket. "For what?" the girl archly inquired. "I want to take it to my quarters and judge it there. Why shouldn't I?" "Yes, you may do that." "And now tell me of your father, or his father--the one Beloiseau knew--Théophile Chapdelaine." "Both were Théophile. He knew them both." "Then tell me of both." "Mr. Chester, 'twould be to talk of myself!" "I won't take it so. Tell the story purely as theirs. It must be fine. They were set, in conscience, against the conscience of their day----" "So is Mr. Chester." "Never mind that, either. We're in a joint commercial enterprise; we want a few good stories that will hang on one stem. Our business is business; a primrose by the river's brim--nothing more! Although"--the speaker reddened---- The girl blushed. "Mr. Chester, take away the 'although' and I'll tell the story." "I take it away. Although----" XX THE CHAPDELAINES "A yellow primrose was to him----" Yonder in the parlor with the Ducatels, ignorant of the poet's lines as they, the two aunts--those two consciously irremovable, unadjustable, incarnated interdictions to their niece's marriage--saw the primrose, the "business," as the pair in the bower thought they saw it themselves. Were not Aline and Chester immersed in that tale of servile insurrection so destitute of angels, guiding stars, and lovers? And was not Hector with them? And are not three as truly a crowd in French as in American? "Well, to begin," Chester urged, "your grandfather, Théophile Chapdelaine, was born in this old quarter, in such a street. Royal?" "Yes. Nearly opposite the ladies' entrance of that Hotel St. Louis now perishing." "Except its dome. I hear there's a movement---- "Yes, to save that. I hope 'twill succeed. To me that old dome is a monument of those two men." "But if it comes down the home remains, opposite, where both were born, were they not?" "Yes. Yet I'd rather the dome. We Creoles, you know, are called very conservative." "Yet no race is more radical than the French." "True. And we Chapdelaines have always been radical. _Grandpère_ was, though a slaveholder." "Oh, none of _my_ ancestors justified slavery, yet as planters they had to own negroes." "But the Chapdelaines were not planters. They were agents of ships. Fifty times on one page in the old _Picayune_, or in _L'Abeille_--'For freight or passage apply to the master on board or to T. Chapdelaine & Son, agents.' Even then there were two Théophiles, and grandpapa was the son. They were wholesale agents also for French exporters of artistic china, porcelain, glass, bronze. Twice they furnished the hotel with everything of that kind; when it first opened, and when it changed hands. That's how they came to hold stock in it. Grandpapa, outdoor man of the firm, was every day in the rotunda, under that dome." "Yes," Chester said, "it was a kind of Rialto, I know. They called it the 'Exchange,' as earlier they had called Maspero's." "You love our small antiquities. So do I. Well, grandpapa did much business there, both of French goods and of ships; and because the hotel was the favorite of the sugar-planters its rotunda was one of the principal places for slave auctions." "Yes, they were, I know, almost daily. The old slave-block is shown there yet, if genuine." "Ah, genuine or not, what difference? From one that _was_ there _grandpère_ bought many slaves. He and his father speculated in them." "Why! How strange! The son? _your_ grandfather? the radical, who married--'Maud'?" "Yes, the last slave he bought was for her." "Why, why, why! He couldn't have met her be'--well--before the year of Lincoln's election." "No, let me tell you. You remember 'Sidney'?" "'Maud's' black maid? my uncle's Euonymus? Yes." "Well, when she came to Maud, at Maud's home, in the North, she was still in agony about Mingo, who'd been recaptured. So Maud wrote South, to her aunt, who wrote back: 'Yes, he had been brought home, and at creditor's auction had been sold to a slave-trader to be resold here in New Orleans.' So then Sidney begged Maud, who by luck was coming here, to bring her here to find him." "Brave Sidney. Brave Euonymus." "Yes--although--her Southern mistress--I know not how legally--had sent to her her free-paper. That made it safer, I suppose, eh?" "Yes. But--who told you all this so exactly--your _grand'mère_ herself, or your _grandpère_?" "Ah--she, no. I never saw her. And _grandpère_--no, he was killed before I was born." "_What_?" "Yes, all that I'll come to. This I'm telling now is from my own papa. He had it from _grandpère_. _Grand'mère_ and Sidney came with friends, a gentleman and his wife, by ship from New York." "And all put up at Hotel St. Louis?" "Yes. From there Maud and Sidney began their search. But now, first, about that speculating in slaves: those two Théophiles, first the father, then both, hated slavery. 'Twas by nature and in everything that they were radical. Their friends knew that, even when they only said, 'Oh, you are extreme!' or 'Those Chapdelaines are extremist.' In those years from about eighteen-forty to 'sixty----" "When the slavery question was about to blaze----" "Yes--they voted Whig. That was the most antislavery they could vote and stay here. But under the rose they said: 'All right! extremist, yet Whig; we'll be extreme Whig of a new kind. We'll trade in slaves.'" Chester laughed. "I begin to see," he said, and by a sidelong glance bade Aline note the rapt attention of Cupid. Her answering smile was so confidential that his heart leaped. "I'll tell you by and by about that also," she murmured, and then resumed: "While _grandpère_ was yet a boy his father had begun that, that slave-buying. On that auction-block he would often see a slave about to be sold much below value, or whose value might easily be increased by training to some trade. You see?--blacksmith, lady's maid, cook, hair-dresser, engine-driver, butler?" Chester darkened. "So he made the thing pay?" "_Seem_ to pay. Looking so simple, so ordinary, 'twas but a mask for something else." "But in a thing looking so ordinary had he no competitors, to make profits difficult?" "Ah, of a kind, yes; but the men who could do that best would not do it at all. They would not have been respected." "But T. Chapdelaine & Son were respected." "Yes, _in spite_ of that. Their friends said: 'Let the extremists be extreme that way.'" "The public mind was not yet quite in flames." "No. But--guess who helped _grandpère_ do that." "Why, do I know him? Castanado." The girl shook her head. "Who? Beloiseau?" "Ah, you! You can guess better." "Ovide Lan'--no, Ovide was still a slave." "Yet more free than most free negroes. 'Twas he. He was janitor to offices in the hotel, and always making acquaintance with the slaves of the slave-mart. And when he found one who was quite of the right kind--and Ovide he's a wise judge of men, you know--he would show him to _grandpère_, and at the auction, if the bidding was low, _grandpère_ would buy him--or her." "What was one of 'quite the right kind'? One willing to buy his own freedom?" "Ah, also to do something more; you see?" "Yes, I see," Chester laughed; "to help others run away, wasn't it?" "Not precisely to run, but----" "To stow away, on those ships, h'm?" There was rapture in crossing that _h'm_ line of intimacy. "I see it all! Ha-ha, I see it all! Well! that brings us back to 'Maud,' doesn't it--h'm?" "Yes. They met, she and grandpère, at a ball, in the hotel. But"--Aline smiled--"that was not their first. Their first was two or three mornings before, when he, passing in Royal Street, and she--with Sidney--looking at old buildings in Conti Street----" "Mademoiselle! That happened to _them_?--_there_?" "Yes, to _them_, _there_." With level gaze narrator and listener regarded each other. Then they glanced at Cupid. His eyes were shining on them. "Who is our young friend, anyhow?" asked Chester. "Ah, I suppose you have guessed. He is the grandson of Sidney." XXI "And another time, on the morning just before the ball," said Aline, returning to the story, "they had seen each other again. That was at the slave-auction. That night, before the ball was over, she and _grandpère_ understood--knew, each, from the other, why the other was at that auction; and he had promised her to find Mingo. "Well, after weeks, Ovide helping, all at once there was Mingo, in the gang, by the block, waiting his turn to go on it. Picture that! Any time I want to shut my eyes I can see it, and I think you can do the same, h'm?" Blessed _h'm_; 'twas the flower--of the Chapdelaines--humming back to the bee. Said the bee, "We'll try it there together some day, h'm?" and Cupid mutely sparkled: "Oh, by all means! the three of us!" The flower ignored them both. "There was the auctioneer," she said; "there were the slaves, there the crowd of bidders; between them the block, above them the beautiful dome. Very soon Mingo was on the block, and the first bid was from Sidney. She was the only one in a hurry except Mingo. He was trying to see her, but she was hiding from him behind _grandpère_; yet not from the auctioneer. The auctioneer stopped. "'Who authorized you to bid here?' he asked her. "'Nobody, sir; I's free.' She held up her paper. "_Grandpère_ nodded to the auctioneer. "'Will Mr. Chapdelaine please read it out?' "He read it out, signature and all. "'Anybody know any one of that name?' the auctioneer asked, and _grand'mère_ said: "'That's my aunt. This free girl is my maid." "'Oh, bidding for you?' he said; and grand'mere said no, the girl was bidding on her own account, with her own money. "'What kind of money? We can't take shinplasters.' For 'twas then 'sixty-one--year of secession, you know. "'Gold!' Sidney called out, and held it up in a black stocking, so high that every one laughed." "Not Mingo, I fancy." "Ah, no, nor the keeper of the gang." "--Wonder how Mingo was behaving." "He? he was shaking and weeping, and begging this and that of the man who held and threatened him, to keep him quiet. So then the auctioneer began to call Sidney's bid. You know how that would be: 'Gentlemen, I'm offered five hundred dollars. Cinq cent piastres, messieurs! Only five hundred for this likely boy worth all of nine! Who'll say six? Going at five hundred, what do I hear?' But he heard nothing till--'third and last call!' Then the owner of the gang nodded and the auctioneer called out, 'six hundred!"' "And did Sidney raise it?" "No, she wept aloud. 'Oh, my brotheh!' she cried, 'Lawd save my po' brotheh! I's los' him ag'in! I done bid my las' dollah at de fust call!'" "And Mingo knew her voice, spied her out?" "Yes, and holloed, 'Sidney! sisteh!' till _grand-mère_ wept too and a man called out, 'No one bid that six hundred!' But _grandpère_ said: 'I bid six-fifty and will tell all about this _unlikely_ boy if his owner bids again.' "So Mingo was sold to _grandpère_. 'And now,' _grandpère_ whispered to _grand-mère_ and her friends, 'go pack trunks for the ship as fast as you can.'" "And they parted like that? But of course not!" "No, only expected to. In the Gulf, at the mouth of the river, a Confederate privateer"--the narrator's voice faded out. She began to rise. Her aunts were returning. XXII Mademoiselle, we say, began to rise. Chester stood. Also Cupid. The aunts drew near, speaking with infantile lightness: "Finizh' already that reading? You muz' have gallop'! Well, and what is Mr. Chezter's conclusion on that momentouz manuscrip'?" The niece hurried to answer first: "Ah! we must not ask that so immediately. Mr. Chester concludes 'tis better for all that he study that an evening or two in his seclusion." "And! you did not read it through together?" "No, there was no advantage to----" "Oh! advantage! An' you stop' in the mi'l of that momentouz souvenir of the pas'! Tha'z astonizhing that _anybody_ could do that, an' leas' of all" [confronting Chester] "the daughter of a papa an' gran'papa with such a drama-tique bio-graphie! Mr. Chezter, to pazz the time Aline ought to 'ave tell you that bio-graphie, yes!--of our marvellouz brother an' papa. Ah, you should some day egstort _that_ story from our too li'l' communicative girl." "Why not to-day, for the book?" "Oh, no-no-no-no-o! We di'n' mean that!" The sisters laughed excessively. "A young lady to put her own papa into a book--ah! im-pos-si-ble!" They laughed on. "Even my sizter an' me, we have never let anybody egstort that, an' we don't know if Aline ever be persuade'----" "Yes, some day I'll tell Mr. Chezter--whatever he doesn't know already." "Ha-ha! we can be sure tha'z not much, Aline. And, Corinne, if he's _heard_ this or that, tha'z the more reason to tell him co'rec'ly. Only, my soul! not to put in the book, no!" "Ah, no! Though as between frien', yes. And, moreover, to Mr. Chezter, yes, biccause tha'z so much abbout that Hotel St. Louis and he is so appreciative to old building'. Ah, we've notice' that incident! Tha'z the cause that we egs'ibit you our house--as a relique of the pas'--Yvonne! we are forgetting!--those souvenir' of our in-fancy--to show them! Come--all!" Half-way to the house--"Ah, ha-ha! another subjec' of interess! See, Mr. Chezter; see coming! Marie Madeleine! She's mis' both her beloved miztress' from the house and become anxious, our beautiful cat! We name' her Marie Madeleine because her great piety! You know, tha'z the sacred truth, that she never catch' a mice on Sunday." "Ah, neither the whole of Lent!" In the parlor--"I really think," Chester said, "I must ask you to let me take another time for the souvenirs. I'm so eager to save this manuscript any further delay--" He said good-by. Yet he did not hurry to his lodgings. He had had an experience too great, too rapt, to be rehearsed in his heart inside any small, mean room. All the open air and rapid transit he could get were not too much, till at lamplight he might sit down somewhere and hold himself to the manuscript. Meantime the Chapdelaines had been but a moment alone when more visitors rang--a pair! Their feet could be seen under the gate--two male, two female--that is not a land where women have men's feet. Flattering, fluttering adventure--five callers in one afternoon! "Aline, we are becoming a public institution!" The aunts sprang here, there, and into collision; Cupid sped down the walk; Marie Madeleine stood in the door. And who were these but the dear De l'Isles! "No," they would not come inside. "But, Corinne, Yvonne, Aline, run, toss on hats for a trip to Spanish Fort." One charm of that trip is that the fare is but, five cents, and the crab gumbo no dearer than in town. "Come! No-no-no, not one, but the three of you. In pure compassion on us! For, as sometimes in heaven among cherubim, we are _ennuyés_ of each other!" The small half-hourly electric train in Rampart Street had barely started lakeward into Canal, with the De l'Isle-Chapdelaine five aboard and the sun about to set, when Geoffry Chester entered--and stopped before monsieur, stiff with embarrassment. Nevertheless that made them a glad six, and, as each seat was for two, the two with life before them took one. XXIII The small public garden, named for an old redout on the lake shore at the mouth of Bayou St. John was filled with a yellow sunset as Chester and Aline moved after the aunts and the De l'Isles from the train into a shell walk whose artificial lights at that moment flashed on. "So far from that," he was saying, "a story may easily be improved, clarified, beautified, by--what shall I say?--by filtering down through a second and third generation of the right tellers and hearers." "Ah, yes! the right, yes! But----" "And for me you're supremely the right one." Instantly he rued his speech. Some delicate mechanism seemed to stop. Had he broken it? As one might lay a rare watch to his ear he waited, listening, while they stood looking off to where water, sky, and sun met; and presently, to his immeasurable relief, she responded: "_Grandpère_ was not at that time such a very young man, yet he still lived with his father. So when _grand'mère_ and her two friends--with Sidney and Mingo--returned from the privateer to the hotel they were opposite neighbors to the Chapdelaines and almost without another friend, in a city--among a people--on fire with war. Then, pretty soon--" the fair narrator stopped and significantly smiled. Chester twinkled. "Um-h'm," he said, "your _grandpère's_ heart became another city on fire." "Yes, and 'twas in that old hotel--with the war storm coming, like to-day only everything much more close and terrible, business dead, soldiers every day going to Virginia--you must make Mr. Thorndyke-Smith tell you about that--'twas in that old hotel, at a great free-gift lottery and bazaar, lasting a week, for aid of soldiers' families, and in a balcony of the grand salon, that _grandpère_--" the narrator ceased and smiled again. "Proposed," Chester murmured. The girl nodded. They sank to a bench, the world behind them, the stars above. "_Grand'mére_, she couldn't say yes till he'd first go to her home, almost at the Canadian line, and ask her family. She, she couldn't go; she couldn't leave Sidney and Mingo and neither could she take them. So by railroad at last he got there. But her family took so long to consent that he got back only the next year and through the fall of the city. Only by ship could he come, and not till he had begged President Lincoln himself and promised him to work with his might to return Louisiana to the Union. Well, of course, he and his father had voted against secession, weeping; yet now this was a pledge terrible to keep, and the more because, you see? what to do, and when and how to do it----" "Were left to his own judgment and tact?" "Oh, and honor! But anyhow he came. Doubtless, bringing the written permission of the family, he was happy. Yet to what bitternesses--can we say bitternesses in English?" "Indeed we can," said Chester. "To what bitternesses _grandpére_ had to return!" "Aline!" Mme. De l'Isle called; "à table!" "Yes, madame. Tell me--you, Mr. Chester--to your vision, how all that must have been." "Paint in your sketch? Let me try. Maybe only because you tell the story, but maybe rather because it's so easy to see in you a reincarnation of your _grand'mére_--a Creole incarnation of that young 'Maud'--what I see plainest is she. I see her here, two thousand miles from home, with but three or four friends among a quarter of a million enemies. I see her on the day the city fell, looking up and down Royal Street from a balcony of the hotel, while from the great dome a few steps behind her the Union fleet could be seen, rounding the first two river bends below the harbor, engaging a last few Confederate guns at the old battle-ground, and coming on, with the Stars and Stripes at every peak. I see her----" "She was beautiful, you know--_grand'mére_." "Yes, I see her so, looking down from that balcony, awestruck, not fearstruck, on the people who in agonies of rage and terror fled the city by pairs and families, or in armed squads and unarmed mobs swept through the streets and up and down the levee, burning, breaking, and plundering." "But that was the worst anybody did, you know." "Oh, yes. We never knew till to-day's war came how humane that war was. It wasn't a war in which beauty, age, and infancy were hideous perils." "Ah, never mind about that to-day. But about _grandpère_ and _grand'mère_ go on. Let me see how much you can imagine correctly, h'm?" "Please, mademoiselle, no. Time has made you--through your father's eyes--they say you have them--an eye-witness. So next you see your _grandpère_ getting back at last, by ship--go on." "Yes, I see that, in a harbor whose miles of wharfs without ships cried to him: 'our occupation and your fortune are gone!' Also I see him again in the streets--Royal, Chartres, Canal, Carondelet--where old friends pass him with a stare. I see him and _grand'mère_ married at last, in a church nearly empty and even the priest unfriendly." "Had he no new friends, Unionists?" "Not yet, at the wedding. There he said: 'Old friends or none.' And that was right, don't you think? Later 'twas different. You see, in the navy, both of the rivers and the sea, as likewise the army, _grand'mère_ had uncles and cousins; and when the hotel was made a military hospital she was there every day. And naturally those cousins, whether from hospital or no, would call and even bring friends. Well, of course, _grandpère_ was, at the least, courteous! And then there was his word of honor, to Mr. Lincoln, as also his own desire, to bring the State back into the Union." "Of course. Don't hurry, please." "Was I hurrying? Pardon, but I'm afraid they'll be calling us again." The pair rose, but stood. "Well, when a kind of government was made of that part of the State held by the Union, and the military governor wanted both _grandpère_ and his father to take some public offices, his father made excuse of his age and of a malady--taken from that hospital--which soon occasioned him to die." "I've seen his tomb, in St. Louis cemetery, with its epitaph of barely two words--'Adieu, Chapdelaine.' Who supplied that? Old friends, after all?" "A few old, a few new, and one the governor." "Did the governor propose the words?" "No. If I tell you you won't tell? Ovide. But _grandpère_ he took the office. And so that put him yet more distant from old friends except just two or three who believed the same as he did." "And our Royal Street coterie, of course." "Ah, not those you see now; but their parents, yes. They were faithful; though sometimes, some of them, sympathizing differently. Well, and so there was _grandpère_ working to repair a _piece_ of the State, when at last the war finished and the reconstruction of the whole State commenced. He and Ovide were both of that State convention they mobbed in the 'July riot.' Some men were killed in that riot. _Grandpère_ was wounded, also Ovide. Those were awful times to _grand'mère_, those years of the reconstruction. _Grandpère_ he--" The girl glanced backward, then turned again, smiling. The four chaperons were going indoors without them. "Yes," Chester said, "your _grandpère_ I can imagine----" "Well, go ahead; imagine, to me." "No. No, except just enough to see him with no choice of party allegiance but between a rabble up to the elbows in robbery and an old régime red-handed with the rabble's blood." "Ah, so papa told me, after _grandpère_ was long gone, and me on his knee asking questions. 'Reconstruction, my dear child--' once he answered me, ''twas like trying to drive, on the right road, a frantic horse in a rotten harness, and with the reins under his tail!' Ah, I wish you could have known him, Mr. Chester--my father!" "I know his daughter." "Well, I suppose--I suppose we must go in." "With the story almost finished?" "We'll, maybe finish inside--or--some day." XXIV T. CHAPDELAINE & SON The seniors were found at a table for four. Mme. De l'Isle explained: "But! with only four to sit down there, how was it possib' to h-ask for a tab'e for six? That wou'n' be logical!" When the waiter offered to add a smaller table and make one snug board for six--"No," she said; "for feet and hands that be all right; but for the _mind_, ah! You see, Mr. Chezter, M. De l'Isle he's also precizely in the mi'l' of a moze overwhelming story of his own------" "Hiztorical!" the aunts broke in. "Well-known! abbout old house! in the _vieux carré_!" "And," madame insisted, "'twould ruin that story, to us, to commenze to hear it over, while same time 'twould ruin it to you to commenze to hear it in the mi'l'. And beside', Aline, you are doubtlezz yet in the mi'l' of your own story and--waiter! make there at that firz' window a tab'e for two, and" [to the pair] "we'll run both storie' ad the same time--if not three!" "Like that circ'"--the aunts fell into tears of laughter. They touched each other with finger-tips, cried, "Like that circuz of Barnum!" and repeated to the De l'Isles and then to Aline, "Like that circuz of Barnum an' Bailey!" At the table for two, as the gumbo was uncovered and Chester asked how it was made, "Ah!" said Aline, "for a veritable gumbo what you want most is enthusiasm. The enthusiasm of both my aunts would not be too much. And to tell how 'tis made you'd need no less, that would be a story by itself, third ring of the circus." "Then tell me, further, of '_grandpère_'" "And grand'mère? Yes, I must, as I learned about them on papa's knee. Mamma never saw them; they had been years gone when papa first knew her. But Sidney I knew, when she was old and had seen all those dreadful times; and, though she often would not tell me the story, she would tell me what to ask papa; you see? You would have liked to talk with Sidney about old buildings. Mr. Chester, I think it is not that in New Orleans we are so picturesque, but that all the rest of our country--in the cities--is so starved for the picturesque. Sidney would have told you that story monsieur is telling now as well as all the strange history of that old Hotel St. Louis. First, after the war it was changed back from a hospital to a hotel. I think 'twas then they called it Hotel Royal. Anyhow 'twas again very fine. Grandpère and grand'mère were often in that salon where he had first--as they say--spoken. Because, for one thing, there they met people of the outside world without the local prejudices, you know?" "At that time bitter and vindictive?" "Oh, ferocious! And there they met also people of the most--dignity." "Above the average of the other hotels?" "Well, not so--so brisk." "Not so American?" "Ah, you know. Well, maybe that's one reason the St. Charles, for example, continued, while the Royal did not. Anyhow the Royal--grandpère had the life habit of it and 'twas just across the street. Daily they ate there; a real economy." "But they kept the old home." "Yes. 'Twas furnished the same but not 'run' the same. 'Twas very difficult to keep it, even with all three stories of the servants' wing shut up, you know?--like"--a glance indicated the De l'Isles. "But you say Hotel Royal was soon closed." "Yes, and then, in the worst of those days, it became the capitol. There, in the most elegant hotel for the most elegant planters of the South--anyhow Southwest--sat their slaves, with white men even more abhorred, and made the laws. In that old dome, second story, they put a floor across, and there sat the Senate! Just over that auction-block where grandpère had bought Mingo." "Where was he--Mingo?" "Dead--of drink. Grandpère was in that government! Long time he was senator. Mr. Chester, _for that_ papa was proud of him, and I am proud." The listener was proud of her pride. "I know," he said, "from my own people, that in such an attitude--as your grandfather's--there was honor a plenty for any honorable man. Ovide tells me the negroes never wanted negro supremacy. I wonder if that's so. They were often, he says, madly foolish and corrupt; yet their fundamental lawmaking was mostly good. I know the State's constitution was; it was ahead of the times." Aline made a quick gesture: "And any of the old masters who agreed to that could help lead!" "Mademoiselle, how could they agree to it? Some did, I know, but that's the wonder. Those that could not--who can blame them?" "Ah! 'tis no longer a question of blame but of judgment. So papa used to say. Anyhow grandpère agreed, accepted, led; until at the last, one day, that White League--you've heard of them, how they armed and drilled and rose against that reconstruction police in a battle on the steamboat landing? Grandpère was in that. He commanded part of the reconstruction forces. And papa was there, though only thirteen. Grandpère was bayonet-wounded. They carried him away bleeding. Only at the State-house a surgeon met them, and there, under that dome, just as papa brought grand'mère and Sidney, he died." Mademoiselle ceased. Chester waited, but she glanced to the other table. Monsieur had ended his recital. Madame and the aunts chatted merrily. Smilingly the niece's eyes came back. "Don't stop," said Chester. "What followed--for 'Maud'--Sidney--your boy father--your little-girl aunts? Did the clock in the sky call them North again?" "No." The speaker rose. "I'll tell you on the train; I hear it coming." XXV "There's a train every half-hour," Chester said. "Yes, but the day-laborer must be home early." On the train--"Well," the youth urged, "your _grand'mère_ stayed in the old home, I hope, with the three children--and Sidney?" "Only till she could sell it. But that was nearly three years, and they were hard, those three. But at last, by the help of that Royal Street coterie--who were good friends, Mr. Chester, when friends were scarce--she sold both house and furniture--what was by that time remaining--and bought that place where we are now living." "Was there no life-insurance?" "A little. We have the yearly interest on it still. 'Tis very small, yet a great help--to my aunts. I tell that only to say that papa would never touch it when he and my aunts--and afterward mamma--were in very narrow places." Chester perceived another reason for the telling of it; the niece wanted to escape the credit of being the sole support of her aunts. She read his thought but ignored it. "Papa was very old for his age," she continued. "You may see that by his being in the battle with _grandpère_ at thirteen years. And because of that precocity he got much training of the mind--and spirit--from _grandpère_ that usually is got much later. I think that is what my aunts mean when they tell you papa's life was dramatic. It _was_ so, yet not in the manner they mean, the manner of _grandpère's_ life; you understand?" "You mean it was not melodramatic?" "Ah! the word I wanted! Mr. Chester, when we get over being children, those of us who do, why do we try so hard to live without melodrama?" "Oh, mademoiselle, you know well enough. You know that's what melodrama does, itself? What is it, in essence, but a struggle to rise out of itself into a higher drama, of the spirit----?" "A divine comedy! Yes. Well, that is what my father's life seems to me." "With tragic elements in it, of course?" "Oh! How could it be high comedy without? But except that one battle the tragedy was not--eh--crude, like _grandpère's_; was not physical. Once he said to me: 'There are things in life, in the refined life, very quiet things, that are much more tragic than bloodshed or death or the defying of death.'" "In the refined life," Chester said musingly. "Yes! and he _was_ refined, yet never weak. 'Strength,' he said, 'valor, truth, they are the foundations; better be dead than without them. Yet one can have them, in crude form, and still better be dead. The noble, the humane, the chaste, the beautiful, 'tis with them we build the superstructure, the temple, of life--Mr. Chester, if you knew French I could tell you that better." "I doubt it. Go on, please, time's a-flying." "Well, you see how tragic was that life! Papa saw it and said: 'It shall not be tragic alone. I will build on it a comedy higher, finer, than tragedy. That's what life is for; mine, yours, the world's,' he said to me. Mr. Chester, you can imagine how a daughter would love a father like that, and also how mamma loved him--for years--before they could marry." "Your mother was a Creole, I suppose?" "No, mamma was French. After _grand'mère_ had followed _grandpère_--above--papa, looking up some of the once employees of T. Chapdelaine & Son, to raise the old concern back to life, arranged with them that while they should reinstitute it here he would go live in France, close to the producers of the finest goods possible. You see? And he did that many years with a kind of success; but smaller and smaller, because little by little the taste for those refinements was passing, while those department stores and all that kind of thing--you understand--h'm?" The train stopped in Rampart Street, and when one aunt, with madame, and one with monsieur, had followed the junior pair out of the snarlings and hootings of Canal Street's automobiles and to the quiet sidewalks of the old quarter---- "Well?" said Chester, slowing down, and---- "Well," said Aline, "about mamma: ah, 'tis wonderful how they were suited to each other, those two. Almost from the first of his living there, in France, they were acquainted and much together. She was of a fine ancestry, but without fortune; everything lost in the German war, eighteen seventy. They were close neighbor to a convent very famous for its wonderful work of the needle and of the bobbin. 'Twas there she received her education. And she and papa could have married any time if he could promise to stay always there, in France. But the business couldn't assure that; and so, for years and years, you see?" "Yes, I see." "But then, all at once, almost in a day, mamma, she found herself an orphan, with no inheritance but poor relations and they with already too many orphans in their care. For, as my aunts say, joking, that seems to run in our family, to become orphans. "They are very fond of joking, my aunts. And so, because to those French relations America seemed a cure for all troubles, they allowed papa to marry mamma and bring her here to live, where I was born, and where they lived many, many years so happily, because so bravely----" "And in such refinement--of spirit?" "Ah, yes, yes. And where we are yet inhabiting, as you perceive, my aunts and me, and--as you see yonder this moment waiting us in the gate--Hector and Marie Madeleine!" Alone with the De l'Isles in Royal Street Chester asked, "And the business--Chapdelaine & Son?" "Ah, sinz' long time liquidate'! All tha'z rim-aining is Mme. Alexandre. Mr. Chezter, y' ought to put that! That ought to go in the book," said monsieur. "If we could only avoid a disjointed effect." "Dizjoin'--my dear sir! They are going to read thad book _biccause_ the dizjointed--by curio-zity. You'll see! That Am-erican pewblic they have a passion, an _insanitie_, for the dizjointed!" XXVI The week so blissfully begun in the Chapdelaines' garden and at Spanish Fort was near its end. The _Courier des Etats-Unis_ had told the Royal Street coterie of mighty doings far away in Italy, of misdoings in Galicia, and of horrors on the Atlantic fouler than all its deeps can ever cleanse; but nothing was yet reported to have "tranzpired" in the _vieux carré_. The fortunes of "the book" seemed becalmed. It was Saturday evening. The streets had just been lighted. Mlles. Corinne and Yvonne, dingy even by starlight, were in one of them--Conti. Now they turned into Royal, and after them turned Chester and Aline. Presently the four entered the parlor of the Castanados. Their coming made its group eleven, and all being seated Castanado rose. After the proper compliments--"They were called," he said, "to receive----" "And discuss," Chester put in. "To receive and discuss the judgment of their----" "The suggestions," Chester amended. "The judgment and suggestion' of their counsel, how tha'z best to publish the literary treasure they've foun' and which has egspand' from one story to three or four. Biccause the one which was firzt acquire' is laztly turn' out to be the only one of a su'possible incompat'--eh--in-com-pat-a-bil-ity--to the others." His bow yielded the floor to Chester. "Remain seated, if you please," he said. "In spite of my wish to save this manuscript all avoidable delay," Chester began, "I've kept it a week. I like it--much. I think that in quieter times, with the reading world in a more contemplative mood, any publisher would be glad to print it. At the same time it seems to me to have faults of construction that ought to come out of it before it goes to a possibly unsympathetic publisher. Yet after--was Mme. Alexandre about----?" "Juz' to say tha'z maybe better those fault' are there. If the publisher be not _sympathetique_ we want him to rif-use that manuscrip'." "Yes!" several responded. "Yes! He can't have it! Tha'z the en' of _that_ publisher." "Well, at any rate," Chester said, "after using up this whole week trying, fruitlessly, to edit those faults out of it, here it is unaltered. I still feel them, but I have to confess that to feel them is one thing and to find them is quite another. Maybe they're only in me." "Tha'z the only plase they are," said Dubroca, with kind gravity. "I had the same feeling--till a dream, which reveal' to me that the feeling was my fault. The manuscrip' is perfec'." "Messieurs," Mme. Castanado broke in, "please to hear Mlle. Aline." And Aline spoke: "Perfect or no, I think that's what we don't require to conclude. But if that manuscript will join well with those other two--or three, or four, if we find so many--or if it will rather disjoint them--'tis that we must decide; is it not, M. De l'Isle?" "Yes, and tha'z easy. That story is going to assimilate those other' to a perfegtion! For several reason'. Firz', like those other', 'tis not figtion; 'tis true. Second, like those, 'tis a personal egsperienze told by the person egsperienzing. Third, every one of those person' were known to some of us, an' we can certify that person that he or she was of the greatez' veracity! Fourth, the United States they've juz' lately purchaze' that island where that story tranzpire. And, fifthly, the three storie' they are joint'; not stiff', like board' of a floor, but loozly, like those link' of a chain. They are jointed in the subjec' of friddom! 'Tis true, only friddom of negro', yet still--friddom! An', _messieurs et mesdames_, that is now the precise moment when that whole worl' is _wile_ on that _topique_; friddom of citizen', friddom of nation', friddom of race', friddom of the sea'! And there is ferociouz demand for short storie' joint' on that _topique_, biccause now at the lazt that whole worl' is biccome furiouzly conscientiouz to get at the bottom of that _topique_; an' biccause those negro' are the lowez' race, they are there, of co'se, ad the bottom!" "M. Beloiseau?" the chair--hostess--said; and Scipion, with languor in his voice but a burning fervor in his eye, responded: "I think Mr. Chezter he's speaking with a too great modestie--or else _dip_-lomacie. Tha'z not good! If _fid_-elitie to art inspire me a conceitednezz as high"--his upthrown hand quivered at arm's length--"as the flagpole of Hotel St. Louis dome yonder, tha'z better than a modestie withoud that. That origin-al manuscrip' we don't want that ag-ain; we've all read that. But I think Mr. Chezter he's also maybe got that _riv_-ision in his pocket, an' we ought to hear, now, at ones, that _riv_-ision!" Miles. Corinne and Yvonne led the applause, and presently Chester was reading: XXVII THE HOLY CROSS This is a true story. Only that fact gives me the courage to tell it. It happened. It occurred under my own eyes when they were far younger than now, on a beautiful island in the Caribbean, some twelve hundred miles southeastward from Florida, the largest of the Virgin group--the island of the Holy Cross. Its natives called it Aye-Aye. Columbus piously named it Santa Cruz and bore away a number of its people to Spain as slaves, to show them what Christians looked like in quantity and how they behaved to one another and to strangers. You can hear much about Santa Cruz from anybody in the rum-trade. It has had many owners. As with the woman in the Sadducee's riddle, she of many husbands, seven political powers have had this mermaid as bride. Spain, the English, the Dutch, the Spaniards again, the French, the Knights of Malta, the French again, who sold her to the Guiana Company, who in 1734 passed her over to the Danes, from whom the English captured her in 1807 but restored her again at the close of Napoleon's wars. Thus, at last, Denmark prevailed as the ruling power; but English remained the speech of the people. The island is about twenty-three miles long by six wide. Its two towns are Christiansted on the north and Fredericksted on the south. Christiansted is the capital. In 1848 I lived in Fredericksted, on Kongensgade, or King Street, with my aunts, Marion, Anna, and Marcia, and my grandmother--whom the servants called Mi'ss Paula--and was just old enough to begin taking care of my dignity. Whether I was Danish, British, or American I hardly knew. When grandmamma, whose husband had been of a family that had furnished a signer of our Declaration, told me stories of Bunker Hill and Yorktown I glowed with American patriotism. But when she turned to English stories, heroic or momentous, she would remind me that my father and mother were born on this island under British sway, and--"Once a Briton always a Briton." And yet again, my playmates would say: "When _you_ were born the island was Danish; you are a subject of King Christian VIII." Kongensgade, though narrow, was one of the main streets that ran the town's full length from northeast to southwest, and our home was a long, low cottage on the street's southern side, between it and the sea. Its grounds sloped upward from the street, widened out extensively at the rear, and then suddenly fell away in bluffs to the beach. It had been built for "Mi'ss Paula" as a bridal gift from her husband. But now, in her widowhood, his wealth was gone, and only refinement and inspiring traditions remained. The sale or hire of her slaves might have kept her in comfort; but a clergyman, lately from England, convinced her that no Christian should hold a slave, and setting them free she accepted a life of self-help and of no little privation. She was his only convert. His zeal cooled early. Her ex-slaves, finding no _public_ freedom in custom or law, merely hired their labor unwisely and yearly grew more worthless. [The reader lifted his eyes across to Aline: "I had a notion to name that much 'The Time,' and this next part 'The Scene.' What do you think?" "Yes, I think so. 'Twould make the manner of it less antique." "Ah!" cried Mlle. Corinne, "'tis not a movie! Tha'z the charm, that antie-quitie!" "Yes," the niece assented again, "but even with that insertion 'tis yet as old-fashioned as 'Paul and Virginia.'" "Or 'Rasselas,'" Chester suggested, and resumed his task.] XXVIII (THE SCENE) Yet to be poor on that island did not compel a sordid narrowing of life. You would have found our living-room furnished in mahogany rich and old. In a corner where the airs came in by a great window stood a jar big enough to hide in, into which trickled a cool thread of water from a huge dripping-stone, while above these a shelf held native waterpots whose yellow and crimson surfaces were constantly pearled with dew oozing through the porous ware. On a low press near by was piled the remnant of father's library, and on the ancient sideboard were silver candlesticks, snuffers, and crystal shades. But it was neither these things nor cherished traditions that gave the room its finest charm. It was filled with the glory of the sea. There was no need of painted pictures. Living nature hung framed in wide high windows through which drifted in the distant boom of surf on the rocks, and salt breezes perfumed with cassia. Outside, round about, there was far more. A broad door led by a flight of stone steps to the couchlike roots of a gigantic turpentine-tree whose deep shade harbored birds of every hue. To me, sitting there, the island's old Carib name of Aye-Aye seemed the eternal consent of God to some seraph asking for this ocean pearl. All that poet or prophet had ever said of heaven became comprehensible in its daily transfigurations of light and color scintillated between wave, landscape, and cloud--its sea like unto crystal, and the trees bearing all manner of fruits. Grace and fragrance everywhere: fruits crimson, gold, and purple; fishes blue, orange, pink; shells of rose and pearl. Distant hills, clouds of sunset and dawn, sky and stream, leaf and flower, bird and butterfly, repeated the splendor, while round all palpitated the wooing rhythm of the sea's mysterious tides. The beach! Along its landward edge the plumed palms stood sentinel, rustling to the lipping waters and to the curious note of the Thibet-trees, sounding their long dry pods like castanets in the evening breeze. By the water's margin, and in its shoals and depths, what treasures of the underworld! Here a sponge, with stem bearing five cups; there a sea-fan, large enough for a Titan's use yet delicate enough to be a mermaid's. Red-lipped shells; mystical eye-stones; shell petals heaped in rocky nooks like rose leaves; and, moving among these in grotesque leisure, crabs of a brilliance and variety to tax the painter. All the rector told of a fallen world seemed but idle words when the sunset glory was too much for human vision and the young heart trembled before its ineffable suggestions. I often rode a pony. If we turned inland our way was on a road double-lined with cocoa palms, or up some tangled dell where a silvery cascade leaped through the deep verdure. On one side the tall mahogany dropped its woody pears. On another, sand-box and calabash trees rattled their huge fruit like warring savages. Here the banyan hung its ropes and yonder the tamarind waved its feathery streamers. Here was the rubber-tree, here the breadfruit. Now and then a clump of the manchineel weighted the air with the fragrance of its poisonous apples, the banana rustled, or the bamboo tossed its graceful canes. Beside some stream we might espy black washerwomen beetling their washing. Or, reaching the summit of Blue Mountain, we might look down, eleven hundred feet, on the vast Caribbean dotted with islands, and, nearer by, on breakers curling in noble bays or foaming under rocky cliffs. Northward, the wilderness; eastward, green fields of sugar-cane paling and darkling in the breeze; southward, the wide harbor of Fredericksted, the town, and the black, red-shirted boatmen pushing about the harbor; westward, the setting sun; and presently, everywhere, the swift fall of the tropical night, with lights beginning to twinkle in the town and the boats in the roadstead to leave long wakes of phosphorescent light. Of course nature had also her bad habits. There were sharks in the sea, and venomous things ashore, and there were the earthquake and the hurricane. Every window and door had heavy shutters armed with bars, rings, and ropes that came swiftly into use whenever between July and October the word ran through the town, "The barometer's falling." Then candles and lamps were lighted indoors, and there was happy excitement for a courageous child. I would beg hard to have a single pair of shutters held slightly open by two persons ready to shut them in a second, and so snatched glimpses of the tortured, flying clouds and writhing trees, while old Si' Myra, one of the freed slaves who never had left us, crouched in a corner and muttered: "Lo'd sabe us! Lo'd sabe us!" Once I saw a handsome brig which had failed to leave the harbor soon enough stagger in upon the rocks where it seemed her masts might fall into our own grounds, and grandmamma told me that thus my father, though born in the island, had first met my mother. XXIX (THE PLAYERS) Si' Myra was a Congo. She believed the Obi priests could boil water without fire, and in many ways cause frightful woes. To her own myths she had added Danish ones. "De wehr-wolf, yes, me chile! Dem nights w'en de moon shine bright and de dogs a-barkin', you see twelb dogs a-talkin' togedder in a ring, and one in de middle. Dah dem wait till dem yerry [hear] him; den dem take arter him, me chile," etc. Strangest, wildest practice of the slaves was the hideous misuse Christian masters allowed them to make of Chrismas Day and week. It was then they danced the bamboula, incessantly. All through the year this Saturnalia was prepared for in meetings held at night by their leaders. The songs to which they danced were made of white society's scandals reduced to satirical rhyme; and to the rashest girl or man there was power in the warning, "You'll get yourself sung about at Christmas." Yearly a king, queen, and retinue were elected. The dresses of court and all were a mixture of splendor and tawdriness that exhausted the savings and pilferings of a twelvemonth. Good-natured "missies" often helped make these outfits. They were of velvet, silk, satin, cotton lace, false flowers, the brilliant seeds of the licorice and coquelicot, tinsel, beads, and pinch-beck. Sometimes mistresses even lent--firmly sewed fast--their own jewelry. On Christmas Eve, here and there in the town, ground-floor rooms were hired and decorated with palm branches; or palm booths were built, decked with oranges and boughs of cinnamon berries, lighted with candles and lanterns and furnished with seats for the king, queen, and musicians, and with buckets of rum punch. Then the "bulrush man" went his round. Covered with capes and flounces of rushes and crowned with a high waving fringe of them, he rattled pebbles in calabashes, danced to their clatter, proclaimed the feast, and begged such of us white children as his dress did not terrify, for stivers from our holiday savings. Soon the dancers began to gather in the booths; women in gorgeous trailing gowns, the men bearing showy batons and clad in gay shirts or satin jackets, and with a mongrel infant rabble at their heels. When the goombay--a flour-barrel drum--sounded, the town knew the bamboula had begun. On two confronting lines, the men in one, the women in the other, a leading couple improvised a song and all took up the refrain. The goombay beat time, and the dancers rattled or tinkled the woody seed-cases of the sand-box tree set on long handles and with each of their lobes painted a separate vivid color; rattles of basketwork; and calabashes filled with pebbles and shells. All instruments were gay with floating ribbons. So the lines approached each other by two steps, receded, advanced, and receded, always in wild cadence to the signals of voice and instrument; then bowed so low that they touched--twice--thrice; then pirouetted and resumed the first movement, and now and then, with two or three turns or bows, clashed their rattles together in time. As night darkened, the rude lights flared yellow and red upon the dusky forms bedizened with beads, bangles, and grotesquer trumpery. Faces, necks, arms reeked and shone in the heat, ribbons streamed, gross odors arose, the goombay dominated all, and children of the master race--for even I was permitted to witness these orgies--without comprehending, stood aghast. Close outside, the matchless night lay on land and sea; a relieved sense caught ethereal perfumes and was soothed by the exquisite refinement into whose space and silence the faint deep voice of the savage drum sobbed one grief and one prayer alike for slave and master. The revel always ended with New Year's Day. The next morning broke silently, and with the rising of the sun the plantation bell or the conch called the bondman and bondwoman into the cane-fields. Then, alike in broadest noon or deepest night, a spectral fear hovered wherever the master sat among his loved ones or rode from place to place. Not often did the hand of oppression fall upon any slave with illegal violence, or he or she turn to slaughter or poison the oppressor; but the slaves were in thousands, the masters were but hundreds, the laws were cruel; the whipping-post stood among the town's best houses of commerce, justice, and worship, with the thumbscrews hard by. As to armed defense, the well-drilled and finely caparisoned volunteer "troopers" were but a handful, the Danish garrison a mere squad; the governor was mild and aged, and the two towns were the width of the island apart. XXX (THE RISING CURTAIN) In that year, 1848, this unrest was much increased. King Christian had lately proclaimed a gradual emancipation of all slaves in his West Indian colonies. A squad of soldiers had marched through the streets, halting at corners and beating a drum--"beating the protocol," as it was termed--and reading the royal edict. After twelve years all slaves were to go free; their owners were to be paid for them; and meantime every infant of a slave was to be free at birth. I suppose no one knows better than the practical statesman how disastrous measures are apt to be when designed for the _gradual_ righting of a public evil. They rarely satisfy any class concerned. In this case the aged slaves bemoaned a promised land they might never live to enter; younger ones dreaded the superior liberty of free-born children; and the planters doubted they would be paid, even if emancipation did not bring fire, rapine, and death. One day, along with all "West-En'," as the negroes called Fredericksted--Christiansted was "Bass-En',"--I saw two British East-Indiamen sail into the harbor. Such ships never touched at Fredericksted; what could the Britons want? "Water," they said, "and rest"; but they stayed and stayed! their officers roaming the island, asking many questions, answering few. What they signified at last I cannot say, except that they became our refuge from the black uprising that was near at hand. Likely enough that was their only errand. Sunday, the 2d of July, was still and fair. To me the Sabbath was always a happy day. High-stepping horses prancing up to the church-gates brought friends from the plantations. The organ pealed, the choir chanted, the rector read, and read well; the mural tablets told the virtues of the churchyard sleepers, and out through the windows I could gaze on the clouds and the hills. After church came the Sunday-school. Its house was on a breezy height where the wind swept through the room unceasingly, giving wings to the children's voices as we sang, "Now be the gospel banner." But this Sunday promised unusual pleasure. I was to go with Aunt Marion to dine soon after midday with a Danish family, in real Danish West Indian fashion, and among the guests were to be some officers of the East-Indiamen. I carried with me one fear--that we should have pigeon-pea soup. Whoever ate pigeon-pea soup, Si' Myra said, would never want to leave the island, and I longed for those ships to go. But in due time we were asked: "Which soup will you have--guava-berry or pigeon-pea?" Hoping to be imitated I chose the guava-berry; but without any immediately visible effect one officer took one and another the other. After soup came an elegant kingfish, and by and by the famous callalou and other delicate and curious viands. For dessert appeared "red groat"; sago jelly, that is, flavored with guavas, crimsoned with the juice of the prickly-pear and floating in milk; also other floating islands of guava jelly beaten with eggs. Pale-green granadillas crowned the feast. These were eaten with sugar and wine, and before each draft the men lifted their glasses high to right and left and cried: "Skoal! Skoal!" As the company finally rose, our host and hostess shook hands with all, these again saluting each other, each two saying: "Vel be komme"--"May this feast do you good." There was strange contrast in store for us. Late in the afternoon we started home. On the way two friends, a lady and her daughter, persuaded us to turn and take a walk on the north-side road, at the town's western border. It drew us southward toward "the lagoon," near to where this water formed a kind of moat behind the fort, and was spanned by a slight wooden bridge. While we went the sun slowly sank through a golden light toward the purple sea, among temples, towers, and altars of cloud. As we neared this bridge two black men crossing it from opposite ways stopped and spoke low: "Yes, me yerry it; dem say sich t'ing' as nebber bin known befo' goin' be done in West-En' town to-night." "Well, you look sharp, me frien'----" Seeing us, they parted abruptly, one troubled, the other pleased and brisk. Our friends drew back: "What does he mean, mother?" "Oh, some meeting to make Christmas songs, I suppose." "I think not," said Aunt Marion. "Let's go back; my mother's alone." Just then Gilbert, young son of an intimate neighbor, appeared, saying to the four of us: "I've come to find you and see you home. The thing's on us. The slaves rise to-night. Some free negroes have betrayed them. At eight o'clock they, the slaves, are to attack the town." Our home was reached first. Grandmamma heard the news calmly. "We're in God's hands," she said. "Gilbert, will you stop at Mr. Kenyon's" [another neighbor] "and send Anna and Marcia home?" Mr. Kenyon came bringing them and begging that we all go and pass the night with him. But grandmamma thought we had better stay home, and he went away to propose to the neighborhood that all the women and children be put into the fort, that the men might be the freer to defend them. "Marion," said grandmamma, "let us have supper and prayers." The meal was scarcely touched. Aunt Marcia put Bible and prayer-book by the lamp and barred all the front shutters. When grandmamma had read we knelt, but the prayer, was scarcely finished when Aunt Marcia was up, crying: "The signal! Hear the signal!" Out in the still night a high mournful note on a bamboo pipe was answered by a conch, and presently the alarm was ringing from point to point, from shells, pipes and horns, and now and then in the solemn clangor of plantation bells. It came first from the south, then from the east, swept around to the north, and answered from the western cliffs, springing from hilltop to hilltop, long, fierce, exultant. We stood listening and, I fear, pale. But by and by grandmamma took her easy chair. "I will spend the night here," she said. Aunt Anna took a rocking-chair beside her. Aunt Marcia chose the sofa. Aunt Marion spread a pallet for me, lay down at my side, and bade me not fear but sleep. And I slept. XXXI (REVOLT AND RIOT) Suddenly I was broad awake. Distant but approaching, I heard horses' feet. They came from the direction of the fort. Aunt Marcia was unbarring the shutters and fastening the inner jalousies so as to look out unseen. "It's nearly one o'clock," some one said, and I got up, wondering how the world looked at such an hour. All hearkened to the nearing sound. "Ah!" Aunt Marcia gladly cried, "the troopers!" There were only some fifty of them. Slowly, in a fitful moonlight, they dimly came, hoofs ringing on the narrow macadam, swords clanking, and dark plumes nodding over set faces, while the distant war-signal from shell, reed, and horn called before, around, and after them. Still later came a knock at the door, and Mr. Kenyon was warily readmitted. He explained the passing of the troopers. They had hurried about the country for hours, assembling their families at points easy to defend and then had come to the fort for ammunition and orders; but the captain of the fort, refusing to admit them without the governor's order, urged them to go to their homes. "But," Mr. Kenyon had interposed, "a courier can reach the governor in an hour and a half." "One will be sent as soon as it is light," was the best answer that could be got. Our friend, much excited, went on to tell us that the town militia were without ammunition also. He believed the fort's officers were conniving with the revolt. Presently he left us, saying he had met one of our freed servants, Jack, who would come soon to protect us. Shortly after daybreak Jack did appear and mounted guard at the front gate. "Go sleep, ole mis's. Miss Mary Ann" [Marion], "you-all go sleep. Chaw! wha' foo all you set up all night? Si' Myra, you go draw watah foo bile coffee." The dreadful signals had ceased at last, and all lay down to rest; but I remained awake and saw through the great seaward windows the wonderful dawn of the tropics flush over sky and ocean. But presently its heavenly silence was broken by the gallop of a single horse, and a Danish orderly, heavily armed, passed the street-side windows, off at last for Christiansted. Soon the conchs and horns began again. With them was blent now the tramp of many feet and the harsh voices of swarming insurgents. Their long silence was explained; they had been sharpening their weapons. Their first act of violence was to break open a sugar storehouse. They mixed a barrel of sugar with one of rum, killed a hog, poured in his blood, added gunpowder, and drank the compound--to make them brave. Then with barrels of rum and sugar they changed a whole cistern of water into punch, stirring it with their sharpened hoes, dipping it out with huge sugar-boiler ladles, and drinking themselves half blind. Jack dashed in from the gate: "Oh, Miss Marcia, go look! dem a-comin'! Gin'ral Buddoe at dem head on he w'ite hoss." We ran to the jalousies. In the street, coming southward toward the fort, were full two thousand blacks. They walked and ran, the women with their skirts tied up in fighting trim, and all armed with hatchets, hoes, cutlasses, and sugar-cane bills. The bills were fitted on stout pole handles, and all their weapons had been ground and polished until they glittered horridly in their black hands and above the gaudy Madras turbans or bare woolly heads and bloodshot eyes. "Dem goin' to de fote to ax foo freedom," Jack cried. At their head rode "Gin'ral Buddoe," large, powerful, black, in a cocked hat with a long white plume. A rusty sword rattled at his horse's flank. As he came opposite my window I saw a white man, alone, step out from the house across the way and silently lift his arms to the multitude to halt. They halted. It was the Roman Catholic priest. For a moment they gave attention, then howled, brandished their weapons, and pressed on. Aunt Marcia dropped to her knees and in tears began to pray aloud; but we cried to her that Rachel, a slave woman, was coming, who must not see our alarm. Indeed, both Rachel and Tom had already entered. "La! Miss Mary Ann, wha' fur you cryin'? Who's goin' tech you?" Rachel held by its four corners a Madras kerchief full of sugar. "Da what we done come fur, to tell Miss Paula" [grandmamma] "not be frightened." Tom was off again while grandmamma said: "Rachel, you've been stealing." "Well, Miss Paula! ain't I gwine hab my sheah w'en dem knock de head' out dem hogsitt' an' tramp de sugah under dah feet an' mix a whole cisron o' punch?" Rachel told the events of the night. But as she talked a roar without rose higher and higher, and I, running with Jack to the gate, beheld two smaller mobs coming round a near corner. The foremost was dragging along the ground by ropes a huge object, howling, striking, and hacking at it. The other was doing the same to something smaller tied to a stick of wood, and the air was full of their cries: "To de sea! Frow it in de sea! You'll nebber hole obbe" [us] "no mo'! You'll be drownded in de sea-watah!" Their victims were the whipping-post and the thumbscrews. Tom returned to say: "Dem done to'e up de cote-house and de Jedge's house, an' now dem goin' Bay Street too tear up de sto'es." Gilbert came up from the fort telling what he had seen. The blacks had tried to scale the ramparts, on one another's shoulders, howling for freedom and defying the garrison to fire. But the commander had not dared without orders from the governor, and his courier had not returned. A leading merchant standing on the fort wall was less discreet: "Take the responsibility! Fire! Every white man on the island will sustain you, and you'll end the whole thing here!" Upon that word off again up-town had gone the whole black swarm, had sacked the bold merchant's store, and seemed now, by the noises they made, to be sacking others. "I come," Gilbert said, "with an offer of the ship-captains to take the white people aboard the ships." As he turned away groups of negroes began to dash by laden with all sorts of "prog" [booty] from the wrecked stores. Grandmamma had lain down, my aunts were trying to make up some sort of midday meal, and I was standing alone behind the jalousies, when a ferocious-looking negro rattled them with his bill. "Lidde gal, gi' me some watah." "Wait a minute," I said, and left the room. If I hid he might burst in and murder us. So I brought a bowl of water. "Tankee, lidde missee," he said, returned the bowl, and went away. Tom was thereupon set to guard the gate, which he did poorly. Another negro slipped in and sat down on our steps. He looked around the pretty enclosure, gave a tired grunt, and said: "Please, missee, lemme res'; I done bruk up." He held in his hands the works of a clock, fell to studying them, and became wholly absorbed. Rachel asked him who had broken it. He replied: "Obbe" [our] "Ca'lina. She no like de way it talkin'. She say: 'W'at mek you say, night und day, night und day?' Un' she tuk her bill un' bruk it up. Un' Georgina chop' up de pianneh, 'caze it wouldn' talk foo her like it talk too buckra. Da shame!" But now came yells and cheers in the street, the rush and trample of hundreds, and the cry: "De gub'nor! de gub'nor a-comin'!" XXXII (FREEDOM AND CONFLAGRATION) We ran to the windows. In an open carriage, with two official attendants, surrounded by a mounted guard and clad in the uniform of a Danish general, the aged governor came. On his breast were the insignia of the order of Dannebrog. His cavalcade could hardly make its way, and when one of the crowd made bold to seize the horses' reins the equipage, just before our house, stopped. The governor sat still, very pale. Suddenly he rose, uncovered, and with graceful dignity bowed. Then he unfolded a paper with large seals attached, and in a trembling but clear voice began to read. In the name and by the authority of his Majesty Christian VIII, King of Denmark, he proclaimed freedom to every slave in the Danish West Indies. Our cries of dismay were drowned in the huzzas of the black mob: "Free! Free! God bless de gub'nor! Obbe is free!" The retinue moved again; but the crowd, ignoring the command to disperse to their homes, surged after it in transports of rejoicing. At the fort the proclamation, with the order to disperse, was read again. But the mob, suddenly granted all its demands, could not instantly return to quiet toils made odious by slavery. Mad with joy and drink, it broke into small companies, some content to stay in town carousing, others roaming out among the island estates to pillage and burn. Here the governor, in failing to employ prompt measures of police, proved himself weak. At evening, leaving our house in care of Jack and Tom, we went to spend the night at Mr. Kenyon's, where several neighbors were gathered, under arms. Our way led us by the ruined court-house, where for several squares the ground was completely covered with torn records, books, and other documents. The night wore by in fitful sleep or anxious vigils. Near us all was quiet; but the distant sky was in many places red with incendiary fires. At dawn Mr. Kenyon, Gilbert, and others ventured out, and returned with sad tidings brought by courier from Christiansted. At the signal on Sunday night the negroes had swarmed there by thousands. Next day, when the governor had just departed for our town, leaving word to do nothing in his absence, they had attacked the fort as they had ours. But its commander, of a sturdy temper, had opened fire, killing and wounding many. This had only defended the town at the expense of the country, into which thousands scattered to break, pillage, and burn. Yet even so no whites had been killed except two or three men who had opposed the blacks single-handed, although the whole island, outside the two towns, was at the mercy of the insurgents. However, there was better news. A Danish man-of-war was near by. A schooner was gone to look her up, and another to ask aid in the island of Porto Rico, only seventy miles away and heavily garrisoned with Spaniards. Still it was deemed wise to accept for Fredericksted the offer from the ships and send the women and children on board, so that the military might be free to hold the uprising in check until a stronger force could extinguish it. "Tom," Mr. Kenyon said, "is to have a boat at the beach to take us off to an American schooner. Pack no trunks. Gather your lightest valuables in small bundles. Be quick; if a crowd gets there before you you may be refused." We hurried home over a carpet of archives and title-deeds, swallowed a sort of breakfast, and began the hard task of choosing the little we could take from the much we must leave, in a dear home that might soon be in ashes. On the schooner we found a kind welcome, amid a throng of friends and strangers, and a chaos of boxes, bundles, and _trunks_. Children were crying to go home, or viewing with babbling delight the wide roadstead dotted with boats still bringing the fugitives to every anchored vessel. Women were calling farewells and cautions to the men in the returning boats, and meeting friends were telling in many tongues the droll or sad distresses of the hour. A friend, with his wife and little daughter, gave us a thrilling story. Except their house-keeper, a young English girl, they three were the only white persons on their beautiful "North End" estate when on Sunday night their slaves came to them in force demanding "freedom papers." "Not under compulsion, never!" "Den obbe set eb'ryt'ing on fiah! Wen yo' house bu'n up we try t'ink w'at too do wid you and de missie!" They rushed away to the sugar-works, yelling: "Git bagasse foo bu'n him out!" The household loaded all the firearms in the house, filled all vessels with water, and piled blankets here and there to fight fire. Then they made merry. The wife played her piano till after midnight. Whether moved by this show or not, the blacks failed to return, and next day the family escaped to the schooner. To grandmamma and the wife of the American consul, the oldest ladies on the vessel, was given, at nightfall, the only sofa on board. The rest dropped asleep on boxes and bundles anywhere. For my couch the boatswain lent me his locker, and for a pillow a bag of something that felt like rope ends, and for three successive mornings I was wakened with: "Sorry to disturb you, little miss, but I must get to my locker." XXXIII (AUTHORITY, ORDER, PEACE) Three days of heat, glare, hubbub, and anxious suspense dragged away, and Thursday's gorgeous sunset brought a change. The Danish frigate, bright with flags and swarming with sailors, swept in, dropped anchor, and wrapped herself in thunder and white smoke. Soon she lowered a boat, a glittering officer took its tiller-ropes, its long oars flashed, and it bore away to the fort. But evening fell, a starry silence reigned, and when a late moon rose we slept. Next morning we knew that Captain Erminger, of the frigate, had assumed command over the whole island, declared martial law, landed his marines, and begun operations. Soon the harbor was populous again, with refugees returning home. Tom came with his boat. Just as we started landward a schooner came round the bluffs bringing the Spaniards. At early twilight these landed and marched with much clatter through the vacant streets to the town's various points of entrance, there to mount guard, the Danes having gone to scatter the insurgents. The pursuing forces, in two bodies, were to move toward each other from opposite ends of the island, spanning it from sea to sea and meeting in the centre, thus entirely breaking up the bands of aimless pillagers into which the insurrection had already dispersed. This took but a few days. Buddoe was almost at once trapped by the baldest flatteries of two leading Danish residents and, finding himself without even the honor of armed capture, betrayed his confederates and disappeared. Only one small band of blacks made any marked resistance. Under a certain "Moses" they occupied a hill, hurling down stones upon their assailants, but were soon captured. Many leaders of the revolt were condemned and shot, displaying in most cases a total absence of fortitude. In less than a week from the day of flight to the ships quiet was restored, and a meeting of planters was adopting rules and rates for the employment of the freed slaves. Some estates resumed work at once; on others the ravages of the torch had first to be repaired. Some negroes would not work, and it was months before all the windmills on the hills were once more whirling. The Spaniards lingered long, but were finally relieved by a Danish regiment. Captain Erminger was commended by his home government. The governor was censured and superseded. The planters got no pay for their slaves. The government may have argued that the ex-master should no more be paid for his slave than the ex-slave recover back pay for his labor; and that, after all, a general emancipation was only a moderate raising of wages unjustly low and uniform. Both kings and congresses will at times do the easy thing instead of the fair one and let two wrongs offset each other. Make haste, rising generations! and, as you truly honor your fathers, bring to their graves the garlandry of juster laws and kinder, purer days. To different minds this true story will speak, no doubt, a varying counsel. Some will believe that the lovely island was saved from the agonies of a Haytian revolution only through iron suppression. To others it will appear that the old governor's rashly timorous edict was, after all, the true source of deliverance. Certainly the question remains, whether even the most sudden and ill-timed concession of rights, if only backed by energetic police action, is not a prompter, surer cure for public disorder than whole batteries of artillery without the concession of rights. I believe the most blundering effort for the prompt undoing of a grievous wrong is safer than the shrewdest or strongest effort for its continuance. Meanwhile, with what patience doth God wait for man to learn his lessons! The Holy Cross still glitters on the bosom of its crystal sea, as it shone before the Carib danced on its snowy sands, and as it will still shine when some new Columbus, as yet unborn, brings to it the Christianity of a purer day than ours. Chester shook the pages together on his knee. "Oh-h-h!" cried Mlle. Corinne to Yvonne, to Aline, to Mlle. Castanado, "the en'! and--where is all that abbout that beautiful cat what was the proprity of Dora? Everything abbout that cat of Dora--_scratch out_! Ah, Mr. Chezter! Yvonne and me, we find that the moze am-using part--that episode of the cat--that large, wonderful, mazculine cat of Dora! Ah, madame" [to the chair], "hardly Marie Madeleine is more wonderful than that--when Jack pritend to lift his li'l' miztress through the surf of the sea, how he _flew_ at the throat of Jack, that aztonishing mazculine cat! Ah, M'sieu' Beloiseau!--and to scradge that!" But Beloiseau was judicially calm. "Yes, I rim-ember that portion. Scientific-ally I foun' that very interezting; but, like Mr. Chezter, I thing tha'z better _art_ that the tom-cat be elimin-ate." "Well," said the chair, "w'at we want to settle--shall we accep' that riv-ision of Mr. Chezter, to combine it in the book--'Clock in the Sky,' 'Angel of the Lord,' 'Holy Crozz'--seem' to me that combination goin' to sell like hot cake'." "Yes! Agcept!" came promptly from two or three. "Any oppose'? There is not any oppose'--Seraphine--Marcel--you'll be so good to pazz those rif-reshment?" XXXIV "Tis gone--to the pewblisher?" M. De l'Isle, about to enter his double gate, had paused. In his home, overhead, a clock was striking five of the tenth day after that second reading in the Castanados' parlor. The energetic inquiry was his. A single step away, in the door of the iron-worker's shop, Beloiseau, too quick for Chester, at whose elbow he stood, replied: "Tis gone better! Tis gone to the editor--of the greatez' magazine of the worl'!" "Bravo! Sinze how long?" "A week," Chester said. "Hah! and his _rip_-ly?" "Hasn't come yet." "Ah, look out, now! Look out he don' steal that! You di'n' write him: 'Wire answer'? You muz' do that! I'll pay it myseff!" "I thought I'd wait one more day. He may have other manuscripts to consider." "Mr. Chezter, that manuscrip' is not in a prize contess; 'tis only with itseff! You di'n' say that?" "I--implied it--as gracefully as I could." "Ah! graze'--the h-only way to write those fellow, tha'z with the big stick! 'Wire h-answer!'" Beloiseau lifted a finger: "I don' think thad way. Firz' place, big stick or no, that hiztorie is sure to be accept'." M. De l'Isle let out a roar that seemed to tear the lining from his throat: "Aw-w-w! tha'z not to compel the agceptanze; tha'z to scare them from stealing it! And to privend that, there's another thing you want to infer them: that you billong to the Louisiana Branch of the Authors' Protegtive H-union! Ah, doubtlezz you don't--billong; but all the same you can infer them!" Beloiseau's response crowded Chester's out: "Well, they are maybe important, those stratagem'; but to me the chieve danger is if maybe _that_ editor shou'n' have the sagacitie--artiztic--commercial--to perceive the brilliancy of thad story." "Never mine! in any'ow two days we'll know. Scipion! The day avter those two, tha'z a pewblic holiday--everything shut!" "Yes, well?" "If that news come, 'accepted,' all of us we'll be so please' that we'll be compel to egsprezz that in a joy-ride! and even if 'rifused,' we'll need that joy-ride to swallow the indignation." "Ah! but with whose mash-in', so it won't put uz in bankrup'cy?" "With two mash-in'--the two of Thorndyke-Smith! He's offer' to borrow me those whiles he's going to be accrozz the lake. You'll drive the large, me the small." "Hah! Tha'z a gran' scheme. At the en', dinner at Antoine', all the men chipping in! Castanado--Dubroca--me--Mr. Chezter, eh?" "With the greatest pleasure if I'm included." "Include'--hoh! By the laws of nature!" M. De l'Isle went on up-stairs. "We had a dinner like that," Beloiseau said, "only withoud the joy-ride and withoud those three Mlles. Chapdelaine, juz' a few week' biffo' we make' yo' acquaintanze. That was to celebrade that great victory in France and same time the news of savety of our four boys ad the front." Chester stood astounded. "What four boys?" "You di'n' know abboud those? Ah, well, tha'z maybe biccause we don' speak of them biffo' those ladies Chapdelaine. An' still tha'z droll you di'n' know that, but tha'z maybe biccause each one he's think another he's tol' you, and biccause tha'z not a prettie cheerful subjec', eh? Yes, they are two son' of Dubroca and Castanado, soldier', and two of De l'Isle and me, aviateur'." "And up to a few weeks ago they were all well?" "Ah, not well--one wounded, one h'arm broke, one trench-fivver, but all safe, laz' account." "Tell me more about them, Beloiseau. You know I don't easily ask personal questions. Tell me all I'm welcome to know, will you?" "I want to do that--to tell you all; but"--M. Ducatel, next neighbor above, was approaching--"better another time--ah, Rene, tha'z a pretty warm evening, eh?" XXXV For two days more the vast machinery of the United States mail swung back and forth across the continent and the oceans beyond, and in unnumbered cities and towns the letter-carriers came and went; but nothing they brought into Bienville or Royal Street bore tidings from that execrable editor in New York who in salaried ease sat "holding up" the manuscript once the impressionable Dora's, now the gentle Aline's. The holiday--"everything shut up"--had arrived. No carrier was abroad. Neither reason given for the joy-ride held good. Yet the project was well on foot. The smaller car was at the De l'Isles' lovely gates, with monsieur in the chauffeur's seat, Mme. Alexandre at his side, and Dubroca close behind her. The larger machine stood at the opposite curb, with Beloiseau for driver, and Mme. Dubroca--a very small, trim, well-coiffed woman with a dainty lorgnette--in the first seat behind him. Castanado waited in the street door at the foot of his stair, down which Mme. Castanado was coming the only way she could come. Her crossing of the sidewalk and her elevation first to the running-board and then to a seat beside Mme. Dubroca took time and the strength of both men, yet was achieved with a dignity hardly appreciated by the street children, who covered their mouths, averted their faces, and cheered as the two cars, the smaller leading, moved off and turned from Royal Street into Conti on their way to pick up the three Chapdelaines. For nearly two hundred years--ever since the city had had a post-office--the post-office had been not too superior to remain in the _vieux carré_. Now, like so many old Creole homes themselves, it was "away up" in the American quarter--or "nine-tenth'"--at Lafayette Square. On holidays any one anxious enough for his mail to go "away up yondah" between nine and ten A.M., could have it for the asking. And such a one was Chester. He had his reward. Twice and again he read the magazine's name on the envelope as he bore it to the Camp Street front of the building, but would not open the missive. That should be _her_ privilege and honor. He lifted his eyes from it and behold, here came the two cars! But where was she? Certainly not in the front one. There he made out, in pairs, M. De l'Isle and Mme. Alexandre. Mlle. Yvonne and M. Dubroca, M. Castanado, and Mme. De l'Isle. Then in the rear car his alarmed eye picked out Beloiseau and Mlle. Corinne, with Cupid between them; Mmes. Dubroca and Castanado, especially the latter; and then, oh, then! Behind the smaller woman a vacant seat and behind the vaster one Aline Chapdelaine. "You've heard?" cried M. De Elsie, slowing to the curb. Chester fluttered his prize. "Click, clap!"--he was in without the stopping of a wheel and had passed the letter to Aline. "Accepted?" asked several, while both cars resumed their speed up-town. "We'll open it in Audubon Park," she said to Chester, and Mme. Castanado and Dubroca passed the word forward to Beloiseau and Mlle. Corinne. These soon got it to Castanado and Mme. De l'Isle. "Not to be open' till Audubon Park," sped the word still forward till Mlle. Yvonne and Dubroca had passed it to Mme. Alexandre and M. De l'Isle. "Ahah!" he said, as he turned Lee Circle and went spinning up St. Charles Avenue. "Not in the pewblic street, but in Audubon Park, and to the singing of bird'!" XXXVI Out near the riverside end of the park the two cars stopped abreast under a vast live-oak, and Aline, rising, opened the letter and read aloud: MY DEAR MR. CHESTER: Your manuscript, "The Holy Cross," accompanied by your letter of the -- inst., is received and will have our early attention. Very respectfully, THE EDITOR. All other outcries ceased half-uttered when the Chapdelaine sisters clapped hands for joy, crying: "Agcepted! Agcepted! Ah, Aline! by that kindnezz and sag-acitie of Mr. Chezter--and all the rez' of our Royal Street frien'--you are biccome the diz-ting-uish' and _lucrative_ authorezz, Mlle. Chapdelaine!" M. De l'Isle's wrath was too hot for his tongue, but Scipion stood waiting to speak, and Mme. Castanado beckoned attention and spoke his name. "_Messieurs et mesdames_" he said, "that manuscrip' is no mo' agcept' than rij-ect'. That stadement, tha'z only to rilease those insuranze companie' and----" "And to stop us from telegraphing!" M. De l'Isle broke in, "and to make us, ad the end, glad to get even a small price! Ah, mesdemoiselles, you don't know those razcal' like me!" "Oh!" cried the tender Yvonne--original rescuer of Marie Madeleine from boy lynchers--"you don't have charitie! That way you make _yo'seff_ un'appie." "Me, I cann' think," her sister persevered, "that tha'z juz' for the insuranse. The manuscrip' is receive'? Well! 'ow can you receive something if you don't agcept it? And 'ow can you agcep' that if you don' receive it? Ah-h-h!" "No," Beloiseau rejoined, "tha'z only to signify that the editorial decision--tha'z not decide'." Mlle. Corinne lifted both hands to the entire jury: "Oh, frien', I assure you, that manuscrip' is agcept'. And tha'z the proof; that both Yvonne and me we've had a presentiment of that already sinze the biggening! Ah-h-h!" Castanado intervened: "Mademoiselle, that lady yonder"--he gave his wife a courtier's bow--"will tell you a differenze. Once on a time she receive' a h-offer of marriage; but 'twas not till after many days thad she agcept' it." [Applause.] "But ad the en', I su'pose tha'z for Mr. Chezter, our legal counsel, to conclude." Mr. Chester "thought that although receipt did not imply acceptance the tardiness of this letter did argue a probability that the manuscript had successfully passed some sort of preliminary reading--or readings--and now awaited only the verdict of the editor-in-chief." "Or," ventured Mme. Alexandre, "of that editorial board all together." M. De l'Isle shook his head and then a stiff finger: "I tell you! They are sicretly inquiring Thorndyke-Smith--lit'ry magnet--to fine out if we are truz'-worthy! And tha'z the miztake we did---not sen'ing the photograph of Mlle. Aline ad the biggening. But tha'z not yet too late; we can wire them from firz' drug-store, 'Suspen' judgment! Portrait of authorezz coming!'" All eyes, even Cupid's, turned to her. She was shaking her head. "No," she responded, with a smile as lovely, to Chester's fancy, as it was final; as final, to the two aunts' conviction, as it was lovely. "No photograph would be convincing," Chester began to plead, but stopped for the aunts. "Oh, impossible!" they cried. "That wou'n' be de-corouz!" "Ladies an' gentlemen," said M. Castanado, "we are on a joy-ride." "An' we 'ave reason!" his wife exclaimed. "Biccause hope!" Mme. Alexandre put in. "Yes!" said Dubroca. "That manuscrip' is not allone receive'; sinze more than a week 'tis _rittain'_, whiles they dillib-rate; and the chateau what dillib-rate'--you know, eh? M'sieu' De l'Isle, I move you we go h-on." They went, the De l'Isle car and then Scipion's, back to St. Charles Avenue, and turned again up-town. On the rearmost seat---- "Why so silent?" Aline inquired of Chester. "Because so content," he said, "except when I think of the book." "The half-book?" "Exactly. We've only half enough stories yet. "Though with the _vieux carré_ full of them?" "Oh! mostly so raw, so bald, so thin!" "Ah, I knew you would see that. As though human life and character were--what would say?" "I'd say crustacean; their anatomy all on the surface. Such stories are not life, life in the round; they're only paper silhouettes--of the real life's poorest facts and moments. I state the thought poorly but you get it, don't you?" The girl sparkled, not so much for the thought as for their fellowship in it. "Once I heard mamma say to my aunts: 'So many of these _vieux carré_ stories are but pretty pebbles--a quadroon and a duel, a quadroon and a duel--always the same two peas in the baby's rattle.'" "There are better stories for a little deeper search," Chester said. "Ah, she said that too! 'And not,' she said, 'because the _vieux carré_ is unlike, but so like the rest of the world.'" Thus they spoke, happily--even a bit recklessly--conscious that they were themselves a beautiful story without the flash of a sword or the cloud of a misdeed in range of their sight, and not because the _vieux carré_ was unlike, but so like the rest of the world. "Where are we going?" Aline inquired, and tried to look forward around Mme. Castanado. "You and I," Chester said, "are going back to your father's story. You said, the other day, his life was quiet, richer within than without." "Yes. Ah, yes; so that while of the inside I cannot tell half, of the outside there is almost nothing to tell." "All the same, tell it. Were not he and these Royal Street men boys together?" "Yes, though with M. De l'Isle the oldest, and though papa was away from them many years, over there in France. Yes, they were all his friends, as their fathers had been of _grandpère_. And they'll all tell you the same thing; that he was their hero, while at the same time that his story is destitute of the theatrical. Just he himself, he and mamma--they are the whole story." "A sea without a wave?" "Ah, no; yet without a storm. And, Mr. Chester, I think a sea without a storm can be just as deep as with, h'm?" XXXVII "Well, they married, your father and mother, over there where her people are fighting the Germans right now, and came and lived in Bourbon Street with your aunts, eh?" "Yes, or rather my aunts with them, they were of so much more strong natures than my aunts--more strong and large while just as sweet, and that's saying much, you know." "I see it is." "Mr. Chester, what you see, I think, is that my aunts are perhaps the two most--well--unworldly women you ever knew." "True. In that quality they're childlike." "Yes, and because they are so childlike in--above all--the freedom of their speech, what I want to say of them, just this one time, is the more to their honor: that in my _whole_ life I've never heard them speak one word against anybody." "Not even Cupid?" "Ah-h-h! that's a cruel joke, and false! That true Cupid, he's an assassin; while that child, he's faultless?" The speaker really said "fauklezz," and it was a joy to Chester to hear her at last fall unwittingly into a Creole accent. "Well, anyhow," he led on, "the four lived together; and if I guess right your mother became, to all this joy-ride company, as much their heroine as your father was their hero." "'Tis true!" "But your father's coming back from France--it couldn't save the business?" "Alas, no! Even together, he and mamma--and you know what a strong businezz partner a French wife can be--they could not save it. Both of them were, I think, more artist than merchant, and when all that kind of businezz began to be divorce' from art and married to machinery"--the narrator made a sad gesture. "_Kultur_ against culture, was it? and your father not the sort to change masters." "True again. But tha'z not all; hardly was it half. One thing beside was the miz-conduct of an agent, the man who lately"--a silent smile. "What?--sold your aunts that manuscript?" "Yes. But he didn' count the most. Oh, the whole businezz, except papa's, became, as we say--give me the word!" "Americanized?" "No, papa he always refused to call it that. Mr. Chester, he used to say that those two marvellouz blessings, machinery, democracy, they are in one thing too much alike; they are, at first--say it, you." "Vulgarizing?" "Yes. I suppose that has to be--at the first, h'm? And with the buying world every day more and more in love with machine work--and seeming itself to become machine work, while at the same time Americanized, papa was like a river town"--another gesture--"left by the river!" "Yet he never went into bankruptcy? You can point with pride to that, mademoiselle." "Ah, Mr. Chester, pride! Once I pointed, and papa--'My daughter, there are many ways to go bankrupt worse than in money, and to have gone bankrupt in none of them--' there he stopped; he was too noble for pride. No, the businezz, juz' year after year it starved to death. In the early days _grandpére_ had two big stores, back to back; whole-sale, Chartres Street; retail, Royal, where now all that is left of it is the shop of Mme. Alexandre. Both her husband and she were with papa in the retail store, until it diminish' that he couldn' keep them, and--in the time of President Roosevelt--some New York men they bought him out. Because a new head of the custom-house, old Creole friend of papa, without solicitation except maybe of M. Beloiseau and those, appointed him superintendent of customs warehouses, you know? where they keep all kind of imported goods, so they needn't pay the tariff till they take them out to sell them in the store? h'm?" "Yes. And he kept that place--how long?" "Always, till he passed, he and mamma; mamma first, he two years avter. Ad the last he said to me--we chanced to be talking in Englizh--'I've lived the quiet life. If I must go I can go quietly.' "'And still,' I said, 'if your life had been as stormy as _grandpére's_ you'd have been always for the right, and ad the last content, I think.' "'Yes,' he said, 'I believe I never ran away from a storm, while ad the same time I never ran avter one.' And then he said something I wrote down the same night in the fear I might sometime partly forget it." "Have you it with you, now, here?" She showed a bit of paper, holding it low for him to read as she retained it: On the side of the right all the storms of life--all the storms of the world--are for the perfection of the quiet life--the active-quiet life--to build it stronger, wider, finer, higher, than is possible for the stormy life to be. Whether for each man or for the nations, the stormy life is but the means; the active-quiet life, without decay of character in man or nation but with growth forever--that is the end. The pair exchanged a look. "Thank you," murmured Chester, and presently added: "So you were left with your two aunts. Then what?" "I'll tell you. But"---the Creole accent faded out--"we must not disappoint the De l'Isles, nor those others, we must----" "I see; we must notice where we're going and give and take our share of the joy." "We mustn't be as if reading the morning paper, h'm? I think 'tis for you they've come this way instead of going on those smooth shell-roads between the city and the lake." The two cars had come up through old "Carrollton," where the Mississippi, sweeping down from Nine-Mile Point, had been gnawing inland for something like a century, in spite of all man's engineering could pile against it, and now were out on the levee road and half round the bend above. To press her policy, "See!" exclaimed Aline, as a light swell of the ground brought to view a dazzling sweep of the river, close beyond the levee's crown and almost on a level with the eye. They were in a region of wide, highly kept sugar-plantations. Whatever charms belong to the rural life of the Louisiana Delta were at their amplest on every side. Groves of live-oak, pecan, magnolia, and orange about large motherly dwellings of the Creole colonial type moved Aline to turn the conversation upon country life in Chester's State, and constrain him to tell of his own past and kindred. So time and the river's great windings slipped by with the De l'Isles undisappointed, and early in the afternoon the company lunched in the two cars, under a homestead grove. Its master and mistress, old friends of all but Chester, came running, followed by maids with gifts of milk and honey. They climbed in among the company; shared, lightly, their bread and wine; heard with momentary interest the latest news of the great war; spoke English and French in alternating clauses; inquired after the coterie's four young heroes at the French front, but only by stealth and out of Aline's hearing; and cried to Cupid, "'Ello, 'Ector! _comment ça va-t-il_? And 'ow she is, yonder at 'ome, that Marie Madeleine?" Cupid smiled to his ears, but it was the absentee's two mistresses who answered for her, volubly, tenderly: "We was going to bring her, but juz' at the lazt she discide' she di'n' want to come. You know, tha'z beautiful, sometime', her capriciouznezz!" Indoors, outdoors, the visitors spent an hour seeing the place and hearing its history all the way back to early colonial days. Then, in the two cars once more, with seats much changed about, yet with Aline and Chester still paired, though at the rear of the forward car, they glided cityward. At Carrollton they turned toward the New Canal, and at West End took the lake shore eastward--but what matter their way? Joy was with ten of them, and bliss with two--three, counting Cupid--and it was only by dutiful effort that the blissful ones kept themselves aware of the world about them while Aline's story ran gently on. It had run for some time when a query from Chester evoked the reply: "No, 'twas easier to bear, I think, because I had _not_ more time and less work." "What was your work, mademoiselle? what is it now? Incidentally you keep books, but mainly you do--what?" "Mainly--I'll tell you. Papa, you know, he was, like _grandpère_, a true connoisseur of all those things that belong to the arts of beautiful living. Like _grandpère_ he had that perception by three ways--occupation, education, talent. And he had it so abboundingly because he had also _the art_--of that beautiful life, h'm?" "The art beyond the arts," suggested the listener; "their underlying philosophy." The narrator glowed. Then, grave again, she said: "Mr. Chezter, I'll tell you something. To you 'twill seem very small, but to me 'tis large. It muz' have been because of both together, those arts and that art, that, although papa he was always of a strong enthusiasm and strong indignation, yet never in my life did I hear him--egcept in play--speak an exaggeration. 'Sieur Beloiseau he will tell you that--while ad the same time papa he never rebuke' that in anybody else--egcept, of course--his daughter." "But I ask about you, your work." "Ah! and I'm telling you. Mamma she had the same connoisseur talent as papa, and even amongs' that people where she was raise', and under the shadow, as you would say, of that convent so famouz for all those weavings, laces, tapestries, embro'deries, she was thought to be wonderful with the needle." Chester interrupted elatedly: "I see what you're coming to. You, yourself, were born needle in hand--the embroidery-needle." "Well, ad the least I can't rimember when I learned it. 'Twas always as if I couldn' live without it. But it was not the needle alone, nor embro'deries alone, nor alone the critical eye. Papa he had, pardly from _grand-père_, pardly brought from France, a separate librarie abbout all those arts, and I think before I was five years I knew every picture in those books, and before ten every page. And always papa and mamma they were teaching me from those books--they couldn' he'p it! I was very naughty aboud that. I would bring them the books and if they didn' teach me I would weep. I think I wasn' ever so naughty aboud anything else. But in the en', with the businezz always diclining, that turn' out fortunate. By and by mamma she persuade' papa to let her take a part in the pursuanze of the businezz. But she did that all out of sight of the public----" "Had you never a brother or sister?" "Yes, long ago. We'll not speak of that. A sizter, two brothers; but--scarlet-fever----" The story did not pause, yet while it pressed on, its hearers musing lingered behind. Why were the long lost ones not to be spoken of? For fear of betraying some blame of the childlike aunts for the scarlet-fever? The unworthy thought was put aside and the hearer's attention readjusted. "Even mamma," the girl was saying, "she didn' escape that contagion, and by reason of that she was compelled to let papa put me in her place in the businezz; and after getting well she never was the same and I rittained the place till a year avter, when she pas' away, and I have it yet." "And who filled M. Alexandre's place?" "Oh, that? Tis fil' partly by Mme. Alexandre and partly by that diminishing of the businezz--till the largez' part of it is ripairing--of old laces, embro'deries, and so forth. Madame's shop is the chief place in the city for that. Of that we have all we can do. 'Tis a beautiful work. "So tha'z all I have to tell, Mr. Chezter; and I've enjoyed to tell you that so you can see why we are so content and happy, my aunts and I--and Hector--and Marie Madeleine. H'm?" "That's all you have to tell?" "That is all." "But not all there is to tell, even of the past, mademoiselle." "Ah! and why not?" "Oh, impossible!" Chester softly laughed and had almost repeated the word when the girl blushed; whereupon he did the same. For he seemed all at once to have spoiled the whole heavenly day, until she smilingly restored it by saying: "Oh, yes! One thing I was forgetting. Just for the laugh I'll tell you that. You know, even in a life as quiet as mine, sometimes many things happening together, or even a few, will make you see bats instead of birds, eh?" "I know, and mistake feelings for facts. I've done it often, in a moderate way." "Yes? Me the same. But very badly, so that the sky seemed falling in, only once." Chester thought that if the two aunts, just then telling the biography of their dolls, were his, his sky would have fallen in at least weekly. "Tell me of that once," he said, and, knowing not why, called to mind those four soldiers in France, to her, for some reason, unmentionable. "Well, first I'll say that the archbishop he had been the true friend of papa, but now this time, this 'once' when my sky seemed falling, both mamma and papa they were already gone. I don't need to tell you what the trouble was about, because it never happened; it only threatened to happen. So when I saw there was only me to prevent it and to----" "To hold the sky up?" "Yes, seeing that, it seemed to me the best friend to go to was the archbishop. "'Well, my old and dear friend's daughter,' he said, 'what is it?' "'Most reverend father in God, 'tis my wish to become a nun.' "'My child, that is a beautiful sentiment.' "'But 'tis more; even more than my wish; 'tis my resolution. I must do that. 'Tis as if I heard that call from heaven to me, Aline Chapdelaine!' "'Ah, but that's not only your name. Your mamma, up yonder, she's also Aline Chapdelaine.' "'Yes, but I know that call is to me. Ah, your Grace, surely, surely, you will not forbid me?' "'No, my daughter. Yet at the same time that is not a thing to be done suddenly, or in desperation. I'll appoint you a season for reflection and prayer, and after that if your resolution remains the same you shall become a nun.' "'But, for the sake of others, will not that season be made short?' "'For your own sake, my daughter, as well as for others, I'll make it the shortest possible. Let me see; I was going to say forty but I'll make it only thirty-nine.' "'Ah, your Grace, but in thirty-nine days----' "He stopped me: 'Not days, my child; years.' What he said after, 'tis no matter now; pretty soon I was kneeling and receiving his benediction." "And the sky didn't fall?" "No, but--I can't explain to you--'twas that very visit prevent' it falling." XXXVIII It was in keeping with the coterie's spiritual make-up that they should know a restaurant in the _vieux carré_, which "that pewblic" knew not, and whose best merits were not music and fresco, but serenity, hospitality, and cuisine---a haven not yet "Ammericanize'." Where it was they never told a philistine. The elect they informed under the voice, as one might betray a bird's nest. It was but a step from the crumbling Hotel St. Louis, and but another or so from the spires of St. Louis Cathedral. In it, at a round table, the joy-riders had passed the evening of their holiday. As the cathedral clock struck nine they rose to part. At the board Chester had sat next the same joy-mate allowed him all day in the car. But with how reduced a share of her attention! Half of his own he had had to give, at his other elbow, to her aunt Yvonne; half of Aline's had gone to Dubroca. The other half into half of his was but half a half and that had to be halved by a quarter coming from the two nearest across the table, one of whom was Mlle. Corinne, whose queries always required thought. "Mr. Chezter," she said, when the purchase of an evening paper had made the great over-seas strife the general theme, "can you egsplain me why they don' stop that war, when 'tis calculate' to projuce so much hard feeling?" Explaining as best he could without previous research, Chester had turned again to Mlle. Yvonne to let her finish telling--inspire'd by an incoming course of the menu--of those happy childhood days when she and her sister and the unfortunate gentleman from whom they had bought Aline's manuscript went crayfishing in Elysian Fields street canal, always taking the dolls along, "so not to leave them lonesome"; how the dolls had visibly enjoyed the capture of each crayfish; and how she and Corinne and the dolls would delight in the same sport to-day, but, alas! "that can-al was fil' op! and tha'z another thing calculate' to projuce hard feeling." Through such riddles and reminiscences and his replies thereto persistently ran Chester's uneasy question to himself: Why had Aline told him that story of unnamable trouble which had goaded her to seek the cloister? Why if not to warn him away from a sentiment which was growing in him like a balloon and straining his heart-strings to hold it to its proper moorings? Now the two cars let out their passengers at the De l'Isle gates and at the door of the Castanados. Madame of the latter name, with her spouse heaving under one arm and Chester under the other, while Mme. Alexandre pushed behind, was lifted to her parlor. Returning to the street, Chester found the motors gone, MM. De l'Isle and Beloiseau gone with them, and only the two Dubrocas, the three Chapdelaines, and Cupid awaiting him. And now, with Cupid leading, and sleeping as he led, and with a Dubroca beside each aunt, and Aline and Chester following, this remnant of the company approached the Conti Street corner, on the way to the Chapdelaine home. At the turn---- "Mademoiselle," Chester asked in a desperation too much like hers before the arch-bishop, "do you notice that, as the old hymn says, we are treading where the saints have trod? _Your_ saints?" "My--ah, yes, 'tis true. 'Tis here _grand'mère_---- "Turned that corner in her life where your _grandpère_ first saw her. Al'--Aline." "Mr. Chester?" "I want this corner, from the day I first saw you turn it, to be all that to you and me. Shall it not?" She said nothing. Priceless moments glided by, each a dancing ghost. Just there ahead in the dark was Bourbon Street, and a short way down among its huddled shadows were her board fence and batten gate. It was senseless to have taken this chance on so poor a margin of time, but what's done's done! "Oh, Aline Chapdelaine, say it shall be! Say it, Aline, say it!" "Mr. Chester, it is impossible! Impossible!" "It is not! It's the only right thing! It shall be, Aline, it shall be!" "No, Mr. Chester, 'tis impossible. You must not ask me why, but 'tis impossible!" "It isn't! Aline, and I ask no why. I see the trouble. It's your aunts. Why, I'll take them with you, _of course_! I'll take them into my care and love as you have them in yours, and keep them there while they and I live. I can do it, I've got the wherewithal! Things have happened to me fast since I first saw you turn that corner behind us. I've inherited property, and only yesterday I was taken into one of the best law firms in the city. I'll prove all that to you and your aunts to-morrow. Aline, unspeakable treasure, you shall not live the buried-alive life in which you are trying to believe yourself rightly placed and happy, my saint! My--adored--_saint_!" "Yes, I must. What you ask is impossible." XXXIX Long after midnight Chester had not returned to his room. He could not tolerate the confinement even of the narrow streets round about it. Far out Esplanade Avenue, uncompanioned, he was walking mile after mile beside a belt line of trolley-cars, or more than one, while at home, in Bourbon Street, Cupid slept. But now the child awoke, startled. Four small feet were on one of his arms, and Marie Madeleine was purring, at the top of her purr, in his ear. Drowsily he crowded her away. Purring on, she slowly walked across his stomach and dropped to the floor. But soon she leaped up again to that sensitive region and purred into his nose, not at all as if to claim attention, but as though lost in thought. When he pushed her aside she dropped again to the floor, with such a quadruple thump that he looked after her, and as she loitered across his view with tail as straight up as Cleopatra's Needle, he observed just beyond her a condition of affairs that appalled him. Cold from his small fingers and toes to his ample heart, he rose, stole into the next room, and stood by the bed where lay Mlles. Corinne and Yvonne as they had lain every night since their earliest childhood. "Ah! oh! h'nn!" Mlle. Corinne sprang to an elbow, nervously whispering: "What is it?" "My back do'," he murmured, "stan'in' opem." "Oh, little boy, no, it cannot be! I bolt' it laz' evening when you was praying. You know?" "Yass'm, but it opem now; Marie Madeleine dess gone out thu it." Mlle. Yvonne sprang up dishevelled beside her dishevelled sister: "_Mon dieu_! where is Aline?" Colder than ever in hands and feet, the wee grandson of the intrepid Sidney responded: "Stay still tell I go see." "Yes!" whispered Mlle. Corinne, slipping to the floor and tenderly pushing him, "go! safest for everybody! And if you see a burglar _don' threaten him_!" "No'm, I won't." "No, but juz' run quick out the back door and fron' gate and holla 'fire'! Go!" At the crack of the door she listened after him while her sister crowded close, whispering: "Ah, _pauvre_ Aline, always wise! Like us, silent! And tha'z after all the bravezt!" In a moment Cupid was back, less frozen yet trembling: "She am' dah. Seem' like 'tis her leave de do' opem." "Her clothes--they are gone?" "No'm, all dah 'cep' de cloak she tuck on de machine. Reckon she out in de honey-sucker bower whah _dey_ sot together Sunday evenin'. Reckon Marie Madeleine gone dah. I'll go see." "Ah, fearlezz boy, yes! Make quick!" This time both women pushed, single file, all the way to the garden door. There they strained their sight down the path, beyond him, but the bower was quite dark. "Corinne, _chére_, ought not one of us to go, yo'seff?--to spare her feelings--from that li'l' negro? You don' think one of us ought to go, yo'seff?" "No, to sen' him, that is to spare those feel'--listen! . . . Ah, Yvonne, _grâce au ciel_, she's there!" They frankly wept. "Thangg the good God!" "Yvonne, _chère_, you know, we are the cause of this. 'Tis biccause juz'--you and me. And she's gone yonder juz' for one thing; to be as far from her _misérie_ as she can." "Yes, _chère_, I billieve that. I think even, she muz' not see us when she's riturning." No footfall sounded, but the cat came in, tail up, purring. Back in their chamber, with wet cheeks on its unlatched door, the sisters listened. "I know what we muz' do, Yvonne, as soon as to-morrow. Tha'z strange I never saw that biffo'!" Cupid came and was let in. "She was al-lone, of co'se?" the pair asked from the edge of their bed. "Oh, yass'm, o' co'se; in a manneh, yass'm." "_Mon dieu_! li'l boy. In a manner? But how in a manner? Al-lone is al-lone! What she was doing?" "Is I got to tell dat?" "Ah, '_tit garçon_! Have you not got to tell it?" "Well, she 'uz--she 'uz prayin'." "And tha'z the manner she was not al-lone?" "Yas'm, dass all." The little fellow dropped to his knees, clutched a knee of either questioner, and wept and sobbed. XL M. Beloiseau reached across his workbench and hung up his hammer and tongs. The varied notes of two or three remote steam-whistles told him that the hour, of the day after the holiday, was five. He glanced behind him, through his shop to the street door, where some one paused awaiting his welcome. He thought of Chester but it was Landry, with an old broad book under his elbow. "Ah, come in, Ovide." As he laid aside his apron he handed the visitor the piece of metal he had been making beautiful, and waved him to the drawing whose lines it was taking. "But those whistles," the bookman said, "they stop the handworkman too." "Yes. In the days of my father, the days of handwork, they meant only steamboat', coming, going; but now swarm' of men and women, boys, and girl', coming, going, living by machinery the machine-made life." "'Sieur Beloiseau," Landry good-naturedly, said, "you're too just to condemn a gift of the good God for the misuse men make of it." Scipion glared and smiled at the same time: "Then let that gift of the good God be not so hideouzly misuse'." But Ovide amiably persisted: "Without machinery--plenty of it--I should not have this book for you, nor I, nor you, ever have been born." Chester, entering, found Beloiseau looking eagerly into the volume. "All the same, Landry," the newcomer said, "you're no more a machine product than Mr. Beloiseau himself." The bookman smiled his thanks while he followed the craftsman's scrutiny of the pages. "'Tis what you want?" he asked, and Chester saw that it was full of designs of ironwork, French and Spanish. Scipion beamed: "Ah, you've foun' me that at the lazt, and just when I'm wanting it furiouzly." "Mr. Beloiseau," said Chester, "has a beautiful commission from the new Pan-American Steamship Company." "Thanks to Mr. Chezter," said Beloiseau, "who got me the job. Hence for this book spot cash." He turned aside to a locked closet and drawer. "You had a pleasant holiday yesterday," said Landry to Chester. "Who told you?" "Mesdemoiselles, the two sisters Chapdelaine. I chanced to meet them just now at the house of the archbishop, on the steps, they coming out, I going in. I had a book also for him." "Why! What's taking them to the archbishop?" Chester put away a frown: "Did they reflect the pleasure of the holiday?" "Mr. Chester, no." There was an exchange of gazes, but Scipion returned, counting and tendering the price of the book. "Well, good evening," Landry said, willing to linger; but "good evening," said both the others. Chester turned: "Beloiseau, I want to talk with you. Go, give yourself a dip, brush some of that hair, and we'll dine alone in some place away from things." "A dip, hah! Always I scrub me any'ow till I come to the skin. Also I'll put a clean shirt. You can wait? I'll leave you this book." Chester waited. When presently, with Scipion still picturesque though clean-shirted, they left the shop together, he gave the book a word of praise that set its owner off on the history of his craft. "But hammered into a matrix"--he drew his watch and halted: "Spanish Fort, juzt too late; half-hour till negs train; I'll show you an example, my father's work." They turned back. Thus they lost a second train, and dined in the same snug nook as on the day before with Aline and the rest. At twilight they took seats in Jackson Square on a cast-iron bench "hardly worthy of the place," as Chester suggested. And Scipion flashed back: "Or, my dear sir, of any worthy place! But you was asking me----" "About those four boys over in France, one of them yours." "Biccause sinze all day yesterday----?" "That's it. I can't help thinking that mademoiselle is somehow the cause of their going." "Ah, of three she is, but of my son, no. My son he was already there when that war commence', and the cause of that was a very simple and or-_din_-ary in him, but not in the story of my father. I would like to tell you ab-out that biccause tha'z also ab-out that house where we was juz' seeing all that open-work on those balconie', and biccause so interested, you, in old building', you are bound to hear ab-out that some day and probably hear it wrong." "Let's have it now; she told me yesterday to ask you for it." XLI THE LOST FORTUNE "Mighty solid," the ironworker said, "that old house, so square and high. They are no Creole brick it is make with, that old house." Chester began to speak approvingly of the wide balconies running unbrokenly around its four sides at both upper stories, but Beloiseau shook his head: "They don't billong to the firz' building of that house, else they _might_ have been Spanish, like here on the Cabildo and that old _Café Veau-qui-tête_. They would not be cast iron and of that complicate' disign, hah! But they are not even a French cast iron, like those and those"--he waved right and left to the wide balconies of the Pontalba buildings flanking the square with such graceful dignity. "Oh, they make that old house look pretty good, those balconie', but tha'z a pity they were not wrought iron, biccause M. Lefevre--he was rich--sugar-planter--could have what he choose, and she was a very fashionable, his ladie. They tell some strange stories ab-out them and that 'ouse; cruelty to slave', intrigue with slave', duel' ab-out slave'. Maybe tha'z biccause those iron bar' up and down in sidewalk window', old Spanish fashion; maybe biccause in confusion with that Haunted House in Royal Street, they are so allike, those two house'. But they are cock-an'-bull, those tale'. Wha's true they don't tell, biccause they don' know, and tha'z what I'm telling you ad the present. "When my father he was yet a boy, fo'teen, fiv'teen, those Lefevre' they rent' to the _grand-mère_ of both Castanado and Dubroca, turn ab-out, a li'l' slave girl so near white you coul'n' see she's black! You coul'n' even _suspec_' that, only seeing she's rent', that way, and knowing that once in a while, those time, that whitenezz coul'n' be av-void'. Myseff, me, I've seen a man, ex-slave, so white you woul'n' think till they tell you; but then you'd see it--black! But that li'l' girl of seven year', nobody coul'n' see that even avter told. Some people said: 'Tha'z biccause she's so young; when she's grow' up you'll see. And some say, 'When she get chil'ren they'll show it, those chil'ren--an' some be even dark!' "Any'ow some said she's child of monsieur, and madame want to keep her out of sight that beneficent way. They would bet you any money if you go on his plantation you find her slave mother by the likenezz. She di'n' look like him but they insist' that also come later. Any'ow she's rent' half-an'-half by those _grand-mère_' of Castanado and Dubroca, at the firzt just to call 'shop'! at back door when a cuztomer come in, and when growing older to make herseff many other way' uzeful. And by consequence she was oft-en playmate with the chil'ren of all that coterie there in Royal Street. Excep' my father; he was fo'teen year' to her seven." "Was she a handsome child?" Chester ventured. "I think no. But in growing up she bic-came"--the craftsman handed out a pocket flash-light and an old _carte-de-visite_ photograph of a black-haired, black-eyed girl of twenty or possibly twenty-three years. "You shall tell me," he said: "And you'll trust me, my sincerity?" "Sir! if I di'n' truzt you, _ab-so-lutely_, you shoul'n' touch that with a finger." "Well, then, I say yes, she's handsome, trusting you not to gild my plain words with your imagination. She's handsome, but in a way easily overlooked; a way altogether apart from the charms of color and texture, I judge, or of any play of feeling; not floral, not startling, not exquisite; but _statuesque_, almost heavily so, and replete with the virtues of character." "Well," said Beloiseau, putting away the picture, "sixteen year' she rimain' rent' to mesdames that way, and come to look lag that. And all of our parent'--gran'parent'--living that simple life like you see us, their descendant', now, she biccame like one of those familie'--Dubroca--Castanado--or of that coterie entire. "So after while they want' to buy her, to put her free. But Mme. Lefevre she rif-use' any price. She say, 'If Fortune'--that was her name--'would be satisfi' to marry a nize black man like Ovide, who would buy his friddom--ah, yes! But no! If I make her free without, she'll right off want to be marrie' to a white man. Tha'z the only arrengement she'll make with him; she's too piouz for any other arrengement, while same time me I'm too piouz to let her _marry_ a white man; my faith, that would be a crime! And also she coul'n' never be 'appy that way; she's too good and high-mind' to be marrie' to any white man wha'z willin' to marry a nigger.' "So, then, it come to be said in all those card-club' that my father he's try to buy Fortune so to marry her. An' by that he had a quarrel with one of those young Lefevre', who said pretty much like his mother, only in another manner, pretty insulting. And, same old story, they fought, like we say, 'under those oak,' Métairie Ridge, with sharpen' foil'. And my father he got a bad wound. And he had to be nurse' long time, and biccause all those shop' got to be keep she nurse' him more than everybody elze. "Well, human nature she's strong. So, when he get well he say, 'Papa, I can' stay any mo' in rue Royale, neither in that _vieux carré_, neither in that Louisiana.' And my grandpère and all that coterie they say: 'To go at Connect-icut, or Kanzaz, or Californie, tha'z no ril-ief; you muz' go at France and Spain, wherever 'tis good to study the iron-work, whiles we are hoping there will be a renaissance in that art and that businezz; and same time only the good God know' what he can cause to happen to lead a child of the faith out of trouble and sorrow.' "So my father he went, and by reason of that he di'n' have to settle that queztion of honor what diztress all the balance of the coterie; whether to be on the side of Louisiana, or the Union. He di'n' run away to ezcape that war; he di'n' know 'twas going to be, and he came back in the mi'l' of it, whiles the city was in the han' of that Union army. Also what cause him to rit-urn was not that war. 'Twas one of those thing' what pro-juce' that saying that the truth 'tis mo' stranger than figtion. "Mr. Chezter, 'twas a wonderful! And what make it the mo' wonderful, my father he wasn' hunting for that, neither hadn' ever dream' of it. He was biccome very much a wanderer. One day he juz' chance' to be in a village in Alsace, and there he saw some chil'ren, playing in the street. And he was very thirzty, from long time walking, and he request' them a drink of water. And a li'l' girl fetch' him a drink. But she was modess and di'n' look in his face till he was biggening to drink. Then she look' up--she had only about seven year', and my father he look' down, and he juz' drop that cup by his feet that it broke--the handle. And when she cry, and he talk' with her and say don' cry, he can make a cem-ent juz' at her own house to mend that to a perfegtion, he was astonizh' at her voice as much as her face. And when he ask her name and she tell him, her firz' name, and say tha'z the name of her _grand'-mère_, he's am-aze'! But when he see her mother meeting them he's not surprise', he's juz' lightning-struck. "Same time he try to hide that, and whiles he's mixing that cem-ent and sticking that handle he look' two-three time' into the front of the hair of that li'l' girl, till the mother she get agitate', and she h-ask him: 'What you're looking? Who told you to look for something there? _Ma foi_! you're looking for the _pompon gris_ of my mother and grandmother! You'll not fine it there. Tha'z biccause she's so young; when she's grow' up you'll see; but'--she part' as-ide her own hair in front and he see', my father, under the black a li'l' patch of gray, and he juz' say, '_Mon dieu_!' while she egsclaim'-- "'If you know anybody's got that _pompon_ in Louisiana, age of me, or elze, if older, the sizter of my mother, she's lost yonder sinze mo' than twen'y-five year'. My anceztor' they are _name_' Pompon for that li'l' gray spot.' "Well, then they--and her 'usband, coming in--they make great frien'. My father he show' them thiz picture, and when he tell them the origin-al of that also is name' Fortune, like that child an' her mother, and been from in-fancy a slave, they had to cry, all of them together. And then they tell my father all ab-out those two sizter', how they get marrie' in that village with two young men, cousin' to each other, and how one pair, a year avter, emigrate' to Louisiana with li'l' baby name' Fortune, and--once mo' that old story--they are bound to the captain of the ship for the prise of the passage till somebody in Ammerica rid-eem them and they are bound to him to work that out. And coming accrozz, the father--ship-fever--die', and arriving, the passage is pay by the devil know' who'. "Then my father he tell them that chile muz' be orpheline at two-three year', biccause while seeming so white she never think she wasn' black. "And so my father, coming ad that village the moz' unhappy in the worl', he went away negs day the moz' happy. And he took with him some photo' showing that mother and chile with the mother's hair comb' to egspose that _pompon gris_; and also he took copy from those record' of babtism of the babtism of that li'l' Fortune, _émigré_. "Same time, here at home, _our_ Fortune she was so sick with something the doctor he coul'n' make out the nature, and she coul'n' eat till they're af-raid she'll die. And one day the doctor bring her father confessor, there where she's in bed, and break that gently that my father he's come home, and then that he's bring with him the perfec' proof that she's as white as she look'. Well, negs day she's out of bed; secon' she's dress--and laughing!--and eating! And every day my father he's paying his intention', and Mme. Lefevre she's rij-oice, biccause that riproach is pass' from monsieur her 'usband and pritty quick they are marrie', and tha'z my mother." After a reverent silence Chester spoke: "And lived long and happily together?" "Yes, a long, beautiful life. Maybe that life woul'n' be of a diztinction sufficient to you, but to them, yes. They are gone but since lately." "And that Lefevre house?" "Ah, you know! Full of Italian'--ten-twelve familie', with washing on street veranda eight day ev'ry week. _Pauvre vieux carré_!" XLII MÉLANIE "I suppose," Chester said, breaking another silence, "you and that mother, and your father, have sat in the flowery sunshine of this old plaza together----" "A thousan' time'," the ironworker replied, mused a bit, and added: "My frien', you are a so patient listener as I never see. Biccause I know you are all that time waiting for a differen' story. And now--I shall tell you that?" "Yes, however it hits me I've got to know it." "Well, after that, a year and half, I am born. I grow up. I 'ave brother' and sizter'. We all get marrie', and they, they are scatter' over the face of Louisiana. But me, I'm the oldest and my father take great trouble in educating me to sugceed him in his businezz, and so I did, like you see. And the same with Dubroca and with Castanado--Ducatel he's different he's come into that antique businezz by his mizfortune and he's--oh, he's all right only he's not of the same inspiration to be of that li'l' clique. He's up-town Creole and with the up-town Creole mind. And those De l'Isle' they also got a son, and Mme. Alexandre she have a very amiable daughter; and, laz', not leazt, you know, those Chapdelaine'----" "I certainly do," Chester murmured. "Yes, assuredlie," said Beloiseau. "Well, now: In those generation' befo' there was in Royal Street--and Bourbon--and Dauphine--bisside' crozz-street'--so many of our--I ignore the Englizh word for that--our _affinité_, that our whole market of mat-_rim_-ony was not juz' in one square of Royal; but presently, it break out like an épidémique, ammongs' our chil'ren, to marry juz' accrozz and accrozz the street; a Beloiseau to a Castanado, a Castanado to a Dubroca, and so forth--even fifth!" The speaker smiled benignly. "Hah! many year' they work' my geniuz hard to make iron candlestick'--orig-in-al diz-ign--for wedding-present'. The moze of them, they marrie' without any romanze, egcep' what cann' be av-oid', inside the heart, when both partie' are young, and in love together, and not rich neither deztitute. But year biffo' laz' we have the romanze of that daughter of Mme. Alexandre and son of De l'Isle and son of Dubroca." "Is that Mélanie, whom you all mention so often but whom I've never seen?" "Yes. Reason you don't see her---- But I'll tell you that. Mr. Chezter, that would make a beautyful story to go with those other' in that book of Mlle. Aline--but of co'se by changing those name', and by preten'ing that happen' at Hong Kong, or Chicago, or Bogota. Presently 'tis too short, but you can easy mazk and coztume that in a splendid rhétorique till it's plenty long enough." "H'mm!" said Chester, wondering at the artisan's artlessness off his beaten track. "Go on." "Well, she's not beautyful, Mélanie; same time she's not bad-looking and she's kindess of the kind, and whoever she love'--her mother, for example--and Mlle. Aline--tha'z pretty touching, to see with what an inten-_city_ she love'. "Now, what I tell you, tha'z a very sicret bitwin you and me. Biccause even those Dubroca', _père_ and _mère_, and those De l'Isle', _père_ and _mère_, they do' know _all_ that; and me I know that only from Castanado, who know' it only from his wife; biccause she, she know' it only from Mlle. Aline, and none of them know that I know egcep' those Castanado'. "Well! sinze chilehood those three--Mélanie, De l'Isle, Dubroca,--they are playmate' together, and Dubroca he's always call' Mélanie his swit-heart. But De l'Isle, no. Always biffo', those De l'Isle they are of the, eh, the _beau monde_ and though li'l' by li'l' losing their fortune, keeping their frien', some of them rich, yet still ad the same time nize people. And that young De l'Isle he's a good-looking, well-behave', ambitiouz, and got--what you call--dash! "That was the condition when they are all graduate' from school and go each into his o'cupation, or hers, up to the eyebrow'. Mélanie and Mlle. Aline they work' with Mme. Alexandre, though not precizely together, biccause Mélanie she show' only an ability to keep those account' and to assist keeping shop, whiles Mlle. Aline she rimain' always up-stair' employing that great talent tha'z too valu'ble to be interrupt'." "Doesn't she keep the books now?" "Yes, but tha'z only to assist Mélanie whiles Mélanie she's, eh, away. Dubroca he go' into businezz with his father, likewise Castanado with his father, but De l'Isle he's made a secretary in City-hall. So he have mo' time than those other' and he go' oft-en into society, and he get those manner' and cuztom' of society. And then that young Dubroca biggen very plain to pay his intention' to Mélanie, and we are all pretty glad to notiz that, biccause whiles he don't got that dash of De l'Isle, he's modess, yet still brave to a perfegtion; and he's square and got plenty sense, and he's steady and he's kind. Every way they are suit' to each other and we think--if that poor old rue Royale _con_-tinue to run down, that will even be good to join those two businezz' together. And bisside', sinze a li'l' shaver Dubroca he ain't never love nobody else, only Mélanie. "But also De l'Isle, like Dubroca, he was always pretty glad of every egscuse to drop in there at Mme. Alexandre and pass word with Mélanie. 'Twas easy to see 'tis to Mlle. Aline he's in love and he come talk to Mélanie biccause tha'z the nearess he can reach to Mlle. Aline egcep' juz' saying good-day whiles passing on street or at church door. Oh, he behave the perfec' gen'leman, and still tha'z one reason she get that li'l' 'Ector. Yes, we all see that, only Mélanie she don't. So Mlle. Aline she ezcape' him all she could, but, with that dash he's got, he persevere' to hang on. And tha'z the miztake they both did, him and Mélanie, in doing that American way, keeping that to themselve' instead of--French way--telling their parent'. "Then another thing tranzpire'. My son and that son of Castanado bigin, both--but that come' mo' later. Any'ow one day Mélanie she bring Mlle. Aline a note from De l'Isle sol-iciting if she and Mélanie will go at matinée with him and Dubroca. And when mademoiselle bigin to make egscuse' Mélanie implore' her to go, biccause Mme. Alexandre say no Creole girl cann' go juz' with one man, or even with two. 'And mamma she's right,' Mélanie say--with tear',--'even in that Am'erican way they got a limit, and same time I'm perishing to go!' "And when mademoiselle hear' what that play is ab-out she consent' at the lazt to go. Biccause tha'z ab-out a girl what billieve' a man's in love to her, biccause he pay her those li'l' galanterie of high life--li'l' pol-ite figtion'--what every man---unless he's marrie'--egspect to pay to every girl, to make thing' pleasant, you know? "And that play turn out a so egcellent that many people, paying admission ad the door, find they got to pay ag-ain, secon' time, ad their seat, in tear' that they weep; and that make it not so hard for Mélanie, who weep ab-out ten price'. Negs day, Sunday, avter church and dinner, she come yonder ad the home of mademoiselle, you know, Bourbon Street, and sit with her in the gol'fish bower of that li'l' garden behine. And she's very much bow' down. And she h-ask mademoiselle if she ain't notiz sinz long time how De l'Isle is paying intention to her, Mélanie. But mademoiselle di'n' have to be embarrazz' what to answer, biccause Mélanie she's so rattle' she don't wait to hear. And Mélanie she say tha'z one cause that she was wanting De l'Isle to see that play; biccause sinz lately she's notiz he's make himseff very complimentary also to mademoiselle, and she, Mélanie, she want' him to notiz how that way he's in danger to make mizunderstanding and diztress to himseff and--all concern'. "And she prod-uce' a piece paper _fill_' with memorandum' of compliment' he's say to her one time and other, what she's wrote down whiles frezh spoken and what she billieve' are proof that he's in love to her and inten' to make his proposition so soon he's got good sign' he'll be accept'. 'But I ain't never give' him sign,' she say, 'biccause a girl she cann' never be too careful. And so I think I'm bound to show that to you, biccause I muz'n' be careful only for myseff, and if he's say such thing' likewise to you, then tha'z to be false to both of us together. But, I think,' she say, 'M. De l'Isle he coul'n' never do that!'" "How did she say all that, angrily or meekly?" "Oh! meek and weeping till mademoiselle she's compel' to weep likewise. And ad the end she's compel' to tell Mélanie yes, De l'Isle he's pay her those same kind of sentimental plaisanteries; rosebud' to pin on the heart _outside_, a few minute', till the negs cavalier. Castanado, she say, Beloiseau, they do the same--even more. 'Ah!' Mélanie say, 'but only to you! and only biccause to say any mo' they are yet af-raid! Mademoiselle, those both, they are both in love to you!' "And when Mélanie say that, Mlle. Aline take the both hand' of Mélanie in her both han' and ask her if she ain't herseff put them both, Castanado, Beloiseau, up to that--to fall in love to her. And pretty soon Mélanie she's compel' to confezz that, not with word', but juz' with the fore-head on the knee of mademoiselle and crying like babie. And she say she's sin'. And yet same time while she h-ask' mademoiselle to pray the good God and the mother of God to forgive that sin, she h-ask her to pray also that they'll make De l'Isle to love her. "Biccause, she say, 'tis those unfortunate rosebud' of sentimental plaisanterie he give her what firz' make her to love him. And mademoiselle she ag-ree' to that if Mélanie she'll tell that whole story also to her mother; biccause mademoiselle she see what a hole that put them both in, her and Mélanie, when she, mademoiselle, is bound to know he's paying, De l'Isle, all his real intention' to herseff. And Mélanie she's in agonie and say no-no-no! but if mademoiselle will tell it, yes! And by reason that she's kep' that from her mother sinze the firz', she say tell not Mme. Alexandre but Mme. Castanado, even when mademoiselle say if Mme. Castanado then also monsieur; biccause madame she'll certainly make that condition, and biccause monsieur he can assist her to commenze that whole businezz over, French way. And same time Mélanie she take very li'l' stock in that French way, by reason that, avter all, those De l'Isle, though their money's gone, are still pretty high-life. "And tha'z how it come that those Castanado' have to tell me. Biccause madame she cann' skip ar-ound pretty light, you know, and biccause they think my, eh--pull--with those De l'Isle' is the moze of anybody, and biccause I require to know how they are sure 'tis uzeless any mo' for _my_ son, or _their_ son, than for the son of De l'Isle, to sed the heart on Mlle. Aline. Also tha'z to egsplain me why Mlle. Aline say if all those intention' to her don't finizh righd there, she got to stop coming ad Mme. Alexandre. And of co'se! You see that, I su'pose?" "And where was young Dubroca in all this?" "Ah, another migsture! He was nowhere. Any'ow, tha'z how he feel; and those other three boy' they di'n' feel otherwise. You see? We coul'n' egsplain them anything--ab-out Mlle. Aline,--all we can say: 'Road close'--stim-roller.' So ad the end Dubroca he have, slimly, the advantage; for him, to Mélanie, the road any 'ow seem' open; yet in vain. So there, all at same time, in that li'l' gang, rue Royale, was five heart' blidding for love, and nine other' blidding for those five and for Mlle. Aline. "Well, of co'se--you see?--nobody cann' stand that! Firzt to find his way out of that is Mélanie. Mélanie's confessor he think tha'z a sin to keep any longer those fact' from her mother, and she confezz them to Mme. Alexandre, and ad the end she say: 'Mamma, in our li'l' coterie I cann' look anybody in the face any mo', and I'm going to biccome train' nurse. Tha'z not running away, yet same time tha'z not every evening to be getting me singe' in the same candle.' "Then, almoze while she saying that, that son of De l'Isle he say to my son--who he's fon' of like a brother, and my son of him likewise, though the one is a so dashing and the other a so quiet--''Oiseau,' he say,--biccause tha'z the nickname of my son,--'papa and me we visit' the French consul to-day and arrange' a li'l' affair.' "And when he want' to tell some mo' my son he stop' him: 'Enough! I div-ine that. Why you di'n' take me al-ong? You'll arrange to go at that France, of my _grand'mère_, and that Alsace, of her mother, to be fighting _aviateur_, and leave '_Oiseau_ behine? Ah, you cann' do that!' And when that young Dubroca and Castanado get the win' of them, the all four, all of same sweet maladie, they go together; two to be juz' _poilu_', two, _aviateur_'. That old remedie, you know; if they can't love--they'll fight! They are yonder, still al-ive, laz' account." Mainly to himself Chester said, "And I am here, my land still at peace, last account." "And also you, you've h-ask' mademoiselle, I think," said the ironworker, "and alas, she's say aggain, no, eh?" The reply was a gaze and a nod. "Well, Mr. Chezter, I'm sorrie! Her reason--you can't tell. 'Tis maybe juz' biccause those hero' are yonder. 'Tis maybe only that those two aunt' are here. Maybe 'tis biccause both, maybe neither. You can't tell. Maybe you h-ask too soon. Ad the present she know' you only sinze a few week'. She don't know none of yo' hiztorie, neither yo' familie--egcep' that h-angel of the Lord. Yo' char-_acter_, she may like that very well yet same time she know' how easy that is for women to make miztake' about. Maybe y'ought to 'ave ask' M'sieu' Thorndyke-Smith to write at yo' home-town and get you recommen'. Even a cook he's got to 'ave that--or a publisher, eh?" "I've got that--within reach; my law firm has it. But, pshaw! _I_ think, Beloiseau, while all your maybe's may be right the thing that explains mademoiselle's whole situation is that she's never seen a man worthy to touch a hem of her robe; and the only argument a lover can lay at her feet is that she never will." "And you'll lay that, negs time?" "Not till that manuscript business is settled, don't you see? Come, you must go to bed." XLIII Shrimps, rice, and watered wine for a sunset dinner. At its end the three Chapdelaines, each with her small cup of black coffee, left the table and its remnants to the other two members of the household, and passed out as usual to the bower benches and the goldfish pool. Humming-birds were there, drinking frenziedly from honeysuckle cups to the health of all things beautiful and ecstatic. Mlle. Yvonne stood at a bench's end to watch one of them dart from bloom to bloom. "Ah, Corinne," she sighed, "if we could all be juz' humming-bird'!" "_Chérie_," cried her sister, "you are spilling yo' coffee!" Whether for the coffee, for the fact that we can't all be humming-birds, or for some thought not yet spoken, Mlle. Corinne's eyes were all but spilling their tears. As the trio sat down. Aline said in gentlest accusation to the younger aunt: "You are trembling. Why is that?" The younger sister looked appealingly to the elder. "_Chère_," Mlle. Corinne said to the girl, "we are anxiouz to confezz you something. We woul'n' never be anxiouz to confezz that, only we're af-raid already you've foun' us out!" "Yes. I came this evening by Ovide's shop to return a book----" "An' he tell you he's meet us----?" "On the steps of the _archevêché_." "Ah, _chèrie_," Yvonne tearfully broke in, "can you ever pardon that to us?" Aline smiled: "Oh, yes; in the course of time, I suppose. That was not like a drinking-saloon." "Ah-h! not in the leas'! We di'n' touch there a drop--nobodie di'n' offer us!" The niece addressed the other aunt: "Go on. Tell me why you were there." "Aline, we'll confess us! We wend there biccause--we are orphan'! Of co'se, we know that biffo', sinze long time, many, many year'; but only sinze a few day'----" "Joy-ride day," Aline put in, a bit tensely. "Ah, no! _Chérie_, you muz' not supose----" "Never mind; 'last few days'--go on." "Well, sinze those laz' few day' we bigin to feel like we juz' got to take step' ab-oud that!" "So you took those steps of the _archevêché_." "_Chère_, we'll tell you! Yvonne and me, avter all those many 'appy year' with you, we think we want--ah, _chérie_, you'll pardon that?--we want ad the laz' to live independent! So we go ad the archbishop. And he say, 'How _I'm_ going to make you that? You think to be independent by biccoming Sizter' of Charitie--of Mercy--of St. Joseph?' "'Ah, no,' we say, 'we have not the geniuz to be those; not even to be Li'l'-Sizter'-of-the-Poor. All we want--and we coul'n' make ourselv' the courage to ask you that, only we've save' you so large egspenses not asking you that already sinze twenty-thirty year' aggo--we want you to put us in orphan asylum.' We was af-raid at firz' he's goin' to be mad; but he smile very kine and say: 'Yes, yes; you want, like the good Lord say, to biccome like li'l' children, eh?' "'Ah, yes!' we tell him, 'tha'z what we be glad to do. They got nothing in the worl' we can do, Yvonne and me, so easy like that! And same time we be no egspense, like those li'l' _orpheline_'; we can wash dish', make bed', men' apron'; and in that way we be independent!' Well, he scratch his head; yet same time he smile', while he say, 'Go, li'l' children, to yo' home. I'll see if Mère Veronique can figs that, and if yes, I'll san' for you.' And, _chérie_, juz' the way he said that, we are _sure_ he's goin' to san'." With her tears running freely Aline softly laughed. She rose, took a hand of each aunt, laid the two together, bent low, and kissed them, saying: "He will not, for he shall not. Nothing shall ever part us but heaven." XLIV One evening M. Castanado sat reading to his wife from a fresh number of the weekly _Courier des Etats-Unis_. It was not long after the incident last mentioned. Chester had become accustomed to his new lift in fortune, but as yet no further word as to the manuscript had reached him; he had only just written a second letter of inquiry after it. Also that summons to the two aunts, from the archbishop, of which the pair were so sure, was still unheard; no need had arisen for Aline to take any counter-step. We _could_ name the exact date, for it was the day of the week on which the _Courier_ always came, and the week was the last in which a Canal Street movie-show beautifully presented the matchless Bernhardt as a widowed shopkeeper--like Mme. Alexandre, but with a son, not daughter, in love. The door-bell rang. Castanado went down to the street. There, letting in a visitor, he spoke with such animation that madame, listening from her special seat, guessed, and before the two were half up-stairs knew, who it was. It was Mélanie Alexandre. No one answered her mother's bell, she said, kissing madame lingeringly, twice on the forehead and once on either vast cheek. She was short and square, with such serene kindness of face and voice as to be the last you would ever pick out to fall into a mistake of passion, however exalted. Of course, that serenity may have come since the mistake. Both Castanados seemed to take note of it as if it had come since, and she to be willing they should note it. "No," they said, "Mme. Alexandre had gone with Dubroca and his wife to that movie of Sarah." "And also with M. Beloiseau?" asked Mélanie, with a lurking smile, as she sat down so fondly close to madame as to leave both her small hands in one of her friend's. "Ah, now," madame exclaimed, "there is nothing in that! You ought to be rijoice' if there was." The new look warmed in Mélanie's eyes. "I'll be very glad if that time ever comes," she said. "Then you billieve in the second love?" "Ah, in a case like that! Indeed, yes. In their first love they both were happy; the second would be in praise of the first." "And to separate them there is only the street," Castanado suggested, "and Royal Street, street of their birth and chilehood, and so narrow, it have the effect to join, not separate. But!"--he made a wary motion--"kip quite, eize they will not go into the net, those old bird', hah!" There was a smiling silence, and then--"Well," madame said, "they are all to stop here as they riturn. Waiting here, you'll see them all." "Yes, and beside', I have some good news for you; news anyhow to me." The pair smiled brightly: "You 'ave another letter from Dubroca!" "Yes. He's again wounded and in hospital." "Oh-h, terrible! tha'z to you good news?" "Yes. Look, monsieur; he has, at the front, the chance to be hit so many times. If he's hit and only wounded his chances to be hit again are made one less, eh? And while he's in hospital they are again two or three less. Shall we not be glad for that? And moreover, how he got his wound, that is better. He got that taking, by himself, nine Boches! And still the best news is what he writes about his friend Castanado." "Ah, Mélanie! And you hold that back till now? And you know we are without news of him sinze a month! He's promote'? He's decorate'?" "He's found a treasure. I think maybe you'll get his letter to-morrow. Me, I got mine soon; passing the post-office I went in and asked." "But how, he found a treasure? and what sort?" "He just happened to dig it up, in a cellar, in Rheims. He's betrothed.' "Mélanie! What are you saying?" "What he says. And that's all he says. I hope you'll hear all about that to-morrow." "Oh, any'ow tha'z the bes' of news!" Castanado said, kissing his wife's hand and each temple. "Doubtlezz he's find some lovely orphan of that hideouz war; we can trus' his good sense, our son. But, Mélanie, he muz' have been sick, away from the front, to make that courtship." "I do not know. Everything happens terribly fast these days. I hope you'll hear all about that to-morrow." Castanado playfully lifted a finger: "Mélanie, how is that, you pass that poss-office, when it is up-town, while you--?" The question hung unfinished--maybe because Mélanie turned so red, maybe because the door-bell rang again. Enlivened by the high art they had been enjoying and by the fresh night air, a full half-dozen came in: M. and Mme. De l'Isle, whom the others had chanced upon as they left the theatre; Dubroca and his wife; Mme. Alexandre; and finally Beloiseau. "Mélanie!" was the cry of each of these as he or she turned from saluting madame; this was one of madame's largest joys; to get early report from larger or smaller fractions of the coterie, on the good things they had seen or heard, from which her muchness otherwise debarred her. The De l'Isles, however, were not such a matter of course as the others, and Mme. De l'Isle, as she greeted Mme. Castanado, said, in an atmosphere that trembled with its load of mingled French and English: "We got something to show you!" In the same atmosphere--"And how got you away from yo' patient?" Mme. Alexandre asked her daughter as they embraced a second time. "I tore myself," said Mélanie, while Castanado, to all the rest, was saying: "And such great news as Mél'----" But a sharp glance from Mélanie checked him. "Such great news as we have receive'! Our son is bethroath'!--to a good, dizcreet, beautiful French girl; which he _foun_', in a cellar at Rheims!" When a drum-fire of questions fell on him he grew reticent and answered quietly: "We have only that by firz' letter. Full particular' pretty soon, perchanze to-morrow." "Then to-morrow we'll come hear ab-out it," Beloiseau said, "and tell ab-out the movie. Mme. De l'Isle she's also got fine news, what she cann' tell biffo' biccause"--he waved to Mme. De l'Isle to say why, but her husband spoke for her. "Biccause," he said, "'tis all in a pigture, war pigture, on a New York Sunday paper, and of co'se we coul'n' stop under street lamp for that; and with yo' permission"--to Mme. Castanado--"we'll show that firz' of all to Scipion." Beloiseau put on glasses and looked. "'General Joffre--'" he began to read. "No, no! not that! This one, where you know the _général_ only by the back of his head." "Ah--ah, yes; 'Two _aviateur_' riceiving from General Joffre'--my God! De l'Isle--my God! madame,"--Scipion pounded his breast with the paper--"they are yo' son and mine!" The company rushed to his elbows. "My faith! Castanado, there are their name'! and 'For destrugtion of their eighteenth enemy aeroplane, under circumstance' calling for exceptional coolnezz and intrepid-ity!'" There was great and general rejoicing and some quite pardonable boasting, under cover of which Mélanie and her mother slipped out by the inside way, without mention of the young Dubroca, his prisoners, sickness, or letter, except to his father and mother, who told of him more openly when the Alexandres were safely gone. That brought fresh gladness and praise, a fair share of which was for Mélanie. So presently the remaining company vanished, leaving Mme. Castanado free to embrace her kneeling husband and boast again the power of prayer. XLV The cathedral that year was undergoing repairs. Its cypress-log foundations, which had kept sound from colonial days in a soil always wet, had begun to decay when a new drainage system began to dry it out. Fact, but also allegory. It may have been in connection with this work, or with some change in the house of the Discalceated Sisters of Mt. Carmel, or of the archbishop, or of St. Augustine's Church, that a certain priest of exceptional taste, Beloiseau's father confessor, dropped in on him to order an ornamental wrought-iron grille for the upper half of a new door. While looking at patterns he asked: "And what is the latest word from your son?" Scipion showed him that picture--he had bought one for himself--the dear old unmistakable back of "Papa Joffre," and the dear young unmistakable faces of the two boys, Beloiseau and De l'Isle. A talk followed, on the conflict between a father's pride and his yearning to see his only son safely delivered from constant deadly peril. They spoke of Aline. Not for the first time; Scipion, unaware that the good father was her confessor also, had told him before of his son's hopeless love, to ask if it was not right for him, the father, to help Chester win the marvellous girl, since winning would win the two boys home again. Patterns waited while the ironworker said that to the tender chagrin of all the coterie Chester was refused--a man of such fineness, such promise, mind, charm, and integrity, and so fitted for her in years, temperament, and tastes, that no girl, however perfect, could hope to be courted by more than one such in a lifetime. In brief Creole prose he struck the highest key of Shakespeare's sonnets: "Was she not doing a grievous wrong to herself and Chester, to the whole coterie that so adored her, especially to the De l'Isles and himself, and even to society at large? Her reasons," he said, shifting to English, "I can guess _at them_, but guessing at 'alf-a-dozen convinze' me of none!" "Have you guess' at differenze of rilligious faith?" the priest inquired. "Yes, but--nothing doing; I 'ave to guess no." "Tha'z a great matter to a good Catholic." "Ah, father! Or-_din_-arily, yes. Bud this time no. Any'ow, this time tha'z not for us Catholic' to be diztress' ab-out. . . . Ah, yes, chil'ren. But, you know? If daughter', they'll be of the faith and conduc' of the mother; if son', faith of the mother, conduc' of the father; and I think with that even you, pries' of God, be satizfie', eh? "My dear frien', you know what I billieve? Me, I billieve in heaven they are _waiting impatiently_ for that marriage." The priest may have been professionally delinquent, but he chose to leave the argument unrefuted. He smilingly looked at his watch. "Well," he said, "I choose this design. Make it so. Good evening." He turned away. Beloiseau called after him, but the man of God kept straight on. The ironworker loitered back to where the chosen pattern lay, and stood over it still thinking of Chester. Presently a soft voice sounded so close by that he turned abruptly. At his side was an extremely winsome stranger. His artistic eye instantly remarked not only her well-preserved beauty, but its gentle dignity, rare refinement, and untypical quality. Whether it was Creole or _Américain_, Southern, Northern, or Western, nothing betrayed; on the surface at least, the provincial, as far as the ironworker could see, was wholly bred out of her. He noted also the unimpaired excellence of her erect and girlish slightness and, under her pretty hat and early whitened hair, the carven fineness of her features. Her whole attire pleasantly befitted her years, which might have been anything short of fifty; and yet, if Scipion was right, she might have dressed for thirty. "Are you Mr. Beloiseau?" she inquired. "I am," he said. "Mr. Beloiseau, I'm the mother of Geoffry Chester. You know him, I believe?" "Oh, is that possible? He is my esteem' frien', madame. Will you"--he began to dust a lone chair. "No, thank you; I came to find Geoffry's quarters. I left the hotel with my memorandum, but must have dropped it. I remember only Bienville Street." "He's not there any mo'. Sinze only two day' he's move'. Mrs. Chezter, if you'll egscuse me till I can change the coat I'll show you those new quarter'. Whiles I'm changing you can look ad that book of pattern', and also--here--there's a pigtorial of New York; that--tha'z of my son and the son of my neighbor up-stair', De l'Isle, ric'iving medal' from Général Joffre----" "Why, Mr. Beloiseau can it be!" "But you know, Mrs. Chezter, he's not there presently, yo' son. He's gone at St. Martinville, to the court there." "Yes, to be back to-morrow or next day. They told me in his office this forenoon. I reached the city only at eleven, train late. He didn't know I was coming. My telegram's on his desk unopened. But having time, I thought I'd see whether he's living comfortably or only fancies he is." On their way Mrs. Chester and her guide hardly spoke until Scipion asked: "Madame, when you was noticing yo' telegram on the desk of yo' son you di'n' maybe notiz' a letter from New York? We are prettie anxiouz for that to come to yo' son. I do' know if you know about that or no, but M. De l'Isle and madame, and Castanado and his madame, and Dubroca and his madame, and Mme. Alexandre and me, and three Chapdelaine', we are all prettie anxiouz for that letter." "Yes, I know about it, and there is one, from a New York publishing-house, on Geoffry's desk." "Well, madame, Marais Street, here's the place. Ah! and street-car--or jitney--passing thiz corner will take you ag-ain at yo' hotel." XLVI Satisfied with her son's quarters, Mrs. Chester returned to her hotel and had just dined when her telephone rang. "Mme.--oh, Mme. De l'Isle, I'm so please'----" The instrument reciprocated the pleasure. "If Mrs. Chezter was not too fat-igue' by travelling, monsieur and madame would like to call." Soon they appeared and in a moment whose brevity did honor to both sides had established cordial terms. Rising to go, the pair asked a great favor. It made them, they said, "very 'appy to perceive that Mr. Chezter, by writing, has make his mother well acquaint' with that li'l' coterie in Royal Street, in which they, sometime', 'ave the honor to be include'." "The honor" meant the modest condescension, and when Mrs. Chester's charming smile recognized the fact the pair took fresh delight in her. "An' that li'l' coterie, sinze hearing that from Beloiseau juz' this evening, are anxiouz to see you at ones; they are, like ourselve', so fon' of yo' son; and they cannot call all together--my faith, that would be a procession! And bi-side', Mme. Castanado she--well--you understan' why that is--she never go' h-out. Same time M. Castanado he's down-stair' waiting---- "Shall I go around there with you? I'll be glad to go." They went. Through that "recommend'" of Chester, got by Thorndyke-Smith for the law firm, and by him shown to M. De l'Isle, the coterie knew that the pretty lady whom they welcomed in Castanado's little parlor was of a family line from which had come three State governors, one of whom had been also his State's chief justice. One of her pleasantest impressions as she made herself at ease among them, and they around her and Mme. Castanado, was that they regarded this fact as honoring all while flattering none. She found herself as much, and as kindly, on trial before them as they before her, and saw that behind all their lively conversation on such comparatively light topics as the World War, greater New Orleans, and the decay of the times, the main question was not who, but what, she was. As for them, they proved at least equal to the best her son had ever written of them. And they found her a confirmation of the best they had ever discerned in her son. In her fair face they saw both his masculine beauty and the excellence of his mind better interpreted than they had seen them in his own countenance. A point most pleasing to them was the palpable fact that she was in her son's confidence. Evidently, though arriving sooner than expected, her coming was due to his initiative. Clearly he had written things that showed a juncture wherein she, if but prompt enough, might render the last great service of her life to his. Oh, how superior to the ordinary American slap-dash of the matrimonial lottery! They felt that they themselves had taken the American way too much for granted. Maybe that was where they were unlike Mlle. Aline. But she was not there, to perceive these things, nor her aunts, to be seen and estimated. The evening's outcome could be but inconclusive, but it was a happy beginning. Its most significant part was a brief talk following the mention of the Castanado soldier-boy's engagement. His expected letter had come, bringing many pleasant particulars of it, and the two parents were enjoying a genuine and infectious complacency. "And one thing of the largez' importanze, Mrs. Chezter," madame said with sweet enthusiasm, "--the two they are of the one ril-ligion!" Was the announcement unlucky, or astute? At any rate it threw the subject wide open by a side door, and Mrs. Chester calmly walked in. "That's certainly fortunate," she said. Every ear was alert and Beloiseau was suddenly eager to speak, but she smilingly went on: "It's true that, coming of a family of politicians, and being pet daughter--only one--of a judge, I may be a trifle broad on that point. Still I think you're right and to be congratulated." The whole coterie felt a glad thrill. "Ah, madame," Beloiseau exclaimed, "you are co'rec'! But, any'ow, in a caze where the two faith' _are_ con-_tra_-ry 'tis not for you Protestant' to be diztres' ab-out! You, you don' care so much ab-out those myzterie' of bil-ief as about those rule' of conduc'. Almoze, I may say, you run those _rule_' of conduc' into the groun'--and tha'z right! And bis-ide', you 'ave in everything--politic', law, trade, society--so much the upper han'--in the bes' senze--ah, of co'se in the bes' senze!--that the chil'ren of such a case they are pretty sure goin' to be Protestant!" Mrs. Chester, having her choice, to say either that marriages across differences of faith had peculiar risks, or that Geoffry's uncle, the "Angel of the Lord," had married, happily, a Catholic, chose neither, let the subject be changed, and was able to assure the company that the missive on Geoffry's desk was no bulky manuscript, but a neat thin letter under one two-cent stamp. "Accept'!" they cried, "that beautiful true story of 'The 'Oly Crozz' is accept'! Mesdemoiselles they have strug the oil!" Mme. Castanado had a further conviction: "'Tis the name of it done that! They coul'n' rif-use that name!--and even notwithstanding that those publisher' they are maybe Protestant!" The good nights were very happy. The last were said five squares away, at the hotel, to which the De l'Isles brought her back afoot. "And to-morrow evening, four o'clock," madame said, "I'll come and we'll go make li'l' visite at those Chapdelaine'." Mrs. Chester had but just removed her hat when again the telephone; from the hotel office--"Your son is here. Yes, shall we send him up?" XLVII With hands under their gray sleeves two white-bonneted _religieuses_ turned into Bourbon Street and rang the Chapdelaines' street bell. Mlle. Yvonne flutteringly let them into the garden, Mlle. Corinne into the house. The conversation was in English, for, though Sister Constance was French, Sister St. Anne, young, fair, and the chief speaker, was Irish. They came from Sister Superior Veronique, they said, to see further about mesdemoiselles entering, eh---- Smilingly mesdemoiselles fluttered more than ever. "Ah, yes, yes! Well, you know, sinze we talk ab-out that with the archbishop we've talk' ab-out it with our niece al-_so_, and we think she's got to get marrie' befo' we can do that, biccause to live al-lone that way she's too young. But we 'ave the 'ope she's goin' to marry, and then----!" "Have you made a will?" "Will! Ah, we di'n' never think of that! Tha'z a marvellouz we di'n' never think of that--when we are the two-third' owner' of that lovely proprity there! And we think tha'z always improving in cozt, that place, biccause so antique an' so pittoresque. And if Aline she marrie' and we, we join that asylum doubtlezz Aline she'll be rij-oice' to combine with us to leave that lovely proprity ad the lazt to the church! Biccause, you know, to take that to heaven with us, tha'z impossible, and the church tha'z the nearez' we can come." Odd as the moment seemed for them, tears rolled down their smiling faces. "But"--they dried their eyes--"there's another thing also bisside'. We are, all three, the authorezz' of a story that we are prettie sure tha'z accept' by the publisher'; an' of co'ze if tha'z accept'--and if those publisher' they don' swin'le us, like so oftten--we don't need to be orphan' never any mo', and we'll maybe move up-town and juz' keep that proprity here for a souvenir of our in-fancy. But that be two-three days yet biffo' we can be sure ab-oud that. Maybe ad the laz' we'll 'ave to join the asylum, but tha'z our hope, to move up town into the _quartier nouveau_ and that beautiful 'garden diztric'.' But we'll always _con_-tinue to love the old 'ouse here. 'Tis a very genuine ancient _relique_, that 'ouse. You see those wall'? Solid plank of two inch' and from Kentucky!" They went through the whole story--the house, the relics of their childhood--"Go you, Yvonne, fedge them!" The meek _religieuses_ did their best to be both interested and sincere, but somehow found diplomacy to escape the "li'l' lake" and its goldfish, and even took the piety of the cat with a dampening absence of mind. Their departure was almost hurried. There was nothing to do on either side, the four agreed, but to wait the turn of events. The two gray robes and white bonnets had but just got away when the bell rang again and Mlle. Yvonne let in Mme. De l'Isle and Mrs. Chester. But these calls were in mid-afternoon. The evening previous--"Show Mr. Chester to three-thirty-three," the hotel clerk had said, and presently Mrs. Chester was all but perishing in the arms of her son. "Geoffry! Geoffry! you needn't be ferocious!" They took seats facing each other, low seats that touched; but when they joined hands a second time he dropped to his knees, asking many questions already answered in her regular and frequent letters. News is so different by word of mouth when the mouth's the sweetest, sacredest ever kissed. "And how's father?" As if he didn't know to the last detail! All at once--"Why didn't you say you were coming?" he savagely demanded. "No matter," his mother replied, "I'm glad I didn't, things have happened so pleasantly. I've seen your whole Royal Street coterie, except, of course----" "Yes, of course." The mother told her evening's experience. "And you like my friends?" "Why, Geoffry, you're right to love them. But, now, how came you back so soon from St. What's-his-name?" "Opposing counsel compromised the case without trial. Mother, it's the greatest professional victory I've ever won." "Oh, how fine! Geoffry, how are you getting on, professionally, anyhow?" "Better than my best hope, dear; far better. I've shot right up!" "Then why do you look so weary and care-worn?" "I don't. I'm older, that's all, dear." "Oh! Prospering and care-free, and yet you'd drop everything and go to France, to war." "No, dearie, no. I'm sorry I wrote you what I did, but I only said I felt like it. I don't now. I envied those Royal Street boys, who could do that with a splendid conscience. I--I can't. I can't go killing men, even murderers, for a remote personal reason. I must wait till my own country calls and my patriotism is pure patriotism. That's higher honor--to _her_, isn't it?" "It is to you; I'm not bothering about her." "You will when you see her, first sight. To-morrow afternoon, you say. Wish I could be there when your eyes first light on her! Mother, dearie, isn't it as much she as I you've come to see?" "Well, if it is, what then?" "I'm glad. But I draw the line at seeing. _Help_, you understand, I don't want--I won't have!" "Why, Geoffry, I----!" "Oh, I say it because there isn't one of that kind-hearted coterie who hasn't wanted to put in something in my favor. I forbid! A dozen to one--I won't allow it! No, nor any two to one, not even we two. Win or lose, I go it alone. 'Twould be fatal to do otherwise if I would. You'll see that the minute you see her." "Why, Geoffry! What a heat!" "Oh, I'll be the only one burned. Good night. I can't see you to-morrow before evening. Shall we dine here?" "Yes. Oh, Geoffry--that New York letter! Manuscript accepted?" A shade crossed the son's brow. "Don't you think I ought to tell her first?" "Her first," the mother--the _mother_--repeated after him. "Maybe so; I don't care." They kissed. "Good night." "Good night . . . good night . . . good night, dear, darling mother. Good night!" XLVIII At the batten door of her high, tight garden-fence Mlle. Yvonne, we repeat, let in Mme. De l'Isle and Mrs. Chester. "Mother of--ah-h-h!" Her rapture was mated to such courteous restraint that dinginess and dishevelment were easily overlooked. "And 'ow marvellouz that is, that you 'appen to come juz' when he--and us--we're getting that news of the manu'----" "What! accepted?" "Oh, _that_ we di'n' hear _yet_! We only hear he's hear' something, but we're sure tha'z the only something he can hear!" She had begun to close the gate, but Mrs. Chester lingered in it. "That fine large house and garden across the way," she said, "are they a Creole type?" "Yes, bez' kind--for in the city. They got very few like that in the _vieux carré_, but up yonder in that beautiful garden diztric' of the _nouveau quartier_ are many, where we'll perchanze go to live some day pritty soon. That old 'ouse we're inhabiting here, tha'z--like us, ha, ha!--a pritty antique. Tha'z mo' suit' for a _relique_ than to live in, especially for Tantine--ha, ha!--tha'z auntie, yet tha'z what we call our niece. Aline--juz' in _plaisanterie_!--biccause she take' so much mo' care of us than us of her." Mrs. Chester had stopped to look around her. "Whenever you move," she said, "you'll have to leave this delightful little garden behind; it won't fit out of these quaint surroundings." "Ah! We won't want that any mo'!" They pressed on. "That 'ouse acrozz street," said Mme. De l'Isle, "I notiz there the usual sign." "Ah, yes, yes! 'For Sale or Rent'; tha'z what always predominate' in that poor _vieux carré_. But here is my sizter. Corinne, Mrs. Chezter, the mother of Mr. Chezter--as you see by the _image_ of him in the face! I can have the boldnezz to say that, madame, biccause never in my life I di'n' see a young man so 'andsome like yo' son!" The mother blushed--a lifelong failing. "At home," she said, "he's called his father's double." "Is that possible? But tha'z the way with people. Some people they find Aline the _image_ of Corinne, and some of me. Yet Corinne and me--look!" The four went in--to the usual entertainment: the solid plank walls, the fine absence of lath and plaster, Aline's "li'l' robe of baptism," and the bridegroom and bride who had gone a lifetime without a change of linen. They passed out into the rear garden and told wonderful stories of those gifted little darlings the goldfish. Hector, unfortunately absent, had a mouth-organ, to whose strains the fishes would listen so motionless that you could see they were spellbound. Yvonne ran back into the house to get it, but for some cause returned with nerves so shaken that the fishes would do nothing but run wildly to and fro. Still, that was just as startling proof of their amazing whatever-it-was! Seats were not taken in the bower. The declining sun filled it. Mrs. Chester moved fondly from one flower-bed to another, and while the sisters eagerly filled her hands with their choicest bloom Yvonne privately got a disturbed glance to Corinne that drew the four indoors again. There the outside quaintness tempted Mrs. Chester at once to a front window, with Mlle. Yvonne at her side. The front garden was not as the visitor had seen it shortly before while entering. She turned silently away, while mademoiselle, as though surprised, cried to her sister and Mme. De l'Isle: "Ah! Aline she's arrive'! Mrs. Chezter, 'ow tha'z fortunate for us all!" So with the other three Mrs. Chester looked out again. Half-way up the walk stood Aline. Her back was to the house. Cupid was just inside the gate, and between them, closely confronting her, was a third figure--Geoffry Chester. The indoor company could see his face, but not its mood, so dazzling was the low sun behind him; but certainly it was not gay. Her hand lay in his through some parting speech, but fell from it as both returned toward the gate. Which Cupid opened--sad irony--for Chester, and while the child locked him out Aline came forward wrapped in sunlight. By steps, as she came, her beauty of form, face, and soul grew on Mrs. Chester's sight, and when, in the house, with her sunset halo quenched and her presence more perfectly humanized, her smile and voice crowned the revelation, it happened as Geoffry had said it would; the mother's heart went out to her in fond and complete acceptance. To the four women taking seats with her the laying of a graceful hat off her dark hair was the dissolving of one lovely picture into another unmarred by the fact that a letter which she held in her fingers was the publishers' latest word to Chester. But now, as her own silent gaze fell on it held in her lap in both hands, so did theirs, till her fingers shook and she bit her lip. Then--"Never mind to read it, chère," Mme. De l'Isle said, "juz' tell us. We are prepare' for the worz'. They want to poz'pone the pewblication, or they don't want to pay in advanz'?" Aline lifted so bright a smile through her tears that every heart grew lighter. "They don't want it at all," she said. "They have sent it back!" "Oh-h-h! Impossible!" exclaimed the two sisters, their eyes filling. "The clerk he's put the wrong letter--letter for another party!" Aline smiled again. "No; Mr. Chester, he has the manuscript. Ah, you poor"--again she smiled, biting her lip and wiping her tears. Then she turned, looked steadfastly into Mrs. Chester's face, and suddenly handed her the missive. "Read it out." Mrs. Chester did so. As history, it said, the paper's interest was too merely encyclopaedic for magazine use, while as romance it was too much a story of peoples, not persons; romantic yet not romance. As to book form the same drawbacks held, besides the fact that there was not enough of it, not one-fifth enough, for even a small book. When the reader would have handed the letter back it was agreed instead that she should give it to her son. "What does he purpose to do?" she inquired. "This is the judgment of but one publisher, and there are----" "In the North," Mme. De l'Isle broke in, "they got mo' than a dozen pewblisher'!" "Whiles one," the sisters pleaded, "tha'z all we require!" "I know that," said Aline to the four. "'Twas of that we were speaking at the gate. But"--to Mrs. Chester--"that judgment of the one publisher is become our judgment also. So this evening he will bring you the manuscript, and in two or three days, when we come to see you, my two aunt' and me--I, you can give it me." "May I read it? I've been to Ovide's and read 'The Clock in the Sky.'" "Yes? Well, if later we have the good, chance to find, in our _vieux carré_, we and our _cotérie_, and Ovide, some more stories, true romances, we'll maybe try again; but till then--ah, no." Mrs. Chester touched the girl caressingly. "My dear, you will! Every house looks as if it could tell at least one, including that large house and garden just over the way." "Ah," chanted Mlle. Yvonne, "how many time' Corinne and me, we want' to live there and furnizh, ourseff, that romanz'!" The five rose. Mrs. Chester "would be delighted to have the three Chapdelaines call. I'm leaving the hotel, you know; I've taken a room next Geoffry's. But that's nearer you, is it not?" "A li'l', yes," the sisters replied, but Aline's smiling silence said: "No, a little farther off." The aunts thanked Mme. De l'Isle for bringing Mrs. Chester and kissed her cheeks. They walked beside her to the gate, led by Cupid with the key, and by Marie Madeleine crooking the end of her tail like a floor-walker's finger. Mrs. Chester and Aline came last. The sisters ventured out to the sidewalk to finish an apology for a significant fault in Marie Madeleine's figure, and Mrs. Chester and Aline found themselves alone. "Au revoir," they said, clasping hands. Cupid, under a sudden inspiration, half-closed the gate, the pair stood an eloquent moment gazing eye to eye, and then---- What happened the mother told her son that evening as they sat alone on a moonlit veranda. "Mother!" "Yes," she said, "and on the lips." XLIX Beginning at dawn, an all-day rain rested the travel-wearied lady. But the night cleared and in the forenoon that followed she shopped--for things, she wrote her husband, not to be found elsewhere in the forty-eight States. The afternoon she gave to two or three callers, notably to Mrs. Thorndyke-Smith, who was very pleasing every way, but in nothing more than in her praises of the Royal Street coterie. Next morning, in a hired car, she had Castanado and Mme. Dubroca, Beloiseau and Mme. Alexandre, not merely show but, as the ironworker said, pinching forefinger and thumb together in the air, "elucidate" to her, for hours, the _vieux carré_. The day's latter half brought Mlles. Corinne and Yvonne; but Aline--no. "She was coming till the laz' moment," the pair said, "and then she's so bewzy she 'ave to sen' us word, by 'Ector, 'tis impossib' to come--till maybe later. Go h-on, juz' we two." They sat and talked, and rose and talked, and--sweetly importuned--resumed seats and talked, of infant days and the old New Orleans they loved so well, unembarrassed by a maze of innocent anachronisms, and growingly sure that Aline would come. When at sunset they took leave Mrs. Chester, to their delight, followed to the sidewalk, drifted on by a corner or two, and even turned up Rampart Street, though without saying that it was by Rampart Street her son daily came--walked--from his office. It had two paved ways for general traffic, with a broad space between, where once, the sisters explained, had been the rampart's moat but now ran the electric cars! "You know what that is, rampart? Tha'z in the 'Star-Spangle' Banner' ab-oud that. And this high wall where we're passing, tha'z the Carmelite convent, and--ah! ad the last! Aline! Aline!" Also there was Cupid. The four encountered gayly. "Ah, not this time," Aline said. "I came only to meet my aunts; they had locked the gate! But I _will_ call, very soon." They walked up to the next corner, the sisters confusingly instructing Mrs. Chester how to take a returning street-car. Leaving them, she had just got safely across from sidewalk to car-track when Cupid came pattering after, to bid her hail only the car marked "Esplanade Belt." As he backed off--"Take care!" was the cry, but he sprang the wrong way and a hurrying jitney cast him yards distant, where he lay unconscious and bleeding. The packed street-car emptied. "No, he's alive," said one who lifted him, to the two jitney passengers, who pushed into the throng. "Arm broke', yes, but he's hurt worst in the head." There was an apothecary's shop in sight. They put him and the four ladies into the jitney and sent them there, and the world moved on. At the shop he came to, and presently, in the jitney again, he was blissfully aware of Geoffry Chester on the swift running-board, questioning his mother and Aline by turns. He listened with all his might. Neither the child nor his mistress had seen or heard the questioner since the afternoon he was locked out of the garden. Nearing that garden now, questions and answers suddenly ceased; the child had spoken. Limp and motionless, with his head on Aline's bosom and his eyes closed, "Don't let," he brokenly said, "don't let _him_ go 'way." To him the answer seemed so long coming that he began to repeat; then Aline said---- "No, dear, he shan't leave you." The sisters had telephoned their own physician from the apothecary's shop, and soon, with Cupid on his cot, pushed close to a cool window looking into the rear garden, and the garden lighted by an unseen moon, Mrs. Chester, at the cot's side awaited the doctor's arrival. The restless sisters brought her a tray of rusks and butter and tea, though they would not, could not, taste anything themselves until they should know how gravely the small sufferer--for now he began to suffer--was hurt. "Same time tha'z good to be induztriouz"--this was all said directly above the moaning child--"while tha'z bad, for the sick, to talk ad the bedside, and we can't stay with you and not talk, and we can't go in that front yard; that gate is let open so the doctor he needn' ring and that way excide the patient; and we can't go in the back garden"--they spread their hands and dropped them; the back garden was hopelessly pre-empted. They went to a parlor window and sat looking and longing for the front gate to swing. They had posted on it in Corinne's minute writing: "No admittance excep on business. Open on account sickness. S. V. P. Don't wring the belle!!!" Cupid lay very flat on his back, his face turned to the open window. He had ceased to moan. When Mrs. Chester stole to where, by leaning over, she could see his eyes they were closed. She hoped he slept, but sat down in uncertainty rather than risk waking him. In the moonlit garden Aline and Geoffry paced to and fro. To see them his mother would have to stand and lean over the cot, and neither good mothers nor good nurses do that. She kept her seat, anxiously hoping that the moonlight out there would remain soft enough to veil the worn look which daylight betrayed on her son's face whenever he fell into silence. The talk of the pair was labored. Once they went clear to the bower and turned, without a word. Then Geoffry said: "I know a story I'd like to tell you, though how it would help us in our project--if we now have a project at all--I don't see." "'Tis of the _vieux carré_, that story?" "It's of the _vieux carré_ of the world's heart." "I think I know it." "May I not tell it?" "Yes, you may tell it--although--yes, tell it." "Well, there was once a beautiful girl, as beautiful in soul as in countenance, and worshipped by a few excellent friends, few only because of conditions in her life that almost wholly exiled her from society. Even so, she had suitors--good, gallant men; not of wealth, yet with good prospects and with gifts more essential. But other conditions seemed, to her, to forbid marriage." "Yes," Aline interrupted. "Mr. Chester, have you gone in partnership with Mr. Castanado--'Masques et Costumes'? Or would it not be maybe better honor to me--and yourself--to speak----" "Straight out? Yes, of course. Aline, I've been racking my brain--I still am--and my heart--to divine what it is that separates us. I had come to believe you loved me. I can't quite stifle the conviction yet. I believe that in refusing me you're consciously refusing that which seems to you yourself a worthy source of supreme happiness if it did not threaten the happiness of others dearer than your own." "Of my aunts, you think?" "Yes, your aunts." "Mr. Chester, even if I had no aunts----" "Yes, I see. That's my new discovery: you've already had my assurance that I'd study their happiness as I would yours, ours, mine; but you think I could never make your aunts and myself happy in the same atmosphere. You believe in me. You believe I have a future that must carry me--would carry us--into a world your aunts don't know and could never learn." "'Tis true. And yet even if my aunts----" "Had no existence--yes, I know. I know what you think would still remain. You can't hint it, for you think I would promptly promise the impossible, as lovers so easily do. Aline, I would not! 'Twouldn't be impossible. It shall not be. My mother is helping to prove that even to you, isn't she--without knowing it? I promise you as if it were in the marriage contract and we were here signing it, that if you will be my wife I never will, and you never shall, let go, or in any way relax, your hold--or mine--on the intimate friendship of the coterie in Royal Street. They are your inheritance from your father and his father, and I love you the more adoringly because you would sooner break your own heart than forfeit that legacy." He took one of her hands. "You are their 'Clock in the Sky'; you're their 'Angel of the Lord.' And so you shall be till death do you part." He took the other hand, held both. Cupid turned his face from the window and audibly sobbed. "Oh, child, what is it? Does it pain so?" He shook his head. "Doesn't it pain? Is it not pain at all? Why, then, what is it?" "Joy," he whispered as the doctor came in. L The child's hurts were not so grave, after all. "He may sit up to-morrow," the doctor said. The fractured arm was put into a splint and sling, and a collar-bone had to be wrapped in place; but the absorbent cotton bandaged on his head was only for contusions. "Corinne!" Mlle. Yvonne gasped, "contusion"! Ah, doctor, I 'ope tha'z something you can't 'ave but once!" "You can't in fatal cases. Mrs.--eh--those scissors, please? Thank you." "Well, Aline, praise be to heaven, any'ow his skull, from ear to ear 'tis solid! Ah, I mean, of co'se, roun' the h-outside. Inside 'tis hollow. But outside it has not a crack! eh, doctor?" "Except the sutures he was born with. Now, my little man----" "Ah, ah, Corinne! Born with shuture'! and we never suzpeg' that!" "Ah, but, Yvonne, if he's had those sinz' that long they cann' be so very fatal, no!" Partly for the little boy's sake three days were let pass before Aline made her announcement. There was but one place for it--the Castanados' parlor. All the coterie were there--the De l'Isles, even Ovide--butler _pro tem_. "You will have refreshments," he said, with happiest equanimity; "I will serve them"; and the whole race problem vanished. Mélanie too was present, with an announcement of her own which won ecstatic kisses, many of them tear-moistened but all of them glad. As for Mme. Alexandre and Beloiseau, they announced nothing, but every one knew, and said so in the smiling fervency of their hand-grasps. All of which made the evening too hopelessly old-fashioned to be dwelt on, though one point cannot be overlooked. It was the last proclamation of the joyous hour, and was Chester's. He had bought--on wonderfully easy terms--_vieux carré_ terms--the large house and grounds opposite the Chapdelaine cottage, and there the aunts were to dwell with the young pair. "Permanently?" "Ah, only whiles we live!" The coterie adjourned. Already the sisters had begun to move in. Mrs. Chester helped them "marvellouzly." Also Aline. Also Cupid--that was now his only name. The cat really couldn't; she was too preoccupied. The sisters touched Mrs. Chester's arm and drew a curtain. "Look! . . . Eight! Ah, thou unfaithful, if we had ever think you are going to so forget yo'seff like that, we woul'n' never name you Marie Madeleine! And still ad the same time you know, Mrs. Chezter, we are sure she's trying to tell us, right now, that this going to be the laz' time!" "And me," Yvonne added, "I feel sure any'ow that, as the poet say--I'm prittie sure 'tis the poet say that--she's mo' sin' ag-ainz' than sinning." At length one evening so many relics of the Chapdelaine infancy had been gathered in the new home that the sisters went over there to pass the night, and took puss and her offspring along. But not a wink did either of them sleep the night through, and the first living creature they espied the next morning was Marie Madeleine, with a kitten in her teeth, moving back. "Aline," they sobbed as soon as they could find her, "we are sorry, sorry, sorry, to make you such unhappinezz like that, and so soon; continue, you and Geoffry, to live in that new 'ouse; but whiles we live any plaze but heaven we got to live in that home of our in-fancy." 
32514	----	Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Weird Tales October 1937. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. [Illustration: "Good-bye for eternity!" we heard her sob.] Pledged to the Dead By SEABURY QUINN _A tale of a lover who was pledged to a sweetheart who had been in her grave for more than a century, and of the striking death that menaced him--a story of Jules de Grandin_ * * * * * The autumn dusk had stained the sky with shadows and orange oblongs traced the windows in my neighbors' homes as Jules de Grandin and I sat sipping kaiserschmarrn and coffee in the study after dinner. "_Mon Dieu_," the little Frenchman sighed, "I have the _mal du pays_, my friend. The little children run and play along the roadways at Saint Cloud, and on the Ile de France the pastry cooks set up their booths. _Corbleu_, it takes the strength of character not to stop and buy those cakes of so much taste and fancy! The Napoléons, they are crisp and fragile as a coquette's promise, the éclairs filled with cool, sweet cream, the cream-puffs all aglow with cherries. Just to see them is to love life better. They----" The shrilling of the door-bell startled me. The pressure on the button must have been that of one who leant against it. "Doctor Trowbridge; I must see him right away!" a woman's voice demanded as Nora McGinnis, my household factotum, grudgingly responded to the hail. "Th' docthor's offiss hours is over, ma'am," Nora answered frigidly. "Ha'f past nine ter eleven in th' marnin', an' two ter four in th' afthernoon is when he sees his patients. If it's an urgent case ye have there's lots o' good young docthors in th' neighborhood, but Docthor Trowbridge----" "Is he here?" the visitor demanded sharply. "He is, an' he's afther digestin' his dinner--an' an illigant dinner it wuz, though I do say so as shouldn't--an' he can't be disturbed----" "He'll see me, all right. Tell him it's Nella Bentley, and I've _got_ to talk to him!" De Grandin raised an eyebrow eloquently. "The fish at the aquarium have greater privacy than we, my friend," he murmured, but broke off as the visitor came clacking down the hall on high French heels and rushed into the study half a dozen paces in advance of my thoroughly disapproving and more than semi-scandalized Nora. "Doctor Trowbridge, won't you help me?" cried the girl as she fairly leaped across the study and flung her arms about my shoulders. "I can't tell Dad or Mother, they wouldn't understand; so you're the only one--oh, excuse me, I thought you were alone!" Her face went crimson as she saw de Grandin standing by the fire. "It's quite all right, my dear," I soothed, freeing myself from her almost hysterical clutch. "This is Doctor de Grandin, with whom I've been associated many times; I'd be glad to have the benefit of his advice, if you don't mind." She gave him her hand and a wan smile as I performed the introduction, but her eyes warmed quickly as he raised her fingers to his lips with a soft "_Enchanté, Mademoiselle_." Women, animals and children took instinctively to Jules de Grandin. Nella dropped her coat of silky shaven lamb and sank down on the study couch, her slim young figure molded in her knitted dress of coral rayon as revealingly as though she had been cased in plastic cellulose. She has long, violet eyes and a long mouth; smooth, dark hair parted in the middle; a small straight nose, and a small pointed chin. Every line of her is long, but definitely feminine; breasts and hips and throat and legs all delicately curved, without a hint of angularity. "I've come to see you about Ned," she volunteered as de Grandin lit her cigarette and she sent a nervous smoke-stream gushing from between red, trembling lips. "He--he's trying to run out on me!" "You mean Ned Minton?" I asked, wondering what a middle-aged physician could prescribe for wandering Romeos. "I certainly do mean Ned Minton," she replied, "and I mean business, too. The darn, romantic fool!" De Grandin's slender brows arched upward till they nearly met the beige-blond hair that slanted sleekly backward from his forehead. "_Pardonnez-moi_," he murmured. "Did I understand correctly, _Mademoiselle_? Your _amoureux_--how do you say him?--sweetheart?--has shown a disposition toward unfaithfulness, yet you accuse him of romanticism?" "He's not unfaithful, that's the worst of it. He's faithful as Tristan and the chevalier Bayard lumped together, _sans peur et sans reproche_, you know. Says we can't get married, 'cause----" "Just a moment, dear," I interrupted as I felt my indignation mounting. "D'ye mean the miserable young puppy cheated, and now wants to welch----" * * * * * Her blue eyes widened, then the little laughter-wrinkles formed around them. "You dear old mid-Victorian!" she broke in. "No, he ain't done wrong by our Nell, and I'm not asking you to take your shotgun down and force him to make me an honest woman. Suppose we start at the beginning: then we'll get things straight. "You assisted at both our débuts, I've been told; you've known Ned and me since we were a second old apiece, haven't you?" I nodded. "Know we've always been crazy about each other, too; in grammar school, high school and college, don't you?" "Yes," I agreed. "All right. We've been engaged ever since our freshman year at Beaver. Ned just had his frat pin long enough to pin it on my shoulder-strap at the first freshman dance. Everything was set for us to stand up in the chancel and say 'I do' this June; then Ned's company sent him to New Orleans last December." She paused, drew deeply at her cigarette, crushed its fire out in an ash-tray, and set a fresh one glowing. "That started it. While he was down there it seemed that he got playful. Mixed up with some glamorous Creole gal." Once more she lapsed into silence and I could see the heartbreak showing through the armor of her flippant manner. "You mean he fell in love----" "I certainly do _not_! If he had, I'd have handed back his ring and said 'Bless you, me children', even if I had to bite my heart in two to do it; but this is no case of a new love crowding out the old. Ned still loves me; never stopped loving me. That's what makes it all seem crazy as a hashish-eater's dream. He was on the loose in New Orleans, doing the town with a crowd of local boys, and prob'bly had too many Ramos fizzes. Then he barged into this Creole dame's place, and----" she broke off with a gallant effort at a smile. "I guess young fellows aren't so different nowadays than they were when you were growing up, sir. Only today we don't believe in sprinkling perfume in the family cesspool. Ned cheated, that's the bald truth of it; he didn't stop loving me, and he hasn't stopped now, but I wasn't there and that other girl was, and there were no conventions to be recognized. Now he's fairly melting with remorse, says he's not worthy of me--wants to break off our engagement, while he spends a lifetime doing penance for a moment's folly." "But good heavens," I expostulated, "if you're willing to forgive----" "You're telling me!" she answered bitterly. "We've been over it a hundred times. This isn't 1892; even nice girls know the facts of life today, and while I'm no more anxious than the next one to put through a deal in shopworn goods, I still love Ned, and I don't intend to let a single indiscretion rob us of our happiness. I----" the hard exterior veneer of modernism melted from her like an autumn ice-glaze melting in the warm October sun, and the tears coursed down her cheeks, cutting little valleys in her carefully-applied make-up. "He's my man, Doctor," she sobbed bitterly. "I've loved him since we made mud-pies together; I'm hungry, thirsty for him. He's everything to me, and if he follows out this fool renunciation he seems set on, it'll kill me!" De Grandin tweaked a waxed mustache-end thoughtfully. "You exemplify the practicality of woman, _Mademoiselle_; I applaud your sound, hard common sense," he told her. "Bring this silly young romantic foolish one to me. I will tell him----" "But he won't come," I interrupted. "I know these hard-minded young asses. When a lad is set on being stubborn----" "Will you go to work on him if I can get him here?" interjected Nella. "Of a certitude, _Mademoiselle_." "You won't think me forward or unmaidenly?" "This is a medical consultation, _Mademoiselle_." "All right; be in the office this time tomorrow night. I'll have my wandering boy friend here if I have to bring him in an ambulance." * * * * * Her performance matched her promise almost too closely for our comfort. We had just finished dinner next night when the frenzied shriek of tortured brakes, followed by a crash and the tinkling spatter of smashed glass, sounded in the street before the house, and in a moment feet dragged heavily across the porch. We were at the door before the bell could buzz, and in the disk of brightness sent down by the porch light saw Nella bent half double, stumbling forward with a man's arm draped across her shoulders. His feet scuffed blindly on the boards, as though they had forgot the trick of walking, or as if all strength had left his knees. His head hung forward, lolling drunkenly; a spate of blood ran down his face and smeared his collar. "Good Lord!" I gasped. "What----" "Get him in the surgery--quick!" the girl commanded in a whisper. "I'm afraid I rather overdid it." Examination showed the cut across Ned's forehead was more bloody than extensive, while the scalp-wound which plowed backward from his hairline needed but a few quick stitches. Nella whispered to us as we worked. "I got him to go riding with me in my runabout. Just as we got here I let out a scream and swung the wheel hard over to the right. I was braced for it, but Ned was unprepared, and went right through the windshield when I ran the car into the curb. Lord, I thought I'd killed him when I saw the blood--you do think he'll come through all right, don't you, Doctor?" "No thanks to you if he does, you little ninny!" I retorted angrily. "You might have cut his jugular with your confounded foolishness. If----" "_S-s-sh_, he's coming out of it!" she warned. "Start talking to him like a Dutch uncle; I'll be waiting in the study if you want me," and with a tattoo of high heels she left us with our patient. "Nella! Is she all right?" Ned cried as he half roused from the surgery table. "We had an accident----" "But certainly, _Monsieur_," de Grandin soothed. "You were driving past our house when a child ran out before your car and _Mademoiselle_ was forced to swerve aside to keep from hitting it. You were cut about the face, but she escaped all injury. Here"--he raised a glass of brandy to the patient's lips--"drink this. Ah, so. That is better, _n'est-ce-pas_?" For a moment he regarded Ned in silence, then, abruptly: "You are distrait, _Monsieur_. When we brought you in we were forced to give you a small whiff of ether while we patched your cuts, and in your delirium you said----" The color which had come into Ned's cheeks as the fiery cognac warmed his veins drained out again, leaving him as ghastly as a corpse. "Did Nella hear me?" he asked hoarsely. "Did I blab----" "Compose yourself, _Monsieur_," de Grandin bade. "She heard nothing, but it would be well if we heard more. I think I understand your difficulty. I am a physician and a Frenchman and no prude. This renunciation which you make is but the noble gesture. You have been unfortunate, and now you fear. Have courage; no infection is so bad there is no remedy----" Ned's laugh was hard and brittle as the tinkle of a breaking glass. "I only wish it were the thing you think," he interrupted. "I'd have you give me salvarsan and see what happened; but there isn't any treatment I can take for this. I'm not delirious, and I'm not crazy, gentlemen; I know just what I'm saying. Insane as it may sound, I'm pledged to the dead, and there isn't any way to bail me out." "_Eh_, what is it you say?" de Grandin's small blue eyes were gleaming with the light of battle as he caught the occult implication in Ned's declaration. "Pledged to the dead? _Comment cela?_" * * * * * Ned raised himself unsteadily and balanced on the table edge. "It happened in New Orleans last winter," he answered. "I'd finished up my business and was on the loose, and thought I'd walk alone through the _Vieux Carré_--the old French Quarter. I'd had dinner at Antoine's and stopped around at the Old Absinthe House for a few drinks, then strolled down to the French Market for a cup of chicory coffee and some doughnuts. Finally I walked down Royal Street to look at Madame Lalaurie's old mansion; that's the famous haunted house, you know. I wanted to see if I could find a ghost. Good Lord, I _wanted_ to! "The moon was full that night, but the house was still as old Saint Denis Cemetery, so after peering through the iron grilles that shut the courtyard from the street for half an hour or so, I started back toward Canal Street. "I'd almost reached Bienville Street when just as I passed one of those funny two-storied iron-grilled balconies so many of the old houses have I heard something drop on the sidewalk at my feet. It was a japonica, one of those rose-like flowers they grow in the courtyard gardens down there. When I looked up, a girl was laughing at me from the second story of the balcony. '_Mon fleuron, monsieur, s'il vous plait_,' she called, stretching down a white arm for the bloom. [Illustration: DR. TROWBRIDGE.] "The moonlight hung about her like a veil of silver tissue, and I could see her plainly as though it had been noon. Most New Orleans girls are dark. She was fair, her hair was very fine and silky and about the color of a frosted chestnut-burr. She wore it in a long bob with curls around her face and neck, and I knew without being told that those ringlets weren't put in with a hot iron. Her face was pale, colorless and fine-textured as a magnolia petal, but her lips were brilliant crimson. There was something reminiscent of those ladies you see pictured in Directoire prints about her; small, regular features, straight, white, high-waisted gown tied with a wide girdle underneath her bosom, low, round-cut neck and tiny, ball-puff sleeves that left her lovely arms uncovered to the shoulder. She was like Rose Beauharnais or Madame de Fontenay, except for her fair hair, and her eyes. Her eyes were like an Eastern slave's, languishing and passionate, even when she laughed. And she was laughing then, with a throaty, almost caressing laugh as I tossed the flower up to her and she leant across the iron railing, snatching at it futilely as it fell just short of reach. "'_C'est sans profit_,' she laughed at last. 'Your skill is too small or my arm too short, _m'sieur_. Bring it up to me.' "'You mean for me to come up there?' I asked. "'But certainly. I have teeth, but will not bite you--maybe.' "The street door to the house was open; I pushed it back, groped my way along a narrow hall and climbed a flight of winding stairs. She was waiting for me on the balcony, lovelier, close up, if that were possible, than when I'd seen her from the sidewalk. Her gown was China silk, so sheer and clinging that the shadow of her charming figure showed against its rippling folds like a lovely silhouette; the sash which bound it was a six-foot length of rainbow ribbon tied coquettishly beneath her shoulders and trailing in fringed ends almost to her dress-hem at the back; her feet were stockingless and shod with sandals fastened with cross-straps of purple grosgrain laced about the ankles. Save for the small gold rings that scintillated in her ears, she wore no ornaments of any kind. "'_Mon fleur, m'sieur_,' she ordered haughtily, stretching out her hand; then her eyes lighted with sudden laughter and she turned her back to me, bending her head forward. 'But no, it fell into your hands; it is that you must put in its place again,' she ordered, pointing to a curl where she wished the flower set. 'Come, _m'sieur_, I wait upon you.' "On the settee by the wall a guitar lay. She picked it up and ran her slim, pale fingers twice across the strings, sounding a soft, melancholy chord. When she began to sing, her words were slurred and languorous, and I had trouble understanding them; for the song was ancient when Bienville turned the first spadeful of earth that marked the ramparts of New Orleans: _O knights of gay Toulouse And sweet Beaucaire, Greet me my own true love And speak him fair_.... "Her voice had the throaty, velvety quality one hears in people of the Southern countries, and the words of the song seemed fairly to yearn with the sadness and passionate longing of the love-bereft. But she smiled as she put by her instrument, a curious smile, which heightened the mystery of her face, and her wide eyes seemed suddenly half questing, half drowsy, as she asked, 'Would you ride off upon your grim, pale horse and leave poor little Julie d'Ayen famishing for love, _m'sieur_?' "'Ride off from you?' I answered gallantly. 'How can you ask?' A verse from Burns came to me: _Then fare thee well, my bonny lass, And fare thee well awhile, And I will come to thee again An it were ten thousand mile._ "There was something avid in the look she gave me. Something more than mere gratified vanity shone in her eyes as she turned her face up to me in the moonlight. 'You mean it?' she demanded in a quivering, breathless voice. "'Of course,' I bantered. 'How could you doubt it?' "'Then swear it--seal the oath with blood!' "Her eyes were almost closed, and her lips were lightly parted as she leant toward me. I could see the thin, white line of tiny, gleaming teeth behind the lush red of her lips; the tip of a pink tongue swept across her mouth, leaving it warmer, moister, redder than before; in her throat a small pulse throbbed palpitatingly. Her lips were smooth and soft as the flower-petals in her hair, but as they crushed on mine they seemed to creep about them as though endowed with a volition of their own. I could feel them gliding almost stealthily, searching greedily, it seemed, until they covered my entire mouth. Then came a sudden searing burn of pain which passed as quickly as it flashed across my lips, and she seemed inhaling deeply, desperately, as though to pump the last faint gasp of breath up from my lungs. A humming sounded in my ears; everything went dark around me as if I had been plunged in some abysmal flood; a spell of dreamy lassitude was stealing over me when she pushed me from her so abruptly that I staggered back against the iron railing of the gallery. * * * * * "I gasped and fought for breath like a winded swimmer coming from the water, but the half-recaptured breath seemed suddenly to catch itself unbidden in my throat, and a tingling chill went rippling up my spine. The girl had dropped down to her knees, staring at the door which let into the house, and as I looked I saw a shadow writhe across the little pool of moonlight which lay upon the sill. Three feet or so in length it was, thick through as a man's wrist, the faint light shining dully on its scaly armor and disclosing the forked lightning of its darting tongue. It was a cottonmouth--a water moccasin--deadly as a rattlesnake, but more dangerous, for it sounds no warning before striking, and can strike when only half coiled. How it came there on the second-story gallery of a house so far from any swampland I had no means of knowing, but there it lay, bent in the design of a double S, its wedge-shaped head swaying on up-reared neck a scant six inches from the girl's soft bosom, its forked tongue darting deathly menace. Half paralyzed with fear and loathing, I stood there in a perfect ecstasy of horror, not daring to move hand or foot lest I aggravate the reptile into striking. But my terror changed to stark amazement as my senses slowly registered the scene. The girl was talking to the snake and--it listened as a person might have done! "'_Non, non, grand'tante; halte là!_' she whispered. '_Cela est à moi--il est dévoué!_' "The serpent seemed to pause uncertainly, grudgingly, as though but half convinced, then shook its head from side to side, much as an aged person might when only half persuaded by a youngster's argument. Finally, silently as a shadow, it slithered back again into the darkness of the house. "Julie bounded to her feet and put her hands upon my shoulders. "'You mus' go, my friend,' she whispered fiercely. 'Quickly, ere she comes again. It was not easy to convince her; she is old and very doubting. O, I am afraid--afraid!' "She hid her face against my arm, and I could feel the throbbing of her heart against me. Her hands stole upward to my cheeks and pressed them between palms as cold as graveyard clay as she whispered, 'Look at me, _mon beau_.' Her eyes were closed, her lips were slightly parted, and beneath the arc of her long lashes I could see the glimmer of fast-forming tears. '_Embrasse moi_', she commanded in a trembling breath. 'Kiss me and go quickly, but _O mon chèr_, do not forget poor little foolish Julie d'Ayen who has put her trust in you. Come to me again tomorrow night!' "I was reeling as from vertigo as I walked back to the Greenwald, and the bartender looked at me suspiciously when I ordered a sazarac. They've a strict rule against serving drunken men at that hotel. The liquor stung my lips like liquid flame, and I put the cocktail down half finished. When I set the fan to going and switched the light on in my room I looked into the mirror and saw two little beads of fresh, bright blood upon my lips. 'Good Lord!' I murmured stupidly as I brushed the blood away; 'she bit me!' "It all seemed so incredible that if I had not seen the blood upon my mouth I'd have thought I suffered from some lunatic hallucination, or one too many frappés at the Absinthe House. Julie was as quaint and out of time as a Directoire print, even in a city where time stands still as it does in old New Orleans. Her costume, her half-shy boldness, her--this was simply madness, nothing less!--her conversation with that snake! "What was it she had said? My French was none too good, and in the circumstances it was hardly possible to pay attention to her words, but if I'd understood her, she'd declared, 'He's mine; he has dedicated himself to me!' And she'd addressed that crawling horror as '_grand'tante_--great-aunt!' "'Feller, you're as crazy as a cockroach!' I admonished my reflection in the mirror. 'But I know what'll cure you. You're taking the first train north tomorrow morning, and if I ever catch you in the _Vieux Carré_ again, I'll----' "A sibilating hiss, no louder than the noise made by steam escaping from a kettle-spout, sounded close beside my foot. There on the rug, coiled in readiness to strike, was a three-foot cottonmouth, head swaying viciously from side to side, wicked eyes shining in the bright light from the chandelier. I saw the muscles in the creature's fore-part swell, and in a sort of horror-trance I watched its head dart forward, but, miraculously, it stopped its stroke half-way, and drew its head back, turning to glance menacingly at me first from one eye, then the other. Somehow, it seemed to me, the thing was playing with me as a cat might play a mouse, threatening, intimidating, letting me know it was master of the situation and could kill me any time it wished, but deliberately refraining from the death-stroke. "With one leap I was in the middle of my bed, and when a squad of bellboys came running in response to the frantic call for help I telephoned, they found me crouched against the headboard, almost wild with fear. "They turned the room completely inside out, rolling back the rugs, probing into chairs and sofa, emptying the bureau drawers, even taking down the towels from the bathroom rack, but nowhere was there any sign of the water moccasin that had terrified me. At the end of fifteen minutes' search they accepted half a dollar each and went grinning from the room. I knew it would be useless to appeal for help again, for I heard one whisper to another as they paused outside my door: 'It ain't right to let them Yankees loose in N'Orleans; they don't know how to hold their licker.' * * * * * "I didn't take a train next morning. Somehow, I'd an idea--crazy as it seemed--that my promise to myself and the sudden, inexplicable appearance of the snake beside my foot were related in some way. Just after luncheon I thought I'd put the theory to a test. "'Well,' I said aloud, 'I guess I might as well start packing. Don't want to let the sun go down and find me here----' "My theory was right. I hadn't finished speaking when I heard the warning hiss, and there, poised ready for the stroke, the snake was coiled before the door. And it was no phantom, either, no figment of an overwrought imagination. It lay upon a rug the hotel management had placed before the door to take the wear of constant passage from the carpet, and I could see the high pile of the rug crushed down beneath its weight. It was flesh and scales--and fangs!--and it coiled and threatened me in my twelfth-floor room in the bright sunlight of the afternoon. "Little chills of terror chased each other up my back, and I could feel the short hairs on my neck grow stiff and scratch against my collar, but I kept myself in hand. Pretending to ignore the loathsome thing, I flung myself upon the bed. "'Oh, well,' I said aloud, 'there really isn't any need of hurrying. I promised Julie that I'd come to her tonight, and I mustn't disappoint her." Half a minute later I roused myself upon my elbow and glanced toward the door. The snake was gone. "'Here's a letter for you, Mr. Minton,' said the desk clerk as I paused to leave my key. The note was on gray paper edged with silver-gilt, and very highly scented. The penmanship was tiny, stilted and ill-formed, as though the author were unused to writing, but I could make it out: _Adoré Meet me in St. Denis Cemetery at sunset À vous de coeur pour l'éternité_ JULIE "I stuffed the note back in my pocket. The more I thought about the whole affair the less I liked it. The flirtation had begun harmlessly enough, and Julie was as lovely and appealing as a figure in a fairy-tale, but there are unpleasant aspects to most fairy-tales, and this was no exception. That scene last night when she had seemed to argue with a full-grown cottonmouth, and the mysterious appearance of the snake whenever I spoke of breaking my promise to go back to her--there was something too much like black magic in it. Now she addressed me as her adored and signed herself for eternity; finally named a graveyard as our rendezvous. Things had become a little bit too thick. "I was standing at the corner of Canal and Baronne Streets, and crowds of office workers and late shoppers elbowed past me. 'I'll be damned if I'll meet her in a cemetery, or anywhere else,' I muttered. 'I've had enough of all this nonsense----' "A woman's shrill scream, echoed by a man's hoarse shout of terror, interrupted me. On the marble pavement of Canal Street, with half a thousand people bustling by, lay coiled a three-foot water moccasin. Here was proof. I'd seen it twice in my room at the hotel, but I'd been alone each time. Some form of weird hypnosis might have made me think I saw it, but the screaming woman and the shouting man, these panic-stricken people in Canal Street, couldn't all be victims of a spell which had been cast on me. 'All right, I'll go,' I almost shouted, and instantly, as though it been but a puff of smoke, the snake was gone, the half-fainting woman and a crowd of curious bystanders asking what was wrong left to prove I had not been the victim of some strange delusion. * * * * * "Old Saint Denis Cemetery lay drowsing in the blue, faint twilight. It has no graves as we know them, for when the city was laid out it was below sea-level and bodies were stored away in crypts set row on row like lines of pigeon-holes in walls as thick as those of mediæval castles. Grass-grown aisles run between the rows of vaults, and the effect is a true city of the dead with narrow streets shut in by close-set houses. The rattle of a trolley car in Rampart Street came to me faintly as I walked between the rows of tombs; from the river came the mellow-throated bellow of a steamer's whistle, but both sounds were muted as though heard from a great distance. The tomb-lined bastions of Saint Denis hold the present out as firmly as they hold the memories of the past within. "Down one aisle and up another I walked, the close-clipped turf deadening my footfalls so I might have been a ghost come back to haunt the ancient burial ground, but nowhere was there sign or trace of Julie. I made the circuit of the labyrinth and finally paused before one of the more pretentious tombs. "'Looks as if she'd stood me up,' I murmured. 'If she has, I have a good excuse to----' "'But _non, mon coeur_, I have not disappointed you!' a soft voice whispered in my ear. 'See, I am here.' "I think I must have jumped at sound of her greeting, for she clapped her hands delightedly before she put them on my shoulders and turned her face up for a kiss. 'Silly one,' she chided, 'did you think your Julie was unfaithful?' "I put her hands away as gently as I could, for her utter self-surrender was embarrassing. 'Where were you?' I asked, striving to make neutral conversation. 'I've been prowling round this graveyard for the last half-hour, and came through this aisle not a minute ago, but I didn't see you----' "'Ah, but I saw you, _chéri_; I have watched you as you made your solemn rounds like a watchman of the night. _Ohé_, but it was hard to wait until the sun went down to greet you, _mon petit_!' "She laughed again, and her mirth was mellowly musical as the gurgle of cool water poured from a silver vase. "'How could you have seen me?' I demanded. 'Where were you all this time?' "But here, of course,' she answered naïvely, resting one hand against the graystone slab that sealed the tomb. "I shook my head bewilderedly. The tomb, like all the others in the deeply recessed wall, was of rough cement incrusted with small seashells, and its sides were straight and blank without a spear of ivy clinging to them. A sparrow could not have found cover there, yet.... "Julie raised herself on tiptoe and stretched her arms out right and left while she looked at me through half-closed, smiling eyes. '_Je suis engourdie_--I am stiff with sleep,' she told me, stifling a yawn. 'But now that you are come, _mon cher_, I am wakeful as the pussy-cat that rouses at the scampering of the mouse. Come, let us walk in this garden of mine.' She linked her arm through mine and started down the grassy, grave-lined path. "Tiny shivers--not of cold--were flickering through my cheeks and down my neck beneath my ears. I _had_ to have an explanation ... the snake, her declaration that she watched me as I searched the cemetery--and from a tomb where a beetle could not have found a hiding-place--her announcement she was still stiff from sleeping, now her reference to a half-forgotten graveyard as her garden. "'See here, I want to know----' I started, but she laid her hand across my lips. "'Do not ask to know too soon, _mon coeur_,' she bade. 'Look at me, am I not veritably _élégante_?' She stood back a step, gathered up her skirts and swept me a deep curtsy. "There was no denying she was beautiful. Her tightly curling hair had been combed high and tied back with a fillet of bright violet tissue which bound her brows like a diadem and at the front of which an aigret plume was set. In her ears were hung two beautifully matched cameos, outlined in gold and seed-pearls, and almost large as silver dollars; a necklace of antique dull-gold hung round her throat, and its pendant was a duplicate of her ear-cameos, while a bracelet of matt-gold set with a fourth matched anaglyph was clasped about her left arm just above the elbow. Her gown was sheer white muslin, low cut at front and back, with little puff-sleeves at the shoulders, fitted tightly at the bodice and flaring sharply from a high-set waist. Over it she wore a narrow scarf of violet silk, hung behind her neck and dropping down on either side in front like a clergyman's stole. Her sandals were gilt leather, heel-less as a ballet dancer's shoes and laced with violet ribbons. Her lovely, pearl-white hands were bare of rings, but on the second toe of her right foot there showed a little cameo which matched the others which she wore. "I could feel my heart begin to pound and my breath come quicker as I looked at her, but: "'You look as if you're going to a masquerade,' I said. "A look of hurt surprize showed in her eyes. 'A masquerade?' she echoed. 'But no, it is my best, my very finest, that I wear for you tonight, _mon adoré_. Do not you like it; do you not love me, Édouard?' "'No,' I answered shortly, 'I do not. We might as well understand each other, Julie. I'm not in love with you and I never was. It's been a pretty flirtation, nothing more. I'm going home tomorrow, and----' "'But you will come again? Surely you will come again?' she pleaded, 'You cannot mean it when you say you do not love me, Édouard. Tell me that you spoke so but to tease me----' "A warning hiss sounded in the grass beside my foot, but I was too angry to be frightened. 'Go ahead, set your devilish snake on me,' I taunted. 'Let it bite me. I'd as soon be dead as----' "The snake was quick, but Julie quicker. In the split-second required for the thing to drive at me she leaped across the grass-grown aisle and pushed me back. So violent was the shove she gave me that I fell against the tomb, struck my head against a small projecting stone and stumbled to my knees. As I fought for footing on the slippery grass I saw the deadly, wedge-shaped head strike full against the girl's bare ankle and heard her gasp with pain. The snake recoiled and swung its head toward me, but Julie dropped down to her knees and spread her arms protectingly about me. "'_Non, non, grand'tante!_' she screamed; 'not this one! Let me----' Her voice broke on a little gasp and with a retching hiccup she sank limply to the grass. "I tried to rise, but my foot slipped on the grass and I fell back heavily against the tomb, crashing my brow against its shell-set cement wall. I saw Julie lying in a little huddled heap of white against the blackness of the sward, and, shadowy but clearly visible, an aged, wrinkled Negress with turbaned head and cambric apron bending over her, nursing her head against her bosom and rocking back and forth grotesquely while she crooned a wordless threnody. Where had she come from? I wondered idly. Where had the snake gone? Why did the moonlight seem to fade and flicker like a dying lamp? Once more I tried to rise, but slipped back to the grass before the tomb as everything went black before me. "The lavender light of early morning was streaming over the tomb-walls of the cemetery when I waked. I lay quiet for a little while, wondering sleepily how I came there. Then, just as the first rays of the sun shot through the thinning shadows, I remembered. Julie! The snake had bitten her when she flung herself before me. She was gone; the old Negress--where had _she_ come from?--was gone, too, and I was utterly alone in the old graveyard. "Stiff from lying on the ground, I got myself up awkwardly, grasping at the flower-shelf projecting from the tomb. As my eyes came level with the slab that sealed the crypt I felt the breath catch in my throat. The crypt, like all its fellows, looked for all the world like an old oven let into a brick wall overlaid with peeling plaster. The sealing-stone was probably once white, but years had stained it to a dirty gray, and time had all but rubbed its legend out. Still, I could see the faint inscription carved in quaint, old-fashioned letters, and disbelief gave way to incredulity, which was replaced by panic terror as I read: _Ici repose malheureusement Julie Amelie Marie d'Ayen Nationale de Paris France Née le 29 Aout 1788 Décédée a la N O le 2 Juillet 1807_ "Julie! Little Julie whom I'd held in my arms, whose mouth had lain on mine in eager kisses, was a corpse! Dead and in her grave more than a century!" * * * * * The silence lengthened. Ned stared miserably before him, his outward eyes unseeing, but his mind's eye turned upon that scene in old Saint Denis Cemetery. De Grandin tugged and tugged again at the ends of his mustache till I thought he'd drag the hairs out by the roots. I could think of nothing which might ease the tension till: "Of course, the name cut on the tombstone was a piece of pure coincidence," I hazarded. "Most likely the young woman deliberately assumed it to mislead you----" "And the snake which threatened our young friend, he was an assumption, also, one infers?" de Grandin interrupted. "N-o, but it could have been a trick. Ned saw an aged Negress in the cemetery, and those old Southern darkies have strange powers----" "I damn think that you hit the thumb upon the nail that time, my friend," the little Frenchman nodded, "though you do not realize how accurate your diagnosis is." To Ned: "Have you seen this snake again since coming North?" "Yes," Ned replied. "I have. I was too stunned to speak when I read the epitaph, and I wandered back to the hotel in a sort of daze and packed my bags in silence. Possibly that's why there was no further visitation there. I don't know. I do know nothing further happened, though, and when several months had passed with nothing but my memories to remind me of the incident, I began to think I'd suffered from some sort of walking nightmare. Nella and I went ahead with preparations for our wedding, but three weeks ago the postman brought me this----" He reached into an inner pocket and drew out an envelope. It was of soft gray paper, edged with silver-gilt, and the address was in tiny, almost unreadable script: M. Édouard Minton, 30 Rue Carteret 30, Harrisonville, N. J. "U'm?" de Grandin commented as he inspected it. "It is addressed à la française. And the letter, may one read it?" "Of course," Ned answered. "I'd like you to." Across de Grandin's shoulder I made out the hastily-scrawled missive: _Adoré_ _Remember your promise and the kiss of blood that sealed it. Soon I shall call and you must come._ _Pour le temps et pour l'éternité_, JULIE. "You recognize the writing?" de Grandin asked. "It is----" "Oh, yes," Ned answered bitterly, "I recognize it; it's the same the other note was written in." "And then?" The boy smiled bleakly. "I crushed the thing into a ball and threw it on the floor and stamped on it. Swore I'd die before I'd keep another rendezvous with her, and----" He broke off, and put trembling hands up to his face. "The so mysterious serpent came again, one may assume?" de Grandin prompted. "But it's only a phantom snake," I interjected. "At worst it's nothing more than a terrifying vision----" "Think so?" Ned broke in. "D'ye remember Rowdy, my airedale terrier?" I nodded. "He was in the room when I opened this letter, and when the cottonmouth appeared beside me on the floor he made a dash for it. Whether it would have struck me I don't know, but it struck at him as he leaped and caught him squarely in the throat. He thrashed and fought, and the thing held on with locked jaws till I grabbed a fire-shovel and made for it; then, before I could strike, it vanished. "But its venom didn't. Poor old Rowdy was dead before I could get him out of the house, but I took his corpse to Doctor Kirchoff, the veterinary, and told him Rowdy died suddenly and I wanted him to make an autopsy. He went back to his operating-room and stayed there half an hour. When he came back to the office he was wiping his glasses and wore the most astonished look I've ever seen on a human face. 'You say your dog died suddenly--in the house?' he asked. "'Yes,' I told him; 'just rolled over and died.' "'Well, bless my soul, that's the most amazing thing I ever heard!' he answered. 'I can't account for it. That dog died from snake-bite; copperhead, I'd say, and the marks of the fangs show plainly on his throat.'" "But I thought you said it was a water moccasin," I objected. "Now Doctor Kirchoff says it was a copperhead----" "_Ah hah_!" de Grandin laughed a thought unpleasantly. "Did no one ever tell you that the copperhead and moccasin are of close kind, my friend? Have not you heard some ophiologists maintain the moccasin is but a dark variety of copperhead?" He did not pause for my reply, but turned again to Ned: "One understands your chivalry, _Monsieur_. For yourself you have no fear, since after all at times life can be bought too dearly, but the death of your small dog has put a different aspect on the matter. If this never-to-be-sufficiently-anathematized serpent which comes and goes like the _boîte à surprise_--the how do you call him? Jack from the box?--is enough a ghost thing to appear at any time and place it wills, but sufficiently physical to exude venom which will kill a strong and healthy terrier, you have the fear for Mademoiselle Nella, _n'est-ce-pas_?" "Precisely, you----" "And you are well advised to have the caution, my young friend. We face a serious condition." "What do you advise?" The Frenchman teased his needlepoint mustache-tip with a thoughtful thumb and forefinger. "For the present, nothing," he replied at length. "Let me look this situation over; let me view it from all angles. Whatever I might tell you now would probably be wrong. Suppose we meet again one week from now. By that time I should have my data well in hand." "And in the meantime----" "Continue to be coy with Mademoiselle Nella. Perhaps it would be well if you recalled important business which requires that you leave town till you hear from me again. There is no need to put her life in peril at this time." * * * * * "If it weren't for Kirchoff's testimony I'd say Ned Minton had gone raving crazy," I declared as the door closed on our visitors. "The whole thing's wilder than an opium smoker's dream--that meeting with the girl in New Orleans, the snake that comes and disappears, the assignation in the cemetery--it's all too preposterous. But I know Kirchoff. He's as unimaginative as a side of sole-leather, and as efficient as he is unimaginative. If he says Minton's dog died of snake-bite that's what it died of, but the whole affair's so utterly fantastic----" "Agreed," de Grandin nodded; "but what is fantasy but the appearance of mental images as such, severed from ordinary relations? The 'ordinary relations' of images are those to which we are accustomed, which conform to our experience. The wider that experience, the more ordinary will we find extraordinary relations. By example, take yourself: You sit in a dark auditorium and see a railway train come rushing at you. Now, it is not at all in ordinary experience for a locomotive to come dashing in a theater filled with people, it is quite otherwise; but you keep your seat, you do not flinch, you are not frightened. It is nothing but a motion picture, which you understand. But if you were a savage from New Guinea you would rise and fly in panic from this steaming, shrieking iron monster which bears down on you. _Tiens_, it is a matter of experience, you see. To you it is an everyday event, to the savage it would be a new and terrifying thing. "Or, perhaps, you are at the hospital. You place a patient between you and the Crookes' tube of an X-ray, you turn on the current, you observe him through the fluoroscope and _pouf_! his flesh all melts away and his bones spring out in sharp relief. Three hundred years ago you would have howled like a stoned dog at the sight, and prayed to be delivered from the witchcraft which produced it. Today you curse and swear like twenty drunken pirates if the Röntgenologist is but thirty seconds late in setting up the apparatus. These things are 'scientific,' you understand their underlying formulæ, therefore they seem natural. But mention what you please to call the occult, and you scoff, and that is but admitting that you are opposed to something which you do not understand. The credible and believable is that to which we are accustomed, the fantastic and incredible is what we cannot explain in terms of previous experience. _Voilà, c'est très simple, n'est-ce-pas?_" "You mean to say you understand all this?" "Not at all by any means; I am clever, me, but not that clever. No, my friend, I am as much in the dark as you, only I do not refuse to credit what our young friend tells us. I believe the things he has related happened, exactly as he has recounted them. I do not understand, but I believe. Accordingly, I must probe, I must sift, I must examine this matter. We see it now as a group of unrelated and irrelevant occurrences, but somewhere lies the key which will enable us to make harmony from this discord, to gather these stray, tangled threads into an ordered pattern. I go to seek that key." "Where?" "To New Orleans, of course. Tonight I pack my portmanteaux, tomorrow I entrain. Just now"--he smothered a tremendous yawn--"now I do what every wise man does as often as he can. I take a drink." * * * * * Seven evenings later we gathered in my study, de Grandin, Ned and I, and from the little Frenchman's shining eyes I knew his quest had been productive of results. "My friends," he told us solemnly, "I am a clever person, and a lucky one, as well. The morning after my arrival at New Orleans I enjoyed three Ramos fizzes, then went to sit in City Park by the old Dueling-Oak and wished with all my heart that I had taken four. And while I sat in self-reproachful thought, sorrowing for the drink that I had missed, behold, one passed by whom I recognized. He was my old schoolfellow, Paul Dubois, now a priest in holy orders and attached to the Cathedral of Saint Louis. [Illustration: DR. DE GRANDIN.] "He took me to his quarters, that good, pious man, and gave me luncheon. It was Friday and a fast day, so we fasted. _Mon Dieu_, but we did fast! On créole gumbo and oysters à la Rockefeller, and baked pompano and little shrimp fried crisp in olive oil and chicory salad and seven different kinds of cheese and wine. When we were so filled with fasting that we could not eat another morsel my old friend took me to another priest, a native of New Orleans whose stock of local lore was second only to his marvelous capacity for fine champagne. _Morbleu_, how I admire that one! And now, attend me very carefully, my friends. What he disclosed to me makes many hidden mysteries all clear: "In New Orleans there lived a wealthy family named d'Ayen. They possessed much gold and land, a thousand slaves or more, and one fair daughter by the name of Julie. When this country bought the Louisiana Territory from Napoléon and your army came to occupy the forts, this young girl fell in love with a young officer, a Lieutenant Philip Merriwell. _Tenez_, army love in those times was no different than it is today, it seems. This gay young lieutenant, he came, he wooed, he won, he rode away, and little Julie wept and sighed and finally died of heartbreak. In her lovesick illness she had for constant company a slave, an old mulatress known to most as Maman Dragonne, but to Julie simply as _grand'tante_, great-aunt. She had nursed our little Julie at the breast, and all her life she fostered and attended her. To her little white '_mamselle_' she was all gentleness and kindness, but to others she was fierce and frightful, for she was a 'conjon woman,' adept at obeah, the black magic of the Congo, and among the blacks she ruled as queen by force of fear, while the whites were wont to treat her with respect and, it was more than merely whispered, retain her services upon occasion. She could sell protection to the duelist, and he who bore her charm would surely conquer on the field of honor; she brewed love-drafts which turned the hearts and heads of the most capricious coquettes or the most constant wives, as occasion warranted; by merely staring fixedly at someone she could cause him to take sick and die, and--here we commence to tread upon our own terrain--she was said to have the power of changing to a snake at will. "Very good. You follow? When poor young Julie died of heartbreak it was old Maman Dragonne--the little white one's _grand'tante_--who watched beside her bed. It is said she stood beside her mistress' coffin and called a curse upon the fickle lover; swore he would come back and die beside the body of the sweetheart he deserted. She also made a prophecy. Julie should have many loves, but her body should not know corruption nor her spirit rest until she could find one to keep his promise and return to her with words of love upon his lips. Those who failed her should die horribly, but he who kept his pledge would bring her rest and peace. This augury she made while she stood beside her mistress' coffin just before they sealed it in the tomb in old Saint Denis Cemetery. Then she disappeared." "You mean she ran away?" I asked. "I mean she disappeared, vanished, evanesced, evaporated. She was never seen again, not even by the people who stood next to her when she pronounced her prophecy." "But----" "No buts, my friend, if you will be so kind. Years later, when the British stormed New Orleans, Lieutenant Merriwell was there with General Andrew Jackson. He survived the battle like a man whose life is charmed, though all around him comrades fell and three horses were shot under him. Then, when the strife was done, he went to the grand banquet tendered to the victors. While gayety was at its height he abruptly left the table. Next morning he was found upon the grass before the tomb of Julie d'Ayen. He was dead. He died from snake-bite. "The years marched on and stories spread about the town, stories of a strange and lovely _belle dame sans merci_, a modern Circe who lured young gallants to their doom. Time and again some gay young blade of New Orleans would boast a conquest. Passing late at night through Royal Street, he would have a flower dropped to him as he walked underneath a balcony. He would meet a lovely girl dressed in the early Empire style, and be surprized at the ease with which he pushed his suit; then--upon the trees in Chartres Street appeared his funeral notices. He was dead, invariably he was dead of snake-bite. _Parbleu_, it got to be a saying that he who died mysteriously must have met the Lady of the Moonlight as he walked through Royal Street!" He paused and poured a thimbleful of brandy in his coffee. "You see?" he asked. "No, I'm shot if I do!" I answered. "I can't see the connection between----" "Night and breaking dawn, perhaps?" he asked sarcastically. "If two and two make four, my friend, and even you will not deny they do, then these things I have told you give an explanation of our young friend's trouble. This girl he met was most indubitably Julie, poor little Julie d'Ayen on whose tombstone it is carved: '_Ici repose malheureusement_--here lies unhappily.' The so mysterious snake which menaces young Monsieur Minton is none other than the aged Maman Dragonne--_grand'tante_, as Julie called her." "But Ned's already failed to keep his tryst," I objected. "Why didn't this snake-woman sting him in the hotel, or----" "Do you recall what Julie said when first the snake appeared?" he interrupted. "'Not this one, _grand'tante_!' And again, in the old cemetery when the serpent actually struck at him, she threw herself before him and received the blow. It could not permanently injure her; to earthly injuries the dead are proof, but the shock of it caused her to swoon, it seems. _Monsieur_," he bowed to Ned, "you are more fortunate than any of those others. Several times you have been close to death, but each time you escaped. You have been given chance and chance again to keep your pledged word to the dead, a thing no other faithless lover of the little Julie ever had. It seems, Monsieur, this dead girl truly loves you." "How horrible!" I muttered. "You said it, Doctor Trowbridge!" Ned seconded. "It looks as if I'm in a spot, all right." "_Mais non_," de Grandin contradicted. "Escape is obvious, my friend." "How, in heaven's name?" "Keep your promised word; go back to her." "Good Lord, I can't do that! Go back to a corpse, take her in my arms--kiss her?" "_Certainement_, why not?" "Why--why, she's _dead_!" "Is she not beautiful?" "She's lovely and alluring as a siren's song. I think she's the most exquisite thing I've ever seen, but----" he rose and walked unsteadily across the room. "If it weren't for Nella," he said slowly, "I might not find it hard to follow your advice. Julie's sweet and beautiful, and artless and affectionate as a child; kind, too, the way she stood between me and that awful snake-thing, but--oh, it's out of the question!" "Then we must expand the question to accommodate it, my friend. For the safety of the living--for Mademoiselle Nella's sake--and for the repose of the dead, you must keep the oath you swore to little Julie d'Ayen. You must go back to New Orleans and keep your rendezvous." * * * * * The dead of old Saint Denis lay in dreamless sleep beneath the palely argent rays of the fast-waxing moon. The oven-like tombs were gay with hardly-wilted flowers; for two days before was All Saints' Day, and no grave in all New Orleans is so lowly, no dead so long interred, that pious hands do not bear blossoms of remembrance to them on that feast of memories. De Grandin had been busily engaged all afternoon, making mysterious trips to the old Negro quarter in company with a patriarchal scion of Indian and Negro ancestry who professed ability to guide him to the city's foremost practitioner of voodoo; returning to the hotel only to dash out again to consult his friend at the Cathedral; coming back to stare with thoughtful eyes upon the changing panorama of Canal Street while Ned, nervous as a race-horse at the barrier, tramped up and down the room lighting cigarette from cigarette and drinking absinthe frappés alternating with sharp, bitter sazarac cocktails till I wondered that he did not fall in utter alcoholic collapse. By evening I had that eery feeling that the sane experience when alone with mad folk. I was ready to shriek at any unexpected noise or turn and run at sight of a strange shadow. "My friend," de Grandin ordered as we reached the grass-paved corridor of tombs where Ned had told us the d'Ayen vaults were, "I suggest that you drink this." From an inner pocket he drew out a tiny flask of ruby glass and snapped its stopper loose. A strong and slightly acrid scent came to me, sweet and spicy, faintly reminiscent of the odor of the aromatic herbs one smells about a mummy's wrappings. "Thanks, I've had enough to drink already," Ned said shortly. "You are informing me, _mon vieux_?" the little Frenchman answered with a smile. "It is for that I brought this draft along. It will help you draw yourself together. You have need of all your faculties this time, believe me." Ned put the bottle to his lips, drained its contents, hiccuped lightly, then braced his shoulders. "That _is_ a pick-up," he complimented. "Too bad you didn't let me have it sooner, sir. I think I can go through the ordeal now." "One is sure you can," the Frenchman answered confidently. "Walk slowly toward the spot where you last saw Julie, if you please. We shall await you here, in easy call if we are needed." The aisle of tombs was empty as Ned left us. The turf had been fresh-mown for the day of visitation and was as smooth and short as a lawn tennis court. A field-mouse could not have run across the pathway without our seeing it. This much I noticed idly as Ned trudged away from us, walking more like a man on his way to the gallows than one who went to keep a lovers' rendezvous ... and suddenly he was not alone. There was another with him, a girl dressed in a clinging robe of sheer white muslin cut in the charming fashion of the First Empire, girdled high beneath the bosom with a sash of light-blue ribbon. A wreath of pale gardenias lay upon her bright, fair hair; her slender arms were pearl-white in the moonlight. As she stepped toward Ned I thought involuntarily of a line from Sir John Suckling: "Her feet ... like little mice stole in and out." "_Édouard, chêri! O, coeur de mon coeur, c'est véritablement toi?_ Thou hast come willingly, unasked, _petit amant_?" "I'm here," Ned answered steadily, "but only----" He paused and drew a sudden gasping breath, as though a hand had been laid on his throat. "_Chèri_," the girl asked in a trembling voice, "you are cold to me; do not you love me, then--you are not here because your heart heard my heart calling? O heart of my heart's heart, if you but knew how I have longed and waited! It has been _triste, mon Édouard_, lying in my narrow bed alone while winter rains and summer suns beat down, listening for your footfall. I could have gone out at my pleasure whenever moonlight made the nights all bright with silver; I could have sought for other lovers, but I would not. You held release for me within your hands, and if I might not have it from you I would forfeit it for ever. Do not you bring release for me, my Édouard? Say that it is so!" An odd look came into the boy's face. He might have seen her for the first time, and been dazzled by her beauty and the winsome sweetness of her voice. "Julie!" he whispered softly. "Poor, patient, faithful little Julie!" In a single stride he crossed the intervening turf and was on his knees before her, kissing her hands, the hem of her gown, her sandaled feet, and babbling half-coherent, broken words of love. She put her hands upon his head as if in benediction, then turned them, holding them palm-forward to his lips, finally crooked her fingers underneath his chin and raised his face. "Nay, love, sweet love, art thou a worshipper and I a saint that thou should kneel to me?" she asked him tenderly. "See, my lips are famishing for thine, and wilt thou waste thy kisses on my hands and feet and garment? Make haste, my heart, we have but little time, and I would know the kisses of redemption ere----" They clung together in the moonlight, her white-robed, lissome form and his somberly-clad body seemed to melt and merge in one while her hands reached up to clasp his cheeks and draw his face down to her yearning, scarlet mouth. De Grandin was reciting something in a mumbling monotone; his words were scarcely audible, but I caught a phrase occasionally: "... rest eternal grant to her, O Lord ... let light eternal shine upon her ... from the gates of hell her soul deliver.... _Kyrie eleison_...." "Julie!" we heard Ned's despairing cry, and: "_Ha_, it comes, it has begun; it finishes!" de Grandin whispered gratingly. The girl had sunk down to the grass as though she swooned; one arm had fallen limply from Ned's shoulder, but the other still was clasped about his neck as we raced toward them. "_Adieu, mon amoureux; adieu pour ce monde, adieu pour l'autre; adieu pour l'éternité!_" we heard her sob. When we reached him, Ned knelt empty-armed before the tomb. Of Julie there was neither sign nor trace. "So, assist him, if you will, my friend," de Grandin bade, motioning me to take Ned's elbow. "Help him to the gate. I follow quickly, but first I have a task to do." As I led Ned, staggering like a drunken man, toward the cemetery exit, I heard the clang of metal striking metal at the tomb behind us. * * * * * "What did you stop behind to do?" I asked as we prepared for bed at the hotel. He flashed his quick, infectious smile at me, and tweaked his mustache ends, for all the world like a self-satisfied tomcat furbishing his whiskers after finishing a bowl of cream. "There was an alteration to that epitaph I had to make. You recall it read, '_Ici repose malheureusement_--here lies unhappily Julie d'Ayen'? That is no longer true. I chiseled off the _malheureusement_. Thanks to Monsieur Édouard's courage and my cleverness the old one's prophecy was fulfilled tonight; and poor, small Julie has found rest at last. Tomorrow morning they celebrate the first of a series of masses I have arranged for her at the Cathedral." "What was that drink you gave Ned just before he left us?" I asked curiously. "It smelled like----" "_Le bon Dieu_ and the devil know--not I," he answered with a grin. "It was a voodoo love-potion. I found the realization that she had been dead a century and more so greatly troubled our young friend that he swore he could not be affectionate to our poor Julie; so I went down to the Negro quarter in the afternoon and arranged to have a philtre brewed. _Eh bien_, that aged black one who concocted it assured me that she could inspire love for the image of a crocodile in the heart of anyone who looked upon it after taking but a drop of her decoction, and she charged me twenty dollars for it. But I think I had my money's worth. Did it not work marvelously?" "Then Julie's really gone? Ned's coming back released her from the spell----" "Not wholly gone," he corrected. "Her little body now is but a small handful of dust, her spirit is no longer earth-bound, and the familiar demon who in life was old Maman Dragonne has left the earth with her, as well. No longer will she metamorphosize into a snake and kill the faithless ones who kiss her little mistress and then forswear their troth, but--_non_, my friend, Julie is not gone entirely, I think. In the years to come when Ned and Nella have long been joined in wedded bliss, there will be minutes when Julie's face and Julie's voice and the touch of Julie's little hands will haunt his memory. There will always be one little corner of his heart which never will belong to Madame Nella Minton, for it will be for ever Julie's. Yes, I think that it is so." Slowly, deliberately, almost ritualistically, he poured a glass of wine and raised it. "To you, my little poor one," he said softly as he looked across the sleeping city toward old Saint Denis Cemetery. "You quit earth with a kiss upon your lips; may you sleep serene in Paradise until another kiss shall waken you." * * * * * 
27779	----	Transcriber's note Inconsistencies in language and dialect found in the original book have been retained. Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Printer errors have been changed and are listed at the end. [Illustration: SOLOMON CROW'S CHRISTMAS POCKETS RUTH McENERY STUART] [Illustration: [_See page 34_ "'DIS HEAH'S A FUS-CLASS THING TER WORK OFF BAD TEMPERS WID'"] SOLOMON CROW'S CHRISTMAS POCKETS AND OTHER TALES BY RUTH McENERY STUART AUTHOR OF "A GOLDEN WEDDING" "THE STORY OF BABETTE" "CARLOTTA'S INTENDED" ETC. ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 1897 BY THE SAME AUTHOR. CARLOTTA'S INTENDED, and Other Tales. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1 50. THE GOLDEN WEDDING, and Other Tales. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1 50. THE STORY OF BABETTE. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1 50. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. _All rights reserved._ TO MY DEAR NIECE LITTLE MISS LEA CALLAWAY CONTENTS PAGE SOLOMON CROW'S CHRISTMAS POCKETS 3 THE TWO TIMS 23 THE FREYS' CHRISTMAS PARTY 39 LITTLE MOTHER QUACKALINA 67 OLD EASTER 91 SAINT IDYL'S LIGHT 111 "BLINK" 131 DUKE'S CHRISTMAS 165 UNCLE EPHE'S ADVICE TO BRER RABBIT 193 MAY BE SO 199 ILLUSTRATIONS "'DIS HEAH'S A FUS-CLASS THING TER WORK OFF BAD TEMPERS WID'" _Frontispiece_ "'SHE OUGHT TO EAT CANARY-SEED AND FISH-BONE'" _Facing p._ 46 THE ITALIAN ORGAN-GRINDER " 62 "THE PROFESSOR NOT ONLY SANG, BUT DANCED" " 64 "THE FARMER'S BOY WAS A HUNTER" " 68 "SIR SOOTY HIMSELF ACTUALLY WADDLED INTO THE FARM-YARD" " 74 "'I'M GOIN' TO SWAP 'EM'" " 76 "MADE HER PUT OUT HER TONGUE" " 78 "HER OWN TEN BEAUTIFUL DUCKS WERE CLOSE ABOUT HER" " 86 OLD EASTER " 92 "'YAS, MISSY, I WAS TWENTY-FO' HOND'ED YEARS OLE, LAS' EASTER SUNDAY'" " 94 "'DE CATS? WHY, HONEY, DEY WELCOME TO COME AN' GO'" " 106 "'KEEP STEP, RABBIT, MAN!'" " 192 "'WELL, ONE MO' RABBIT FUR DE POT'" " 194 SOLOMON CROW'S CHRISTMAS POCKETS SOLOMON CROW'S CHRISTMAS POCKETS His mother named him Solomon because, when he was a baby, he looked so wise; and then she called him Crow because he was so black. True, she got angry when the boys caught it up, but then it was too late. They knew more about crows than they did about Solomon, and the name suited. His twin-brother, who died when he was a day old, his mother had called Grundy--just because, as she said, "Solomon an' Grundy b'longs together in de books." When the wee black boy began to talk, he knew himself equally as Solomon or Crow, and so, when asked his name, he would answer: "Sol'mon Crow," and Solomon Crow he thenceforth became. Crow was ten years old now, and he was so very black and polished and thin, and had so peaked and bright a face, that no one who had any sense of humor could hear him called Crow without smiling. Crow's mother, Tempest, had been a worker in her better days, but she had grown fatter and fatter until now she was so lazy and broad that her chief pleasure seemed to be sitting in her front door and gossiping with her neighbors over the fence, or in abusing or praising little Solomon, according to her mood. Tempest had never been very honest. When, in the old days, she had hired out as cook and carried "her dinner" home at night, the basket on her arm had usually held enough for herself and Crow and a pig and the chickens--with some to give away. She had not meant Crow to understand, but the little fellow was wide awake, and his mother was his pattern. But this is the boy's story. It seemed best to tell a little about his mother, so that, if he should some time do wrong things, we might all, writer and readers, be patient with him. He had been poorly taught. If we could not trace our honesty back to our mothers, how many of us would love the truth? Crow's mother loved him very much--she thought. She would knock down any one who even blamed him for anything. Indeed, when things went well, she would sometimes go sound asleep in the door with her fat arm around him--very much as the mother-cat beside her lay half dozing while she licked her baby kitten. But if Crow was awkward or forgot anything--or didn't bring home money enough--her abuse was worse than any mother-cat's claws. One of her worst taunts on such occasions was about like this: "Well, you is a low-down nigger, I must say. Nobody, to look at you, would b'lieve you was twin to a angel!" Or, "How you reckon yo' angel-twin feels ef he's a-lookin' at you now?" Crow had great reverence for his little lost mate. Indeed, he feared the displeasure of this other self, who, he believed, watched him from the skies, quite as much as the anger of God. Sad to say, the good Lord, whom most children love as a kind, heavenly Father, was to poor little Solomon Crow only a terrible, terrible punisher of wrong, and the little boy trembled at His very name. He seemed to hear God's anger in the thunder or the wind; but in the blue sky, the faithful stars, the opening flowers and singing birds--in all loving-kindness and friendship--he never saw a heavenly Father's love. He knew that some things were right and others wrong. He knew that it was right to go out and earn dimes to buy the things needed in the cabin, but he equally knew it was wrong to get this money dishonestly. Crow was a very shrewd little boy, and he made money honestly in a number of ways that only a wide-awake boy would think about. When fig season came, in hot summer-time, he happened to notice that beautiful ripe figs were drying up on the tip-tops of some great trees in a neighboring yard, where a stout old gentleman and his old wife lived alone, and he began to reflect. "If I could des git a-holt o' some o' dem fine sugar figs dat's a-swivelin' up every day on top o' dem trees, I'd meck a heap o' money peddlin' 'em on de street." And even while he thought this thought he licked his lips. There were, no doubt, other attractions about the figs for a very small boy with a very sweet tooth. On the next morning after this, Crow rang the front gate-bell of the yard where the figs were growing. "Want a boy to pick figs on sheers?" That was all he said to the fat old gentleman who had stepped around the house in answer to his ring. Crow's offer was timely. Old Mr. Cary was red in the face and panting even yet from reaching up into the mouldy, damp lower limbs of his fig-trees, trying to gather a dishful for breakfast. "Come in," he said, mopping his forehead as he spoke. "Pick on shares, will you?" "Yassir." "Even?" "Yassir." "Promise never to pick any but the very ripe figs?" "Yassir." "Honest boy?" "Yassir." "Turn in, then; but wait a minute." He stepped aside into the house, returning presently with two baskets. "Here," he said, presenting them both. "These are pretty nearly of a size. Go ahead, now, and let's see what you can do." Needless to say, Crow proved a great success as fig-picker. The very sugary figs that old Mr. Cary had panted for and reached for in vain lay bursting with sweetness on top of both baskets. The old gentleman and his wife were delighted, and the boy was quickly engaged to come every morning. And this was how Crow went into the fig business. Crow was a likable boy--"so bright and handy and nimble"--and the old people soon became fond of him. They noticed that he always handed in the larger of the two baskets, keeping the smaller for himself. This seemed not only honest, but generous. And generosity is a winning virtue in the very needy--as winning as it is common. The very poor are often great of heart. But this is not a safe fact upon which to found axioms. All God's poor are not educated up to the point of even small, fine honesties, and the so-called "generous" are not always "just" or honest. And-- Poor little Solomon Crow! It is a pity to have to write it, but his weak point was exactly that he was not quite honest. He wanted to be, just because his angel-twin might be watching him, and he was afraid of thunder. But Crow was so anxious to be "smart" that he had long ago begun doing "tricky" things. Even the men working the roads had discovered this. In eating Crow's "fresh-boiled crawfish" or "shrimps," they would often come across one of the left-overs of yesterday's supply, mixed in with the others; and a yesterday's shrimp is full of stomach-ache and indigestion. So that business suffered. In the fig business the ripe ones sold well; but when one of Crow's customers offered to buy all he would bring of green ones for preserving, Crow began filling his basket with them and distributing a top layer of ripe ones carefully over them. His lawful share of the very ripe he also carried away--in his little bread-basket. This was all very dishonest, and Crow knew it. Still he did it many times. And then--and this shows how one sin leads to another--and then, one day--oh, Solomon Crow, I'm ashamed to tell it on you!--one day he noticed that there were fresh eggs in the hen-house nests, quite near the fig-trees. Now, if there was anything Crow liked, it was a fried egg--two fried eggs. He always said he wanted two on his plate at once, looking at him like a pair of round eyes, "an' when dey reco'nizes me," he would say, "den I eats 'em up." Why not slip a few of these tempting eggs into the bottom of the basket and cover them up with ripe figs? And so--, One day, he did it. He had stopped at the dining-room door that day and was handing in the larger basket, as usual, when old Mr. Cary, who stood there, said, smiling: "No, give us the smaller basket to-day, my boy. It's our turn to be generous." He extended his hand as he spoke. Crow tried to answer, but he could not. His mouth felt as dry and stiff and hard as a chip, and he suddenly began to open it wide and shut it slowly, like a chicken with the gapes. Mr. Cary kept his hand out waiting, but still Crow stood as if paralyzed, gaping and swallowing. Finally, he began to blink. And then he stammered: "I ain't p-p-p-ertic'lar b-b-bout de big basket. D-d-d-de best figs is in y'all's pickin'--in dis, de big basket." Crow's appearance was conviction itself. Without more ado, Mr. Cary grasped his arm firmly and fairly lifted him into the room. "Now, set those baskets down." He spoke sharply. The boy obeyed. "Here! empty the larger one on this tray. That's it. All fine, ripe figs. You've picked well for us. Now turn the other one out." At this poor Crow had a sudden relapse of the dry gapes. His arm fell limp and he looked as if he might tumble over. "Turn 'em out!" The old gentleman shrieked in so thunderous a tone that Crow jumped off his feet, and, seizing the other basket with his little shaking paws, he emptied it upon the heap of figs. Old Mrs. Cary had come in just in time to see the eggs roll out of the basket, and for a moment she and her husband looked at each other. And then they turned to the boy. When she spoke her voice was so gentle that Crow, not understanding, looked quickly into her face: "Let me take him into the library, William. Come, my boy." Her tone was so soft, so sorrowful and sympathetic, that Crow felt as he followed her as if, in the hour of his deepest disgrace, he had found a friend; and when presently he stood in a great square room before a high arm-chair, in which a white-haired old lady sat looking at him over her gold-rimmed spectacles and talking to him as he had never been spoken to in all his life before, he felt as if he were in a great court before a judge who didn't understand half how very bad little boys were. She asked him a good many questions--some very searching ones, too--all of which Crow answered as best he could, with his very short breath. His first feeling had been of pure fright. But when he found he was not to be abused, not beaten or sent to jail, he began to wonder. Little Solomon Crow, ten years old, in a Christian land, was hearing for the first time in his life that God loved him--loved him even now in his sin and disgrace, and wanted him to be good. He listened with wandering eyes at first, half expecting the old gentleman, Mr. Cary, to appear suddenly at the door with a whip or a policeman with a club. But after a while he kept his eyes steadily upon the lady's face. "Has no one ever told you, Solomon"--she had always called him Solomon, declaring that Crow was not a fit name for a boy who looked as he did--it was altogether "too personal"--"has no one ever told you, Solomon," she said, "that God loves all His little children, and that you are one of these children?" "No, ma'am," he answered, with difficulty. And then, as if catching at something that might give him a little standing, he added, quickly--so quickly that he stammered again: "B-b-b-but I knowed I was twin to a angel. I know dat. An' I knows ef my angel twin seen me steal dem aigs he'll be mightly ap' to tell Gord to strike me down daid." Of course he had to explain then about the "angel twin," and the old lady talked to him for a long time. And then together they knelt down. When at last they came out of the library she held the boy's hand and led him to her husband. "Are you willing to try him again, William?" she asked. "He has promised to do better." Old Mr. Cary cleared his throat and laid down his paper. "Don't deserve it," he began; "dirty little thief." And then he turned to the boy: "What have you got on, sir?" His voice was really quite terrible. "N-n-n-nothin'; only but des my b-b-b-briches an' jacket, an'--an'--an' skin," Crow replied, between gasps. "How many pockets?" "Two," said Crow. "Turn 'em out!" Crow drew out his little rust-stained pockets, dropping a few old nails and bits of twine upon the floor as he did so. "Um--h'm! Well, now, I'll tell you. _You're a dirty little thief_, as I said before. And I'm going to treat you as one. If you wear those pockets hanging out, or rip 'em out, and come in here before you leave every day dressed just as you are--pants and jacket and skin--and empty out your basket for us before you go, until I'm satisfied you'll do better, you can come." The old lady looked at her husband as if she thought him pretty hard on a very small boy. But she said nothing. Crow glanced appealingly at her before answering. And then he said, seizing his pocket: "Is you got air pair o' scissors, lady?" Mrs. Cary wished her husband would relent even while she brought the scissors, but he only cried: "Out with 'em!" "Suppose you cut them out yourself, Solomon," she interposed, kindly, handing him the scissors. "You'll have all this work to do yourself. We can't make you good." When, after several awkward efforts, Crow finally put the coarse little pockets in her hands, there were tears in her eyes, and she tried to hide them as she leaned over and gathered up his treasures--three nails, a string, a broken top, and a half-eaten chunk of cold corn-bread. As she handed them to him she said: "And I'll lay the pockets away for you, Solomon, and when we see that you are an honest boy I'll sew them back for you myself." As she spoke she rose, divided the figs evenly between the two baskets, and handed one to Crow. If there ever was a serious little black boy on God's beautiful earth it was little Solomon Crow as he balanced his basket of figs on his head that day and went slowly down the garden walk and out the great front gate. The next few weeks were not without trial to the boy. Old Mr. Cary continued very stern, even following him daily to the _banquette_, as if he dare not trust him to go out alone. And when he closed the iron gate after him he would say in a tone that was awfully solemn: "Good-mornin', sir!" That was all. Little Crow dreaded that walk to the gate more than all the rest of the ordeal. And yet, in a way, it gave him courage. He was at least worth while, and with time and patience he would win back the lost faith of the friends who were kind to him even while they could not trust him. They were, indeed, kind and generous in many ways, both to him and his unworthy mother. Fig-time was soon nearly over, and, of course, Crow expected a dismissal; but it was Mr. Cary himself who set these fears at rest by proposing to him to come daily to blacken his boots and to keep the garden-walk in order for regular wages. "But," he warned him, in closing, "don't you show your face here with a pocket on you. If your heavy pants have any in 'em, rip 'em out." And then he added, severely: "You've been a very bad boy." "Yassir," answered Crow, "I know I is. I been a heap wusser boy'n you knowed I was, too." "What's that you say, sir?" Crow repeated it. And then he added, for full confession: "I picked green figs heap o' days, and kivered 'em up wid ripe ones, an' sol' 'em to a white 'oman fur perserves." There was something desperate in the way he blurted it all out. "The dickens you did! And what are you telling me for?" He eyed the boy keenly as he put the question. At this Crow fairly wailed aloud: "'Caze I ain't gwine do it no mo'." And throwing his arms against the door-frame he buried his face in them, and he sobbed as if his little heart would break. For a moment old Mr. Cary seemed to have lost his voice, and then he said, in a voice quite new to Crow: "I don't believe you will, sir--I don't believe you will." And in a minute he said, still speaking gently: "Come here, boy." Still weeping aloud, Crow obeyed. "Tut, tut! No crying!" he began. "Be a man--be a man. And if you stick to it, before Christmas comes, we'll see about those pockets, and you can walk into the new year with your head up. But look sharp! Good-bye, now!" For the first time since the boy's fall Mr. Cary did not follow him to the gate. Maybe this was the beginning of trust. Slight a thing as it was, the boy took comfort in it. At last it was Christmas eve. Crow was on the back "gallery" putting a final polish on a pair of boots. He was nearly done, and his heart was beginning to sink, when the old lady came and stood near him. There was a very hopeful twinkle in her eye as she said, presently: "I wonder what our little shoeblack, who has been trying so hard to be good, would like to have for his Christmas gift?" But Crow only blinked while he polished the faster. "Tell me, Solomon," she insisted. "If you had one wish to-day, what would it be?" The boy wriggled nervously. And then he said: "You knows, lady. Needle--an' thrade--an'--an'--you knows, lady. Pockets." "Well, pockets it shall be. Come into my room when you get through." Old Mrs. Cary sat beside the fire reading as he went in. Seeing him, she nodded, smiling, towards the bed, upon which Crow saw a brand-new suit of clothes--coat, vest, and breeches--all spread out in a row. "There, my boy," she said; "there are your pockets." Crow had never in all his life owned a full new suit of clothes. All his "new" things had been second-hand, and for a moment he could not quite believe his eyes; but he went quickly to the bed and began passing his hands over the clothes. Then he ventured to take up the vest--and to turn it over. And now he began to find pockets. "Three pockets in de ves'--two in de pants--an'--an' fo', no five, no six--six pockets in de coat!" He giggled nervously as he thrust his little black fingers into one and then another. And then, suddenly overcome with a sense of the situation, he turned to Mrs. Cary, and, in a voice that trembled a little, said: "Is you sho' you ain't 'feerd to trus' me wid all deze pockets, lady?" It doesn't take a small boy long to slip into a new suit of clothes. And when a ragged urchin disappeared behind the head of the great old "four-poster" to-day, it seemed scarcely a minute before a trig, "tailor-made boy" strutted out from the opposite side, hands deep in pockets--breathing hard. As Solomon Crow strode up and down the room, radiant with joy, he seemed for the moment quite unconscious of any one's presence. But presently he stopped, looked involuntarily upward a minute, as if he felt himself observed from above. Then, turning to the old people, who stood together before the mantel, delightedly watching him, he said: "Bet you my angel twin ain't ashamed, ef he's a-lookin' down on me to-day." THE TWO TIMS THE TWO TIMS As the moon sent a white beam through the little square window of old Uncle Tim's cabin, it formed a long panel of light upon its smoke-stained wall, bringing into clear view an old banjo hanging upon a rusty nail. Nothing else in the small room was clearly visible. Although it was Christmas eve, there was no fire upon the broad hearth, and from the open door came the odor of honeysuckles and of violets. Winter is often in Louisiana only a name given by courtesy to the months coming between autumn and spring, out of respect to the calendar; and so it was this year. Sitting in the open doorway, his outline lost in the deep shadows of the vine, was old Uncle Tim, while, upon the floor at his side lay little Tim, his grandson. The boy lay so still that in the dim half-light he seemed a part of the floor furnishings, which were, in fact, an old cot, two crippled stools, a saddle, and odds and ends of broken harness, and bits of rope. Neither the old man nor the boy had spoken for a long time, and while they gazed intently at the old banjo hanging in the panel of light, the thoughts of both were tinged with sadness. The grandfather was nearly seventy years old, and little Tim was but ten; but they were great chums. The little boy's father had died while he was too young to remember, leaving little Tim to a step-mother, who brought him to his grandfather's home, where he had been ever since, and the attachment quickly formed between the two had grown and strengthened with the years. Old Uncle Tim was very poor, and his little cabin was small and shabby; and yet neither hunger nor cold had ever come in an unfriendly way to visit it. The tall plantation smoke-house threw a friendly shadow over the tiny hut every evening just before the sun went down--a shadow that seemed a promise at close of each day that the poor home should not be forgotten. Nor was it. Some days the old man was able to limp into the field and cut a load of cabbages for the hands, or to prepare seed potatoes for planting, so that, as he expressed it, "each piece 'll have one eye ter grow wid an' another ter look on an' see dat everything goes right." And then Uncle Tim was brimful of a good many valuable things with which he was very generous--_advice_, for instance. He could advise with wisdom upon any number of subjects, such as just at what time of the moon to make soap so that it would "set" well, how to find a missing shoat, or the right spot to dig for water. These were all valuable services; yet cabbages were not always ready to be cut, potato-planting was not always in season. Often for weeks not a hog would stray off. Only once in a decade a new well was wanted; and as to soap-making, it could occur only once during each moon at most. It is true that between times Uncle Tim gave copious warnings _not_ to make soap, which was quite a saving of effort and good material. But whether he was cutting seed potatoes, or advising, or only playing on his banjo, as he did incessantly between times, his rations came to the little cabin with clock-like regularity. They came just as regularly as old Tim _had worked_ when he was young, as regularly as little Tim _would_ when he should grow up, as it is a pity daily rations cannot always come to such feeble ones as, whether in their first or second childhood, are able to render only the service of willingness. And so we see that the two Tims, as they were often called, had no great anxieties as to their living, although they were very poor. The only thing in the world that the old man held as a personal possession was his old banjo. It was the one thing the little boy counted on as a precious future property. Often, at all hours of the day or evening, old Tim could be seen sitting before the cabin, his arms around the boy, who stood between his knees, while, with eyes closed, he ran his withered fingers over the strings, picking out the tunes that best recalled the stories of olden days that he loved to tell into the little fellow's ear. And sometimes, holding the banjo steady, he would invite little Tim to try his tiny hands at picking the strings. "Look out how you snap 'er too sudden!" he would exclaim if the little fingers moved too freely. "Look out, I say! Dis ain't none o' yo' pick-me-up-hit-an'-miss banjos, she ain't! An' you mus' learn ter treat 'er wid rispec', caze, when yo' ole gran'dad dies, she gwine be yo' banjo, an' stan' in his place ter yer!" And then little Tim, confronted with the awful prospect of death and inheritance, would take a long breath, and, blinking his eyes, drop his hands at his side, saying, "You play 'er gran'dad." But having once started to speak, the old man was seldom brief, and so he would continue: "It's true dis ole banjo she's livin' in a po' nigger cabin wid a ole black marster an' a new one comin' on blacker yit. (You taken dat arter yo' gran'mammy, honey. She warn't dis heah muddy-brown color like I is. She was a heap purtier and clairer black.) Well, I say, if dis ole banjo _is_ livin' wid po' ignunt black folks, I wants you ter know she was _born white_. "Don't look at me so cuyus, honey. I know what I say. I say she was _born white._ Dat is, she _de_scended ter me _f'om_ white folks. My marster bought 'er ter learn on when we was boys together. An' he took _book lessons_ on 'er too, an' dat's how come I say she ain't none o' yo' common pick-up-my-strings-any-which-er-way banjos. She's been played by note music in her day, she is, an' she can answer a book note des as true as any _pi_anner a pusson ever listened at--ef anybody know how ter tackle 'er. Of co'se, ef you des tackle 'er p'omiskyus she ain't gwine bother 'erse'f ter play 'cordin' ter rule; but-- "Why, boy, dis heah banjo she's done serenaded all de a'stocercy on dis river 'twix' here an' de English Turn in her day. Yas, she is. An' all dat expeunce is in 'er breast now; she 'ain't forgot it, an' ef air pusson dat know all dem ole book chunes was ter take 'er up an' call fur 'em, she'd give 'em eve'y one des as true as ever yit. "An' yer know, baby, I'm a-tellin' you all dis," he would say, in closing--"I'm a-tellin' you all dis caze arter while, when I die, she gwine be _yo'_ banjo, 'n' I wants you ter know all 'er ins an' outs." And as he stopped, the little boy would ask, timidly, "Please, sir, gran'dad, lemme tote 'er an' hang 'er up. I'll step keerful." And taking each step with the utmost precision, and holding the long banjo aloft in his arms as if it were made of egg-shells, little Tim would climb the stool and hang the precious thing in its place against the cabin wall. Such a conversation had occurred to-day, and as the lad had taken the banjo from him the old man had added: "I wouldn't be s'prised, baby, ef 'fo' another year passes dat'll be _yo' banjo_, caze I feels mighty weak an' painful some days." This was in the early evening, several hours before the scene with which this little story opens. As night came on and the old man sat in the doorway, he did not notice that little Tim, in stretching himself upon the floor, as was his habit, came nearer than usual--so near, indeed, that, extending his little foot, he rested it against his grandfather's body, too lightly to be felt, and yet sensibly enough to satisfy his own affectionate impulse. And so he was lying when the moon rose and covered the old banjo with its light. He felt very serious as he gazed upon it, standing out so distinctly in the dark room. Some day it would be his; but the dear old grandfather would not be there, his chair would be always empty. There would be nobody in the little cabin but just little Tim and the banjo. He was too young to think of other changes. The ownership of the coveted treasure promised only death and utter loneliness. But presently the light passed off the wall on to the floor. It was creeping over to where little Tim lay, but he did not know it, and after blinking awhile at long intervals, and moving his foot occasionally to reassure himself of his grandfather's presence, he fell suddenly sound asleep. While these painful thoughts were filling little Tim's mind the old man had studied the bright panel on the wall with equal interest--and pain. By the very nature of things he could not leave the banjo to the boy and witness his pleasure in the possession. "She's de onlies' thing I got ter leave 'im, but I does wush't I could see him git 'er an' be at his little elbow ter show 'im all 'er ways," he said, half audibly. "Dis heah way o' leavin' things ter folks when you die, it sounds awful high an' mighty, but look ter me like hit's po' satisfaction some ways. Po' little Tim! Now what he gwine do anyhow when I draps off?--nothin' but step-folks ter take keer of 'im--step-mammy an' step-daddy an' 'bout a dozen step brothers an' sisters, an' not even me heah ter show 'im how ter conduc' 'is banjo. De ve'y time he need me de mos' ter show 'im her ins an' outs I won't be nowhars about, an' yit--" As the old man's thoughts reached this point a sudden flare of light across the campus showed that the first bonfire was lighted. There was to be a big dance to-night in the open space in front of the sugar-house, and the lighting of the bonfires surrounding the spot was the announcement that it was time for everybody to come. It was Uncle Tim's signal to take down the banjo and tune up, for there was no more important instrument in the plantation string-band than this same old banjo. As he turned backward to wake little Tim he hesitated a moment, looking lovingly upon the little sleeping figure, which the moon now covered with a white rectangle of light. As his eyes rested upon the boy's face something, a confused memory of his last waking anxiety perhaps, brought a slight quiver to his lips, as if he might cry in his sleep, while he muttered the word "gran'dad." Old Uncle Tim had been trying to get himself to the point of doing something which it was somehow hard to do, but this tremulous lisping of his own name settled the question. Hobbling to his feet, he wended his way as noiselessly as possible to where the banjo hung, and, carrying it to the sleeping boy, laid it gently, with trembling fingers, upon his arm. Then, first silently regarding him a moment, he called out, "Weck up, Tim, my man! Weck up!" As he spoke, a loud and continuous explosion of fire-crackers--the opening of active festivities in the campus--startled the boy quite out of his nap. He was frightened and dazed for a minute, and then, seeing the banjo beside him and his grandfather's face so near, he exclaimed: "What's all dis, gran'dad? Whar me?" The old man's voice was pretty husky as he answered: "You right heah wid me, boy, an' dat banjo, hit's yo' Christmas gif', honey." Little Tim cast an agonized look upon the old man's face, and threw himself into his arms. "Is you gwine die now, gran'dad?" he sobbed, burying his face upon his bosom. Old Tim could not find voice at once, but presently he chuckled, nervously: "Humh! humh! No, boy, I ain't gwine die yit--not till my time comes, please Gord. But dis heah's Christmas, honey, an' I thought I'd gi'e you de ole banjo whiles I was living so's I could--so's you could--so's we could have pleasure out'n 'er bofe together, yer know, honey. Dat is, f'om dis time on she's _yo' banjo_, an' when I wants ter play on 'er, you _can loan 'er ter me_." "An'--an' you--you _sho'_ you ain't gwine die, gran'dad?" "I ain't sho' o' nothin', honey, but I 'ain't got no _notion_ o' dyin'--not to-night. We gwine ter de dance now, you an' me, an' I gwine play de banjo--_dat is ef you'll loan 'er ter me, baby_." Tim wanted to laugh, and it seemed sheer contrariness for him to cry, but somehow the tears would come, and the lump in his throat, and try hard as he might, he couldn't get his head higher than his grandfather's coat-sleeve or his arms from around his waist. He hardly knew why he still wept, and yet when presently he sobbed, "But, gran'dad, I'm 'feered you _mought_ die," the old man understood. Certainly, even if he were not going to die now, giving away the old banjo seemed like a preparation for death. Was it not, in fact, a formal confession that he was nearing the end of his days? Had not this very feeling made it hard for him to part with it? The boy's grief at the thought touched him deeply, and lifting the little fellow upon his knee, he said, fondly: "_Don't_ fret, honey. _Don't_ let Christmas find yon cryin'. I tell you what I say let's do. I ain't gwine gi'e you de banjo, not yit, caze, des as you say, I _mought_ die; but I tell you what I gwine do. I gwine take you in pardners in it wid me. She ain't _mine_ an' she ain't _yoze_, and yit she's _bofe of us's_. You see, boy? _She's ourn!_ An' when I wants ter play on 'er _I'll play_, an' when you wants 'er, why, you teck 'er--on'y be a _leetle_ bit keerful at fust, honey." "An' kin I ca'y 'er behine de cabin, whar you can't see how I'm a-holdin' 'er, an' play anyway I choose?" Old Tim winced a little at this, but he had not given grudgingly. "Cert'n'y," he answered. "Why not? Git up an' play 'er in de middle o' de night ef you want ter, on'y, of co'se, be keerful how you reach 'er down, so's you won't jolt 'er too sudden. An' now, boy, hand 'er heah an' lemme talk to yer a little bit." When little Tim lifted the banjo from the floor his face fairly beamed with joy, although in the darkness no one saw it, for the shaft of light had passed beyond him now. Handing the banjo to his grandfather, he slipped naturally back of it into his accustomed place in his arms. "Dis heah's a fus'-class thing ter work off bad tempers wid," the old man began, tightening the strings as he spoke. "Now ef one o' deze mule tempers ever take a-holt of yer in de foot, dat foot 'll be mighty ap' ter do some kickin'; an' ef it seizes a-holt o' yo' han', dat little fis' 'll be purty sho ter strike out an' do some damage; an' ef it jump onter yo' tongue, hit 'll mighty soon twis' it into sayin' bad language. But ef you'll teck hol' o' dis ole banjo des as quick as you feel de badness rise up in you, _an' play_, you'll scare de evil temper away so bad it _daresn't come back_. Ef it done settled _too strong_ in yo' tongue, run it off wid a song; an' ef yo' feet's git a kickin' spell on 'em, _dance it off_; an' ef you feel it in yo' han', des run fur de banjo an' play de sweetes' chune you know, an' fus' thing you know all yo' madness 'll be gone. "She 'ain't got no mouf, but she can talk ter you, all de same; an' she 'ain't got no head, but she can reason wid you. An' while ter look at 'er she's purty nigh all belly, she don't eat a crumb. Dey ain't a greedy bone in 'er. "An' I wants you ter ricollec' dat I done guv 'er to you--dat is, _yo' sheer_ [share] _in 'er_, caze she's _mine_ too, you know. I done guv you a even sheer in 'er, des _caze you an' me is gran'daddy an' gran'son_. "Dis heah way o' dyin' an' _leavin'_ prop'ty, hit mought suit white folks, but it don't become our complexioms, some way; an' de mo' I thought about havin' to die ter give de onlies' gran'son I got de onlies' _prop'ty_ I got, de _miser'bler I got_, tell I couldn't stan' it no mo'." Little Tim's throat choked up again, and he rolled his eyes around and swallowed twice before he answered: "An' I--I was miser'ble too, gran'dad. I used ter des look at 'er hangin' 'g'inst de wall, an' think about me maybe playin' 'er, an' you--you not--not nowhar in sight--an'--an' some days seem like _I--I des hated 'er_." "Yas, baby, I know. But now you won't hate 'er no mo', boy; an' ef you die fus'--some time, you know, baby, little boys _does die_--an' ef you go fus', I'll teck good keer o' yo' sheer in 'er; an' ef I go, you mus' look out fur my sheer. An' long as we bofe live--well, I'll look out fur 'er voice--keep 'er th'oat strings in order; an' you see dat she don't git ketched out in bad comp'ny, or in de rain, an' take cold. "Come on now. Wash yo' little face, and let's go ter de dance. Gee-man! Lis'n at de fire-crackers callin' us. Come on. Dat's right. Pack 'er on yo' shoulder like a man." And so the two Tims start off to the Christmas festival, young Tim bearing his precious burden proudly ahead, while the old man follows slowly behind, chuckling softly. "Des think how much time I done los', not takin' 'im in pardners befo', an' he de onlies' gran'son I got!" While little Tim, walking cautiously so as not to trip in the uneven path, turns presently and calls back: "Gran'dad, I reckon we done walked half de way, now. I done toted 'er _my_ sheer. Don't you want me ter tote 'er _yo' sheer_?" And the old man answers, with another chuckle, "Go on, honey." THE FREYS' CHRISTMAS PARTY THE FREYS' CHRISTMAS PARTY There was a great sensation in the old Coppenole house three days before Christmas. The Freys, who lived on the third floor, were going to give a Christmas dinner party, and all the other tenants were invited. Such a thing had never happened before, and, as Miss Penny told her canary-birds while she filled their seed-cups, it was "like a clap of thunder out of a clear sky." The Frey family, consisting of a widow and her brood of half a dozen children, were as poor as any of the tenants in the old building, for wasn't the mother earning a scant living as a beginner in newspaper work? Didn't the Frey children do every bit of the house-work, not to mention little outside industries by which the older ones earned small incomes? Didn't Meg send soft gingerbread to the Christian Woman's Exchange for sale twice a week, and Ethel find time, with all her studies, to paint butterflies on Swiss aprons for fairs or fêtes? Didn't everybody know that Conrad, now but thirteen, was a regular solicitor for orders for Christmas-trees, palmetto palms, and gray moss from the woods for decorative uses on holiday occasions? The idea of people in such circumstances as these giving dinner parties! It was almost incredible; but it was true, for tiny notes of invitation tied with rose-colored ribbons had been flying over the building all the afternoon. The Frey twins, Felix and Félicie, both barefoot, had carried one to each door. They were written with gold ink on pink paper. A water-colored butterfly was poised in midair somewhere on each one, and at the left lower end were the mysterious letters "R.S.V.P." The old Professor who lived in the room next the Frey kitchen got one, and Miss Penny, who occupied the room beyond. So did Mademoiselle Guyosa, who made paper flowers, and the mysterious little woman of the last, worst room in the house--a tiny figure whose face none of her neighbors had ever seen, but who had given her name to the baker and milkman as "Mamzelle St. John." And there were others. Madame Coraline, the fortune-teller, who rented the hall room on the second floor, was perhaps more surprised at her invitation than any of the rest. No one ever asked her anywhere. Even the veiled ladies who sometimes visited her darkened chamber always tiptoed up the steps as if they were half ashamed of going there. The twins had a time getting her to come to the door to receive the invitation, and after vainly rapping several times, they had finally brought a parasol and hammered upon the horseshoe tacked upon the door, until at last it opened just about an inch. And then she was invited. But, indeed, it is time to be telling how the party originated. It had been the habit of the Frey children, since they could remember, to save up spare coins all the year for a special fund which they called "Christmas money." The old fashion of spending these small amounts in presents for one another had long ago given place to the better one--more in the Christmas spirit--of using it to brighten the day for some one less blessed than themselves. It is true that on the Christmas before the one of this story they had broken the rule, or only strained it, perhaps, to buy a little stove for their mother's room. But a rule that would not stretch enough to take in such a home need would be a poor one indeed. This year they had had numerous schemes, but somehow none had seemed to appeal to the stockholders in the Christmas firm, and so they had finally called a meeting on the subject. It was at this meeting that Meg, fourteen years old, having taken the floor, said: "Well, it seems to _me_ that the _worst_ kind of a Christmas must be a lonely one. Just think how nearly all the roomers in this house spent last Christmas--most of 'em sittin' by their lone selves in their rooms, and some of 'em just eatin' every-day things! The Professor hadn't a thing but Bologna-sausage and crackers. _I know--'cause I peeped._ An' now, whatever you all are goin' to do with _your_ money, _mine's_ goin' right into this house, to the roomers--_some way_." "If we knew what we could do, Meg?" said Ethel. "If we knew what we could do or _how we could do it_," interrupted Conrad, "why, I'd give my eighty-five cents in a minute. I'd give it to the old Professor to have his curls cut." Conrad was a true-hearted fellow, but he was full of mischief. "Shame on you, Buddy!" said Meg, who was thoroughly serious. "Can't you be in earnest for just a minute?" "I am in earnest, Meg. I think your scheme is bully--if it could be worked; but the Professor wouldn't take our money any more'n we'd take his." "Neither would any of them." This was Ethel's first real objection. "Who's goin' to offer 'em money?" rejoined Meg. "I tell you what we _might_ do, maybe," Conrad suggested, dubiously. "We _might_ buy a lot of fine grub, an' send it in to 'em sort o' mysteriously. How'd that do?" "'Twouldn't do at all," Meg replied. "The idea! Who'd enjoy the finest Christmas dinner in the world by his lone self, with nothin' but a lookin'-glass to look into and holler 'Merry Christmas' to?" Conrad laughed. "Well, the Professor's little cracked glass wouldn't be much of a comfort to a hungry fellow. It gives you two mouths." Conrad was nothing if not facetious. "There you are again, Buddy! _Do_ be serious for once." And then she added, desperately, "The thing _I_ want to do is to _invite_ 'em." "Invite!" "Who?" "What?" "When?" "How?" "Where?" Such was the chorus that greeted Meg's astounding proposition. "Why, I say," she explained, nothing daunted, "let's put all our Christmas money together and get the very best dinner we can, and invite all the roomers to come and eat it with us. _Now I've said it!_ And I ain't foolin', either." "And we haven't a whole table-cloth to our names, Meg Frey, and you know it!" It was Ethel who spoke again. "And what's that got to do with it, Sisty? We ain't goin' to eat the cloth. Besides, can't we set the dish-mats over the holes? 'Twouldn't be the first time." "But, Meg, dearie, you surely are not proposing to invite company to dine in the kitchen, are you? And who'd cook the dinner, not to mention buying it?" "Well, now, listen, Sisty, dear. The dinner that's in my mind isn't a society-column dinner like those Momsy writes about, and those we are going to invite don't wear out much table-linen at home. And they cook their own dinners, too, most of 'em--exceptin' when they eat 'em in the French Market, with a Chinaman on one side of 'em and an Indian on the other. "_I'm_ goin' to cook _ours_, and as for eatin' in the kitchen, why, we don't need to. Just see how warm it is! The frost hasn't even nipped the banana leaves over there in the square. And Buddy can pull the table out on the big back gallery, an' we'll hang papa's old gray soldier blanket for a portière to keep the Quinettes from lookin' in; and, Sisty, you can write the invitations an' paint butterflies on 'em." Ethel's eyes for the first time sparkled with interest, but she kept silent, and Meg continued: "An' Buddy'll bring in a lot of gray moss and _latanier_ to dec'rate with, an'--" "An' us'll wait on the table!" "Yes, us'll wait on the table!" cried the twins. "But," added Felix in a moment, "you mus'n't invite Miss Penny, Meg, 'cause if you do F'lissy an' me 'll be thest shore to disgrace the party a-laughin'. She looks thest ezzac'ly like a canary-bird, an' Buddy has tooken her off till we thest die a-laughin' every time we see her. I think she's raised canaries till she's a sort o' half-canary herself. Don't let's invite her, Sisty." "And don't you think Miss Penny would enjoy a slice of Christmas turkey as well as the rest of us, Felix?" "No; I fink she ought to eat canary-seed and fish-bone," chirped in Dorothea. Dorothea was only five, and this from her was so funny that even Meg laughed. "An' Buddy says he knows she sleeps perched on the towel-rack, 'cause they ain't a sign of a bed in her room." The three youngest were fairly choking with laughter now. But the older ones had soon grown quite serious in consulting about all the details of the matter, and even making out a conditional list of guests. When they came to the fortune-teller, both Ethel and Conrad hesitated, but Meg, true to her first impulse, had soon put down opposition by a single argument. "It seems to me she's the special one _to_ invite to a Christmas party like ours," she pleaded. "The lonesomer an' horrider they are, the more they belong, an' the more they'll enjoy it, too." "Accordin' to that," said Conrad, "the whole crowd ought to have a dizzy good time, for they're about as fine a job lot of lonesomes as I ever struck. And as for beauty! 'Vell, my y'ung vriends, how you was to-morrow?'" he continued, thrusting his thumbs into his armholes and strutting in imitation of the old Professor. [Illustration: "'SHE OUGHT TO EAT CANARY-SEED AND FISH-BONE'"] Meg was almost out of patience. "Do hush, Buddy, an' let's talk business. First of all, we have to put it to vote to see whether we _want_ to have the party or not." "I ain't a-goin' to give my money to no such a ugly ol' party," cried Felix. "I want pretty little girls with curls an' wreafs on to my party." "An' me, too. I want a heap o' pretty little girls with curls an' wreafs on--_to my party_," echoed Félicie. "An' I want a organ-grinder to the party that gets my half o' our picayunes," insisted Felix. "Yas, us wants a organ-grinder--an' a monkey, too--hey, F'lix?" "Yes, an' a monkey, too. Heap o' monkeys!" Meg was indeed having a hard time of it. "You see, Conrad"--the use of that name meant reproof from Meg--"you see, Conrad, this all comes from your makin' fun of everybody. But of course we can get an organ-grinder if the little ones want him." Ethel still seemed somewhat doubtful about the whole affair. Ethel was in the high-school. She had a lofty bridge to her nose. She was fifteen, and she never left off her final g's as the others did. These are, no doubt, some of the reasons why she was regarded as a sort of superior person in the family. If it had not been for the prospect of painting the cards, and a certain feeling of benevolence in the matter, it would have been hard for her to agree to the party at all. As it was, her voice had a note of mild protest as she said: "It's going to cost a good deal, Meg. How much money have we? Let's count up. I have a dollar and eighty-five cents." "And I've got two dollars," said Meg. "How is it you always save the most? I haven't saved but ninety cents." Conrad spoke with a little real embarrassment as he laid his little pile of coins upon the table. "I reckon it's 'cause I've got a regular plan, Buddy. I save a dime out of every dollar I get all through the year. It's the best way. And how much have you ponies got?" "We've got seventy cents together, an' we've been a-whiskerin' in our ears about it, too. We don't want our money put-ed in the dinner with the rest. We want to see what we are givin'." "Well, suppose you buy the fruit. Seventy cents 'll get bananas and oranges enough for the whole party." "An' us wants to buy 'em ourselfs, too--hey, F'lix?" "Yes, us wants to buy 'm ourselfs, too." "And so you shall. And now all in favor of the party hold up their right hands." All hands went up. "Contr'ry, no!" Meg continued. "Contr'ry, no!" echoed the twins. "Hush! You mus'n't say that. That's just what they say at votin's." "Gee-man-tally! But you girls 're awfully mixed," Conrad howled, with laughter. "They don't have any 'contr'ry no's' when they vote by holdin' up right hands. Besides, Dorothea held up her left hand, for I saw her." "Which is quite correct, Mr. Smartie, since we all know that Dolly is left-handed. You meant to vote for the party, didn't you, dearie?" Meg added, turning to Dorothea. For answer the little maid only bobbed her head, thrusting both hands behind her, as if afraid to trust them again. "But I haven't got but thest a nickel," she ventured, presently. "F'lix says it'll buy salt." "Salt!" said Conrad. "Well, I should smile! It would buy salt enough to pickle the whole party. Why, that little St. Johns woman goes out with a nickel an' lays in provisions. I've seen her do it." "Shame on you, Buddy!" "I'm not jokin', Meg. At least, I saw her buy a _quartie's_ worth o' coffee and a _quartie's_ worth o' sugar, an' then ask for _lagniappe_ o' salt. Ain't that layin' in provisions? She uses a cigar-box for her pantry, too." "Well," she protested, seriously, "what of it, Conrad? It doesn't take much for one very little person. Now, then, the party is voted for; but there's one more thing to be done before it can be really decided. We must ask Momsy's permission, of course. And that is goin' to be hard, because I don't want her to know about it. She has to be out reportin' festivals for the paper clear up to Christmas mornin', and if she knows about it, she'll worry over it. So I propose to ask her to let us give her a Christmas surprise, and not tell her what it is." "And we know just what she'll say," Conrad interrupted; "she'll say, 'If you older children all agree upon anything, I'm sure it can't be very far wrong or foolish'--just as she did time we put up the stove in her room." "Yes, I can hear her now," said Ethel. "But still we must _let_ her say it before we do a single thing, because, you know, _she mightn't_. An' then where'd the party be?" "It would be scattered around where it was last Christmas--where all the parties are that don't be," said Conrad. "They must be the ones we are always put down for, an' that's how we get left; eh, Sisty?" "Never mind, Buddy; we won't get left, as you call it, this time, anyway--unless, of course, Momsy vetoes it." "Vetoes what, children?" They had been so noisy that they had not heard their mother's step on the creaking stairs. Mrs. Frey carried her pencil and notes, and she looked tired, but she smiled indulgently as she repeated, "What am I to veto, dearies--or to approve?" "It's a sequet! A Trismas sequet!" "Yes, an' it's got owanges in it--" "--An' bananas!" "Hush, you ponies! And, Dolly, not another word!" Meg had resolutely taken the floor again. "Momsy, we've been consulting about our Christmas money, and we've voted to ask you to let us do something with it, and not to tell you a thing about it, only "--and here she glanced for approval at Ethel and Conrad--"only we _ought_ to tell you, Momsy, dear, that the surprise isn't for you this time." And then Mrs. Frey, sweet mother that she was, made just the little speech they thought she would make, and when they had kissed her, and all, even to Ethel, who seemed now as enthusiastic as the others, caught hands and danced around the dinner table, she was glad she had consented. It was such a delight to be able to supplement their scant Christmas prospects with an indulgence giving such pleasure. "And I'm glad it isn't for me, children," she added, as soon as the hubbub gave her a hearing. "I'm very glad. You know you strained a point last year, and I'm sure you did right. My little stove has been a great comfort. But I am always certain of just as many home-made presents as I have children, and they are the ones I value. Dolly's lamp-lighters are not all used up yet, and if she _were_ to give me another bundle this Christmas I shouldn't feel sorry. But our little Christmas _money_ we want to send out on some loving mission. And, by-the-way, I have two dollars which may go with yours if you need it--if it will make some poor body's bed softer or his dinner better." "Momsy's guessed!" Felix clapped his hands with delight. "'Sh! Hush, Felix! Yes, Momsy, it 'll do one of those things exactly," said Meg. "And now _I_ say we'd better break up this meeting before the ponies tell the whole business." "F'lix never telled a thing," chirped Félicie, always ready to defend her mate. "Did you, F'lixy? Momsy said 'dinner' herself." "So I did, dear; but who is to get the dinner and why you are going to send it are things mother doesn't wish to know. And here are my two dollars. Now off to bed, the whole trundle-bed crowd, for I have a lot of copy to write to-night. Ethel may bring me a bite, and then sit beside me and write while I sip my tea and dictate and Meg puts the chickens to roost. And Conrad will keep quiet over his books. Just one kiss apiece and a hug for Dolly. Shoo now!" So the party was decided. * * * * * The Frey home, although one of the poorest, was one of the happiest in New Orleans, for it was made up of cheery workers, even little Dorothea having her daily self-assumed tasks. Miss Dorothea, if you please, dusted the banisters round the porch every day, straightened the rows of shoes in mother's closet, folded the daily papers in the rack, and kept the one rug quite even with the front of the hearth. And this young lady had, furthermore, her regular income of five cents a week. Of course her one nickel contributed to the party had been saved only a few hours, but Dorothea was only five, and the old yellow _praline_ woman knew about her income, and came trudging all the way up the stairs each week on "pay-day." Even after the invitations were sent it seemed to Dolly that the "party-day" would never come, for there were to be "three sleeps" before it should arrive. It was Ethel's idea to send the cards early, so as to forestall any home preparation among the guests. But all things come to him who waits--even Christmas. And so at last the great day arrived. Nearly all the invited had accepted, and everything was very exciting; but the situation was not without its difficulties. Even though she was out every day, it had been so hard to keep every tell-tale preparation out of Mrs. Frey's sight. But when she had found a pan of crullers on the top pantry shelf, or heard the muffled "gobble-gobble" of the turkey shut up in the old flour-barrel, or smelt invisible bananas and apples, she had been truly none the wiser, but had only said, "Bless their generous hearts! They are getting up a fine dinner to send to somebody." Indeed, Mrs. Frey never got an inkling of the whole truth until she tripped up the stairs a half-hour before dinner on Christmas day to find the feast all spread. The old mahogany table, extended to its full length, stood gorgeous in decorations of palmetto, moss, and flowers out upon the deep back porch, which was converted into a very pretty chamber by the hanging curtain of gray. If she had any misgivings about it, she betrayed them by no single word or look, but there were bright red spots upon her usually pale cheeks as she passed, smiling, into her room to dash into the dinner dress Ethel had laid out for her. To have her poverty-stricken home invaded by a host of strangers was striking a blow at the most sensitive weakness of this proud woman. And yet the loving motive which was so plain through it all, showing the very spirit in her dear children for which she had prayed, was too sacred a thing to be chilled by even a half-shade of disapproval. "And who are coming, dear?" she asked of Meg, as soon as she could trust her voice. "All the roomers, Momsy, excepting the little hunchback lady and Madame Coraline." "Madame Coraline!" Mrs. Frey could not help exclaiming. "Yes, Momsy. She accepted, and she _even came_, but she went back just now. She was dressed terribly fine--gold lace and green silk, but it was old and dowdy; and, Momsy, her cheeks were just as red! I was on the stepladder tackin' up the Bethlehem picture, Sisty was standin' on the high-chair hanging up the star, and Buddy's arms were full of gray moss that he was wrappin' round your chair. But we were just as polite to her as we could be, and asked her to take a seat. And we all thought she sat down; but she went, Momsy, and no one saw her go. Buddy says she's a witch. She left that flower-pot of sweet-basil on the table. I s'pose she brought it for a present. Do you think that we'd better send for her to come back, Momsy?" "No, daughter, I think not. No doubt she had her own reasons for going, and she may come back. And are the rest all coming?" "Yes'm; but we had a time gettin' Miss Guyosa to come. She says she's a First Family, an' she never mixes. But I told her so were we, and we mixed. And then I said that if she'd come she could sit at one end o' the table and carve the ham, while you'd do the turkey. But she says Buddy ought to do the turkey. But she's comin'. And, Momsy, the turkey is a perfect beauty. We put pecans in him. Miss Guyosa gave us the receipt and the nuts, too. Her cousin sent 'em to her from his plantation. And did you notice the paper roses in the moss festoons, Momsy? She made those. She has helped us fix up _a lot_. She made all the Easter flowers on St. Joseph's altar at the Cathedral, too, and--" A rap at the door announcing a first guest sent the little cook bounding to the kitchen, while Ethel rushed into her mother's room, her mouth full of pins and her sash on her arm. She had dressed the three little ones a half-hour ago; and Conrad, who had also made an early toilet, declared that they had all three walked round the dinner table thirty-nine times since their appearance in the "dining-room." When he advanced to do the honors, the small procession toddling single file behind him, somehow it had not occurred to him that he might encounter Miss Penny, the canary lady, standing in a dainty old dress of yellow silk just outside the door, nor, worse still, that she should bear in her hands a tiny cage containing a pair of young canaries. He said afterwards that "everything would have passed off all right if it hadn't been for the twins." Of course he had forgotten that he had himself been the first one to compare Miss Penny to a canary. By the time the little black-eyed woman had flitted into the door, and in a chirpy, bird-like voice wished them a merry Christmas, Felix had stuffed his entire handkerchief into his mouth. Was it any wonder that Félicie and Dorothea, seeing this, did actually disgrace the whole party by convulsions of laughter? They were soon restored to order, though, by the little yellow-gowned lady herself, for it took but half a minute to say that the birds were a present for the twins--"the two little ones who brought me the invitation." Such a present as this is no laughing matter, and, besides, the little Frey children were at heart polite. And so they had soon forgotten their mirth in their new joy. And then other guests were presently coming in, and Mrs. Frey, looking startlingly fine and pretty in her fresh ruches and new tie, was saying pleasant things to everybody, while Ethel and Meg, tripping lightly in and out, brought in the dishes. As there was no parlor, guests were received in the curtained end of the gallery. No one was disposed to be formal, and when the old Professor entered with a little brown-paper parcel, which he declared, after his greetings, to contain his dinner, everybody felt that the etiquette of the occasion was not to be very strict or in the least embarrassing. Of course Mrs. Frey, as hostess, "hoped the Professor would reconsider, and have a slice of the Christmas turkey"; but when they had presently all taken their seats at the table, and the eccentric guest had actually opened his roll of bread and cheese upon his empty plate, over which he began to pass savory dishes to his neighbors, she politely let him have his way. Indeed, there was nothing else to do, as he declared--declining the first course with a wave of his hand--that he had come "yust for de sake of sociapility." "I haf seen efery day doze children work und sing so nize togedder yust like leetle mans und ladies, so I come yust to eggsbress my t'anks for de compliment, und to make de acquaintance off doze nize y'ung neighbors." This with a courtly bow to each one of the children separately. And he added in a moment: "De dinner iss very fine, but for me one dinner iss yust like anudder. Doze are all externals." To which measured and kindly speech Conrad could not help replying, "It won't be an external to us, Professor, by the time we get through." "Oho!" exclaimed the old man, delighted with the boy's ready wit. "Dot's a wery schmart boy you got dhere, Mrs. Vrey." At this exhibition of broken English the twins, who were waiting on the table, thought it safe to rush to the kitchen on pretence of changing plates, while Dorothea, seated at the Professor's left, found it necessary to bite both lips and to stare hard at the vinegar-cruet for fully a second to keep from laughing. Then, to make sure of her self-possession, she artfully changed the subject, remarking, dryly, "My nickel buyed the ice." This was much funnier than the Professor's speech, judging from the laughter that followed it. And Miss Dorothea Frey's manners were saved, which was the important thing. It would be impossible in this short space to give a full account of this novel and interesting dinner party, but if any one supposes that there was a dull moment in it, he is altogether mistaken. Mrs. Frey and Ethel saw to it that no one was neglected in conversation; Meg and Conrad looked after the prompt replenishing of plates, though the alert little waiters, Felix and Félicie, anticipated every want, and were as sprightly as two crickets, while Dorothea provoked frequent laughter by a random fire of unexpected remarks, never failing, for instance, to offer ice-water during every "still minute"; and, indeed, once that young lady did a thing that might have proved quite terrible had the old lady Saxony, who sat opposite, been disagreeable or sensitive. What Dorothea said was innocent enough--only a single word of two letters, to begin with. She had been looking blankly at her opposite neighbor for a full minute, when she suddenly exclaimed, "Oh!" That was all, but it made everybody look, first at Dolly and then across the table. Whereupon the little maid, seeing her blunder, hastened to add: "That's nothin'. My grandma's come out too." And then, of course, every one noticed that old lady Saxony held her dainty hemstitched handkerchief quite over her mouth. Fortunately Mrs. Saxony's good sense was as great as her appreciation of humor, and, as she shook her finger threateningly at Dorothea, her twinkling eyes gave everybody leave to laugh. So "Dolly's terrible break," as Conrad called it, really went far to making the dinner a success--that is, if story-telling and laughter and the merry clamor such as distinguish the gayest of dinner parties the world over count as success. It was while the Professor was telling a funny story of his boy life in Germany that there came a rap at the door, and the children, thinking only of Madame Coraline, turned their eyes towards the door, only to see the Italian organ-grinder, whom, in the excitement of the dinner party, they had forgotten to expect. He was to play for the children to dance after dinner, and had come a little early--or perhaps dinner was late. Seeing the situation, the old man began bowing himself out, when the Professor, winking mysteriously at Mrs. Frey and gesticulating animatedly, pointed first to the old Italian and then to Madame Coraline's vacant chair. Everybody understood, and smiling faces had already shown approval when Mrs. Frey said, quietly, "Let's put it to vote. All in favor raise glasses." Every glass went up. The old Italian understood little English, but the offer of a seat is a simple pantomime, and he was presently declining again and again, bowing lower each time, until before he knew it--all the time refusing--he was in the chair, his plate was filled, and Dolly was asking him to have ice-water. No guest of the day was more welcome. None enjoyed his dinner more, judging from the indications. And as to Meg, the moving spirit in the whole party, she was beside herself with delight over the unexpected guest. [Illustration: THE ITALIAN ORGAN-GRINDER] The dinner all through was what Conrad called a "rattlin' success," and the evening afterwards, during which nearly every guest contributed some entertainment, was one long to be remembered. The Professor not only sang, but danced. Miss Penny whistled so like a canary that one could really believe her when she said she always trained her young birds' voices. Miss Guyosa told charming folk-lore anecdotes, handed down in her family since the old Spanish days in Louisiana. The smiling organ-grinder played his engaged twenty-five cents' worth of tunes over and over again, and when the evening was done, persistently refused to take the money until Felix slipped it into his pocket. The Frey party will long be remembered in the Coppenole house, and beyond it, too, for some very pleasant friendships date from this Christmas dinner. The old Professor was just the man to help Conrad with his German lessons. It was so easy for Meg to send him a cup of hot coffee on cold mornings. Mrs. Frey and Miss Guyosa soon found many ties in common friends of their youth. Indeed, the twins had gotten their French names from a remote creole cousin, who proved to be also a kinswoman to Miss Guyosa. It was such a comfort, when Mrs. Frey was kept out late at the office, for the children to have Miss Guyosa come and sit with them, telling stories or reading aloud; and they brought much brightness into her life too. Madame Coraline soon moved away, and, indeed, before another Christmas the Freys had moved too--to a small cottage all their own, sitting in the midst of a pretty rose-garden. Here often come Miss Guyosa and the Professor, both welcome guests, and Conrad says the Professor makes love to Miss Guyosa, but it is hard to tell. One cannot keep up with two people who can tell jokes in four languages, but the Professor has a way of dropping in as if by accident on the evenings Miss Guyosa is visiting the Freys, and they do read the same books--in four languages. There's really no telling. When the Frey children are playing on the _banquette_ at their front gate on sunny afternoons, the old organ-grinder often stops, plays a free tune or two for them to dance by, smilingly doffs his hat to the open window above, and passes on. [Illustration: "THE PROFESSOR NOT ONLY SANG, BUT DANCED"] LITTLE MOTHER QUACKALINA LITTLE MOTHER QUACKALINA STORY OF A DUCK FARM CHAPTER I The black duck had a hard time of it from the beginning--that is, from the beginning of her life on the farm. She had been a free wild bird up to that time, swimming in the bay, playing hide-and-seek with her brothers and sisters and cousins among the marsh reeds along the bank, and coquettishly diving for "mummies" and catching them "on the swim" whenever she craved a fishy morsel. This put a fresh perfume on her breath, and made her utterly charming to her seventh cousin, Sir Sooty Drake, who always kept himself actually fragrant with the aroma of raw fish, and was in all respects a dashing beau. Indeed, she was behaving most coyly, daintily swimming in graceful curves around Sir Sooty among the marsh-mallow clumps at the mouth of "Tarrup Crik," when the shot was fired that changed all her prospects in life. The farmer's boy was a hunter, and so had been his grandfather, and his grandfather's gun did its work with a terrific old-fashioned explosion. When it shot into the great clump of pink mallows everything trembled. The air was full of smoke, and for a distance of a quarter of a mile away the toads crept out of their hiding and looked up and down the road. The chickens picking at the late raspberry bushes in the farmer's yard craned their necks, blinked, and didn't swallow another berry for fully ten seconds. And a beautiful green caterpillar, that had seen the great red rooster mark him with his evil eye, and expected to be gobbled up in a twinkling, had time to "hump himself" and crawl under a leaf before the astonished rooster recovered from the noise. This is a case where the firing of a gun saved at least one life. I wonder how many butterflies owe their lives to that gun? As to the ducks in the clump of mallows that caught the volley, they simply tumbled over and gave themselves up for dead. [Illustration: "THE FARMER'S BOY WAS A HUNTER"] The heroine of our little story, Lady Quackalina Blackwing, stayed in a dead faint for fully seventeen seconds, and the first thing she knew when she "came to" was that she was lying under the farmer boy's coat in an old basket, and that there was a terrific rumbling in her ears and a sharp pain in one wing, that something was sticking her, that Sir Sooty was nowhere in sight, and that she wanted her mother and all her relations. Indeed, as she began to collect her senses, while she lay on top of the live crab that pinched her chest with his claw, she realized that there was not a cousin in the world, even to some she had rather disliked, that she would not have been most happy to greet at this trying moment. The crab probably had no unfriendly intention. He was only putting up the best hand he had, trying to find some of his own kindred. He had himself been lying in a hole in shallow water when the farmer's boy raked him in and changed the whole course of his existence. He and the duck knew each other by sight, but though they were both "in the swim," they belonged to different sets, and so were small comfort to one another on this journey to the farm. They both knew some English, and as the farmer's boy spoke part English and part "farm," they understood him fairly well when he was telling the man digging potatoes in the field that he was going to "bile" the crab in a tomato can and to make a "decoy" out of the duck. "Bile" and "decoy" were new words to the listeners in the basket, but they both knew about tomato cans. The bay and "Tarrup Crik" were strewn with them, and the crab had once hidden in one, half imbedded in the sand, when he was a "soft-shell." He knew their names, because he had studied them before their labels soaked off, and he knew there was no malice in them for him, though the young fishes who have soft outsides dreaded their sharp edges very much. There is sometimes some advantage in having one's skeleton on the surface, like a coat of mail. And so the crab was rather pleased at the prospect of the tomato can. He thought the cans grew in the bay, and so he expected presently to be "biled" in his own home waters. The word "biled" probably meant _dropped in_. Ignorance is sometimes bliss, indeed. Poor little Quackalina, however, was getting less comfort out of her ignorance. She thought "decoy" had a foreign sound, as if it might mean a French stew. She had had relations who had departed life by way of a _purée_, while others had gone into a _sauté_ or _pâté_. Perhaps a "decoy" was a _pâté_ with gravy or a _purée_ with a crust on it. If worse came to the worst, she would prefer the _purée_ with a crust. It would be more like decent burial. Of course she thought these things in duck language, which is not put in here, because it is not generally understood. It is quite a different thing from Pidgin-English, and it isn't all "quack" any more than French is all "au revoir," or Turkey all "gobble, gobble," or goose only a string of "S's," or darkey all "howdy." The crab's thoughts were expressed in his eyes, that began coming out like little telescopes until they stood quite over his cheeks. Maybe some people think crabs have no cheeks, but that isn't so. They have them, but they keep them inside, where they blush unseen, if they blush at all. But this is the story of the black duck. However, perhaps some one who reads it will be pleased to know that the crab got away. He sidled up--sidled is a regular word in crab language--until his left eye could see straight into the boy's face, and then he waited. He had long ago found that there was nothing to be gained by pinching the duck. It only made a row in the basket and got him upset. But, by keeping very still and watching his chance, he managed to climb so near the top that when the basket gave a lurch he simply vaulted overboard and dropped in the field. Then he hid between three mushrooms and a stick until the boy's footsteps were out of hearing and he had time to draw in his eyes and start for the bay. He had lost his left claw some time before, and the new one he was growing was not yet very strong. Still, let us hope that he reached there in safety. The duck knew when he had been trying to get out, but she didn't tell. She wanted him to go, for she didn't like his ways. Still, when he had gone, she felt lonely. Misery loves company--even though it be very poor company. But Quackalina had not long to feel lonely. Almost any boy who has shot a duck walks home with it pretty fast, and this boy nearly ran. He would have run if his legs hadn't been so fat. The first sound that Quackalina heard when they reached the gate was the quacking of a thousand ducks, and it frightened her so that she forgot all about the crab and her aching wing and even the decoy. The boy lived on a duck farm, and it was here that he had brought her. This would seem to be a most happy thing--but there are ducks and ducks. Poor little Quackalina knew the haughty quawk of the proud white ducks of Pekin. She knew that she would be only a poor colored person among them, and that she, whose mother and grandmother had lived in the swim of best beach circles and had looked down upon these incubator whitings, who were grown by the pound and had no relations whatever, would now have to suffer their scorn. Even their distant quawk made her quake, though she feared her end was near. There are some trivial things that are irritating even in the presence of death. But Quackalina was not soon to die. She did suffer some humiliations, and her wing was very painful, but a great discovery soon filled her with such joy that nothing else seemed worth thinking about. There were three other black ducks on the farm, and they hastened to tell her that they were already decoys, and that the one pleasant thing in being a decoy was that it was _not_ to be killed or cooked or eaten. This was good news. The life of a decoy-duck was hard enough; but when one got accustomed to have its foot tied to the shore, and shots fired all around it, one grew almost to enjoy it. It was so exciting. But to the timid young duck who had never been through it it was a terrible prospect. And so, for a long time, little Quackalina was a very sad duck. She loved her cousin, Sir Sooty, and she loved pink mallow blossoms. She liked to eat the "mummy" fish alive, and not cooked with sea-weed, as the farmer fed them to her. But most of all she missed Sir Sooty. And so, two weeks later, when her wing was nearly well, in its new, drooping shape, what was her joy when he himself actually waddled into the farm-yard--into her very presence--without a single quack of warning. The feathers of one of his beautiful wings were clipped, but he was otherwise looking quite well, and he hastened to tell her that he was happy, even in exile, to be with her again. And she believed him. He had been captured in a very humiliating way, and this he made her promise never to tell. He had swum so near the decoy-duck that his foot had caught in its string, and before he could get away the farmer had him fast. "And now," he quacked, "I'm glad I did it," and Quackalina quacked, "So am I." And they were very happy. [Illustration: "SIR SOOTY HIMSELF ACTUALLY WADDLED INTO THE FARM-YARD"] Indeed, they grew so blissful after a while that they decided to try to make the best of farm life and to settle down. So they began meandering about on long waddles--or waddling about on long meanders--all over the place, hunting for a cozy hiding-place for a nest. For five whole days they hunted before Quackalina finally settled down into the hollow that she declared was "just a fit" for her, under the edge of the old shanty where the Pekin feathers were stored. White, fluffy feathers are very beautiful things, and they are soft and pleasant to our touch, but they are sad sights to ducks and geese, and Quackalina selected a place for her nest where she could never see the door open into this dread storehouse. It was, indeed, very well hidden, and, as if to make it still more secure, a friendly golden-rod sprang up quite in front of it, and a growth of pepper-grass kindly closed in one side. Quackalina had never been sent out on decoy duty, and after a time she ceased to fear it, but sometimes Sir Sooty had to go, and his little wife would feel very anxious until he came back. There are some very sad parts in this little story, and we are coming to one of them now. The home-nest had been made. There were ten beautiful eggs in it--all polished and shining like opals. And the early golden-rod that stood on guard before it was sending out a first yellow spray when troubles began to come. CHAPTER II Quackalina thought she had laid twice as many as ten eggs in the nest, but she could not be quite sure, and neither could Sir Sooty, though he thought so, too. Very few poetic people are good at arithmetic, and even fine mathematicians are said to forget how to count when they are in love. Certain it is, however, that when Quackalina finally decided to be satisfied to begin sitting, there were exactly ten eggs in the nest--just enough for her to cover well with her warm down and feathers. "Sitting-time" may seem stupid to those who are not sitting; but Quackalina's breast was filled with a gentle content as she sat, day by day, behind the golden-rod, and blinked and reflected and listened for the dear "paddle, paddle" of Sir Sooty's feet, and his loving "qua', qua'"--a sort of caressing baby-talk that he had adopted in speaking to her ever since she had begun her long sitting. [Illustration: "'I'M GOIN' TO SWAP 'EM'"] Quackalina was a patient little creature, and seldom left her nest, so that when she did so for a short walk in the glaring sun, she was apt to be dizzy and to see strange spots before her eyes. But this would all pass away when she got back to her cozy nest in the cool shade. But one day it did not pass away--it got worse, or, at least, she thought it did. Instead of ten eggs in the nest she seemed to see twenty, and they were of a strange, dull color, and their shape seemed all wrong. She blinked her eyes nineteen times, and even rubbed them with her web-feet, so that she might not see double, but it was all in vain. Before her dazzled eyes twenty little pointed eggs lay, and when she sat upon them they felt strange to her breast. And then she grew faint and was too weak even to call Sir Sooty, but when he came waddling along presently, he found her so pale around the bill that he made her put out her tongue, and examined her symptoms generally. Sir Sooty was not a regular doctor, but he was a very good quack, and she believed in him, which, in many cases, is the main thing. So when he grew so tender that his words were almost like "qu, qu," and told her that she had been confined too closely and was threatened with _foie gras_, she only sighed and closed her eyes, and, keeping her fears to herself, hoped that the trouble was all in her eyes indeed--or her liver. Now the sad part of this tale is that the trouble was not with poor little Quackalina's eyes at all. It was in the nest. The same farmer's boy who had kept her sitting of eggs down to ten by taking out one every day until poor Quackalina's patience was worn out--the same boy who had not used her as a decoy only because he wanted her to stay at home and raise little decoy-ducks--this boy it was who had now chosen to take her ten beautiful eggs and put them under a guinea-hen, and to fetch the setting of twenty guinea eggs for Quackalina to hatch out. He did this just because, as he said, "That old black duck 'll hatch out as many eggs again as a guinea-hen will, an' the guinea 'll cover her ten eggs _easy_. I'm goin' to swap 'em." And "swap 'em" he did. Nobody knows how the guinea-hen liked her sitting, for none but herself and the boy knew where her nest was hidden in a pile of old rubbish down by the cow-pond. [Illustration: "MADE HER PUT OUT HER TONGUE"] When a night had passed, and a new day showed poor Quackalina the twenty little eggs actually under her breast--eggs so little that she could roll two at once under her foot--she did not know what to think. But like many patient people when great sorrows come, she kept very still and never told her fears. She had never seen a guinea egg before in all her life. There were birds' nests in some of the reeds along shore, and she knew their little toy eggs. She knew the eggs of snakes, too, and of terrapins, or "tarrups," as they are called by the farmer folk along the bay. When first she discovered the trouble in the nest she thought of these, and the very idea of a great procession of little turtles starting out from under her some fine morning startled her so that her head lay limp against the golden-rod for fully thirteen seconds. Then she got better, but it was not until she had taken a nip at the pepper-grass that she was sufficiently warmed up to hold up her head and think. And when she thought, she was comforted. These dainty pointed eggs were not in the least like the soft clumsy "double-enders" that the turtles lay in the sand. Besides, how could turtle-eggs have gotten there anyway? How much easier for one head to go wrong than twenty eggs. She chuckled at the very folly of her fears, and nestling down into the place, she soon began to nod. And presently she had a funny, funny dream, which is much too long to go into this story, which is a great pity, for her dream is quite as interesting as the real story, although it is not half so true. Sitting-time, after this, seemed very long to Quackalina, but after a while she began to know by various little stirrings under her downy breast that it was almost over. At the first real movement against her wing she felt as if everything about her was singing and saying, "mother! mother!" and bowing to her. Even the pepper-grass nodded and the golden-rod, and careless roosters as they passed _seemed_ to lower their combs to her and to forget themselves, just for a minute. And a great song was in her own bosom--a great song of joy--and although the sound that came from her beautiful coral bill was only a soft "qua', qua'," to common ears, to those who have the finest hearing it was full of a heavenly tenderness. But there was a tremor in it, too--a tremor of fear; and the fear was so terrible that it kept her from looking down even when she knew a little head was thrusting itself up through her great warm wing. She drew the wing as a caressing arm lovingly about it though, and saying to herself, "I must wait till they are all come; then I'll look," she gazed upward at the moon that was just showing a rim of gold over the hay-stack--and closed her eyes. There was no sleep that long night for little mother Quackalina. It was a great, great night. Under her breast, wonderful happenings every minute; outside, the white moonlight; and always in sight across the yard, just a dark object against the ground--Sir Sooty, sound asleep, like a philosopher! Oh yes, it was a great, great night. Its last hours before day were very dark and sorrowful, and by the time a golden gleam shot out of the east Quackalina knew that her first glance into the nest must bring her grief. The tiny restless things beneath her brooding wings were chirping in an unknown tongue. But their wiry Japanesy voices, that clinked together like little copper kettles, were very young and helpless, and Quackalina was a true mother-duck, and her heart went out to them. When the fatal moment came and she really looked down into the nest, her relief in seeing beautiful feathered things, at least, was greater than any other feeling. It was something not to have to mother a lot of "tarrups," certainly. Little guineas are very beautiful, and when presently Quackalina found herself crossing the yard with her twenty dainty red-booted hatchlings, although she longed for her own dear, ugly, smoky, "beautiful" ducklings, she could not help feeling pleasure and pride in the exquisite little creatures that had stepped so briskly into life from beneath her own breast. It was natural that she should have hurried to the pond with her brood. Wouldn't she have taken her own ducklings there? If these were only little "step-ducks," she was resolved that, in the language of step-mothers, "they should never know the difference." She would begin by taking them in swimming. Besides, she longed for the pond herself. It was the place where she could best think quietly and get things straightened in her mind. Sir Sooty had not seen her start off with her new family. He had said to himself that he had lost so much rest all night that he must have a good breakfast, and so, at the moment when Quackalina and the guineas slipped around the stable to the cow-pond, he was actually floundering in the very centre of one of the feed-troughs in the yard, and letting the farmer turn the great mass of cooked "feed" all over him. Greedy ducks often act that way. Even the snow-white Pekins do it. It is bad enough any time, but on the great morning when one becomes a papa-duck he ought to try to be dignified, and Sir Sooty knew it. And he knew full well that events had been happening all night in the nest, and that was why he said he had lost rest. But he hadn't. A great many people are like Sir Sooty. They say they lose sleep when they don't. But listen to what was taking place at the cow-pond, for it is this that made this story seem worth the telling. When Quackalina reached the pond, she flapped her tired wings three times from pure gladness at the sight of the beautiful water. And then, plunging in, she took one delightful dive before she turned to the shore, and in the sweetest tones invited the little ones to follow her. But they-- Well, they just looked down at their red satin boots and shook their heads. And then it was that Quackalina noticed their feet, and saw that they would never swim. It was a great shock to her. She paddled along shore quite near them for a while, trying to be resigned to it. And then she waddled out on the grassy bank, and fed them with some newts, and a tadpole, and a few blue-bottle flies, and a snail, and several other delicacies, which they seemed to enjoy quite as much as if they had been young ducks. And then Quackalina, seeing them quite happy, struck out for the very middle of the pond. She would have one glorious outing, at least. Oh, how sweet the water was! How it soothed the tender spots under her weary wings! How it cooled her ears and her tired eyelids! And now--and now--and now--as she dived and dipped and plunged--how it cheered and comforted her heart! How faithfully it bore her on its cool bosom! For a few minutes, in the simple joy of her bath, she even forgot to be sorrowful. And now comes the dear part of the troublous tale of this little black mother-duck--the part that is so pleasant to write--the part that it will be good to read. When at last Quackalina, turning, said to herself, "I must go ashore now and look after my little steppies," she raised her eyes and looked before her to see just where she was. And then the vision she seemed to see was so strange and so beautiful that--well, she said afterwards that she never knew just how she bore it. Just before her, on the water, swimming easily on its trusty surface, were ten little ugly, smoky, "beautiful" ducks! Ten little ducks that looked precisely like every one of Quackalina's relations! And now they saw her and began swimming towards her. Before she knew it, Quackalina had flapped her great wings and quacked aloud three times, and three times again! And she didn't know she was doing it, either. She did know, though, that in less time than it has taken to tell it, her own ten beautiful ducks were close about her, and that she was kissing each one somewhere with her great red bill. And then she saw that upon the bank a nervous, hysterical guinea-hen was tearing along, and in a voice like a carving-knife screeching aloud with terror. It went through Quackalina's bosom like a neuralgia, but she didn't mind it very much. Indeed, she forgot it instantly when she looked down upon her ducklings again, and she even forgot to think about it any more. And so it was that the beautiful thing that was happening on the bank, under her very eyes almost, never came to Quackalina's knowledge at all. When her own bosom was as full of joy as it could be, why should she have turned at the sound of the carving-knife voice to look ashore, and to notice that at its first note there were twenty little pocket-knife answers from over the pond, and that in a twinkling twenty pairs of red satin boots were running as fast as they could go to meet the great speckled mother-hen, whose blady voice was the sweetest music in all the world to them? When, after quite a long time, Quackalina began to realize things, and thought of the little guineas, and said to herself, "Goodness gracious me!" she looked anxiously ashore for them, but not a red boot could she see. The whole delighted guinea family were at that moment having a happy time away off in the cornfield out of sight and hearing. This was very startling, and Quackalina grieved a little because she couldn't grieve more. She didn't understand it at all, and it made her almost afraid to go ashore, so she kept her ten little ducklings out upon the water nearly all day. And now comes a very amusing thing in this story. When this great, eventful day was passed, and Quackalina was sitting happily among the reeds with her dear ones under her wings, while Sir Sooty waddled proudly around her with the waddle that Quackalina thought the most graceful walk in the world, she began to tell him what had happened, beginning at the time when she noticed that the eggs were wrong. Sir Sooty listened very indulgently for a while, and then--it is a pity to tell it on him, but he actually burst out laughing, and told her, with the most patronizing quack in the world, that it was "all imagination." [Illustration: "HER OWN TEN BEAUTIFUL DUCKS WERE CLOSE ABOUT HER"] And when Quackalina insisted with tears and even a sob or two that it was every word true, he quietly looked at her tongue again, and then he said a very long word for a quack doctor. It sounded like 'lucination. And he told Quackalina never, on any account, to tell any one else so absurd a tale, and that it was only a canard--which was very flippant and unkind, in several ways. There are times when even good jokes are out of place. At this, Quackalina said that she would take him to the nest and show him the little pointed egg-shells. And she did take him there, too. Late at night, when all honest ducks, excepting somnambulists and such as have vindications on hand, are asleep, Quackalina led the way back to the old nest. But when she got there, although the clear, white moonlight lay upon everything and revealed every blade of grass, not a vestige of nest or straw or shell remained in sight. The farmer's boy had cleared them all away. By this time Quackalina began to be mystified herself, and after a while, seeing only her own ten ducks always near, and never sighting such a thing as little, flecked, red-booted guineas, she really came to doubt whether it had all happened or not. And even to this day she is not quite sure. How she and all her family finally got away and became happy wild birds again is another story. But while Quackalina sits and blinks upon the bank among the mallows, with all her ugly "beautiful" children around her, she sometimes even yet wonders if the whole thing could have been a nightmare, after all. But it was no nightmare. It was every word true. If anybody doesn't believe it, let him ask the guineas. OLD EASTER OLD EASTER Nearly everybody in New Orleans knew Old Easter, the candy-woman. She was very black, very wrinkled, and very thin, and she spoke with a wiry, cracked voice that would have been pitiful to hear had it not been so merry and so constantly heard in the funny high laughter that often announced her before she turned a street corner, as she hobbled along by herself with her old candy-basket balanced on her head. People who had known her for years said that she had carried her basket in this way for so long that she could walk more comfortably with it than without it. Certainly her head and its burden seemed to give her less trouble than her feet, as she picked her way along the uneven _banquettes_ with her stick. But then her feet were tied up in so many rags that even if they had been young and strong it would have been hard for her to walk well with them. Sometimes the rags were worn inside her shoes and sometimes outside, according to the shoes she wore. All of these were begged or picked out of trash heaps, and she was not at all particular about them, just so they were big enough to hold her old rheumatic feet--though she showed a special liking for men's boots. When asked why she preferred to wear boots she would always answer, promptly, "Ter keep off snake bites"; and then she would almost certainly, if there were listeners enough, continue in this fashion: "You all young trash forgits dat I dates back ter de snake days in dis town. Why, when I was a li'l' gal, about _so_ high, I was walkin' along Canal Street one day, barefeeted, an' not lookin' down, an' terrectly I feel some'h'n' nip me '_snip!_' in de big toe, an' lookin' quick I see a grea' big rattlesnake--" As she said "snip," the street children who were gathered around her would start and look about them, half expecting to see a great snake suddenly appear upon the flag-stones of the pavement. [Illustration: OLD EASTER] At this the old woman would scream with laughter as she assured them that there were thousands of serpents there now that they couldn't see, because they had only "single sight," and that many times when they thought mosquitoes were biting them they were being "'tackted by deze heah onvisible snakes." It is easy to see why the children would gather about her to listen to her talk. Nobody knew how old Easter was. Indeed, she did not know herself, and when any one asked her, she would say, "I 'spec' I mus' be 'long about twenty-fo'," or, "Don't you reckon I mus' be purty nigh on to nineteen?" And then, when she saw from her questioner's face that she had made a mistake, she would add, quickly: "I means twenty-fo' _hund'ed_, honey," or, "I means a _hund'ed_ an' nineteen," which latter amendment no doubt came nearer the truth. Having arrived at a figure that seemed to be acceptable, she would generally repeat it, in this way: "Yas, missy; I was twenty-fo' hund'ed years ole las' Easter Sunday." The old woman had never forgotten that she had been named Easter because she was born on that day, and so she always claimed Easter Sunday as her birthday, and no amount of explanation would convince her that this was not always true. "What diff'ence do it make ter me ef it comes soon or late, I like ter know?" she would argue. "Ef it comes soon, I gits my birfday presents dat much quicker; an' ef it comes late, you all got dat much mo' time ter buy me some mo'. 'Tain't fur me ter deny my birfday caze it moves round." And then she would add, with a peal of her high, cracked laughter: "Seem ter me, de way I keeps a-livin' on--an' a-livin' on--_an' a-livin' on_--maybe deze heah slip-aroun' birfdays don't pin a pusson down ter ole age so close't as de clock-work reg'lars does." And then, if she were in the mood for it, she would set her basket down, and, without lifting her feet from the ground, go through a number of quick and comical movements, posing with her arms and body in a way that was absurdly like dancing. Old Easter had been a very clever woman in her day, and many an extra picayune had been dropped into her wrinkled palm--nobody remembered the time when it wasn't wrinkled--in the old days, just because of some witty answer she had given while she untied the corner of her handkerchief for the coins to make change in selling her candy. [Illustration: "'YAS, MISSY, I WAS TWENTY FO' HOND'ED YEARS OLE, LAS' EASTER SUNDAY'"] One of the very interesting things about the old woman was her memory. It was really very pleasant to talk with a person who could distinctly recall General Jackson and Governor Claiborne, who would tell blood-curdling tales of Lafitte the pirate and of her own wonderful experiences when as a young girl she had served his table at Barataria. If, as her memory failed her, the old creature was tempted into making up stories to supply the growing demand, it would not be fair to blame her too severely. Indeed, it is not at all certain that, as the years passed, she herself knew which of the marvellous tales she related were true and which made to order. "Yas, sir," she would say, "I ricollec' when all dis heah town wasn't nothin' but a alligator swamp--no houses--no fences--no streets--no gas-postes--no 'lection lights--no--_no river_--_no nothin'_!" If she had only stopped before she got to the river, she would have kept the faith of her hearers better, but it wouldn't have been half so funny. "There wasn't anything here then but you and the snakes, I suppose?" So a boy answered her one day, thinking to tease her a little. "Yas, me an' de snakes an' alligators an' Gineral Jackson an' my ole marster's gran'daddy an'--" "And Adam?" added the mischievous fellow, still determined to worry her if possible. "Yas, Marse Adam an' ole Mistus, Mis' Eve, an' de great big p'isonous fork-tailed snake wha' snatch de apple dat Marse Adam an' Mis' Eve was squabblin' over--an' et it up!" When she had gotten this far, while the children chuckled, she began reaching for her basket, that she had set down upon the _banquette_. Lifting it to her head, now, she walled her eyes around mysteriously as she added: "Yas, an' you better look out fur dat p'isonous fork-tailed snake, caze he's agoin' roun' hear right now; an' de favoristest dinner dat he craves ter eat is des sech no-'count, sassy, questionin' street-boys like you is." And with a toss of her head that set her candy-basket swaying and a peal of saw-teeth laughter, she started off, while her would-be teaser found that the laugh was turned on himself. It was sometimes hard to know when Easter was serious or when she was amusing herself--when she was sensible or when she wandered in her mind. And to the thoughtless it was always hard to take her seriously. Only those who, through all her miserable rags and absurdities, saw the very poor and pitiful old, old woman, who seemed always to be companionless and alone, would sometimes wonder about her, and, saying a kind and encouraging word, drop a few coins in her slim, black hand without making her lower her basket. Or they would invite her to "call at the house" for some old worn flannels or odds and ends of cold victuals. And there were a few who never forgot her in their Easter offerings, for which, as for all other gifts, she was requested to "call at the back gate." This seemed, indeed, the only way of reaching the weird old creature, who had for so many years appeared daily upon the streets, nobody seemed to know from where, disappearing with the going down of the sun as mysteriously as the golden disk itself. Of course, if any one had cared to insist upon knowing how she lived or where she stayed at nights, he might have followed her at a distance. But it is sometimes very easy for a very insignificant and needy person to rebuff those who honestly believe themselves eager to help. And so, when Old Easter, the candy-woman, would say, in answer to inquiries about her life, "I sleeps at night 'way out by de Metarie Ridge Cemetery, an' gets up in de mornin' up at de Red Church. I combs my ha'r wid de _latanier_, an' washes my face in de Ole Basin," it was so easy for those who wanted to help her to say to their consciences, "She doesn't want us to know where she lives," and, after a few simple kindnesses, to let the matter drop. The above ready reply to what she would have called their "searchin' question" proved her a woman of quick wit and fine imagination. Anybody who knows New Orleans at all well knows that Metarie Ridge Cemetery, situated out of town in the direction of the lake shore, and the old Red Church, by the riverside above Carrollton, are several miles apart. People know this as well as they know that the _latanier_ is the palmetto palm of the Southern wood, with its comb-like, many-toothed leaves, and that the Old Basin is a great pool of scum-covered, murky water, lying in a thickly-settled part of the French town, where numbers of small sailboats, coming in through the bayou with their cargoes of lumber from the coast of the Sound, lie against one another as they discharge and receive their freight. If all the good people who knew her in her grotesque and pitiful street character had been asked suddenly to name the very poorest and most miserable person in New Orleans, they would almost without doubt have immediately replied, "Why, old Aunt Easter, the candy-woman. Who could be poorer than she?" To be old and black and withered and a beggar, with nothing to recommend her but herself--her poor, insignificant, ragged self--who knew nobody and whom nobody knew--that was to be poor, indeed. Of course, Old Easter was not a professional beggar, but it was well known that before she disappeared from the streets every evening one end of her long candy-basket was generally pretty well filled with loose paper parcels of cold victuals, which she was always sure to get at certain kitchen doors from kindly people who didn't care for her poor brown twists. There had been days in the past when Easter peddled light, porous sticks of snow-white taffy, cakes of toothsome sugar-candy filled with fresh orange-blossoms, and pralines of pecans or cocoa-nut. But one cannot do everything. One cannot be expected to remember General Jackson, spin long, imaginative yarns of forgotten days, and make up-to-date pralines at the same time. If the people who had ears to listen had known the thing to value, this old, old woman could have sold her memories, her wit, and even her imagination better than she had ever sold her old-fashioned sweets. But the world likes molasses candy. And so Old Easter, whose meagre confections grew poorer as her stories waxed in richness, walked the streets in rags and dirt and absolute obscurity. An old lame dog, seeming instinctively to know her as his companion in misery, one day was observed to crouch beside her, and, seeing him, she took down her basket and entertained him from her loose paper parcels. And once--but this was many years ago, and the incident was quite forgotten now--when a crowd of street fellows began pelting Crazy Jake, a foolish, half-paralyzed black boy, who begged along the streets, Easter had stepped before him, and, after receiving a few of their clods in her face, had struck out into the gang of his tormenters, grabbed two of its principal leaders by the seats of their trousers, spanked them until they begged for mercy, and let them go. Nobody knew what had become of Crazy Jake after that. Nobody cared. The poor human creature who is not due at any particular place at any particular time can hardly be missed, even when the time comes when he himself misses the _here_ and the _there_ where he has been wont to spend his miserable days, even when he, perhaps having no one else, it is possible that he misses his tormenters. It was a little school-girl who saw the old woman lower her basket to share her scraps with the street dog. It seemed to her a pretty act, and so she told it when she went home. And she told it again at the next meeting of the particular "ten" of the King's Daughters of which she was a member. And this was how the name of Easter, the old black candy-woman, came to be written upon their little book as their chosen object of charity for the coming year. The name was not written, however, without some opposition, some discussion, and considerable argument. There were several of the ten who could not easily consent to give up the idea of sending their little moneys to an Indian or a Chinaman--or to a naked black fellow in his native Africa. There is something attractive in the savage who sticks bright feathers in his hair, carries a tomahawk, and wears moccasins upon his nimble feet. Most young people take readily to the idea of educating a picturesque savage and teaching him that the cast-off clothes they send him are better than his beads and feathers. The picturesque quality is very winning, find it where we may. People at a distance may see how very much more interesting and picturesque the old black woman, Easter, was than any of these, but she did not seem so to the ten good little maidens who finally agreed to adopt her for their own--to find her out in her home life, and to help her. With them it was an act of simple pity--an act so pure in its motive that it became in itself beautiful. Perhaps the idea gained a little following from the fact that Easter Sunday was approaching, and there was a pleasing fitness in the old woman's name when it was proposed as an object for their Easter offerings. But this is a slight consideration. Certainly when three certain very pious little maidens started out on the following Saturday morning to find the old woman, Easter, they were full of interest in their new object, and chattered like magpies, all three together, about the beautiful things they were going to do for her. Somehow, it never occurred to them that they might not find her either at the Jackson Street and St. Charles Avenue corner, or down near Lee Circle, or at the door of the Southern Athletic Club, at the corner of Washington and Prytania streets. But they found her at none of the familiar haunts; they did not discover any trace of her all that day, or for quite a week afterward. They had inquired of the grocery-man at the corner where she often rested--of the portresses of several schools where she sometimes peddled her candy at recess-time, and at the bakery where she occasionally bought a loaf of yesterday's bread. But nobody remembered having seen her recently. Several people knew and were pleased to tell how she always started out in the direction of the swamp every evening when the gas was lit in the city, and that she turned out over the bridge along Melpomene Street, stopping to collect stray bits of cabbage leaves and refuse vegetables where the bridgeway leads through Dryades Market. Some said that she had a friend there, who hid such things for her to find, under one of the stalls, but this may not have been true. It was on the Saturday morning after their first search that three little "Daughters of the King" started out a second time, determined if possible to trace Old Easter to her hiding-place. It was a shabby, ugly, and crowded part of town in which, following the bridged road, and inquiring as they went, they soon found themselves. For a long time it seemed a fruitless search, and they were almost discouraged when across a field, limping along before a half-shabby, fallen gate, they saw an old, lame, yellow dog. It was the story of her sharing her dinner with the dog on the street that had won these eager friends for the old woman, and so, perhaps, from an association of ideas, they crossed the field, timidly, half afraid of the poor miserable beast that at once attracted and repelled them. But they need not have feared. As soon as he knew they were visitors, the social fellow began wagging his little stump of a tail, and with a sort of coaxing half-bark asked them to come in and make themselves at home. Not so cordial, however, was the shy and reluctant greeting of the old woman, Easter, who, after trying in vain to rise from her chair as they entered her little room, motioned to them to be seated on her bed. There was no other seat vacant, the second chair of the house being in use by a crippled black man, who sat out upon the back porch, nodding. As they took their seats, the yellow dog, who had acted as usher, squatted serenely in their midst, with what seemed a broad grin upon his face, and then it was that the little maid who had seen the incident recognized him as the poor old street dog who had shared old Easter's dinner. Two other dogs, poor, ugly, common fellows, had strolled out as they came in, and there were several cats lying huddled together in the sun beside the chair of the sleeping figure on the back porch. It was a poor little home--as poor as any imagination could picture it. There were holes in the floor--holes in the roof--cracks everywhere. It was, indeed, not considered, to use a technical word, "tenable," and there was no rent to pay for living in it. But, considering things, it was pretty clean. And when its mistress presently recovered from her surprise at her unexpected visitors, she began to explain that "ef she'd 'a' knowed dey was comin' to call, she would 'a' scoured up a little." Her chief apologies, however, were for the house itself and its location, "away outside o' quality neighborhoods in de swampy fields." "I des camps out here, missy," she finally explained, "bec'ase dey's mo' room an' space fur my family." And here she laughed--a high, cracked peal of laughter--as she waved her hand in the direction of the back porch. "Dey ain't nobody ter pleg Crazy Jake out here, an' him an' me, wid deze here lame an' crippled cats an' dogs--why, we sets out yonder an' talks together in de evenin's after de 'lection lights is lit in de tower market and de moon is lit in de sky. An' Crazy Jake--why, when de moon's on de full, Crazy Jake he can talk knowledge good ez you kin. I fetched him out here about a million years ago, time dey was puttin' him in de streets, caze dey was gwine hurt him. An' he knows mighty smart, git him ter talkin' right time o' de moon! But mos' gin'ally he forgits. "Ef I hadn't 'a' fell an' sprained my leg las' week, de bread it wouldn't 'a' 'mos' give out, like it is, but I done melt down de insides o' some ole condense'-milk cans, an' soak de dry bread in it for him, an' to-morrer I'm gwine out ag'in. Yas, to-morrer I'm bleeged to go, caze you know to-morrer dats my birfday, an' all my family dey looks for a party on my birfday--don't you, you yaller, stub-tail feller you! Ef e warn't sort o' hongry, I'd make him talk fur yer; but I 'ain't learnt him much yit. He's my new-comer!" This last was addressed to the yellow dog. [Illustration: "'DE CATS? WHY, HONEY, DEY WELCOME TO COME AN' GO'"] "I had blin' Pete out here till 'istiddy. I done 'dopted him las' year, but he struck out ag'in beggin', 'caze he say he can't stand dis heah soaked victuals. But Pete, he ain't rale blin', nohow. He's des got a sinkin' sperit, an' he can't work, an' I keeps him caze a sinkin' sperit what ain't got no git-up to it hit's a heap wuss 'n blin'ness. He's got deze heah yaller-whited eyes, an' when he draps his leds over 'em an' trimbles 'em, you'd swear he was stone-blin', an' dat stuff wha' he rubs on 'em it's inju'ious to de sight, so I keeps him and takes keer of him now so I won't have a blin' man on my hands--an' to save him f'om sin, too. "Ma'am? What you say, missy? De cats? Why, honey, dey welcome to come an' go. I des picked 'em up here an' dar 'caze dey was whinin'. Any breathin' thing dat I sees dat's poorer 'n what I is, why, I fetches 'em out once-t, an' dey mos' gin'ally stays. "But if you yo'ng ladies 'll come out d'reckly after Easter Sunday, when I got my pervisions in, why I'll show you how de ladies intertain dey company in de old days when Gin'ral Jackson used ter po' de wine." Needless to say, there was such a birthday party as had never before been known in the little shanty on the Easter following the visit of the three little maids of the King's Daughters. When Old Easter had finished her duties as hostess, sharing her good things equally with those who sat at her little table and those who squatted in an outer circle on the floor, she remarked that it carried her away back to old times when she stood behind the governor's chair "while he h'isted his wineglass an' drink ter de ladies' side curls." And Crazy Jake said yes, he remembered, too. And then he began to nod, while blind Pete remarked, "To my eyes de purtiest thing about de whole birfday party is de bo'quet o' Easter lilies in de middle o' de table." SAINT IDYL'S LIGHT SAINT IDYL'S LIGHT You would never have guessed that her name was Idyl--the slender, angular little girl of thirteen years who stood in her faded gown of checkered homespun on the brow of the Mississippi River. And fancy a saint balancing a bucket of water on top of her head! Yet, as she puts the pail down beside her, the evening sun gleaming through her fair hair seems to transform it into a halo, as some one speaks her name, "Saint Idyl." Her thin, little ears, sun-filled as she stands, are crimson disks; and the outlines of her upper arms, dimly seen through the flimsy sleeves, are as meagre as are the ankles above her bare, slim feet. The appellation "Saint Idyl," given first in playful derision, might have been long ago forgotten but for the incident which this story records. It was three years before, when the plantation children, colored and white together, had been saying, as is a fashion with them, what they would like to be. One had chosen a "blue-eyed lady wid flounces and a pink fan," another a "fine white 'oman wid long black curls an' ear-rings," and a third would have been "a hoop-skirted lady wid a tall hat." It was then that Idyl, the only white child of the group--the adopted orphan of the overseer's family--had said: "I'd choose to be a saint, like the one in the glass winder in the church, with light shinin' from my head. I'd walk all night up and down the 'road bend,' so travellers could see the way and wagons wouldn't get stallded." The children had shuddered and felt half afraid at this. "But you'd git stallded yo'se'f in dat black mud--" "An' de runaways in de canebrake 'd ketch yer--" "An' de paterole'd shoot yer--" "An' eve'body'd think you was a walkin' sperit, an' run away f'om yer." So the protests had come in, though the gleaming eyes of the little negroes had shown their delight in the fantastic idea. "But I'd walk on a cloud, like the saint in the picture," Idyl had insisted. "And my feet wouldn't touch the mud, and when the runaways looked into my face, they'd try to be good and go back to their masters. Nobody would hurt me. Tired horses would be glad to see my light, and everybody would love me." So, first laughingly, and then as a matter of habit, she had come to be known as "Saint Idyl." As she stands quite still, with face uplifted, out on the levee this evening, one is reminded in looking at her of the "Maid of Domremi" listening to the voices. Idyl was in truth listening to voices--voices new, strange, and solemn--voices of heavy, distant cannon. It was the 23d of April, 1862. A few miles below Bijou Plantation Farragut's fleet was storming the blockade at Fort Jackson. All along the lower Mississippi it was a time of dread and terror. The negroes, for the most part awed and terror-stricken, muttered prayers as they went about, and all night long sang mournfully and shouted and prayed in the churches or in groups in their cabins, or even in the road. The war had come at last. Its glare was upon the sky at night, and all day long reiterated its persistent staccato menace: "Boom-m-m! Gloom-m-m! Tomb-b-b! Doom-m-m!" The air had never seemed to lose the vibratory tremor, "M-m-m!" since the first gun, nearly six days ago. It was as if the lips of the land were trembling. And the trembling lips of the black mothers, as they pressed their babes to their bosoms, echoed the wordless terror. Death was in the air. Had they doubted it? In a field near by a shell had fallen, burying itself in the earth, and, exploding, had sent two men into the air, killing one and returning the other unhurt. Now the survivor, saved as by a miracle, was preaching "The Wrath to Come." To quote from himself, he had "been up to heaven long enough to get 'ligion." He had "gone up a lost sinner and come down a saved soul. Bless Gord!" Regarding his life as charmed, the blacks followed him in crowds, while he descanted upon the text: "Then two shall be in the field. One shall be taken and the other left." A great revival was in progress. But this afternoon the levee at Bijou had been the scene of a new panic. Rumor said that the blockade chain had been cut. Farragut's war monsters might any moment come snorting up the river. Nor was this all. The only local defence here was a volunteer artillery company of "Exempts." Old "Captain Doc," their leader, also local druggist and postmaster (doctor and minister only in emergency), was a unique and picturesque figure. Full of bombast as of ultimate kindness of feeling, he was equally happy in all of his four offices. The "Rev. Capt. Doc, M.D.," as he was wont, on occasion, to call himself--why drag in a personal name among titles in themselves sufficiently distinguishing?--was by common consent the leading man with a certain under-population along the coast. And when, three months before, he had harangued them as to the patriot's duty of home defence, there was not a worthy incapable present but enthusiastically enlisted. The tension of the times forbade perception of the ludicrous. For three months the "Riffraffs"--so they proudly called themselves--rheumatic, deaf, palsied, halt, lame, and one or two nearly blind, had represented "the cause," "the standing army," "le grand militaire," to the inflammable imaginations of this handful of simple rural people of the lower coast. Of the nine "odds and ends of old cannon" which Captain Doc had been able to collect, it was said that but one would carry a ball. Certainly, of the remaining seven, one was of wood, an ancient gunsmith's sign, and another a gilded papier-mâché affair of a former Mystick Krewe. Still, these answered for drill purposes, and would be replaced by genuine guns when possible. They were quite as good for everything excepting a battle, and in that case, of course, it would be a simple thing "to seize the enemy's guns" and use them. When the Riffraffs had paraded up and down the river road no one had smiled, and if anybody realized that their captain wore the gorgeous pompon of a drum-major, its fitness was not questioned. It was becoming to him. It corresponded to his lordly strut, and was in keeping with the stentorian tones that shouted "Halt!" or "Avance!" Captain Doc appealed to Americans and creoles alike, and the Riffraffs marched quite as often to the stirring measures of "La Marseillaise" as to "The Bonny Blue Flag." Ever since the first guns at the forts, the good captain had been disporting himself in full feather. He was "ready for the enemy." His was a pleasing figure, and even inspiring as a picturesque embodiment of patriotic zeal; but when this afternoon the Riffraffs had planted their artillery along the levee front, while the little captain rallied them to "prepare to die by their guns," it was a different matter. The company, loyal to a man, had responded with a shout, the blacksmith, to whose deaf ears his anvil had been silent for twenty years, throwing up his hat with the rest, while the epileptic who manned the papier-mâché gun was observed to scream the loudest. Suddenly a woman, catching the peril of the situation, shrieked: "They're going to fire on the gunboats! We'll all be killed." Another caught the cry, and another. A mad panic ensued; women with babies in their arms gathered about Captain Doc, entreating him, with tears and cries, to desist. But for once the tender old man, whose old boast had been that one tear from a woman's eyes "tore his heart open," was deaf to all entreaty. The Riffraffs represented an injured faction. They had not been asked to enlist with the "Coast Defenders"--since gone into active service--and they seemed intoxicated by the present opportunity to "show the stuff they were made of." At nearly nightfall the women, despairing and wailing, had gone home. Amid all the excitement the little girl Idyl had stood apart, silent. No one had noticed her, nor that, when all the others had gone, she still lingered. Even Mrs. Magwire, the overseer's wife, with whom she lived, had forgotten to hurry or to scold her. What emotions were surging in her young bosom no one could know. There was something in the cannon's roar that charmed her ear--something suggestive of strength and courage. Within her memory she had known only weakness and fear. After the yellow scourge of '53, when she was but four years old, she had realized vaguely that strange people with loud voices and red faces had come to be to her in the place of father and mother, that the Magwire babies were heavy to carry, and that their mother had but a poor opinion of a "lazy hulk av a girrl that could not heft a washtub without panting." Idyl had tried hard to be strong and to please her foster-mother, but there was, somehow, in her life at the Magwires' something that made her great far-away eyes grow larger and her poor little wrists more weak and slender. She envied the Magwire twins--with all their prickly heat and their calico-blue eyes--when their mother pressed them lovingly to her bosom. She even envied the black babies when their great black mammies crooned them to sleep. What does it matter, black or white or red, if one is loved? An embroidered "Darling" upon an old crib-blanket, and a daguerreotype--a slender youth beside a pale, girlish woman, who clasped a big-eyed babe--these were her only tokens of past affection. There was something within her that responded to the daintiness of the loving stitches in the old blanket--and to a something in the refined faces in the picture. And they had called their wee daughter "Idyl"--a little poem. Yet she, not understanding, hated this name because of Mrs. Magwire, whose most merciless taunt was, "Sure ye're well named, ye idle dthreamer." Mrs. Magwire, a well-meaning woman withal, measured her maternal kindnesses to the hungry-hearted orphan beneath her roof in generous bowls of milk and hunks of corn-bread. Idyl's dreams of propitiating her were all of abstractions--self-sacrifice, patience, gratitude. And she was as unconscious as was her material benefactress that she was an idealist, and why the combination resulted in inharmony. This evening, as she stood alone upon the levee, listening to the cannon, a sudden sense of utter desolation and loneliness came to her. She only of all the plantation was unloved--forgotten--in this hour of danger. A desperate longing seized her as she turned and looked back upon the nest of cabins. If she could only save the plantation! For love, no sacrifice could be too great. With the thought came an inspiration. There was reason in the women's fears. Should the Riffraffs fire upon the fleet, surely guns would answer, else what was war? She glanced at her full pail, and then at the row of cannon beside her. If she could pour water into them! It was too light yet, but to-night-- How great and daring a deed to come to tempt the mind of a timid, delicate child who had never dared anything--even Mrs. Magwire's displeasure! All during the evening, while Mother Magwire rocked the babies, moaning and weeping, Idyl, wiping her dishes in the little kitchen, would step to the door and peer out at the levee where the guns were. Every distant cannon's roar seemed to challenge her to the deed. When finally her work was done, she slipped noiselessly out and started towards the levee, pail in hand; but as she approached it she saw moving shadows. The Riffraffs were working at the guns. Seeing her project impossible, she sat down in a dark shadow by the roadside--studied the moving figures--listened to the guns which came nearer as the hours passed. It was long after midnight; accelerated firing was proclaiming a crisis in the battle, when, suddenly, there came the rattle of approaching wheels accompanied by a noisy rabble. Then a woman screamed. Captain Doc was coming with a wagon-load of ammunition. The guns were to be loaded. The moon, a faint waning crescent, faded to a filmy line as a pillar of fire, rising against the sky northward towards the city, exceeded the glare of the battle below. The darkness was quite lifted now, up and down the levee, and Idyl, standing in the shadow, could see groups of people weeping, wringing their hands, as Captain Doc, pompon triumphant, came in sight galloping down the road. In a second more he would pass the spot where she stood--stood unseen, seeing the sorrow of the people, heeding the challenge of the guns. The wagon was at hand. With a faint, childish scream, raising her thin arms heavenward, she plunged forward and fell headlong in its path. The victory was hers. The tinselled captain was now tender surgeon, doctor, friend. In his own arms he raised the limp little form from beneath the wheel, while the shabby gray coats of a dozen "Riffraffs," laid over the cannon-balls in the wagon, made her a hero's bed; and Captain Doc, seizing the reins, turned the horses cautiously, and drove in haste back to his drug-store. Farragut's fleet and "the honor of the Riffraffs" were forgotten in the presence of this frail embodiment of death. Upon his own bed beside an open window he laid her, and while his eager company became surgeon's assistants, he tenderly bound her wounds. For several hours she lay in a stupor, and when she opened her eyes the captain knelt beside her. Mrs. Magwire stood near, noisily weeping. "Is it saved?" she asked, when at length she opened her eyes. Captain Doc, thinking her mind was wandering, raised her head, and pointed to the river, now ablaze with light. "See," said he. "See the steamboats loaded with burning cotton, and the great ship meeting them; that is a Yankee gunboat! See, it is passing." "And you didn't shoot? And are the people glad?" "No, we didn't shoot. You fell and got hurt at the dark turn by the acacia bushes, where you hang your little lantern on dark nights. Some one ought to have hung one for you to-night. How did it happen, child?" "It didn't happen. I did it on purpose. I knew if I got hurt you would stop and cure me, and not fire at the boats. I wanted to save--to save the plan--" While the little old man raised a glass to the child's lips his hand shook, and something like a sob escaped him. "Listen, little one," he whispered, while his lips quivered. "I am an old fool, but not a fiend--not a devil. Not a gun would have fired. I wet all the powder. I didn't want anybody to say the Riffraffs flinched at the last minute. But you--oh, my God!" His voice sank even lower. "You have given your young life for my folly." She understood. "I haven't got any pain--only--I can't move. I thought I'd get hurt worse than I am--and not so much. I feel as if I were going up--and up--through the red--into the blue. And the moon is coming sideways to me. And her face--it is in it--just like the picture." She cast her eyes about the room as if half conscious of her surroundings. "Will they--will they love me now?" Mrs. Magwire, sobbing aloud, fell upon her knees beside the bed. "God love her, the heavenly child!" she wailed. "She was niver intinded for this worrld. Sure, an' I love ye, darlint, jist the same as Mary Ann an' Kitty--an' betther, too, to make up the loss of yer own mother, God rest her." Great tears rolled down the cheeks of the dying child, and that heavenly light which seems a forecast of things unseen shone from her brilliant eyes. She laid her thin hand upon Mrs. Magwire's head, buried now upon the bed beside her. "Lay the little blanket on me, please--when I go--" She turned her eyes upon the sky. "She worked it for me--the 'Darling' on it. The moon is coming again--sideways. It is her face." So, through the red of the fiery sky, up into the blue, passed the pure spirit of little Saint Idyl. * * * * * The river seemed afire now with floating chariots of flame. Slowly, majestically, upward into this fiery sea rode the fleet. Although many of the negroes had run frightened into the woods, the conflagration revealed an almost unbroken line on either side of the river, watching the spectacular pageant with awe-stricken, ashy faces. At Bijou a line of men--not the Riffraffs--sat astride the cannon, over the mouths of which they hung their hats or coats. "I tell yer deze heah Yankees mus' be monst'ous-sized men. Look at de big eye-holes 'longside o' de ship," said one--a young black fellow. "Eye-holes!" retorted an old man sitting apart; "dem ain't no eye-holes, chillen. Dey gun-holes! Dat what dey is! An' ef you don't keep yo' faces straight dey'll 'splode out on you 'fo' you know it." The first speaker rolled backward down the levee, half a dozen following. The old man sat unmoved. Presently a little woolly head peered over the bank. "What de name o' dat fust man-o'-war, gran'dad?" "Name _Freedom_." The old man answered without moving. "Freedom comin' wid guns in 'er mouf, ready to spit fire, I tell yer!" "Jeems, heah, say all de no-'count niggers is gwine be sol' over ag'in--is dat so, gran'dad?" "Yas; every feller gwine be sol' ter 'isself. An' a mighty onery, low-down marster heap ob 'em 'll git, too." * * * * * It was nearly day when Captain Doc, pale and haggard, joined the crowd upon the levee. As he stepped upon its brow, a woman, fearing the provocation of his military hat, begged him to remove it. It might provoke a volley. Raising the hat, the captain turned and solemnly addressed the crowd: "My countrymen," he began, and his voice trembled, "the Riffraffs are disbanded. See!" He threw the red-plumed thing far out upon the water. And then he turned to them. "I have just seen an angel pass--to enter--yonder." A sob closed his throat as he pointed to the sky. "Her pure blood is on my hands--and, by the help of God, they will shed no more. "These old guns are playthings--we are broken old men. "Let us pray." And there, out in the glare of the awful fiery spectacle, grown weird in the faint white light of a rising sun, arose the voice of prayer--prayer first for forgiveness of false pride and folly--for the women and children--- for the end of the war--for lasting peace. It was a scene to be remembered. Had anything been lacking in its awful solemnity, it was supplied with a tender potency reaching all hearts, in the knowledge of the dead child, who lay in the little cottage near. From up and down the levee, as far as the voice had reached, came fervent responses, "Amen!" and "Amen!" Late in the morning the Riffraffs' artillery, all but their largest gun, was, by the captain's command, dumped into the river. This reserved cannon they planted, mouth upwards, by the roadside on the site of the tragedy--a fitting memorial of the child-martyr. It was Mrs. Magwire, who, remembering how Idyl had often stolen out and hung a lantern at this dark turn of the "road bend," began thrusting a pine torch into the cannon's mouth on dark nights as a slight memorial of her. And those who noticed said she took her rosary there and said her beads. But Captain Doc had soon made the light his own special care, and until his death, ten years later, the old man never failed to supply this beacon to belated travellers on moonless nights. After a time a large square lantern took the place of the torch of pine, and grateful wayfarers alongshore, by rein or oar, guided or steered by the glimmer of Saint Idyl's Light. Last year the caving bank carried the rusty gun into the water. It is well that time and its sweet symbol, the peace-loving river, should bury forever from sight all record of a family feud half forgotten. And yet, is it not meet that when the glorious tale of Farragut's victory is told, the simple story of little Saint Idyl should sometimes follow, as the tender benediction follows the triumphant chant? "BLINK" "BLINK" I It was nearly midnight of Christmas Eve on Oakland Plantation. In the library of the great house a dim lamp burned, and here, in a big arm-chair before a waning fire, Evelyn Bruce, a fair young girl, sat earnestly talking to a withered old black woman, who sat on the rug at her feet. "An' yer say de plantatiom done sol', baby, an' we boun' ter move?" "Yes, mammy, the old place must go." "An' is de 'Onerble Mr. Citified buyed it, baby? I know he an' ole marster sot up all endurin' las' night a-talkin' and a-figgurin'." "Yes. Mr. Jacobs has closed the mortgage, and owns the place now." "An' when is we gwine, baby?" "The sooner the better. I wish the going were over." "An' whar'bouts is we gwine, honey?" "We will go to the city, mammy--to New Orleans. Something tells me that father will never be able to attend to business again, and I am going to work--to make money." Mammy fell backward. "W-w-w-work! Y-y-you w-w-work! Wh-wh-why, baby, what sort o' funny, cuyus way is you a-talkin', anyhow?" "Many refined women are earning their living in the city, mammy." "Is you a-talkin' sense, baby, ur is yer des a-bluffin'? Is yer axed yo' pa yit?" "I don't think father is well, mammy. He says that whatever I suggest we will do, and I am _sure_ it is best. We will take a cheap little house, father and I--" "Y-y-you an' yo' pa! An' wh-wh-what 'bout me, baby?" Mammy would stammer when she was excited. "And you, mammy, of course." "Umh! umh! umh! An' so we gwine ter trabble! An' de' Onerble Mr. Citified done closed de morgans on us! Ef-ef I'd 'a' knowed it dis mornin' when he was a-quizzifyin' me so sergacious, I b'lieve I'd o' upped an' sassed 'im, I des couldn't 'a' helt in. I 'lowed he was teckin' a mighty frien'ly intruss, axin' me do we-all's _puck_on-trees bear big _puck_ons, an'--an' ef de well keep cool all summer, an'--an' he ax me--he ax me--" "What else did he ask you, mammy?" "Scuze me namin' it ter yer, baby, but he ax me who was buried in we's graves--he did fur a fac'. Yer reckon dee gwine claim de graves in de morgans, baby?" Mammy had crouched again at Evelyn's feet, and her eager brown face was now almost against her knee. "All the land is mortgaged, mammy." "Don't yer reck'n he mought des nachelly scuze de graves out'n de morgans, baby, ef yer ax 'im mannerly?" "I'm afraid not, mammy, but after a while we may have them moved." The old bronze clock on the mantel struck twelve. "Des listen. De ole clock a-strikin' Chris'mas-gif now. Come 'long, go ter bed, honey. You needs a res', but I ain' gwine sleep none, 'caze all dis heah news what you been a-tellin' me, hit's gwine ter run roun' in my head all night, same as a buzz-saw." And so they passed out, mammy to her pallet in Evelyn's room, while the sleepless girl stepped to her father's chamber. Entering on tiptoe, she stood and looked upon his face. He slept as peacefully as a babe. The anxious look of care which he had worn for years had passed away, and the flickering fire revealed the ghost of a smile upon his placid face. In this it was that Evelyn read the truth. The crisis of effort for him was past. He might follow, but he would lead no more. Since the beginning of the war Colonel Brace's history had been the oft-told tale of loss and disaster, and at the opening of each year since there had been a flaring up of hope and expenditure, then a long summer of wavering promise, followed by an inevitable winter of disappointment. The old colonel was, both by inheritance and the habit of many successful years, a man of great affairs, and when the crash came he was too old to change. When he bought, he bought heavily. He planted for large results. There was nothing petty about him, not even his debts. And now the end had come. As Evelyn stood gazing upon his handsome, placid face her eyes were blinded with tears. Falling upon her knees at his side, she engaged for a moment in silent prayer, consecrating herself in love to the life which lay before her, and as she rose she kissed his forehead gently, and passed to her own room. On the table at her bedside lay several piles of manuscript, and as these attracted her, she turned her chair, and fell to work sorting them into packages, which she laid carefully away. Evelyn had always loved to scribble, but only within the last few years had she thought of writing for money that she should need. She had already sent several manuscripts to editors of magazines; but somehow, like birds too young to leave the nest, they all found their way back to her. With each failure, however, she had become more determined to succeed, but in the meantime--_now_--she must earn a living. This was not practicable here. In the city all things were possible, and to the city she would go. She would at first accept one of the tempting situations offered in the daily papers, improving her leisure by attending lectures, studying, observing, cultivating herself in every possible way, and after a time she would try her hand again at writing. It was nearly day when she finally went to bed, but she was up early next morning. There was much to be considered. Many things were to be done. At first she consulted her father about everything, but his invariable answer, "Just as you say, daughter," transferred all responsibility to her. A letter to her mother's old New Orleans friend, Madame Le Duc, briefly set forth the circumstances, and asked Madame's aid in securing a small house. Other letters sent in other directions arranged various matters, and Evelyn soon found herself in the vortex of a move. She had a wise, clear head and a steady, resolute hand, and in old mammy a most capable servant. The old woman seemed, indeed, to forget nothing, as she bustled about, packing, suggesting, and, spite of herself, frequently protesting; for, if the truth must be spoken, this move to the city was violating all the traditions of mammy's life. "Wh-wh-wh-why, baby! Not teck de grime-stone!" she exclaimed one day, in reply to Evelyn's protest against her packing that ponderous article. "How is we gwine sharpen de spade an' de grubbin'-hoe ter work in the gyard'n?" "We sha'n't have a garden, mammy." "No gyard'n!" Mammy sat down upon the grindstone in disgust. "Wh-wh-wh-what sort o' a fureign no-groun' place is we gwine ter, anyhow, baby? Honey," she continued, in a troubled voice, "co'se you know I ain't got educatiom, an' I ain't claim knowledge; b-b-b-but ain't you better study on it good 'fo' we goes ter dis heah new country? Dee tells me de cidy's a owdacious place. I been heern a heap o' tales, but I 'ain't say nothin' Is yer done prayed over it good, baby?" "Yes, dear. I have prayed that we should do only right. What have you heard, mammy?" "D-d-d-de way folks talks, look like death an' terror is des a-layin' roun' loose in de cidy. Dee tell _me_ dat ef yer des nachelly blows out yer light ter go ter bed, dat dis heah some'h'n' what stan' fur wick, hit 'll des keep a-sizzin' an' a-sizzin' out, des like sperityal steam; _an' hit's clair pizen_!" "That is true, mammy. But, you see, we won't blow it out. We'll know better." "Does yer snuff it out wid snuffers, baby, ur des fling it on de flo' an' tromp yer foots on it?" "Neither, mammy. The gas comes in through pipes built into the houses, and is turned on and off with a valve, somewhat as we let water out of the refrigerator." "Um-hm! Well done! Of co'se! On'y, in place o' water what _put out_ de light, hit's in'ardly filled wid some'h'n' what _favor_ a blaze." "Exactly." Mammy reflected a moment. "But de grime-stone gotter stay berhime, is she? An' is we gwine leave all de gyard'n tools an' implemers ter de 'Onerble Mr. Citified?" "No, mammy; none of the appurtenances of the homestead are mortgaged. We must sell them. We need money, you know." "What is de impertinences o' de homestid, baby? You forgits I ain't on'erstan' book words." "Those things intended for family use, mammy. There are the carriage-horses, the cows, the chickens--" "Bless goodness fur dat! An' who gwine drive 'em inter de cidy fur us, honey?" "Oh, mammy, we must sell them all." Mammy was almost crying. "An' what sort o' entry is we gwine meck inter de cidy, honey--empty-handed, same as po' white trash? D-d-d-don't yer reck'n we b-b-better teck de chickens, baby? Yo' ma thunk a heap o' dem Brahma hens an' dem Clymoth Rockers--dee looks so courageous." It was hard for Evelyn to refuse. Mammy loved everything on the old place. "Let us give up all these things now, mammy; and after a while, when I grow rich and famous, I'll buy you all the chickens you want." At last preparations were over. They were to start on the morrow. Mammy had just returned from a last tour through out-buildings and gardens, and was evidently disturbed. "Honey," she began, throwing herself on the step at Evelyn's feet, "what yer reck'n? Ole Muffly is a-sett'n' on fo'teen eggs, down in de cotton-seed. W-w-we can't g'way f'm heah an' leave Muffly a-sett'n', hit des nachelly can't be did. D-d-don't yer reck'n dee'd hol' back de morgans a little, till Muffly git done sett'n'?" It was the same old story. Mammy would never be ready to go. "But our tickets are bought, mammy." "An' like as not de 'Onerble Mr. Citified 'll shoo ole Muffly orf de nes' an' spile de whole sett'n'. Tut! tut! tut!" And, groaning in spirit, mammy walked off. Evelyn had feared, for her father, the actual moment of leaving, and was much relieved when, with his now habitual tranquillity, he smilingly assisted both her and mammy into the sleeper. Instead of entering himself, however, he hesitated. "Isn't your mother coming, daughter?" he asked, looking backward. "Or--oh, I forgot," he added, quickly. "She has gone on before, hasn't she?" "Yes, dear, she has gone before," Evelyn answered, hardly knowing what she said, the chill of a new terror upon her. What did this mean? Was it possible that she had read but half the truth? Was her father's mind not only enfeebled, but going? Mammy had not heard the question, and so Evelyn bore her anxiety alone, and during the day her anxious eyes were often upon her father's face, but he only smiled and kept silent. They had been travelling all day, when suddenly, above the rumbling of the train, a weak, bird-like chirp was heard, faint but distinct; and presently it came again, a prolonged "p-e-e-p!" Heads went up, inquiring faces peered up and down the coach, and fell again to paper or book, when the cry came a third time, and again. Mammy's face was a study. "'Sh--'sh--'sh! don' say nothin', baby," she whispered, in Evelyn's ear; "but dis heah chicken in my bosom is a-ticklin' me so I can't hardly set still." Evelyn was absolutely speechless with surprise, as mammy continued by snatches her whispered explanation: "Des 'fo' we lef' I went 'n' lif' up ole Muffly ter see how de eggs was comin' orn, an' dis heah egg was pipped out, an' de little risindenter look like he eyed me so berseechin' I des nachelly couldn't leave 'im. Look like he knowed he warn't righteously in de morgans, an' 'e crave ter clair out an' trabble. I did hope speech wouldn't come ter 'im tell we got off'n deze heah train kyars." A halt at a station brought a momentary silence, and right here arose again, clear and shrill, the chicken's cry. Mammy was equal to the emergency. After glancing inquiringly up and down the coach, she exclaimed, aloud, "Some'h'n' in dis heah kyar soun' des like a vintrilloquer." "That's just what it is," said an old gentleman opposite, peering around over his spectacles. "And whoever you are, sir, you've been amusing yourself for an hour." Mammy's ruse had succeeded, and during the rest of the journey, although the chicken developed duly as to vocal powers, the only question asked by the curious was, "Who can the ventriloquist be?" Evelyn could hardly maintain her self-control, the situation was so utterly absurd. "I does hope it's a pullet," mammy confided later; "but I doubts it. Hit done struck out wid a mannish movemint a'ready. Muffly's eggs allus hatches out sech invig'rous chickens. I gwine in the dressin'-room, baby, an' wrop 'im up ag'in. Feel like he done kicked 'isse'f loose." Though she made several trips to the dressing-room in the interest of her hatchling, mammy's serene face held no betrayal of the disturbing secret of her bosom. At last the journey was over. The train crept with a tired motion into the noisy depot. Then came a rattling ride over cobble-stones, granite, and unpaved streets; a sudden halt before a low-browed cottage; a smiling old lady stepping out to meet them; a slam of the front door--they were at home in New Orleans. Madame Le Duc seemed to have forgotten nothing that their comfort required, and in many ways that the creole gentlewoman understands so well she was affectionately and unobtrusively kind. And yet, in the life Evelyn was seeking to enter, Madame could give her no aid. About all these new ideas of women--ladies--going out as bread-winners, Madame knew nothing. For twenty years she had gone only to the cathedral, the French Market, the cemetery, and the Chapel of St. Roche. As to all this unconventional American city above Canal Street, it was there and spreading (like the measles and other evils); everybody said so; even her paper, _L'Abeille_, referred to it in French--resentfully. She believed in it historically; but for herself, she "_never travelled_," _excepting_, as she quaintly put it, in her "_acquaintances_"--the French streets with which she was familiar. The house she had selected was a typical old-fashioned French cottage, venerable in scaling plaster and fern-tufted tile roof, but cool and roomy within as uninviting without. A small inland garden surprised the eye as one entered the battened gate at its side, and a dormer-window in the roof looked out upon the rigging of ships at anchor but a stone's-throw away. Here, to the chamber above, Evelyn led her father. Furnishing this large upper room with familiar objects, and pointing out the novelties of the view from its window, she tried to interpret his new life happily for him, and he smiled, and seemed content. It was surprising to see how soon mammy fell into line with the changed order of things. The French Market, with its "cuyus fureign folks an' mixed talk," was a panorama of daily unfolding wonders to her. "But huccome dee calls it French?" she exclaimed, one day. "I been listenin' good, an' I hear 'em jabber, jabber, jabber all dey fanciful lingoes, but I 'ain't heern nair one say _polly fronsay_, an' yit I know dats de riverend book French." The Indian squaws in the market, sitting flat on the ground, surrounded by their wares, she held in special contempt. "I holds myse'f _clair_ 'bove a Injun," she boasted. "Dee ain't look jinnywine ter me. Dee ain't nuther white folks nur niggers, nair one. Sett'n' deeselves up fur go-betweens, an' sellin' sech grass-greens as we lef' berhindt us growin' in de wilderness!" But one unfailing source of pleasure to mammy was the little chicken, "Blink," who, she declared, "named 'isse'f Blink de day he blinked at me so cunnin' out'n de shell. Blink 'ain't said nothin' wid 'is mouf," she continued, eying him proudly, "'caze he know eye-speech set on a chicken a heap better'n human words, mo' inspecial on a yo'ng half-hatched chicken like Blink was dat day, cramped wid de egg-shell behime an' de morgans starin' 'im in de face befo', an' not knowin' how he gwine come out'n his trouble. He des kep' silence, an' wink all 'is argimints, an' 'e wink to the p'int, too!" In spite of his unique entrance into the world and his precarious journey, Blink was a vigorous young chicken, with what mammy was pleased to call "a good proud step an' knowin' eyes." Three months passed. The long, dull summer was approaching, and yet Evelyn had found no regular employment. She had not been idle. Sewing for the market folk, decorating palmetto fans and Easter eggs, which mammy peddled in the big houses, she had earned small sums of money from time to time. In her enforced leisure she found opportunity for study, and her picturesque surroundings were as an open book. Impressions of the quaint old French and Spanish city, with its motley population, were carefully jotted down in her note-book. These first descriptions she afterwards rewrote, discarding weakening detail, elaborating the occasional triviality which seemed to reflect the true local tint--a nice distinction, involving conscientious hard work. How she longed for criticism and advice! A year ago her father, now usually dozing in his chair while she worked, would have been a most able and affectionate critic; but now--She rejoiced when a day passed without his asking for her mother, and wondering why she did not come. And so it was that in her need of sympathy Evelyn began to read her writings, some of which had grown into stories, to mammy. The very exercise of reading aloud--the sound of it--was helpful. That mammy's criticisms should have proven valuable in themselves was a surprise, but it was even so. II "A pusson would know dat was fanciful de way hit reads orf, des like a pusson 'magine some'h'n' what ain't so." Such was mammy's first criticism of a story which had just come back, returned from an editor. Evelyn had been trying to discover wherein its weakness lay. Mammy had caught the truth. The story was unreal. The English seemed good, the construction fair, but--it was "_fanciful_." The criticism set Evelyn to thinking. She laid aside this, and read another manuscript aloud. "I tell yer, honey, a-a-a pusson 'd know you had educatiom, de way you c'n fetch in de dictionary words." "Don't you understand them, mammy?" she asked, quickly, catching another idea. "Who, me? Law, baby, I don't crave ter on'erstan' all dat granjer. I des ketches de chune, an' hit sho is got a glorified ring." Here was a valuable hint. She must simplify her style. The tide of popular writing was, she knew, in the other direction, but the _best_ writing was _simple_. The suggestion sent her back to study. And now for her own improvement she rewrote the "story of big words" in the simplest English she could command, bidding mammy tell her if there was one word she could not understand. In the transition the spirit of the story was necessarily changed, but the exercise was good. Mammy understood every word. "But, baby," she protested, with a troubled face, "look like _hit don't stan' no mo'_; all its granjer done gone. You better fix it up des like it was befo', honey. Hit 'minds me o' some o' deze heah fine folks what walks de streets. You know _folks what 'ain't got nothin' else_, dee des nachelly _'bleege_ ter put on finery." How clever mammy was! How wholesome the unconscious satire of her criticism! This story, shorn of its grandeur, could not stand indeed. It was weak and affected. "You dear old mammy," exclaimed Evelyn, "you don't know how you are helping me." "Gord knows I wushes I could holp you, honey. I 'ain't nuver is craved educatiom befo', but now, look like I'd like ter be king of all de smartness, an' know all dey is in de books. I wouldn't hol' back _noth'n_ f'om yer, baby." And Evelyn knew it was true. "Look ter me, baby," mammy suggested, another night, after listening to a highly imaginative story--"look ter me like ef--ef--ef you'd des write down some _truly truth_ what is _ac-chilly happened_, an' glorify it wid educatiom, hit 'd des nachelly stan' in a book." "I've been thinking of that," said Evelyn, reflectively, laying aside her manuscript. * * * * * "How does this sound, mammy?" she asked, a week later, when, taking up an unfinished tale, she began to read. It was the story of their own lives, dating from the sale of the plantation. The names, of course, were changed, excepting Blink's, and, indeed, until he appeared upon the scene, although mammy listened breathless, she did not recognize the characters. Blink, however, was unmistakable, and when he announced himself from the old woman's bosom his identity flashed upon mammy, and she tumbled over on the floor, laughing and crying alternately. Evelyn had written from her heart, and the story, simply told, held all the wrench of parting with old associations, while the spirit of courage and hope, which animated her, breathed in every line as she described their entrance upon their new life. "My heart was teched f'om de fus't, baby," said mammy, presently, wiping her eyes; "b-b-b-but look heah, honey, I'd--I'd be wuss'n a hycoprite ef I let dat noble ole black 'oman, de way you done specified 'er, stan' fur me. Y-y-yer got ter change all dat, honey. Dey warn't nothin' on top o' dis roun' worl' what fetched me 'long wid y' all but 'cep' 'caze I des _nachelly love yer_, an' all dat book granjer what you done laid on me I _don' know nothin' 't all about it_, an' yer got ter _teck it orf_, an' write me down like I is, des a po' ole nigger wha' done fell in wid de Gord-blessedes' white folks wha' ever lived on dis earth, an'--an' wha' gwine _foller_ 'em an' _stay by 'em_, don' keer which-a-way dee go, so long as 'er ole han's is able ter holp 'em. Yer got ter change all dat, honey. "But Blink! De laws-o'-mussy! Maybe hit's 'caze I been hatched 'im an' raised 'im, but look ter me like he ain't no _dis_grace ter de story, no way. Seem like he sets orf de book. Yer ain't gwine say nothin' 'bout Blink bein' a frizzly, is yer? 'Twouldn't do no good ter tell it on 'im." "I didn't know it, mammy." "Yas, indeedy. Po' Blink's feathers done taken on a secon' twis'." She spoke, with maternal solicitude. "I d'know huccome he come dat-a-way, 'caze we 'ain't nuver is had no frizzly stock 'mongs' our chickens. Sometimes I b'lieve Blink tumbled 'isse'f up dat-a-way tryin' ter wriggle 'isse'f outn de morgans. I hates it mightily. Look like a frizzly can't put on grandeur no way, don' keer how mannerly 'e hol' 'isse'f." The progress of the new story, which mammy considered under her especial supervision, was now her engrossing thought. "Yer better walk straight, Blink," she would exclaim--"yer better walk straight an' step high, 'caze yer gwine in a book, honey, 'long wid de aristokercy!" One day Blink walked leisurely in from the street, returning, happily for mammy's peace of mind, before he had been missed. He raised his wings a moment as he entered, as if pleased to get home, and mammy exclaimed, as she burst out laughing: "Don't you come in heah shruggin' yo' shoulders at me, Blink, an' puttin' on no French airs. I believe Blink been out teckin' French lessons." She took her pet into her arms. "Is you crave ter learn fureign speech, Blinky, like de res' o' dis mixed-talkin' settle_mint_? Is you 'shamed o' yo' country voice, honey, an' tryin' ter ketch a French crow? No, he ain't," she added, putting him down at last, but watching him fondly. "Blink know he's a Bruce. An' he know he's folks is in tribulatiom, an' hilarity ain't become 'im--dat's huccome Blink 'ain't crowed none--_ain't it, Blink_?" And Blink wisely winked his knowing eyes. That he had, indeed, never proclaimed his roosterhood by crowing was a source of some anxiety to mammy. "Maybe Blink don't know he's a rooster," she confided to Evelyn one day. "Sho 'nough, honey, he nuver is seen none! De neares' ter 'isse'f what he knows is dat ole green polly what set in de fig-tree nex' do', an' talk Gascon. I seed Blink 'is_tid_day stan' an' look at' im, an' den look down at 'isse'f, same as ter say, 'Is I a polly, or what?' An' den 'e open an' shet 'is mouf, like 'e tryin' ter twis' it, polly fashion, an' hit won't twis', an' den 'e des shaken 'is head, an' walk orf, like 'e heavy-hearted an' mixed in 'is mind. Blink don't know what 'spornsibility lay on 'im ter keep our courage up. You heah me, Blink! Open yo' mouf, an' crow out, like a man!" But Blink was biding his time. During this time, in spite of strictest economy, money was going out faster than it came in. "I tell yer what I been thinkin', baby," said mammy, as she and Evelyn discussed the situation. "I think de bes' thing you can do is ter hire me out. I can cook you alls breckfus' soon, an' go out an' make day's work, an' come home plenty o' time ter cook de little speck o' dinner you an' ole boss needs." "Oh no, no! You mustn't think of it, mammy." "But what we gwine do, baby? We des _can't_ get out'n _money_. Hit _won't do_!" "Maybe I should have taken that position as lady's companion, mammy." "An' stay 'way all nights f'om yo' pa, when you de onlies' light ter 'is eyes? No, no, honey!" "But it has been my only offer, and sometimes I think--" "Hush talkin' dat-a-way, baby. Don't yer pray? An' don't yer trus' Gord? An' ain't yer done walked de streets tell you mos' drapped down, lookin' fur work? An' can't yer teck de hint dat de Lord done laid off yo' work _right heah in the house_? You go 'long now, an' cheer up yo' pa, des like you been doin', an' study yo' books, an' write down true joy an' true sorrer in yo' stories, an' glorify Gord wid yo' sense, an' don't pester yo'se'f 'bout to-day an' to-morrer, an'--an'--an' ef de gorspil is de trufe, an'--an' ef a po' ole nigger's prayers mounts ter heaven on de wings o' faith, Gord ain't gwine let a hair o' yo' head perish." But mammy pondered in her heart much concerning the financial outlook, and it was on the day after this conversation that she dressed herself with unusual care, and, without announcing her errand, started out. Her return soon brought its own explanation, however, for upon her old head she bore a huge bundle of unlaundered clothing. "What in the world!" exclaimed Evelyn; but before she could voice a protest, mammy interrupted her. "Nuver you mind, baby! I des waked up," she exclaimed, throwing her bundle at the kitchen door. "I been preachin' ter you 'bout teckin' hints, an' 'ain't been readin' my own lesson. Huccome we got dis heah nice sunny back yard, an' dis bustin' cisternful o' rain-water? Huccome de boa'din'-house folks at de corner keeps a-passin' an' a-passin' by dis gate wid all dey fluted finery on, ef 'twarn't ter gimme a hint dat dey's wealth a-layin' at de do', an' me, bline as a bat, 'ain't seen it?" "Oh, but, mammy, you can't take in washing. You are too old; it is too hard. You _mustn't_--" "Ef-ef-ef-ef you gits obstropulous, I-I-I gwine whup yer, sho. Y-y-yer know how much money's a-comin' out'n dat bundle, baby? _Five dollars!_" This in a stage-whisper. "An' not a speck o' dirt on nothin'; des baby caps an' lace doin's rumpled up." "How did you manage it, mammy?" "Well, baby, I des put on my fluted ap'on--an' you know it's ironed purty--an' my clair-starched neck-hankcher, an'--an' _my business face_, an' I helt up my head an' walked in, an' axed good prices, an' de ladies, dee des tooken took one good look at me, an' gimme all I'd carry. You know washin' an' ironin' is my pleasure, baby." It was useless to protest, and so, after a moment, Evelyn began rolling up her sleeves. "I am going to help you, mammy," she said, quietly but firmly; but before she could protest, mammy had gathered her into her arms, and carried her into her own room. Setting her down at her desk, she exclaimed: "Now, ef _you_ goes ter de wash-tub, dey ain't nothin' lef fur _me_ ter do but 'cep'n' ter _set down an' write de story_, an' you know I can't do it." "But, mammy, I _must_ help you." "Is you gwine _meck_ me whup yer, whe'r ur no, baby? Now I gwine meck a bargain wid yer. _You_ set down an' write, an' _I_ gwine play de pianner on de washboa'd, an' to-night you can read off what yer done put down, an' ef yer done written it purty an' sweet, you can come an' turn de flutin'-machine fur me ter-morrer. Yer gwine meck de bargain wid me, baby?" Evelyn was so touched that she had not voice to answer. Rising from her seat, she put her arms around mammy's neck and kissed her old face, and as she turned away a tear rolled down her cheek. And so the "bargain" was sealed. Before going to her desk Evelyn went to her father, to see that he wanted nothing. He sat, as usual, gazing silently out of the window. "Daughter," said he, as she entered, "are we in France?" "No, dear," she answered, startled at the question. "But the language I hear in the street is French; and see the ship-masts--French flags flying. But there is the German too, and English, and last week there was a Scandinavian. Where are we truly, daughter? My surroundings confuse me." "We are in New Orleans, father--in the French Quarter. Ships from almost everywhere come to this port, you know. Let us walk out to the levee this morning, and see the men-of-war in the river. The air will revive you." "Well, if your mother comes. She might come while we were away." And so it was always. With her heart trembling within her, Evelyn went to her desk. "Surely," she thought, "there is much need that I shall do my best." Almost reverentially she took her pen, as she proceeded with the true story she had begun. * * * * * "I done changed my min' 'bout dat ole 'oman wha' stan' fur me, baby," said mammy that night. "You leave 'er des like she is. She glorifies de story a heap better'n my nachel self could do it. I been a-thinkin' 'bout it, an' _de finer that ole 'oman ac', an' de mo' granjer yer lay on 'er, de better yer gwine meck de book_, 'caze de ole gemplum wha' stan' fur ole marster, his times an' seasons is done past, an' he can't do nothin' but set still an' wait, an'--an' de yo'ng missus, she ain't fitten ter wrastle on de outskirts; she ain't nothin' but 'cep' des a lovin' sweet saint, wid 'er face set ter a high, far mark--" "Hush, mammy!" "_I'm a-talkin' 'bout de book, baby, an' don't you interrup' me no mo'!_ An' _I say ef dis ole 'oman wha' stan' fur me, ef-ef-ef she got a weak spot in 'er, dey won't be no story to it_. She de one wha' got ter _stan' by de battlemints an' hol' de fort_." "That's just what you are doing, mammy. There isn't a grain in her that is finer than you." "'Sh! dis ain't no time fur foolishness, baby. Yer 'ain't said nothin' 'bout yo' ma an' de ole black 'oman's baby bein' borned de same day, is yer? An' how de ole 'oman nussed 'em bofe des like twins? An'--an' how folks 'cused 'er o' starvin' 'er own baby on de 'count o' yo' ma bein' puny? (_But dat warn't true._) Maybe yer better leave all dat out, 'caze hit mought spile de story." "How could it spoil it, mammy?" "Don't yer see, ef folks knowed dat dem white folks an' dat ole black 'oman was _dat close-t_, dey wouldn't be no principle in it. Dey ain't nothin' but _love_ in _dat_, an' de ole 'oman _couldn't he'p 'erse'f, no mo'n I could he'p it_! No right-minded pusson is gwine ter deny dey own heart. Yer better leave all dat out, honey. B-b-but deys some'h'n' else wha' been lef out, wha' b'long in de book. Yer 'ain't named de way de little mistus sot up all nights an' nussed de ole 'oman time she was sick, an'--an'--an' de way she sew all de ole 'oman's cloze; an'--an'--an' yer done lef' out a heap o' de purtiness an' de sweetness o' de yo'ng mistus! Dis is a book, baby, an'--an'--yer boun' ter do jestice!" In this fashion the story was written. "And what do you think I am going to do with it, mammy?" said Evelyn, when finally, having done her very best, she was willing to call it finished. "Yer know some'h'n' baby? Ef-ef-ef I had de money, look like I'd buy that story myse'f. Seem some way like I loves it. Co'se I couldn't read it; but my min' been on it so long, seem like, ef I'd study de pages good dee'd open up ter me. What yer gwine do wid it, baby?" "Oh, mammy, I can hardly tell you! My heart seems in my throat when I dare to think of it; but _I'm going to try it_. A New York magazine has offered five hundred dollars for a best story--_five hundred dollars_! Think, mammy, what it would do for us!" "Dat wouldn't buy de plantatiom back, would it, baby?" Mammy had no conception of large sums. "We don't want it back, mammy. It would pay for moving our dear ones to graves of their own; we should put a nice sum in bank; you shouldn't do any more washing; and if we can write one good story, you know we can write more. It will be only a beginning." "An' I tell yer what I gwine do. I gwine pray over it good, des like I been doin' f'om de start, an' ef hit's Gord's will, dem folks 'll be moved in de sperit ter sen' 'long de money." And so the story was sent. After it was gone the atmosphere seemed brighter. The pending decision was now a fixed point to which all their hopes were directed. The very audacity of the effort seemed inspiration to more ambitious work; and during the long summer, while in her busy hands the fluting-machine went round and round, Evelyn's mind was full of plans for the future. Finally, December, with its promise of the momentous decision, was come, and Evelyn found herself full of anxious misgivings. What merit entitling it to special consideration had the little story? Did it bear the impress of self-forgetful, conscientious purpose, or was this a thing only feebly struggling into life within herself--not yet the compelling force that indelibly stamps itself upon the earnest labor of consecrated hands? How often in the silent hours of night did she ask herself questions like these! At last it was Christmas Eve again, and Saturday night. When the days are dark, what is so depressing as an anniversary--an anniversary joyous in its very essence? How one Christmas brings in its train memory-pictures of those gone before! This had been a hard day for Evelyn. Her heart felt weak within her, and yet, realizing that she alone represented youth and hope in the little household, and feeling need that her own courage should be sustained, she had been more than usually merry all day. She had clandestinely prepared little surprises for her father and mammy, and was both amused and touched to discover the old woman secreting mysterious little parcels which she knew were to come to her in the morning. "Wouldn't it be funny if, after all, I should turn out to be only a good washerwoman, mammy?" she said, laughing, as she assisted the old woman in pinning up a basket of laundered clothing. "Hit'd be funnier yit ef _I'd_ turn out inter one o' deze heah book-writers, wouldn't it?" And mammy laughed heartily at her own joke. "Look like I better study my a-b abs fus', let 'lone puttin' 'em back on paper wid a pen. I tell you educatiom's a-spreadin' in dis fam'ly, sho. Time Blink run over de sheet out a-bleachin' 'is_tid_dy, he written a Chinese letter all over it. Didn't you, Blink? What de matter wid Blink anyhow, to-day?" she added, taking the last pin from her head-kerchief. "Blink look like he nervous some way dis evenin'. He keep a-walkin' roun', an' winkin' so slow, an' retchin' his neck out de back-do' so cuyus. Stop a-battin' yo' eyes at me, Blink! Ef yo' got some'h'n' ter say, _say it_!" * * * * * A sudden noisy rattle of the iron door-knocker--mammy trotting to the door--the postman--a letter! It all happened in a minute. How Evelyn's heart throbbed and her hand trembled as she opened the envelope! "Oh, mammy!" she cried, trembling now like an aspen leaf. "_Thank God!_" "Is dee d-d-d-done sont de money, baby?" Her old face was twitching too. But Evelyn could not answer. Nodding her head, she fell sobbing on mammy's shoulder. Mammy raised her apron to her eyes, and there's no telling what "foolishness" she might have committed had it not been that suddenly, right at her side, arose a most jubilant screech. Blink, perched on the handle of the clothes-basket, was crowing with all his might. Evelyn, startled, raised her head, and laughed through her tears, while mammy threw herself at full length upon the floor, shouting aloud. "Tell me chickens 'ain't got secon'-sight! Blink see'd--he see'd--Laws-o'-mussy, baby, look yonder at dat little yaller rooster stan'in' on de fence. _Dat_ what Blink see. Co'se it is!" DUKE'S CHRISTMAS DUKE'S CHRISTMAS "You des gimme de white folks's Christmas-dinner plates, time they git thoo eatin', an' lemme scrape 'em in a pan, an' set dat pan in my lap, an' blow out de light, an' _go it bline_! Hush, honey, hush, while I shet my eyes now an' tas'e all de samples what'd come out'n dat pan--cramberries, an' tukkey-stuffin' wid _puck_ons in it, an' ham an' fried oyscher an'--an' minch-meat, an' chow-chow pickle an'--an' jelly! Umh! Don' keer which-a-one I strack fust--dey all got de Christmas seasonin'!" Old Uncle Mose closed his eyes and smiled, even smacked his lips in contemplation of the imaginary feast which he summoned at will from his early memories. Little Duke, his grandchild, sitting beside him on the floor, rolled his big eyes and looked troubled. Black as a raven, nine years old and small of his age, but agile and shrewd as a little fox, he was at present the practical head of this family of two. This state of affairs had existed for more than two months, ever since a last attack of rheumatism had lifted his grandfather's leg upon the chair before him and held it there. Duke's success as a provider was somewhat remarkable, considering his size, color, and limited education. True, he had no rent to pay, for their one-roomed cabin, standing on uncertain stilts outside the old levee, had been deserted during the last high-water, when Uncle Mose had "tooken de chances" and moved in. But then Mose had been able to earn his seventy-five cents a day at wood-sawing; and besides, by keeping his fishing-lines baited and set out the back and front doors--there were no windows--he had often drawn in a catfish, or his shrimp-bag had yielded breakfast for two. Duke's responsibilities had come with the winter and its greater needs, when the receding waters had withdrawn even the small chance of landing a dinner with hook and line. True, it had been done on several occasions, when Duke had come home to find fricasseed chickens for dinner; but somehow the neighbors' chickens had grown wary, and refused to be enticed by the corn that lay under Mose's cabin. The few occasions when one of their number, swallowing an innocent-looking grain, had been suddenly lifted up into space, disappearing through the floor above, seemed to have impressed the survivors. Mose was a church-member, and would have scorned to rob a hen-roost, but he declared "when strange chickens come a-foolin' roun' bitin' on my fish-lines, I des twisses dey necks ter put 'em out'n dey misery." It had been a long time since he had met with any success at this poultry-fishing, and yet he always kept a few lines out. He _professed_ to be fishing for crawfish--as if crawfish ever bit on a hook or ate corn! Still, it eased his conscience, for he did try to set his grandson a Christian example consistent with his precepts. It was Christmas Eve, and the boy felt a sort of moral responsibility in the matter of providing a suitable Christmas dinner for the morrow. His question as to what the old man would like to have had elicited the enthusiastic bit of reminiscence with which this story opens. Here was a poser! His grandfather had described just the identical kind of dinner which he felt powerless to procure. If he had said oysters, or chicken, or even turkey, Duke thought he could have managed it; but a pan of rich fragments was simply out of the question. "Wouldn't you des as lief have a pone o' hot egg-bread, gran'dad, an'--an'--an' maybe a nice baked chicken--ur--ur a--" "Ur a nothin', boy! Don't talk to me! I'd a heap'd ruther have a secon'-han' white Christmas dinner 'n de bes' fus'-han' nigger one you ever seed, an' I ain't no spring-chicken, nuther. I done had 'spe'unce o' Christmas dinners. An' what you talkin' 'bout, anyhow? Whar you gwine git roas' chicken, nigger?" "I don' know, less'n I'd meck a heap o' money to-day; but I could sho' git a whole chicken ter roas' easier'n I could git dat pan full o' goodies _you's_ a-talkin' 'bout. "Is you gwine crawfishin' to-day, gran'daddy?" he continued, cautiously, rolling his eyes. "'Caze when I cross de road, terreckly, I gwine shoo off some o' dem big fat hens dat scratches up so much dus'. Dey des a puffec' nuisance, scratchin' dus' clean inter my eyes ev'y time I go down de road." "Dey is, is dey? De nasty, impident things! You better not shoo none of 'em over heah, less'n you want me ter wring dey necks--which I boun' ter do ef dey pester my crawfish-lines." "Well, I'm gwine now, gran'dad. Ev'ything is done did an' set whar you kin reach--I gwine down de road an' shoo dem sassy chickens away. Dis here bucket o' brick-dus' sho' is heavy," he added, as he lifted to his head a huge pail. Starting out, he gathered up a few grains of corn, dropping them along in his wake until he reached the open where the chickens were; when, making a circuit round them, he drove them slowly until he saw them begin to pick up the corn. Then he turned, whistling as he went, into a side street, and proceeded on his way. Old Mose chuckled audibly as Duke passed out, and, baiting his lines with corn and scraps of meat, he lifted the bit of broken plank from the floor, and set about his day's sport. "Now, Mr. Chicken, I'm settin' deze heah lines fur crawfish, an' ef you smarties come a-foolin' round 'em, I gwine punish you 'cordin' ter de law. You heah me!" He chuckled as he thus presented his defence anew before the bar of his own conscience. But the chickens did not bite to-day--not a mother's son or daughter of them--though they ventured cautiously to the very edge of the cabin. It was a discouraging business, and the day seemed very long. It was nearly nightfall when Mose recognized Duke's familiar whistle from the levee. And when he heard the little bare feet pattering on the single plank that led from the brow of the bank to the cabin-door, he coughed and chuckled as if to disguise a certain eager agitation that always seized him when the little boy came home at night. "Here me," Duke called, still outside the door; adding as he entered, while he set his pail beside the old man, "How you is to-night, gran'dad?" "Des po'ly, thank Gord. How you yo'se'f, my man?" There was a note of affection in the old man's voice as he addressed the little pickaninny, who seemed in the twilight a mere midget. "An' what you got dyah?" he continued, turning to the pail, beside which Duke knelt, lighting a candle. "_Picayune_ o' light bread an' _lagniappe_[A] o' salt," Duke began, lifting out the parcels, "an' _picayune_ o' molasses an' _lagniappe_ o' coal-ile, ter rub yo' leg wid--heah hit in de tin can--an' _picayune_ o' coffee an' _lagniappe_ o' matches--heah dey is, fo'teen an' a half, but de half ain't got no fizz on it. An' deze heah in de bottom, dey des chips I picked up 'long de road." "An' you ain't axed fur no _lagniappe_ fo' yo'self, Juke. Whyn't you ax fur des one _lagniappe_ o' sugar-plums, baby, bein's it's Christmas? Yo' ole gran'dad 'ain't got nothin' fur you, an' you know to-morrer is sho 'nough Christmas, boy. I 'ain't got even ter say a crawfish bite on my lines to-day, much less'n some'h'n' fittin' fur a Christmas-gif'. I did set heah an' whittle you a little whistle, but some'h'n' went wrong wid it. Hit won't blow. But tell me, how's business to-day, boy? I see you done sol' yo' brick-dus'?" "Yas, sir, but I toted it purty nigh all day 'fo' I _is_ sold it. De folks wharever I went dey say nobody don't want to scour on Christmas Eve. An' one time I set it down an' made three nickels cuttin' grass an' holdin' a white man's horse, an' dat gimme a res'. An' I started out ag'in, an' I walked inter a big house an' ax de lady ain't she want ter buy some pounded brick. An', gran'dad, you know what meck she buy it? 'Caze she say my bucket is mos' as big as I is, an' ef I had de grit ter tote it clean ter her house on Christmas Eve, she say I sha'n't pack it back--an' she gimme a dime fur it, too, stid a nickel. An' she gimme two hole-in-de-middle cakes, wid sugar on 'em. Heah dey is." Duke took two sorry-lookin' rings from his hat and presented them to the old man. "I done et de sugar off 'em," he continued. "'Caze I knowed it'd give you de toofache in yo' gums. An' I tol' 'er what you say, gran'dad!" Mose turned quickly. "What you tol' dat white lady I say, nigger?" "I des tol' 'er what you say 'bout scrapin' de plates into a pan." Mose grinned broadly. "Is you had de face ter tell dat strange white 'oman sech talk as dat? An' what she say?" "She des looked at me up an' down fur a minute, an' den she broke out in a laugh, an' she say: 'You sho' is de littles' coon I ever seen out foragin'!' An' wid dat she say: 'Ef you'll come roun' to-morrer night, 'bout dark, I'll give you as big a pan o' scraps as you kin tote.'" There were tears in the old man's eyes, and he actually giggled. "Is she? Well done! But ain't you 'feerd you'll los' yo'self, gwine 'way down town at night?" "Los' who, gran'dad? You can't los' me in dis city, so long as de red-light Pertania cars is runnin'. I kin ketch on berhine tell dey fling me off, den teck de nex' one tell dey fling me off ag'in--an' hit ain't so fur dat-a-way." "Does dey fling yer off rough, boy? Look out dey don't bre'k yo' bones!" "Dey ain't gwine crack none o' my bones. Sometimes de drivers kicks me off, an' sometimes dey cusses me off, tell I lets go des ter save Gord's name--dat's a fac'." "Dat's right. Save it when you kin, boy. So she gwine scrape de Christmas plates fur me, is she? I wonder what sort o' white folks dis here tar-baby o' mine done strucken in wid, anyhow? You sho' dey reel quality white folks, is yer, Juke? 'Caze I ain't gwine sile my mouf on no po' white-trash scraps." "I ain't no sho'er'n des what I tell yer, gran'dad. Ef dey ain't quality, I don' know nothin' 't all 'bout it. I tell yer when I walked roun' dat yard clean ter de kitchen on dem flag-stones wid dat bucket o' brick on my hade, I had ter stop an' ketch my bref fo' I could talk, an' de cook, a sassy, fat, black lady, she would o' sont me out, but de madam, she seed me 'erse'f, an' she tooken took notice ter me, an' tell me set my bucket down, an' de yo'ng ladies, beatin' eggs in de kitchen, dey was makin' sport o' me, too--ax' me is I weaned yit, an' one ob 'em ax me is my nuss los' me! Den dey gimme deze heah hole-in-de-middle cakes, an' some reesons. I des fotched you a few reesons, but I done et de mos' ob em--I ain't gwine tell you no lie about it." "Dat's right, baby. I'm glad you is et 'em--des so dey don't cramp yer up--an' come 'long now an' eat yo' dinner. I saved you a good pan o' greens an' meat. What else is you et to-day, boy?" "De ladies in de kitchen dey gimme two burnt cakes, an' I swapped half o' my reesons wid a white boy for a biscuit--but I sho is hongry." "Yas, an' you sleepy, too--I know you is." "But I gwine git up soon, gran'dad. One market-lady she seh ef I come early in de mornin' an' tote baskits home, she gwine gimme some'h'n' good; an' I'm gwine ketch all dem butchers and fish-ladies in dat Mag'zine Markit 'Christmas-gif'!' An' I bet yer dey'll gimme some'h'n' ter fetch home. Las' Christmas I got seven nickels an' a whole passel o' marketin' des a-ketchin' 'em Christmas-gif'. Deze heah black molasses I brung yer home to-night--how yer like 'em, gran'dad?" "Fust-rate, boy. Don't yer see me eatin' 'em? Say yo' pra'rs now, Juke, an' lay down, 'caze I gwine weck you up by sun-up." It was not long before little Duke was snoring on his pallet, when old Mose, reaching behind the mantel, produced a finely braided leather whip, which he laid beside the sleeping boy. "Wush't I had a apple ur orwange ur stick o' candy ur some'h'n' sweet ter lay by 'im fur Christmas," he said, fondly, as he looked upon the little sleeping figure. "Reck'n I mought bile dem molasses down inter a little candy--seem lak hit's de onlies' chance dey is." And turning back to the low fire, Mose stirred the coals a little, poured the remains of Duke's "_picayune_ o' molasses" into a tomato-can, and began his labor of love. Like much of such service, it was for a long time simply a question of waiting; and Mose found it no simple task, even when it had reached the desired point, to pull the hot candy to a fairness of complexion approaching whiteness. When, however, he was able at last to lay a heavy, copper-colored twist with the whip beside the sleeping boy, he counted the trouble as nothing; and hobbling over to his own cot, he was soon also sleeping. * * * * * The sun was showing in a gleam on the river next morning when Mose called, lustily, "Weck up, Juke, weck up! Christmas-gif', boy, Christmas-gif'!" Duke turned heavily once; then, catching the words, he sprang up with a bound. "Christmas-gif', gran'dad!" he returned, rubbing his eyes; then fully waking, he cried, "Look onder de chips in de bucket, gran'dad." And the old man choked up again as he produced the bag of tobacco, over which he had actually cried a little last night when he had found it hidden beneath the chips with which he had cooked Duke's candy. "I 'clare, Juke, I 'clare you is a caution," was all he could say. "An' who gimme all deze?" Duke exclaimed, suddenly seeing his own gifts. "I don' know nothin' 't all 'bout it, less'n ole Santa Claus mought o' tooken a rest in our mud chimbley las' night," said the old man, between laughter and tears. And Duke, the knowing little scamp, cracking his whip, munching his candy and grinning, replied: "I s'pec' he is, gran'dad; an' I s'pec' he come down an' b'iled up yo' nickel o' molasses, too, ter meck me dis candy. Tell yer, dis whup, she's got a daisy snapper on 'er, gran'dad! She's wuth a dozen o' deze heah white-boy _w'ips_, she is!" The last thing Mose heard as Duke descended the levee that morning was the crack of the new whip; and he said, as he filled his pipe, "De idee o' dat little tar-baby o' mine fetchin' me a Christmas-gif'!" It was past noon when Duke got home again, bearing upon his shoulder, like a veritable little Santa Claus himself, a half-filled coffee-sack, the joint results of his service in the market and of the generosity of its autocrats. The latter had evidently measured their gratuities by the size of their beneficiary, as their gifts were very small. Still, as the little fellow emptied the sack upon the floor, they made quite a tempting display. There were oranges, apples, bananas, several of each; a bunch of soup-greens, scraps of fresh meat--evidently butchers' "trimmings"--odds and ends of vegetables; while in the midst of the melee three live crabs struck out in as many directions for freedom. They were soon landed in a pot; while Mose, who was really no mean cook, was preparing what seemed a sumptuous mid-day meal. Late in the afternoon, while Mose nodded in his chair, Duke sat in the open doorway, stuffing the last banana into his little stomach, which was already as tight as a kettle-drum. He had cracked his whip until he was tired, but he still kept cracking it. He cracked it at every fly that lit on the floor, at the motes that floated into the shaft of sunlight before him, at special knots in the door-sill, or at nothing, as the spirit moved him. A sort of holiday feeling, such as he felt on Sundays, had kept him at home this afternoon. If he had known that to be a little too full of good things and a little tired of cracking whips or tooting horns or drumming was the happy condition of most of the rich boys of the land at that identical moment, he could not have been more content than he was. If his stomach ached just a little, he thought of all the good things in it, and was rather pleased to have it ache--just this little. It emphasized his realization of Christmas. As the evening wore on, and the crabs and bananas and molasses-candy stopped arguing with one another down in his little stomach, he found himself thinking, with some pleasure, of the pan of scraps he was to get for his grandfather, and he wished for the hour when he should go. He was glad when at last the old man waked with a start and began talking to him. "I been wushin' you'd weck up an' talk, gran'dad," he said, "caze I wants ter ax yer what's all dis here dey say 'bout Christmas? When I was comin' 'long to-day I stopped in a big chu'ch, an' dey was a preacher-man standin' up wid a white night-gown on, an' he say dis here's our Lord's birfday. I heerd 'im say it myse'f. Is dat so?" "Co'se it is, Juke. Huccome you ax me sech ignunt questioms? Gimme dat Bible, boy, an' lemme read you some 'ligion." Mose had been a sort of lay-preacher in his day, and really could read a little, spelling or stumbling over the long words. Taking the book reverently, he leaned forward until the shaft of sunlight fell upon the open page, when with halting speech he read to the little boy, who listened with open-mouthed attention, the story of the birth at Bethlehem. "An' look heah, Juke, my boy," he said, finally, closing the book, "hit's been on my min' all day ter tell yer I ain't gwine fishin' no mo' tell de high-water come back--you heah? 'Caze yer know somebody's chickens _mought_ come an' pick up de bait, an' I'd be bleeged ter kill 'em ter save 'em, an' we ain' gwine do dat no mo', me an' you. You heah, Juke?" Duke rolled his eyes around and looked pretty serious. "Yas, sir, I heah," he said. "An' me an' you, we done made dis bargain on de Lord's birfday--yer heah, boy?--wid Gord's sunshine kiverin' us all over, an' my han' layin' on de page. Heah, lay yo' little han' on top o' mine, Juke, an' promise me you gwine be a _square man_, so he'p yer. Dat's it. Say it out loud, an' yo' ole gran'dad he done said it, too. Wrop up dem fishin'-lines now, an' th'ow 'em up on de rafters. Now come set down heah, an' lemme tell yer 'bout Christmas on de ole plantation. Look out how you pop dat whup 'crost my laig! Dat's a reg'lar horse-fly killer, wid a coal of fire on 'er tip." Duke laughed. "Now han' me a live coal fur my pipe. Dis here terbacca you brung me, hit smokes sweet as sugar, boy. Set down, now, close by me--so." Duke never tired of his grandfather's reminiscences, and he crept up close to the old man's knee as the story began. "When de big plantation-bell used ter ring on Christmas mornin', all de darkies had to march up ter de great house fur dey Christmas-gif's; an' us what worked _at_ de house, we had ter stan' in front o' de fiel' han's. An' after ole marster axed a blessin', an' de string-ban' play, an' we all sing a song--air one we choose--boss, he'd call out de names, an' we'd step up, one by one, ter git our presents; an' ef we'd walk too shamefaced ur too 'boveish, he'd pass a joke on us, ter set ev'ybody laughin'. "I ricollec' one Christmas-time I was co'tin' yo' gran'ma. I done had been co'tin' 'er two years, an' she helt 'er head so high I was 'feerd ter speak. An' when Christmas come, an' I marched up ter git my present, ole marster gimme my bundle, an' I started back, grinnin' lak a chessy-cat, an' he calt me back, an' he say: 'Hol' on, Moses,' he say, 'I got 'nother present fur you ter-day. Heah's a finger-ring I got fur you, an' ef it don't fit you, I reckon hit'll fit Zephyr--you know yo' gran'ma she was name Zephyr. An' wid dat he ran his thumb in 'is pocket an' fotch me out a little gal's ring--" "A gol' ring, gran'dad?" "No, boy, but a silver ring--ginniwine German silver. Well, I wush't you could o' heard them darkies holler an' laugh! An' Zephyr, ef she hadn't o' been so yaller, she'd o' been red as dat sky yonder, de way she did blush buff." "An' what did you do, gran'dad?" "Who, me? Dey warn't but des one thing _fur_ me to do. I des gi'n Zephyr de ring, an' she ax me is I mean it, an'--an' I ax her is _she_ mean it, an'--an' we bofe say--none o' yo' business what we say! What you lookin' at me so quizzical fur, Juke? Ef yer wants ter know, we des had a weddin' dat Christmas night--dat what we done--an' dat's huccome you got yo' gran'ma. "But I'm talkin' 'bout Christmas now. When we'd all go home, we'd open our bundles, an' of all de purty things, _an'_ funny things, _an'_ jokes you ever heerd of, dey'd be in dem Christmas bundles--some'h'n' ter suit ev'y one, and hit 'im square on his funny-bone ev'y time. An' all de little bundles o' buckwheat ur flour 'd have _picayunes_ an' dimes in 'em! We used ter reg'lar sif' 'em out wid a sifter. Dat was des _our_ white folks's way. None o' de yether fam'lies 'long de coas' done it. You see, all de diffe'nt fam'lies had diffe'nt ways. But ole marster an' ole miss dey'd think up some new foolishness ev'y year. We nuver knowed what was gwine to be did nex'--on'y one thing. _Dey allus put money in de buckwheat-bag_--an' you know we nuver tas'e no buckwheat 'cep'n' on'y Christmas. Oh, boy, ef we could des meet wid some o' we's white folks ag'in!" "How is we got los' f'om 'em, gran'dad?" So Duke invited a hundredth repetition of the story he knew so well. "How did we git los' f'om we's white folks? Dat's a sad story fur Christmas, Juke, but ef you sesso-- "Hit all happened in one night, time o' de big break in de levee, seven years gone by. We was lookin' fur de bank ter crack crost de river f'om us, an' so boss done had tooken all han's over, cep'n us ole folks an' chillen, ter he'p work an' watch de yether side. 'Bout midnight, whiles we was all sleepin', come a roa'in' soun', an' fus' thing we knowed, all in de pitchy darkness, we was floatin' away--nobody cep'n des you an' me an' yo' mammy in de cabin--floatin' an' bumpin' an' rockin,' _an' all de time dark as pitch_. So we kep' on--one minute stiddy, nex' minute _cher-plunk_ gins' a tree ur some'h'n' nother--_all in de dark_--an' one minute you'd cry--you was des a weanin' baby den--an' nex' minute I'd heah de bed you an' yo' ma was in bump gins' de wall, an' you'd laugh out loud, an' yo' mammy she'd holler--_all in de dark_. An' so we travelled, up an' down, bunkety-bunk, seem lak a honderd hours; tell treckly a _termenjus_ wave come, an' I had sca'cely felt it boomin' onder me when I pitched, an' ev'ything went travellin'. An' when I put out my han', I felt you by me--but yo' mammy, she warn't nowhar. "Hol' up yo' face an' don't cry, boy. I been a mighty poor mammy ter yer, but I blesses Gord to-night fur savin' dat little black baby ter me--_all in de win' an' de storm an' de dark dat night_. "You see, yo' daddy, he was out wid de gang wuckin' de levee crost de river--an' dat's huccome yo' ma was 'feerd ter stay by 'erse'f an' sont fur me. "Well, baby, when I knowed yo' mammy was gone, I helt you tight an' prayed. An' after a while--seem lak a million hours--come a pale streak o' day, an' 'fo' de sun was up, heah come a steamboat puffin' down de river, an' treckly hit blowed a whistle an' ringed a bell an' stop an' took us on boa'd, an' brung us on down heah ter de city." "An' you never seed my mammy no mo', gran'dad?" Little Duke's lips quivered just a little. "Yo' mammy was safe at Home in de Golden City, Juke, long 'fore we teched even de low lan' o' dis yearth. "An' dat's how we got los' f'om we's white folks. "An' time we struck de city I was so twis' up wid rheumatiz I lay fur six munts in de Cha'ity Hospit'l; an' you bein' so puny, cuttin' yo' toofs, dey kep' you right along in de baby-ward tell I was able to start out. An' sence I stepped out o' dat hospit'l do' wid yo' little bow-legs trottin' by me, so I been goin' ever sence. Days I'd go out sawin' wood, I'd set you on de wood-pile by me; an' when de cook 'd slip me out a plate o' soup, I'd ax fur two spoons. An' so you an' me, we been pardners right along, an' _I wouldn't swap pardners wid nobody_--you heah, Juke? Dis here's Christmas, an' I'm talkin' ter yer." Duke looked so serious that a feather's weight would have tipped the balance and made him cry; but he only blinked. "An' it's gittin' late now, pardner," the old man continued, "an' you better be gwine--less'n you 'feerd? Ef you is, des sesso now, an' we'll meck out wid de col' victuals in de press." "Who's afeerd, gran'dad?" Duke's face had broken into a broad grin now, and he was cracking his whip again. "Don't eat no supper tell I come," he added, as he started out into the night. But as he turned down the street he muttered to himself: "I wouldn't keer, ef all dem sassy boys didn't pleg me--say I ain't got no mammy--ur daddy--ur nothin'. But dey won't say it ter me ag'in, not whiles I got dis whup in my han'! She sting lak a rattlesnake, she do! She's a daisy an' a half! Cher-whack! You gwine sass me any mo', you grea' big over-my-size coward, you? Take dat! An' dat! _An' dat!_ Now run! Whoop! Heah come de red light!" So, in fancy avenging his little wrongs, Duke recovered his spirits and proceeded to catch on behind the Prytania car, that was to help him on his way to get his second-hand Christmas dinner. His benefactress had not forgotten her promise; and, in addition to a heavy pan of scraps, Duke took home, almost staggering beneath its weight, a huge, compact bundle. Old Mose was snoring vociferously when he reached the cabin. Depositing his parcel, the little fellow lit a candle, which he placed beside the sleeper; then uncovering the pan, he laid it gently upon his lap. And now, seizing a spoon and tin cup, he banged it with all his might. "Heah de plantation-bell! Come git yo' Christmas-gif's!" And when his grandfather sprang up, nearly upsetting the pan in his fright, Duke rolled backward on the floor, screaming with laughter. "I 'clare, Juke, boy," said Mose, when he found voice, "I wouldn't 'a' jumped so, but yo' foolishness des fitted inter my dream. I was dreamin' o' ole times, an' des when I come ter de ringin' o' de plantation-bell, I heerd _cherplang_! An' it nachelly riz me off'n my foots. What's dis heah? Did you git de dinner, sho' 'nough?" The pan of scraps quite equalled that of the old man's memory, every familiar fragment evoking a reminiscence. "You is sho' struck quality white folks dis time, Juke," he said, finally, as he pushed back the pan--Duke had long ago finished--"but dis here tukkey-stuffin'--I don't say 'tain' good, but _hit don't quite come up ter de mark o' ole miss's puckon stuffin'_!" Duke was nodding in his chair, when presently the old man, turning to go to bed, spied the unopened parcel, which, in his excitement, Duke had forgotten. Placing it upon the table before him, Mose began to open it. It was a package worth getting--just such a generous Christmas bundle as he had described to Duke this afternoon. Perhaps it was some vague impression of this sort that made his old fingers tremble as he untied the strings, peeping or sniffing into the little parcels of tea and coffee and flour. Suddenly something happened. Out of a little sack of buckwheat, accidentally upset, rolled a ten-cent piece. The old man threw up his arms, fell forward over the table, and in a moment was sobbing aloud. It was some time before he could make Duke comprehend the situation, but presently, pointing to the coin lying before him, he cried: "Look, boy, look! Wharbouts is you got dat bundle? Open yo' mouf, boy! Look at de money in de buckwheat-bag! Oh, my ole mistuss! Nobody but you is tied up dat bundle! Praise Gord, I say!" There was no sleep for either Mose or Duke now; and, late as it was, they soon started out, the old man steadying himself on Duke's shoulder, to find their people. * * * * * It was hard for the little boy to believe, even after they had hugged all 'round and laughed and cried, that the stylish black gentleman who answered the door-bell, silver tray in hand, was his own father! He had often longed for a regular blue-shirted plantation "daddy," but never, in his most ambitious moments, had he aspired to filial relations with so august a personage as this! But while Duke was swelling up, rolling his eyes, and wondering, Mose stood in the centre of a crowd of his white people, while a gray-haired old lady, holding his trembling hand in both of hers, was saying, as the tears trickled down her cheeks: "But why didn't you get some one to write to us for you, Moses?" Then Mose, sniffling still, told of his long illness in the hospital, and of his having afterwards met a man from the coast who told the story of the sale of the plantation, but did not know where the family had gone. "When I fixed up that bundle," the old lady resumed, "I was thinking of you, Moses. Every year we have sent out such little packages to any needy colored people of whom we knew, as a sort of memorial to our lost ones, always half-hoping that they might actually reach some of them. And I thought of you specially, Moses," she continued, mischievously, "when I put in all that turkey-stuffing. Do you remember how greedy you always were about pecan-stuffing? It wasn't quite as good as usual this year." "No'm; dat what I say," said Mose. "I tol' Juke dat stuffin' warn't quite up ter de mark--ain't I, Juke? Fur gracious sake, look at Juke, settin' on his daddy's shoulder, with a face on him ole as a man! Put dat boy down, Pete! Dat's a business-man you foolin' wid!" Whereupon little Duke--man of affairs, forager, financier--overcome at last with the fulness of the situation, made a really babyish square mouth, and threw himself sobbing upon his father's bosom. FOOTNOTE: [Footnote A: Pronounced lan-yap. _Lagniappe_ is a small gratuity which New Orleans children always expect and usually get with a purchase. Retail druggists keep jars of candy, licorice, or other small confections for that purpose.] UNCLE EPHE'S ADVICE TO BRER RABBIT [Illustration: "'KEEP STEP, RABBIT, MAN!'"] UNCLE EPHE'S ADVICE TO BRER RABBIT Keep step, Rabbit, man! Hunter comin' quick's he can! H'ist yo'se'f! _Don't_ cross de road, Less 'n he'll hit you fur a toad! Up an' skip it, 'fo' t's too late! Hoppit--lippit! Bull-frog gait! Hoppit--lippit--lippit--hoppit! Goodness me, why don't you stop it? Shame on you, Mr. Ge'man Rabbit, Ter limp along wid sech a habit! 'F you'd balumps on yo' hime-legs straight, An' hurry wid a mannish gait, An' tie yo' ears down onder yo' th'oat, An' kivir yo' tail wid a cut-away coat, Rabbit-hunters by de dozen Would shek yo' han' an' call you cousin, An' like as not, you onery sinner, Dey'd ax' you home ter eat yo' dinner! But _don't you go_, 'caze ef you do, Dey'll set you down to rabbit-stew. An' de shape o' dem bones an' de smell o' dat meal 'Ll meck you wish you was back in de fiel'. An' ef you'd stretch yo' mouf too wide, You know yo' ears mought come ontied; An' when you'd jump, you couldn't fail To show yo' little cotton tail, An' den, 'fo' you could twis' yo' phiz, Dey'd _reconnize_ you _who you is_; An' fo' you'd sca'cely bat yo' eye, Dey'd have you skun an' in a pie, Or maybe roasted on a coal, Widout one thought about yo' soul. So better teck ole Ephe's advice, Des rig yo'se'f out slick an' nice, An' tie yo' ears down, like I said, An' hide yo' tail an' lif' yo' head. [Illustration: "'WELL, ONE MO' RABBIT FUR DE POT'"] An' when you balumps on yo' foots, It wouldn't hurt ter put on boots. Den walk _straight up_, like Mr. Man, An' when he offer you 'is han', Des smile, an' gi'e yo' hat a tip; But _don't you show yo' rabbit lip_. An' don't you have a word ter say, No mo'n ter pass de time o' day. An' ef he ax 'bout yo' affairs, Des 'low you gwine ter hunt some hares, An' ax 'im is he seen a jack-- An' dat 'll put 'im off de track. Now, ef you'll foller dis advice, Instid o' bein' et wid rice, Ur baked in pie, ur stuffed wid sage, You'll live ter die of nachel age. 'Sh! hush! What's dat? Was dat a gun? _Don't_ trimble so. An' _don't you run_! Come, set heah on de lorg wid me-- Hol' down yo' ears an' cross yo' knee. _Don't_ run, _I say_. Tut--tut! He's gorn. _Right 'cross de road_, as sho's you born! Slam bang! I know'd he'd ketch a shot! Well, one mo' rabbit fur de pot! MAY BE SO MAY BE SO September butterflies flew thick O'er flower-bed and clover-rick, When little Miss Penelope, Who watched them from grandfather's knee, Said, "Grandpa, what's a butterfly?" And, "Where do flowers go to when they die?" For questions hard as hard can be I recommend Penelope. But grandpa had a playful way Of dodging things too hard to say, By giving fantasies instead Of serious answers, so he said, "Whenever a tired old flower must die, Its soul mounts in a butterfly; Just now a dozen snow-wings sped From out that white petunia bed; "And if you'll search, you'll find, I'm sure, A dozen shrivelled cups or more; Each pansy folds her purple cloth, And soars aloft in velvet moth. "So when tired sunflower doffs her cap Of yellow frills to take a nap, 'Tis but that this surrender brings Her soul's release on golden wings." "But _is this so_? It ought to be," Said little Miss Penelope; "Because I'm _sure_, dear grandpa, _you_ Would only tell the thing that's _true_. "Are all the butterflies that fly Real angels of the flowers that die?" Grandfather's eyes looked far away, As if he scarce knew what to say. "Dear little Blossom," stroking now The golden hair upon her brow, "I can't--exactly--say--I--know--it; I only heard it from a poet. "And poets' eyes see wondrous things. Great mysteries of flowers and wings, And marvels of the earth and sea And sky, they tell us constantly. "But we can never prove them right, Because we lack their finer sight; And they, lest we should think them wrong, Weave their strange stories into song "_So beautiful_, so _seeming-true_, So confidently stated too, That we, not knowing yes or no, Can only _hope they may be so_." "But, grandpapa, no tale should close With _ifs_ or _buts_ or _may-be-sos_; So let us play we're poets, too, And then we'll _know_ that this is true." THE END THE WORKS OF WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS IMPRESSIONS AND EXPERIENCES. 12mo, Cloth, Uncut Edges and Gilt Top, $1 50. MY LITERARY PASSIONS. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. STOPS OF VARIOUS QUILLS. Poems. Illustrated by HOWARD PYLE. 4to, Cloth, Ornamental, Uncut Edges and Gilt Top, $2 50. THE DAY OF THEIR WEDDING. A Story. Illustrated by T. DE THULSTRUP. 12mo, Cloth, $1 25. A TRAVELER FROM ALTRURIA. A Romance. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50; Paper, 50 cents. THE COAST OF BOHEMIA. A Novel. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. THE WORLD OF CHANCE. A Novel. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50; Paper, 60 cents. THE QUALITY OF MERCY. A Novel. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50; Paper, 75 cents. AN IMPERATIVE DUTY. A Novel. 12mo, Cloth, $1 00; Paper, 50 cents. A HAZARD OF NEW FORTUNES. A Novel. Two Volumes. 12mo, Cloth, $2 00; Illustrated, 12mo, Paper, $1 00. A PARTING AND A MEETING. Illustrated. Square 32mo, Cloth, $1 00. THE SHADOW OF A DREAM. A Story. 12mo, Cloth, $1 00; Paper, 50 cents. ANNIE KILBURN. A Novel. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50; Paper, 75 cents. APRIL HOPES. A Novel. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50; Paper, 75 cents. CHRISTMAS EVERY DAY, AND OTHER STORIES. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1 25. A BOY'S TOWN. Described for HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1 25. CRITICISM AND FICTION. With Portrait. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00. (In the Series "Harper's American Essayists.") MODERN ITALIAN POETS. Essays and Versions. With Portraits. 12mo, Cloth, $2 00. THE MOUSE-TRAP, AND OTHER FARCES. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth, $1 00. FARCES: A LIKELY STORY--THE MOUSE-TRAP--FIVE O'CLOCK TEA--EVENING DRESS--THE UNEXPECTED GUESTS--A LETTER OF INTRODUCTION--THE ALBANY DEPOT--THE GARROTERS. In Uniform Style: Illustrated. 32mo, Cloth, 50 cents each. ("Harper's Black and White Series.") A LITTLE SWISS SOJOURN. Illustrated. 32mo, Cloth, 50 cents. ("Harper's Black and White Series.") MY YEAR IN A LOG CABIN. Illustrated. 32mo, Cloth, 50 cents. ("Harper's Black and White Series.") * * * * * PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. [Illustration: Left index]_The above works are for sale by all booksellers, or will be mailed by the publishers, postage prepaid, on receipt of the price._ * * * * * Transcriber's note The following changes have been made to the text: Page 25: "whem he was young" changed to "when he was young". Page 40: "Félice" changed to "Félicie". 
31383	----	generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) [Illustration: WILLIAM O. HUDSON President, Board of Commissioners of Port of New Orleans] FOREWORD. Oh the mind of man! Frail, untrustworthy, perishable--yet able to stand unlimited agony, cope with the greatest forces of Nature and build against a thousand years. Passion can blind it--yet it can read in infinity the difference between right and wrong. Alcohol can unsettle it--yet it can create a poem or a harmony or a philosophy that is immortal. A flower pot falling out of a window can destroy it--yet it can move mountains. If Man had a tool that was as frail as his mind, he would fear to use it. He would not trust himself on a plank so liable to crack. He would not venture into a boat so liable to go to pieces. He would not drive a tack with a hammer, the head of which is so liable to fly off. But Man knows that what the mind can conceive, that can he execute. So Man sits in his room and plans the things the world thought impossible. From the known he dares the unknown. He covers paper with figures, conjures forth a blue print, and sends an army of workmen against the forces of Nature. If his mind blundered, he would waste millions in money and perhaps destroy thousands of lives. But Man can trust his mind; fragile though it is, he knows it can bear the strain of any task put upon it. All over the world there is the proof: in the heavens above, and in the waters under the earth. And nowhere has Man won a greater triumph over unspeakable odds than in New Orleans, in the dredging of a canal through buried forests 18,000 years old, the creation of an underground river, and the building of a lock that was thought impossible. The Industrial Canal and Inner Harbor of New Orleans History, Description and Economic Aspects of Giant Facility Created to Encourage Industrial Expansion and Develop Commerce By Thomas Ewing Dabney Published by Board of Commissioners of the Port of New Orleans Second Port U. S. A. May, 1921 (Copyright, 1921, by Thomas Ewing Dabney). CONTENTS FOREWORD 2 THE NEED RECOGNIZED FOR A CENTURY 5 NEW ORLEANS DECIDES TO BUILD CANAL 8 SMALL CANAL FIRST PLANNED 13 THE DIRT BEGINS TO FLY 17 CANAL PLANS EXPANDED 22 DIGGING THE DITCH 27 OVERWHELMING ENDORSEMENT BY NEW ORLEANS 31 SIPHON AND BRIDGES 36 THE REMARKABLE LOCK 40 NEW CHANNEL TO THE GULF 48 WHY GOVERNMENT SHOULD OPERATE CANAL 54 ECONOMIC ASPECT OF CANAL 60 CONSTRUCTION COSTS AND CONTRACTORS 66 OTHER PORT FACILITIES 70 COMPARISON OF DISTANCES BETWEEN NEW ORLEANS AND THE PRINCIPAL CITIES AND PORTS OF THE WORLD 78 THE NEED RECOGNIZED FOR A CENTURY. There is a map in the possession of T. P. Thompson of New Orleans, who has a notable collection of books and documents on the early history of this city, dated March 1, 1827, and drawn by Captain W. T. Poussin, topographical engineer, showing the route of a proposed canal to connect the Mississippi River and Lake Pontchartrain, curiously near the site finally chosen for that great enterprise nearly a hundred years later. New Orleans then was a mere huddle of buildings around Jackson Square; but with the purchase of the Louisiana territory from France, and the great influx of American enterprise that characterized the first quarter of the last century, development was working like yeast, and it was foreseen that New Orleans' future depended largely upon connecting the two waterways mentioned--the river, that drains the commerce of the Mississippi Valley, at our front door, and the lake, with its short-cut to the sea and the commerce of the world, at the back. When the Carondelet canal, now known as the Old Basin Canal, was begun in 1794, the plan was to extend it to the river. It was also planned to connect the New Basin Canal, begun in 1833, with the Mississippi. This was, in fact, one of the big questions of the period. That the work was not put through was due more to the lack of machinery than of enterprise. During the rest of the century, the proposal bobbed up at frequent intervals, and the small Lake Borgne canal was finally shoved through from the Mississippi to Lake Borgne, which is a bay of Lake Pontchartrain. The difference between these early proposals and the plan for the Industrial Canal and Inner Harbor that was finally adopted, is that the purpose in the former case was simply to develop a waterway for handling freight, whereas the object of New Orleans' great facility, now nearing completion, is to create industrial development. Under the law of Louisiana, inherited from the Spanish and French regimes, river frontage can not be sold or leased to private enterprise. This law prevents port facilities being sewed up by selfish interests and insures a fair deal for all shipping lines, new ones as well as old, with a consequent development of foreign trade; and port officials, at harbors that are under private monopoly, would give a pretty if the Louisiana system could be established there. But there is no law, however good, that meets all conditions, and a number of private enterprises--warehouses and factories--have undoubtedly been kept out of New Orleans because they could not secure water frontage. An artificial waterway, capable of indefinite expansion, on whose banks private enterprise could buy or lease, for a long period of time, the land for erecting its buildings and plants, without putting in jeopardy the commercial development of the port; a waterway that would co-ordinate river, rail and maritime facilities most economically, and lend itself to the development of a "free port" when the United States finally adopts that requisite to a world commerce--that was the recognized need of New Orleans when the proposal for connecting the two waterways came to the fore in the opening years of the present century. The Progressive Union, later the Association of Commerce, took a leading part in the propaganda; it was assisted by other public bodies, and forward-looking men, who gradually wore away the opposition with which is received every attempt to do something that grandfather didn't do. And on July 9, 1914, the legislature of Louisiana passed Act No. 244, authorizing the Commission Council of New Orleans to determine the site, and the Board of Port Commissioners of Louisiana, or Dock Board, as it is more commonly called, to build the Industrial Canal. The act gave the board a right to expropriate all property necessary for the purpose, to build the "necessary locks, slips, laterals, basins and appurtenances * * * in aid of commerce," and to issue an unlimited amount in bonds "against the real estate and canal and locks and other improvements * * * to be paid out of the net receipts of said canal and appurtenances thereof, after the payment of operating expenses * * * (and) to fix charges for tolls in said canal." This was submitted to a vote of the people at the regular election in November of that year, and became part of the constitution. To avoid the complication of a second mortgage on the property, the Dock Board subsequently (ordinance of June 29, 1918) set a limit on the total bond issue. To enable the development that was then seen to be dimly possible, it set this limit high--at $25,000,000. NEW ORLEANS DECIDES TO BUILD CANAL. The canal for which the legislature made provision in 1914 bears about the relation to the one that was finally built as the acorn does to the oak. It was to be a mere barge canal that might ultimately be enlarged to a ship canal. Its cost was estimated at $2,400,000, which was less than the cost of digging the New Basin canal nearly a century before, which was a great deal smaller and ran but half way between the lake and river. The panic of the early days of the World War shoved even this modest plan to one side, and it was not until the next year that enthusiasm caught its second wind. Then the leading men and the press of the city put themselves behind the project once more. As the New Orleans Item said, October 22, 1915, "the lack of that canal has already proven to have cost the city much in trade and developed industry." Commenting on the "astonishing exhibition of intelligent public spirit" in New Orleans, the Chicago Tribune said that "no other city in or near the Mississippi Valley, including Chicago, has shown such an awakening to the possibilities and rearrangements that are following the cutting of the Panama canal. * * * The awakening started with the talk of the new canal." Other papers throughout the country made similar expressions. In 1915 the engineering firm of Ford, Bacon & Davis made a preliminary survey of conditions and how development would be affected by the canal. At about the same time the Illinois legislature voted to spend $5,000,000 to construct a deep water canal, giving Chicago water connection with the Mississippi River; and the New Orleans Item linked the two projects when it said, January 16, 1916, "the Illinois-Lake Michigan Canal and the New Orleans Industrial Canal are complementary links in a new system of waterways connecting the upper Valley through the Mississippi River and New Orleans with the Gulf and the Panama Canal. This system again gives the differential to the Valley cities in trade with the markets of the Orient, our own west coast, and South America." Commodore Ernest Lee Jahncke, president of the Association of Commerce, issued a statement to the press January 16, 1916, declaring that the prospect of the canal "brightened the whole business future of this city and the Mississippi Valley"; the New Orleans Real Estate Board and the Auction Exchange, in a joint meeting, urged its speedy building; and Governor Luther E. Hall, in a formal statement to the press January 16, 1916, gave his endorsement to the construction of the canal "long sought by many commercial interests of New Orleans," and said that work would probably begin in "three months." In August, 1916, the governor dismissed the Dock Board and appointed a new one. In the confusion attending the reorganization the canal project was again dropped. The New Orleans American, on August 28, 1916, attempted to revive it, but the effort fell flat, and the plan laid on ice until 1918. America had in the meantime thrown its hat into the ring, and the cry was going up for ships, more ships, and still more ships. National patriotism succeeded where civic effort had failed. New Orleans brought out its Industrial Canal project to help the country build the famous "bridge of boats." But this new phase of the plan was far from the canal that was finally built. In fact, the accomplishment of this project has shown a remarkable development with the passing years, reminding one of the growth of the trivial hopes of the boy into the mighty achievement of the man. Ships could not be built on the Mississippi River. The twenty-foot range in the water level would require the ways to make a long slope into the current, a work of prohibitive expense, and as nearly impossible from an engineering standpoint as anything can be. Early in 1918 a committee of representative Orleanians began to study the situation. This was known as the City Shipbuilding Committee. It comprised Mayor Behrman, O. S. Morris, president of the Association of Commerce; Walter Parker, manager of that body; Arthur McGuirk, special counsel of the Dock Board; R. S. Hecht, president of the Hibernia Bank; Dr. Paul H. Saunders, president of the Canal-Commercial Bank; J. D. O'Keefe, vice-president of the Whitney-Central Bank; J. K. Newman, financier; G. G. Earl, superintendent of the Sewerage and Water Board; Hampton Reynolds, contractor; D. D. Moore, James M. Thompson and J. Walker Ross, of the Times-Picayune, Item and States, respectively. On February 10, 1918, this committee laid the plans for an industrial basin, connected with the river by a lock, and ultimately to be connected with the lake by a small barge canal. Ships could be built on the banks of this basin, the water in which would have a fixed level. Mr. Hecht, and Arthur McGuirk, special counsel of the Dock Board, devised the plan by which the project could be financed. The Dock Board would issue long-term bonds, and build the necessary levees with the material excavated from the canal. The committee's formal statement summarized the public need of this facility as follows: "1. It will provide practical, convenient and fixed-level water-front sites for ship and boat building and repair plants, for industries and commercial enterprises requiring water frontage. "2. It will provide opportunities for all enterprises requiring particular facilities on water frontage to create such facilities. "3. It will permit the complete co-ordination, in the City of New Orleans, of the traffic of the Mississippi River and its tributaries, of the Intracoastal Canal, the railroads and the sea, under the most convenient and satisfactory conditions. "4. In connection with the publicly-owned facilities on the river front, it will give New Orleans all the port and harbor advantages enjoyed by Amsterdam with its canal system, Rotterdam and Antwerp with their joint river and ocean facilities; Hamburg with its free port, and Liverpool with its capacity as a market deposit. "5. It will give New Orleans a fixed-level, well protected harbor. "6. It will serve the purposes of the Intracoastal Canal and increase the benefits to accrue to New Orleans from that canal. "7. In connection with revived commercial use of the inland waterways upon which the federal government is now determined, it will open the way for an easy solution of the problem of handling, housing and interchange of water-borne commerce, and of the development of facilities for the storage of commodities between the period of production and consumption. "8. It will prove an important facility in the equipment of New Orleans to meet the new competition the enlarged Erie Canal will create. The original Erie Canal harmed New Orleans because Mississippi River boat lines could not build their own terminal and housing facilities at New Orleans." [Illustration: W. A. KERNAGHAN Vice-President RENÉ CLERC Secretary ALBERT MACKIE HUGH McCLOSKEY COMMISSIONERS Board of Commissioners of the Port of New Orleans] This meeting made industrial history in New Orleans. The Hecht plan was studied by lawyers and financiers and declared feasible. Mr. Hecht summarized the confidence of the far-visioned men in the new New Orleans when he declared in a public interview: "I feel there is absolutely nothing to prevent the immediate realization of New Orleans' long dream of becoming a great industrial and commercial center and having great shipbuilding plants located within the city limits." And the Item said, in commenting on the undertaking (February 17, 1918): "Millions of dollars of capital will be ready to engage in shipbuilding in New Orleans the moment that piledrivers and steam shovels are set to work on the shiplock and navigation canal." It was a time of great industrial excitement. Victory was at last in the grasp of New Orleans. The eyes of the country were on New Orleans. The cry was, "Full Speed Ahead!" SMALL CANAL FIRST PLANNED. The plan, at this time, was to have a lock-sill only 16 or 18 feet deep. This would be sufficient to allow empty ships to enter or leave the canal, but not loaded. The mere building of ships was thus the principal thought, despite the rhetoric on commercial and industrial possibilities. Perhaps the leaders who were beating the project into shape were themselves afraid to think in the millions necessary to do the work to which New Orleans finally dedicated itself; perhaps they realized that the figure would stagger the minds of the people and defeat the undertaking, if they were not gradually educated up to the mark. Meeting on February 15, 1918, the Dock Board resolved unanimously to put the plan through, if it proved feasible. W. B. Thompson was president of the board; the other members were Dr. E. S. Kelly, Thomas J. Kelly, B. B. Hans and O. P. Geren. Later, E. E. Lafaye took Mr. Kelly's place on the board. The Public Belt Railroad board had in the meantime (February 13) voted to pay the Dock Board $50,000 a year; and the Levee Board (February 14) to give $125,000 a year. As the plans were increased, the Levee Board later increased its bit to $925,000. Mayor Behrman, Arthur McGuirk and R. S. Hecht laid the proposition before both bodies. Action was unanimous. Colonel J. D. Hill, speaking for the Belt Railroad Board, said: "I am glad that at last there has been outlined a plan which seemingly makes it possible to construct the canal. It will not only result in the eventual construction of a big fleet of ships, but will prepare the way for a tremendous industrial activity in other lines. The consensus has been that a navigation canal is needed to induce large manufacturers, importers and exporters to establish their factories and warehouses here. This project will be the opening wedge." Members of the Public Belt Board voting, besides Colonel Hill and Mayor Behrman (ex-officio) were Ginder Abbott, Arthur Simpson, John H. Murphy, W. B. Bloomfield, Adam Lorch, George P. Thompson, Thomas F. Cunningham, Victor Lambou, Edgar B. Stern and Sam Segari. Members of the Levee Board voting were: William McL. Fayssoux, president, Thomas Killeen, Thomas Smith, John F. Muller, James P. Williams, John P. Vezien. W. B. Thompson, president, put the matter before the Dock Board. "The idea" he said, according to the minutes of the meeting of February 15, 1918, "had always received his approval, and he thought that the mayor would recall that in the preparation, he with the city attorney, had a very considerable part in framing the same, and he had taken an active interest in the matter; he had always been in favor of the Industrial Canal, and he believed in the possibility of development of New Orleans through this, as a terminus; and it was entirely logical that the Dock Board should do all that may lie within its power to bring about the successful consummation of this project; the only doubt in his mind being as to the feasibility of the project from the financial standpoint. It seems now, however, that a plan has been devised, through efforts of the mayor and Mr. Hecht, which gives every promise of success. The co-operation of the city on behalf of the Public Belt Railroad, and of the Levee Board, apparently removed the difficulties in respect to the financial end. The Dock Board welcomes the assistance and co-operation of the city and of the Levee Board, but inasmuch as these boards are merely contributing certain amounts per year, and whereas the Dock Board is the obligor in respect of the principal of the bond issue, it devolves upon the Dock Board to use great caution before committing itself to any particular plan in a matter which so vitally affects the credit of the Dock Board, the city of New Orleans and the Levee Board. President Thompson further stated that he unhesitatingly endorsed the project and that he was sure that every member of the board agreed, and the board would be glad to give prompt consideration to the particular plan in question and reach some conclusion which will insure the realization of this great project." To estimate the probable cost of the canal, Mayor Behrman appointed the following committee of engineers: W. J. Hardee, city engineer; A. F. Barclay, engineer of the Public Belt Railroad; George G. Earl, superintendent of the Sewerage & Water Board; C. T. Rayner, Jr., engineer of the Levee Board and Hampton Reynolds, contractor. On February 22, the committee reported that, not counting real estate, a canal could be built for $2,626,876. This estimate called for a lock 600 feet long, 70 feet wide, and 18 feet deep, and a barge canal to the lake. The cost of constructing the lock was put at $1,370,660, and of digging the canal $1,256,216. This report was first received by a special committee composed of Mayor Behrman, W. B. Thompson, Col. J. B. Hill, R. S. Hecht and Major W. McL. Fayssoux. This committee referred it to the Dock Board, which adopted it February 22. Financial arrangements were completed at this same meeting. In order to have sufficient to pay for the land which would have to be expropriated for the canal, and to give some leeway, it was decided to issue bonds for $3,500,000, with an option of floating $1,000,000 more within 30 days. A financial syndicate, consisting of the Hibernia, Interstate and Whitney-Central banks of New Orleans, the William R. Compton Investment Company of St. Louis, and the Halsey, Stuart Company of Chicago, agreed to take the entire issue. The bonds were to run 40 years and begin to mature serially after 10 years. They were to bear 5 per cent interest, and to be sold at 95. They would be secured by a mortgage on the real estate of the canal site, and by the taxing powers of the state, for they were a recognized state obligation, as Arthur McGuirk, special counsel of the Dock Board, pointed out in his opinion of July 10, 1918. He added: "I am likewise of opinion that said bonds are unaffected by any limitations upon the state debt, or upon the rate of taxation for public purposes; that the said bonds are entitled to be paid out of the general funds, or by the exercise of the power of taxation insofar as the revenues, funds or property preferentially pledged or mortgaged to secure said issue may fail, or be insufficient, to pay the same." The following sat with the Dock Board and its attorneys at the meeting of February 22: Mayor Behrman, J. D. Hill of the Public Belt Railroad, R. S. Hecht, president of the Hibernia Bank, J. D. O'Keefe, vice-president of the Whitney-Central Bank, C. G. Reeves, vice-president of the Interstate Bank, W. R. Compton of the Compton Investment Company, H. L. Stuart of Halsey, Stuart and Company, W. J. Hardee, city engineer, and Hampton Reynolds, contractor. The selection of the site was left, by the state law, to the commission council. There were a number of possible routes, and the selection was made with the utmost secrecy to prevent real estate profiteering. At first the area bounded by France and Reynes streets was chosen. This was on February 28. On May 9, however, the site was changed to the area bounded by France and Lizardi streets, north from the Mississippi River to Florida Walk, thence to Lake Pontchartrain. This is a virtually uninhabited region in the Third District, through the old Ursulines tract. The site chosen for expropriation is five and a third miles long by 2,200 feet wide, 897 acres. For this land the Dock Board paid $1,493,532.24, which is at the rate of $1,665 an acre. The valuation was reached by expropriation proceedings. In the meantime, Commodore Ernest Lee Jahncke had asked to be allotted the first site on the Industrial Canal, and Doullut & Williams for the second. Both were for shipyards. The Foundation Company, which was operating a number of shipyards in various parts of the country, sent an engineer here to see if it would be feasible for the concern to build a shipyard here. Even before the piledrivers and dredges were on the job, the millions were being counted for investment in the city whose remarkable enterprise had won the admiration of the country. THE DIRT BEGINS TO FLY. Until the money for the bond issue should be available, the Hibernia Bank authorized the Dock Board to draw against it on open account. It only remained, then, to secure the authorization of the Capital Issues Committee of the Federal Reserve Board, which controlled all bond issues during the World War, to start the work. The grounds on which the authorization was requested summarize conditions that make possible a great industrial development in New Orleans, and will stand quoting. They are: "(a) Semi-tropical conditions, which make it feasible to work every day and night in the year; "(b) Admirable housing conditions which render it feasible for labor to live under most sanitary conditions in houses closely proximate to both the plants and the city, with sewerage and water connections, and with street car transportation facilities to and from the plants and to and from the amusement centers of the city; "(c) Ample labor supply and satisfactory labor conditions; "(d) Proximity to timber, steel and coal sources of supply with all water as well as rail transportation facilities thereon; "(e) State control of the canal facilities and operation of the same, not for profit, but for the economical and expeditious development of shipbuilding." Two shipyards were established on the canal. They poured millions of dollars into New Orleans. The tremendous tonnage built in the United States during the war, and the slump in foreign trade that followed the armistice, due to financial conditions abroad, have caused many shipyards throughout the United States to close down, among them one of these at New Orleans. The other one is now finishing its war contracts, and will be more or less inactive until the demands of the American Merchant Marine and business in general open up again. If they are not used for shipbuilding, they can be used for ship repairing or building barges. And it is obvious that the same conditions that made ship building an economic possibility, will encourage other industrial production, especially production that requires the co-ordination of river, rail and maritime facilities. The Canal means millions of new money to New Orleans, as its proponents said it would. On March 12, the authorization of the Capital Issues Committee was given. On March 15, the George W. Goethals Company, Inc., was retained as consulting engineers on the big job. The services of this company were secured as much for its engineering skill, proven by its work on the Panama Canal, as for the prestige of its name. The Goethals Company, co-operating with the engineers of the Dock Board, which did the work, designed the famous lock and directed the entire job. George M. Wells, vice-president of the firm, was put in active charge of the work. General Goethals made occasional visits of supervision. The dirt began to fly on June 6, 1918. Before coming to New Orleans to take up his work, Mr. Wells, acting upon instructions of the Dock Board, called at the office of the Foundation Company in New York, whose engineer had already studied the possibilities of establishing a shipyard on the canal, and guaranteed an outlet to the sea by the time its vessels should be finished. The river end of the site chosen for the canal consisted of low and flat meadow land. There were a few houses helter-skeltered about, like blocks in a nursery, but the principal signs of human life were the cows that grazed where the grazing was good, and sought refuge from the noonday beams of the sun under the occasional oaks that had strayed out into the open and didn't know how to get back. The middle of the site--several miles in extent--was a gray cypress swamp, with five or six hundred trees to the acre, and always awash. The lake end was "trembling prairie" marsh land subject to tidal overflow and very soft. [Illustration: N. O. ARMY SUPPLY BASE] [Illustration: BUILDING LAKE ENTRANCE] With dredges, spades, mechanical excavators, piledrivers and dynamite the work opened. A great force of men began to throw up by hand, the levees that were to serve as banks for the turning basin, the lock and other portions of the canal. This levee would keep the liquid material, dredged out, from running back into the excavation. The turning basin, 950 feet by 1,150 feet, was an expansion of the original industrial basin. Situated several hundred feet from the lock, its purpose is to enable ships entering the canal from the river, and passing through the lock, to turn in, as well as to furnish a site for the concentration of industries. The Foundation Company had in the meantime decided to establish a shipyard on this basin; its engineers were on the ground, and its material was rolling. One dredge was sent around Lake Pontchartrain to commence boring in from that end. This could not be done on the river end. The Mississippi is too mighty a giant to risk such liberties. The 2,000-foot cut between the river and the lock would have to be done last of all, when the rest of the canal and the lock were finished, and the new levees that would protect the city against its overflow, were solidly set. But a few hundred feet from the turning basin, was Bayou Bienvenu, which runs into Lake Borgne, part of Lake Pontchartrain, and one of the refuges of Lafitte in the brave days when smuggling was more a sport of the plain people than it is now with European travel restricted to the wealthy. So through Bayou Bienvenu a small excavator was sent to cut a passage into the turning basin, to allow the mighty 22-inch dredges to get in and work outwards towards the lake and the lock site. The problem was further complicated by the Florida Walk drainage system, which emptied into Bayou Bienvenu, and by the railway lines that crossed the site of the Canal. These railways were the Southern Railway, at the lake end, the Louisville & Nashville, at the middle, and the Southern and Public Belt near the turning basin on Florida Walk. For them, the Dock Board had to build "run-around" tracks, to be used while their lines were cut to enable the dredging to be made and the bridges to be constructed. For the drainage, the plans called for the construction of an inverted siphon passing under the Canal, a river under a river, so to speak. In the meantime, however, the drainage canal had to be blocked off with two cofferdams, to cut off the water from the city and the bayou, and enable the construction of the siphon between. Additional railroad tracks, too, had to be built to handle the immense volume of material needed for the work; roads had to be built for getting supplies on the job by truck; the trolley line had to be extended for the transportation of labor. Week by week the labor gangs grew, as the men were able to find places in the attacking line of the industrial battle. Great excavators stalked over the land, pulling themselves along by their dippers which bit out chunks of earth as big as a cart when they "took a-hold"; the smack of pile drivers, the thump of dynamite, and the whistle of dredges filled the air. Buildings sprouted like mushrooms; in the meadow, half a mile from the nearest water, the shipyard of the Foundation Company began to take form. It was the plan to finish the Canal by January, 1920. CANAL PLANS EXPANDED. Work in the meantime had begun on the commodity warehouse and wharf, another facility planned by the Dock Board to relieve the growing pains. Built on the Canal, but opening on the river, it was to perform the same service for general commodities as the Public Cotton Warehouse and the Public Grain Elevator did for those products. Though not a part of the canal plan, the construction of the warehouse at this point was part of the general scheme to concentrate industrial development on that waterway. Later, the Federal Government took over this work and gave New Orleans a $13,000,000 terminal, through which it handled army supplies. It is still using the three warehouses for storage purposes, but has leased the half-mile double-deck wharf to the Dock Board, which is devoting it to the general commerce of the port. In time, the Dock Board hopes to get at least one of the buildings. There can be no doubt but that the enterprise of New Orleans in building the Industrial Canal had a great deal to do with the government's determination to establish a depot at New Orleans. On May 30, the news came out of Washington that the Doullut & Williams Shipbuilding Company had been awarded a $15,000,000 contract by the Emergency Fleet Corporation to build eight ships of 9,600 tons each. This was the largest shipbuilding contract that had been given the South. The Industrial Canal rendered it possible. The firm of Doullut & Williams had been engaged for fifteen years or so in the civil engineering and contracting business in New Orleans. Captain M. P. Doullut had built launches with his own hands when a young man, and dreamed of the time when he would have a yard capable of turning out ocean-going vessels. The Doullut & Williams Shipbuilding Company was organized April 25, 1918, with the following officers: M. P. Doullut, president; Paul Doullut, vice-president; W. Horace Williams, secretary-treasurer and general manager; L. H. Guerin, chief engineer; and James P. Ewin, assistant chief engineer. "I feel that New Orleans is on the eve of a very remarkable development" said Senator Ransdell of Louisiana in a telegram of congratulation, "and earnestly hope our people will continue to work together with energy and hearty accord until we have gone way over the top in shipbuilding and many other lines." The expression "over the top" had not become the pest that it and other war-time weeds of rhetoric have subsequently proven. That was a time when one could still refer to a "drive" without causing a gnashing of teeth. Picking the site at the Lake Pontchartrain end of the canal, Doullut & Williams Shipbuilding Company began to erect its shipyard. The plant buildings were erected upon tall piling. As the dredges excavated the material from the cut, they deposited it on the site of the shipyard and raised the elevation several feet, so the buildings were only the usual height above the ground. Both sides of the Canal, it should be added, have been similarly raised by excavation material. It was planned that the ships from the Doullut & Williams yard should be sent out into the world through Lake Pontchartrain, which empties into the Gulf of Mexico. There was ample water in the lake, without dredging, to accommodate unloaded ships of this size. But the fact that ships 400 or so feet long and drawing, when loaded to capacity, 27 feet, were to be built at New Orleans, emphasized the belief of those directing the work of the Industrial Canal that the plan on which they were working was too small. An 18-foot canal would not meet the growing needs of New Orleans. Accordingly the Dock Board instructed the engineering department to expand the plans. By June 11, 1918, the plans had been revised to give a 25-foot channel. This would accommodate all but the largest ships that come to New Orleans. The cost of such a lock and canal, George M. Wells estimated, would be $6,000,000, or $2,500,000 more than the estimate for the original canal. The Levee Board promptly raised its ante to $250,000 to guarantee the interest. When the Dock Board floated the first bond issue of $3,500,000 in February, at 95, it reserved the option to issue another $1,000,000 of bonds within thirty days, at the same rate. For $1,500,000 of the new issue, the same syndicate of banks offered 97-1/2, or two and a half points higher than for the first; but for the other million, they held the board to the original rate of 95. President Thompson reported to the Dock Board June 11 that he considered these "very satisfactory terms." He added: "We were able to secure these better prices and conditions because the bond market is in a somewhat better condition now than it was when we made the original contract." The contract was accepted on that date, and application made to the Capital Issues Committee for the necessary permission. This was given in due time, though there was considerable opposition. The opposition, said President Thompson, at the Dock Board meeting of February 26, 1919, reviewing the development of the canal plans, "was inspired by vicious and spectacular attacks of certain private interests hostile to the canal project and to the port of New Orleans." Railroads, whose right of way crossed the Canal, were the principal propagandists. They realized that the Dock Board could not be required to build their bridges over the waterway, and although the Thompson board financed the work at the time, they knew that sooner or later would come a day of reckoning. The Hudson Board has since then taken steps to collect several million dollars from these roads. But why build a canal almost large enough, only? Why build a 25-foot lock when ships drawing 30-feet of water come to New Orleans? A lock cannot be enlarged, once it is completed--and the tendency of the times is towards larger ships. Why not make a capacity facility while they were about it? [Illustration: LOCK SITE Driving Sheet Piling] [Illustration: LOCK SITE Dredges Entering] These were questions the Dock Board asked itself, and on June 29, 1918, it decided to build the lock with a 30-foot depth over the sill at extreme low water, and make the canal 300 feet wide at the top, and 150 feet wide at the bottom. To do this, would cost about $1,000,000 more, it was estimated by George M. Wells of the Goethals company--a sum which the Dock Board thought would be realized from the rental-revenues of Doullut & Williams and the Foundation Company, without increasing the second bond issue. This is the Canal that was finally built--nearly 70 per cent larger than the one that was begun and about 100 per cent larger than the one originally planned, when the newspapers and forward-looking told the people that the lack of such a canal had cost New Orleans millions of dollars in development. DIGGING THE DITCH. No rock-problem was encountered in dredging the canal. The cost was below what the engineers estimated it would be--less than thirty cents a cubic yard. But a novel situation did develop; a condition that would have sent the cost sky-rocketing if an Orleanian had not met the difficulty. Louisiana is what geologists call a region of subsidence. The gulf of Mexico formerly reached to where Cairo, Ill., now is. Washings from the land, during the slow-moving centuries, pushed the shoreline ever outward; the humus of decaying vegetation raised the ground surface still higher. This section of Louisiana, built by the silt of the Mississippi, was of course the most recent formation. Twenty thousand years ago, say the geologists, there were great forests where Louisiana now is. Among these mighty trees roamed the glyptodont; the 16-foot armadillo with a tail like the morning-star of the old crusaders, monstrously magnified; the giraffe camel; the titanothere; the Columbian elephant, about the size of a trolley car and with 15-foot tusks; the giant sloth which could look into a second-story window; here the saber-toothed tiger fought with the megatherium; mighty rhinoceroses sloshed their clumsy way, and huge and grotesque birds filled the air with their flappings. As the subsoil packed more solidly, this wilderness in time sunk beneath the waters. The Mississippi built up its sandbars again, storms shaped them above the waves, marsh grass raised the surface with its humus, and another forest grew. This, in turn, sunk. And so the process was repeated, time after time. At different depths below the surface of the ground the remains of these forests are found today, the wood perfectly preserved by the dampness. And through this tangled mass the dredges had to fight their way. It was a task too great for the ordinary type of 20 or 22-inch suction dredge, even with the strength of 1,000 horses behind it. When they met these giant stumps and trunks they just stopped. A. B. Wood, of the sewerage and water department, had already designed and patented a centrifugal pump impeller adapted to the handling of sewerage containing trash. Learning of this, W. J. White, superintendent of dredging on the Canal, asked him to design a special impeller, along similar lines, for the dredge Texas. Results from the invention were remarkable. During the thirty days immediately preceding the installation the dredge had suffered delays from clogged suction which totalled 130-3/4 hours. During the thirty days immediately succeeding installation the total of delays for the same reason was cut down to 71-1/2 hours. The average yardage was, for the earlier period, 152 an hour, of actual excavation; and for the later period, 445 an hour--an increase of almost 200 per cent. The situation had been met. This was the period when the cost of labor and material began to jump. Employers were bidding against each other for men, and the government's work practically fixed the price of supplies. George M. Wells, consulting engineer, in his report of December 9, 1918, to the Dock Board, summarized labor increases over the scale when the work was begun, as follows: Unskilled labor, 54%; pile driver men, 40%; machinists, 40%; blacksmiths, 40%; foremen and monthly, 15 to 40%--an average increase of 40%. Materials had advanced, he went on to show, as follows: Gravel, 72%; sand, 25%; cement, 10%; lumber (form), 70%; timber, 40%; piles, untreated, 40%; piles, treated, 25%. These increases, together with the expansion of the plans requiring a canal of maximum depth, instead of the pilot cut of fifteen feet, as originally planned; the insistence of the Levee Board that levees in the back areas must be raised to elevation 30; development of unforeseen and unforeseeable quicksand conditions in the various excavations; requirements of railroads for bridges of greater capacity and strength than needed; building of a power line to the Foundation Company's plant--not a Dock Board job, but one that the conditions required it should finance then; and other expenses, besides delaying the work, made another bond issue necessary to finish the job. At its meeting of February 26, 1919, President Thompson laid the matter before the board. It decided to issue $6,000,000 of bonds, for which the same syndicate of bankers that had taken the other two offered 96. Liberty bonds were then selling at a big discount, and this seemed the best terms on which the money could be secured. This gave a total issue of $12,000,000 to date, the interest on which amounted to $600,000 a year. The Levee Board raised its share of the "rental" to $550,000, to guarantee the interest; the Public Belt Railroad's $50,000 made the total complete. In the meantime ships were beginning to bulk large on the ways of the Foundation and the Doullut & Williams yards. The Foundation company launched its first, the Gauchy--a 4,200-ton non-sinkable steel ship, built for the French government--in September, 1919; and the Doullut & Williams company launched its first, the New Orleans, a steel vessel of 9,600 tons, the largest turned out south of Newport News, built for the Shipping Board, in January, 1920. These were followed by four sister vessels from the Foundation yard and seven from the Doullut & Williams plant. The former went to sea through Bayou Bienvenu and the latter through Lake Pontchartrain. The Doullut & Williams yard is a large one. Originally planning a mere assembling yard, the Foundation Company had subsequently developed the greatest steel fabricating plant in the South--so confident it was that New Orleans would carry through the project. And, too, the New Orleans Army Supply Base that Uncle Sam was building on the river end of the Industrial Canal was rapidly rising--the facility that was to double the port storage capacity of New Orleans when it was finally completed in June, 1919. The canal is 5-1/3 miles long. Between river and lock the canal prism will be 125 feet wide at the bottom and 275 feet at the top; between the lock and the lake, 150 feet wide at the bottom and 300 feet wide at the top. It is an excavation job of 10,000,000 cubic yards. Five hundred thousand flat cars would be required to carry that dirt--a train more than 4,000 miles long. By September, 1919, the canal had been entirely dredged, except for the 2,000-foot channel between the lock and river, which must be left until the last, to a width of about 150 feet and a depth of 26 feet. Since then, the labor has been concentrated upon the lock. But twenty-six feet will float a vessel carrying 6,000 bales of cotton. Full dimensions, however, will be developed, and the Canal, with a system of laterals and basins such as are found in Europe, will be an Inner Harbor capable of indefinite expansion. OVERWHELMING ENDORSEMENT BY NEW ORLEANS. When the Canal was about half finished it received the most tremendous endorsement by every interest of New Orleans in its history. The question was put squarely before the people: "Do you think it is a good thing, and you are willing to be taxed to put it across, and, if so, how much?" And the answer came without hesitation: "It is absolutely necessary to the industrial progress of the city. We must have the Canal at all costs, and are willing to be taxed any amount for it." On September 24, 1919, George M. Wells, consulting engineer, made a report to the Dock Board, showing that the last bond issue of $6,000,000 had been exhausted, and about $5,000,000 more was needed to finish the Canal. This was in the last days of the Thompson Board, and it took no action. The Hudson board entered upon its duties October 2. It comprised William O. Hudson, president; William A. Kernaghan, René F. Clerc, Albert Mackie, Thomas H. Roberts. Later, Mr. Roberts resigned and Hugh McCloskey took his place. All are sound business men, with the interests of the port at heart. They found, in the bank, only $2,067,845.37 to the Industrial Canal Account. After deducting the obligations already made there was left only $112,064.43 to continue the work. Without a public expression from New Orleans they were unwilling to incur the responsibility of issuing $5,000,000 more bonds. President Hudson called a series of meetings of the representative interests of the city to decide what was to be done. As the people of New Orleans had decided to begin the Canal in the first place, it was only right that they should determine whether the undertaking, costing five times as much as the original plan, should be carried through. The governor, the mayor, presidents of banks, committees of commercial exchanges, the president of the Public Belt Railroad, the president of the Levee Board, newspaper publishers, labor leaders and prominent business men were invited. Likewise, a general call was made to the community at large to express an opinion as to finishing the Canal. At the meeting of October 17 the city made its answer. President Hudson outlined the attitude of the Dock Board as follows: "The board has no feeling of prejudice against the completion of the Canal. We are in favor of it. We are anxious to complete it. It was fostered by the citizens of New Orleans. "The floating of the bond issue is a simple matter, if you men think we ought to do it; but where is the money for meeting the interest to come from? The $600,000 interest on bonds now outstanding is being paid, $550,000 by the Levee Board, and $50,000 by the Public Belt Railroad. The Public Belt's share is paid from its earnings; but the Levee Board's share is being paid by direct taxation on the citizens of New Orleans. Must we increase that tax? I personally won't object to any taxation as a citizen to pay my part towards financing the Canal." "I want to see the canal completed," said Governor Pleasant. "But it is up to the people of New Orleans to say whether they are willing to assume the added obligation." R. S. Hecht, president of the Hibernia Bank, and a recognized financial leader in New Orleans, then arose. "I feel," he said, "that all who have the future of New Orleans at heart must agree that we are here to discuss not whether the Canal is to be finished, but how. "Finished it must be, or our commercial future will be doomed for many years. If the Dock Board were to stop the work, it would forever kill its credit for any other bond issue that might be proposed for wharf development, new warehouses, or anything else. "The cost of the canal is a surprise to everybody. I was present when the cost was originally estimated at $3,500,000 with a leeway of $1,000,000. I said then, and I repeat now, that the canal could be financed if the people of New Orleans stood squarely behind it. "The cotton warehouse and the grain elevator cost a great deal more than the original estimates. So the Industrial Canal, though it is costing more than anticipated, because of the increased cost of material and labor and the increased size in the Canal, will, I feel sure, be justified by the development of the future. "Are we to be taxed for fifty years for our investment of $12,000,000 and get no return, or are we willing to pay a little bit more and get something worth while?" That expressed the sentiment of the meeting. [Illustration: BUILDING THE LOCK] "The people of New Orleans," said Hugh McCloskey, financier and dean of all Dock Board presidents, "have never failed to meet a crisis. It is the duty of the Dock Board to finish the Canal, no matter what the doubting Thomases may say." Similar expressions were made by Thomas Killeen, president of the Levee Board; Thomas Cunningham, of the Public Belt Railroad; D. D. Moore, editor of the Times-Picayune; James M. Thompson, publisher of the Item; B. C. Casanas, president of the Association of Commerce; L. M. Pool, president of the Marine Bank; J. E. Bouden, president of the Whitney-Central Bank; Bernard McCloskey, attorney; Frank B. Hayne, of the Cotton Exchange; Jefferson D. Hardin, of the Board of Trade; William V. Seeber, representative of the Ninth Ward; Marshall Ballard, editor of The Item. Others present, assenting by their silence, included John F. Clark, president, and E. S. Butler, member of the Cotton Exchange; W. Horace Williams, of Doullut & Williams Shipbuilding Company; E. M. Stafford, state senator; C. G. Rives of the Interstate Bank; S. T. DeMilt, president of the New Orleans Steamship Association; R. W. Dietrich of the Bienville Warehouse Corporation; Edgar B. Stern, Milton Boylan, W. H. Byrnes, J. C. Hamilton, and about thirty other representative business and professional men. Mayor Behrman, John T. Banville, president of the Brewery Workers' Union, and George W. Moore, president of the Building Trades Council, at a subsequent meeting, gave their endorsement. With only one dissenting voice, these meetings were unanimous that the Industrial Canal must be completed at all costs; that without it, the growth of the city would be seriously interrupted. The one protest was by the Southern Realty and Securities Company. It was made October 23 against the Levee Board's underwriting the interest on the new bond issue. On that date the Levee Board unanimously voted to guarantee these interest charges, amounting to $375,000 a year. This brings the total being paid by that body out of direct taxation to $925,000.00 a year. The other $50,000 is paid by the Public Belt Railroad. To provide a leeway against the engineer's estimates, the Dock Board made provision for a bond issue of $7,500,000, but actually issued only $5,000,000 worth. This was taken by the same syndicate of bankers that had taken the previous issues, but this time they paid par. That was a point on which President Hudson had insisted. The contract was accepted December 10, 1919. And the work went on, with every effort concentrated on economical construction. SIPHON AND BRIDGES. As an incident in the work of building the Industrial Canal, it was necessary to create a disappearing river. This is the famous siphon--the quadruple passage of concrete that will carry the city's drainage underneath the shipway. It is one of the largest structures of its kind in the country. A word about New Orleans' drainage problem. The city is the bowl of a dish, of which the levees against river and lake are the rim. There is no natural drainage. The rainfall is nearly five feet a year, concentrated at times, upon the thousand miles of streets, into cloudbursts of four inches an hour and ten inches in a day. In the boyhood of men now in their early thirties it was a regular thing for the city to be flooded after a heavy rain. To meet the situation, New Orleans has constructed the greatest drainage system in the world. There are six pumping stations on the east side of the river, connected with each other by canals, and with a discharge capacity of more than 10,000 cubic feet a second. The seven billion gallons of water that these pumps can move a day would fill a lake one mile square and thirty-five feet deep. Three of the canals empty into Lake Pontchartrain, the fourth, the Florida Walk Canal, into Bayou Bienvenu, which leads into Lake Borgne, an arm of Pontchartrain. Because of this drainage contamination, the lake shore front of New Orleans has been held back in its development. Yet it is an ideal site for a suburb--on a beautiful body of water, and just half a dozen miles from the business district. So the Sewerage and Water Board has been planning ultimately to turn the city's entire drainage into Bayou Bienvenu, a stream with swamps on both sides, running into a lake surrounded by marsh. The Industrial Canal crosses the Florida Walk drainage canal. This made it necessary to build the inverted siphon. A siphon, in the ordinary sense, is a bent tube, one section of which is longer than the other, through which a liquid flows by its own weight over an elevation to a lower level. But siphon here is an engineering term to describe a channel that goes under an obstruction--the canal--and returns the water to its former level. Like the famous rivers that drop into the earth and appear again miles further on, the Florida drainage canal approaches to within a hundred or so feet of the Industrial Canal, then dives forty feet underground, passes beneath the shipway, and comes to the surface on the other side, in front of the pumping station, which lifts it into Bayou Bienvenu. At first it was planned to build a comparatively small siphon, but while the plans were being drawn, New Orleans entered upon its tremendous development. The engineers threw away their blueprints and began over again. They designed one that is capable of handling the entire drainage of the city. And in April, 1920, it was finished--a work of steel and concrete and machinery, costing nearly three-quarters of a million dollars, and with a capacity of 2,000 cubic feet of water a second, 7,200,000 an hour, 172,800,000 a day. It was a work that presented many difficulties. First the Florida Walk canal had to be closed by two cofferdams. The space between was pumped out, the excavation was made, and the driving of foundation piling begun. Quicksands gave much trouble. They flowed into the cut, until they were stopped with sheet piling. The piles were from 30 to 60 feet in length and from three to five feet apart on centers. Forty-six feet below the ground surface (-26 Cairo datum) was laid the concrete floor of the siphon. The siphon is divided into four compartments. There are two storm chambers, measuring 10 by 13 feet each, one normal weather chamber measuring 4 by 10 feet, and one public utilities duct, measuring 6 by 10 feet. These are inside dimensions. The floor of the siphon is two feet thick; the roof, one foot nine inches. The whole structure is a solid piece of concrete and capable of standing a pressure of more than 2,000 pounds to the square foot. Its total length is 378 feet; the shipway passing over it is 105 feet wide and 30 feet deep. In the public utilities duct are carried the city's water pipes, cables, telephone and telegraph wires, and gas mains. The storm chambers will handle the rainfall of cloudbursts. In ordinary weather the water will be concentrated through the smaller chamber, in order to produce a strong flow and reduce the settlement of sediment to a minimum. Eight sluice gates, each 6 by 10 feet, open or close the water chambers. They are operated by hydraulic cylinders of the most approved type. For sending workmen inside the siphon to make repairs or clearing away an obstruction there are eight manholes. Four measure 6 by 13 feet, two 6 by 6 feet, and two 6 by 4 feet. As soon as the Florida Walk canal can be deepened and a few link-ups in the drainage system can be made, the entire drainage of New Orleans, in normal weather and during light storms, will, according to announcement by the Sewerage and Water Board, be sent through this outlet. During the occasional cloudbursts it will be necessary to send some of the drainage into the lake, but this will be rapidly flowing water and will sweep offshore. It means a great deal to the suburban development of the city. A year and a half the siphon was in the making. Preparations for the structure cost more than $250,000--excavation foundation, etc. The concrete alone cost $170,000. Machinery and the work of housing and installing it cost $60,000 more. Four bascule steel bridges now cross the Industrial Canal. They are the largest in the city. Three of them--at Florida Walk, for the Southern and Public Belt Railways; Gentilly, for the Louisville & Nashville; and on the lake front, for the Southern, weigh 1,600,000 pounds each--superstructure only. The fourth--at the lock--weighs 1,000,000 pounds. They are balanced by 800-ton concrete blocks and concrete adjustment blocks. Their extreme length is 160 feet; the moving leaf has a span of 117 feet. With a 30-foot right of way for railroad tracks, 11 feet for vehicles and trolley cars and four feet for pedestrians, they are designed to meet traffic conditions of a great and growing city. They will support 50-ton street cars or 15-ton road rollers--New Orleans has nothing as heavy as that now--and trains a great deal heavier than are now coming to the city. No bridge in the South will support as heavy loads. The tensile strength of the steel of which the bridges are constructed is from 55,000 to 85,000 pounds to the square inch, and they will bear a wind load of 20 pounds to the square inch of exposed surface. They are operated by two 75-horse power electric motors, 440 volts, 60-cycle, 3-phase current, which is stepped down from 2,200 volts by means of transformers. In addition, there is a 36-horse power gasoline engine, to be used if the electrical equipment is out of order. To open or close the bridges will require a minute and a half. THE REMARKABLE LOCK. Not only is the lock of the Industrial Canal one of the largest in the United States, but its construction solved a soil problem that was thought impossible. That of the Panama Canal is simple in comparison. The design is unique in many respects. The lock is a monument to the power of Man over the forces of Nature, and to the progress of a community that will not say die. Because of the great variation in the level of the river at low and high water--a matter of twenty feet--it was necessary to make the excavation, for building the lock, about fifty feet deep. In solid soil this would be a simple matter. But this ground has been made by the gradual deposit of Mississippi River silt upon what was originally the sandy bed of the ocean, and through these deposits run strata of water-bearing sand, or quicksand. This flows into a cut and causes the banks to cave and slide into the excavation. Underneath there is a pressure of marsh gas, which, with the pressure of the collapsing banks, squeezes the deeper layers of quicksand upwards, creating boils and blowing up the bottom. New Orleans has had plenty of experiences with these flowing sands in its shallow sewerage excavations. How, then, expect to make an excavation fifty feet deep? asked the doubting Thomases. It couldn't be done. The quicksands would flow in too fast. The dredges would drain the surrounding subsoil, but that wouldn't get beyond a certain depth. Furthermore, what assurance was there that the soil that far down would supply sufficient friction to hold the piles necessary to sustain the enormous weight of the lock and the ships passing through it? Undaunted by these croakings, the engineers, from test borings, calculated the sliding and flowing character of the soil, and estimated the various pressures that would have to be counteracted, balanced this with the holding power of pine and steel and concrete, evolved a plan, and began an excavation of a hole 350 feet wide by 1,500 feet long, gradually sloping the cut (1 to 4 ratio) to a center where the lock, 1,020 by 150 feet, outside dimensions, was to be built. [Illustration: INNER HARBOR--NAVIGATION CANAL Lock and Vicinity] The gentle slope of the cut was to prevent slides. It had been ascertained that the first stratum of quicksand began twenty-eight feet below the ground surface (-3 Cairo datum) and was three feet thick; the second stratum, forty-eight feet below the surface (-23 Cairo datum) and ten feet thick. Coarser sand extended eleven feet below this, from -33 Cairo datum. The second stratum of flowing sand began just below where the lock floor had to be laid. The third layer was 80 feet below the surface (-55 Cairo datum); the tips of the piling would just miss it. Excavation began in November, 1918. While the dredges were at work a wooden sheet piling cofferdam was driven completely around the lock, and about 125 feet from the edge of the bank, to cut off the first quicksand stratum. About 150 feet further in, when the excavation was well advanced, a second ring of sheet piling was driven, to cut off the second stratum, which carried a static pressure of 55 feet and was just a foot or so below where the floor of the lock would be. It was not thought necessary to cut off the third stratum. The excavation was made in the wet. When it was finished the dredges moved back into the Canal, the entrance closed, and the work of unwatering the lock site began. This was in April, 1919. There had never been such a deep cut made in this section. Consequently, the character of the soil, while it could be estimated, could not be known absolutely. And the exact pressure of the gas could not be known. The sands proved to be more liquid and the gas pressure stronger than anticipated. Quicksands ran through the sheet piling as through a sieve. The walls of the excavation began to slough and cave. The gas pressure became alarming when the weight of earth and water was taken off; sand boils began to develop at the bottom; the floor of the cut was blowing up. The fate of the Industrial Canal hung in the scale. To meet the situation the engineers pumped a great volume of water into the excavation. Its weight counterbalanced the earth pressure of the side and the gas pressure of the bottom. Then another ring of sheet piling was driven inside the other two. This one was of steel, and the walls were braced apart by wooden beams ten inches square and fifteen feet apart in both directions. This is one of the largest cofferdams of steel ever driven. As an added precaution against the danger of a blowout by the third stratum of quicksand, which had a static head of 75 feet, 130 ten-inch artesian wells were driven inside the steel cofferdam. Fifty-six similar wells were driven between the steel and the wooden cofferdams to dry out the second stratum of quicksand, as much as possible, and lessen its flowing character. In November, 1919, the work of unwatering the lock site again began. Only one foot every other day was taken off. Engineers watched every timber. It was not until January 4, 1920, that the unwatering was complete. The plan had worked. Only in one place had there been any movement--a section of the wooden sheet piling about 300 feet long bulged forward a maximum distance of three inches, when the bracing caught and stopped it. Then began the work of driving the 24,000 piles on which the lock was to be floated. They are 60 feet long and their tips are 100 feet below the surface of the ground. In March, 1920, the work of laying the concrete began. The work was done in 15-foot sections, for only a few of the braces could be moved at one time. When it was finished in April, 1921, the lock was in one piece, a solid mass of steel and stone, 1,020 feet long, 150 feet wide, and 68 feet high, weighing, with its gates and machinery, 225,000 tons, and filled with water, 350,000 tons. The concrete floor of the lock is 9 to 12 feet thick, the walls 13 feet wide at the bottom, decreasing to a two foot width at the top. Six thousand tons of reinforcing steel were used in the construction, and 125,000 barrels of cement. There are 90,000 cubic yards of concrete in the structure. Two and a half million feet of lumber were used in building the forms. Usable dimensions of the lock are 640 feet long, 75 feet wide, and 30 feet (at minimum low water of the river) deep. The top of the lock is 20 feet above the natural ground surface and 6 feet above the highest stage of the Mississippi River on record. To the top the ground will be sloped on a 150-foot series of terraces. This will brace the walls against the pressure of water within the monolith. It will be developed to a beautiful park. Heavy anchor-columns of concrete will hold the walls against the pressure of these artificial hills when the lock is empty. Traffic crosses the canal here by a steel bascule bridge 65 feet wide, with two railroad and two street car tracks, two vehicle roadways, and two ways for pedestrians. Concrete viaducts lead to the bridge. Gas and water mains, sewer pipes and telephone, telegraph and electric wires pass under the lock in conduits cast in the living concrete. Water is admitted into and drained from the lock by culverts cast in the base. These are 8 by 10 feet, narrowing at the opening to 8 by 8 feet, and closed by 8 sluice gates, each operated by a 52-horsepower electric motor. It will be possible to fill or empty the lock in ten minutes. There are five sets of gates to the lock. They are built of steel plates and rolled shapes, four and a half feet thick and weighing 200 tons each. And there is an emergency dam weighing 720 tons, which in case of necessity can be used as a gate. Four pairs of the gates are of 55-foot size; one of 42-foot. Each gate is operated by a 52-horsepower electric motor. When open, the gates fit flush into the walls of the locks. In the emergency dam is the refinement of precaution--designed as it was to save the city from overflow in the remote event of the lock gates failing to work during high water, and to insure the uninterrupted operation of the lock in normal times, if the gates should be sprung by a ship, or otherwise put out of commission. This dam consists of eight girders or sections, 80 feet long, 3 feet wide and 6 feet high. They weigh 90 tons each. They are kept on a platform near the river end of the lock. Nearby is the crane with a 300-horsepower motor, that picks up these girders and drops them into the slots in the walls of the lock. To set this emergency dam is the work of an hour. A ship passing through the lock will not proceed under her own power. There are six capstans, two at each end of the lock and two at the middle, each operated by a 52-horsepower electric motor, and capable of developing a pull of 35,000 pounds, which will work the vessels through. The lock complete, counting the bridge and approaches, cost $7,500,000. One and a half million of this is for machinery, and $56,000 for the approaches. Henry Goldmark, the New York engineer who designed the gates of the Panama Canal and the New Orleans Industrial Canal, in a letter of March 24, 1921, to the engineering department of the Dock Board, comments as follows on the remarkable lock: "I was much impressed by the uniformly high grade of construction of the lock, the systematic and energetic way in which the work was being carried on, and especially by the admirable spirit of team work, shown by the employees of the Dock Board, of different grades, as well as the contractors, superintendents and foremen. "The desire to get the best possible results in all the details, at the least cost, was manifest throughout. "The unique method used for carrying on the very difficult and risky work of excavation has attracted much professional attention in all parts of the country. Its successful completion is very creditable to all concerned, in the inception and carrying out of the method used. "The concrete work gives the impression of lightness, as well as strength, as though every yard of concrete was doing its special share of the work without overstraining, which is, of course, the characteristic of well-designed reinforced masonry. "The outer surfaces are particularly smooth and well finished, more so than in any work I have recently seen. "The erection of the gates, valves, operating machinery and the protective dam, has kept up closely with the concrete work, so that no delays need be apprehended at the close of the construction period. "The shop and field work in the lock gates is excellent. The rivet holes match well and the rivet heads appear to be tight and well formed. The gate leaves seem very straight and true." The lock was designed by George M. Wells of the George W. Goethals Company, assisted by R. O. Comer, designing engineer of the Dock Board, and approved by General Goethals. The methods employed to unwater the lock were devised by Mr. Wells. J. Devereux O'Reilly, chief engineer of the Dock Board, to November, 1919, had charge of the details of installing the unwatering and safety devices. He was succeeded by General Arséne Perrilliat, who supervised the final unwatering process. Upon his death in October, 1920, he was succeeded by J. F. Coleman & Company, in charge of the engineering department, and H. M. Gallagher, chief engineer, under whom work is being brought to a conclusion. From first to last, Tiley S. McChesney, assistant secretary and treasurer of the Dock Board, rendered intelligent and invaluable service, gathering together and holding the threads of the enterprise, and attending promptly to the multitude of details connected with the prosecution of the work. The lock was formally dedicated May 2, 1921--a ceremony that was the feature of the Mississippi Valley Association's convention in New Orleans. With the dredging of the channel between the river and the lock, a work that should be finished before January, 1922, ships will be able to pass from the Mississippi into Lake Pontchartrain. Then New Orleans can plan its next great development. [Illustration: CROSS SECTION OF LOCK] [Illustration: CROSS SECTION OF SIPHON] NEW CHANNEL TO THE GULF. George M. Wells, George R. Goethals, son of the General, Colonel E. J. Dent, U.S. district engineer at New Orleans, and other engineers who have studied the problem, say that the dredging of a channel from the Industrial Canal to the gulf through Lake Pontchartrain, or the marshes, is feasible, comparatively cheap, and maintenance would be simple. This would shorten the distance from New Orleans to the sea by about 50 miles, and would be a vast saving for ships. It is one of the objects towards which the Hudson Dock Board is working. It is Uncle Sam's recognized duty to develop and maintain harbors and channels to the sea. Distance is obviously an important factor; furthermore, the proposed new outlet would be an important link in the Intracoastal Canal, connecting with the Warrior River section of Alabama, which the government is developing between the Atlantic and Gulf Coasts. A bill was introduced in the Senate in 1920 by Senator Ransdell of Louisiana, providing for the development of the proposed channel; it was not pressed because the canal was far from completed. However, every effort will be made by the Dock Board from now on to have Uncle Sam take hold. Colonel Dent has for a number of months been studying the feasible routes. He, by the way, is thoroughly convinced of the value of the Industrial Canal to the development of New Orleans, and the commerce of the nation, and has so expressed himself in public. The Pontchartrain route has been laid off, by engineers, beginning at the Canal, paralleling the south shore of the Lake Pontchartrain to the south draw of the Southern Railway bridge, thence to the Rigolets to Cat Island Pass, from there to Cat Island Channel and so to the deep water of the Gulf, a total distance of 75 miles. Soundings and surface probings have been taken at frequent intervals over the entire route. These have shown the engineers the following: Three-quarters of a mile from the south shore of the lake, and as far as the railroad drawbridge, a hard bottom is found. The material is principally packed sand, rather fine, with a small amount of clay, and occasionally some broken shells. Beyond this distance from the shore, the bottom is softer, consisting of mud mixed with sand. From the bridge over the remainder of the route, the bottom, with the exception of a few sand pockets, is soft--a blue mud with a large percentage of sand. This soft material has so much tenacity, however, that current and wave wash, which tend to fill up artificially dredged channels, would affect only the surface. The government is conducting large dredging operations in Mobile Bay, Gulfport Channel, Atchafalaya Bay and the Houston Ship Channel. An outline of the results there will show how feasible the dredging of the Pontchartrain Channel would be, and how much cheaper in comparison. The channel connecting Mobile Bay with the Gulf of Mexico has a bottom very soft for the most part, and with a small percentage of sand. Towards the outer end, the material is black mud, about equal in consistency to the softest material found in the Pontchartrain route. A sounding pole with a 4-inch disc on the end can be easily pushed three or four feet into the mud and pulled out again. Wave and current action cause the channel to shoal at the rate of 78,000 to 132,000 cubic yards per mile per year, depending on the softness of the bottom and the depth. Where the highest rate obtains, the surrounding material consists of soft mud, without a trace of sand. Experience shows that where there is a fair percentage of sand in the material adjacent to the channel bed, the shoaling is lessened. In general, the material along the Pontchartrain route contains a greater percentage of sand and is far more tenacious than that along the Mobile Bay Channel. Furthermore, the Pontchartrain route is not exposed to such strong cross currents. The Gulfport Channel is dredged through very soft material, a grayish-blue mud of oozy consistency, into which the sounding pole penetrates six feet with very little exertion. On top, a small amount of sand is found, but practically none in the lower stratum. The material is considerably softer than any encountered on the Pontchartrain route, except for one small stretch. Yet the shoaling is not great. Where the shoaling is heaviest, between the end of the pier and Beacon 10, only about 700,000 cubic yards a mile has to be dredged out every year to maintain the channel. From Beacon 10 out, the average annual maintenance is less than 200,000 cubic yards a mile. Except for the four-mile stretch west of the inner entrance to the Cat Island Channel, the bottom, on the Pontchartrain route, is harder than that of the Gulfport Channel. Therefore, it is reasonable to conclude that the maintenance of the Pontchartrain Channel would not average as high as the outer portion of the Gulfport Channel. The Atchafalaya Bay Ship Channel, extending from the mouth of the Atchafalaya River across the shoal waters of Atchafalaya Bay, to about the 20-foot contour of the Gulf, a distance of fifteen miles, is through a material of slushy mud, with occasional thin pockets of sand. The shoaling runs from 540,000 to 1,680,000 cubic yards a mile a year. The highest rate is obtained in shallow water. Except in the stretch mentioned, the material on the Pontchartrain route is not as soft as on the Atchafalaya, nor are the depths as shoal, nor is there the exposure to cross currents. In the Houston Ship Channel, the material is composed of soft mud with a small amount of sand. A two-mile stretch through Red Fish Reef is practically self-maintaining. For the remainder of the channel, during the six years from 1915 to 1920, a total excavation of 13,574,000 cubic yards was necessary to maintain the depth. This is equivalent to 100,000 cubic yards a mile a year. In summary, then: 1. The Lake Pontchartrain route is practically unexposed to cross currents, as is the case with the Mobile Bay, Gulfport, Atchafalaya, and, to a certain extent, the outer portion of the Houston Ship Channels. 2. The material along and on the sides of the Pontchartrain route is, with the exception of a small stretch, more tenacious, and contains, in general, a greater proportion of sand than in the case of the neighboring channels mentioned. The channel could therefore be more easily maintained. Engineers estimate that a channel with a 300-foot bottom would be needed. On the south shore of the lake, the side slopes should be on the 1 to 3 ratio, with provision for a 1 to 5 ratio at the end of five years. Dumped on shore, the material would reclaim considerable frontage, and eliminate the re-deposit of this material in the channel. Through the remainder of the route, the original excavation should be made with side slopes on the 1 to 5 ratio, with provision made for a 1 to 10 ratio in five years. The dredging of the 75 miles of the Pontchartrain Channel would amount to 97,200,000 cubic yards, it is estimated by engineers. The cost would be around $10,000,000. The annual maintenance, during the first five years, would amount to 8,880,000 cubic yards--an estimate based on a comparison with the other channels into the Gulf, and the character of the material to be excavated. This estimate is considered large--but even at that, it is only 118,400 cubic yards a mile a year, and the cost would be about $750,000, according to Colonel Dent. After five years, it would be less. Another proposed route, investigated by Colonel Dent, is through Lake Borgne. A canal some miles in length, through the marsh, would connect the lake with the Industrial Canal. This route has considerable maintenance advantages over the Pontchartrain route. The character of the bottom in Borgne is more or less the same as in Pontchartrain. Sooner or later, one of these channels will be built by the government. That it has not already been begun is due to the fact that the Canal has not yet been completed, and the expected development has not taken place. But there is no doubt that it will. [Illustration: TYPICAL BRIDGE ON CANAL] [Illustration: EMERGENCY DAM CRANE] WHY GOVERNMENT SHOULD OPERATE CANAL. It is the function of the state to provide port facilities in the form of docks, piers, warehouses, grain elevators, mechanical equipment, etc. But it is the duty of the national government to improve harbors, dredge streams, dig canals for navigation and irrigation, erect levees to protect the back country, and build locks and dams when needed. These are the premises from which the Hudson Dock Board reasons that the cost of construction and maintenance of the New Orleans Navigation Canal and Inner Harbor should be assumed by Uncle Sam. It will leave no stone unturned to have him assume the obligation. The Navigation Canal is essentially a harbor improvement. It enables practically unlimited industrial development and commercial interchange. It is an important link in the Intracoastal Canal system which the government is developing to provide an inland waterway from Boston, Mass. to Brownsville, Tex., and, with the dredging of a channel through Lake Pontchartrain to the Gulf, a problem which U.S. engineers have been studying for some time and an undertaking which they have found feasible, it will put the nation's second port about fifty miles closer to the sea. It has considerable military value. Its purpose is, therefore, national; the local interests are secondary. It is no new principle, this obligation of the government. That duty has been recognized by Congress since the United States was. Any rivers and harbors bill will show great and useful expenditure for waterways improvement. The Panama Canal, built by the government, is the greatest example. Coming closer home, there is south pass at the mouth of the Mississippi. A bar, with a nine-foot depth of water, blocked the commerce of New Orleans. Under the rivers and harbors act of 1875, Captain James B. Eads was paid $8,000,000 for building the famous jetties to provide a 26-foot channel. Since then, the channel has been deepened to 33 feet. In more recent years, the government began to improve southwest pass, the westernmost mouth of the Mississippi. A nine-foot bar was there, too. To increase the depth to 35 feet, the government spent, up to 1919, about $15,000,000, and is still spending. "Just as the purpose of the improvements of these channels was to bridge the distance from deep water to deep water" says Arthur McGuirk, special counsel of the Dock Board, in a report of February 23, 1921, to the Board, "so is the purpose of the Navigation Canal to bridge the distance from the deep water of the river to the proposed deep water channel of the lake." In the annual report of the chief of engineers, U.S.A., for the fiscal year ending June 30, 1919, are listed the following waterways improvements and canal developments being made by the Government: "Operating and care of canals, $3,596,566.20. "Cape Cod canal, purchase authorized, river and harbors act, August 8, 1917, cost not exceeding $10,000,000, and enlargement $5,000,000. "Jamaica Bay channel, 500 feet width, 10 feet depth, to be further increased to 1,500 feet width entrance channel and 1,000 feet interior channel, maximum depth of 30 feet, length of channel 12 miles. Approved estimate of cost to United States not to exceed $7,430,000. River and harbors act of June 25, 1910. House document No. 1488, 60th Congress. "Ambrose channel, New York harbor, appropriation new work and maintenance, $4,924,530.88, year ending June 30, 1919. "Bay Ridge and Red Hook channels, $4,471,100. "Locks and dams on Coosa River, Alabama-Georgia, $1,700,918.21. "Channel connecting Mobile Bay and Mississippi Sound, act of June 13, 1902, original project, for construction and maintenance total cost $7,809,812.42. "Black Warrior river, 17 locks, Mobile to Sanders' Ferry, 443 miles. Total to date, $10,101,295.54. Indefinite appropriation. "Sabine Pass, act of June 19, 1906 and prior, channels, turning basins and jetties, March 2, 1907, and previously, total appropriations, $1,875,506.78. "Trinity River, Galveston, north, 37 miles locks and dams. Act of June 13, 1902, house document 409, 56th congress. Estimate cost complete canalization of river, revised 1916, in addition to amounts expended prior to rivers and harbors act of July, 1916, in round numbers $13,500,000. Estimated annual cost of maintenance, $280,000. "Houston to Galveston ship canal, act of July 25, 1912, and July 27, 1916. Cost, $3,850,000. Annual maintenance, $325,000. "Rock Island Rapids (Ill.) and LeClaire canal, rock excavations, etc., act of March 2, 1907, dams, 3 locks, etc., to June 30, $31,180,085.62 and $130,158.03 for 1 year maintenance. "Keokuk, Iowa (formerly Des Moines Rapids canal), old project (act of June 23, 1866), $4,574,950.00. "Muscle Shoals Canal (Tennessee River), 36.6 miles, depth 5 feet, $4,743,484.50. Exclusive of cost of nitrate plant. "Locks and dams on Ohio River, act of March 3, 1879, to act of March 2, 1907, including purchase of Louisville and Portland canal, $17,657,273.78. "Estimated cost of new work, widening Louisville and Portland canal and changes in dams, $63,731,488. Annual maintenance covering only lock forces and cost of repairs and renewals, $810,000. Act of June 25, 1920, house document 492, 65th congress, first session. Also act of March 4, 1915, house document 1695, 64th congress, second session. "Ship channel connecting waters of great lakes, including St. Mary's river (Sault Sainte Marie locks), St. Clair and Detroit rivers, locks and dams, total appropriations to June 30, 1919, $26,020,369.68. Estimate new work, $24,085. "St. Clair river, connecting Lakes St. Clair and Erie, shoalest part was 12-1/2 to 15 feet. Improved at expense of $13,252,254.00. Estimated cost of completion, $2,720,000. "Niagara river, $15,785,713.07. "Los Angeles and Long Beach harbor, $4,492,809.80. "Seattle, Lake Washington ship canal, in city of Seattle, from Puget Sound to lake; original project, act of August 18, 1894. Double lock and fixed dam. Length about 8 miles. Total appropriation to date, $3,345,500.00." These are only some of the larger projects. Of course there are a great number of such works, all over the country, constructed and maintained by the United States, sometimes alone, and again by co-operation with local authorities. New Orleans was founded because of the strategic value of the location, both from a commercial and a military standpoint. The power that holds New Orleans commands the Mississippi Valley--a fact which the British recognized in 1812 when they tried to capture it. Likewise, when Farragut captured New Orleans, he broke the backbone of the Confederacy. Mr. McGuirk, in the report to which reference has already been made, discusses the military importance of the Industrial Canal as follows: "A ship canal, connecting the river and the lake at New Orleans will be a Panama or a Kiel canal, in miniature, and double in effectiveness the naval forces defending the valley, as they may be moved to and fro in the canal from the river to the lake. On this line of defense heavy artillery on mobile mounts can be utilized, in addition to heavy ships of the line. That is to say, just as light-draft monitors, and even floats carrying high-powered rifles were used effectively on the Belgian coast; on the Piave river in Italy, and on the Tigris in Mesopotamia, so may they be used in the defense of the valley, on any canal connecting the Mississippi river and Lake Pontchartrain. Changes are constantly occurring in the details of work of defense due to development of armament, munitions and transport. The never-ending development of range and caliber has assumed vast importance, particularly with reference to the effect on the protection of cities from bombardment. Naval guns are now capable of hurling projectiles to distances of over 50,000 yards, 28 to 30 miles. For the protection of the valley we should have at New Orleans armament mounted on floating platforms which will hold the enemy beyond the point where his shells may not reach their objective, and in this operation the canal, affording means of rapid transport, will render invaluable and essential service." A country's ports are its watergates. Their local importance is comparatively small. They are important or not according to whether they are on trade routes, and easily accessible. An infinitesimal part of the trade that flows through New Orleans originates or terminates there. The back country gets the bulk of the business. The development of the harbor is for the service of the interior. It is essentially national. From every point of view, therefore, it is the duty of the national government to take over the Navigation Canal and release the monies of the state so they may be devoted to the improvement of the waterway with wharves and other works in aid of the nation's commerce. [Illustration: S. S. NEW ORLEANS First Ship Launched by Doullut & Williams Shipbuilding Co.] [Illustration: S. S. GAUCHY First Ship Launched on Canal] ECONOMIC ASPECT OF CANAL. Tied to the Mississippi Valley by nearly 14,000 miles of navigable waterways, and the largest port on the gulf coast and the most centrally situated with respect to the Latin-American and Oriental trade, New Orleans is naturally a market of deposit. The development of the river service, in which the government set the pace in 1918, is restoring the north and south flow of commerce, after a generation of forced haul east and west, along the lines of greatest resistance; and New Orleans has become the nation's second port. Its import and export business in 1920 amounted to a billion dollars. Ninety per cent of the nation's wealth is produced in the Valley, of which New Orleans is the maritime capital. It is the source of supply of wheat, corn, sugar, lumber, meat, iron, coal, cotton oil, agricultural implements, and many other products. It is a market for the products of Latin-America and the Orient. With the co-ordination of river, rail and maritime facilities, and sufficient space for development, it is inevitable that New Orleans should become a mighty manufacturing district. Such enterprises as coke ovens, coal by-product plants, flour mills, iron furnaces, industrial chemical works, iron and steel rolling mills, shipbuilding and repair plants, automobile factories and assembling plants, soap works, packing plants, lumber yards, building material plants and yards, warehouses of all kinds, etc., would be encouraged to establish here if given the proper facilities, and the Industrial Canal is the answer to this need, for under the laws of Louisiana private industries can not acquire or lease property on the river front. Even before the completion of the Canal, the dream has been partly realized--with the establishment of two large shipyards on the Canal, which otherwise would have gone somewhere else, and the building of the army supply base on the same waterway, largely due to the enterprise of the port. As Colonel E. J. Dent, U.S. district engineer, said before the members' council of the Association of Commerce, February 17, 1921, the Industrial Canal will be the means of removing the handicaps on New Orleans' foreign trade. "I hold no brief for the Industrial Canal," he continued, "but speaking as one who has no interest in it but who has studied the question deeply, I will say that five years from now, if you develop the Industrial Canal as it should be developed, you will be wondering how on earth you ever got along without it." Before the constitutional convention of Louisiana, on April 4, 1921, he elaborated this thought as follows: "The Industrial Canal will furnish to New Orleans her greatest need. It should be possible to build docks there where the entire cargo for a ship may be assembled. Under present conditions in the river it is often necessary for a ship to go to three or four docks to get a complete cargo. "Last year there passed through the port of New Orleans 11,000,000 tons of freight valued at $1,100,000,000. This required 1,000 loaded freight cars a day passing over the docks, fifteen solid trainloads of freight each day. The inbound freight was about 5,000,000 tons and the outbound about 6,000,000. This is extraordinarily well balanced for any port in the United States. This would mean about 5,000 steamers of an average capacity of 2,000 tons. "The proper place to assemble a cargo is on the docks. Last year the Dock Board allowed but seven days for assembling the cargo for a ship--only seven days for assembling 250 carloads of stuff. Then last year the Dock Board would not assign a ship a berth until it was within the jetties. These are some of the difficulties. "What New Orleans needs is 50 to 100 per cent more facilities for her port. Last summer the port of New Orleans was congested, but she held her own because other ports were congested. But that may not occur again. If you want to hold your own you must improve your facilities." Wharves can be built a great deal cheaper on the fixed-level canal, with its stable banks. And that is the only place specialized industries can secure water frontage. Sooner or later the government will adopt the free port system, by which other countries have pushed their foreign trade to such heights. Free ports have nothing to do with the tariff question. They are simply zones established in which imports may be stored, re-packed, manufactured and then exported without the payment of duties in the first place, duties for the refund of which the present law makes provision, but only after vexatious delays and expensive red tape. Precautions are taken to prevent smuggling. In the preliminary investigations and recommendations made by the Department of Commerce, New York, San Francisco and New Orleans have been designated as the first free ports that should be established. With the ample space it offers for expansion, the Industrial Canal is the logical location for the free zone. Counting the $15,000,000 contract of the Doullut & Williams Shipyard, the $5,000,000 contract of the Foundation Company Shipyard, the $13,000,000 army supply base, the Industrial Canal has already brought $33,000,000 of development to New Orleans, 60 per cent more than the cost of the undertaking. More than half of this was for wages and material purchased in New Orleans. The state has gained hundreds of thousands of dollars in taxes. About half the money spent on the Industrial Canal was wages; and helped to increase the population, force business to a new height, raise the value of real estate, and make New Orleans the financial stronghold of the South. What indirect bearing on bringing scores of other industries to New Orleans, which did not require a location on the waterway, the building of the Industrial Canal has had, there is no way of ascertaining. Since the work was begun the Dock Board has received inquiries from a hundred or so large enterprises regarding the cost of a site on the canal. That they have not established there is due to the fact that the Canal has not yet been completed, and the Dock Board has announced no policy. It is now working on that question with representatives of the Association of Commerce, Joint Traffic Bureau, Clearing House Association, Cotton Exchange, Board of Trade, and Steamship Association. There is no use trying to guess at what the policy will be. It is too big a problem, and must be worked out very carefully, with reference to a confusing tangle of cross-interests. Two principles have already been categorically laid down by President Hudson and endorsed by the Dock Board at an open meeting of April 5, 1921, with the commercial and industrial interests of the city, planning for the policy of the Canal: First, that the development of the Canal shall not be at the expense of the river. Wharf development will be pushed on the river to meet the legitimate commercial demands of the port. No one is to be forced on the Canal. That would hurt the port. It is not thought that such forced development would be necessary, and the Canal will be kept open for the specialized industries that can best use the co-ordination of the river, rail and maritime facilities. Second, that the control of the property along the Canal, owned by the Dock Board, will not go out of the hands of the Board. There will be long-term leases--up to ninety-nine years, but no outright sale. Furthermore, the private land on the other side of the Dock Board's property will not be allowed to be developed at the expense of the state's interests. So the frontage on the Canal will be developed before there is any extensive construction of lateral basins and slips. What will be the rate charged for a site? Will it be based on the actual cost of the Canal and its maintenance? Or will the state consider it a business investment like a road or street, and charge the property owners thereon less than the cost of construction, collecting the difference in the general progress? That, too, is a question which calls for considerable study before it can be answered. With the Industrial Canal open, sites available on long leases to business enterprise, and with our tax laws relating to the processes of industry and commerce revised and made more favorable, New Orleans will enter a period of expansion and development on a scale hardly yet dreamed of by her most far-visioned citizens, with enlarged profit and opportunity for all her people. New taxable wealth will be created rapidly. New needs for taxable property will arise. The tax burden on all will be distributed more widely and when contrasted with the earning power of such property will become less and less of a burden. This will be so because the water frontage through which the Canal is being created for the attraction of many enterprises which cannot locate on the river front, is all within the limits of the city of New Orleans. With this Canal in operation, New Orleans will possess to the fullest degree the three great systems of port operation: Public ownership and operation of the river harbor facilities; public ownership of the land and private operation of facilities on the Industrial Canal; and private ownership of the land and private operation of the facilities on the new channel to the sea. No other port in the country has the capacity for this trinity of port systems. No other port possesses such a hinterland as is embraced within the Mississippi Valley, nor so extensive and so complete a system of easy-grade railroads and navigable waterways penetrating its hinterland. No other port holds so strategic a position in the path of the new trade routes connecting the region of greatest productivity with the new markets of greatest promise in Latin-America and the Orient. [Illustration: LOCK GATE There are Ten Like This] CONSTRUCTION COSTS AND CONTRACTORS. Everything is relative. Looking at the total, some may think that the cost of the Industrial Canal is large. So it is--compared with the cost of an irrigation ditch through a 20-acre farm. But comparing the cost with the wealth it is invested to produce--has already begun to produce--it dwindles to a mere percentage. And a comparison of construction costs on the Industrial Canal with similar work done elsewhere during the same time is very much in favor of the former. Witness the following figures shown in the books of the engineering department of the Dock Board: Dredging, including the canal prism and the excavation of the sites of the bridge foundations, siphon and lock, averaged .2784 cents a cubic yard. The highest cost was in the lock section, from which 609,302 cubic yards were excavated at an average cost of .3796 cents a cubic yard. On the siphon and Florida Walk bridge section, including two other deep cuts, the 814,919 cubic yards excavated cost an average of .2607 cents a cubic yard. On the Louisville & Nashville bridge section, the 1,023,466 cubic yards excavated cost an average of .2363 cents a cubic yard. From there to the lake, 1,673,787 cubic yards, the average cost was .2411 cents. Dredging costs were below the original estimates when labor and supplies were 50 per cent cheaper. The 90,000 cubic yards of concrete in the lock cost an average of $22.50 a cubic yard. This includes cost of material, mixing, building forms, pouring and stripping forms. Mixing and pouring, from the time the material was handled from the storehouse or pile, averaged $1.20 a cubic yard. It would be hard to find cheaper concrete on a work of similar magnitude anywhere, say the engineers. On the siphon the concrete work cost more, because it was a subterranean job, with elaborate shaping. The price there was $35 a cubic yard, in place, including material and form work. To drive the 17,000 bearing piles and 7,000 traveling piles on which the lock is floated, cost an average of 15 cents a running foot. This does not include the cost of the piling. Construction steel cost .12 cents a pound, and erection around 4 cents. These were standard prices. The lock gates, weighing 5,285,000 pounds, cost $845,600, in place. This does not include opening and closing machinery. Three of the bascule bridges crossing the Canal, weighing 1,600,000 pounds each, cost $250,000 each, erected. The fourth bridge, near the lock, weighing 1,000,000 pounds, cost $200,000, erected. This is for superstructure only--it does not include the foundation. The emergency dam bridge, weighing 350,373 pounds, and its 108,256 pounds of turning machinery, cost $96,728, in place. Hoisting machinery cost $40,000 more. The eight girders of the emergency dam, weighing 90 tons each, at $240 a ton, cost $172,800. Machinery for working the ten lock gates, the eight filling gates, and the six capstans--twenty-four 52-horse power electric motors--cost $21,479, f.o.b. New Orleans. The plant for unwatering the lock, consisting of one pump with a capacity of 15,000 gallons a minute, and two with a capacity of 250 gallons each, cost, erected, $11,000. Total mechanical equipment used on the Industrial Canal weighs 14,500 tons. Its cost, including power-house, electrical connections, etc., is $1,516,000. Plant and equipment for building the Canal, including locomotives, cranes, piledrivers, dredges, tools, etc., cost $781,232. Depreciation, up to February, 1921, is set at $266,874, leaving a balance of $514,358, carried as assets. Much of this has already been sold, and more will be disposed of. Following are the firms that executed contracts on the Industrial Canal: OUTSIDE NEW ORLEANS. Lock gates and emergency dam girders: McClintic-Marshall Construction Company, Pittsburg, Pa.; designed by Goldmark & Harris Company, New York. Filling gates: Coffin Valve Company, Indian Orchard, Mass. Miscellaneous valve equipment: Ludlow Valve Company, Troy, N.Y. Capstans: American Engineering Company, Philadelphia, Pa. Mooring posts: Shipbuilding Products Company, New York, N.Y. Miter gate moving machines: Fawcus Machine Works, Pittsburg, Pa. Motors, control boards and miscellaneous electrical equipment: General Electric Company, Schenectady, N.Y. Bridge crane and bascule bridges: Bethlehem Steel Corporation, Steelton, Pa. Former designed by Goldmark & Harris Company, New York, N.Y.; latter, by Strauss Bascule Bridge Company, Chicago, Ill. Steel sheet piling: Lackawanna Steel Company, Buffalo, New York. Hoists and cranes: Orton & Steinbrenner, Huntington, Ind.; American Hoist and Derrick Company, St. Paul, Minn. Conveyor equipment: Webster Company, Tiffany, Ohio; Barker-Greene Company, Aurora, Ill. Woodworking machinery: Fay & Egan Company, Cincinnati, Ohio. Pipe: U.S. Cast Iron Pipe Company, Birmingham, Ala. Lumber and piling: Hammond Lumber Company, Hammond, La.; Great Southern Lumber Company, Bogalusa, La. Dredges: Bowers Southern Dredging Company, Galveston, Tex.; Atlantic, Gulf and Pacific Company, Mobile, Ala. IN NEW ORLEANS. Cinder and earth fill: Thomas M. Johnson. Levee work: Hercules Construction Company; Hampton Reynolds. Sand and gravel: Jahncke Service, Inc.; D. V. Johnston Company. Cement: Atlas Portland Cement Company, the Michel Lumber and Brick Company being local agents. Lumber and piling: Salmen Brick and Lumber Company; W. W. Carre Company, Ltd. Coal: Kirkpatrick Coal Company; Tennessee Coal, Iron and R.R. Company. Reinforcing steel and supplies: Tennessee Coal, Iron and R.R. Company; Ole K. Olsen. Rail and track accessories: A. Marx & Sons. Concrete mixers: Fairbanks Company. Repairs and castings: Dibert, Bancroft & Ross; Joubert & Goslin Machinery and Foundry Company; Stern Foundry and Machinery Company. OTHER PORT FACILITIES. "New Orleans," says Dr. Roy S. MacElwee in his book on Port and Terminal Facilities, a subject on which he is considered an authority, "is the most advanced port in America in respect to scientific policy." The Shipping Board echoed the compliment in its report of its port and harbor facilities commission of April, 1919, when it said: "New Orleans ranks high among the ports of the United States for volume of business, and presents a very successful example of the public ownership and operation of port facilities. It is one of the best equipped and co-ordinated ports of the country." New Orleans is the principal fresh water-ocean harbor in the United States. Landlocked and protected from storms, it is the safest harbor on the Gulf Coast. Almost unlimited is the number of vessels that can be accommodated at anchor. Alongside the wharves the water is from thirty to seventy feet deep. The government maintains a 33-foot channel at the mouth of the river. The "port of New Orleans" takes in about 21 miles of this harbor on both sides of the river. This gives a river frontage of 41.4 miles, which is under the jurisdiction of the Dock Board, an agency of the state. The Board has, to date, improved seven miles of the east bank of the river with wharves, steel sheds, cotton warehouses, a grain elevator and a coal-handling plant of most modern type, together with other facilities for loading and unloading. Authority has been granted to issue $6,500,000 in bonds for increasing these facilities. Wharves, elevators and warehouses built by railroads and industrial plants on both sides of the river bring up the total improved portion of the port to 45,000 linear feet, capable of berthing ninety vessels 500 feet long. These facilities are co-ordinated by the only municipally owned and operated belt railroad in the United States, which saves the shipper much money. More than sixty steamship lines connect the port with the world markets; the government barge line, a number of steamboat lines, and twelve railroad lines connect it with the producing and consuming sections of the United States. [Illustration: BULL WHEEL Part of Operating Machinery for Lock Gates] Now nearing completion is the Public Coal Handling Plant. Built by the Dock Board to develop the business in cargo coal, it is costing more than $1,000,000.00, and will have a capacity of 25,000 tons. It is of the belt-conveyor type. The plant will be able to: 1. Unload coal from railway cars into a storage pile; 2. Unload coal from cars into steamers or barges; 3. Load coal from storage pile into steamers or barges; 4. Unload coal from barges into steamers and storage pile; 5. Load coal from barges or storage pile into cars. At the 750-foot wharf the plant can take care of three ships at one time, with a maximum loading capacity of 800 to 1,000 tons an hour. Other coaling facilities at the port are furnished by: Illinois Central Railroad: Tipple with capacity of 300 tons an hour; New Orleans Coal Company: Two tipples, capacity 150 and 350 tons an hour; floating collier to coal ships while freight is being taken aboard at the wharf, capacity 175 tons an hour; collier, capacity 150 tons an hour. Alabama and New Orleans Transportation Company: Storage plant with loading towers on Lake Borgne canal, just below the city; American Sugar Refining Company: Coal plant, capacity, 70 tons an hour, for receiving coal from barges and delivering it to boiler house; Monongahela River Coal and Coke Company: Floating collier. Fuel oil facilities for bunkering purposes are furnished by: Gulf Refining Company: Storage capacity, 100,000 barrels; bunkering capacity, 800 barrels an hour; Texas Oil Company: Storage capacity, 150,000 barrels; bunkering capacity, 1,500 barrels an hour; Mexican Petroleum Corporation: Bunkering capacity, 1,500 barrels an hour; Sinclair Refining Company: Storage capacity, 250,000 barrels; bunkering capacity, 2,500 barrels an hour; Standard Oil Company: Storage capacity, 110,336 barrels; bunkering capacity, 1,000 barrels an hour. In the Jahncke Dry Dock and Ship Repair Company, New Orleans has the largest ship repair plant south of Newport News. The plant is on the Mississippi river, adjacent to the Industrial Canal. It has a 1,500-foot wharf and three dry docks, of 6,000, 8,000 and 10,000 tons capacity, respectively. These can be joined for lifting the very large ships. It is equipped with the latest and most powerful machinery, and has been a strong factor in developing the port. The Johnson Iron Works and Shipbuilding Company likewise has facilities for wood repairing, caulking, painting and scraping of vessels, as well as iron work. It has three docks: one 234 feet long, one 334 feet long, and a small one for lifting barges and small river tugs. At the United States Naval Yard is a dock of 15,000 tons capacity. This is placed at the service of commercial vessels when private docks are not available. The Public Cotton Warehouse and Public Grain Elevator are among the most modern facilities in the country. Both plants are of reinforced concrete throughout, insuring a low insurance rate. The cotton warehouse comprises five units, with a total storage capacity at one time of 320,000 bales, and an annual handling capacity of 2,000,000. High density presses compress this cotton to 34 pounds per cubic foot, saving the exporter 20 per cent on steamship freight rates. The insurance rate on storage cotton is 24 cents per $100 a year. Cotton is handled by Dock Board employees licensed by the New Orleans Cotton Exchange under rules and regulations laid down by the department of agriculture. Warehouse receipts may be discounted at the banks. Cotton can be handled cheaper here than at any other warehouse in the country. Storage capacity of the Public Grain Elevator is 2,622,000 bushels. This is about 25 per cent of the grain elevator storage capacity of the port, but the Public Elevator handles 60 per cent of the business--proving its efficiency. Its unloading capacity is 60,000 bushels a day from barges or ships, and 200,000 bushels from cars. Loading capacity into ships is 100,000 bushels an hour--to one or four vessels, simultaneously. Fireproof and equipped with a modern dust-collecting system, this facility is considered one of the best in the country. Other grain elevators at New Orleans are operated by: Southern Railway: capacity, 375,000 bushels; Illinois Central Railroad two elevators, capacity, 2,500,000 bushels; Trans-Mississippi Terminal Railroad Company: two elevators, capacity, 1,350,000 bushels. Wharves owned and controlled by the Dock Board measure 28,872 linear feet in length, with an area of 4,230,894 square feet. Twenty of these thirty-four wharves are covered with steel sheds. Wharves operated by the railroads on both sides of the river increase the port facilities as follows: Southern Railway: Two concrete and steel covered docks, one a two-story structure; one is 150 by 1,300 feet, with a floor space of 195,000 square feet; one is 150 by 1,680 feet on the lower floor, and 120 by 1,680 on the upper, with a combined area of 453,000 square feet floor space. Illinois Central Railroad: covered wharf, 130-150 by 4,739 feet. Morgan's Louisiana and Texas Railroad and Steamship Company: wharf space, 112,000 square feet; covered space, 117,200 square feet. Trans-Mississippi Terminal Railroad Company: Wharf No. 1, three berths, 281,904 square feet; No. 2, one berth, 94,350 square feet; No. 3, one berth, 100,725 square feet--most of it covered; oil wharf, 15,000 square feet. The New Orleans Army Supply Base has a two-story wharf 2,000 feet long by 140 feet wide. The lower floor of the wharf is leased by the Dock Board. Back of it are the three warehouses, each 140 by 600 feet, and six stories in height. Seven industrial plants have loading and unloading facilities on the river. The Dock Board does not lease or part with the control of these, and controls the following charges: harbor fees, dockage, sheddage, wharfage, etc. Open storage on river front contiguous to wharves totals 1,169,900 square feet. There is a great deal of potential open storage space away from the wharves and along railroad tracks, which could be reached by switches. For the storage of coffee, alcohol, sisal, sugar and general commodities, private warehouses offer a floor space of 2,000,000 square feet. Railroads serving New Orleans are: The Public Belt, Illinois Central, Yazoo & Mississippi Valley, Gulf Coast Lines, Louisiana Railway & Navigation Company, Louisville & Nashville, Louisiana Southern, Missouri-Pacific, Texas & Pacific, New Orleans & Lower Coast, Morgan's Louisiana & Texas Railroad and Steamship Company, (Southern Pacific) Southern Railway and New Orleans & Great Northern. Storage track capacity of New Orleans for export traffic totals 15,156 cars. Track facilities alongside the wharves will accommodate 600 cars. New Orleans can handle, at the grain elevators and wharves, 3,000 cars a day. Wharves are served exclusively by the Public Belt Railroad. The Industrial Canal will be similarly served. The Public Belt Railroad assumes the obligations of a common carrier, operating under appropriate traffic rules and regulations. The switching charge is $7.00 a car, regardless of the distance. On uncompressed cotton and linters, the charge is $4.50. The government barge line connects New Orleans with the Warrior River section of Alabama and the Upper Mississippi Valley, including a great deal of inland territory to which river and rail differential rates apply, as far as St. Louis. It is operating a fleet of 2,000-ton steel covered barges and 1,800 horsepower towboats. There is a weekly service. Rates are 20 per cent cheaper than rail rates. The port is supplied with some of the most modern freight handling machinery. Harbor dues and other expenses are low. The water supply, for drinking purposes and boilers, meets the strongest tests. How advantageously situated is New Orleans will be seen from the following comparison of distances: [Illustration: SHIP LOCK on the INNER HARBOR NAVIGATION CANAL at the PORT OF NEW ORLEANS THE LOCK COMPLETED] COMPARISON OF DISTANCES BY AND BETWEEN NEW ORLEANS AND NEW YORK AND PRINCIPAL CITIES. (Distances in statute miles, furnished by War Department.) New York New Orleans ---------------------------------------- Atlanta 846 498 Baltimore 188 1,184 Birmingham 1,043 348 Boston 235 1,607 Buffalo 442 1,275 Charleston 739 776 Chattanooga 846 498 Chicago 912 912 Cincinnati 781 836 Cleveland 584 1,092 Dallas 1,642 515 Denver 1,932 1,356 Detroit 693 1,100 Duluth 1,390 1,340 El Paso 2,310 1,195 Galveston 1,782 410 Indianapolis 827 888 Kansas City 1,335 867 Little Rock 1,290 487 Louisville 867 749 Memphis 1,156 396 Minneapolis 1,332 1,285 Mobile 1,231 141 Norfolk 347 1,093 Oklahoma City 1,643 856 Omaha 1,402 1,070 Pittsburgh 444 1,142 Philadelphia 91 1,281 Port Townsend 3,199 2,979 Portland, Oregon 3,204 2,746 Salt Lake City 2,442 1,928 San Antonio 1,943 571 San Francisco 3,191 2,482 Savannah 845 661 Seattle 3,151 2,931 St. Louis 1,058 701 Toledo 705 1,040 Washington, D.C. 228 1,144 COMPARISON OF DISTANCES BY WATER ROUTES BETWEEN NEW ORLEANS AND NEW YORK TO PRINCIPAL PORTS OF THE WORLD. (Distances in nautical miles, supplied by Hydrographic Office, Navy Department; land routes in statute miles supplied by War Department.) New York New Orleans --------------------------------------------------------- Antwerp 3,325 4,853 Bombay-- Via Suez 8,120 9,536 Via Cape of Good Hope 11,250 11,848 Buenos Ayres 5,868 6,318 Callao-- Via Panama 3,392 2,764 Via Tehauntepec 4,246 2,991 Cape Town 6,851 7,374 Colon (eastern end of Panama Canal) 1,981 1,380 Havana 1,227 597 Hong Kong-- Via Panama 11,431 10,830 [a] Via rail to San Francisco 9,277 8,568 Honolulu-- Via Panama 6,686 6,085 Via rail to San Francisco 5,288 4,579 Liverpool 3,053 4,553 London 3,233 4,507 Manila-- Via Panama 11,546 10,993 [a] Yokohama and San Francisco 9,480 8,771 [a] Yokohama and Port Townsend 9,192 8,972 Melbourne-- [a] Via San Francisco 10,231 9,522 Via Panama 10,028 9,424 Via Tehauntepec 9,852 8,604 Via Suez Canal 12,981 14,303 Mexico City-- By land and water 2,399 1,172 By land 2,898 1,526 New Orleans-- Land 1,372 Water 1,741 Nome, Alaska-- [a] Via San Francisco 5,896 5,187 [a] Via Port Townsend 5,555 5,335 Via Panama 8,010 7,410 Panama (western end Canal)-- Via Canal and Colon 2,028 1,427 Pernambuco, Brazil 3,696 3,969 Rio de Janeiro 4,778 5,218 San Juan, P.R. 1,428 1,539 Singapore-- Via Yokohama and Panama 13,104 12,503 Via Suez 10,170 11,560 San Francisco 3,191 2,482 Via Tehauntepec 4,415 3,191 Via Panama 5,305 4,704 Tehauntepec-- Eastern end of railroad 2,036 812 Valparaiso-- Via Panama 4,637 4,035 Yokohama-- Via Honolulu and Tehauntepec 9,243 7,995 Via Honolulu and Panama 10,093 9,492 Via Panama 9,869 9,268 --------------------------------------------------------- [a] By land and water. [b] By land. 
32539	----	EIGHT DAYS IN NEW-ORLEANS IN FEBRUARY, 1847, BY ALBERT J. PICKETT, OF MONTGOMERY, ALABAMA. NOTE. The following Sketches of New-Orleans originally appeared in the Alabama Journal of Montgomery. For the purpose of presenting them to the perusal of his friends at a distance, the author has caused them to be embodied in the present form. These pages were written from the recollection of only a few days sojourn in the Crescent City. The period allowed the author of collecting information was very limited. It is also his first essay at descriptive and historic writing. The author fondly indulges the hope that these things will be taken into consideration by his charitable friends, and will cause them to cast the veil of compassion over imperfections. MAY 18TH, 1847. CHAPTER I. A BRIEF ACCOUNT OF THE DISCOVERY OF THE MISSISSIPPI.--DESOTO'S EXPEDITION,--HIS DEATH,--THE FATE OF HIS PARTY, ETC. On a recent excursion to the Crescent City, I collected some facts and statistics which are respectfully submitted to the public. In attempting a description of this magnificent emporium of commerce, as it exists at the present day, I will briefly allude to its early history, commencing with the great "drain" of the western world, which is destined to bear upon its turbid bosom half the commerce of the American Union. Three hundred and thirty years ago the noble Mississippi rolled its waters to its ocean home in native silence and grandeur, hitherto seen by no European eye, when suddenly one morning HERNANDEZ DE SOTO stood upon its banks. How awfully sublime must have been the contemplations of that man. He had discovered it a thousand miles from its mouth, two thousand from its source. No one had ever seen its rise,--no one its exit into the ocean. But it was reserved for the Governor of Cuba to find it through a wilderness, at a place and under circumstances the most thrilling and romantic. Four years previous to this discovery, he embarked for Florida with an outfit of a thousand men, with arms, munitions, priests and chains. His object, the conquest of a country teeming with wealth and splendour, like that which his former Captain found in the conquest of Peru. He penetrated Florida, Georgia and Alabama, finding no gold--no splendid Montezuma--nothing but savages breathing out an innocent and monotonous existence, inhabiting a country in a state of nature alone. After hardships the most unheard of, disappointments the most mortifying, the proud and enterprising De Soto threw his troops into Mauville, a large town near the confluence of the Bigby and Alabama. Here a most disastrous battle attended him, for although he routed the enemy in the death of thousands, he lost all his baggage and most of his horses. His fleet then lay at the bay of Pensacola, awaiting his arrival, and by reaching it in a few days he could have terminated his disastrous campaign. But the proud Castilian was not to be subdued by misfortunes and disappointments. He determined to find just such a country as he had constantly sought. Fired with fresh intelligence of the magnificence of the people who lived near the "Father of Waters," we find him pursuing his expedition in a sun-set direction in company with his jaded, reduced and dispirited force, with a fortitude and courage which none but a Spaniard knows. He surmounted innumerable difficulties, which both nature and man interposed to arrest his progress; and finally, through a dense and almost endless forest, he suddenly gratified his vision with the majestic Mississippi. Crossing over the great river, he toiled in the prairies and swamps of Arkansas and Missouri, until wants and vicissitudes of the most trying character impelled his return. Arrived once more upon its virgin banks, his lofty spirit fell, and brooding over his fallen fortunes, a fever terminated his existence far from home, in the American wilds! Just before he passed from life, he caused his officers to surround his bed, appointed Luis de Muscoso his successor in command, and bid them an affectionate farewell. He also had his soldiers introduced by twenties, endeavored to cheer their drooping spirits, (who were now inconsolable at the loss of their great leader,) exhorted them to keep together, share each other's burthens, and endeavor to reach their native country, which he was never to see. To conceal his body from the brutalities of the natives, it was encased in an oaken trough, and silently plunged in the middle of the channel, at the dark and gloomy hour of midnight, and the muddy waters washed the bones of one of the noblest sons of Spain![A] Thus was the Adelantado of Florida the first to behold the Mississippi river; the first to close his eyes in death upon it, and the first to find a grave in its deep and turbid channel. [Footnote A: See "Monette's History of the Mississippi Valley," vol. I., from pp. 16, to 64. This learned man and eloquent writer has given a most interesting account of De Soto's expedition. His work is recently published, and should be extensively read by the people of the south-west particularly.] Muscoso and his remaining troops, now annoyed by the natives, by hunger and disease, built some vessels, and dropped down the river, in the hopes of reaching Cuba. And three hundred and thirty years ago these adventurers silently floated by the spot where New Orleans now stands! No hand had ever felled a tree,--no civilized voice had ever echoed among the forests of that place. But nature, eternal nature, ruled supreme. The poor fellows went out at one of the mouths of the river, and a tremendous tornado encountered and dispersed them. But few lived to reach home. The several journalists of that expedition describe the Mississippi river of that day exactly as it is at present, in respect to several things, "a river so broad that if a man stood still on the other side, it could not be discerned whether he was a man or not. The channel was very deep, the current strong, the water muddy and filled with floating trees." A long century was added to the age of the world before the Mississippi river was beheld again by civilized man. Col. Woods, of the Virginia colony next saw it, and crossed it. Marquette, in 1673, started at its source, and came down as far as the Arkansas. The Chevalier de la Salle, some years after this, commenced near its head and descended to the gulf, with seventeen men. Having returned to France, he fitted out an expedition, but his vessels were unable to find the river. He made another voyage, but could not find its mouth. Iberville was the first voyager that ever entered this river from the ocean, and he erected a fort at Biloxi, near Mobile, in 1697. CHAPTER II. THE EARLY SETTLEMENT OF NEW ORLEANS,--OF BILOXI,--NATCHEZ.--GOVERNOR IBERVILLE AND HIS SUCCESSOR. Iberville, the father of Louisiana, having formed a settlement at Biloxi, by erecting a fort and leaving a garrison, proceeded up the river, and established a town at Natchez, on that splendid bluff which towers above the angry waters of the Mississippi. On his departure for France, his brother, Bienville, was made Governor, and he appears to have been anxious to procure a more eligible site for the capitol of the province than either of those which his predecessor had selected. Dropping down the vast current he most patiently made a thorough examination of the banks from Natchez to the gulf, and finally determined to make the Crescent Bend the future capitol. His judgment was good, although the visitor frequently wonders why the city was not placed nearer the ocean. It was, perhaps, the most elevated spot convenient to the outlet, and was certainly nearest Lake Pontchartrain, upon the commerce of which the founder no doubt made reasonable calculations. But whether the settlement of New Orleans was the result of accident, as many suppose, or of well conceived design, it matters but little. It was selected by Bienville, and he threw fifty able men forthwith into the forest to felling the trees, exactly one hundred and twenty-nine years ago! In defiance of the united opposition of Natchez and Biloxi, the Governor pushed forward his work. It appears that in the very outset this place encountered difficulties of various kinds, which thwarted its prosperity for nearly a century. While only one year old, the Mississippi rising to an unprecedented height, swept away every vestige of human innovation. Being totally abandoned for three years, it was again settled by Delorme, "who acting under positive instructions, removed to it the government establishment." In the following year it contained about one hundred houses scattered in all directions, with no regularity, with no dyke to protect them from the rolling waves, no fort to repel the incursions of the Indians; without the smallest luxury and comfort, without society, without religious enjoyment, reduced by disease and assailed by the venom of every tropical insect, did these enterprising sons of France struggle for existence and a town. No sooner were they left to some kind of repose than they were visited by a dreadful tornado, which blew away their houses, destroyed their shipping, and ruined their gardens. But New Orleans has risen above all disasters and opposition. One of the most remarkable characters of that day was Governor Bienville. He must have been a determined man, with great good sense, and had the confidence of the citizens. He was made Governor three times, and for many years exercised a salutary influence over the destinies of Louisiana. A few years after this period, a body of Jesuit priests and nuns arriving from France, gave a new impetus to the town. They made a most fortunate location, and their property greatly augmented in value. But these pious adventurers were also to be disturbed. The Pope of Rome not only expelled that sect from Europe, but pursued them in American exile. Their property in New Orleans, variously estimated to be worth now, from fifteen to thirty millions, was then confiscated and sold for one hundred and eighty thousand dollars. These unfortunate people still further had to satisfy the tyrannical decree to the full measure, by leaving Louisiana! Fifty-one years elapsed from the settlement of Orleans until it was visited by that dreadful disease, the yellow fever, and we may ascribe that affliction, as we may do many other entailed evils, to the English. They introduced it by importing to Louisiana a cargo of slaves; and now these philanthropists would be willing to see our nation exterminated, and our throats cut, because we are pursuing a system of mild domestic slavery, when they imposed it upon us in the most heartless and aggravated form, by kidnapping and robbery!!! But I am digressing. To terminate this very rapid and imperfect sketch of the history of Orleans, I will introduce a brief summary, with the remark, however, that the Louisianians had every impediment thrown in their way in endeavoring to become a prosperous and happy people. They were handed over by the French government to a chartered company, who afterwards returned them to the government. They were then sold to Spain, and a remorseless governor of that nation introduced a system of plunder and oppression. Afterwards Spain ceded this country again to France, and France sold it to the United States for fifteen millions of dollars! A sum that startled many of our economical republicans of that day, but which, compared to the advantages of the purchase and the revenue since derived, was a most paltry sum. In 1778 a fire consumed nine hundred houses. In 1785, seventy years after it was founded, the population was only four thousand seven hundred and eighty. In 1791 the first comedians arrived from Cape Francois. In 1800 Spain receded the province to France, and it was purchased by the United States in 1803. In 1810 the population amounted to twenty-four thousand five hundred and fifty-two souls: Ever since the cession to the United States the strides of the city of Orleans have been rapid, and her march onward! CHAPTER III. GEN. JACKSON.--THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS.--THE POPULATION AT THAT DAY, AND OTHER THINGS ABOUT THE CRESCENT CITY. The most extraordinary man that ever lived in any age or country, was Gen. ANDREW JACKSON. From youth to the last moments of his life, he swayed the minds and actions of men beyond anything on record. Buonaparte, with all his power, was at last subdued, and died at St. Helena as harmless as a child. The venerated "Father of his country" lost much of his popularity and influence after he retired to Mount Vernon.[A] Nearly all the great men of whom we read, lose to some extent their position towards the close of their lives. But Gen. Jackson retained his influence so long as the breath remained in his body. While retired at the Hermitage, divested of all official power, with a weak and attenuated frame, bowed down with disease and tottering to decay; whilst the last light was flickering in that once refulgent lamp, did this masterly and commanding man dictate the nomination of a President, and achieve, through his expressed opinions, the annexation of Texas!! This is mentioned, not by way of political boasting, but to show the powerful influence he exerted over the destinies of this Union, even when the hand of death was upon him! It was the efforts of this distinguished Captain which saved New Orleans in 1814. No sooner had that devoted city become free from that despotic and ruinous policy which had for a century crippled its energies, no sooner had it been made a member of our family, than the ruthless hand of fate was down upon it once more. To sack it, to dishonor it, there were ready encamped on its outskirts eight thousand chosen troops, who had fought under Wellington in the peninsular war; veterans in service, and the flower of the British army. [Footnote A: Some of the author's friends find fault with the contrast here made in regard to the influence which Gen. Washington and Jackson exerted over the people of the United States, and they say that I have ranked Jackson before the "Father of his Country," for true greatness. Now, while I agree with them that Washington was the purest and greatest man that ever lived, I say that Jackson was the most brilliant of the two, and exercised more influence over the people than any other man that ever lived!] General Jackson reached Orleans under the most embarrassing circumstances. His troops numbered only four thousand, as undisciplined as children of the forest could be, with few arms and but little ammunition. The population of the city was made up principally of French, Spanish and Dutch, who knew not our laws, who were aliens in feelings, who had never heard of Jackson, but who looked upon his raw troops with doubt and dismay, while the splendid numbers in the British lines over-awed and intimidated them. Among this mixed and doubtful mass, it was the aim of the American commander to inspire confidence and make them stand by him. In the darkest hour of his deepest embarrassment, when mutiny and riot stalked over the infatuated city, when much of the talent and influence of Orleans was at that moment employed in overtures to the enemy; in that dark hour that tortured the commander's soul, a large deputation of French ladies implored him with tears and lamentations, to surrender the city and save their lives and persons. When informed by his aid, Col. Livingston, who was familiar with the French language, the nature of their visit, this great native Captain, this commander by the creation of his Maker, rose in his stirrups and said, in a loud voice, "Tell them, Colonel, to rely upon me, I will protect them, defend the city, and save it!" Jackson carried out his bold declaration, which seemed groundless when made. No man but him had nerve enough to make, and none to demonstrate it under such unfavorable circumstances. In a conversation with the Duke of Wellington, not long since, that distinguished soldier remarked to Col. King, our Ex-Minister to France, "that taking into account the disparagement of the opposite forces and the number slain on either side, the battle of New Orleans was unrivalled in the annals of warfare." Only seven Americans paid the debt of war, while the bloody field was covered with two thousand sons of Britain! After the defeated troops had embarked for England, and peace being declared, the Crescent City, relieved of many of its tramels, made the most mastodon strides to wealth and fame. Her population increased rapidly in despite of the yellow fever, which annually swept off thousands. As disease made fearful lanes through the ranks, the avenues were immediately filled by fresh pioneers invited by the inducements which her commerce held out. The population of New Orleans in 1810 was 17,242; in 1820, 27,126; in 1830, 46,310; in 1840, 102,193; and at this time it amounts to 170,000 souls! In regard to her population Orleans is not unlike Astor with his money. Each have arrived at that prosperous state when it requires but a few years to double their numbers. When Napoleon sold Louisiana to Mr. Jefferson, the condition of Orleans was poor indeed compared to its present imposing and magnificent appearance. Norman, a writer, says "at that time the public property transferred to us consisted of two large brick stores, a government house, a military hospital, powder magazine on the opposite side of the river, an old frame custom-house, extensive barracks below those now remaining, five miserable redoubts, a town-house, market-house, assembly room and prison, a cathedral and presbytery, and a charity hospital." The Second Municipality, which now contains a population of fifty thousand, with lofty and compact buildings, the centre of trade and enterprise, where now towers the conspicuous St. Charles and comfortable Verandah, was not many years since a sugar plantation belonging to Monsieur Gravier. In 1823, the enterprising Caldwell erected the American theatre on a portion of this field, and was considered a madman for building in the country. The lovers of the drama could only reach the theatre upon the gunwales of flat-bottomed boats, but how soon was this isolated building surrounded by wealth, beauty and fashion! CHAPTER IV. NEW ORLEANS IN 1847.--ITS EXTENT AND SITUATION.--LAFAYETTE.--CARROLLTON, ETC. Omitting an account of the many deadly quarrels which were constantly fermented with the Indians--of the battles of the Louisianas with the Spanish and English--of the horrible and unparalleled murder of twelve of the principle citizens of Orleans, by the order of O'Reilly, the Spanish commandant, who had invited them to one of his banquets--nay, of a thousand interesting things connected with the history of this romantic city, which could not have been embodied in these hasty numbers, I proceed to consider its present condition and prospects. The bend of land which sustains all this magnificence and wealth, is very much like that opposite Montgomery. A citizen acquainted with our localities, may very justly imagine New Orleans to commence on the west side of the Alabama, below Jackson's Ferry, continuing on by Bibb's gate and terminating just below town.--Opposite old Alabama town he may suppose the city of Lafayette to commence, then, further on, the town of Bouligny, and then Carrollton. The city proper is, by the river, five miles long, and will average three-fourths of a mile wide. Then commences Lafayette, which extends up the river two miles further, and, as they are so intimately connected and associated, it all may be considered as one vast place, seven miles in extent. After a succession of splendid mansions, farms, and other houses, the whole resembling a continued village, Bouligny and Carrollton unite with the chain of commerce. A century from this date, Orleans, like London, will reach out her arms and encompass within her limits every town and hamlet for miles around. As London swallowed up Westminster, Southwark, Lambeth, and Chelsea, so will Lafayette, Bouligny, Carrollton, and others adjacent be lost in her future immensity. It will then all be New Orleans, the largest city on the continent of America, and perhaps in the world. The foundation consists of a plain inclining from the river, and when looking from the St. Charles to the Levee, the singular spectacle is presented of ships and boats standing raised up before you, and the little rivulet in the street, just after a rain, running in a smart current by you and losing itself in the swamp, as if afraid to mingle with the "Father of Waters." As health and cleanliness are greatly promoted by this gentle inclined plain, it is most fortunate that Orleans is so situated. In ancient times the inhabitants were either amphibious or lived at great sufferance from the floods. But now they are protected by the Levee. A stranger however, upon the impulse, would think that protection uncertain. But if he would reflect for a moment, he would wisely determine that it requires not a very strong dyke to pen up the surplus water during a freshet, for the main current is confined by immense banks reaching far, far below. To render my position more palpable, suppose the river should suddenly dry up, Orleans would then be standing on a bluff three hundred and sixty feet high, for that is the depth of the river opposite the city. The foundation, a low alluvial bottom, has been much improved by draining and filling up. No building is erected without the foundation is made firm by piling with long logs driven down with immense force; but very massive buildings, even with this precaution, will continue to settle. It is said that the St. Charles is two feet lower now than formerly. Three great streets divide the city into municipalities. Between Canal and Esplanade, lies the first Municipality, between Esplanade and the lowest street on the outskirts, far down the river, lies the Third Municipality; and between Canal and Felicity, is the Second. They are wide and beautiful streets, running perfectly straight from the river to the farthest back limits, serving not only as boundaries for municipal purposes, but absolutely separating different races. The everlasting Yankees, with their shrewdness and enterprize, inhabit the Second Municipality; the wealthy French and Spanish fill up the First, with a large mixture of native Americans; but the Third Municipality is entirely French and Spanish. It was impossible for me to ascertain how many streets run through the city, but there are many. No fault can be found of the topography of Orleans, and it is strange that the regularity of the thorough fares should have been so well preserved under all the changes and vicissitudes through which she has passed. Everything is of interest here; even the names of the streets attract the notice of the visitor; and as he rides along, he may trace the different races who have formed and named them. He will pass through streets which the descendants of Spain first laid out, such as Esplanade, Ferdinand Casacalvo, Morales, and Perdido. Again his eye will glance at French names, such as Josephine, Bourbon, Chartres, Notre Dame, Dauphin, and Toulouse. Then there are various streets bearing the names of all the saints known to the Catholic devotee. In respect to names very little of Orleans has been Americanized. Occasionally you will meet with such names as Commerce and Canal, which doubtless sound very vulgar to the the French. But the master street of the world is the great Levee, usually from two to five hundred feet wide from the river to the buildings. From this great thoroughfare all others diverge, and it is the greatest mart of its extent in the world. While I was there, THIRTY-SIX THOUSAND BARRELS OF FLOUR were sold in a few hours! And while this astonishing transfer was going on, thousands of other produce and commodities were changing hands. Many years ago it was used as a fashionable promenade to enjoy the breezes of the Mississippi. Commerce has changed its character entirely. Now scenes of the most intensely exciting character are upon the Levee. The very air howls with an eternal din and noise. Drays and wagons of all descriptions, loaded with the produce of every clime, move on continually in one unbroken chain. Ships from every nation, whose masts tower aloft in a dense forest for five miles, with thirty thousand sailors and stevedores, busily loading and unloading, stand in your view. Steamboats, and crafts of every make and shape, from every river which empties into the Mississippi, are here mingling in the strife of commerce. The rough and homely produce of the far and cold Iowa--of the distant Wisconsin--of the black and stormy Northern Lakes, is here thrown upon the Levee in hurry and confusion mingled and mixed with the sweets and luxuries of the sunny tropics. Here, too, the various races of men astonish one. The Kentuckian with an honest and ruddy face; the Yankee with his shrewd and enterprising look; the rich planter of Mississippi; the elegant and chivalrous Carolinian; the sensible and honest citizen from the "Old North State;" the lively, fine-looking, and smart Georgian; the talented and handsome Virginian; the swarthy creole sugar planter; the rough hunter from the gorges of the Rocky Mountains--all natives of the Union--all freemen alike--all meet upon this common ground of LIBERTY and COMMERCE. And this picture must be carried out with the children of _adoption_. Here is also the dark and mysterious Spaniard puffing his cigar and sending up volumes of smoke through his black imperials; the gay and frisky Frenchman; the sturdy Dutchman; the son of Erin, and the cunning Jew. A trite adage says that "it takes all kinds of people to make a world;" verily, then, the Levee is a world. CHAPTER V. THE CATHEDRAL.--ORPHAN'S ASYLUM.--THE SISTERS OF CHARITY, ETC. Immediately opposite the Place d'Armes, and fronting the levee, rises in solemn grandeur, the celebrated Cathedral. It must be very old, and was said to have been erected through the zealous munificence of Don Andre Almonoster. Connected with the building is a story curious and romantic, and from all I could learn no less true. When Don Andre died, he exacted of the priesthood the positive injunction, that every Saturday evening prayer should be offered up for his soul, and in default thereof the property was to pass into other hands. From that day to this, in fulfilling these extraordinary stipulations, not a solitary omission has been made. And as you stand about sundown at the Cathedral, you will hear the doleful bell mournfully recalling the memory of the departed Don Andre! I was there at that hour. The dark and frowning church towered far above me. The deep-toned bell echoed its mournful sound until twilight began to mantle the city with her sable curtains. I thought of Don Andre. I thought of his injunction; I thought of his soul, and I turned from the consecrated place with feelings the most singular and solemn. The edifice in appearance is grand, antique and venerable. Judging from the disregard to repairs, I should conclude it was designed for it to remain so. Built of brick, with very thick walls and stuccoed, it nevertheless looks black and dingy, all which assists to make it more imposing to the stranger. A large door in the middle will let you into the ante-chamber, and from this by a door on the right and one on the left, you enter the immense chapel. Passing by two large marble basins filled with holy water, where devotees sprinkle and cross themselves upon entering; you are by the side of the "confession boxes." There are three on each side, each about ten feet high and eight feet square, with three apartments or stalls; the middle one for the priest, the other two for those wishing to lay down their burden of sins. The priest standing in the middle hears an account of the transgressions of the one on the right through a small grated window, while the one on the left is kneeling until his fellow-sufferer gets through. All that can be heard is a low whispering and murmuring throughout all the confessional boxes, where six priests are continually officiating. When the penitent is dismissed by the holy father, he appears to be a happier man, and on coming out of the box immediately kneels before the altar, and another person takes his place. This system of confession is often denounced; I do not pretend to defend it, but there is much excuse for it. What Protestant is there who in deep trouble, does not find relief in disclosing those troubles to an old confidential person in whom he can confide, and who gives him good advice? Are not the cases somewhat similar? I watched and listened attentively to see or hear the settlement between the father and sinner, but I made no discoveries and heard no money jingle. All classes unite here in the services, and as you cast your eye over this devout assembly, the elegant young lady may be seen kneeling on the hard stone floor, beside the negro or mulatto. And still further on, the well-attired gentleman prostrates himself with the ragged beggar in worshipping the same common and universal God! All appear to be deeply engaged, and in no church can there be found so much profound silence, awe and veneration. The three altars are so far distant that the fathers are seldom heard, and the worshippers are governed in their devotions by the ringing of bells. There is nothing very imposing in the interior, some very fine paintings representing incidents in the Bible, hang around the walls. In regard to the public buildings, "there is probably no city in the United States that has so many benevolent institutions as New Orleans, in proportion to its population. Certainly it has not an equal in those voluntary contributions which are sometimes required to answer the immediate calls of distress. Here assembled a mixed multitude, composed of almost every nation and tongue, from the frozen to the torrid zone, and whether it be the sympathy of strangers, or the influence of the "sunny south," their purses open and their hearts respond like those of brothers, to the demands of charity."[A] [Footnote A: "Norman's New Orleans and Environs."] The Female Orphan Asylum is a fine building on the corner of Camp and Prytania streets, and the visitor who has never seen any thing of the kind will be well repaid by an examination. He will be met at the door by one of the Sisters of Charity, (known as Nuns,) a lady about forty years old, rather stooping, but mild and holy, dressed in black, with a hood of the same, partly covering her head. Her dress is gathered around her waist by a black belt made of bombazine, to which is attached some keys and Catholic relics. She beckons you in the house, and proceeds on before you with a gait as noiseless and nimble as a cat. The first room you enter is the school for small girls, numbering about fifty, who all rise simultaneously on your entrance. You then pass into a room of fifty girls, generally from twelve to sixteen years of age. Here they exhibit specimens of needle work, painting, etc., all well executed. These schools are under the especial care and management of the good sisters, and nothing can exceed the orderly, neat and well-behaved deportment of the girls. We next visited the kitchen; if a clean, neat, ungreased apartment can bear that appellation. There we found the Lady Superior up to her elbows in dough, and busily assisted by several charity girls in cooking dinner. She was a fat, healthy looking lady, about forty years old, and looked like she had more of the good things of this life at her command, or rather appeared to have made better use of them than her sisters. The dining-room is well arranged, so are the dormitories, which are composed of four spacious rooms, very airy and commodious. Each school has its dormitory, and every girl has a separate bed, neat and comfortable, exactly corresponding to her size and length. Just as the good sister (our conductress) opened the door of the chapel, she dropped upon her knees and repeated something to herself. On opening the door, we saw another sister "solitary and alone," kneeling, rising and prostrating herself before the altar. She was deeply engaged in her devotions, and never once turned her head to look at us. Being struck with the infinite degree of trouble which the Sisters must daily encounter in nursing and rearing over one hundred orphan girls from a month to sixteen years of age, I alluded to it, she replied, "That is what we are here for. We give up the allurements of the world to devote our days exclusively in doing good, and what you call troubles are our pleasures." This immense building, with four school rooms, four dormitories, dining rooms and many other apartments, are all under the management of seven Sisters, who attend to every thing, even wash and scour the floors, dress and teach the children. But the most interesting apartment was that of the infants. Here we found about thirty children about four years old, clean and well dressed and sending up their innocent and sweet little voices in singing praises to God! It was almost impossible to notice any difference in the sizes of this interesting little circle. Not one of the little sweets had father or mother alive. No one could look upon them with feelings other than those of pity and love. Like so many young birds holding their little heads above their nests, would these sweet little children ask us, "Have you any candy for me?" CHAPTER VI. THE UNITED STATES BRANCH MINT.--THE WATER WORKS.--MARKETS, ETC. The stranger should never leave the Crescent City without seeing the Mint, where money is made as if by magic. It is situated in the old Jackson square, between Barrack and Esplanade streets. It is a fine edifice, having a projecting centre building with two exterior wings. The walls are strong and thick, plastered in good imitation of granite; the length, 282 by 108 deep. This mint was commenced in 1835, and the whole cost of building, fencing, machinery, and furniture, was $300,000. The yard is handsomely enclosed with iron railing on a granite basement. You enter at a fine gate, and passing through the first court over a block wood pavement, you ascend a flight of granite steps, and enter in a large passage where sets a pleasant old gentleman, who requires you to register your name and residence. This being done, he leads the visitor among the furnaces where the smelting is performed; then in a large room where the metal is formed into bars of various sizes by running it through powerful iron rollers. These bars are then cut out into coins from the size of half a dime to a doubloon, by means of a machine something like a punch, but which moves with great regularity, and power, and despatch. The polite old gentleman then leads you down below, and in a remote wing stands a man solitary and alone by the side of the most splendid and beautiful machinery which ever was made, who puts the cut pieces of coin by twenties into a tube which fits them exactly, and the machinery stamps them one by one, with an eagle on one side, and the Goddess of Liberty on the other. The untiring machinery goes up and down, and stamps according to different sizes, from eighty to one hundred and fifty to the minute! and they are received into a beautiful silver vase below. Before the coin is brought into this finishing room, it is not counted, but weighed; and after it is here impressed, it is then weighed again. In 1838, the mint coined only the amount $40,243; 1839, $263,650; 1840, $915,600; 1841, $642,200; 1842, $1,275,750; 1843, $4,568,000; 1844, $4,208,500; 1845, $1,473,000. The falling off during the last year mentioned, has been owing to the state of our foreign exchanges being against the interests of the mint. The chief work has consisted in the new coinage of old Spanish dollars, French, German, and English coins. The unwrought gold is chiefly from Alabama, and is greatly on the increase. Nothing is charged for the coinage of pure metal. The expenses are borne by the Government, and are annually about fifty-two thousand dollars. A large portion of the city of Orleans is watered from the large reservoir in the upper part of the second municipality. An iron pipe eighteen inches in diameter, is placed in the river twelve feet below the surface, and through this, great columns of water are continually ascending by sixty horse power force-pumps, situated in brick buildings on Tchoupitoulas and Richard streets. The water is carried under ground for two hundred yards further, and forced up the reservoir alluded to, which has been made in the manner of an artificial mound, from the sediment of the river. The reservoir is built on the top of the mound, and is about three hundred feet square, walled with brick and cemented, with four apartments in it, each having about five feet live water in them. Every month or two, the water is drawn off from two of them, and the deposit formed six inches deep is scraped off, and the water let in again. A pavilion in the middle of the reservoir affords a pleasant seat, and affords you a commanding view of the immediate neighborhood. The pumps force up 2,280 gallons per minute. The cost of the works is about $1,490,000; expenses, $17,000; revenue, $75000. The water is distributed through cast iron pipes from sixteen to six inches in diameter, and is sold at the rate of three dollars per head. The daily consumption is near one million three hundred thousand gallons. The city of New Orleans is more abundantly blessed, according to its extent, with good markets than any city on the continent. They may be found in all directions, affording a great abundance of the best that the whole Mississippi valley and the far western plains of Texas can produce. The great attraction to visitors is the celebrated FRENCH MARKET. The French, English, Spanish, Dutch, Swiss and Italian languages are employed here in trading, buying, and selling, and a kind of mongrel mixture and jumble of each and all is spoken by the lower class in the market. It lies on the Levee, admirably situated, and extends a long ways. All is hurry, jostling and confusion; the very drums of your ears ache with the eternal jargon--with the cursing, swearing, whooping, hollowing, cavilling, laughing, crying, cheating and stealing, which are all in full blast. The screams of parrots, the music of birds, the barking of dogs, the cries of oystermen, the screams of children, the Dutch girl's organ, the French negro humming a piece of the last opera--all are going it, increasing the novelty of this novel place. The people engaged in building the tower of Babel, whose language was confounded and confused for their presumptuous undertaking, never made a worse jargon or inflicted a greater blow upon harmonious sounds, than is to be found here. While looking around at the various commodities exposed for sale, I saw scores of opossums, coons, crawfish, eels, minks, and frogs, brought there to satiate the fancy appetite of the French. But what was my astonishment on seeing a basket of five fat _puppies_ about six weeks old, which the owner informed me were for French gentlemen to eat! In charity for the Frenchman's taste, I have sometimes thought the vender of these little barkers was palming a quiz upon me. I hope so. This is an unrivalled market. Every fish that swims in the Gulf, every bird that flies in the air, or swims upon the wave, every quadruped that scours the plains or skulks in dens, which are usually eaten by men, can be had in great abundance. All kinds of grain and roots raised in the up country, all the luxuries of the tropics, are here. The elk of the Osage river, the buffalo of the Yellowstone, venison of Louisiana, and the bear of Mississippi, fill the list, and contribute in pandering to the appetites of luxurious citizens. CHAPTER VII. OTHER PUBLIC BUILDINGS.--THE FRENCH THEATRE.--THE CARNIVAL.--THE ST. CHARLES, ETC. I cannot undertake to describe the numerous public buildings which adorn the city of Orleans. I will merely observe that the stranger would be much entertained and instructed by visiting the Gas Works, the Chapel of the Ursulines, St. Patrick's Church, the Cypress Grove Cemetery, and other beautiful resting places of the dead; the Charity Hospital, the Maison de Sante, the Marine Hospital, the Municipal Hall, the Workhouses in the First and Second Municipalities, the City Prisons, the City Hall, the Orleans Cotton Press, the Commercial Exchange, the Merchants' Exchange, the Medical College, and many others too numerous to mention. A very great object of attraction at night is the Orleans Theatre, the most conveniently arranged building, perhaps in America. With a very commodious and elevated pit, with grated boxes on the sides for persons desiring to be private, two tiers of boxes and one of galleries above, the whole is so admirably arranged as to allow spectators every privilege of seeing and hearing. The pieces performed at this novel theatre are generally well selected operas, and although the acting is in the French language, yet the pantomime is so excellent and the costume so much to the life, that it requires but little practice on the part of the Alabamian to unravel the plot and become intensely engaged. Every kind of instrument necessary in producing sweet and harmonious sounds, is to be found in the orchestra, and the music is alternately melodious and grand. The dress circle surpasses all others for the beauty and fashion which it contains. It literally glows with diamonds and sparkling eyes!! In front are seated ladies most magnificently dressed, from all parts of the south and west, and among them sat the beautiful daughter of the hero of Mexico! As the child of the captor of Monterey, she was the object of attraction throughout the dress circle, and doubtless was loved by all for the noble deeds of her brave and patriotic father. On the sides of the circle are beauties still more richly attired, if possible, but darker and more effeminate than the former, but pretty and sweet beyond all description. They are the daughters of Louisianians! No theatre in the world can be better patronised. Every night it is crowded with fashionable audiences. For weeks together seats at an extravagant price are engaged far ahead. In going away from this little world of gaiety and amusement, the visitor may justly conclude that Frenchmen never get old! Here are men portly in appearance and elegant in manners, whose heads are "silvered o'er with many winters," apparently sixty and seventy years of age, entering into the merits of the play with spirits as gay and ardent as the young man of twenty. At the conclusion of a fine act, they will rise upon their feet and shout with rapture and delight, "bravo! bravo!! bravissimo!!! c'est bien!!!!" I shall continue to speak more frequently of the French and Spanish population than of the native Americans, because, being the more novel and strange, they are the most interesting. They have a great many singular customs and attractive amusements. Among others, "Mardi-Gras, or Shrove Tuesday," when the religious holidays are at an end, is of some interest. I saw this ceremony under unfavorable auspices. It rained the whole day, and the procession did not exceed an hundred, who constantly appeared in small detachments, some riding on horseback, others in open wagons and cabs, but many on foot; all masked and most fantastically and even ridiculously dressed. I presume the eminently pious portion of the Catholics do not engage in this celebration, unless giving it a more serious and respectable turn, for it struck me as I witnessed it as composed of persons of a low and vulgar character. Every Mardi-Gras man has his pockets filled with flour, and as he passes the well-dressed stranger, who excited by curiosity gets near, throws handfuls upon him, to the amusement of those bystanders who fortunately escape. One wagon in particular contained eight hideous-looking objects, dressed in bear, panther and buffalo skins, with horns of various descriptions on. Among them was his Satanic Majesty, with the same old cloven feet, lashing tail, and black skin. Those on foot fared badly, for scores of boys would follow them up, and pelt them with sticks and mud, and in one instance I saw a fellow stripped of his old woman's habiliments and mask, who looked stupid and ridiculous to the laughing boys and spectators. But while quitting a description of this poor celebration, once so large and interesting, I must not fail to notice the grandest sight my eyes ever beheld. I was standing on the gallery of the Verandah; in front of me rose up high in the air the imposing and magnificent St. Charles. On its granite gallery stood crowds of the finest race of men upon the globe--below, the streets were full, all looking at the Carnival. For four stories high, every window was full of beauty and fashion. Never had the remark so often made to me before, been so entirely convincing, that New Orleans contained more handsome ladies and fine looking men than any city in the Union. Every thing in front of the St. Charles is rich and inviting. The men all free and easy and elegantly apparelled, with forms cast in Nature's best mould; the ladies all gay, cheerful and beautiful; the cabs and coaches all elegant, with the most dazzling caparisons covering the noble horses. The eminent merchant, the learned jurist, the respectable planter, the dashing young fellow, the officer of the army, all congregate before the St. Charles, the best house in the world! CHAPTER VIII. THE ROADS IN THE ENVIRONS.--THE TOWN OF CARROLLTON.--THE WOOD YARDS.--RIVER-BOTTOMS, ETC. Of the various delightful rides in the environs of the city, none affords so much interest as the route to Carrollton. You reach that place on a railroad, commencing in the upper part of the second municipality, and running a third of the way through the suburbs of Lafayette, the remainder passing over a wide and lovely plain, with the Mississippi river on your left, and the deep and dismal swamp on your right. It is impossible to conceive a more interesting level than this, for as far as the eye can reach, objects of both nature and art are most agreeably presented. The road first passes a splendid country seat, resembling in appearance our imperfect ideas of a French chateau, surrounded with shrubbery of the greenest shade, with orange trees covered with buds and blossoms whose fragrance embalms the air, and burthened with golden globes which richly glitter in the sun. And next you see spread out upon this beautiful plain, heads of cattle and sheep grazing upon the soft green sward, which none but the alluvial bottoms of the noble Mississippi can afford in such inviting varieties. Further on, you enter a pecan grove, resembling some of the oaks in our forests, but every tree alike--all of the same size--bearing aloft the nutricious nuts which make them so celebrated. The road passes by many handsome seats and villas, the style of which at once indicates the taste and wealth of the inmates. While enjoying this interesting ride, my mind suddenly fell back upon Orleans, and was at once wrapt in thoughts of futurity. An hundred years hence, where now browze those innocent cattle in undisturbed silence--where now grow the green grass, "the vine and the fig-tree,"--will then be occupied by churches, towers, hotels, and theatres! What place is this? It is a part of New Orleans the queen city of America. Carrollton is a small place, but contains some fine residences; and there is a large public garden, tastefully laid out, belonging to the railroad company. The sale of wood seems to be the principal employment of the inhabitants. Rafts containing one hundred large logs about fifty feet long, almost entirely of ash, pinned together, are floated down from all parts of the world above Orleans, from as high up as Missouri. While winding their way through the torturous currents of the river, these raftsmen may be considered the most independent set of people that navigate the great watery thoroughfare. All boats and crafts avoid them and they have nothing to fear. A small hut of the most temporary character, made of boards, and sometimes the bottom of an old yawl turned up, is all the covering these amphibious and nondescript watermen have. Upon landing, the raft is sold to the proprietor of the wood yard. A log at a time is hauled upon the levee by large chains attached to a stationary windlass. It is then sawed into blocks four feet long, bolted up and put in cords which are sold for four dollars. At one of the wood yards, thirty hands were employed, and they sold $15,000 worth of wood per year. I must ask pardon for so often recurring to Mr. Calhoun's great "inland sea." It is to me the most interesting of all objects. I sat upon the levee at Carrollton. I saw it in all its might and majesty, nothing interposing to intercept the view. I thought of the countless number of rills, of the many creeks, of the numerous lakes, and of the untold rivers, rising in different regions and latitudes thousands of miles apart, combining every variety of minerals known to the continent--here passing by me, confined in one vast and deep channel, lashing its banks with violence, and pressing onward and onward its mighty waters to the briney sea! I cannot say, "to its ocean home," for it has none. It finds no resting place in the Gulf like other rivers, but the sea groans and gives way to its immensity, and we find its discoloured current far within the tropics! The reader of this number being well acquainted with the low, marshy, dismal character of the several mouths of the Mississippi, will doubtless be surprised at being informed that there is a mountain there near four hundred feet high! He has only to reflect that the river from Natchez to the Balize is usually from three to four hundred feet deep; across the bar there is only eighteen feet water; beyond the bar, just in the ocean, the Gulf is unfathomable. So, then, the river in going into the sea, has to pass over a mountain, which it is strange has not been washed away, for the river, as before observed, is not arrested in its onward course by the ocean to much extent. The levee at Carrollton is considerably higher than the plain upon which reposes the town. This great work that has occupied the labor, time, and enterprize of Louisiana for years, appears to afford a permanent and durable protection from the floods of the river. It commences at Fort Plaquemines, and extends to Baton Rouge, the distance of one hundred and sixty-three miles, on the east side of the river; on the west side it extends as high up as Arkansas. It will average four feet high and fifteen feet wide, and follows the river in its winding course. A visitor, seeing no ditch from which the earth is taken to erect this artificial dyke, is at first at a loss to know where soil was obtained to make it. On the margin of the river a continual deposit is forming called "batture;" this is drawn back from the river and makes the levee. It soon becomes soil, and has given rise to much litigation, for ownership is exercised over it when formed. The levee has not given way in a long time, to do any extensive damage. Near this place, in 1816, the river rising to an unprecedented height, broke through and inundated much of Orleans; but governor Claiborne had a vessel sunk in the crevasse, which stopped it. CHAPTER IX. ORLEANS AT NIGHT.--THE COMMERCE OF THE PLACE.--THE TWENTY-SECOND OF FEBRUARY. When the sun sheds his last rays behind the hills of peaceful Alabama, then it is that the farmer whistles a note over his last furrow, and thanks himself that the toils of day are nearly over; then the hunter checks his horse, blows his last horn and turns for home; then the lazy angler rises from the green bank, strings his silvery fish, winds up his lines and quits the quiet stream; then the children cease to "gambol o'er the plain," and night soon shrouds all objects in darkness and repose. Not so with Orleans. Over her massive buildings and pretty streets, the veil of night is cast in vain! Anon a soft and yellow light issues from a thousand lamps, and tells that untiring man is still abroad. Has the merchant pored over his books the whole day, he at this happy hour sups his tea, and thinks in anticipation of Monsieur Malet's delightful party. Has the lawyer attended upon the courts and given audience to clients, he now forms plans for this night's amusement. Has the laborious editor written "copy" by the long hour until exhausted and fatigued, he now kicks the exchange papers under the table, throws aside his pen, and recals with delight the Orleans Theatre and the sweet music of Norma. Has the gay matron visited and shopped, and shopped and visited for the last eight hours, she now once more attires herself for the splendid "route" of Mad. Solon. Has the creole maiden danced and sung, and slept and read, and lounged in flowing dishabille, she now rises from her delicious ottoman and for the St. Louis masquerade, once more adorns her lovely form. Has the good and pious man toiled all day in honorable trade in behalf of his virtuous wife and smiling children, he now sits around his evening meal, blesses his Maker for "all the good HE gives," and catches with joy the sound of the deep-toned bell, calling him to the worship of his God. Thus may all tastes and dispositions find accommodation by "Orleans at night." The cabs and coaches moving in all directions, with lights attached, resemble at a distance so many 'ignuis fatuis,' or jack o' the lanterns. They never stop, but go the whole night; for the gay and dissipated, surfeited with one amusement, seek another, and it is not uncommon for the same person to have made the entire rounds of the public amusements in one night. Stepping out of the theatre at eleven o'clock, they are escorted by the eager cabmen proposing to convey them to the Quarteroon Ball, the St. Louis Masquerade, and many other places. By the way, these cabs are most delightful inventions, easy to get in, fine to ride in. To prevent cheating on the part of the driver, the police have arranged the fare, so that the visitor pays one dollar per hour, as long as he rides. The city is supplied with one thousand cabs and coaches for public hire. There are fifteen hundred milk and market wagons. The quantity of milk consumed at the St. Charles Hotel alone, is eighty gallons per day! Four thousand drays are constantly moving with merchandise of all kinds. They are drawn by large mules driven in tandem style, and although these useful animals are apparently well fed, they are certainly most unmercifully laden and cruelly beaten. I should suppose that twelve thousand mules are engaged in the commerce of Orleans one way and another. What a mart for Kentucky! When the reader reflects that this immense city is assisted by twenty thousand miles of river navigation, extending into all parts of the western country, which is a world of itself, added to the commerce which it enjoys through the lakes and the great gulf, he will not be surprised in casting his eye over the following items: Number of ships which arrived in 1846, 743; barks, 377; brigs 447; schooners, 518; flatboats, 2670; arrivals of steamboats, 2763. There are 550 steamboats employed in the river navigation. The value of produce exported was $72,000,000; of imports, $35,000,000. Number of lawyers, 300; physicians, 200; commission merchants, 560. This statement proves the commerce of Orleans to be very great, but it must be borne in mind that it is constantly on the increase, and no calculations can be made upon it in future, as to where it will stop. Mississippi, Tennessee, Kentucky, Ohio, Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, Missouri, Iowa, Wisconsin, are all yearly increasing in population and produce; the latter of which must find a market here. Then I may add the product of another world not hitherto contributing, the whole western part of the valley, from the extreme north-western base of the Rocky Mountains, far, far down to the mouth of the Rio Grande, embracing the whole of Texas, all the Santa Fé territory, and the vast regions now inhabited by the Cherokees, Foxes, Creeks, Osages, and other tribes, who roam in "wilds immeasurably spread." "The country tributary to Orleans" so Norman says, "contains nearly as many square miles and more tillable ground than all of continental Europe, and if peopled as densely as England, would sustain a population of five hundred millions." He is hardly large enough in his conceptions. Who can tell the future size of the Crescent City? None but HIM who numbers the sands on the sea shore, and notices the sparrows as they fall! On the twenty-second of February, the hearts of the patriotic Louisianians were made glad by the roar of cannon and the waving of flags. The vessels for miles were hung with beautiful banners of every civilized nation and clime, unfolding their rich colors to the ocean breeze. When I saw the sons of Spain, and France, England and Russia, thus doing homage to the memory of WASHINGTON, the greatest and best man that ever lived, I felt a spirit of gratitude towards those noble nations, mingled with pride and satisfaction for the glory of my own country. The military of Orleans formed upon Canal street and marched through the First Municipality down the Bayou road, and halted upon a beautiful green. For some cause the "native" Americans did not turn out. There were two Spanish, two German, one Swiss, and four French companies upon parade. Should I attempt to describe the splendid evolutions of these incomparable troops, and the noble bearing of their skilful and accomplished officers, I would utterly fail to do justice. Presently along their lines appeared upon a "snow white steed," GOVERNOR JOHNSON, an elegant man about forty-five years old, six feet high, straight and majestic, with florid complexion and sandy hair. He was accompanied by his Aids all in the most expensive uniform. After reviewing the troops marquees and tents were pitched, and vast collation tables covered the ground. And while mirth and hilarity universally prevailed, at that very moment twenty thousand infuriated Mexicans were pressing upon the plains of Buena Vista, preparing to immolate the army of the brave TAYLOR! And now, kind and indulgent reader, I will no longer obtrude upon your patience; these sketches are at an end. If they have afforded you any amusement, I am compensated. THE END. ........ [Transcriber's Note: The spellings of the original document have been retained, with the following exceptions: on page 18, "by draining and fillling up" was corrected to "by draining and filling up"; on page 19, "Everything thing is" was corrected to "Everything is" and "move on continuualy in" to "move on continually in"; on page 34, "navigate the great watery thouroughfare" was corrected to "navigate the great watery thoroughfare"; and on page 37, "Has the laborions editor" was corrected to "Has the laborious editor" and 'attires herself for the splended "route"' to 'attires herself for the splendid "route"'.] 
21274	----	file was produced from scans of public domain works at the University of Michigan's Making of America collection.) [Illustration: "A pot-house soldier, he parades by day, And drunk by night, he sighs the foe to slay." _Page_ 19.] THE AMERICAN CYCLOPS, THE HERO OF NEW ORLEANS, AND SPOILER OF SILVER SPOONS. Dubbed LL.D. by PASQUINO. BALTIMORE: KELLY & PIET. 1868. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by KELLY & PIET, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the District of Maryland. Introductory. The following little illustrated effusion is offered to the public, in the hope that it may not prove altogether uninteresting, or entirely inappropriate to the times. The famous pre-historic story of Ulysses and Polyphemus has received its counterpart in the case of two well-known personages of our own age and country. Ulysses of old contrived, with a burning stake, to put out the glaring eye of Polyphemus, the man-eating Cyclops, and thereby to abridge his power for cannibal indulgence; while our modern Ulysses, perhaps, mindful of his classical prototype, is content to leave the new Polyphemus safely "bottled-up" under the hermetical seal of the saucy Rebel Beauregard. Although the second Cyclops is yet alive, and still possesses the visual organ in a squinting degree, a regard for impartial history compels us to add, that the sword which leapt from its scabbard in front of Fort Fisher, has fallen from the grasp of the "bottled" chieftain, whether from an invincible repugnance to warlike deeds, like that which pervaded the valiant soul of the renowned Falstaff, or because an axe on the public grindstone is a more congenial weapon in the itching palm of a Knight of Spoons, has not yet been determined with absolute precision. The warrior Ulysses, like his namesake of Ithaca, however widely opinion may militate upon his other qualifications, certainly deserves the everlasting gratitude of a spoon-desolated country for the strategy displayed in tearing off the plumes of the American Polyphemus, and fixing that precious flower of knighthood among the "bottled" curiosities of natural history. The American Cyclops. Progressive age! for contemplation's eye, Thy checker'd scenes a glorious field supply; Time was when Mercury waved the potent wand, And Nature brightened in the artist's hand,-- When mind's dominion round the world was thrown, Before usurping Mammon seized the throne. Aspiring genius, chill thy noble rage, For baser uses rule our iron age; Drive the hard bargain, mart for sordid gain, And where it will not win, hold honor vain; [Illustration: "He wakes a patriot, presto, he is clad As Fallstaff for the battle--raving mad." _Page_ 21.] To lofty subjects bring the narrow view, Shift with each scene, and principle eschew. Are these the elements of man's success? Go where the busy throng all onward press; Ay, there they flourish and will long remain, Till virtue purge the haunts where vice doth reign. Not to the few the moral taint's confined, But in its boundless range infects mankind; 'Twere idle to upbraid the good old plea-- Might governs all, the rest were mock'ry. The plumpest fly a sparrow's meal provides-- The heartless bird its agony derides: "Nay," quoth relentless Sparrow, "you must die, For you, weak thing, are not so strong as I." A Hawk surprised him at his dainty meal, In vain the Sparrow gasped his last appeal; [Illustration: "The faithful groom the pawing steed attends, The maudlin Cyclops all oblique ascends; But ere the lambent flames consume the town The Cid unhorsed, like Bacchus, topples down." _Page_ 21.] "Wherefore, Sir Hawk, must I, thy victim, die?" "Peace," quoth the Hawk, "thou art less strong than I." Grimly an Eagle viewed the state of matters, Swoops on Sir Hawk, and tears his flesh to tatters: "Release me, King, and doom me not to die;" The Eagle said, "thou art less strong than I." A bullet whistled at the victor's word, And pierced the bosom of the lordly bird; "Ah, tyrant!" shrieked he, "wherefore must I die?" The Sportsman said, "thou art less strong than I." And thus the world to might becomes the dower, While justice yields before remorseless power. [Illustration: "He blew a warlike trump And marched to conquest--conquest of a pump." _Page_ 23.] When distant ages rise to view our times, Whate'er betide our _silv'ry_ flowing rhymes, The brave we sing--Boeotian of the East Will still survive to spread the mimic feast. 'Tis said in fables that Silenus old To Midas lent the fatal gift of gold; But Terminus, the god of rogues, has giv'n Our hero gold unbless'd of man or heav'n. 'Mid all the tyrants of our age and clime, He stands alone in infamy and crime; Not e'en Thersites of the cunning tribe, Gloried in guile like him we now describe. Born of a race where thrift, with iron rod, Taught punic faith and mocked the laws of God; Where stern oppression held her impious reign, And mild dissent was death with torturous pain; His youth drank in the lessons of his race, Which stamp'd their impress on his hideous face. [Illustration: "Like Fallstaff, seeks repose and dreams of glory, While Bethel's thunder peal'd another story." _Page_ 23.] Old England's bard with epic fire illum'd Tartarean pits, where fiends with darkness gloom'd; But 'mid th' infernal host this face had shone, Grimmest of all 'neath dread Armageddon. The outward form proclaimed the inner man, And frightened virtue fled where it began; The heart, the head, there devils might fear to dwell, Lest in their depths there lurked a deeper hell, Does fiction, fancy, gild the picture drawn, Hate cloud our judgment, truth give place to scorn? Go seek the answer in the youth at school-- He scoffs at church and laughs at human rule. A beggar,[1] he plays his _role_ with brazen cheek, With equal ease _insurgent_ or a "sneak." [Illustration: "Leaves gallant Winthrop to his mournful fate, But takes the field when haply 'tis too late." _Page_ 23.] A theologian, without doctor's chair, He dons the gown t' escape the task of prayer. "Heresiarch recant, or leave the school:" A recantation proved the knave no fool.[2] Behold him later in another sphere, Where thieves abound and murderers appear; Tricked out in low and meretricious art, He plays with skill the pettifogger's part; Chicanery's brought to succor darkest crime, Too basely foul t' expose in decent rhyme. Oh! shades of Littleton and Murray rise, Where Webster trod and Choate all honor'd lies-- Rise to behold the satyr in their place, Who points the moral of his clime and race; And if decay and shame may wake thy grief, Weep for New England cursed by such a chief. [Illustration: "Our hero vowed Magruder's works to take, Whereof the books no mention deign to make." _Page_ 23.] Oh! hapless hour, when from the stormy North, This modern Cyclops marched repellent forth, To slake his thirst for blood and plundered wealth, Not as the soldier, but by fraud and stealth; To waft the gales of death with horror rife On helpless age, and wage with women strife: To leave at Baltimore and New Orleans The drunkard's name, or worse, the gibbet's scenes; To license lust with all a lecher's rage, And stab the virtue of a Christian age: [Illustration: "Born of a race where thrift, with iron rod, Taught punic faith and mocked the laws of God; * * * * * * * * * His youth drank in the lessons of his race, Which stamp'd their impress on his hideous face." _Page_ 11.] This single crime will fix a beastly name, Fresh in immortal infamy and shame. Whence comes his martial fame, who thus has soar'd, While thousands fell and deadly cannon roar'd? The _raw militia_ of his native State Had taught him war and made our hero great. A pot-house soldier, he parades by day, And drunk by night, he sighs the foe to slay; In vision sees the future road to fame, The bale-fires burn and cities wrapped in flame: The gathered treasure of a teeming land Glitters and falls beneath his blood-stained hand; Plantations smiling, palaces all bright, Stuff'd with their wealth of plate, dance to his sight, And drunken Polyphemus[3] grimly swoons, [Illustration: "But _Io Bacche_! Victory comes at last-- Our doughty chief in New Orleans is cast; The donkey stole the lion's skin and brayed, And Farragut our Cyclop's fortune made." _Page_ 23.] As heir expectant of unnumbered spoons.[4] He wakes a patriot; presto, he is clad As Fallstaff for the battle--raving mad. Lo! Baltimore becomes the first emprise, When Gilmor's scandal shock'd the men at Guy's: "To horse, to horse," our hero drunk exclaims, "I'll crush rebellion--give the town to flames." The faithful groom the pawing steed attends, The maudlin Cyclops all oblique ascends; But ere the lambent flames consume the town, The Cid unhorsed, like Bacchus, topples down. Old Juno's goose erst saved imperial Rome, But Rebel whisky saves the Rebels' home. Next comes the dismal order--'tis from Scott-- [Illustration: "Fraternal discord cease." _Page 27._] "Leave Baltimore." He blew a warlike trump, And marched to conquest--conquest of a pump! Like Falstaff, seeks repose and dreams of glory, While Bethel's thunder peal'd another story; Leaves gallant Winthrop to his mournful fate, But takes the field when haply 'tis too late. Wrath gnaws his bowels, and with words profane, He swore an oath, as once the Queen of Spain Vowed the same garment _malgrè_ wear and tear, Till Ostend fell she would forever wear. Our hero vowed Magruder's works to take, Whereof the books no mention deign to make; For well we know the batt'ries poured their thunder, While wise Sir Spoons sought easier paths to plunder. But _Io Bacche_! Victory comes at last-- Our doughty chief in New Orleans is cast; [Illustration: ""I'll blow Fort Fisher 'mong the region kites!" Oh, glorious thought! but ere the fort ignites, Our Cyclop's sailed away infirm of will, And saucy Fisher flashed defiance still." _Page_ 25.] The donkey stole the lion's skin and brayed, And Farragut our Cyclop's fortune made. Where are the trophies of our Yankee brave? The lecherous order, and poor Mumford's grave; Ship Island's tortures, Mrs. Phillips' cell, For mercy's reign the cruelty of hell; A Shylock brother--a Prætorian band-- A starving city and a plundered land: These are his triumphs--Fisher was his shame,-- Oh! triumph worse than is the coward's name. "I'll blow Fort Fisher 'mong the region kites!" Oh, glorious thought! but ere the fort ignites, Our Cyclop's sailed away infirm of will, And saucy Fisher flash'd defiance still. "Far better I were _hermetically_ seal'd, Than homeward borne upon a bloody shield." [Illustration: "But hold, enough; no further we'll pursue The modern Haynau. "Bottled" Chief, adieu." _Page_ 27.] "Fort Fisher be my epitaph!" 'Tis meet, For long ago it gave thy winding sheet. But hold, enough; no further we'll pursue The modern Haynau. "Bottled" Chief, adieu. Haply my country's freedom still remains, And with the night have passed oppression's chains: Oh, may the storms which settle o'er our land Be gently lifted by th' all-saving Hand; The dove return; fraternal discord cease, And millions join the Jubilee of Peace! * * * * * * FOOTNOTES [1] He entered College in his sixteenth year as a future candidate for the ministry. As he was without resources, he was compelled to do manual work to meet the expenses incurred at the Institution. The fact is creditable. [2] Many instances are related of his insubordination at school and disputes with superiors. One of the preachers having advanced the opinion that only one in every hundred Christians would, perhaps, be saved, our hero drew up a theological petition asking leave to vacate his seat in church, very candidly regarding himself as among the number that would be lost. A public reprimand for his smart irreverence was the only answer vouchsafed the unfledged Doctor. [3] _Monstrum et horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum._ Virg. Æneid. lib. iii. [4] The people of a captured city were subjected to fines and levies and open plunder, and in some instances imprisoned at hard labor with ball and chain. 
39229	----	THE MARDI GRAS MYSTERY BOOKS BY H. BEDFORD-JONES CONQUEST CROSS AND THE HAMMER: A TALE OF THE DAYS OF THE VIKINGS FLAMEHAIR THE SKALD: A TALE OF THE DAYS OF HARDREDE GOLDEN GHOST THE MESA TRAIL THE MARDI GRAS MYSTERY UNDER FIRE [Illustration: "_'You frightened me, holy man!' she cried gaily. 'Confess to you, indeed! Not I.'_"] THE MARDI GRAS MYSTERY BY H. BEDFORD-JONES [Illustration] FRONTISPIECE BY JOHN NEWTON HOWITT GARDEN CITY, N. Y., AND TORONTO DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 1921 COPYRIGHT, 1920, 1921, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. CARNIVAL 3 II. MASQUERS 21 III. THE BANDIT 38 IV. CALLERS 58 V. THE MASQUER UNMASKS 82 VI. CHACHERRE 107 VII. IN THE OPEN 125 VIII. COMUS 143 IX. ON THE BAYOU 169 X. MURDER 190 XI. THE GANGSTERS 209 XII. THE ULTIMATUM 228 XIII. THE COIN FALLS HEADS 249 XIV. CHACHERRE'S BUNDLE 262 XV. WHEN THE HEAVENS FALL 280 XVI. THE IMPREGNABILITY OF MR. FELL 299 XVII. MI-CARÊME 310 THE MARDI GRAS MYSTERY THE MARDI GRAS MYSTERY CHAPTER I _Carnival_ Jachin Fell pushed aside the glass curtains between the voluminous over-draperies in the windows of the Chess and Checkers Club, and gazed out upon the riotous streets of New Orleans. Half an hour he had been waiting here in the lounge room for Dr. Cyril Ansley, a middle-aged bachelor who had practised in Opelousas for twenty years, and who had come to the city for the Mardi Gras festivities. Another man might have seemed irritated by the wait, but Jachin Fell was quite unruffled. He had much the air of a clerk. His features were thin and unremarkable; his pale eyes constantly wore an expression of wondering aloofness, as though he saw around him much that he vainly tried to understand. In his entire manner was a shy reticence. He was no clerk, however, this was evident from his attire. He was garbed from head to foot in soberly blending shades of gray whose richness was notable only at close view. One fancied him a very precise sort of man, an old maid of the wrong sex. Doctor Ansley, an Inverness flung over his evening clothes, entered the lounge room, and Fell turned to him with a dry, toneless chuckle. "You're the limit! Did you forget we were going to the Maillards' to-night?" Ansley appeared vexed and irritated. "Confound it, Fell!" he exclaimed. "I've been all over town looking for El Reys. Caught in a crowd--no El Reys yet!" Again Fell uttered his toneless chuckle. His voice was absolutely level, unmarked by any change of inflection. "My dear fellow, there are only three places in the city that can afford to carry El Reys in these parlous times! This club, however, happens to be one of the three. Here, sit down and forget your troubles over a real smoke! We need not leave for fifteen minutes yet, at least." Doctor Ansley laid aside his cape, stick, and hat, and dropped into one of the comfortable big chairs. He accepted the proffered cigar with a sigh. Across his knees he laid an evening paper, whose flaring headlines proclaimed an extra. "I suppose you've been gadding all around the town ever since the Revellers opened the season?" he inquired. "Hardly," said Fell with his shy air. "I'm growing a bit stiff with age, as Eliza said when she crossed the ice. I don't gad much." "You intend to mask for the Maillards'?" Ansley cast his eye over the gray business attire of the little man. "I never mask." Jachin Fell shook his head. "I'll get a domino and go as I am. Excuse me--I'll order a domino now, and also provide a few more El Reys for the evening. Back in a moment." Doctor Ansley, who was himself a non-resident member of the club and socially prominent when he could grant himself leisure for society, followed the slight figure of the other man with speculative eyes. Well as he knew Jachin Fell, he invariably found the man a source of puzzled speculation. During many years Jachin Fell had been a member of the most exclusive New Orleans clubs. He was even received in the inner circles of Creole society, which in itself was evidence supreme as to his position. At this particular club he was famed as a wizard master of chess. He never entered a tournament, yet he consistently defeated the champions in private matches--defeated them with a bewildering ease, a shy and apologetic ease, an ease which left the beholders incredulous and aghast. With all this, Jachin Fell was very much of a mystery, even among his closest friends. Very little was known of him; he was inconspicuous to a degree, and it was usually assumed that he was something of a recluse, the result of a thwarted love affair in his youth. He was a lawyer, and certainly maintained offices in the Maison Blanche building, but he never appeared in the courts and no case of his pleading was known. It was said that he lived in the rebuilt casa of some old Spanish grandee in the Vieux Carre, and that this residence of his was a veritable treasure-trove of historic and beautiful things. This was mere rumour, adding a spice of romance to the general mystery. Ansley knew him as well as did most men, and Ansley knew of a few who could boast of having been a guest in Jachin Fell's home. There was a mother, an invalid of whom Fell sometimes spoke and to whom he appeared to devote himself. The family, an old one in the city, promised to die out with Jachin Fell. Ansley puffed at his cigar and considered these things. Outside, in the New Orleans streets, was rocketing the mad mirth of carnival. The week preceding Mardi Gras was at its close. Since the beginning of the new year the festival had been celebrated in a steadily climaxing series of balls and entertainments, largely by the older families who kept to the old customs, and to a smaller extent by society at large. Now the final week was at hand, or rather the final three days--the period of the great balls, the period when tourists were flooding into town; for tourists, the whole time of Mardi Gras was comprised within these three days. Despite agonized predictions, prohibition had not adversely affected Mardi Gras or the gaiety of its celebration. Now, as ever, was Mardi Gras symbolized by masques. In New Orleans the masquerade was not the pale and pitiful frolic of colder climes, where the occasion is but one for display of jewels and costumes, and where actual concealment of identity is a farce. Here in New Orleans were jewels and costumes in a profusion of splendour; but here was preserved the underlying idea of the masque itself--that in concealment of identity lay the life of the thing! Masquers swept the streets gaily; if harlequin husband flirted with domino wife--why, so much the merrier! There was little harm in the Latin masque, and great mirth. When Jachin Fell returned and lighted his cigar he sank into one of the luxurious chairs beside Ansley and indicated the newspaper lying across the latter's knee, its flaring headlines standing out blackly. "What's that about the Midnight Masquer? He's not appeared again?" "What?" Ansley glanced at him in surprise. "You've not heard?" Fell shook his head. "I seldom read the papers." "Good heavens, man! He showed up last night at the Lapeyrouse dance, two minutes before midnight, as usual! A detective had been engaged, but was afterward found locked in a closet, bound with his own handcuffs. The Masquer wore his usual costume--and went through the party famously, stripping everyone in sight. Then he backed through the doors and vanished. How he got in they can't imagine; where he went they can't imagine, unless it was by airplane. He simply appeared, then vanished!" Fell settled deeper into his chair, pointed his cigar at the ceiling, and sighed. "Ah, most interesting! The loot was valued at about a hundred thousand?" "I thought you said you'd not heard of it?" demanded Ansley. Fell laughed softly and shyly. "I didn't. I merely hazarded a guess." "Wizard!" The doctor laughed in unison. "Yes, about that amount. Exaggerated, of course; still, there were jewels of great value----" "The Masquer is a piker," observed Fell, in his toneless voice. "Eh? A piker--when he can make a hundred-thousand-dollar haul?" "Don't dream that those figures represent value, Doctor. They don't! All the loot the Masquer has taken since he began work is worth little to him. Jewels are hard to sell. This game of banditry is romantic, but it's out of date these days. Of course, the crook has obtained a bit of money, but not enough to be worth the risk." "Yet he has got quite a bit," returned Ansley, thoughtfully. "All the men have money, naturally; we don't want to find ourselves bare at some gay carnival moment! I'll warrant you've a hundred or so in your pocket right now!" "Not I," rejoined Fell, calmly. "One ten-dollar bill. Also I left my watch at home. And I'm not dressed; I don't care to lose my pearl studs." "Eh?" Ansley frowned. "What do you mean?" Jachin Fell took a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to the physician. "I met Maillard at the bank this morning. He called me into his office and handed me this--he had just received it in the mail." Doctor Ansley opened the folded paper; an exclamation broke from him as he read the note, which was addressed to their host of the evening. JOSEPH MAILLARD, President, Exeter National Bank, City. I thank you for the masque you are giving to-night. I shall be present. Please see that Mrs. M. wears her diamonds--I need them. THE MIDNIGHT MASQUER. Ansley glanced up. "What's this--some hoax? Some carnival jest?" "Maillard pretended to think so." Fell shrugged his shoulders as he repocketed the note. "But he was nervous. He was afraid of being laughed at, and wouldn't go to the police. But he'll have a brace of detectives inside the house to-night, and others outside." Ever since the first ball of the year by the Twelfth Night Club this Midnight Masquer, as he was termed, had held New Orleans gripped in terror, fascination, and vivid interest. Until a month previous to this week of Mardi Gras he had operated rarely; he had robbed with a stark and inelegant forcefulness, a brutality. Suddenly his methods changed--he appeared and transacted his business with a romantic courtesy, a daredevil gaiety; his robberies became bizarre and extraordinary. During the past month he appeared at least once a week, now at some private ball, now at some restaurant banquet, but always in the same garb: the helmet, huge goggles and mask, and leathern clothes of a service aviator. On these occasions the throbbing roar of an airplane motor had been reported so that it was popular gossip that he landed on the roof of his designated victims and made his getaway in the same manner--by airplane. No machine had ever been seen, and the theory was believed by some, hooted at by others. The police were helpless. The Midnight Masquer laughed openly at them and conducted his depredations with brazen unconcern, appearing where he was least expected. The anti-administration papers were clamouring about a "crime wave" and "organization of crooks," but without any visible basis for such clamours. The Midnight Masquer worked alone. Doctor Ansley glanced at his watch, and deposited his cigar in an ash tray. "We'd best be moving, Fell. You'll want a domino?" "I ordered one when I got my cigars. It'll be here in a minute." "Do you seriously think that note is genuine?" Fell shrugged lightly. "Who knows? I'm not worried. Maillard can afford to be robbed. It will be interesting to see how he takes it if the fellow does show up." "You're a calm one!" Ansley chuckled. "Oh, I believe the prince is to be there to-night. You've met him, I suppose?" "No. I've had a rush of business lately, as Eliza said when she crossed the ice: haven't gone out much. Heard something about him, though. An American, isn't he? They say he's become quite popular in town." Ansley nodded. "Quite a fine chap. His mother was an American--she married the Prince de Gramont; an international affair of the past generation. De Gramont led her a dog's life, I hear, until he was killed in a duel. She lived in Paris with the boy, sent him to school here at home, and he was at Yale when the war broke. He was technically a French subject, so he went back to serve his time. "Still, he's an American now. Calls himself Henry Gramont, and would drop the prince stuff altogether if these French people around here would let him. He's supposed to be going into some kind of business, but just now he's having the time of his life. Every old dowager is trying to catch him." Jachin Fell nodded. "I've no use for nobility; a rotten crowd! But this chap appears interesting. I'll be glad to size him up. Ah, here's my domino now!" A page brought the domino. Fell, discarding the mask, threw the domino about his shoulders, and the two men left the club in company. They sought their destination afoot--the home of the banker Joseph Maillard. The streets were riotous, filled with an eddying, laughing crowd of masquers and merrymakers of all ages and sexes; confetti twirled through the air, horns were deafening, and laughing voices rose into sharp screams of unrestrained delight. Here and there appeared the rather constrained figures of tourists from the North. These, staid and unable to throw themselves into the utter abandon of this carnival spirit, could but stare in perplexed wonder at the scene, so alien to them, while they marvelled at the gaiety of these Southern folk who could go so far with liberty and yet not overstep the bounds of license. At last gaining St. Charles Avenue, with the Maillard residence a half-dozen blocks distant, the two companions found themselves well away from the main carnival throngs. Even here, however, was no lack of revellers afoot for the evening--stray flotsam of the downtown crowds, or members of neighbourhood gatherings on their way to entertainment. As the two walked along they were suddenly aware of a lithe figure approaching from the rear; with a running leap and an exclamation of delight the figure forced itself in between them, grasping an arm of either man, and a bantering voice broke in upon their train of talk. "Forfeit!" it cried. "Forfeit--where are your masks, sober gentlemen? This grave physician may be pardoned, but not a domino who refuses to mask! And for forfeit you shall be my escort and take me whither you are going." Laughing, the two fell into step, glancing at the gay figure between them. A Columbine, she was both cloaked and masked. Encircling her hair was a magnificent scarf shot with metal designs of solid gold--a most unusual thing. Also, from her words it was evident that she had recognized them. "Willingly, fair Columbine," responded Fell in his dry and unimpassioned tone of voice. "We shall be most happy, indeed, to protect and take you with us----" "So far as the door, at least," interrupted Ansley, with evident caution. But Fell drily laughed aside this wary limitation. "Nay, good physician, farther!" went on Fell. "Our Columbine has an excellent passport, I assure you. This gauzy scarf about her raven tresses was woven for the good Queen Hortense, and I would venture a random guess that, clasped about her slender throat, lies the queen's collar of star sapphires----" "Oh!" From the Columbine broke a cry of warning and swift dismay. "Don't you dare speak my name, sir--don't you dare!" Fell assented with a chuckle, and subsided. Ansley regarded his two companions with sidelong curiosity. He could not recognize Columbine, and he could not tell whether Fell were speaking of the scarf and jewels in jest or earnest. Such historic things were not uncommon in New Orleans, yet Ansley never heard of these particular treasures. However, it seemed that Fell knew their companion, and accepted her as a fellow guest at the Maillard house. "What are you doing out on the streets alone?" demanded Fell, suddenly. "Haven't you any friends or relatives to take care of you?" Columbine's laughter pealed out, and she pressed Fell's arm confidingly. "Have I not some little rights in the world, monsieur?" she said in French. "I have been mingling with the dear crowds and enjoying them, before I go to be buried in the dull splendours of the rich man's house. Tell me, do you think that the Midnight Masquer will make an appearance to-night?" "I have every reason to believe that he will," said Jachin Fell, gravely. Columbine put one hand to her throat, and shivered a trifle. "You--you really think so? You are not trying to frighten me?" Her voice was no longer gay. "But--the jewels----" "Wear them, wear them!" There was command in the tone of Fell. "Were they not given you to wear to-night? Then wear them, by all means. Don't worry, my dear." Columbine said nothing for a moment; her gaiety seemed to be suddenly extinguished and quenched. Ansley was wondering uneasily at the constraint, when at length she broke the silence. "Since you have ordered, let the command be obeyed!" She essayed a laugh, which appeared rather forced. "Yet, if they are lost and are taken by the Masquer----" "In that case," said Fell, "let the blame be mine entirely. If they are lost, little Columbine, others will be lost with them, fear not! I think that this party would be a rich haul for the Masquer, eh? Take the rich man and his friends--they could bear plucking, that crowd! Rogues all." "Confound you, Fell!" exclaimed Ansley, uneasily. "If the bandit does show up there would be the very devil to pay!" "And Maillard would do the paying." Fell's dry chuckle held a note of bitterness. "Let him. Who cares? Look at his house, there, blazing with lights. Who pays for those lights? The people his financial tentacles have closed their sucker-like grip upon. His wife's jewels have been purchased with the coin of oppression and injustice. His son's life is one of roguery and drunken wildness----" "Man, are you mad?" Ansley indicated the Columbine between them. "We're not alone here--you must not talk that way----" Jachin Fell only chuckled again. Columbine's laugh broke in with renewed gaiety: "Nonsense, my dear Galen! We surely may be allowed to be ourselves during carnival! Away with the heresies of hypocritical society. Our friend speaks the sober truth. We masquers may admit among ourselves that Bob Maillard is----" "Is not the man we would have our daughters marry, provided we had daughters," said Fell. Then he gestured toward the house ahead of them, and his tone changed: "Still, now that we are about to enter that house, we must remind ourselves of courtesy and the limitations of guests. Say no more. Produce your invitation, Columbine, for I think we shall find that the doors to-night are guarded by Cerberus." They had come to a file of limousines and cars, and approached the gateway of the Maillard home. They turned into the gate. The house loomed before them, a great house set amid gardens, stately in the fashion of olden days. The lower floors were discreetly darkened to the streets, but on the upper floor, where was the ballroom with its floor of cypress, there was a glitter of bright lights and open windows. Music drifted to them as they approached. Jachin Fell touched the arm of Ansley and indicated an inconspicuous figure to one side of the entrance steps. "An outer guardian," he murmured. "Our host, it seems, is neglecting no precaution! I feel sorry for the Masquer, if he appears here." They came to the doorway. Columbine produced an invitation, duly numbered, and the three entered the house together. CHAPTER II _Masquers_ Joseph Maillard might have hopefully considered the note from the Midnight Masquer to be a hoax perpetrated by some of his friends, but he took no chances. Two detectives were posted in the grounds outside the house; inside, two others, masked and costumed, were keeping a quietly efficient eye on all that transpired. Each guest upon entering was conducted directly to the presence of Joseph Maillard himself, or of his wife; was bidden to unmask in this private audience, and was then presented with a favour and sent forth masked anew to the festivities. These favours were concealed, in the case of the ladies, in corsage bouquets; in that of the men, inside false cigars. There was to be a general opening of the favours at midnight, the time set for unmasking. All this ceremony was regarded by the guests as a delightful innovation, and by Joseph Maillard as a delightful way of assuring himself that only the invited guests entered his house. Invitations might be forged--faces, never! Lucie Ledanois entered the presence of her stately relative, and after unmasking, dutifully exchanged kisses with Mrs. Maillard. Until some months previously, until she had come into the management of her own property--or what was left of it--Lucie had been the ward of the Maillards. Their former attitude of possession still lingered, but they were relatives for whom she felt little real affection. "Mercy, child, how marvellous you look to-night!" exclaimed Mrs. Maillard, holding her off and examining her high colour with obvious suspicion. Mrs. Maillard was herself rather plump and red, and stern of eye into the bargain. She was a keen, masterful woman. "Thank you, ma'am," and Lucie made a mock courtesy. "Do you like little Columbine?" "Very much. Here's Aunt Sally; take Miss Lucie's cloak, Sally." An old coloured servant bobbed her head in greeting to Lucie, who removed her cloak. As she did so, she saw that Mrs. Maillard's voice died away, and that the lady's eyes were fastened in utter amazement upon her throat. "Isn't it pretty, auntie?" she asked, smilingly. This was straining the relationship a trifle, but it was a custom which Lucie usually followed with the family. "My goodness gracious!" The stern eyes hardened. "Where--where on earth did _you_ obtain such a thing? Why--why----" Columbine's features flinched. She was a poor relation, of course, so the look in the older woman's eyes and the implication of the words formed little less than an insult. Quietly she put one hand to her throat and removed the collar, dropping it into the hand of Mrs. Maillard. It was a thing to make any woman's eyes widen--a collar of exquisitely wrought gold studded with ten great blazing star sapphires. Beside it the diamonds that bejewelled Mrs. Maillard's ample front looked cold and lifeless. "That?" queried Lucie, innocently, producing a scrap of chamois and dabbing at her nose. "Oh, that's very interesting! It was made for Queen Hortense--so was this scarf that keeps my ragged hair from lopping out!" "You didn't buy them, certainly!" demanded Mrs. Maillard. "Of course not. They were a present--only this morning." "Girl!" The lady's voice was harsh. "A present? From whom, if you please?" "Oh, I promised not to tell; he's a particular friend of mine. Aren't the stones pretty?" Mrs. Maillard was speechless. She compressed her firm lips and watched Lucie replace the sapphire collar without a word to offer. Silently she extended a corsage bouquet from the pile beside her; then, in a trembling voice, forced herself to explain about the favour inside. "And I hope," she added, "that before receiving any more such valuable presents you'll consult _me_. Of course, if you don't wish to tell about this, you needn't; but a word of advice will often save a girl from making very serious mistakes." "Thank you, auntie dear," and Lucie nodded as she pinned the bouquet. "You're just as dear to me as you can be! See you later." Slipping her mask into place she was gone, not without relief. She knew very well that within half an hour Bob Maillard would be informed that she had accepted gifts of jewels from other men, with all the accompanying implications and additions that imagination could furnish. For, although Bob Maillard wanted very much indeed to marry her his mother had no intention of sanctioning such a union. "Neither has Uncle Joseph," she reflected, smiling to herself, "and neither have I! So we're all agreed, except Bob." "Columbine!" A hand fell upon her wrist. "Columbine! Turn and confess thy sins!" A cry of instinctive alarm broke from the girl; she turned, only to break into a laugh of chagrin at her own fright. She had come to the foot of the wide, old-fashioned stairway that led to the floors above, and beside her had suddenly appeared a Franciscan monk, cowled and gowned in sober brown from head to foot. "You frightened me, holy man!" she cried, gaily. "Confess to you, indeed! Not I." "Never a better chance, butterfly of the world!" It was a voice that she dimly recognized, yet she could not name the owner: a merry, carefree voice that was slightly disguised. "Never a better chance," and the Franciscan offered his arm. "Haste not to the dance, fair sister--tarry a while and invite the soul in speech of import! Having passed the dragon at the gate, tarry a moment with this man of vows----" "Shrive me quickly, then," she said, laughing. "Now, without confession? Would you have me read your thoughts and give penance?" "If you can do that, holy man, I may confess; so prove it quickly!" For the moment they stood alone. Higher on the stairs, and among the rooms behind them, were gay groups of masquers--dominoes, imposing Mephistos, backwoodsmen, gallants of Spain and France, red Indians and turbaned Hindus. The Franciscan leaned forward. His voice came low, distinct, clear-cut, and he spoke in the French which Lucie understood as another mother-tongue, as do most of the older families of New Orleans. "See how I read them, mademoiselle! One thought is of uneasy suspicion; it is typified by a hard-lipped, grasping man. One thought is of profound regret; it is typified by a darkly welling stream of oil. One thought----" Suddenly Lucie had shrunk away from him. "Who--who are you?" she breathed, with a gasp that was almost of fear. "Who are you, monsieur?" "A humble brother of minor orders," and he bowed. "Shall I not continue with my reading? The third thought, mademoiselle, is one of hope; it is typified by a small man who is dressed all in gray----" Lucie turned away from him quickly. "I think that you have made some grave error, monsieur," she said. Her voice was cold, charged with dismissal and offended dignity. "I pray you, excuse me." Not waiting any response, she hastily ran up the stairs. After her, for a moment, gazed the Franciscan, then shrugged his wide shoulders and plunged into the crowd. The ballroom on the top floor was throbbing with music, gay with costumes and decorations, thronged with dancing couples. Into the whirl of it pirouetted Columbine. Almost at once she found herself dancing with a gorgeously attired Musketeer; she separated from him as quickly as possible, for she recognized him as Bob Maillard. Nor did he find her again, although he searched, not knowing her identity; for she evaded him. While she danced, while she chattered and laughed and entered into the mad gaiety of the evening, Lucie Ledanois could not banish from her mind that ominous Franciscan. How could he have known? How could he have guessed what only she and one other barely suspected? There was no proof, of course; the very breath of suspicion seemed a calumny against an upright man! Joseph Maillard had sold that Terrebonne land six months before any gas or oil had been discovered there, and eight months before Lucie had come into the management of her own affairs. He had not known about the minerals, of course; it was a case only of bad judgment. Yet, indubitably, he was now a shareholder and officer in the Bayou Oil Company, the concern which had bought that strip of land. Two years previously Maillard had sold that swamp land up in St. Landry parish; the land had been drained and sectioned off by real estate people at enormous profit. Lucie strove angrily to banish the dark thoughts from her mind. Why, Maillard was a rich man, a banker, an honorable gentleman! To doubt his honour, although he was a harsh and a stern man, was impossible. Lucie knew him better than most, and could not believe---- "May I crave pardon for my error?" came a voice at her elbow. She turned, to see the Franciscan again beside her. "With a thousand apologies for impertinence, mademoiselle; I am very sorry for my faults. Will not that admission obtain for me one little dance, one hint of forgiveness from fair Columbine?" Something in his voice spelt sincerity. Lucie, smiling, held out her hand. "You are pardoned, holy man. If you can dance in that friar's robe, then try it!" Could he dance, indeed! Who could not dance with Columbine for partner? So saying, the monk proved his word by the deed and proved it well. Nor did he again hint that he had recognized her; until, as they parted, he once more left her astonished and perturbed. As he bowed he murmured: "Beware, sweet Columbine! Beware of the gay Aramis! Beware of his proposals!" He was gone upon the word. Aramis? Why, that must be the Musketeer, of course--Bob Maillard! The name, with its implications, was a clever hit. But who was this brown monk, who seemed to know so much, who danced so divinely, whose French was like music? A vague suspicion was in the girl's mind, but she had no proof. Half an hour after this Bob Maillard came to her, and with impatient words made a path through the circle which surrounded her. He caught her hand and bent over it with an affectation of gallantry which became him well, for in his costume he made a handsome figure. "I know you now, Lucie!" he murmured. "I must see you at once--in the conservatory." She was minded to refuse, but assented briefly. The words of the monk intrigued her; what had the man guessed? If Bob were indeed about to propose, she would this time cut off his hopes for good. But--was it that sort of a proposal? As she managed to rid herself of her admirers, and descended to the conservatory, she was highly vexed with herself and the Franciscan, and so came to her appointment in no equable frame of mind. She found Maillard waiting in the old-fashioned conservatory; he had unmasked, and was puffing a cigarette. His heavy features and bold, shrewd eyes were fastened hungrily upon her as he came to meet her. "By gad, Lucie, you're beautiful to-night!" "Thanks, cousin Robert. Was it for that----?" "No! See here, where did you get that collar of jewels?" "Indeed!" The girl proudly drew herself up. "What business is that of yours, sir?" "Aren't you one of the family? It's our business to protect your rep----" "Be careful!" Anger trembled in her voice, cut off his words. "Be careful!" "But damn it--Lucie! Don't you know that I want to marry you----" "My dear Robert, I certainly do not want to marry any man who swears to my face--you least of all!" she coldly intervened. "I have already refused you three times; let this be the fourth and last. I owe you no account of my possessions nor where I get them; I am entirely capable of managing my own affairs. Now, kindly inform me why you wished me to meet you here. Also, you know that I don't like cigarette smoke." Sulkily, Maillard threw away his cigarette; with an effort he calmed himself. He was anything but a fool, this young man. He was rather clever, and saw that he had so long considered his pretty cousin a personal possession that he was now in some danger of losing her. "I have a chance to make some money for you in a hurry," he said. "Your father left you a good deal of land up Bayou Terrebonne way----" "Your father sold some of it," she put in, idly. His eyes flickered to the thrust. "Yes; but you've plenty left, near Paradis. It's away from the gas field, but I'm interested in an oil company. We've plenty of money, and we're going to go strong after the liquid gold. That land of yours is good for nothing else, and if you want to make some money out of it I'll swing the company into leasing at a good figure and drilling there." "You think there's oil on the land?" "No." He made a swift, energetic gesture of dissent. "To be frank, I don't. But I'd like to throw a bit of luck your way, Lucie. We're getting a lot of money into the company, and some brains. That fellow Gramont--the prince, you know him--he's an engineer and a geologist, and he's in the swim." "So," the girl smiled a little, "you would betray your business friends in order to make a bit of money for me?" Maillard stared at her. "Well, if you put it that way, yes! I'd do more than that for----" "Thank you," she interrupted, her voice cold. "I don't think I'd trust your sagacity very far, Robert. Good-night." She turned from him and was gone, dancing through the great rooms like a true Columbine. Later he saw her among the dancers above, although he obtained no further speech with her. Midnight neared, and brought a concern to many; the Midnight Masquer had gained his name by invariably appearing a moment or two before the stroke of twelve. Jachin Fell, who divided his time between enjoying the smoking room and wandering about among the masquers, perceived that Joseph Maillard was watching the time with anxiety. A large man, stern and a bit scornful of look, Maillard was imposing rather than handsome. He appeared the typical banker, efficient, devoid of all sentiment. Amused by the man's evident uneasiness, Jachin Fell kept him in view while the moments dragged. One might have thought that the little gray man was studying the financier as an entomologist studies a butterfly on a pin. Shortly before twelve Columbine pirouetted up to Jachin Fell and accepted the arm he offered her. They were for the moment alone, in a corner of the ballroom. "I must see you to-morrow, please," she breathed. "Gladly," he assented. "May I call? It's Sunday, you know----" "If you will; at three. Something has happened, but I cannot speak of it here. Does any one else know that you--that you are interested in my affairs?" The pale gray eyes of the little gray man looked very innocent and wondering. "Certainly not, my dear! Why?" "I'll tell you to-morrow." Then she broke into a laugh. "Well, it is midnight--and the Masquer has not appeared! I'm almost sorry." The lights flickered off for a moment, then on again. The signal for unmasking! The dancing ceased. From the whole room arose a babel of voices--cries of surprise, exclamations, merry laughter. Columbine removed her mask. An instant later Joseph Maillard approached them, chuckling to himself and looking hugely relieved. "Ha, Lucie! I guessed you beneath the Columbine daintiness! Well, Jachin, it was a hoax after all, eh? Some confounded joke. Come down to the library in five minutes, will you? A meeting of the select circle, to discuss prohibition." "Aren't you going to invite me, Uncle Joseph?" broke in Lucie, gaily. "No, no, little one!" Maillard reproved her, laughingly. "Look not upon the silver cup at your age, my dear. Have you examined your favour yet?" Remembering, the girl caught at her corsage. Cries of delight were arising on all sides as the favours were revealed--most handsome favours, even for Mardi Gras! From the heart of the rosebuds in her hand Lucie removed a brooch of old filigree work set with a group of pearls. She glanced about for Jachin Fell, but he had vanished with Maillard. A voice rose at her elbow: "Mademoiselle, you are not less lucky than beautiful! Pearls to the pearl!" She turned to see the Franciscan--no longer masked, but now gazing at her from a frank, laughing countenance, still partially veiled by the brown cowl that was drawn up close about his head. "Henry Gramont!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I half suspected that it was you----" "But you were not sure?" he chuckled. "You're not offended with me, Lucie?" "I should be." She tossed her head. "You were impertinent, M. le prince!" He made a distasteful gesture. "None of that, Lucie! You know I don't like it----" "Oh, la, la!" she mocked him. "M. le prince is seeing America, _n'est ce pas_? He has come to America to find a rich wife, is it not?" Gramont's face lost its smile, and suddenly became almost harsh. "I shall call upon you at four to-morrow, Lucie," he said, abruptly, and turned. Nor did he pause to get her reply. An instant afterward Lucie was surrounded by a merry group of friends, and she saw no more of Henry Gramont. About five minutes later those in the ballroom distinctly heard, through the open windows, the heavy pulsations of an airplane motor. CHAPTER III _The Bandit_ Joseph Maillard's library was on the ground floor of the house; it was a sedate and stately room, and was invariably shut off to itself. Not even to-night, of all nights, was it thrown open with the remainder of the house. Here, for a good half hour, had been Uncle Neb. The old butler was mysteriously engaged with certain tall silver goblets, fragrant mint, and yet more fragrant--if illegal--bottles. And it was here that Joseph Maillard summoned half a dozen of his particular cronies and friends, after the stroke of midnight had assured him that there was no danger to be expected from the bandit. His son was not among the number. The half dozen were nearly all elderly men, and, with the exception of Jachin Fell, all were men of prominent affairs. About the table grouped Maillard and his guests, while in the background hovered Uncle Neb, glistening black, hugely important, and grinning widely. Fell was the last to enter the room, and as he did so old Judge Forester turned to him smilingly. "Ah, here is an attorney in whom there is no guile! Jachin, come and settle a dispute. I maintain that the dignity of the law is not less now than in the old days; that it has merely accommodated itself to changing conditions, and that it is a profession for gentlemen now as always. Jules, state your argument!" Jules Delagroux, a white-haired Creole lawyer of high standing, smiled a trifle sadly. "My case," he said, "is that the old days are dead; that the law is no longer a profession, but a following for charlatans. In a word, that the law has been killed by the lawyers." He gestured finality and glanced at Fell. "So?" Jachin Fell smiled in his shy fashion. "Gentlemen, I heartily agree with you both. I am an attorney, but I do not practise because I cannot accommodate myself to those very changing conditions of which Judge Forester speaks. To-day, the lawyer must be a politician; he must be an adept in the trick of words and deeds; he must be able not to serve his profession but to make it serve him, and he must remember always that the rights of property are more sacred than those of life and liberty. Otherwise, he will remain honest and poor." An ejaculation of "True" from the judge brought smiles. Jachin Fell continued whimsically: "Regarding these very conditions many years ago, gentlemen, I was tempted to change my profession--but to what? I was tempted to enter the church until I saw that the same conditions hold good of a clergyman. I was tempted to enter medicine until I saw that they also held true of a doctor. I was tempted to other things, always with the like result. Well, you know the story of Aunt Dixie and her black underwear--'Honey, I ain't ashamed of mah grief; when I mourns, I _mourns_!' Even so with the law----" A burst of laughter drowned him out, and the original argument was forgotten. Maillard, standing before a small wall safe that flanked the open hearth, lifted his silver goblet, asteam with beads. The moment for which he had been waiting was here; he launched his little thunderbolt with an air of satisfied importance. "My friends, I have a confession to make!" he announced. "To-day I received a note from the Midnight Masquer stating that he would be with us this evening, presumably at the hour of midnight, his usual time." These words brought an instant silence. Uncle Neb, from his corner, uttered a startled "Fore de lawd!" that rang through the room; yet no one smiled. The half-dozen men were tense, watchful, astonished. But Maillard swung up his silver cup and laughed gaily. "I took full precautions, gentlemen. The hour of danger is past, and the notorious bandit has not arrived--or, if he has arrived, he is now in the hands of the law. After all, that note may have been something in the nature of a carnival jest! So up with your cups, my friends--a lifelong health to Mardi Gras, and damnation to prohibition and the Midnight Masquer!" From everyone broke a swift assent to the toast, a murmur of relieved tension. The silver goblets were lifted, touched in a musical clinking of edges, and the aromatic breath of juleps filled the library as the drinkers, in true Southern fashion, buried noses in the fragrant mint. Then, as the cups were lowered, from the recess of the curtained windows at one end of the room came a quiet voice: "I thank you, gentlemen! But I must remind you, Maillard, that there was not a time limit set in the note." With a simultaneous gasp everyone turned. Maillard staggered; his face went livid. Uncle Neb, who had been advancing to refill the cups, dropped his silver tray with a crash that went unheeded, indeed unheard. Every eye was fastened upon that amazing figure now advancing from the shadows of the recess. It was the figure of an aviator, clad in leather from top to toe, the goggles and helmet shield completely masking his head and features from recognition. In his hand he held an automatic pistol, which covered the group of men before him with its threatening mouth. "Not a sound, if you please," he warned, his voice thin and nasal--obviously disguised. "I trust that none of you gentlemen is armed, because I am very quick on the trigger. A very pleasant surprise, Maillard? You'd given me up, eh?" For an instant no one spoke. Then Maillard moved slightly, moved his hand toward a button set in the wall near the safe. The voice of the bandit leaped out at him like thin steel: "Quiet, you fool! If you touch that button----" Maillard stiffened, and gripped the table edge with his shaking hand. "This is an outrage, suh!" began Judge Forester, his white goatee bristling. The bandit bowed slightly, and addressed the gathering in a tone of dry raillery: "An outrage? Exactly. You were just now discussing the majesty of the law. Well, I assure you that I found your discussion intensely interesting. Mr. Fell correctly stated that the rights of property are more sacred in legal eyes than the rights of human life. You see, gentlemen, the discussion touched me very closely! "I am now engaged in outraging the law, and I have this amendment to propose to Mr. Fell: That if he had been tempted to follow the profession of a robber he would have found the same conditions prevailing which he quoted as applying to other professions." Jachin Fell, alone of those about the table, allowed a smile to curve his lips. "The rights of property," pursued the bandit with a deadly smoothness, "are to me, also, far more sacred than human life; there I agree with the law. So, gentlemen, kindly empty your pockets on the table." His voice became crisp. "The jewelled scarf-pins which you received as favours this evening may be added to the collection; otherwise, I shall not touch your private possessions. No watches, thank you. Maillard, kindly begin! I believe that you carry a wallet? If you please." The banker could not but obey. His hands trembling with fear and rage, he took from his pocket a wallet, and emptied a sheaf of bills upon the table. One after another, the other men followed his example. The bandit made no attempt to search them, but watched with eyes that glittered from behind his mask as they laid money and scarf-pins on the table. When it came his turn, Jachin Fell drew a single bill from his pocket, and laid it down. "You put some faith in that warning, Mr. Fell?" The bandit laughed. "Do you think that you will know me again?" "I hardly believe so, sir," answered Fell in his apologetic fashion. "Your disguise is really excellent." "Thank you." The bandit's voice held a thin mockery. "Coming from you, sir, that compliment is most welcome." "What the devil does the fellow mean?" exploded Judge Forester. "Then you are not aware that Mr. Fell is a man of large affairs?" The bandit's white teeth flashed in a smile. "He is a modest man, this attorney! And a dangerous man also, I assure you. But come, Mr. Fell, I'll not betray you." Jachin Fell obviously did not appreciate the pleasantry. His shy and wondering features assumed a set and hardened look. "Whoever you are," he responded, a subtle click of anger in his tone, "you shall be punished for this!" "For what, Mr. Fell? For knowing too much of your private affairs?" The bandit laughed. "Fear not--I am only an amateur at this game, fortunately! So do your worst, and my blessing upon you! Now, gentlemen, kindly withdraw a few paces and join Uncle Neb yonder against the wall. All but you, Maillard; I'm not through with you yet." The automatic pistol gestured; under its menace everyone obeyed the command, for the calm assurance of the bandit made it seem extremely likely that he would use the weapon without compunction. The men withdrew toward the far end of the room, where a word from the aviator halted them. Maillard remained standing where he was, his heavy features now mottled with impotent anger. The Masquer advanced to the table and gathered the heap of money and scarfpins into the leathern pocket of his coat. During the process his gaze did not waver from the group of men, nor did the threat of his weapon lift from the banker before him. "Now, Maillard," he quietly ordered, "you will have the kindness to turn around and open the wall safe behind you. And don't touch the button." Maillard started. "That safe! Why--why--damn you, I'll do nothing of the sort!" "If you don't," was the cool threat, "I'll shoot you through the abdomen. A man fears a bullet there worse than death. It may kill you, and it may not; really, I care very little. You--you financier!" Scorn leaped into the quiet voice, scorn that lashed and bit deep. "You money trickster! Do you think I would spare such a man as you? You draw your rents from the poor and destitute, your mortgages cover half the parishes in the state, and in your heart is neither compassion nor pity for man or woman. You take the property of others from behind the safety curtain of the law; I do it from behind a pistol! I rob only those who can afford to lose--am I really as bad as you, in the eyes of morality and ethics? Bah! I could shoot you down without a qualm!" In his voice was so deadly a menace that Maillard trembled. Yet the banker drew himself up and struggled for self-control, stung as he was by this flood of vituperation before the group of his closest friends. "There is nothing of mine in that safe," he said, his voice a low growl. "I have given it to my son to use. He is not here." "That," said the Masquer, calmly, "is exactly why I desire you to open it. Your son must make his contribution, for I keenly regret his absence. If you are a criminal, he is worse! You rob and steal under shelter of the law, but you have certain limitations, certain bounds of an almost outgrown honour. He has none, that son of yours. Why, he would not hesitate to turn your own tricks back upon you, to rob _you_, if he could! Open that safe or take the consequences; no more talk, now!" The command cracked out like a whiplash. With a shrug of helplessness the banker turned and fumbled with the protruding knob of the safe. With one exception all eyes were fastened upon this amazing Masquer. The exception was Jachin Fell, who, suddenly alert and watchful, had turned his attention to Maillard and the safe, a keen speculation in his gaze as though he were wondering what that steel vault would produce. All were silent. There was something about this Midnight Masquer that held them intently. Perhaps some were inclined to think him a jester, one of the party masquerading under the famous bandit's guise; if so, his last words to Maillard had removed all such thought. That indictment had been deadly and terrible--and true, as they knew. Bob Maillard was not greatly admired by those among his father's friends who best knew him. Now the door of the safe swung open. The compartments appeared empty. "Take out the drawers and turn them up over the table," commanded the Masquer. Maillard obeyed. He took several of the small drawers, and all proved to be empty; this development drew a dry chuckle from Jachin Fell. Then, from the last drawer, there fell out on the table a large envelope, sealed. The Masquer leaned forward, seized upon this envelope, and crushed it into his pocket. "Thank you," he observed. "That is all." "Damn you!" cried Maillard, shaking a fist. "You'd try blackmail, would you?" The bandit regarded him a moment, then laughed. "If you knew what was in that envelope, my dear financier, you might not speak so hastily. If I knew what was in it, I might answer you. But I don't know. I only suspect--and hope." While he spoke the bandit was backing toward the door that opened upon the lower hallway of the house. He drew this door open, glanced swiftly out into the hall, and then placed the key on the outside. "And now, my friends--_au revoir_!" The Masquer sprang backward into the hall. The door slammed, the key clicked. He was gone! Maillard was the first to wake into voice and action. "The other door!" he cried. "Into the dining room----" He flung open a second door and dashed into the dining room, followed by the other men. Here the windows, giving upon the garden, were open. Then Maillard came to a sudden halt, and after him the others; through the night was pulsating, with great distinctness, the throbbing roar of an airplane motor! From Maillard broke a bitter cry: "The detectives--I'll get the fools here! You gentlemen search the house; Uncle Neb, go with them, into every room! That fellow can't possibly have escaped----" "No word of alarm to the ladies," exclaimed Judge Forester, hurriedly. "If he was not upstairs, then they have seen nothing of him. We must divide and search." They hastily separated. Maillard dashed away to summon the detectives, also to get other men to aid in the search. The result was vain. Within twenty minutes the entire house, from cellar to garret, had been thoroughly gone over, without causing any alarm to the dancers in the ballroom. Maillard began to think himself a little mad. No one had been seen to enter or leave the house, and certainly there had been no airplane about. The Masquer had not appeared except in the library, and now he was most indubitably not in the house. By all testimony, he had neither entered it nor left it! "Well, I'm damned!" said Maillard, helplessly, to Judge Forester, when the search was concluded. "Not a trace of the scoundrel! Here, Fell--can't you help us out? Haven't you discovered a thing?" "Nothing," responded Jachin Fell, calmly. At this instant Bob Maillard rushed up. He had just learned of the Masquer's visit. In response to his excited questioning his father described the scene in the library and added: "I trust there was nothing important among those papers of yours, Robert?" "No," said the younger man. "No. Nothing valuable at all." Henry Gramont was passing. He caught the words and paused, his gaze resting for an instant upon the group. A faint smile rested upon his rather harshly drawn features. "I just found this," he announced, holding out a paper. "It was pinned to the outside of the library door. I presume that your late visitor left it as a memento?" Jachin Fell took the paper, the other men crowding around him. "Ah, Maillard! The same handwriting as that of your letter!" Upon the paper was pencilled a single hasty line: My compliments to Robert Maillard--and my thanks. Bob Maillard sprang forward, angrily inspecting the paper. When he relinquished it, Fell calmly claimed it again. "Confound the rogue!" muttered the banker's son, turning away. His features were pale, perhaps with anger. "There was nothing but stock certificates in that envelope--and they can be reissued." The festivities were not broken up. As much could hardly be said for the host, who felt keenly the verbal lashing that had been administered to him before his friends. News of the robbery gradually leaked out among the guests; the generally accepted verdict was that the Masquer had appeared, only to be frightened away before he could secure any loot. It was nearly two in the morning when Jachin Fell, who was leaving, encountered Henry Gramont at the head of the wide stairway. He halted and turned to the younger man. "Ah--have you a pencil, if you please?" "I think so, Mr. Fell." Gramont felt beneath his Franciscan's robe, and extended a pencil. Jachin Fell examined it, brought a paper from beneath his domino, and wrote down a word. The paper was that on which the farewell message of the Midnight Masquer had been written. "A hard lead, a very hard point indeed!" said Fell. He pocketed the paper again and regarded Gramont steadily as he returned the pencil. "Few men carry so hard a pencil, sir." "You're quite right," and Gramont smiled. "I borrowed this from Bob Maillard only a moment ago. Its hardness surprised me." "Oh!" said Jachin Fell, mildly. "By the way, aren't you the Prince de Gramont? When we met this evening, you were introduced as plain Mr. Gramont, but it seems to me that I had heard something----" "Quite a mistake, Mr. Fell. I'm no prince; simply Henry Gramont, and nothing more. Also, an American citizen. Some of these New Orleans people can't forget the prince business, most unfortunately." "Ah, yes," agreed Fell, shyly. "Do you know, a most curious thing----" "Yes?" prompted Gramont, his eyes intent upon the little gray man. "That paper you brought us--the paper which you found pinned to the library door," said Fell, apologetically. "Do you know, Mr. Gramont, that oddly enough there were no pin holes in that paper?" Gramont smiled faintly, as though he were inwardly amused over the remark. "Not at all curious," he said, his voice level. "It was pinned rather stoutly--I tore off the portion bearing the message. I'll wager that you'll find the end of the paper still on the door downstairs. You might make certain that its torn edge fits that of the paper in your pocket; if it did not, then the fact _would_ be curious! I am most happy to have met you, Mr. Fell. I trust that we shall meet again, often." With a smile, he extended his hand, which Mr. Fell shook cordially. As Jachin Fell descended the wide staircase his face was red--quite red. One would have said that he had just been worsted in some encounter, and that the sense of defeat still rankled within him. Upon gaining the lower hall he glanced at the door of the library. There, still pinned to the wood where it had been unregarded by the passersby, was a small scrap of paper. Mr. Fell glanced at it again, then shook his head and slowly turned away, as though resisting a temptation. "No," he muttered. "No. It would be sure to fit the paper in my pocket. It would be sure to fit, confound him!" A little later he left the house and walked along the line of cars that were waiting parked in the drive and in the street outside. Before one of the cars he came to a halt, examining it closely. The sleepy chauffeur got out and touched his cap in a military salute; he was a sturdy young fellow, his face very square and blunt. "A very handsome car. May I ask whose it is?" inquired Fell, mildly. "Mr. Gramont's, sir," answered the chauffeur. "Ah, thank you. A very handsome car indeed. Good-night!" Mr. Fell walked away, striding briskly down the avenue. When he approached the first street light he came to a pause, and began softly to pat his person as though searching for something. "I told you that you'd pay for knowing too much about me, young man!" he said, softly. "What's this, now--what's this?" A slight rustle of paper, as he walked along, had attracted his attention. He passed his hands over the loose, open domino that cloaked him; he detected a scrap of paper pinned to it in the rear. He loosened the paper, and under the street light managed to decipher the writing which it bore. A faint smile crept to his lips as he read the pencilled words: I do not love you, Jachin Fell, The reason why I cannot tell; But this I know, and know full well, I do not love you, Jachin Fell! "Certainly the fellow has wit, if not originality," muttered Mr. Fell, as he carefully stowed away the paper. The writing upon it was in the hand of the Midnight Masquer. CHAPTER IV _Callers_ The house in which Lucie Ledanois lived had been her mother's; the furniture and other things in it had been her mother's; the two negro servants, who spoke only the Creole French patois, had been her mother's. It was a small house, but very beautiful inside. The exterior betrayed a lack of paint or the money with which to have painting done. The Ledanois family, although distantly connected with others such as the Maillards, had sent forth its final bud of fruition in the girl Lucie. Her mother had died while she was yet an infant, and through the years she had companioned her father, an invalid during the latter days. He had never been a man to count dollars or costs, and to a large extent he had outworn himself and the family fortunes in a vain search for health. With Lucie he had been in Europe at the outbreak of war, and had come home to America only to die shortly afterward. Once deprived of his fine recklessness, the girl had found her affairs in a bad tangle. Under the guardianship of Maillard the tangle had been somewhat resolved and simplified, but even Maillard would appear to have made mistakes, and of late Lucie had against her will suspected something amiss in the matter of these mistakes. It was natural, then, that she should take Jachin Fell into her confidence. Maillard had been her guardian, but it was to Fell that she had always come with her girlish cares and troubles, during even the lifetime of her father. She had known Fell all her life; she had met him in strange places, both at home and abroad. She entertained a well-grounded suspicion that Jachin Fell had loved her mother, and this one fact lay between them, never mentioned but always there, like a bond of faith and kindliness. At precisely three o'clock of the Sunday afternoon Jachin Fell rang the doorbell and Lucie herself admitted him. She ushered him into the parlour that was restful with its quiet brasses and old rosewood. "Tell me quickly, Uncle Jachin!" eagerly exclaimed the girl. "Did you actually see the Midnight Masquer last night? I didn't know until afterward that he had really been downstairs and had robbed----" "I saw him, my dear," and the little gray man smiled. There was more warmth to his smile than usual just now. Perhaps it was a reflection from the eager vitality which so shone in the eyes of Lucie. "I saw him, yes." A restful face was hers--not beautiful at first glance; a little too strong for beauty one would say. The deep gray eyes were level and quiet and wide apart, and on most occasions were quite inscrutable. They were now filled with a quick eagerness as they rested upon Jachin Fell. Lucie called him uncle, but not as she called Joseph Maillard uncle; here was no relationship, no formal affectation of relationship, but a purely abiding trust and friendship. Jachin Fell had done more for Lucie than she herself knew or would know; without her knowledge he had quietly taken care of her finances to an appreciable extent. Between them lay an affection that was very real. Lucie, better than most, knew the extraordinary capabilities of this little gray man; yet not even Lucie guessed a tenth of the character that lay beneath his surface. To her he was never reserved or secretive. Nonetheless, she touched sometimes an impenetrable wall that seemed ever present within him. "You saw him?" repeated the girl, quickly. "What was he like? Do you know who he is?" "Certainly I know," replied Fell, still smiling at her. "Oh! Then who is he?" "Softly, softly, young lady! I know him, but even to you I dare not breathe his name until I obtain some direct evidence. Let us call him Mr. X., after the approved methods of romance, and I shall expound what I know." He groped in his vest pocket. Lucie sprang up, bringing a smoking stand from the corner of the room to his chair. She held a match to his El Rey, and then curled up on a Napoleon bed and watched him intently while he spoke. "The bandit did not enter the house during the evening, nor did he leave, nor was he found in the house afterward," he said, tonelessly. "So, incredible as it may appear, he was one of the guests. This Mr. X. came to the dance wearing the aviator's costume, or most of it, underneath his masquerade costume. When he was ready to act, he doffed his outer costume, appeared as the Midnight Masquer, effected his purpose, then calmly donned his outer costume again and resumed his place among the guests. You understand? "Well, then! Maillard yesterday received a note from the Masquer, brazenly stating that he intended to call during the evening. I have that note. It was written with an extremely hard lead pencil, such as few men carry, because it does not easily make very legible writing. Last night I asked Mr. X. for a pencil, and he produced one with an extra hard lead--mentioning that he had borrowed it from Bob Maillard, as indeed he had." "What! Surely, you don't mean----" "Of course I don't. Mr. X. is very clever, that's all. Here is what took place last night. Mr. X. brought us another note from the Masquer, saying that he had found it pinned to the library door. As a matter of fact, he had written it on a leaf torn from his notebook. I took the note from him, observing at the time that the paper had no pin holes. Probably, Mr. X. saw that there was something amiss; he presently went back downstairs, took the remainder of the torn leaf from his notebook, and pinned it to the door. A little later, I met him and mentioned the lack of pin holes; he calmly referred me to the piece on the door, saying that he had merely torn off the note without removing the pins. You follow me?" "Of course," murmured the girl, her eyes wide in fascinated interest. "And he knew that you guessed him to be the Masquer?" "He suspected me, I think," said Fell, mildly. "It is understood that you will not go about tracing these little clues? I do not wish to disclose his identity, even to your very discreet brain----" "Don't be silly, Uncle Jachin!" she broke in. "You know I'll do nothing of the sort. Go on, please! Did you find the airplane?" "Yes." Jachin Fell smiled drily. "I was thinking of that as I left the house and came to the line of waiting automobiles. A word with one of the outside detectives showed me that one of the cars in the street had been testing its engine about midnight. I found that the car belonged to Mr. X. "How simple, Lucie, and how very clever! The chauffeur worked a powerful motor with a muffler cutout at about the time Mr. X., inside the house, was making his appearance. It scarcely sounded like an airplane motor, yet frightened and startled, people would imagine that it did. Thus arose the legend that the Midnight Masquer came and departed by means of airplane--a theory aided ingeniously by his costume. Well, that is all I know or suspect, my dear Lucie! And now----" "Now, I suppose," said the girl, thoughtfully, "you'll put that awful Creole of yours on the track of Mr. X.? Ben Chacherre is a good chauffeur, and he's amusing enough--but he's a bloodhound! I don't wonder that he used to be a criminal. Even if you have rescued him from a life of crime, you haven't improved his looks." "Exactly--Ben is at work," assented Jachin Fell. "The gentleman under suspicion is very prominent. To accuse him without proof would be utter folly. To catch him _in flagrante delicto_ will be difficult. So, I am in no haste. He will not disappear, believe me, and something may turn up at any moment to undo him. Besides, I can as yet discover no motive for his crimes, since he is quite well off financially." "Gambling," suggested the girl. "I cannot find that he has lost any considerable sums. Well, no matter! Now that I have fully unbosomed myself, my dear, it is your turn." "All right, Uncle Jachin." Lucie took a large morocco case from the chair beside her, and extended it. "You lent me these things to wear last night, and I----" "No, no," intervened Fell. "I gave them to you, my dear--in fact, I bought them for you two years ago, and kept them until now! You have worn them; they are yours, and you become them better than even did poor Queen Hortense! So say no more. I trust that Mrs. Maillard was righteous and envious?" "She was disagreeable," said Lucie. She leaned forward and imprinted a kiss upon the cheek of the little gray man. "There! that is all the thanks I can give you, dear uncle; the gift makes me very happy, and I'll not pretend otherwise. Only, I feel as though I had no right to wear them--they're so wonderful!" "Nonsense! You can do anything you want to, as Eliza said when she crossed the ice. But all this isn't why you summoned me here, you bundle of mystery! What bothered you last night, or rather, who?" Lucie laughed. "There was a Franciscan who tried to be very mysterious, and to read my mind. He talked about oil, about a grasping, hard man, and mentioned you as my friend. Then he warned me against a proposal that Bob might make; and sure enough, Bob did propose to buy what land is left to me on Bayou Terrebonne, saying he'd persuade his oil company that there was oil on it, and that they'd buy or lease it. I told him no. The Franciscan, afterward, proved to be Henry Gramont; I wondered if you had mentioned----" "Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Mr. Fell, piously. "I never even met Gramont until last night! Do you like him?" "Very much." The girl's eyes met his frankly. "Do you?" "Very much," said Jachin Fell. Lucie's gray eyes narrowed, searched his face. "I'm almost able to tell when you're lying," she observed, calmly. "You said that a trifle too hastily, Uncle Jachin. Why don't you like him?" Fell laughed, amused. "Perhaps I have a prejudice against foreign nobles, Lucie. Our own aristocracy is bad enough, but----" "He's discarded all that. He was never French except in name." "You speak as though you'd known him for some time. Have you had secrets from me?" "I have!" laughter dimpled in the girl's face. "For years and years! When I was in New York with father, before the war, we met him; he was visiting in Newport with college friends. Then, you know that father and I were in France when the war broke out--father was ill and almost helpless at the time, you remember. Gramont came to Paris to serve with his regiment, and met us there. He helped us get away, procured real money for us, got us passage to New York. He knows lots of our friends, and I've always been deeply grateful to him for his assistance then. "We've corresponded quite frequently during the war," she pursued. "I mentioned him several times after we got home from France, but you probably failed to notice the name. It's only since he came to New Orleans that I really kept any secrets from you; this time, I wanted to find out if you liked him." Jachin Fell nodded slowly. His face was quite innocent of expression. "Yes, yes," he said. "Yes--of course. He's a geologist or engineer, I think?" "Both, and a good one. He's a stockholder in Bob Maillard's oil company, and I think he's come here to stay. Well, about last night--he probably guessed at some of my private affairs; I've written or spoken rather frankly, perhaps. Also, Bob may have blabbed to him. Bob still drinks--prohibition has not hit _him_ very hard!" "No," agreed Fell, gravely. "Unfortunately, no. Lucie, I've discovered a most important fact. Joseph Maillard did not own any stock in the Bayou Oil Company at the time your land was sold them by him, and he had no interest at all in the real estate concern that bought your St. Landry swamplands and made a fortune off them. We have really blamed him most unjustly." For a moment there was silence between them. "We need not mince matters," pursued Fell, slowly. "Maillard has no scruples and no compassion; all the same, I am forced to the belief that he has maintained your interest uprightly, and that his mistakes were only errors. I do not believe that he has profited in the least from you. Two small fortunes were swept out of your grip when he sold those lands; yet they had been worthless, and he had good offers for them. His investments in the companies concerned were made afterward, and I am certain he sold the lands innocently." Lucie drew a deep breath. "I am glad you have said this," she returned, simply. "It's been hard for me to think that Uncle Joseph had taken advantage of me; I simply couldn't make myself believe it. I think that he honestly likes me, as far as he permits himself to like any one." "He'd not loan you money on it," said Fell. "Friendship isn't a tangible security with him. And a girl is never secure, as Eliza said when she crossed the ice." "Well, who really did profit by my loss? Any one?" Fell's pale gray eyes twinkled, then cleared in their usually wide innocence. "My dear Lucie, is there one person in this world to whose faults Joseph Maillard is deliberately blind--one person to whose influence he is ever open--one person to whom he would refuse nothing, in whom he would pardon everything, of whom he would never believe any evil report?" "You mean----" Lucie drew a quick breath, "Bob?" "Yes, I mean Bob. That he has profited by your loss I am not yet in a position to say; but I suspect it. He has his father's cupidity without his father's sense of honour to restrain him. When I have finished with the Masquer, I shall take up his trail." Jachin Fell rose. "Now I must be off, my dear. By the way, if I have need of you in running down the Masquer, may I call upon your services?" "Certainly! I'd love to help, Uncle Jachin! We'd be real detectives?" "Almost." Jachin Fell smiled slightly. "Will you dine with us to-morrow evening, Lucie? My mother commanded me to bring you as soon as possible----" "Oh, your mother!" exclaimed the girl, contritely. "I was so absorbed in the Masquer that I forgot to ask after her. How is she?" "Quite as usual, thank you. I presume that you'll attend Comus with the Maillards?" "Yes. I'll come to-morrow night gladly, Uncle Jachin." "And we'll take a look at the Proteus ball afterward, if you like. I'll send Ben Chacherre for you with the car, if you're not afraid of him." Lucie looked gravely into the smiling eyes of Fell. "I'm not exactly afraid of him," she responded, soberly, "but there is something about him that I can't like. I'm sorry that you're trying to regenerate him, in a way." Fell shrugged lightly. "All life is an effort, little one! Well, good-bye." Jachin Fell left the house at three-forty. Twenty minutes later the bell rang again. Lucie sent one of the servants to admit Henry Gramont; she kept him waiting a full fifteen minutes before she appeared, and then she made no apologies whatever for the delay. Not that Gramont minded waiting; he deemed it a privilege to linger in this house! He loved to study the place, so reflective of its owner. He loved the white Colonial mantel that surrounded the fireplace, perpetually alight, with its gleaming sheen of old brasses, and the glittering fire-set to one side. The very air of the place, the atmosphere that it breathed, was sweet to him. The Napoleon bed that filled the bow window, with its pillows and soft coverings; the inlaid walnut cabinet made by Sheraton, with its quaintly curved glasses that reflected the old-time curios within; the tilt tables, the rosewood chairs, the rugs, bought before the oriental rug market was flooded with machine-made Senna knots--about everything here had an air of comfort, of long use, of restfulness. It was not the sort of place built up, raw item by raw item, by the colour-frenzied hands of decorators. It was the sort of place that decorators strive desperately to imitate, and cannot. When Lucie made her appearance, Gramont bent over her hand and addressed her in French. "You are charming as ever, Shining One! And in years to come you will be still more charming. That is the beauty of having a name taken direct from the classics and bestowed as a good fairy's gift----" "Thank you, monsieur--but you have translated my name at least twenty times, and I am weary of hearing it," responded Lucie, laughingly. "Poor taste, mademoiselle, to grow weary of such beauty!" "Not of the name, but of your exegesis upon it. Why should I not be displeased? Last night you were positively rude, and now you decry my taste! Did you leave all your manners in France, M. le prince?" "Some of them, yes--and all that prince stuff with them." Smiling as he dropped into English, Gramont glanced about the room, and his eyes softened. "This is a lovey and loveable home of yours, Lucie!" he exclaimed, gravely. "So few homes are worthy the name; so few have in them the intimate air of use and friendliness--why are so many furnished from bargain sales? This place is touched with repose and sweetness; to come and sit here is a privilege. It is like being in another world, after all the money striving and the dollar madness of the city." "Oh!" The girl's gaze searched him curiously. "I hope you're not going to take the fine artistic pose that it is a crime to make money?" Gramont laughed. "Not much! I want to make money myself; that's one reason I'm in New Orleans. Still, you cannot deny that there is a craze about the eternal clutching after dollars. I can't make the dollar sign the big thing in life, Lucie. You couldn't, either." She frowned a little. "You seem to have the European notion that all Americans are dollar chasers!" He shrugged his shoulders slightly. His harshly lined face was very strong; one sensed that its harshness had come from the outside--from hunger, from hardship and privations, from suffering strongly borne. He had not gone through the war unscathed, this young man who had tossed away a princely "de" in order to become plain Henry Gramont, American citizen. "In a sense, yes; why not?" he answered. "I am an American. I am a dollar chaser, and not ashamed of it. I am going into business here. Once it is a success, I shall go on; I shall see America, I shall come to know this whole country of mine, all of it! I have been a month in New Orleans--do you know, a strange thing happened to me only a few days after I arrived here!" With her eyes she urged him on, and he continued gravely: "In France I met a man, an American sergeant named Hammond. It was just at the close of things. We had adjoining cots at Nice----" "Ah!" she exclaimed, quickly. "I remember, you wrote about him--the man who had been wounded in both legs! Did he get well? You never said." "I never knew until I came here," answered Gramont. "One night, not long after I had got established in my pension on Burgundy Street, a man tried to rob me. It was this same man, Hammond; we recognized each other almost at once. "I took him home with me and learned his story. He had come back to America only to find his wife dead from influenza, his home broken up, his future destroyed. He drifted to New Orleans, careless of what happened to him. He flung himself desperately into a career of burglary and pillage. Well, I gave Hammond a job; he is my chauffeur. You would never recognize him as the same man now! I am very proud of his friendship." "That was well said." Lucie nodded her head quickly. "I shan't call you M. Le prince any more--unless you offend again." He smiled, reading her thought. "I try not to be a snob, eh? Well, what I'm driving at is this: I want to know this country of mine, to see it with clear, unprejudiced eyes. We hide our real shames and exalt our false ones. Why should we be ashamed of chasing the dollar? So long as that is a means to the end of happiness, it's all right. But there are some men who see it as an end alone, who can set no _finis_ to their work except the dollar dropping into their pouch. Such a man is your relative, Joseph Maillard--I say it without offence." Lucie nodded, realizing that he was driving at some deeper thing, and held her peace. "You realize the fact, eh?" Gramont smiled faintly. "I do not wish to offend you, and I shall therefore refrain from saying all that is in my mind. But you have not hesitated to intimate very frankly that you are not wealthy. Some time ago, if you recall, you wrote me how you had just missed wealth through having sold some land. I have taken the liberty of looking up that deal to some extent, and I have suspected that your uncle had some interest in putting the sale through----" The gray eyes of the girl flashed suddenly. "Henry Gramont! Are my family affairs to be an open book to the world?" A slight flush, perhaps of anger, perhaps of some other emotion, rose in the girl's cheeks. "Do you realize that you are intruding most unwarrantably into my private matters?" "Unwarrantably?" Gramont's eyes held her gaze steadily. "Do you really mean to use that word?" "I do, most certainly!" answered Lucie with spirit. "I don't think you realize just what the whole thing tends toward----" "Oh, yes I do! Quite clearly." Gramont's cool, level tone conquered her indignation. "I see that you are orphaned, and that your uncle was your guardian, and executed questionable deals which lost money for you. Come, that's brutally frank--but it's true! We are friends of long standing; not intimate friends, perhaps, and yet I think very good friends. I am most certainly not ashamed to say that when I had the occasion to look out for your interests I was very glad of the chance." Gramont paused, but she did not speak. He continued after a moment: "You had intimated to me, perhaps without meaning to do so, something of the situation. I came here to New Orleans and became involved in some dealings with your cousin, Bob Maillard. I believed, and I believe now, that in your heart you have some suspicion of your uncle in regard to those transactions in land. Therefore, I took the trouble to look into the thing to a slight extent. Shall I tell you what I have discovered?" Lucie Ledanois gazed at him, her lips compressed. She liked this new manner of his, this firm and resolute gravity, this harshness. It brought out his underlying character very well. "If you please, Henry," she murmured very meekly. "Since you have thrust yourself into my private affairs, I think I should at least get whatever benefit I can!" "Exactly. Why not?" He made a grave gesture of assent. "Well, then, I have discovered that your uncle appears to be honestly at fault in the matter----" "Thanks for this approval of my family," she murmured. "And," continued Gramont, imperturbably, "that your suspicions of him were groundless. But, on the other hand, something new has turned up about which I wish to speak--but about which I must speak delicately." "Be frank, my dear Henry--even brutal! Speak, by all means." "Very well. Has Bob Maillard offered to buy your remaining land on the Bayou Terrebonne?" She started slightly. So it was to this that he had been leading up all the while! "He broached the subject last night," she answered. "I dismissed it for the time." "Good!" he exclaimed with boyish vigour. "Good! I warned you in time, then! If you will permit me, I must advise you not to part with that land--not even for a good offer. This week, immediately Mardi Gras is over, I am going to inspect that land for the company; it is Bob Maillard's company, you know. "If there's any chance of finding oil there, I shall first see you, then advise the company. You can hold out for your fair share of the mineral rights, instead of selling the whole thing. You'll get it! Landowners around here are not yet wise to the oil game, but they'll soon learn." "You would betray your business associates to help me?" she asked, curious to hear his reply. A slow flush crept into his cheeks. "Certainly not! But I would not betray you to help my business friends. Is my unwarrantable intrusion forgiven?" She nodded brightly. "You are put on probation, sir. You're in Bob's company?" "Yes." Gramont frowned. "I invested perhaps too hastily--but no matter now. I have the car outside, Lucie; may I have the pleasure of taking you driving?" "Did you bring that chauffeur?" "Yes," and he laughed at her eagerness. "Good! I accept--because I must see that famous soldier-bandit-chauffeur. If you'll wait, I'll be ready in a minute." She hurried from the room, a snatch of song on her lips. Gramont smiled as he waited. CHAPTER V _The Masquer Unmasks_ In New Orleans one may find pensions in the old quarter--the quarter which is still instinct with the pulse of old-world life. These pensions do not advertise. The average tourist knows nothing of them. Even if he knew, indeed, he might have some difficulty in obtaining accommodations, for it is not nearly enough to have the money; one must also have the introductions, come well recommended, and be under the tongue of good repute. Gramont had obtained a small apartment _en pension_--a quiet and severely retired house in Burgundy Street, maintained by a very proud old lady whose ancestors had come out of Canada with the Sieur d'Iberville. Here Gramont lived with Hammond, quite on a basis of equality, and they were very comfortable. The two men sat smoking their pipes before the fireplace, in which blazed a small fire--more for good cheer than through necessity. It was Sunday evening. Between Gramont and Hammond had arisen a discussion regarding their relations--a discussion which was perhaps justified by Gramont's quixotic laying down of the law. "It's all very well, Hammond," he mused, "to follow custom and precedent, to present to the world a front which will not shock its proprieties, its sense of tradition and fitness. In the world's eye you are my chauffeur. But when we're alone together--nonsense!" "That's all right, cap'n," said Hammond, shrewdly. To him, Gramont was always "cap'n" and nothing else. "But you know's well as I do it can't go on forever. I'm workin' for you, and that's the size of it. I ain't got the education to stack up alongside of you. I don't want you to get the notion that I'm figuring on takin' advantage of you----" "Bosh! I suppose some day I'll be wealthy, married, and bound in the chains of social usage and custom," said Gramont, energetically. "But that day isn't here yet. If you think I'll accept deference and servility from any man who has endured the same hunger and cold and wounds that I endured in France--then guess again! We're friends in a democracy of Americans. You're just as good a man as I am, and vice versa. Besides, aren't we fellow criminals?" Hammond grinned at this. There was no lack of shrewd intelligence in his broad and powerful features, which were crowned by a rim of reddish hair. "All that line o' bull sounds good, cap'n, only it's away off," he returned. "Trouble with you is, you ain't forgot the war yet." "I never will," said Gramont, his face darkening. "Sure you will! We all will. And you ain't as used to this country as I am, either. I've seen too much of it. You ain't seen enough." "I've seen enough to know that it's my country." "Right. But I ain't as good a man as you are, not by a long shot!" said Hammond, cheerfully. "You proved that the night you caught me comin' into the window at the Lavergne house. You licked me without half tryin', cap'n! "Anyhow," pursued Hammond, "America ain't a democracy, unless you're runnin' for Congress. It sounds good to the farmers, but wait till you've been here long enough to get out of your fine notions! Limousines and money ain't got much use for democracy. The men who have brains, like you, always will give orders, I reckon." "Bosh!" said Gramont again. "It isn't a question of having brains. It's a question of knowing what to do with them. All men are born free and equal----" "Not much!" retorted the other with conviction. "All men were born free, but mighty few were born equal, cap'n. That sort o' talk sounds good in the newspapers, but it don't go very far with the guy at the bottom, nor the top, either!" Gramont stared into the flickering fire and sucked at his pipe. He realized that in a sense Hammond was quite correct in his argument; nonetheless, he looked on the other man as a comrade, and always would do so. It was true that he had not forgotten the war. Suddenly he roused himself and shot a glance at Hammond. "Sergeant! You seem to have a pretty good recollection of that night at the Lavergne house, when I found you entering and jumped on you." "You bet I have!" Hammond chuckled. "When you'd knocked the goggles off me and we recognized each other--hell! I felt like a boob." Gramont smiled. "How many places had you robbed up to then? Three, wasn't it?" "Three is right, cap'n," was the unashamed response. "We haven't referred to it very often, but now things have happened." Gramont's face took on harsh lines of determination. "Do you know, it was a lucky thing that you had no chance to dispose of the jewels and money you obtained? But I suppose you didn't call it good luck at the time." "No chance?" snorted the other. "No chance is right, cap'n! And I was sore, too. Say, they got a ring of crooks around this town you couldn't bust into with grenades! I couldn't figure it out for a while, but only the other day I got the answer. Listen here, and I'll tell you something big." Hammond leaned forward, lowered his voice, and tamped at his pipe. "When I was a young fellow I lived in a little town up North--I ain't sayin' where. My old man had a livery stable there, see? Well, one night a guy come along and got the old man out of bed, and slips him fifteen hundred for a rig and a team, see? I drove the guy ten miles through the hills, and set him on a road he wanted to find. "Now, that guy was the biggest crook in the country in them days--still is, I guess. He was on the dead run that night, to keep out o' Leavenworth. He kep' out, all right, and he's settin' in the game to this minute. Nobody never pinched him yet, and never will." Gramont's face had tensed oddly as he listened. Now he shot out a single word: "Why?" "Because his gang runs back to politicians and rich guys all over the country. You ask anybody on the inside if they ever heard of Memphis Izzy Gumberts! Well, cap'n, I seen that very identical guy on the street the other day--I never could forget his ugly mug! And where _he_ is, no outside crooks can get in, you believe me!" "Hm! Memphis Izzy Gumberts, eh? What kind of a crook is he, sergeant?" "The big kind. You remember them Chicago lotteries? But you don't, o' course. Well, that's his game--lotteries and such like." Gramont's lips clenched for a minute, then he spoke with slow distinctness: "Sergeant, I'd have given five hundred dollars for that information a week ago!" "Why?" Hammond stared at him suddenly. Gramont shook his head. "Never mind. Forget it! Now, this stunt of yours was clever. You showed brains when you got yourself up as an aviator and pulled that stuff, sergeant. But you handled it brutally--terribly brutally." "It was a little raw, I guess," conceded Hammond. "I was up against it, that's all--I figured they'd pinch me sooner or later, but I didn't care, and that's the truth! I was out for the coin. "When you took over the costume and began to get across with the Raffles stuff--why, it was a pipe for you, cap'n! Look what we've done in a month. Six jobs, every one running off smooth as glass! Your notion of going to parties ready dressed with some kind of loose robe over the flyin' duds was a scream! And then me running that motor with the cutout on--all them birds that never heard an airplane think you come and go by air, for certain! I will say that I ain't on to why you're doing it; just the same, you've got them all fooled, and I ain't worried a particle about the cops or the crooks, either one. But watch out for the Gumberts crowd! They're liable to show us up to the bulls, simply because we ain't in with 'em. Nobody else will ever find us out." Gramont nodded thoughtfully. "Yes? But, sergeant, how about the quiet little man who came along last night at the Maillard house and asked about the car? Perhaps he had discovered you had been running the engine." "Him?" Hammond sniffed in scorn. "He wasn't no dick." "Well, I was followed to-day; at least, I think I was. I could spot nobody after me, but I felt certain of it. And let me tell you something about that same quiet little man! His name is Jachin Fell." "Heluva name," commented Hammond, and wrinkled up his brow. "Jachin, huh? Seems like I've heard the name before. Out o' the Bible, ain't it? Something about Jachin and Boaz?" "I imagine so." Gramont smiled as he replied. "Fell is a lawyer, but he never practises law. He's rich, he's a very fine chess player--and probably the smartest man in New Orleans, sergeant. Just what he does I don't know; no one does. I imagine that he's one of those quiet men who stay in the backgrounds of city politics and pull the strings. You know, one administration has been in power here for nearly twenty years--it's something to make a man stop and think! "This chap Fell is sharp, confoundedly sharp!" went on Gramont, while the chauffeur listened with frowning intentness. "He's altogether too sharp to be a criminal--or I'd suspect that he was using his knowledge of the law to beat the law. Well, I think that he is on to me, and is trying to get the goods on me." "Oh!" said Hammond. "And someone was trailin' you? Think he's put the bulls wise?" Gramont shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. He almost caught me last night. We'll have to get rid of that aviator's suit at once, and of the loot also. I suppose you've reconciled yourself to returning the stuff?" Hammond stirred uneasily, and laid down his pipe. "Look here, cap'n," he said, earnestly. "I wasn't runnin' a holdup game because I liked it, and I wasn't doing it for the fun of the thing, like you are. I was dead broke, I hadn't any hope left, and I didn't care a damn whether I lived or died--that's on the dead! Right there, you come along and picked me up. "You give me a job. What's more, you've treated me white, cap'n. I guess you seen that I was just a man with the devil at his heels, and you chased the devil off. You've given me something decent to live for--to make good because you got some faith in me! Why, when you went out on that first job of ours, d'you know it like to broke me up? It did. Only, when we got home that night and you said it was all a joke, and you'd send back the loot later on, then I begun to feel better about it. Even if you'd gone into it as a reg'lar business, I'd have stuck with you--but I was darned glad about its bein' a joke!" Gramont nodded in comprehension of the other's feeling. "It's not been altogether a joke, sergeant," he said, gravely. "To tell the truth, I did start it as a joke, but soon afterward I learned something that led me to keep it up. I kept it up until I could hit the Maillard house. It was my intention to turn up at the Comus ball, on Tuesday night, and there make public restitution of the stuff--but that's impossible now. I dare not risk it! That man Fell is too smart." "You're not goin' to pull the trick again, then?" queried Hammond, eagerly. "No. I'm through. I've got what I wanted. Still, I don't wish to return the stuff before Wednesday--Ash Wednesday, the end of the carnival season. Suppose you get out the loot and find me some boxes. And be sure they have no name on them or any store labels." Hammond leaped up and vanished in the room adjoining. Presently he returned, bearing several cardboard boxes which he dumped on the centre table. Gramont examined them closely, and laid aside a number that were best suited to his purpose. Meantime, the chauffeur was opening a steamer trunk which he pulled from under the bed. "I'm blamed glad you're done, believe me!" he uttered, fervently, glancing up at Gramont. "Far's I'm concerned I don't care much, but I'd sure hate to see the bulls turn in a guy like you, cap'n. You couldn't ever persuade anybody that it was all a joke, neither, once they nabbed you. They're a bad bunch o' bulls in this town--it ain't like Chi or other places, where you can stand in right and do a bit o' fixing." "You seem to know the game pretty well," and Gramont smiled amusedly. "Ain't I been a chauffeur and garage man?" retorted Hammond, as though this explained much. "If there's anything us guys don't run up against, you can't name it! Here we are. Want me to keep each bunch separate, don't you?" "Sure. I'll be writing some notes to go inside." Gramont went to a buhl writing desk in the corner of the room, and sat down. He took out his notebook, tore off several sheets, and from his pocket produced a pencil having an extremely hard lead. He wrote a number of notes, which, except for the addresses, were identical in content: DEAR SIR: I enclose herewith certain jewellery and articles, also currency, recently obtained by me under your kind auspices. I trust that you will assume the responsibility of returning these things to the various guests who lost them while under your roof. I regret any discomfort occasioned by my taking them as a loan, which I now return. Please convey to the several owners my profound esteem and my assurance that I shall not in future appear to trouble any one, the carnival season having come to an end, and with it my little jest. THE MIDNIGHT MASQUER. Gathering up these notes in his hand, Gramont went to the fireplace. He tossed the pencil into the fire, following it with the notebook. "Can't take chances with that man Fell," he explained. "All ready, sergeant. Let's go down the list one by one." From the trunk Hammond produced ticketed packages, which he placed on the table. Gramont selected one, opened it, carefully packed the contents in one of the boxes, placed the proper addressed note on top, and handed it to the chauffeur. "Wrap it up and address it. Give the return address of John Smith, Bayou Teche." One by one they went through the packages of loot in the same manner. Before them on the table, as they worked, glittered little heaps of rings, brooches, watches, currency; jewels that flashed garishly with coloured fires, historic and famous jewels plucked from the aristocratic heart of the southland, heirlooms of a past generation side by side with platinum crudities of the present fashion. There had been heartburnings in the loss of these things, Gramont knew. He could picture to himself something of what had followed his robberies: family quarrels, new purchases in the gem marts, bitter reproaches, fresh mortgages on old heritages, vexations of wealthy dowagers, shrugs of unconcern by the _nouveaux riches_; perchance lives altered--deaths--divorces---- "There's a lot of human life behind these baubles, sergeant," he reflected aloud, a cold smile upon his lips as he worked. "When they come back to their owners, I'd like to be hovering around in an invisible mantle to watch results! Could we only know it, we're probably affecting the lives of a great many people--for good and ill. These things stand for money; and there's nothing like money, or the lack of it, to guide the destinies of people." "You said it," and Hammond grinned. "I'm here to prove it, ain't I? I ain't pulling no more gunplay, now I got me a steady job." "And a steady friend, old man," added Gramont. "Did it occur to you that maybe I was as much in need of a friend as you were?" He had come to the last box now, that which must go to Joseph Maillard. On top of the money and scarfpins which he placed in the box he laid a thin packet of papers. He tapped them with his finger. "Those papers, sergeant! To get them, I've been playing the whole game. To get them and not to let their owner suspect that I was after them! Now they're going back to their owner." "Who's he?" demanded Hammond. "Young Maillard--son of the banker. He roped me into an oil company; caught me, like a sucker, almost the first week I was here. I put pretty near my whole wad into that company of his." "You mean he stung you?" "Not yet." Gramont smiled coldly, harshly. "That was his intention; he thought I was a Frenchman who would fall for any sort of game. I fell right enough--but I'll come out on top of the heap." The other frowned. "I don't get you, cap'n. Some kind o' stock deal?" "Yes, and no." Gramont paused, and seemed to choose his words with care. "Miss Ledanois, the lady who was driving with us this afternoon, is an old friend of mine. I've known for some time that somebody was fleecing her. I suspected that it was Maillard the elder, for he has had the handling of her affairs for some time past. Now, however, those papers have given me the truth. He was straight enough with her; his son was the man. "The young fool imagines that by trickery and juggling he is playing the game of high finance! He worked on his father, made his father sell land owned by Miss Ledanois, and he himself reaped the profits. There are notes and stock issues among those papers that give his whole game away, to my eyes. Not legal evidence, as I had hoped, but evidence enough to show me the truth of things--to show me that he's a scoundrel! Further, they bear on my own case, and I'm satisfied now that I'd be ruined if I stayed with him." "Well, that's easy settled," said Hammond. "Just hold him up with them papers--make him come across!" "I'm not in that sort of business. I stole those papers, not to use them for blackmail, but to get information. By the way, get that tin box out of my trunk, will you? I want to take my stock certificates with me in the morning, and must not forget them." Hammond disappeared into the adjoining room. Gramont sat gazing at the boxes before him. Despite his words to Hammond, there was a fund of puzzled displeasure in his eyes, sheer dissatisfaction. He shook his head gloomily, and his eyes clouded. "All wasted--the whole effort!" he murmured. "I thought it might lead to something, but all it has given me is the reward of saving myself and possibly retrieving Lucie. As for the larger game, the bigger quarry--it's all wasted. I haven't unravelled a single thread; the first real clue came to me to-night, purely by accident. Memphis Izzy Gumberts! That's the lead to follow! I'll get rid of this Midnight Masquer foolishness and go after the real game." Gramont was to discover that it is not nearly so easy to be rid of folly as it is to don the jester's cap and bells; a fact which one Simplicissimus had discovered to his sorrow three hundred years earlier. But, as Gramont was not versed in this line of literature, he yet had the discovery ahead of him. Hammond reëntered the room with the tin box, from which Gramont took his stock certificates issued by Bob Maillard's oil company. He pocketed the shares. "Does this here Miss Ledanois," asked Hammond, "play in with you in the game? Young Maillard's related to her, ain't he?" "She's quite aware of his drawbacks, I think," answered Gramont, drily. "I see." Hammond rubbed his chin, and inspected his employer with a twinkle denoting perfect comprehension. "Well, how d'you expect to come out on top of the heap?" "I want to get my own money back," explained Gramont. "You see, young Maillard thinks that he's cleaned me up fine. I've invested heavily in his company, which has a couple of small wells already going. As I conceive the probable scheme, this company is scheduled to fail, and another company will take over the stock at next to nothing. Maillard will be the other company; his present associates will be the suckers! It's that, or some similar trick. I'm no longer interested in the affair." "Why not, if you got money in it?" "My son, to-morrow is Monday. Proteus will arrive out of the sea to-morrow, and the Proteus ball comes off to-morrow night. In spite of these distractions, the banks are open in the morning. Savvy? "I'll go to Maillard the banker--Joseph Maillard--first thing in the morning, and offer him my stock. He'll be mighty glad to get it at a discount, knowing that it is in his son's company. You see, the son doesn't confide in the old man particularly. I'll let the father win a little money on the deal with me, and by doing this I'll manage to save the greater part of my investment----" "Holy mackerel!" Hammond exploded in a burst of laughter as he caught the idea. "Say, if this ain't the richest thing ever pulled! When the crash comes, the fancy kid will be stinging his dad good and hard, eh?" "Exactly; and I think his dad can afford to be stung much better than I can," agreed Gramont, cheerfully. "Also, now that I'm certain Bob Maillard is the one who was behind the fleecing of Miss Ledanois, I'll first get clear of him, then I'll start to give him his deserts. I may form an oil company of my own." "Do it," advised Hammond, still chuckling. "Now," and Gramont rose, "let's take those packages and stow them away in the luggage compartment of the car. I'm getting nervous at the thought of having them around here, and they'll be perfectly safe there overnight--safer there than here, in fact. To-morrow, you can take the car out of town and send the packages by parcels post from some small town. "In that way they ought to be delivered here on Wednesday. You'd better wear one of my suits, leaving your chauffeur's outfit here, and don't halt the car in front of the postoffice where you mail the packages----" "I get you," assented Hammond, sagely. "I'll leave the car outside town, and hoof it in with the boxes, so that nobody will notice the car or connect it with the packages, eh? But what about them aviator's clothes?" "Take them with you--better get them wrapped up here and now. You can toss them into a ditch anywhere." Hammond obeyed. Ten minutes afterward the two men left the room, carrying the packages of loot and the bundle containing the aviator's uniform. They descended to the courtyard in the rear of the house. Here was a small garden, with a fountain in its centre. Behind this were the stables, which had long been disused as such, and which were now occupied only by the car of Gramont. It was with undisguised relief that Gramont now saw the stuff actually out of the house. Within the last few hours he had become intensely afraid of Jachin Fell. Concentrating himself upon the man, picking up information guardedly, he had that day assimilated many small items which increased his sense of peril from that quarter. Straws, no more, but quite significant straws. Gramont realized clearly that if the police ever searched his rooms and found this loot, he would be lost. There could be no excuse that would hold water for a minute against such evidence. In the garage, Hammond switched on the lights of the car. By the glow they disposed their burdens in the luggage compartment of the tonneau, which held them neatly. The car was a large twelve-cylinder, four-passenger Nonpareil, which Gramont had picked up in the used-car market. Hammond had tinkered it into magnificent shape, and loved the piece of mechanism as the very apple of his eye. The luggage compartment closed and locked, they returned into the house and dismissed the affair as settled. Upon the following morning Gramont, who usually breakfasted _en pension_ with his hostess, had barely seated himself at the table when he perceived the figure of Hammond at the rear entrance of the dining room. The chauffeur beckoned him hastily. "Come out here, cap'n!" Hammond was breathing heavily, and seemed to be in some agitation. "Want to show you somethin'!" "Is there anything important?" Gramont hesitated. The other regarded him with a baleful countenance. "Important? Worse'n that!" Gramont rose and followed Hammond out to the garage, much to his amazement. The chauffeur halted beside the car and extended him a key, pointing to the luggage compartment. "Here's the key--you open her!" "What's the matter, man?" "The stuff's gone!" Gramont seized the key and opened the compartment. It proved empty indeed. He stared up into the face of Hammond who was watching in dogged silence. "I knew you'd suspect me," broke out the chauffeur, but Gramont interrupted him curtly. "Don't be a fool; nothing of the sort. Was the garage locked?" "Yes, and the compartment, too! I came out to look over that cut tire, and thought I'd make sure the stuff was safe----" "We're up against it, that's all." Gramont compressed his lips for a moment. Then he straightened up and clapped the other on the shoulder. "Buck up! I never thought of suspecting you, old fellow. Someone must have been watching us last night, eh?" "The guy that trailed you yesterday, most like," agreed Hammond, dourly. "It ain't hard to break into this place, and any one could open that compartment with a hairpin." "Well, you're saved a trip into the country." "You think they got us, cap'n? What can we do?" "Do?" Gramont shrugged his shoulders and laughed. "Nothing except to wait and see what happens next! If you want to run, I'll give you enough money to land you in New York or Frisco----" "Run--hell!" Hammond sniffed in scorn. "What d'you think I am--a boche? I'll stick." "Good boy." Gramont turned toward the house. "Come along in and get breakfast, and don't touch that compartment door. I want to examine it later." Hammond gazed admiringly after him as he crossed the garden. "If you ain't a cool hand, I'm a Dutchman!" he murmured, and followed his master. CHAPTER VI _Chacherre_ At ten o'clock that Monday morning Gramont's car approached Canal Street, and halted a block distant. For any car to gain Canal, much less to follow it, was impossible. From curb to curb the wide avenue was thronged with carnival folk, who would hold their own until Proteus came ashore to manage his own parade and his own section of the festivities. Gramont left the car, and turned to speak with Hammond. "I've made out at least two fingerprints on the luggage compartment," he said, quietly. "Drive around to police headquarters and enter a complaint in my name to a robbery of the compartment; say that the thief got away with some valuable packages I had been about to mail. They have a process of transferring fingerprints such as these; get it done. Perhaps they can identify the thief, for it must have been some clever picklock to get into the compartment without leaving a scratch. Take your time about it and come home when you've finished." Hammond listened stolidly. "If it was the bulls done it, cap'n, going to them will get us pinched sure----" "If they had done it," said Gramont, "we'd have been pinched long before this! It was someone sent by that devil Jachin Fell, and I'll land him if I can!" "Then Fell will land us if he's got the stuff!" "Let him! How can he prove anything, unless he had brought the police to open up that compartment? Get along with you!" Hammond grinned, saluted, and drove away. Slowly Gramont edged his way through the eddying crowds to Canal Street, and presently gained the imposing portals of the Exeter National Bank. Entering the building, he sent his card to the private office of the president; a moment later he was ushered in, and was closeted with Joseph Maillard. The interior of the Exeter National reflected the stern personality that ruled it. The bank was dark, old fashioned, conservative, guarded with much effrontery of iron grills and bars against the evil doer. The window men greeted their customers with infrequent smiles, with caution and reserve so great that it was positively chilly. Suspicion seemed in the air. The bank's reputation for guarding the sanctity of wealth seemed to rest heavily upon each pair of bowed shoulders. Even the stenographers were unhandsome women, weary-eyed, drearily efficient, and obviously respectable. As befitted so old and conservative a New Orleans institution, much of its business was transacted in French. The business customers of this bank found their affairs handled coldly, efficiently, with an inhuman precision that was admirable. It was good for business, and they liked it. There were no mistakes. People who were accustomed to dealing with bankers of cordial smile and courteous word, people who liked to walk into a bank and to be met with a personal greeting, did not come here, nor were they wanted here. The Exeter National was a place for business, not for courtesy. It was absolutely precise, cold, inhuman, and spelled business from the ground up. Its oldest customer could not buy a draft on Paris or London or other of the bank's correspondents without paying the required fee. The wealthiest depositor could not expect to overdraw his checking account one dollar without being required to settle up before the next day was gone. Loans were made hesitatingly, grudgingly, and of necessity, always on security and never on character. Such was the Exeter National. Its character was reflected in the cold faces at its windows, and the chance customers who entered its sacred portals were duly cowed and put in their proper place. Most of them were, that is. Occasionally some intrepid soul appeared who seemed impervious to the gloomy chill, who seemed even to resent it. One of these persons was now standing in the lobby and staring around with a cool impudence which drew unfavourable glances from the clerks. He was a decently dressed fellow, obviously no customer of this sacrosanct place, obviously a stranger to its interior. Beneath a rakishly cocked soft hat beamed a countenance that bore a look of self-assured impertinent deviltry. After one look at that countenance the assistant cashier crooked a hasty finger at the floor guard, who nodded and walked over to the intruder with a polite query. "Can I help you, sir?" The intruder turned, favoured the guard with a cool stare, then broke into a laugh and a flood of Creole dialect. "Why, if it isn't old Lacroix from Carencro! And look at the brass buttons--_diable_! You must own this place, hein? _la tchè chatte poussé avec temps_--the cat's tail grows in time, I see! You remember me?" "Ben Chacherre!" exclaimed the guard, losing his dignity for an instant. "Why--you _vaurien_, you! You who disappeared from the parish and became a vagrant----" "So you turn up your sanctified nose at Ben Chacherre, do you?" exclaimed that person jauntily. He thrust his hat a bit farther over one ear, and proceeded to snap his fingers under the nose of Lacroix. "A _vaurien_, am I? Old peacock! Lead me to the man who cashes checks, lackey, brass buttons that you are! Come, obey me, or I'll have you thrown into the street!" "You--you wish to cash a check?" The guard was overcome by confusion, for the loud tones of Chacherre penetrated the entire institution. "But you are not known here----" "Bah, insolent one! _Macaque dan calebasse_--monkey in the calabash that you are! Do you not know me?" "Heaven preserve me! I will not answer for your accursed checks." "Go to the devil, then," snapped Chacherre, and turned away. His roving eyes had already found the correct window by means of the other persons seeking it, and now he stepped into the small queue that had formed. When it came his turn, he slid his check across the marble slab, tucked his thumbs into the armholes of his vest, and impudently stared into the questioning, coldly repellent eyes of the teller. "Well?" he exclaimed, as the teller examined the check. "Do you wish to eat it, that you sniff so hard?" The teller gave him a glance. "This is for a thousand dollars----" "Can I not read?" said Chacherre, with an impudent gesture. "Am I an ignorant 'Cajun? Have I not eyes in my head? If you wish to start an argument, say that the check is for a hundred dollars. Then, by heaven, I will argue something with you!" "You are Ben Chacherre, eh? Does any one here know you?" Chacherre exploded in a violent oath. "Dolt that you are, do I have to be known when the check is endorsed under my signature? Who taught you business, monkey?" "True," answered the teller, sulkily. "Yet the amount----" "Oh, bah!" Chacherre snapped his fingers. "Go and telephone Jachin Fell, you old woman! Go and tell him you do not know his signature--well, who are you looking at? Am I a telephone, then? You are not hired to look but to act! Get about it." The enraged and scandalized teller beckoned a confrere. Jachin Fell was telephoned. Presumably his response was reassuring, for Chacherre was presently handed a thousand dollars in small bills, as he requested. He insisted upon counting over the money at the window with insolent assiduity, flung a final compliment at the teller, and swaggered across the lobby. He was still standing by the entrance when Henry Gramont left the private office of the president and passed him by without a look. Gramont was smiling to himself as he left the bank, and Ben Chacherre was whistling gaily as he also left and plunged into the whirling vortex of the carnival crowds. Toward noon Gramont arrived afoot at his pension. Finding the rooms empty, he went on and passed through the garden. Behind the garage, in the alley, he discovered Hammond busily at work cleaning and polishing the engine of the car. "Hello!" he exclaimed, cheerily. "What luck?" "Pretty good, cap'n." Hammond glanced up, then paused. A stranger was strolling toward them along the alleyway, a jaunty individual who was gaily whistling and who seemed entirely carefree and happy. He appeared to have no interest whatever in them, and Hammond concluded that he was innocuous. "They got them prints fine, cap'n. What's more, they think they've located the fellow that made 'em." "Ah, good work!" exclaimed Gramont. "Some criminal?" Hammond frowned. The stranger had come to a halt a few feet distant, flung them a jerky, careless nod, and was beginning to roll a cigarette. He surveyed the car with a knowing and appreciative eye. Hammond turned his back on the man disdainfully. "Yep--a sneak thief they'd pinched a couple of years back; didn't know where he was, but the prints seemed to fit him. They'll come up and look things over sometime to-day, then go after him and land him." Gramont gave the stranger a glance, but the other was still surveying the car with evident admiration. If he heard their words he gave them no attention. "Who was the man, then?" asked Gramont. "A guy with a queer name--Ben Chacherre." Hammond pronounced it as he deemed correct--as the name was spelled. "Only they didn't call him that. Here, I wrote it down." He fished in his pocket and produced a paper. Gramont glanced at it and laughed. "Oh, Chacherre!" He gave the name the Creole pronunciation. "Yep, Sasherry. I expect they'll come any time now--said two bulls would drop in." "All right." Gramont nodded and turned away, with another glance at the stranger. "I'll not want the car to-day nor to-night that I know of. I'm not going to the Proteus ball. So your time's your own until to-morrow; make the most of it!" He disappeared, and Hammond returned to his work. Then he straightened up, for the jaunty stranger was bearing down upon him with evident intent to speak. "Some car you got there, brother!" Ben Chacherre, who had overheard most of the foregoing conversation, lighted his cigarette and grinned familiarly. "Some car, eh?" "She's a boat, all right," conceded Hammond, grudgingly. He did not like the other's looks, although praise of the car was sweet unto his soul. "She sure steps some." "Yes. All she needs," drawled Chacherre, "is some good tires, a new coat of paint, a good steel chassis, and a new engine----" "Huh?" snorted Hammond. "Say, you 'bo, who sold you chips in this game? Move along!" Ben grinned anew and rested himself against a near-by telephone pole. "Free country, ain't it?" he inquired, lazily. "Or have you invested your winnings and bought this here alley?" Hammond reddened with anger and took a step forward. The next words of Chacherre, however, jerked him sharply into self-control. "Seen anything of an aviator's helmet around here?" "Huh?" The chauffeur glared at his tormentor, yet with a sudden sick feeling inside his bosom. He suddenly realized that the man's eyes were meeting his squarely, with a bold and insolent directness. "Who you kiddin' now?" "Nobody. I was asking a question, that's all." Ben Chacherre flung away his cigarette, untangled himself from the telephone pole, and moved away. "Only," he flung over his shoulder, "I was flyin' along here last night in my airplane, and I lost my helmet overboard. Thought maybe you'd seen it. So long, brother!" Hammond stood staring after the swaggering figure; for once he was speechless. The jaunty words had sent terror thrilling into him. He started impulsively to pursue that impudent accoster--then he checked himself. Had the man guessed something? Had the man known something? Or had those words been only a bit of meaningless impertinence--a chance shaft which had accidentally flown home? The last conjecture impressed itself on Hammond as being the truth, and his momentary fright died out. He concluded that the incident was not worth mentioning to Gramont, who surely had troubles enough of his own at this juncture. So he held his peace about it. As for Ben Chacherre, he sauntered from the alley, a careless whistle upon his lips. Once out of Hammond's sight, however, he quickened his pace. Turning into a side street, he directed his step toward that part of the old quarter which, in the days before prohibition, had been given over to low cabarets and dives of various sorts. Most of these places were now boarded up, and presumably abandoned. Coming to one of them, which appeared more dirty and desolate than the rest, Chacherre opened a side door and vanished. He entered what had once been the Red Cat cabaret. At a table in the half-darkened main room sat two men. A slovenly waiter pored over a newspaper at another table in a far corner. The two in the centre nodded to Chacherre. One of them, who was the proprietor, jerked his chin in an invitation to join them. A man famous in the underworld circles, a man whose renown rested on curious feats and facts, this proprietor; few crooks in the country had not heard the name of Memphis Izzy Gumberts. He was a grizzled old bear now; but in times past he had been the head of a far-flung organization which, on each pay day, covered every army post in the country and diverted into its own pockets about two thirds of Uncle Sam's payroll--a feat still related in criminal circles as the _ne plus ultra_ of success. Those palmy days were gone, but Memphis Izzy, who had never been "mugged" in any gallery, sat in his deserted cabaret and still did not lack for power and influence. The man at his side was apparently not anxious to linger, for he rose and made his farewells as Chacherre approached. "We have about eighteen cars left," he said to Gumberts. "Charley the Goog can attend to them, and the place is safe enough. They're up to you. I'm drifting back to Chi." "Drift along," and Gumberts nodded, a leer in his eyes. His face was broad, heavy-jowled, filled with a keen and forceful craft. "It's a cinch that nobody in this state is goin' to interfere with us. About them cars from Texas--any news?" "I've sent orders to bring 'em in next week." Gumberts nodded again, and the man departed. Into the chair which he had vacated dropped Ben Chacherre, and took from his pocket the money which he had obtained at the bank. He laid it on the table before Gumberts. "There you are," he said. "Amounts you want and all. The boss says to gimme a receipt." "Wouldn't trust you, eh?" jeered Gumberts. He took out pencil and paper, scrawled a word or two, and shoved the paper at Chacherre. Then he reached down to a small satchel which lay open on the floor beside his chair. "Why wouldn't the boss leave the money come out of the takin's, hey?" "Wanted to keep separate accounts," said Chacherre. Gumberts nodded and produced two large sealed envelopes, which he pushed across the table. "There's rakeoff for week before last," he announced. "Last week will be the big business, judgin' from early reports." Chacherre pocketed the envelopes, lighted a cigarette, and leaned forward. "Say, Izzy! You got to send a new man down to the Bayou Latouche right away. Lafarge was there, you know; a nigger shot him yesterday. The nigger threatened to squeal unless he got his money back--Lafarge was a fool and didn't know how to handle him. The lottery's goin' to get a bad name around there----" Gumberts snapped his fingers. "Let it!" he said, calmly. "The big money from all that section is Chinese and Filipino, my friend. The niggers don't matter." "Well, the boss says to shoot a new man down there. Also, he says, you'd better watch out about spreadin' the lottery into Texas and Alabama, account of the government rules." The heavy features of Gumberts closed in a scowl. "You tell your boss," he said, "that when it comes to steerin' clear of federal men, I don't want no instructions from nobody! We got every man in this state spotted. Every one that can be fixed is fixed--and that goes for the legislators and politicians clear up the line! Tell your boss to handle the local gov'ment as well as I handle other things, and he'll do all that's necessary. What he'd ought to attend to, for one thing, is this here guy who calls himself the Midnight Masquer. I've told him before that this guy was playing hell with my system! This Masquer gets no protection, see? The quicker Fell goes after him, the better for all concerned----" Chacherre laughed, not without a swagger. "We've attended to all that, Izzy--we've dropped on him and settled him! The guy was doin' it for a carnival joke, that's all. His loot is all goin' back to the owners to-day. It needn't worry you, anyhow! There was nothin' much to it--jewellery that couldn't be disposed of, for the most part. We couldn't take chances on that sort o' junk." "I should say not." Gumbert regarded him with a scowl. "You've got the stuff?" "The boss has. Look here, Izzy, I want you to use a little influence with headquarters on this deal--the boss doesn't want to show his hand there," and leaning forward, Ben Chacherre spoke in a low tone. Then, Gumberts heard him out, chuckled, and nodded assent. At two that afternoon Henry Gramont, who was writing letters in total disregard of the carnival parade downtown, was summoned to the telephone. He was greeted by a voice which he did not recognize, but which announced itself promptly. "This is Mr. Gramont? Police headquarters speakin'. You laid a charge this morning against a fellow named Chacherre?" "Yes," answered Gramont. "Must ha' been some mistake, then," came the response. "We thought the prints fitted, but found later they didn't. We looked up the Chacherre guy and found he was workin' steady and strictly O. K. What's more to the point, he proved up a dead sure alibi for the other night." "Oh!" said Gramont. "Then there's nothing to be done?" "Not yet. We're workin' on it, and maybe we'll have some news later. Good-bye." Gramont hung up the receiver, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. But, after a minute, he laughed softly--a trace of anger in the laugh. "Ah!" he murmured. "I congratulate you on your efficiency, Mr. Fell! But now wait a little--and we'll meet again. I think I'm getting somewhere at last, and I'll have a surprise for you one of these days!" CHAPTER VII _In The Open_ In New Orleans the carnival season is always opened by the ball of the Twelfth Night Revellers soon after Christmas, and is closed by that of the Krewe of Comus on Mardi Gras night. Upon this evening of "Fat Tuesday," indeed, both Rex and Comus hold forth. Rex is the popular ball, the affair of the people, and is held in the Athenaeum. From here, about midnight, the king and queen proceed to Comus ball. Comus is an assembly of such rigid exclusiveness that even the tickets to the galleries are considered social prizes. The _personae_ of the Krewe, on this particular year as in all previous ones, would remain unknown; there is no unmasking at Comus. This institution, a tremendous social power and potentially a financial power also, during decades of the city's life, is held absolutely above any taint of favouritism or commercialism. Even the families of those concerned might not always be certain whether their sons and brothers belonged to the Krewe of Comus. Henry Gramont did not attend the ball of Proteus on Monday night. Instead, he sat in his own room, while through the streets of the French quarter outside was raging the carnival at its height. Before him were maps and reports upon the gas and oil fields about Bayou Terrebonne--fields where great domes of natural gas were already located and in use, and where oil was being found in some quantity. Early on Wednesday morning Gramont intended to set forth to his work. He had been engaged to make a report to Bob Maillard's company, and he would make it. Then he would resign his advisory job, and be free. A smile curled his lips as he thought of young Maillard and the company. "The young gentleman will be sadly surprised to discover that I've gotten out from under--and that his respected father holds my stock!" he reflected. "That was a good deal; I lost a thousand to old Maillard in order to save the balance of thirty thousand!" A knock at his door interrupted the thread of this thought. Gramont opened, to find the concierge with a note which had been left at the door below by a masked Harlequin, who had then disappeared without awaiting any reply. Gramont recognized the writing on the envelope, and hastened to the note inside. His face changed, however, as he read it: Please call promptly at eleven to-morrow morning. I wish to see you upon a matter of business. LUCIE LEDANOIS. Gramont gazed long at this note, his brows drawn down into a harsh line. It was not like Lucie in its tone, somehow; he sensed something amiss, something vaguely but most decidedly out of tune. Certainly it was not her way to write thus curtly and harshly--the words disquieted him. What could have turned up now? Then, with a shrug, he tossed the note on the table. "Eleven to-morrow morning, eh?" he murmured. "That's queer, too, for she's to be at the Proteus ball to-night. Most girls would not be conducting business affairs at eleven in the morning, after being up all night at Proteus! It must be something important. Besides, she's not in the class with any one else. She's a rare girl; no nonsense in her--full of a deep, strong sense of things----" He forced himself from thoughts of Lucie, forced himself from her personality, and returned to his reports with an effort of concentration. Gramont wanted to look over her Terrebonne land with a full knowledge of its geology and situation. Oil drilling is a gamble in any case, yet Gramont took a scholar's solid satisfaction in getting his subject thoroughly in hand before he went to work at it. Then, he reflected, he would get his task finished as rapidly as might be, turn in his report, and resign from the company. After that--freedom! He regretted sadly enough that he had ever gone into any relations with Maillard's company. "Yet, what's to hinder my going ahead, in the meantime?" he considered. "What's to hinder getting my own company on its feet? Nothing! All I need is backing. I'll put in twenty-five thousand, and that much more added to it will give us plenty of capital to start in drilling with. If I could find someone who had a positive faith in my judgment and whom I could trust in turn----" He checked himself suddenly, and stared at the papers before him with widening eyes. A slow whistle came from his lips, and then he smiled and pulled the papers to him. Yet, as he worked he could not keep down the thought that had forced itself upon him. It was altogether absurd, of course--yet why not? When Gramont went to bed that night it was with a startling and audacious scheme well defined in his brain; a scheme whose first conception seemed ludicrous and impossible, yet which, on second consideration, appeared in a very different light. It deserved serious thought--and Gramont had made his decision before he went to sleep. The following day was Tuesday--Mardi Gras, Shrove Tuesday, the last day before Lent began, and the final culminating day of carnival. Henry Gramont, however, was destined to find little in its beginning of much personal pleasure. At eleven in the morning Hammond drove him to the Ledanois home, where Gramont was admitted by one of the coloured servants and shown into the parlour. A moment later Lucie herself appeared. At first glance her smiling greeting removed the half-sensed apprehensions of Gramont. Almost immediately afterward, however, he noted a perceptible change in her manner, as she led him toward the rear of the room, and gestured toward a mahogany tilt-top table which stood in a corner. "Come over here, please. I have something which I wish to show you." She needed to say no more. Gramont, following her, found himself staring blankly down at the symbol of consternation which overwhelmed him. For upon that table, lay all those self-same boxes which he himself had packed with the loot of the Midnight Masquer--the identical boxes, apparently unopened, which had been stolen from his automobile by the supposed thief Chacherre! For a moment Gramont found himself unable to speak. He was thunderstruck by the sight of those unmistakeable boxes. A glance at the calm features of the girl showed him that there was nothing to be concealed from her, even had he wished it. He was further stunned by this realization. He could not understand how the packages had come here. Recovering his voice with an effort, he managed to break the heavy silence. "Well? I suppose you know what is in those parcels?" She nodded. "Yes. One of them was opened, and the note inside was discovered. Of course, it gave a general explanation. Will you sit down, please? I think that we had better talk it over quietly and calmly." Gramont obeyed, and dropped into a chair. He was absurdly conscious of his own confusion. He tried to speak, but words and thoughts failed him. Torn between pride and chagrin, he found himself able to say nothing. Explanations, at any time, came to him with difficulty; now, at least, he felt that he could not lie to this girl. And how was he to tell her the truth? And how had Lucie come into the affair? This staggered him above all else. Was she behind the theft of the loot? It must be. How long had she suspected him, then? He had thought Jachin Fell the sole danger-point--he had never dreamed that this gray-eyed Athene could be tracing down the Masquer! He tried to visualize the situation more clearly and his brain whirled. He knew, of course, that she was fairly intimate with Fell, but he was not aware of any particular connection---- He glanced up at her suddenly, and surprised a glint of laughter in her eyes as she watched him. "You seem to be rather astonished," she observed. "I am." Gramont drew a deep breath. "You--do you know that those boxes were taken from my car?" She nodded again. "Certainly. They were brought to me." "Then you had someone on my trail?" Gramont flushed a little as he put the question to her. "No. I have been chosen to settle affairs with you, that is all. It has been learned from the note in the opened box that you were not criminal in what you did." She leaned forward, her deep eyes searching him with a steady scrutiny. "Tell me, Henry Gramont, what mad impulse brought you to all this? Was it a silly, boyish effort to be romantic--was it a mere outburst of bravado? It was not for the sake of robbery, as the note explained very clearly. But why, then? Why? There must have been a definite reason in your mind. You would not have taken such dangerous chances unless you had something to gain!" Gramont nodded slightly, then flushed again and bit his lip. For a moment he made no response to her query. He might, of course, say that he had been the Midnight Masquer because of her alone; which would be decidedly untrue. He might tell her, as he had told Hammond, that all his efforts had led up to that scene in the Maillard library, when without suspicion by any concerned he might verify his own surmise as to who had been defrauding Lucie Ledanois. It would sound very well--but it would be a lie. That had been far from his only reason for playing the Midnight Masquer's game. But why tell her anything? A slight smile touched his lips. "You're not going to send me to prison, I trust?" "I ought to!" The girl broke into a laugh. "Why, I can hardly yet believe that it was really you who were guilty of those things! It mortified me, it stunned me--until I realized the truth from the note. Even the fact that you did not do it for criminal ends does not relieve the sheer folly of the act. Why did you do it? Come, tell me the truth!" Gramont shrugged. "The truth? Well, my chauffeur, Hammond, was the original Masquer. I caught him in the act--you remember I told you about him? After taking him into my employ, I became the Masquer. Poor Hammond was some time in realizing that my motives were altruistic and not criminal. He was quite distressed about it until he found that I meant to return all the loot intact." "Why did you do it, then?" persisted the girl. "Call it bravado, my dear Lucie. Call it anything you like--I can't lie to you! I had a motive, and I refuse to admit what it was; that's all." "Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" "Not particularly." He smiled. "I had a good end in view, and I accomplished it. Also, I flatter myself that I accomplished it very decently; there's nothing like being a good workman, you know. Now that I'm all through, now that I've finished playing my little game, you happened to discover it. I am ashamed on that point, Lucie--ashamed because the discovery has very naturally made you think harshly of me----" "I think you've been very silly," she said with a disconcerting calmness. He regarded her for a moment, steadily. "And you have displayed a fearful lack of judgment!" "Silly? Well--perhaps. What are you going to do with those boxes?" "I'll put them in the mail. I'm going downtown for luncheon, and will do it then. They'll be delivered this afternoon." He nodded. "I had meant to have them delivered to-morrow; it makes no difference. You're the boss. It will give the good people a little more reason for jubilation to-night, eh?" A sudden laugh broke upon his lips. "I'm beginning to see the humour of it, Lucie--and I know who put you next to me. It was Jachin Fell, the old fox! I suspected that he was on my trail, and I thought that he had managed the theft of those boxes. In fact, I was preparing to give him a big surprise this afternoon. But tell me, Lucie--are you angry?" She looked at him steadily for a space, then a swift smile leaped to her lips and she extended a pardoning hand. Her gesture and words were impulsive, sincere. "Angry? No. I think you've some good reason behind it all, which you won't confide to me. I can read you pretty clearly, Henry Gramont; I think I can understand some things in you. You're no weakling, no romantic, filibustering crackbrain! And I like you because you won't lie to me. You've a motive and you refuse to tell it--very well! I'll be just as frank and say that I'm not a bit angry. So, that's settled! "Now what was the big surprise that you just mentioned you were going to give poor Mr. Fell this afternoon?" Gramont's eyes twinkled. "You remember that I thought he suspected me of being the Masquer? Well, I was going to him and propose that we enter business together." "Oh! As bandits?" "No, as oil promotors. I'm out of Maillard's company, or shall be out of it soon. The minute I'm out, I'll be free to go into business for myself. It occurred to me that if Jachin Fell had brains enough to run down the Midnight Masquer, he would be a mighty good business partner; because I'm poor on business detail. Also, I think Fell is to be trusted. The things you've told me and written me about him prove that much. He's very strong politically, I have found--although few people know it." "But he's not interested in oil is he?" "I don't know; I take for granted that he's interested in making money. Most men are. The only way to make money in oil is to have money--and he has some! I have a little. I can put in twenty-five thousand. With an equal amount from him, we can sink a couple of wells, perhaps three. If we go broke, all right. If we find oil, we're rich!" "But, my dear Henry, if he knew you to be the Midnight Masquer, do you think he'd want to go into business with you?" Her gray eyes were dancing with amusement as she put the query. "Why not?" Gramont laughed. "If he knew that I had brains enough to pull off that stunt and keep all New Orleans up in the air--wouldn't I make a good partner? Besides, I believe that I have some notion where to go after oil; I'm going to examine your land first----" "My good prince, you surely have no lack of audacity!" She broke into a peal of laughter. "Your argument about inducing Mr. Fell to go into business with you is naïve----" "But, as an argument, isn't it quite sound?" "Possibly. Since it is Lucie Ledanois and not Jachin Fell who has brought you to a confession of your crimes against society--aren't you going to propose that she go into business with you? Doesn't the argument hold good with her?" Although Gramont was taken aback, he met her gaze squarely. "No. Oil is no woman's game, unless she can well afford to lose. I imagine that you cannot, Lucie. Once I get my company formed, however----" "You're right, I can't put in any money. I'm land poor. Unless I were to sell that Bayou Terrebonne land--it's an old farm, abandoned since before father died----" "Don't sell it!" he exclaimed, quickly. "Don't consider any dealings with it until I have looked it over, will you?" "Since you ask it, no. If there's gas near by, there must be oil." "Who knows?" he shrugged. "No one can predict oil." "Then you still mean to go to Jachin Fell with your scheme?" Gramont nodded. "Yes. See here, Lucie--it's about noon! Suppose you come along and lunch with me at the Louisiane, if you've no engagement. We can put those boxes in the mail en route, and after luncheon I'll try and get hold of Fell." She put her head on one side and studied him reflectively. "You're sure you'll not kidnap me or anything like that? It's risky to become a friend of hardened criminals, even if one is trying to uplift them." "Good! You'll come?" "If you can give me ten minutes----" "My dear Lucie, you are the most charming object in New Orleans at this minute! Why attempt to make yourself still more attractive? Gilding the lily is an impossible task." "Well, wait for me. Is your car here? Good! I want to see Hammond's face when he sees us carrying out those boxes." Laughing, the girl started toward the stairs. At the doorway she paused. "One thing, M. le prince! Do you solemnly promise, upon your honour, that the Midnight Masquer is dead for ever?" "Upon my honour!" said Gramont, seriously. "The farce is ended, Lucie." "All right. I'll be right down. Smoke if you like----" In her own room upstairs Lucie closed the door and sat down before her dressing table. She made no move toward the array of toilet articles, however. Instead, she took a desk telephone from the table, and called a number. In a moment she received a response. "Uncle Jachin!" she exclaimed. "Yes--it's just as we thought; it's all a joke. No, it was not a joke, either, because he had some motive behind it, but he won't tell me what it was. I'm terribly glad that you opened one of those boxes and found the letter--if you had gone to the police it would have been perfectly dreadful----" "I never go to the police," said Jachin Fell with his dry chuckle. "You are quite satisfied that there is nothing serious in the affair, then?" "Absolutely! He told me that he had accomplished his purpose, whatever it was, and that it's all ended. He just gave me his word that the Masquer was dead for ever. Now, aren't you glad that you confided in me?" "Very," said Jachin Fell. "Very glad, indeed!" "Now you're laughing at me--never mind! We're going to lunch downtown, and we'll mail those boxes on the way, by parcels post. Is that all right?" "Quite all right, my dear. It is the method adopted by the most exclusive and elusive criminals in the country, I assure you. Every handbag snatcher gets rid of his empty bags by mailing them back to the owner--unless first caught. It pays to follow professional examples, as Eliza said when she crossed the ice. Did your gown come for to-night?" "It's to come this afternoon." "Very well. Do not plan to wear any jewels, Lucie. I have a set to lend you for the occasion--no, not a gift, merely a loan for the sake of Comus. They are very nice pearls; a little old fashioned, because they were mounted for the Princesses de Lamballe, but you will find that they fit in excellently with your gown. I'll bring them with me when I call for you----" "And I'll tender fitting thanks then. One thing more: Henry Gramont is going to see you after luncheon, I think--on business. And I want you to be nice to him, Uncle Jachin." "Most assuredly," said the other, drily. "I should like to be associated in business with that young man. The firm would prosper." "Will you stop laughing at me? Then I'll ring off--good-bye!" And, smiling, she hung up the receiver. Ten minutes later, when Gramont and Miss Ledanois entered the waiting car, Hammond saw the boxes that they carried. He stood beside the open door, paralyzed, his eyes fastened on the boxes, his mouth agape. "To the postoffice, sergeant," said Gramont, then affected to observe his stupefaction. "Why, what's the matter?" Hammond met his twinkling eyes, saw the laughter of Lucie, and swallowed hard. "I--er--nothing at all, cap'n," he answered, hoarsely. "A--a little chokin' spell, that's all. Postoffice? Yes, sir." CHAPTER VIII _Comus_ From the time they left the Ledanois house with Lucie, Gramont had no opportunity of seeing his chauffeur in private until, later in the afternoon, he left the Maison Blanche building. He had enjoyed a thoroughly satisfactory interview with Jachin Fell. So wholly had Gramont's thoughts been given over to the business, indeed, that it was almost a shock to emerge into Canal Street and find everyone else in the world thinking only of the water carnival and the Rex parade. As for the Midnight Masquer and the mystery of the boxes of loot, all this had quite fled Gramont's mind before larger and more important things. The car was waiting for him in Royal Street, not far from the Monteleone, and Gramont approached it to find Hammond in deep worry over the outcome of the interview with Fell. "Well, cap'n!" he exclaimed, anxiously, as Gramont drew up. "You're smilin', so I guess it ain't a pinch!" Gramont laughed gaily. "Those boxes? Nonsense! Say, sergeant, you must have been scared stiff when you saw them!" "Scared? I was ready to flop, that's all! And how in the name o' goodness did they get in _her_ house? What's behind all this?" Gramont glanced around. He walked with Hammond to the front of the car, where he could speak without being overheard by the passersby. "It seems that I was more or less mistaken about Fell being on our trail," he explained, reflectively. "We had a very frank talk about it, and he disclaimed all knowledge of the boxes themselves. I gathered from little things he dropped that some criminal had looted the stuff from the car, and that it came to his attention yesterday in a legal capacity----" "Legal capacity, hell!" snorted Hammond. "Did you swallow all that?" "My swallowing capacity was pretty good," and Gramont chuckled. "It seems that he opened one of the boxes, and found the note I had written. This explained the business, and by way of a little joke he turned over the loot to Miss Ledanois and she had a bit of fun with us. Fell, in fact, proved to be a pretty good fellow----" "He sure handed you out a fine line of bull!" commented Hammond, savagely. "What gets me is your falling for all that dope! Looks like you wanted to believe him, cap'n." "Perhaps I did." Gramont shrugged his shoulders. "Why not? I've no reason to disbelieve him. The note made it plain that we were not criminals; now the whole affair is cleaned up and out of the way. We're out of it in good shape, if you ask me!" "You said something there," agreed Hammond, not without a sigh of relief. "All right, if you say so, only I ain't sure about this Fell----" "Don't worry. The stuff is returned, and the matter is now closed. We can forget all about the Midnight Masquer. Now, there's another and more important thing that I want to speak with you about, a matter of business----" "Hold on, cap'n!" interrupted Hammond, quietly, his eye on a spot behind Gramont. "One of your friends is headed over this way, and if I know anything about it, he's got blood in his eye." Gramont turned, to see Bob Maillard approaching. The latter addressed him without any response to his greeting. "Have you a moment to spare, Gramont?" "All afternoon," answered Gramont, cheerfully. He affected not to observe Maillard's air of heavy business, nor the frowning suspicion that lurked half-veiled in the other's glowering features. "By the way, I've been looking up a New Orleans landmark without much success--the Ramos gin fizz establishment. It seems to be gone!" "It is," returned Maillard, sourly. "Prohibition killed it, like it's killing everything. François moved into the place last September from Old 27, and it's become his restaurant now. But look here, Gramont!" The two were standing a bit apart, and Hammond was fussing with one of the headlights, but Gramont suspected that the chauffeur was listening avidly. "I've just come from a talk with dad. How did it happen that you sold him that stock of yours in the company?" Gramont smiled a little. He was amused by the way Maillard was endeavouring to keep down an outburst of angry passion. "I happened to need the money. Why?" "But why the devil didn't you hang on to that stock? Or if you needed money, why didn't you come to me?" exploded the other, angrily. "Heavens!" drawled Gramont, who was quite willing to exasperate young Maillard to the limit. "You seem frightfully concerned about it! What's the big idea, anyway? I don't recall that any of us went into an agreement not to sell if we wanted to. I offered the stock to your father at a discount. He realized that it was a good buy, and took it. What's wrong with that?" "Nothing wrong, if you put it that way," snapped Maillard, angrily. "But it's a confounded sly way of doing things----" "Now, just wait right there!" Gramont's easy smile vanished. "I don't take that kind of talk, Maillard. One more such insinuation, and you'll need to use a mask at the ball to-night, I promise you! I'll show you how sly I am, my friend! I'm off in the morning to start work on that report I was engaged to make. When the report comes in, my resignation comes with it." "All right. Let it come here and now, then." Maillard's tone was ugly. "If you're so blamed anxious to get out of the company, get out!" "Thanks. I'll be glad to be relieved of the job." Gramont turned and addressed his chauffeur. "Hammond, you'll kindly remember this conversation, in case your future testimony is needed----" "Confound you, what d'you mean talking that way?" broke out Maillard. "Do you suppose I'll deny firing you?" "I don't care to have you offer any reflections on my actions, Maillard," said Gramont, evenly. "My course in this matter is perfectly open and above board, which is more than you can say for your doings." "What?" Maillard clenched his stick and took a forward step, anger working in his face. "What the devil d'you mean?" "Exactly what I say--and perhaps I can prove it. Remember the oil concern to which you persuaded your precious father to sell some of Miss Ledanois's bayou land? Remember the real estate company to which you persuaded him to sell her St. Landry parish property? You had interests in both concerns; I don't imagine you'd care to have your share in those transactions exposed. Further, I entirely understand your indignation over my getting rid of this stock before the crash, and it ill becomes you to assume any such attitude." Maillard glared at him for a long moment, a red tide of rage flooding and ebbing from his heavy countenance. Then, mastering himself, he turned and strode away without further speech. "Hurray!" observed Hammond, when he was gone. "Cap'n, that guy is off you for life! I bet he'd like to meet you alone on a dark night!" Gramont shook his head. "He's a bad enemy, all right. Here, get into the car!" He climbed in beside Hammond. "Don't drive--I want to speak with you. Now that Maillard has relieved me of the necessity of making any report to his company, I'm free, and glad of it! I've been talking business with Mr. Fell, and I'm to have my own company." "With him?" Hammond sniffed. "Yes. He's matching his money against mine, and we're going to look for oil on some land owned by Miss Ledanois. It'll be a close corporation, and if we strike oil, we'll all three have a good thing. We may go broke, and we may go rich; if you're saving any coin out of your salary and feel like taking a gamble, I'll get you a bit of the stock after Mr. Fell gets things in shape. You can think it over----" "I don't want to think it over," broke in Hammond, eagerly. "I'm on, here and now--and it sure is mighty good of you, cap'n! Say, I ain't had any chance to tell you before, but I pulled two hundred out o' the lottery last week----" "Lottery!" Gramont looked at him quickly. "What lottery?" Hammond looked a trifle sheepish. "Well, it's against the law, o' course, but they run 'em right along just the same. A bunch of the chauffeurs here are wise to it; they put up some coin for me last week, and as I was sayin' I pulled out two hundred. I got most of it left, and have some saved up on the side. I'll stick it all in, huh?" Gramont nodded. "Well, we'll see later. You're free until morning, sergeant. I'm going to the Comus ball to-night as a guest of the Lavergnes, and they'll call for me. Enjoy yourself, keep out of jail, and be ready to start at six in the morning for Terrebonne." Leaving Hammond to take the car home, Gramont headed for Canal Street to mingle with the carnival crowd and revel in his new-found sense of freedom. Now that he was his own master, he felt like a new man. Overnight, it seemed, all weights had dropped from his shoulders. On the score of the Midnight Masquer, he was vastly relieved; all that was over and forgotten. Financially, he had achieved what was nothing less than a masterly triumph. In a business way, he was free of all ties and able to look forward to decisive action on his own behalf and that of a partner in whom he could feel a perfect reliance. Consequently, he began really to enjoy Mardi Gras for the first time, and plunged into the eddying crowds in a free and light-hearted manner which had not been his for years. It was the moment for the carnival spirit to seize on him, and seize him it did. With a boyish abandon he tramped the streets merrily, exchanging jests and confetti, shoves and bladder-blows, laughs and kisses. Madness and reckless gaiety were in the very air, and Gramont drank deep of these youthful tonics. When at last he wandered home to his pension, he was footsore, weary, disarranged, and touseled--and very happy. The wine of human comradeship is a good wine. That evening the Comus ball, the most exclusive revel of the most exclusive aristocracy of the southland, crowded the edifice in which it was held to capacity. Here evening dress was prescribed for all the guests. The Krewe of Comus alone were masked and costumed, in grotesque and magnificent costumes which had been in the making for months. The Krewe is to the South what the Bohemian Club is to the western coast, with the added enhancement of mystery. Despite the revels of the Krewe, however--despite the glittering jewels, the barbaric costumes, the music, the excitement--an indefinable air of regret, almost of sadness, pervaded the entire gathering. This feeling was something to be sensed, rather than observed definitely. Some said, afterward, that it was a premonition of the terrible event that was to happen this night. Wrong! It was because, for the first time in many generations, the Comus ball was held in one of the newer public buildings instead of in its accustomed place. Everyone was speaking of it. Even Maillard the banker, that cold man of dollars, spoke uneasily of it when Gramont encountered him in the smoking room. "It doesn't seem like Comus," said Maillard, with a vexed frown. "And to think that we had just finished redecorating the Opera House when it was burned down! Comus will never be the same again." "I didn't know you could feel such emotion for a ruined building, Maillard," said Gramont, lightly. The banker shrugged a trifle. "Emotion? No. Regret! None of us, who has been brought up in the traditions of the city but regarded the French Opera House as the centre of all our storied life. You can't understand it, Gramont; no outsider can. By the way, you haven't seen Bob? He's in costume, but he might have spoken to you----" Gramont answered in the negative, with a slight surprise at the question. It was not long before he came to comprehend more fully just what the loss of the old French Opera House meant to the assembly. He heard comparisons made on every hand, regretful allusions, sighs for the days that were no more. This present building, to be sure, was one of the city's finest, up to date in every way, with an abundance of room--and yet everyone said that Comus would never be the same. About the Opera House had clung the romance of many generations. About it, too, had clung the affections of the people with a fierceness beyond reason. More famous buildings had been allowed to go to ruin, like the Hotel Royale, but the Opera House had been kept in repair for Mardi Gras. It was itself--a landmark. Nothing else would ever be like it. From his seat in the Lavergne box Gramont contented himself during the early evening with the common rôle of all the "blackcoats"--that of looking on idly. More than once he saw Lucie Ledanois called out, among others of the fair sex, as a dancing partner for some member of the Krewe. None of the male guests, however, was allowed to participate in the festivity until Rex and his queen should arrive--at midnight; thus, Gramont saw almost nothing of Lucie during the evening. There was, inevitably, more or less visiting in boxes and foyers, and not a little lounging in the smoking room. The building was a huge structure, and richly furnished. Only a portion of it was in use by the Krewe; the remainder was, of course, deserted for the time being. While in search of smoking companions, Gramont encountered many of his acquaintances, and among them Doctor Ansley and Jachin Fell. In order to enjoy Fell's proffered El Reys in a somewhat clearer atmosphere these three strolled off together into one of the unused passages leading to other parts of the building. They opened a window and stood watching the crowd that surged in the street below, constantly increasing as the hour grew later, for the procession of Rex would be well worth seeing and nobody meant to miss anything upon this night of nights. Suddenly, at the sound of an approaching footstep, the three men turned. The electric lights were going in all of the hallways, and they perceived that the individual approaching them was a member of the Krewe of Comus. He was also, it became evident, giving a share of his allegiance to Bacchus, for his feet were obviously unsteady. He was clad in a parti-coloured costume, which was crowned by an exaggerated head of Mephisto. "Good evening to you, worthy gentlemen!" He came to a fuddled halt and stood there, laughing at the stares of the three. "Evening, I say." They responded to his liquor-tinged words with a laughing reply. "Wonderin' who I am, aren't you!" he hiccuped. "Well, don't wonder; 'sall between ol' friends to-night! Tell you what, m' friends--come with me and I'll find you a li'l drink, eh? No prohibition booze, upon m' honour; real old Boone pinchneck--got it from some boys in Louisville, been savin' it up for to-night." He wagged his head at them, and pursued his subject in a half-maudlin burst of confidential assurance. An unsteady hand waved down the hallway. "Havin' a little party in one of the rooms," he continued. "All of us friends--lots more fun than dancin'! And say! I'm going pull something great, positively great; you don't want to miss it, gentlemen! You come along with me and I'll fix it for you. Come on, Gramont, that's a good fellow! You'n I had a dis'greement to-day--don't matter to-night, nothin' matters to-night, nothin' at all. Mardi Gras only comes once a year, eh? Come along, now." Jachin Fell very civilly refused the invitation, as did the others. Gramont, who now recognized their accoster, was less civil in his refusal. Mephisto sadly wagged his huge headpiece and regarded them with vinous regret. "No 'joyment in you any more? Better come along. Tell you, I've got the biggest joke of the season ready to pull off--something rich! Gramont, come on!" "Thanks, no," responded Gramont, curtly. The masquer gave up the struggle and moved on down the empty hallway. The three "blackcoats" watched in silence until the grotesque figure had vanished. "I wonder who that was, now?" mused Doctor Ansley, frowning. "Evidently, someone who knew us; at least, he recognized you, Gramont." "So it seemed," put in Jachin Fell. His tone, like his eyes, held a sombre fire. "A party of them drinking, eh? that will make trouble. The Krewe won't like it. Ten to one, that young man and his friends will start the makings of a fine scandal and the Krewe will come down hard on them--mighty hard. Who was he, Gramont? Sounded like----" "Young Maillard." At Gramont's response a whistle broke from Doctor Ansley. Jachin Fell nodded assent. "You took the words out of my mouth. So Bob is drinking again, eh? And they've occupied one of the rooms somewhere, and are enjoying a bit of liquor and a card game by themselves. Cursed slippery going, as Eliza said when she crossed the ice! The Krewe will expel them. Hello, Gramont--where to?" Gramont tossed his cigar through the open window. "I think I'll make my adieux, Fell. I intend to be up early in the morning and get off to work----" "What?" protested Ansley in astonishment. "You must stay until Rex comes, at least! Why, that's the event of the carnival! The evening hasn't started yet." "I'm growing old and sober, doctor," and Gramont chuckled. "To tell the truth," and he gave Fell a whimsical glance, "I am head over ears in some new business matters which have actually fired me with the divine afflatus of enthusiasm. What's more, I was drifting with the crowds all afternoon, and I've just begun to realize that I'm dead tired. Rex or no Rex, I'm afraid that I'd best say good-night, gentlemen." Gramont persisted in his intention, and bade the other two good-night. In truth, he cared very little about Rex, and a very great deal about getting off to Bayou Terrebonne early in the morning. The oil matter filled his mind. He had formed a thousand plans, he was fired with enthusiasm, and was anxious to make his preliminary investigation. Returning to the auditorium, Gramont sought out his hosts and made his farewells, although not without encountering some opposition. At length he was free, he had obtained his hat and coat, and as he passed out of the building he again met Fell and Ansley, who were finishing their cigars at the entrance. He bade them a final adieu and plunged into the crowd. It lacked half an hour of midnight. The streets were filled with merrymakers, who were making the night riotous with songs, yells, and noise-producing apparatus, anticipating the arrival of Rex. For a little Fell and Doctor Ansley stood talking, then tossed away their cigars and turned into the building. They halted in the foyer before the appearance of two men--Joseph Maillard, looking extremely agitated, and behind him old Judge Forester, who wore a distinctly worried expression. "Ah, here are Fell and Ansley!" exclaimed Maillard, almost with relief. "I--ah--my friends, I don't suppose you've seen Bob recently?" Ansley was silent. Jachin Fell, however, responded with a cold nod of assent. "Yes," he said in his peculiarly toneless manner. "Yes, we have. At least, I believe it was he----" "I'm worried," said Maillard, anxiously, hurriedly. He made an expressive gesture of despair. "He's in costume, of course. I've been given to understand that--well, that he has been--well, drinking." "He has," said Jachin Fell, without any trace of compassion. "A number of the Krewe are occupying one of the rooms in the building, and they must have been visiting it frequently. I trust for your sake that the fact hasn't become generally known inside?" Maillard nodded. Shame and anger lay heavily in his eyes. "Yes, Jachin. I--I was asked to exert my influence over Bob. The request came to me from the floor. This--this is a disgraceful thing to admit, my friends----" Judge Forester, in his kindly way, laid his hand on the banker's arm. "Tut, tut, Joseph," he said, gently, a fund of sympathy in his voice. "Boys will be boys, you know; really, this is no great matter! Don't let it hit you so hard. I'll go with you to find the room, of course. Where is it, Jachin?" "We'll all go," put in Ansley. "We'll have a little party of our own, gentlemen. Come on, I believe we'll be able to discover the place." The four men left the foyer and started through the corridors. Among them was a tacit understanding, a deep feeling of sympathy for Joseph Maillard, a bond which held them to his aid in this disgrace which had befallen him. Jachin Fell, who felt the least compassion or pity, cursed Bob Maillard--but under his breath. They walked through the empty, lighted corridors, following the direction in which Fell and Ansley had seen young Maillard disappear. "I hear," said Judge Forester to Doctor Ansley, as they followed the other two, "that there has been astonishing news to-day from the Midnight Masquer. It seems that a number of people have received back property this afternoon--loot the bandit had taken. It came by mail, special delivery. One of the Lavergne boys tells me that they received a box containing everything that was taken at their home, even to cash, with a note asking them to return the things to their guests. It appears to have been some sort of a carnival joke, after all." "A poor one, then," responded Ansley, "and in doubtful taste. I've heard nothing of it. I wouldn't mind getting back the little cash I lost, though I must say I'll believe the story when I see the money----" He broke off quickly. As they turned a corner of the corridor to the four men came realization that they had attained their goal. From one of the rooms ahead there sounded snatches of a boisterous chorus being roared forth lustily. As they halted, to distinguish from which door the singing proceeded, the chorus was broken off by an abrupt and sudden silence. This silence was accentuated by the preceding noise, as though the singers had checked their maudlin song in mid-career. "Damn it!" muttered Maillard. "Did they hear us coming? No, that wouldn't matter a hang to them--but what checked them so quickly?" "This door," said Fell, indicating one to their right. He paused at it, listening, and over his features came a singular expression. As the others joined him, they caught a low murmur of voices, a hushed sound of talk, a rattle as a number of chips fell from a table. "Cursed queer!" observed Jachin Fell, frowning. "I wonder what happened to them so abruptly? Perhaps the deal was finished--they're having a game. Well, go ahead, Joseph! We'll back you up as a deputation from the blackcoats, and if you need any moral support, call on Judge Forester." "Correct!" assented that gentleman with dignity. "I'll give these jackanapes a little advice! It's going a bit far, this sort of thing; we can't have Comus turned into a common drinking bout. Ready, Joseph?" He flung open the door, and Maillard entered at his side. They then came to a startled halt, at view of the scene which greeted them. The room was large and well lighted, windows and transom darkened for the occasion. Tobacco smoke made a bluish haze in the air. In the centre of the room stood a large table, littered with glasses and bottles, with scattered cards, with chips and money. About this table had been sitting half a dozen members of the Krewe of Comus. Now, however, they were standing, their various identities completely concealed by the grotesque costumes which cloaked them. Their hands were in the air. Standing at another doorway, midway between their group and that of the four unexpected intruders, was the Midnight Masquer--holding them up at the point of his automatic! There was a moment of tense and strained silence, as every eye went to the four men in evening attire. It was plain what had cut short the boisterous song--the Masquer must have made his appearance only a moment or two previously. From head to foot he was hidden under his leathern attire. His unrecognizable features, at this instant, were turned slightly toward the four new arrivals. It was obvious that he, no less than the others, was startled by this entry. Maillard was the first to break that silence of stupefaction. "By heavens!" he cried, furiously. "Here's that damned villain again--hold him, you! at him, everybody!" In a blind rage, transported out of himself by his sudden access of passion, the banker hurled himself forward. From the bandit burst a cry of futile warning; the pistol in his hand veered toward his assailant. This action precipitated the event. Perhaps because the Masquer did not fire instantly, and perhaps because Maillard's mad action shamed them, the nearer members of the drinking party hurled themselves at the bandit. The threat of the weapon was forgotten, unheeded in the sweeping lust of the man-hunt. It seemed that the fellow feared to fire; and about him closed the party in a surging mass, with a burst of sudden shouts, striking and clutching to pull him down and put him under foot. Then, when it seemed that they had him without a struggle, the Masquer broke from them, swept them apart and threw them off, hurled them clear away. He moved as though to leap through the side doorway whence he had come. With an oath, Maillard hurled himself forward, struck blindly and furiously at the bandit, and fastened upon him about the waist. There was a surge forward of bodies as the others crowded in to pull down the Masquer before he could escape. It looked then as though he were indeed lost--until the automatic flamed and roared in his hand, its choking fumes bursting at them. The report thundered in the room; a second report thundered, deafeningly, as a second bullet sought its mark. Like a faint echo to those shots came the slam of a door. The Masquer was gone! After him, into the farther room, rushed some of the party; but he had vanished utterly. There was no trace of him. Of course, he might have ducked into any of the dark rooms, or have run down the corridor, yet his complete disappearance confused the searchers. After a moment, however, they returned to the lighted room. The Masquer had gone, but behind him had remained a more grim and terrible masquer. In the room which he had just left, however, there had fallen a dread silence and consternation. One of the masqued drinkers held an arm that hung helpless, dripping blood; but his hurt passed unseen and uncared for, even by himself. Doctor Ansley was kneeling above a motionless figure, prone on the dirty floor; and it was the figure of Joseph Maillard. The physician glanced up, then rose slowly to his feet. He made a terribly significant gesture, and his crisp voice broke in upon the appalled silence. "Dead," he said, curtly. "Shot twice--each bullet through the heart. Judge Forester, I'm afraid there is no alternative but to call in the police. Gentlemen, you will kindly unmask--which one of you is Robert Maillard?" Amid a stunned and horrified silence the members of the Krewe one by one removed their grotesque headgear, staring at the dead man whose white face looked up at them with an air of grim accusation. But none of them came forward to claim kinship with the dead man. Bob Maillard was not in the room. "I think," said the toneless, even voice of Jachin Fell, "that all of you gentlemen had better be very careful to say only what you have seen--and know. You will kindly remain here until I have summoned the police." He left the room, and if there were any dark implication hidden in his words, no one seemed to observe it. CHAPTER IX _On The Bayou_ At three o'clock in the morning a great office building is not the most desolate place on earth, perhaps; but it approaches very closely to that definition. At three o'clock on the morning of Ash Wednesday the great white Maison Blanche building was deserted and desolate, so far as its offices were concerned. The cleaners and scrub-women had long since finished their tasks and departed. Out in the streets the tag-ends of carnival were running on a swiftly ebbing tide. A single elevator in the building was, however, in use. A single suite of offices, with carefully drawn blinds, was lighted and occupied. They were not ornate, these offices. They consisted of two rooms, a small reception room and a large private office, both lined to the ceiling with books, chiefly law books. In the large inner room were sitting three men. One of the three, Ben Chacherre, sat in a chair tipped back against the wall, his eyes closed. From time to time he opened those sparkling black eyes of his, and through narrow-slitted lids directed keen glances at the other two men. One of the men was the chief of police. The second was Jachin Fell, whose offices these were. "Even if things are as you say, which I don't doubt at all," said the chief, slowly, "I can't believe the boy did it! And darn it all, if I pinch him there's goin' to be a hell of a scandal!" Fell shrugged his shoulders, and made response in his toneless voice: "Chief, you're up against facts. Those facts are bound to come out and the newspapers will nail your hide to the wall in a minute. You've a bare chance to save yourself by taking in young Maillard at once." The chief chewed hard on his cigar. "I don't want to save myself by putting the wrong man behind the bars," he returned. "It sure looks like he was the Masquer all the while, but you say that he wasn't. You say this was his only job--a joke that turned out bad." "Those are the facts," said Fell. "I don't want to accuse a man of crimes I know he did not commit. We have the best of evidence that he did commit this crime. If the newspapers fasten the entire Midnight Masquer business on him, as they're sure to do, we can't very well help it. I have no sympathy for the boy." "Of course he did it," put in Ben Chacherre, sleepily. "Wasn't he caught with the goods?" The others paid no heed. The chief indicated two early editions of the morning papers, which lay on the desk in front of Fell. These papers carried full accounts of the return of the Midnight Masquer's loot, explaining his robberies as part of a carnival jest. "The later editions, comin' out now," said the chief, "will crowd all that stuff off the front page with the Maillard murder. Darn it, Fell! Whether I believe it or not, I'll have to arrest the young fool." Chacherre chuckled. Jachin Fell smiled faintly. "Nothing could be plainer, chief," he responded. "First, Bob Maillard comes to us in front of the opera house, and talks about a great joke that he's going to spring on his friends across the way----" "How'd you know who he was?" interjected the chief, shrewdly. "Gramont recognized him; Ansley and I confirmed the recognition. He was more or less intoxicated--chiefly more. Now, young Maillard was not in the room at the moment of the murder--unless he was the Masquer. Five minutes afterward he was found in a near-by room, hastily changing out of an aviator's uniform into his masquerade costume. Obviously, he had assumed the guise of the Masquer as a joke on his friends, and the joke had a tragic ending. Further, he was in the aviation service during the war, and so had the uniform ready to hand. You couldn't make anybody believe that he hasn't been the Masquer all the time!" "Of course," and the chief nodded perplexedly. "It'd be a clear case--only you call me in and say that he _wasn't_ the Masquer! Damn it, Fell, this thing has my goat!" "What's Maillard's story?" struck in Ben Chacherre. "He denies the whole thing," said the worried chief. "According to his story, which sounded straight the way he tells it, he meant to pull off the joke on his friends and was dressing in the Masquer's costume when he heard the shots. He claims that the shots startled him and made him change back. He swears that he had not entered the other room at all, except in his masquerade clothes. He says the murderer must have been the real Masquer. It's likely enough, because all young Maillard's crowd knew about the party that was to be held in that room during the Comus ball----" "No matter," said Fell, coldly. "Chief, this is an open and shut case; the boy was bound to lie. That he killed his father was an accident, of course, but none the less it did take place." "The boy's a wreck this minute." The chief held a match to his unlighted cigar. "But you say that he ain't the original Masquer?" "No!" Fell spoke quickly. "The original Masquer was another person, and had nothing to do with the present case. This information is confidential and between ourselves." "Oh, of course," assented the chief. "Well, I suppose I got to pull Maillard, but I hate to do it. I got a hunch that he ain't the right party." "Virtuous man!" Fell smiled thinly. "According to all the books, the chief of police is only too glad to fasten the crime on anybody----" "Books be damned!" snorted the chief, and leaned forward earnestly. "Look here, Fell! Do you believe in your heart that Maillard killed his father?" Fell was silent a moment under that intent scrutiny. "From the evidence, I am forced against my will to believe it," he said at last. "Of course, he'll be able to prove that he was not the Masquer on previous occasions; his alibis will take care of that. Up to the point of the murder, his story is all right. And, my friend, there is a chance--a very slim, tenuous chance--that his entire story is true. In that case, another person must have appeared as the Masquer which seems unlikely----" "Or else," put in Ben Chacherre, smoothly, "the real original Masquer showed up!" There was an instant of silence. Jachin Fell regarded his henchman with steady gray eyes. Ben Chacherre met the look with almost a trace of defiance. The chief frowned darkly. "Yes," said the chief. "That's the size of it, Fell. You're keepin' quiet about the name of the real Masquer; why?" "Because," said Fell, calmly, "I happen to know that he was in the auditorium at the time of the murder." Again silence. Ben Chacherre stared at Fell, with amazement and admiration in his gaze. "When the master lies, he lies magnificently!" he murmured in French. "Well," and the chief gestured despairingly, "I guess that lets out the real Masquer, eh?" "Exactly," assented Fell. "No use dragging his name into it. I'll keep at work on this, chief, and if anything turns up to clear young Maillard, I'll be very glad." "All right," grunted the chief, and rose. "I'll be on my way." He departed. Neither Fell nor Chacherre moved or spoke for a space. When at length the clang of the elevator door resounded through the deserted corridors Ben Chacherre slipped from his chair and went to the outer door. He glanced out into the hall, closed the door, and with a nod returned to his chair. "Well?" Jachin Fell regarded him with intent, searching eyes. "Have you any light to throw on the occasion?" Chacherre's usual air of cool impudence was never in evidence when he talked with Mr. Fell. "No," he said, shaking his head. "Hammond worked on the car until about nine o'clock, then beat it to bed, I guess. I quit the job at ten, and his light had been out some time. Well, master, this is a queer affair! There's no doubt that Gramont pulled it, eh?" "You think so?" asked Fell. Chacherre made a gesture of assent. "_Quand bois tombé, cabri monté_--when the tree falls, the kid can climb it! Any fool can see that Gramont was the man. Don't you think so yourself, master?" Jachin Fell nodded. "Yes. But we've no evidence--everything lies against young Maillard. Early in the morning Gramont goes to Paradis to examine that land of Miss Ledanois' along the bayou. He'll probably say nothing of this murder to Hammond, and the chauffeur may not find out about it until a day or two--they get few newspapers down there. "Drive down to Paradis in the morning, Ben; get into touch with Hammond, and discover what time Gramont got home to-night. Write me what you find out. Then take charge of things at the Gumberts place. Make sure that every car is handled right. A headquarters man from Mobile will be here to-morrow to trace the Nonpareil Twelve that Gramont now owns." Chacherre whistled under his breath. "What?" Jachin Fell smiled slightly and nodded. "Yes. If Gramont remains at Paradis, I may send him on down there--I'm not sure yet. I intend to get something on that man Hammond." "But you can't land him that way, master! He bought the car----" "And who sold the car to the garage people? They bought it innocently." A peculiar smile twisted Fell's lips awry. "In fact, they bought it from a man named Hammond, as the evidence will show very clearly." Ben Chacherre started, since he had sold that car himself. Then a slow grin came into his thin features--a grin that widened into a noiseless laugh. "Master, you are magnificent!" he said, and rose. "Well, if there is nothing further on hand, I shall go to bed." "An excellent programme," said Jachin Fell, and took his hat from the desk. "I must get some sleep myself." They left the office and the building together. Three hours afterward the dawn had set in--a cold, gray, and dismal dawn that rose upon a city littered with the aftermath of carnival. "Lean Wednesday" it was, in sober fact. Thus far, the city in general was ignorant of the tragedy which had taken place at the very conclusion of its gayest carnival season. Within a few hours business and social circles would be swept by the fact of Joseph Maillard's murder, but at this early point of the day the city slept. The morning papers, which to-day carried a news story that promised to shock and stun the entire community, were not yet distributed. Rising before daylight, Henry Gramont and Hammond breakfasted early and were off by six in the car. They were well outside town and sweeping on their way to Terrebonne Parish and the town of Paradis before they realized that the day was not going to brighten appreciably. Instead, it remained very cloudy and gloomy, with a chill threat of rain in the air. Weather mattered little to Gramont. When finally the excellent highway was left behind, and they started on the last lap of their seventy-mile ride, they found the parish roads execrable and the going slow. Thus, noon was at hand when they at length pulled into Paradis, the town closest to Lucie Ledanois' bayou land. The rain was still holding off. "Too cold to rain," observed Gramont. "Let's hit for the hotel and get something to eat. I'll have to locate the land, which is somewhere near town." They discovered the hotel to be an ancient structure, and boasting prices worthy of Lafitte and his buccaneers. As in many small towns of Louisiana, however, the food proved fit for a king. After a light luncheon of quail, crayfish bisque, and probably illegal venison, Gramont sighed regret that he could eat no more, and set about inquiring where the Ledanois farm lay. There was very little, indeed, to Paradis, which lay on the bayou but well away from the railroad. It was a desolate spot, unpainted and unkept. The parish seat of Houma had robbed it of all life and growth on the one hand; on the other, the new oil and gas district had not yet touched it. Southward lay the swamp--fully forty miles of it, merging by degrees into the Gulf. Forty miles of cypress marsh and winding bayou, uncharted, unexplored save by occasional hunters or semi-occasional sheriffs. No man knew who or what might be in those swamps, and no one cared to know. The man who brought in fish or oysters in his skiff might be a bayou fisherman, and he might be a murderer wanted in ten states. Curiosity was apt to prove extremely unhealthy. Like the Atchafalaya, where chance travellers find themselves abruptly ordered elsewhere, the Terrebonne swamps have their own secrets and know how to keep them. Gramont had no difficulty in locating the Ledanois land, and he found that it was by no means in the swamp. A part of it, lying closer to Houma, had been sold and was now included in the new oil district; it was this portion which Joseph Maillard had sold off. The remainder, and the largest portion, lay north of Paradis and ran along the west bank of the bayou for half a mile. A long-abandoned farm, it was high ground, with the timber well cleared off and excellently located; but tenants were hard to get and shiftless when obtained, so that the place had not been farmed for the last five years or more. After getting these facts, Gramont consulted with Hammond. "We'd better buy some grub here in town and arrange to stay a couple of nights on the farm, if necessary," he said. "There are some buildings there, so we'll find shelter. Along the bayou are summer cottages--I believe some of them are rather pretentious places--and we ought to find the road pretty decent. It's only three or four miles out of town." With some provisions piled in the car, they set forth. The road wound along the bayou side, past ancient 'Cajun farms and the squat homes of fishermen. Here and there had been placed camps and summer cottages, nestling amid groups of huge oaks and cypress, whose fronds of silver-gray moss hung in drooping clusters like pale and ghostly shrouds. Watching the road closely, Gramont suddenly found the landmarks that had been described to him, and ordered Hammond to stop and turn in at a gap in the fence which had once been an entrance gate. "Here we are! Those are the buildings off to the right. Whew! I should say it had been abandoned! Nothing much left but ruins. Go ahead!" Before them, as they drove in from the road by a grass-covered drive, showed a house, shed, and barn amid a cluster of towering trees. Indeed, trees were everywhere about the farm, which had grown up in a regular sapling forest. The buildings were in a ruinous state--clapboards hanging loosely, roofs dotted by gaping holes, doors and windows long since gone. Leaving the car, Gramont, followed by the chauffeur, went to the front doorway and surveyed the wreckage inside. "What do you say, Hammond? Think we can stop here, or go back to the hotel? It's not much of a run to town----" Hammond pointed to a wide fireplace facing them. "I can get this shack cleaned out in about half an hour--this one room, anyhow. When we get a fire goin' in there, and board up the windows and doors, we ought to be comfortable enough. But suit yourself, cap'n! It's your funeral." Gramont laughed. "All right. Go ahead and clean up, then, and if rain comes down we can camp here. Be sure and look for snakes and vermin. The floor seems sound, and if there's plenty of moss on the trees, we can make up comfortable beds. Too bad you're not a fisherman, or we might get a fresh fish out of the bayou----" "I got some tackle in town," and Hammond grinned widely. "Good work! Then make yourself at home and go to it. We've most of the afternoon before us." Gramont left the house, and headed down toward the bayou shore. He took a letter from his pocket, opened it, and glanced over it anew. It was an old letter, one written him nearly two years previously by Lucie Ledanois. It had been written merely in the endeavour to distract the thoughts of a wounded soldier, to bring his mind to Louisiana, away from the stricken fields of France. In the letter Lucie had described some of the more interesting features of Bayou Terrebonne--the oyster and shrimp fleets, the Chinese and Filipino villages along the Gulf, the far-spread cypress swamps; the bubbling fountains, natural curiosities, that broke up through the streams and bayous of the whole wide parish--fountains that were caused by gas seeping up from the earth's interior, and breaking through. Gramont knew that plans were already afoot to tap this field of natural gas and pipe it to New Orleans. Oil had been found, too, and all the state was now oil-mad. Fortunes were being made daily, and other fortunes were being lost daily by those who dealt with oil-stocks instead of with oil. "Those gas-fountains did the work!" reflected Gramont. "And according to this letter, there's one of those fountains here in the bayou, close to her property. 'Just opposite the dock,' she says. The first thing is to find the dock, then the fountain. After that, we'll decide if it's true mineral gas. If it is, then the work's done--for I'll sure take a chance on finding oil near it!" Gramont came to the bayou and began searching his way along the thick and high fringe of bushes and saplings that girded the water's edge. Presently he came upon the ruined evidences of what had once been a small boat shed. Not far from this he found the dock referred to in the letter; nothing was left of it except a few spiles protruding from the surface of the water. But he had no need to look farther. Directly before him, he saw that which he was seeking. A dozen feet out from shore the water was rising and falling in a continuous dome or fountain of highly charged bubbles that rose a foot above the surface. Gramont stared at it, motionless. He watched it for a space--then, abruptly, he started. It was a violent start, a start of sheer amazement and incredulity. He leaned forward, staring no longer at the gas dome, but at the water closer inshore. For a moment he thought that his senses had deceived him, then he saw that the thing was there indeed, there beyond any doubt--a very faint trace of iridescent light that played over the surface of the water. "It can't be possible!" he muttered, bending farther over. "Such a thing happens too rarely----" His heart pounded violently; excitement sent the blood rushing to his brain in blinding swirls. He was gripped by the gold fever that comes upon a man when he makes the astounding discovery of untold wealth lying at his feet, passed over and disregarded by other and less-discerning men for days and years! It was oil, no question about it. An extremely slight quantity, true; so slight a quantity that there was no film on the water, no discernible taste to the water. Gramont brought it to his mouth and rose, shaking his head. Where did it come from? It had no connection with the gas bubbles--at least, it did not come from the dome of water and gas. How long he stood there staring Gramont did not know. His brain was afire with the possibilities. At length he stirred into action and started up the bayou bank, from time to time halting to search the water below him, to make sure that he could still discern the faint iridescence. He followed it rod by rod, and found that it rapidly increased in strength. It must come from some very tiny surface seepage close at hand, that was lost in the bayou almost as rapidly as it came from the earth-depths. Only accidentally would a man see it--not unless he were searching the water close to the bank, and even then only by the grace of chance. Suddenly Gramont saw that he had lost the sign. He halted. No, not lost, either! Just ahead of him was a patch of reeds, and a recession of the shore. He advanced again. Inside the reeds he found the oily smear, still so faint that he could only detect it at certain angles. Glancing up, he could see a fence at a little distance, evidently the boundary fence of the Ledanois land; the bushes and trees thinned out here, and on ahead was cleared ground. He saw, through the bushes, glimpses of buildings. Violent disappointment seized him. Was he to lose this discovery, after all? Was he to find that the seepage came from ground belonging to someone else? No--he stepped back hastily, barely in time to avoid stumbling into a tiny trickle of water, a rivulet that ran down into the bayou, a tributary so insignificant that it was invisible ten feet distant! And on the surface a faint iridescence. Excitement rising anew within him, Gramont turned and followed this rivulet, his eyes aflame with eagerness. It led him for twenty feet, and ceased abruptly, in a bubbling spring that welled from a patch of low, tree-enclosed land. Gramont felt his feet sinking in grass, and saw that there was a dip in the ground hereabouts, a swampy little section all to itself. He picked a dry spot and lay down on his face, searching the water with his eyes. Moment after moment he lay there, watching. Presently he found the slight trickle of oil again--a trickle so faint and slim that even here, on the surface of the tiny rivulet, it could be discerned only with great difficulty. A very thin seepage, concluded Gramont; a thin oil, of course. So faint a little thing, to mean so much! It came from the Ledanois land, no doubt of it. What did that matter, though? His eyes widened with flaming thoughts as he gazed down at the slender thread of water. No matter at all where this came from--the main point was proven by it! There was oil here for the finding, oil down in the thousands of feet below, oil so thick and abundant that it forced itself up through the earth fissures to find an outlet! "Instead of going down five or six thousand feet," he thought, exultantly, "we may have to go down only as many hundred. But first we must get an option or a lease on all the land roundabout--all we can secure! There will be a tremendous boom the minute this news breaks. If we get those options, we can sell them over again at a million per cent. profit, and even if we don't strike oil in paying quantities, we'll regain the cost of our drilling! And to think of the years this has been here, waiting for someone----" Suddenly he started violently. An abrupt crashing of feet among the bushes, an outbreak of voices, had sounded not far away--just the other side of the boundary fence. He was wakened from his dreams, and started to rise. Then he relaxed his muscles and lay quiet, astonishment seizing him; for he heard his own name mentioned in a voice that was strange to him. CHAPTER X _Murder_ The voice was strange to Gramont, yet he had a vague recollection of having at some time heard it before. It was a jaunty and impudent voice, very self-assured--yet it bore a startled and uneasy note, as though the speaker had just come unaware upon the man whom he addressed. "Howdy, sheriff!" it said. "Didn't see you in there--what you doin' so far away from Houma, eh?" "Why, I've been looking over the place around here," responded another voice, which was dry and grim. "I know you, Ben Chacherre, and I think I'll take you along with me. Just come from New Orleans, did you?" "Me? Take _me_?" The voice of Chacherre shrilled up suddenly in alarm. "Look here, sheriff, it wasn't me done it! It was Gramont----" There came silence. Not a sound broke the stillness of the late afternoon. Gramont, listening, lay bewildered and breathless. Ben Chacherre, the sneak thief--how had Chacherre come here? Gramont knew nothing of any tie between Jachin Fell and Chacherre; he could only lie in the grass and wonder at the man's presence. What "place" was it that the sheriff of Houma had been looking over? And what was it that he, Gramont, was supposed to have done? Confused and wondering, Gramont waited. And, as he waited, he caught a soft sound from the marshy ground beside him--a faint "plop" as though some object had fallen close by on the wet grass. At the moment he paid no heed to this sound, for again the uncanny silence had fallen. Listening, Gramont fancied that he caught slow, stealthy footsteps amid the undergrowth, but derided the fancy as sheer imagination. His brain was busy with this new problem. Houma, he knew, was the seat of the parish or county. This Ben Chacherre appeared to have suddenly and unexpectedly encountered the sheriff, to his obvious alarm, and the sheriff had for some reason decided to arrest him; so much was clear. Chacherre had something to do with the "place"--did that mean the adjacent property, or the Ledanois farm? In his puzzled bewilderment over this imbroglio Gramont for the moment quite forgot the trickle of oil at his feet. But now the deep silence became unnatural and sinister. What had happened? Surely, Ben Chacherre had not been arrested and taken away in such silence! Why had the voices so abruptly ceased? Vaguely uneasy, startled by the prolongation of that intense stillness, Gramont rose to his feet and peered among the trees. The two speakers seemed to have departed; he could descry nobody in sight. A step to one side gave Gramont a view of the land adjoining the Ledanois place. This was cleared of all brush, and under some immense oaks to the far left he had a glimpse of a large summer cottage, boarded up and apparently deserted. Nearer at hand, however, he saw other buildings, and these drew his attention. He heard the throbbing pound of a motor at work, and as there was no power line along here, the place evidently had its own electrical plant. He scrutinized the scene before him appraisingly. There were two large buildings here. One seemed to be a large barn, closed, the other was a long, low shed which was too large to be a garage. The door of this was open, and before the opening Gramont saw three men standing in talk; he recognized none of them. Two of the talkers were clad in greasy overalls, and the third figure showed the flash of a collar. The sheriff, Ben Chacherre, and some other man, thought Gramont. He would not have known Chacherre had he encountered him face to face. To him, the man was a name only. The mention of his own name by Chacherre impelled him to go forward and demand some explanation. Then it occurred to him that perhaps he had made a mistake; it would have been very easy, for he was not certain that Chacherre had referred to him. There could be other Gramonts, or other men whose name would have much the same sound in a Creole mouth. "I'd better attend to my own business," thought Gramont, and turned away. He noticed that the motor had ceased its work. "Wonder what rich chap can be down here at his summer cottage this time of year? May be only a caretaker, though. I'd better give all my attention to this oil, and let other things alone." He retraced his steps to the bayou bank and turned back toward the house. As he did so, Hammond appeared coming toward him, knife in hand. "I'm going to cut me a pole and land a couple o' fish for supper," announced the chauffeur, grinning. "Got things cleaned up fine, cap'n! You won't know the old shack." "Good enough," said Gramont. "Here, step over this way! I want to show you something." He led Hammond to the rivulet and pointed out the thin film of oil on the surface. "There's our golden fortune, sergeant! Oil actually coming out of the ground! It doesn't happen very often, but it does happen--and this is one of the times. I'll not bother to look around any farther." "Glory be!" said Hammond, staring at the rivulet. "Want to hit back for town?" "No; we couldn't get back until sometime to-night, and the roads aren't very good for night work. I'm going to get some leases around here--perhaps I can do it right away, and we'll start back in the morning. Go ahead and get your fish." Regaining the house, he saw that Hammond had indeed cleaned up in great style, and had the main room looking clean as a pin, with a fire popping on the hearth. He did not pause here, but went to the car, got in, and started it. He drove back to the road, and followed this toward town for a few rods, turning in at a large and very decent-looking farmhouse that he had observed while passing it on the way out. He found the owner, an intelligent-appearing Creole, driving in some cows for milking, and was a little startled to realize that the afternoon was so late. When he addressed the farmer in French, he received a cordial reply, and discovered that this man owned the land across the road from the Ledanois place--that his farm, in fact, covered several hundred acres. "Who owns the land next to the Ledanois place?" inquired Gramont. "I sold that off my land a couple of years ago," replied the other. "A man from New Orleans wanted it for a summer place--a business man there, Isidore Gumberts." Gumberts--"Memphis Izzy" Gumberts! The name flashed to Gramont's mind, and brought the recollection of a conversation with Hammond. Why, Gumberts was the famous crook of whom Hammond had spoken. "I saw the sheriff awhile ago, heading up the road," observed the Creole. "Did you meet him?" Gramont shook his head. "No, but I saw several men at the Gumberts place. Perhaps he was there----" "Not there, I guess," and the farmer laughed. "Those fellows have rented the place from Gumberts, I hear; they're inventors, and quiet enough men. You're a stranger here?" Gramont introduced himself as a friend of Miss Ledanois, and stated frankly that he was looking for oil and hoped to drill on her land. "I'd like a lease option from you," he went on. "I don't want to buy your land at all; what I want is a right to drill for oil on it, in case any shows up on Miss Ledanois' land. It's all a gamble, you know. I'll give you a hundred dollars for the lease, and the usual eighth interest in any oil that's found. I've no lease blanks with me, but if you'll give me the option, a signed memorandum will be entirely sufficient." The farmer regarded oil as a joke, and said so. The hundred dollars, however, and the prospective eighth interest, were sufficient to induce him to part with the option without any delay. He was only too glad to get the thing done with at once, and to pocket Gramont's money. Gramont drove away, and was just coming to the Ledanois drive when he suddenly threw on the brakes and halted the car, listening. From somewhere ahead of him--the Gumberts place, he thought instantly--echoed a shot, and several faint shouts. Then silence again. Gramont paused, indecisive. The sheriff was making an arrest, he thought. A hundred possibilities flitted through his brain, suggested by the sinister combination of Memphis Izzy, known even to Hammond as a prince among crooks, with this secluded place leased by "inventors." Bootlegging? Counterfeiting? As he paused, thus, he suddenly started; he was certain that he had caught the tones of Hammond, as though in a sudden uplifted oath of anger. Gramont threw in his clutch and sent the car jumping forward--he remembered that he had left Hammond beside the rivulet, close to the Gumberts property. What had happened? He came, after a moment of impatience, to an open gate whose drive led to the Gumberts place. Before him, as he turned in, unfolded a startling scene. Three men, the same three whom he had seen from the bushes, were standing in front of the low shed; two of them held rifles, the third, one of the "inventors" in overalls, was winding a bandage about a bleeding hand. The two rifles were loosely levelled at Hammond, who stood in the centre of the group with his arms in the air. Whatever had happened, Hammond had evidently not been easily captured. His countenance was somewhat battered, and the one captor who wore a collar was bleeding copiously from a cut cheek. The three turned as Gramont's car drove up, and Hammond gave an ejaculation of relief. "Here he is now----" "Shut up!" snapped one of his armed captors in an ugly tone. "Hurry up, Chacherre--get a rope and tie this gink!" Gramont leaped from the car and strode forward. "What's been going on here?" he demanded, sharply. "Hammond----" "I found a dead man over in them bushes," shot out Hammond, "and these guys jumped me before I seen 'em. They claim I done it----" "A dead man!" repeated Gramont, and looked at the three. "What do you mean?" "Give him the spiel, Chacherre," growled one of them. Ben Chacherre stepped forward, his bold eyes fastened on those of Gramont with a look of defiance. "The sheriff was here some time ago, looking for a stolen boat," he said, "and went off toward the Ledanois place. We were following, in order to help him search, when we came upon this man standing in the bushes, over the body of the sheriff. A knife was in his hand, and the sheriff had been stabbed to death. He drew a pistol and shot one of us----" Gramont was staggered for a moment. "Wait!" he exclaimed. "Hammond, how much of this is true?" "What I'm tellin' you, cap'n," answered Hammond, doggedly. "I found a man layin' there and was looking at him when these guys jumped me. I shot that fellow in the arm, all right, then they grabbed my gun and got me down. That's all." The sheriff--murdered! Into the mind of Gramont leaped that brief conversation which he had overheard between Ben Chacherre and the sheriff; the strange, unnatural silence which had concluded that broken-off conversation. He stared from Hammond to the others, speechless for the moment, yet with hot words rising impetuously in him. Now he noticed that Chacherre and his two companions were watching him very intently, and were slightly circling out. He sensed an acquaintance among all these men. He saw that the wounded man had finished his bandaging, and was now holding his unwounded hand in his jacket pocket, bulkily, menacingly. Danger flashed upon Gramont--flashed upon him vividly and with startling clearness. He realized that anything was possible in this isolated spot--this spot where murder had so lately been consummated! He checked on his very lips what he had been about to blurt forth; at this instant, Hammond voiced the thought in his mind. "It's a frame-up!" said the chauffeur, angrily. "That's likely, isn't it?" Chacherre flung the words in a sneer, but with a covert glance at Gramont. "This fellow is your chauffeur, ain't he? Well, we got to take him in to Houma, that's all." "Where's the sheriff's body?" demanded Gramont, quietly. "Over there," Chacherre gestured. "We ain't had a chance to bring him back yet--this fellow kept us busy. Maybe you want to frame up an alibi for him?" Gramont paid no attention to the sneering tone of this last. He regarded Chacherre fixedly, thinking hard, keeping himself well in hand. "You say the sheriff was here, then went over toward the Ledanois land?" he asked. "Did he go alone, or were you with him?" "We were fixin' to follow him," asserted Chacherre, confidently. This was all Gramont wanted to know--that the man was lying. "We were trailin' along after him when he stepped into the bushes. This man of yours was standing over him with a knife----" "I was, too, when they found me--I was cuttin' me a fishpole," said Hammond, sulkily. He was plainly beginning to be impressed and alarmed by the evidence against him. Gramont only nodded. "No one saw the actual murder, then?" "No need for it," said Chacherre, brazenly. "When we found him that way! Eh?" "I suppose not," answered Gramont, his eyes fastened thoughtfully on Hammond. The latter caught the look, let his jaw fall in astonishment, then flushed and compressed his lips--and waited. Gramont glanced at Chacherre, and launched a chance shaft. "You're Ben Chacherre, aren't you? Do you work for Mr. Fell?" The chance shot scored. "Yes," said Chacherre, his eyes narrowing. "What are you doing here, then?" For an instant Chacherre was off guard. He did not know how much--or little--Gramont knew; but he did know that Gramont was aware who had taken the loot of the Midnight Masquer from the luggage compartment of the car. This knowledge, very naturally, threw him back on the defence of which he was most sure. "I came on an errand for my master," he said, and with those words gave the game into Gramont's hands. There was a moment of silence. Gramont stood apparently in musing thought, conscious that every eye was fastened upon him, and that one false move would now spell disaster. He gave no sign of the tremendous shock that Chacherre's words had just given him; when he spoke, it was quietly and coolly: "Then your master is evidently associated with Memphis Izzy Gumberts, who owns this place here. Is that right?" Both Hammond and Chacherre's two friends started at this. "I don't know anything about that," returned Chacherre, with a shrug which did not entirely conceal his uneasiness. "I know that we've got a murderer here, and that we'll have to dispose of him. Do you object?" "Of course not," said Gramont, calmly. "Step aside and give me a moment in private with Hammond. Then by all means take him in to Houma. I'd suggest that you tie him up, or make use of handcuffs if the sheriff brought any along. Then you'd better take in the body of the sheriff also. Hammond, a word with you!" This totally unexpected acquiescence on the part of Gramont seemed to stun Chacherre into inaction. He half moved, as though uncertain whether to bar Gramont from the prisoner, then he stepped aside as Gramont advanced. A gesture to his two companions prevented them from interfering. "Keep 'em covered, though," he said, shifting his own rifle slightly and watching with a scowl of suspicion. Gramont ignored him and went up to Hammond, with a look of warning. "You'll have to submit to this, old man," he said, in a tone that the others could not overhear. "Don't dream that I'm deserting you; but I want a good look at this place if all three of them go away. They must not suspect----" "Cap'n, look out!" broke in Hammond, urgently. "This here is a gang--the whole thing is a frame-up on me!" "I know it--I was present when the sheriff was murdered; but keep quiet. I'll come to Houma later to-night and see you." He turned away with a shrug as though Hammond had denied him some favour, and lifted his voice. "Chacherre! How are you to take this man into town? How did you get here? Will you need to use my car?" "No." The Creole jerked his head toward the barn. "I came in Mr. Fell's car--it's got a sprung axle and is laid up. We'll take him back in another one." "Very well," Gramont paused and glanced around. "This is a terrible blow, men. I never dreamed that Hammond was a murderer or could be one! You don't know of any motive for the crime?" They shook their heads, but suspicion was dying from their eyes. Gramont glanced again at his chauffeur. "I'll not abandon you, Hammond," he said, severely, coldly. "I'll stop in at Houma and see that you have a lawyer. I think, gentlemen, we had better attend to bringing in the body of the sheriff, eh?" The wounded man dodged into the barn and returned with a strip of rope. Chacherre took this, and firmly bound Hammond's arms, then forced him to sit down and bound his ankles. "You watch him," he ordered the wounded member of the trio. "We'll get the sheriff." Allowing Chacherre and his companion to take the lead, Gramont went with them to the place where the murdered officer lay. As he went, the conviction grew more sure within him that, when he lay there by the rivulet, he had actually heard the last words uttered by the sheriff; that Chacherre had committed the murder in that moment--a noiseless, deadly stab! That Hammond could or would have done it he knew was absurd. They found the murdered man lying among the bushes. He had been stabbed under the fifth rib--the knife had gone direct to the heart. Chacherre announced that he had Hammond's knife as evidence and Gramont merely nodded his head. Lifting the body between them, they bore it back to the barn. "Now," said Gramont, quickly, "I'm off for Houma--if I don't miss my road! You men will be right along?" "In a jiffy," said Chacherre, promptly. Gramont climbed into his car and drove away. He had no fear of anything happening to Hammond; the evidence against the latter was damning, and with three men to swear him into a hangman's noose, they would bring him to jail safe enough. "A clever devil, that Chacherre!" he thought, grimly. "We're up against a gang, beyond any doubt. Now, if they don't suspect me----" He turned in at the Ledanois gate, knowing himself to be beyond sight or hearing of the Gumberts place. He drove the car away from the house, and into the thick of the densest bush-growth that he could find where it was well concealed from sight. Then, on foot, he made his way along the bank of the bayou until he had come to the rivulet where oil showed. Here he paused, concealing himself and gaining a place where he could get a view of the Gumberts land. He saw Chacherre and Hammond there, beside the body of the sheriff; the other two men were swinging open the barn door. They disappeared inside, and a moment later Gramont heard the whirr of an engine starting. A car backed out into the yard--a seven-passenger Cadillac--and halted. The three men lifted the body of the sheriff, into the tonneau. Chacherre took the wheel, Hammond being bundled in beside him. The other two men climbed in beside the body, rifles in hand. Chacherre started the car toward the road. "All fine!" thought Gramont with a thrill of exultation. "They've all cleared out and left the place to me--and I want a look at that place." Suddenly, as he stood there, he remembered the slight "plump" that he had heard during that interminable silence which had followed the conversation between the sheriff and Ben Chacherre. It was a sound as though something had fallen near him in the soggy ground. The remembrance startled him strangely. He visualized an excited murderer standing beside his victim, knife in hand; he visualized the abhorrence which must have seized the man for a moment--the abhorrence which must have caused him to do something in that moment which in a cooler time he would not have done. Gramont turned toward the little marshy spot where he had lain listening. He bent down, searching the wet ground, heedless that the water soaked into his boots. And, after a minute, a low exclamation of satisfaction broke from him as he found what he sought. CHAPTER XI _The Gangsters_ Gramont left the covert and walked forward. He was thinking about that odd mention of Jachin Fell--had Chacherre lied in saying he had come here on his master's business? Perhaps. The man had come in Fell's car, and would not hesitate to lie about using the car. For the moment, Gramont put away the circumstance, but did not forget it. He walked openly toward the Gumberts buildings, thinking that he would have time for a good look around the place before dusk fell; he would then get off for Houma, and attend to Hammond's defence. As for the place before him, he was convinced that it was abandoned. Had any one, other than Chacherre and his two friends, been about the buildings, the late excitement would have brought out the fact. No one had appeared, and the buildings seemed vacant. Gramont's intent was simple and straightforward. In case he found, as he expected to find, any evidence of illegal occupation about the place--as the sheriff seemed to have discovered to his cost--he would lay Chacherre and the other two men by the heels that night in Houma. He would then go on to New Orleans and have Gumberts arrested, although he had no expectation that the master crook could be held on the murder-accessory charge. If this place were used for the lotteries, even, he was fairly certain that Memphis Izzy would have his own tracks covered. The men higher up always did. He walked straight in upon the barn. It loomed before him, closed, lurid in the level rays of the westering sun. The doors in front had been only loosely swung together and Gramont found them unlocked. He stood in the opening, and surprise gripped him. He was held motionless, gazing with astonished wonder at the sight confronting him. Directly before him was a small roadster, one which he remembered to have seen Jachin Fell using; in this car, doubtless, Ben Chacherre had driven from the city. He recalled the fact later, with poignant regret for a lost opportunity. But, at the present moment, he was lost in amazement at the great number of other cars presenting themselves to his view. They were lined up as deep as the barn would hold them, crammed into every available foot of space; well over a dozen cars, he reckoned swiftly. What was more, all were cars of the highest class, with the exception of Fell's roadster. Directly before him were two which he was well aware must have cost close upon ten thousand each. What did this mean? Certainly no one man or one group of men, in this back-country spot, could expect to use such an accumulation of expensive cars! Gramont glanced around, but found no trace of machinery in the barn. Remembering the motor that he had heard, he turned from the doorway in frowning perplexity. He strode on toward the long shed which stood closer to the house. At the end of this shed was a door, and when he tried it, Gramont found it unlocked. It swung open to his hand, and he stepped inside. At first he paused, confused by the vague objects around, for it was quite dark in here. A moment, and his eyes grew accustomed to the gloomier lighting. Details came to him: all around were cars and fragments of cars, chassis and bodies in all stages of dismemberment. Still more cars! He slowly advanced to a long bench that ran the length of the shop beneath the windows. A shop, indeed--a shop, he quickly perceived, fitted with every tool and machine necessary to the most complete automobile repair establishment! Even an air-brush outfit, at one end, together with a drying compartment, spoke of repaint jobs. Comprehension was slowly dawning upon the mind of Gramont; a moment later it became certainty, when he came to a stop before an automobile engine lying on the bench. He found it to be the engine from a Stutz--the latest multi-valve type adopted by that make of car, and this particular bit of machinery looked like new. Gramont inspected it, and he saw that the men had done their work well. The original engine number had been carefully dug out, and the place as carefully filled and levelled with metal. Beside it a new number had been stamped. A glance at the electrical equipment around showed that these workers had every appliance with which to turn out the most finished of jobs. As he straightened up from the engine Gramont's eyes fell upon a typed sheet of paper affixed to the wall above the bench. His gaze widened as he inspected it by the failing light. Upon that paper was a list of cars. After each car was a series of numbers plainly comprising the original numbers of the engine, body, radiator, and other component parts, followed by another series of new numbers to be inserted. That sheet of paper showed brains, organizing ability, care, and attention to the last detail! Here was the most carefully planned and thorough system of automobile thievery that Gramont had ever heard of. He stood motionless, knowing that this typed sheet of paper in itself was damning evidence against the whole gang of workers. What was more to the point, that paper could be traced; the typewriting could be traced to the man higher up--doubtless Memphis Izzy himself! These men ran in cars by the wholesale, probably from states adjacent to Louisiana. Here, at this secluded point on the bayou, they changed the cars completely about, in number, paint, style of body, and then probably got rid of the new product in New Orleans. Gramont stood motionless. Surprise had taken hold of him, and even a feeling of slight dismay. This was not at all what he had hoped to find there. He had thought to come upon some traces of the lottery game---- "Seen all you want, bo?" said a voice behind him. Gramont turned. He found himself gazing directly into an automatic pistol over which glittered a pair of blazing eyes. The man was a stranger to him. The place had not been deserted, after all. He was caught. "Who are you?" demanded Gramont, quietly. "Me?" The stranger was unsmiling, deadly. In those glittering eyes Gramont read the ferocity of an animal at bay. "I s'pose you would like to know that, huh? I guess you know enough right now to get all that's comin' to you, bo! Got any particular business here? Speak up quick!" Gramont was silent. The other sneered at him, viciously. "Hurry up! Turn over the name and address, and I'll notify the survivin' relatives. Name, please?" "Henry Gramont," was the calm response. "Don't get hasty, my friend. Didn't you see me here a little while ago with Chacherre and the other boys?" "What's that?" The glittering eyes flamed up with suspicion and distrust. "Here--with them? No, I didn't. I been away fishing all afternoon. What the hell you doing around this joint?" "Your best scheme," said Gramont, coldly, "is to change your style of tone, and to do it in a hurry! If you don't know what's happened here this afternoon, don't ask me; you'll find out soon enough when the other boys get back. You'd better tell them I'm going to get in touch with Memphis Izzy the minute I get back to the city, and that the less talking they do----" "What the hell's all this?" demanded the other again, but with a softening of accent. The moniker of Gumberts had its effect, and seemed to shake the man instantly. Gramont smiled as he perceived that the game was won. "I never heard of no Gramont," went on the other, quickly. "What you doin' here?" "You're due to learn a good many things, I imagine," said Gramont, carelessly. "As for me, I happened on the place largely by accident. I happen to be in partnership with a man named Jachin Fell, and I came out here on business----" To Gramont's astonishment the pistol was lowered instantly. It was well that he ceased speaking, for what he had just said proved to be open to misconstruction, and if he had said any more he would have spoiled it. For the man facing him was staring at him in mingled disgust and surprise. "You're in partnership with _the boss_!" came the astounding words. "Well, why in hell didn't you say all that in the first place, instead o' beefin' around? That's no way to butt in, and me thinking you was some dick on the job! Got anything to prove that you ain't pullin' something cute on me?" "Do you know Fell's writing?" asked Gramont, with difficulty forcing himself to meet the situation coherently. Jachin Fell--the boss! "I know his mitt, all right." From his pocket Gramont produced a paper--the memorandum or agreement which he had drawn up with Fell on the previous afternoon, relating to the oil company. The other man took it and switched on an electric light bulb overhead. In this glare he was revealed as a ratty little individual with open mouth and teeth hanging out--an adenoidal type, and certainly a criminal type. It crossed the mind of Gramont that one blow would do the work--but he stood motionless. No sudden game would help him here. The discovery that Fell was "the boss" paralyzed him completely. He had never dreamed of such a contingency. Fell, of all men! Jachin Fell the "boss" of this establishment! Jachin Fell the man higher up--the brains behind this criminal organization! It was a perfect thunderbolt to Gramont. Now he understood why Chacherre was in the employ of Fell--why no arrest of the man had been possible! Now he perceived that Chacherre must have told the truth about coming here on business for Fell. Reaching farther back, he saw that Fell must have received the loot of the Midnight Masquer, must have turned it over to Lucie Ledanois---- Did _she_ know? "All right, Mr. Gramont." The ratty little man turned to him with evident change of front. "We ain't takin' no chances here, y'understand. Got quite a shipment of cars comin' in from Texas, and we're tryin' to get some o' these boats cleaned out to make room. Bring out any orders?" Gramont's brain worked fast. By overcoming this guttersnipe he might have the whole place at his mercy--but that was not what he wanted. He suddenly realized that he had other and more important fish to fry in New Orleans. Gumberts was there. Fell was there. What he must do demanded time, and his best play was to gain all the time possible, and to prevent this gang from suspecting him in any way. "Did you see Ben Chacherre?" he countered. "Uh-huh--seen him just after he come. Gumberts will be out day after to-morrow, he said. The boss is framin' some sort of deal on a guy that he wants laid away--some guy name o' Hammond. Chacherre is running it. He figgers on gettin' Hammond on account of some car that's bein' hunted up----" Gramont laughed suddenly, for there was a grim humour about the thing. So Jachin Fell wanted to "get something" on poor Hammond! And Chacherre had seized the golden opportunity that presented itself this afternoon--instead of "getting" Hammond for the theft of a car, Chacherre had coolly fastened murder upon him! "Ben is one smart man; I expect he thinks the gods are working for him," said Gramont, thinly. "So you don't know what happened to-day, eh? Well, it's great news, but I've got no time to talk about it. They'll tell you when they get back----" "Where'd they go?" demanded the other. "Houma. Now listen close! Chacherre did not know that I was in partnership with the boss, get me? I didn't want to tell all the crowd in front of him. Between you and me, the boss isn't any too sure about Ben----" "Say, I get you there!" broke in the other, sagely. "I tells him six months ago to watch out for that Creole guy!" "Exactly. You can tell the boys about me when they come back--I don't suppose Ben will be with them. Now, I've been looking over that place next door----" "Oh!" exclaimed the other, suddenly. "Sure! The boss said that one of his friends would be down to----" "I'm the one--or one of them," and Gramont chuckled as he reflected on the ludicrous aspects of the whole affair. "I'm going to Houma now, and then back to the city. My car's over next door. Mr. Fell wanted me to warn you to lay low on the lottery business. He's got a notion that someone's been talking." "You go tell the boss," retorted the other in an aggrieved tone, "to keep his eye on the guys that _can_ talk! Who'd we talk to here? Besides, we're workin' our heads off on these here boats. Memphis Izzy is attending to the lottery--he's got the whole layout up to the house, and we ain't touching it, see? Tell the boss all that." "Tell him yourself," Gramont laughed, good-humouredly. "Gumberts is coming out day after to-morrow, is he? That'll be Friday. Hm! I think that I'd better bring Fell out here the same day, if I can make it. I probably won't see Gumberts until then--I'm not working in with him and he doesn't know me yet--but I'll try and get out here on Friday with Fell. Now, I'll have to beat it in a hurry. Any message to send?" "Not me," was the answer. Gramont scarcely knew how he departed, until he found himself scrambling back through the underbrush of the Ledanois place. He rushed into the house, found the fire had died down beyond all danger, and swiftly removed the few things they had taken from the car. Carrying these, he stumbled back to where he had hidden the automobile. He scarcely dared to think, scarcely dared to congratulate himself on the luck that had befallen him, until he found himself in his own car once more, and with open throttle sweeping out through the twilight toward Paradis and Houma beyond. A whirlwind of mad exultation was seething within him--exultation as sudden and tremendous as the past weeks had been uneventful and dragging! Gramont, in common with many others, had heard much indefinite rumour of an underground lottery game that was being worked among the negroes of the state and the Chinese villages along the Gulf coast. And now he knew definitely. Lotteries have never died out in Louisiana since the brave old days of the government-ordained gambles, laws and ordinances to the contrary. No laws can make the yellow man and the black man forego the get-rich-quick heritage of their fathers. On the Pacific coast lotteries obtain and will obtain wherever there is a Chinatown. In Louisiana the days of the grand lottery have never been forgotten. The last two years of high wages had made every Negro wealthy, comparatively speaking. The lottery mongers would naturally find them a ripe harvest for the picking. And who would gravitate to this harvest field if not the great Gumberts, the uncaught Memphis Izzy, the promoter who had never been "mugged!" Here, at one stroke, stumbling on the thing by sheer blind accident, Gramont had located the nucleus of the whole business! Gradually his brain cooled to the realization of what work lay before him. He was through Paradis, almost without seeing the town, and switched on his lights as he took the highway to Houma. Sober reflection seized him. Not only was this crowd of crooks working a lottery, but they were also managing a stupendous thievery of automobiles, in which cars were looted by wholesale! And the man at the head of it all, the man above Memphis Izzy and his crooks, was Jachin Fell of New Orleans. Did Lucie Ledanois dream such a thing? No. Gramont dismissed the question at once. Fell was not an unusual type of man. There were many Jachin Fells throughout the country, he reflected. Men who applied their brains to crooked work, who kept themselves above any actual share in the work, and who profited hugely by tribute money from every crook in every crime. To the communities in which they lived such men were patterns of all that wealthy gentlemen should be. Seldom, except perhaps in gossip of the underworld, was their connection with crime ever suspected. And--this thought was sobering to Gramont--never did they come within danger of retribution at the hands of the law. Their ramifications extended too far into politics; and the governors of some southern states have unlimited powers of pardon. "This is a big day!" reflected Gramont, dismissing the sinister suggestion of this last thought. "A big day! What it will lead to, I don't know. Not the least of it is the financial end of it--the oil seepage! That little iridescent trickle of oil on the water means that money worries are over, both for me and for Lucie. I'm sorry that I am mixed up with Fell; I've enough money of my own to drill at least one good well, and one is all we'll need to bring in oil on that place. Well, we'll see what turns up! My first job is to make sure Hammond is safe, and to relieve his mind. I'll have to leave him in jail, I suppose----" Why did Fell want to "get something" on Hammond? To this there was no answer. He drove into Houma to find the town abuzz with excitement, for the news of the sheriff's murder had stirred the place wildly. Proceeding straight to the court house, Gramont encountered Ben Chacherre as he was leaving the car. "Hello, there!" he exclaimed. "Lost my road. Where's Hammond?" Chacherre jerked his head toward the court house. "In yonder. Say, are you going back to the city to-night?" "Yes." Gramont regarded him. "Why?" "Take me back, will you? I've missed the last up train, and if you're goin' back anyhow I won't have to hire a car. I can drive for you, and we'll make it in a couple of hours, before midnight sure." "Hop in," said Gramont, nodding toward the car. "I'll be back as soon as I've had a word with Hammond. No danger of his getting lynched, I hope?" "Not a chance," said the other, conclusively. "Six deputies up there now, and quite a bunch of ex-soldiers comin' to stand guard. You goin' to fight the case?" "No," said Gramont. "Can't fight a sure thing, can you? I'm sorry for him, though." Chacherre shrugged his shoulders and got into the car. Gramont was much relieved to find that there was no danger of lynching, which had been his one fear. It was only with much persuasion that he got past the guard and into the court house, where he was received by a number of deputies in charge of the situation. After conferring with them at some length, he was grudgingly taken to the cell occupied by Hammond. The latter received him with a wide grin, and gave no signs of the gruelling ordeal through which he had passed. "Listen, old man," said Gramont, earnestly. "Will you play out the game hard to the end? I'll have to leave you here for two days. At the end of that time you'll be free." The listening deputies sniffed, but Hammond merely grinned again and put a hand through the bars. "Whatever you say, cap'n," he rejoined. "It sure looks bad----" "Don't you think it," said Gramont, cheerfully. "A lot of things have happened since I saw you last! I've got the real murderer right where I want him--but I can't have him arrested yet." "It's a gang," said Hammond. "You watch out, cap'n, I heard 'em say somethin' about Memphis Izzy--remember the guy I told you about one day? Well, this is no piker's game! We're up against somethin' solid----" "I know it," and Gramont nodded. He turned to the deputies. "Gentlemen, you have my address if you wish to communicate with me. I shall be back here day after to-morrow--at least, before midnight of that day. I warn you, that if anything happens to this man in the meantime, you shall be held personally responsible. He is innocent." "Looks like we'd better hold you, too," said one of the men. "You seem to know a lot!" Gramont looked at him a moment. "I know enough to tell you where to head in if you try any funny work here," he said, evenly. "Gentlemen, thank you for permitting the interview! I'll see you later." The coroner's jury had already adjudged Hammond guilty of the murder. Returning to the car, Gramont had Ben Chacherre drive to a restaurant, where they got a bite to eat. Twenty minutes later they were on their way to New Orleans--and Gramont learned for the first time of Joseph Maillard's murder by the Midnight Masquer, and of the arrest of Bob Maillard for the crime. CHAPTER XII _The Ultimatum_ Upon the following morning Gramont called both Jachin Fell and Lucie Ledanois over the telephone. He acquainted them briefly with the result of his oil investigation, and arranged a meeting for ten o'clock, at Fell's office. It was slightly before ten when Gramont called with the car for Lucie. Under the spell of her smiling eagerness, the harshness vanished from his face; it returned again a moment later, for he saw that she, too, was changed. There was above them both a cloud. That of Gramont was secret and brooding. As for Lucie, she was in mourning. The murder of Joseph Maillard, the arrest and undoubted guilt of Bob Maillard, dwarfed all else in her mind. Even the news of the oil seepage, and the fact that she was probably now on the road to wealth, appeared to make little impression upon her. "Thank heaven," she said, earnestly, as they drove toward Canal Street, "that so far as you are concerned, Henry, the Midnight Masquer affair was all cleared up before this tragedy took place! It was fearfully imprudent of you----" "Yes," answered Gramont, soberly, reading her thought. "I can realize my own folly now. If this affair were to be laid at my door, some kind of a case might be made up against me, and it would seem plausible. But, fortunately, I was out of it in time. Were we merely characters in a standardized detective story, I suppose I'd be arrested and deluged with suspense and clues and so forth." "Your escape was too narrow to joke over, Henry," she reproved him, gravely. "I'm not joking, my dear Lucie. I learned nothing about the tragedy until late last night. From what I can find in the papers, it seems agreed that Bob was not the real Masquer, but had assumed that guise for a joke. A tragic joke! Since he was undoubtedly drunk at the time, his story can't be relied upon as very convincing. And yet, it's frightfully hard to believe that, even by accident, a son should have shot down his own father----" "Don't!" Lucie winced a little. "In spite of all the evidence against him, in spite of the way he was found with that aviation uniform, it's still awful to believe. I can't realize that it has actually happened." "According to the papers, poor Mrs. Maillard has gone to pieces. No wonder." "Yes. I was there with her all day yesterday, and shall go again to-day. They say Bob is terribly broken up. He sent for his mother, and she refused to see him. I don't know how it is all going to end! Do you think his story might be true--that somebody else might have acted as the Masquer that night?" Gramont shook his head. "It's possible," he said, reluctantly, "yet it hardly seems very probable. And now, Lucie, I'm very sorry indeed to say it--but you must prepare yourself against another shock in the near future." "What do you mean? About the oil----" "No. It's too long a story to tell you now; here we are at the Maison Blanche. Just remember my words, please. It's something that I can't go into now." "Very well. Henry! Do you think that it's possible your chauffeur, Hammond, could have learned about the drinking party, and could have----" Gramont started. "Hammond? No. I'll answer for him beyond any question, Lucie. By the way, does Fell know anything about Hammond having been the first Masquer?" "Not from me," said the girl, watching him. "Very well. Hammond got into a bit of trouble at Houma, and I had to leave him there. It was none of his fault, and he'll get out of it all right. Well, come along up to our oil meeting! Forget your troubles, and don't let my croakings about a new shock cause you any worry just yet." He was thinking of Jachin Fell, and the girl's closeness to Fell. Had he not known that Fell was responsible for Hammond's being in jail, he might have felt differently. As it was, he was now fore-warned and fore-armed, although he could not see what animus Fell could possibly have against Hammond. It was lucky, he reflected grimly, that he had never breathed to a soul except Lucie the fact that Hammond had been the first Masquer! Had Fell known this fact, his desire to lay Hammond by the heels might have been easily fulfilled--and Hammond would probably have found himself charged with Maillard's murder. They found Jachin Fell dictating to a stenographer. He greeted them warmly, ushering them at once into his private office. Gramont found it difficult to convince himself that his experiences of the previous afternoon had been real. It was almost impossible to believe that this shy, apologetic little man in gray was in reality the "man higher up!" Yet he knew it to be the case--knew it beyond any escape. "By the way," and Fell turned to Gramont, "if you'll dictate a brief statement concerning that oil seepage, I'd be obliged! Merely give the facts. I may have need of such a statement from you." Gramont nodded and joined the stenographer in the outer office where he dictated a brief statement. It did not occur to him that there might be danger in this; at the moment, he was rather off his guard. He was thinking so much about his future assault on Fell that he quite ignored the possibility of being placed on the defensive. Within five minutes he had returned to Lucie and Jachin Fell, who were discussing the condition of Mrs. Maillard. Gramont signed the statement and handed it to Fell, who laid it with other papers at his elbow. "I suppose we may proceed to business?" began Fell. "I have drawn up articles of partnership; we can apply for incorporation later if we so desire. Lucie, both Henry Gramont and I are putting twenty-five thousand dollars into this company, while you are putting in your land, which I am valuing at an equal amount. The stock, therefore, will be divided equally among us. That is understood?" "Yes. It's very good of you, Uncle Jachin," said the girl, quietly. "I'll leave everything to your judgment." The little gray man smiled. "Judgment is a poor horse to ride, as Eliza said when she crossed the ice. Here's everything in black and white. I suggest that you both glance over the articles, sign up, and we will then hold our first meeting." Gramont and Lucie read over the partnership agreement, and found it perfectly correct. "Very well, then, the meeting is called to order!" Jachin Fell smiled as he rapped on the desk before him. "Election of officers--no, wait! The first thing on hand is to give our company a name. Suggestions?" "I was thinking of that last night," said Lucie, smiling a little. "Why not call it the 'American Prince Oil Company'?" And her eyes darted to Gramont merrily. "Excellent!" exclaimed Jachin Fell. "My vote falls with yours, my dear--I'll fill in the blanks with that name. Now to the election of officers." "I nominate Jachin Fell for president," said Gramont, quickly. "Seconded!" exclaimed the girl, gaily, a little colour in her pale cheeks. "Any other nominations? If not, so approved and ordered," rattled Fell, laughingly. "For the office of treasurer----" "Miss Lucie Ledanois!" said Gramont. "Move nominations be closed." "Seconded and carried by a two-thirds vote of stockholders," chirped Fell in his toneless voice. "So approved and ordered. For secretary----" "Our third stockholder," put in Lucie. "He'll have to be an officer, of course!" "Seconded and carried. So approved and ordered." Mr. Fell rapped on the table. "We will now have the report of our expert geologist in further detail than yet given." Gramont told of finding the oil; he was not carried away by the gay mock-solemnity of Jachin Fell, and he remained grave. He went on to relate how he had secured the lease option upon the adjoining land, and suggested that other such options be secured at once upon other property in the neighbourhood. He handed the option to Fell, who laid it with the other documents. "And now I have a proposal of my own to make," said Jachin Fell. He appeared sobered, as though influenced by Gramont's manner. "Although we've actually found oil on the place, there is no means of telling how much we'll find when we drill, or what quality it will be. Is that not correct, Mr. Gramont?" "Entirely so," assented Gramont. "The chances are, of course, that we'll find oil in both quality and quantity. On the other hand, the seepage may be all there is. Oil is a gamble from start to finish. Personally, however, I would gamble heavily on this prospect." "Naturally," said Mr. Fell. "However, I have been talking over the oil business with a number of men actively engaged in it in the Houma field. I think that I may safely say that I can dispose of the mineral rights to our company's land, together with this lease option secured yesterday on the adjoining land, for a sum approximating one hundred and fifty thousand dollars; reserving to our company a sixteenth interest in any oil located on the property. Personally, I believe this can be done, and I am willing to undertake the negotiations if so empowered by a note of our stockholders. Lucie, you do not mind if we smoke, I know? Let me offer you a cigar, Mr. Gramont." Gramont took one of the El Reys offered him, and lighted it amid a startled silence. Fell's proposal came to him as a distinct shock, and already he was viewing it in the light of prompt suspicion. "Why," exclaimed Lucie, wide-eyed, "that would be fifty thousand dollars to each of us, and not a cent expended!" "In case it went through on that basis," added Jachin Fell, his eyes on Gramont, "I would vote that the entire sum go to Miss Ledanois. Her land alone is involved. If she then wishes to invest with us in a new company to exploit other fields, well and good. One moment, my dear! Do not protest this suggestion. The sixteenth interest reserved to our company would provide both Mr. Gramont and me with a substantial reward for our slight activity in the matter. Don't forget that interest, for it might amount to a large figure." "Right," assented Gramont. "I would second your vote, Mr. Fell; I think the idea very just and proper that Miss Ledanois should receive the entire amount." Lucie seemed a trifle bewildered. "But--but, Henry!" she exclaimed. "What do you think of selling the lease to these other men?" Gramont eyed the smoke from his cigar reflectively, quite conscious that Mr. Fell was regarding him very steadily. "I can't answer for you, Lucie," he said at last. "I would not presume to advise." Mr. Fell looked slightly relieved. Lucie, however, persisted. "What would you do, then, if you were in my place?" Gramont shrugged his shoulders. "In that case," he said, slowly, "I would gamble. We know oil is in that ground; we know that it has been found in large quantities at Houma or near there. To my mind there is no doubt whatever that under your land lies a part of the same oil field--and a rich one. To sell fifteen-sixteenths of that oil for a hundred and fifty thousand is to give it away. I would sooner take my chances on striking a twenty-thousand barrel gusher and having the whole of it to myself. However, by all means disregard my words; this is not my affair." Lucie glanced at Jachin Fell. "You think it is the best thing to do; Henry does not," mused the girl. "I know that you're both thinking of me--of getting that money for me. Just the same, Uncle Jachin, I--I won't be prudent! I'll gamble! Besides," she added with smiling naïveté, "I'm not a bit willing to give up having a real oil company the very minute it is formed! So we'll outvote you, Uncle Jachin." Despite their tension, the two men smiled at her final words. "That motion of mine has not yet been made," said Fell. Her rejection of his proposal had no effect upon his shyly smooth manner. "Will you excuse us one moment, Lucie? If I may speak with you in the outer office, Mr. Gramont, I would like to show you some confidential matters which might influence your decision in this regard." Lucie nodded and leaned back in her chair. Gramont accompanied Fell to the outer office, where Fell sent the stenographer to keep Lucie company. When the door had closed and they were alone, Fell took a chair and motioned Gramont to another. A cold brusquerie was evident in his manner. "Gramont," he said, briskly, "I am going to make that motion, and I want you to vote with me against Lucie. Unfortunately, I have only a third of the voting power. I might argue Lucie into agreement, but she is a difficult person to argue with. So I mean that you shall vote with me--and I'm going to put my cards on the table before you." "Ah!" Gramont regarded him coolly. "Your cards will have to be powerful persuaders!" "They are," returned Jachin Fell. "I have been carefully leading up to this point--the point of selling. I have practically arranged the whole affair. I propose to sell the mineral rights in that land, largely on the strength of the signed statement you gave me a few moments ago. That statement is going to be given wide publicity, and it will be substantiated by other reports on the oil seepage." "You interest me strangely." Gramont leaned back in his chair. The eyes of the two men met and held in cold challenge, cold hostility. "What's your motive, Fell?" "I'll tell you: it's the interest of Lucie Ledanois." In the gaze of Fell was a strange earnestness. In those pale gray eyes was now a light of fierce sincerity which startled and warned Gramont. Fell continued with a trace of excitement in his tone. "I've known that girl all her life, Gramont, and I love her as a father. I loved her mother before her--in a different way. I can tell you that at this moment Lucie is poor. Her house is mortgaged; she does not know, in fact, just how poor she really is. Of course, she will accept no money from me in gift. But for her to get a hundred and fifty thousand in a business deal will solve all her problems, set her on her feet for life!" "I see," said Gramont with harsh impulse. "What do you get out of it?" He regretted the words instantly. Fell half rose from his chair as though to answer them with a blow. Gramont, aware of his mistake, hastened to retract it. "Forgive me, Fell," he said, quickly. "That was an unjust insinuation, and I know it. Yet, I can't find myself in agreement with you. I'm firmly set in the belief that a fortune in oil will be made off that land of Lucie's. I simply can't agree to sell out for a comparative pittance, and I'll fight to persuade her against doing it! As I look at it, the thing would not be just to her. I'm thinking, as you are, only of her interest." A light of sardonic mockery glittered in the pale eyes of Jachin Fell. "You are basing your firm conviction," he queried, "very largely upon your discovery of the free oil?" "To a large extent, yes." "I thought you would," and Fell laughed harshly. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said the other, fiercely earnest, "that for a month I've worked to sell that land! I had young Maillard hooked and landed--it would have been poetic justice to make him hand over a small fortune to Lucie! But that deal is off, since he's in jail. And do you know why young Maillard wanted to buy the land? For the same reason you don't want to sell. I sent him out there and he saw that oil seepage, as I meant that he should! He thought he would skin Lucie out of her land, not dreaming that I had prepared a nice little trap to swallow him. And now you come along----" "Man, what are you driving at?" exclaimed Gramont. He was startled by what he read in the other man's face. "Merely that I planted that oil seepage myself--or had it done by men I could trust," said Jachin Fell, calmly. He sat back in his chair and took up his cigar with an air of finality. "The confession is shameless. I love Lucie more than my own ethical purity. Besides, I intend to wrong no one in the matter." Gramont sat stunned beyond words. The oil seepage--a plant! The thing could have been very easily done, of course. As he sat silent there unfolded before him the motives that underlay Fell's entire action. The amazing disclosure of Jachin Fell's intrigue to enrich the girl left him bewildered. This, coupled with what he had learned on the preceding day about Jachin Fell, put his own course of action into grave perplexity. There was no reason to doubt what Fell said. Gramont believed the little man sincere in his love for Lucie. "No matter what the outcome, your reputation will not be affected," said Fell, quietly. "The company which will buy this land of Lucie's is controlled by me. You understand? Even if no oil is ever found there, I shall see to it that you will not be injured because of that signed statement." Gramont nodded dull comprehension. He realized that Fell had devised this whole business scheme with infernal ingenuity; had devised it in order to take a hundred and fifty thousand dollars out of his own pocket and put it into that of Lucie. It was a present which the girl would never accept as a gift, but which, if it came in the way of business, would make her financially independent. Nobody would be defrauded. There was no chicanery about it. The thing was straight enough. "That's not quite all of my plan," pursued Fell, as though reading Gramont's unuttered thoughts. "The minute this news becomes public, the minute your statement is published, there will be a tremendous boom in that whole section. I shall take charge of Lucie's money, and within three weeks I should double it, treble it, for her. Before the boom bursts she will be out of it all, and wealthy. Now, my dear Gramont, I do not presume that you will still refuse to vote with me? I have been quite frank, you see." Gramont stirred in his chair. "Yes!" he said, low-voiced. "Yes, by heavens, I do refuse!" With an effort he checked hotly impulsive words that were on his tongue. One word now might ruin him. He dared not say that he did not want to see Fell's money pass into the hands of Lucie--money gained by fraud and theft and crime! He dared not give his reasons for refusing. He meant now to crush Fell utterly--but one wrong word would give the man full warning. He must say nothing. "It's not straight work, Fell. Regardless of your motives, I refuse to join you." Jachin Fell sighed slightly, and laid down his cigar with precision. "Gramont," his voice came with the softly purring menace of a tiger's throat-tone, "I shall now adjourn this company meeting for two days, until Saturday morning, in order to give you a little time to reconsider. To-day is Thursday. By Saturday----" "I need no time," said Gramont. "But you will need it. I suppose you know that Bob Maillard has been arrested for parricide? You are aware of the evidence against him--all circumstantial?" Gramont frowned. "What has that got to do with our present business?" "Quite a bit, I fancy." A thin smile curved the lips of Jachin Fell. "Maillard is not guilty of the murder--but you are." "Liar!" Gramont started from his chair as those three words burned into him. "Liar! Why, you know that I went home----" "Ah, wait!" Fell lifted his hand for peace. His voice was calm. "Ansley and I both saw you depart, certainly. We have since learned that you did not reach home until some time after midnight. You have positively no alibi, Gramont. You may allege, of course, that you were wandering the streets----" "As I was!" cried Gramont, heatedly. "Then prove it, my dear fellow; prove it--if you can. Now, we shall keep Lucie out of all this. What remains? I know that you were the Midnight Masquer. My man, Ben Chacherre, can prove by another man who accompanied him that the Masquer's loot was taken from your car. A dictograph in the private office, yonder, has a record of the talk between us of the other morning, in which you made patent confession to being the Masquer. "Once let me hand this array of evidence over to the district attorney, and you will most certainly stand trial. And, if you do stand trial, I can promise you faithfully that you will meet conviction. I have friends, you see, and many of them are influential in such small matters." It was not a nice smile that curved the lips of Fell. Gramont choked back any response, holding himself to silence with a firm will. He dared say nothing, lest he say too much. He saw that Fell could indeed make trouble for him--and that he must strike his own blow at Fell without great delay. It was a battle, now; a fight to the end. Fell regarded Gramont cheerfully, seeming to take this crushed silence as evidence of his own triumph. "Further," he added, "your man Hammond is now in jail at Houma, as you know, for the murder of the sheriff. Now, my influence is not confined to this city, Gramont, I may be able to clear Hammond of this charge--if you decide to vote with me. I may keep what I know about the Midnight Masquer from the press and from the district attorney--if you decide to vote with me. You comprehend?" Gramont nodded. He saw now why Fell wanted to "get something" on Hammond. Fell had rightly reasoned that Gramont would do more to save Hammond than to save himself. "You think I murdered Maillard, then?" he asked. "Gramont, I don't know what to think, and that's the honest truth!" answered Fell, with a steady regard. "But I am absolutely determined to put this oil deal across, to make Lucie Ledanois at least independent, if not wealthy. I can do it, I've made all my plans to do it, and--I _will_ do it! "We'll hold another meeting day after to-morrow--Saturday morning." Fell rose. "That will give me time to conclude all arrangements. I trust, Mr. Gramont, that you will vote with me for the adjournment?" "Yes," said Gramont, dully. "I will." "Thank you," and Jachin Fell bowed slightly, not without a trace of mockery in his air. CHAPTER XIII _The Coin Falls Heads_ Gramont sat in his own room that afternoon. It seemed to him that he had been away from the city for weeks and months. Yet only a day had intervened. He sat fingering the only piece of mail that had come to him--a notice from the post of the American Legion which he had joined, to the effect that there would be a meeting that Thursday evening. Only Thursday! And to-morrow was Friday. If he was to effect anything against the headquarters of Fell's gang he must act on the morrow or not at all. Gumberts was to be out there to-morrow. Gumberts would talk with the ratty little man of the projecting teeth and adenoids, would find Gramont had imposed upon the fellow, and there would be upheavals. The gang would take to flight, certainly, or at least make certain that Gramont's mouth was shut. He sat fingering the postal from the Legion, and turning over events in his mind. Against Fell he had particular animosity. All that the little gray man had done had been done with the thought of Lucie Ledanois as a spur. "Yet he can't realize that Lucie wouldn't have the money if she knew that it came from criminal sources," he thought, smiling bitterly. "He's been scheming a long time to make a fortune for her, and now he's determined to push it through regardless of me. It was clever of him to jail Hammond! He guessed that I'd do a great deal to save the redhead--more even than to save myself. Mighty clever! And now he's pretty sure that he's got me between a cleft stick, where I can't wriggle. "If I'm to strike a blow, I'll have to do it to-morrow--before noon to-morrow, also. I'll have to leave here mighty early, and get there before Gumberts does. What was it Hammond said that day about him--that nobody in the country had ever caught Memphis Izzy? I bet I could do it, and his whole gang with him--if I knew how. There's the rub! Fell won't hesitate a minute in having me arrested. And as he said, once he got me arrested, I'd be gone. He must be able to exert powerful influence, that man!" Should he strike or not? If he struck, he might expect the full weight of Jachin Fell's vengeance--unless his blow would include Fell among the victims. Gramont was still pondering this dilemma when Ben Chacherre arrived. Gramont heard the man's voice on the stairs. Ben's impudence, perhaps added to his name and the Creole French upon his lips, had carried him past the concierge unannounced, although not without a continued exchange of repartee that served to give Gramont warning of the visitor. Smiling grimly, Gramont drew a coin from his pocket, and flipped it. The coin fell heads. He pocketed it again as Ben Chacherre knocked, and opened the door. "Ah, Chacherre!" he exclaimed. "Come in." Ben swaggered inside and closed the door. "Brought a message for you, Mr. Gramont," he said, jauntily, and extended a note. Gramont tore open the envelope and read a curt communication: Kindly let me know your answer as soon as possible. By to-morrow evening at the latest. It will be necessary to arrange affairs for Saturday. JACHIN FELL. To arrange affairs! Fell was taking for granted that Gramont would give an assent, under force of persuasion, to the scheme. He would probably have everything in readiness, and if assured by Friday night of Gramont's assent, would then pull his strings and perhaps complete the whole deal before the following Monday. The meeting of the company had been adjourned to Saturday morning. Gramont thought a moment, then went to his buhl escritoire and opened it. Chacherre had already taken a seat. Gramont wrote: MY DEAR MR. FELL, If you will arrange the company meeting for to-morrow evening, say nine o'clock, at your office, I think that everything may then be arranged. As I may not see Miss Ledanois in the meantime, will you be kind enough to assure her presence at the meeting? He addressed an envelope to Fell's office, and then stamped and pocketed it. "Well, Chacherre," he said, rising and returning to the Creole, "any further news from Houma? They haven't found the real murderer yet?" The other came to his feet with an exclamation of surprise. As he did so, Gramont's fist caught him squarely on the point of the jaw. Chacherre crumpled back across his chair, senseless for the moment. "I'm afraid to take any chances with you, my fine bird," said Gramont, rubbing his knuckles. "You're too clever by far, and too handy with your weapons!" He obtained cloths, and firmly bound the ankles and wrists of Chacherre. Not content with this, he placed the man in the chair and tied him to it with merciless knots. As he was finishing his task, Chacherre opened his eyes and gazed rapidly around. "Awake at last, are you?" said Gramont, genially. He got his pipe, filled and lighted it. The eyes of Chacherre were now fastened upon him venomously. "Too bad for you, Chacherre, that the coin fell heads up! That spelled action." "Are you crazy?" muttered the other in French. Gramont laughed, and responded in the same tongue. "It does look that way, doesn't it? You're slippery, but now you're caught." Chacherre must have realized that he stood in danger. He checked a curse, and regarded Gramont with a steady coolness. "Be careful!" he said, his voice deadly. "What do you mean by this?" Gramont looked at him and puffed his pipe. "The game's up, Ben," he observed. "I know all about the place down there--about the cars, and about the lottery. Your gang has had a pleasant time, eh? But now you and the others are going to do a little work for the state on the road gangs." "Bah! _Ça? va rivé dans semaine quatte zheudis!_" spat Chacherre, contemptuously. "That will happen in the week of four Thursdays, you fool! So you know about things, eh? My master will soon shut your mouth!" "He can't," said Gramont, placidly. "You'll all be under arrest." Chacherre laughed scornfully, then spoke with that deadly gravity. "Look here--you're a stranger here? Well, since you know so much, I'll tell you more! We can't be arrested, and even if you get us pinched, we'll never be convicted. Do you understand? We have influence! There are men here in New Orleans, men in the legislature, men at Washington, who will never see us molested!" "They'll be surprised," said Gramont, although he felt that the man's words were true. "But not all of them are your friends, Ben. I don't think the governor of the state is in your gang. He's a pretty straight man, Ben." "He's a fool like you! What is he? A puppet! He can do nothing except pardon us if the worst happens. You can't touch us." "Well, maybe not," agreed Gramont, tapping at his pipe. "Maybe not, but we'll see! You seem mighty sure of where you stand, Ben." Encouraged, Ben Chacherre laughed insolently. "Let me loose," he commanded. "Or else you'll go over the road for the Midnight Masquer's work! My master has a dictograph in his office, and has your confession on record." "So?" queried Gramont, his brows lifted. "You seem much in Mr. Fell's confidence, Ben. But I think I'll leave you tied up a little while. Memphis Izzy is going down to his summer cottage to-morrow, isn't he? I'll be there--but you won't. By the way, I think I'd better look through your pockets." Ben Chacherre writhed suddenly, hurling a storm of curses at Gramont. The latter, unheeding the contortions of his captive, searched the man thoroughly. Except for a roll of money, the pockets gave up little of interest. The only paper Gramont secured was a fresh telegraph blank. He would have passed this unheeded had he not noted a snaky flitting of Chacherre's eyes to it. "Ah!" he said, pleasantly. "You appear to be interested in this, Ben. Pray, what is the secret?" Chacherre merely glared at him in silence. Gramont inspected the blank, and a sudden exclamation broke from him. He held the bit of yellow paper to the light at varying angles. "It's the most natural thing in the world," he said after a moment, "for a man to walk into a telegraph office, write out his telegram, and then find that he's torn two blanks instead of one from the pad on the desk. Eh? I've done it, often--and I've always put the extra blank into my pocket, Ben, thinking it might come in handy; just as you did, eh? Now let's see! "You were excited when you wrote this, weren't you? You'd just thought of something very important, and you took care of it hurriedly--that made you jab down your pencil pretty hard. Who's Dick Hearne at Houma? An agent of the gang there?" Chacherre merely glared, sullenly defiant. Word by word, Gramont made out the message: Burn bundle under rear seat my car. Have done at once. Gramont looked up and smiled thinly. "Your car? Why, you left it in the garage at Gumberts' place, eh? That little roadster of Fell's, with the extra seat behind. If you'd been just a little bit cooler yesterday, Ben, you would have made fewer mistakes. It never occurred to you that other people might have been there in the bushes when the sheriff was murdered, eh?" Chacherre went livid. "It was another mistake to throw away your knife after you killed him," pursued Gramont, reflectively. "You should have held on to that knife, Ben. There's no blood, remember, on Hammond's knife--a hard thing for you and your friends to explain plausibly. Yet your knife is heavy with blood, which tests will show to be human blood. Also, the knife has your name on it; quite a handsome knife, too. On the whole, you must admit that you bungled the murder from start to finish----" Chacherre broke in with a frightful oath--a frantically obscene storm of curses. So furious were his words that Gramont very efficiently gagged him with cloths, gagged him hard and fast. "You also bungled when you forgot all about burning that bundle, in your excitement over getting Hammond jailed for the murder," he observed, watching Chacherre writhe. "No, you can't get loose, Ben. You'll suffer a little between now and the time of your release, but I really can't spare much pity on you. "I think that I'll send another wire to Dick Hearne on this blank which you so thoughtfully provided. I'll order him, in your name, not to burn that bundle after all; I fancy it may prove of some value to me. And I'll also tell your friend--I suppose he has some familiar cognomen, such as Slippery Dick--to meet Henry Gramont at Houma early in the morning. I'd like to gather Dick in with the other gentlemen. I'll mention that you were kind enough to supply a few names and incidents." At this last Ben Chacherre writhed anew, for it was a shrewd blow. He and his friends belonged to that class of crook which never "peaches." If by any mischance one of this class is jailed and convicted, he invariably takes his medicine silently, knowing that the whole gang is behind him, and that when he emerges from prison he will be sure to find money and friends and occupation awaiting him. To know that he would be placed, in the estimation of the gang, in the same class with stool-pigeons, must have bitten deeper into Ben Chacherre than any other lash. He stared at Gramont with a frightful hatred in his blazing eyes--a hatred which gradually passed into a look of helplessness and of impotent despair. Gramont, meantime, was writing out the telegram to Dick Hearne. This finished, he got his hat and coat, and from the bureau drawer took an automatic pistol, which he pocketed. Then he smiled pleasantly at his prisoner. "I'll be back a little later, Ben, and I'll probably bring a friend with me--a friend who will sit up with you to-night and take care of your health. Kind of me, eh? It's getting late in the afternoon, but I don't think that it will harm you to go without any dinner. I'll 'phone Mr. Fell that you said you'd be away for a few hours, eh? "This evening, Ben, I think that I'll attend a meeting of my post of the American Legion. You don't belong to that organization by any chance? No, I'm quite sure you don't. Very few of your exclusive acquaintances do belong. Well, see you later! Work on those bonds all you like--you're quite safe. I'm curious to see what is in that bundle under the rear seat of your car; I have an idea that it may prove interesting. Good afternoon!" Gramont closed the door, and left the house. Going downtown, he mailed the letter to Fell, confident that the latter would receive it on the following morning; but he did not telephone Fell. He preferred to leave the absence of Chacherre unexplained, rightly judging that Fell would not be particularly anxious about the man. It was now Thursday evening. The meeting of the oil company would be held at nine on Friday evening. Between those two times Gramont figured on many things happening. He chuckled as he sent the telegram to Dick Hearne at Houma--a telegram signed with the name Chacherre, instructing Hearne not to burn the bundle, but to meet Gramont early in the morning at Houma. He had a very shrewd idea that this Dick Hearne might prove an important person to dispose of, and quite useful after he had been disposed of. In this conjecture he was right. CHAPTER XIV _Chacherre's Bundle_ It was seven in the morning when Henry Gramont drove his car into Houma. In the wire which he had sent over Chacherre's signature he had commanded Dick Hearne to meet Gramont at about this time at a restaurant near the court house. Putting his car at the curb, Gramont went into the restaurant and ordered a hasty breakfast. He had brought with him copies of the morning papers, and was perusing the accounts of Bob Maillard's pitifully weak story regarding his father's murder, when a stranger stopped beside him. "Gramont?" said the other. "Thought it was you. Hearne's my name--I had orders to meet you. What's up?" The other man dropped into the chair opposite Gramont, who put away his papers. Hearne was a sleek individual of pasty complexion who evidently served the gang in no better light than as a go-between and runner of errands. That he suspected nothing was plain from his casual manner, although he had never seen Gramont previously. "Business," said Gramont, leaning back to let the waitress serve his breakfast. When she had departed, he attacked it hungrily. "You got Chacherre's wire about the stuff in his car? Was it burned?" "No. He countermanded it just as I was hirin' a car to go over to Paradis," said Hearne. "What's stirrin', anyhow?" "Plenty. Memphis Izzy's coming down to-day. When'll he get in?" "He'll go direct to the other place, won't come here. Oh, I reckon he'll get there along about nine this morning. Why?" "We'll have to go over there to meet him," said Gramont. "I stopped in here to pick you up. Hammond is still safe in jail?" "Sure." Hearne laughed evilly. "I don't guess he'll get out in a hurry, neither!" "Chacherre was pinched last night for the murder," said Gramont, watching the other. "The hell!" Hearne looked astonished, then relaxed and laughed again. "Some fly cop will sure lose his buttons, then! They ain't got nothin' on him." "I heard they had plenty." "Don't worry." Hearne waved a hand grandiloquently. "The boss is solid with the bunch up to Baton Rouge, and they'll take care of everybody. So old Ben got pinched, huh? That's one joke, man!" Gramont's worst suspicions were confirmed by the attitude of Hearne, who plainly considered that the entire gang had nothing to fear from the law. Chacherre's boasts were backed up solidly. It was obvious to Gramont that the ramifications of the gang extended very high up indeed. "Better cut out the talk," he said, curtly, "until we get out of here." Hearne nodded and rolled a cigarette. When his hasty meal was finished Gramont paid at the counter and led the way outside. He motioned toward the car, and Hearne obediently climbed in, being evidently of so little account in the gang that he was accustomed to taking orders from everyone. Gramont headed out of town and took the Paradis road. Before he had driven a mile, however, he halted the car, climbed out, and lifted one side of the hood. "Give me those rags from the bottom of the car, Hearne," he said, briefly. The other obeyed. As Gramont made no move to come and get them, Hearne got out of the car; then Gramont rose from the engine unexpectedly, and Hearne looked into a pistol. "Hold out your hands behind you and turn around!" snapped Gramont. "No talk!" Hearne sputtered an oath, but as the pistol jerked at him he obeyed the command. Gramont took the strips of cloth, which he had previously prepared, and bound the man's wrists. "These are better than handcuffs," he commented. "Too many slick individuals can get rid of bracelets--but you'll have one man's job to get rid of these! Ah! a gun in your pocket, eh? Thanks." "What t'ell you doin'?" exclaimed the bewildered Hearne. "Placing you under arrest," said Gramont, cheerfully. "Here, where's your warrant? You ain't no dick----" Gramont cut short his protests with a long cloth which effectually bound his lower jaw in place and precluded any further idea of talk. "You climb into that car, Hearne," he ordered, "and I'll attend to your feet next. That's the boy! Nothing like taking it calmly, Hearne. You didn't know that I was the fellow who pinched old Ben, did you? But I am. And before night your whole crowd will be hooked up, from the big boss down to you." Gramont tied Dick Hearne securely, hand and foot, and then lashed him to one of the top supports of the car. When he had finished, Hearne was reasonably safe. He then climbed under the wheel again and proceeded on his way. Hearne's lashings were inconspicuous to any one whom the car passed. It was a little after eight in the morning when Gramont drove into Paradis. He noticed that two large automobiles were standing in front of the postoffice, and that about them were a group of men who eyed him and his car with some interest. Paying no attention to these, he drove on through town without a halt. Sweeping out along the north road, he encountered no one. When at length he reached the Ledanois farm he drove in toward the deserted house and parked the car among some trees, where it could not be seen from the road. "You'll have some pleasant company before long, Dicky, my lad," he observed, cheerfully. A last inspection showed that his prisoner was quite secure. "In the meantime, sit and meditate upon your sins, which I trust have been many and deep. Chacherre is up for murder, and he's trying to save his neck by blowing on the remainder of your gang. We may give you a chance to do the same thing and corroborate his testimony. It's worth thinking over, isn't it? "Perhaps you imagine that you're safe from conviction. If so, take comfort while you can--I'll chance that end of it! When Memphis Izzy comes along, I'll have a nice comfortable little conversation with him. Then we'll all join up and go back to the city together. You get the idea? Well, be good!" Leaving the car Gramont took his way toward the bank of the bayou and followed this in the direction of the adjoining property. He looked at the water, a bitter smile upon his lips, and again made out the faint iridescent sheen of oil. When he came to the rivulet which gave birth to the oil he paused. He remembered the excitement that had so shaken him upon the discovery of this supposed seepage two days previously--he remembered ironically the visions it had aroused in his brain. "Farewell, too sudden wealth!" he murmured. "Farewell, toil's end and dreams of luxury! I'm still a poor but honest workingman--but I still think that there's some real oil under this land. Well, we'll see about that later on, perhaps. Our company is by no means busted up yet!" He passed on, wondering not a little at the deft skill of Jachin Fell in planting that oil; the men next door had done the work, of course. Gramont did not attempt to delude himself with the idea that Fell had acted selfishly. The whole affair had been handled with a clever secrecy, only in order that Fell's oil company might buy the land from Lucie, and that Fell might use the resultant boom to make her financially secure. "He doesn't believe there's oil here," reflected Gramont, "and he's sincere in the belief. Where Lucie is concerned, I think the man's absolutely unselfish. He'd do anything for her! And yet Jachin Fell is an enemy, a deadly enemy, of society! Hm--these criminals show some queer streaks. You can't call a man like Fell wholly bad, not by a good deal; I'll almost regret sending him to the pen--if I do!" He went on to an opening in the bushes which, over the low rail fence, gave him a clear view of the Gumberts property. There he paused, quickly drew back, and gained a point whence he could see without danger of his presence being discovered. He settled into immobility and watched. That Memphis Izzy himself had not yet arrived, he was fairly certain. Near the barn were drawn up two flivvers, and sitting in chairs on the cottage veranda were three men who must have come in these cars. Gramont had come provided with binoculars, and got these out. He was not long in discovering that all three men on the veranda were strangers to him. They, no doubt, were men in the lottery game, waiting for Gumberts to arrive. Gramont turned his attention to the other buildings. Both the barn and shop were open, and the buzzing thrum of machinery bore witness that the mechanics were hard at work upon the stolen cars. Gramont thought of Ben Chacherre, still tied and lashed to the chair in his room, and wondered what was to be found under the rear seat of Ben's car. He could see the car from where he lay. The minutes dragged interminably, and Gramont settled down to a comfortable position in the grass. Would Fell come? He hoped so, but strongly doubted it. Fell appeared to be merely "the boss" and it was Gumberts who was actually managing the lottery swindle. Nine o'clock came and passed. A third flivver came roaring into the opening, and Gramont leaned forward intently. Three workers came to the door of the shop. A single man left the flivver and greeted them, then went on to the cottage and joined the other three on the veranda. He was greeted with no excitement. The house door remained closed. The newcomer lighted a cigarette and sat on the steps. "Evidently he's not Gumberts," thought Gramont. "Seven of them so far, eh? This is going to be a real job and no mistake." Almost on his thought, a high-powered and noiseless car came sweeping down the road and he knew at once that Memphis Izzy had arrived. He knew it intuitively, even before he obtained a good glimpse of the broad, heavy figure, and the dominating features. Memphis Izzy was far from handsome, but he possessed character. "Where's the Goog?" As he left the car, which he had driven himself, Gumberts lifted his voice in a bull-like roar that carried clearly to Gramont. "Where's Charlie the Goog?" The mechanics appeared hurriedly. One of them, no other than Gramont's friend of the adenoidal aspect, who seemed to own the mellifluous title of Charlie the Goog, hastened to the side of Gumberts, and the latter gave him evident directions regarding some repair to the car. Then, turning, Memphis Izzy strode to the cottage. He nodded greetings to the four men who awaited him, took a bunch of keys from his pocket, and opened the cottage door. All five vanished within. Gramont rose. A moment previously, fever had thrilled him; the excitement of the manhunt had held him trembling. Now he was cool again, his fingers touching the pistol in his pocket, his eyes steady. He glanced at his watch, and nodded. "It's time!" he murmured. "Let's hope there'll be no slip-up! All ready, Memphis Izzy? So am I. Let's go!" Unhurried and openly, he advanced, making his leisurely way toward the barn and shop. Charlie the Goog, who was bent over the car of Gumberts, was first to discern his approach, and straightened up. Gramont waved his hand in greeting. Charlie the Goog turned his head and called his brethren, who came into sight, staring at Gramont. The latter realized that if he passed them the game was won. If they stopped him, he bade fair to lose everything. "Hello, boys!" he called, cheerily, as he drew near. "I came out on an errand for the boss--got a message for Gumberts. Where is he? In the house?" The others nodded, plainly mistrusting him yet puzzled by his careless manner and his reference to Fell. "Sure," answered Charlie the Goog. "Go right in--he's in the big front room." "Thanks." Gramont continued his way, conscious that they were staring after him. If there was anything phony about him, they evidently considered that Memphis Izzy would take care of the matter very ably. The steps of the cottage porch creaked protestingly as Gramont ascended them. Perhaps Memphis Izzy recognized an unaccustomed footstep; perhaps that conversation outside had penetrated to him. Gramont entered the front door into the hall, and as he did so, Gumberts opened the door on his right and stood gazing at him--rather, glaring. "Who're you?" he demanded, roughly. "Came out with a message from Mr. Fell," responded Gramont at once. "Brought some orders, I should say----" The sixth sense of Memphis Izzy, which had carried him uncaught into a grizzled age, must have flashed a warning to his crook's brain. In the man's eyes Gramont read a surge of suspicion, and knew that his bluff could be worked no longer. "Here's his note," he said, and reached into his pocket. Gumberts' hand flashed down, but halted as Gramont's pistol covered him. "Back into that room, and do it quickly," said Gramont, stepping forward. "Quick!" Memphis Izzy obeyed. Gramont stood in the doorway, his eyes sweeping the room and the men inside. Startled, all four of them had risen and were staring at him. In his other hand he produced the automatic which he had taken from Dick Hearne. "The first word from any of you gentlemen," he declared, "will draw a shot. I'm doing all the talking here. Savvy?" They stood staring, paralyzed by this apparition. They had been sitting about a table which was heaped with papers and with packages of money. A large safe in the wall stood open. Beside the table was a small mail sack, partially emptied of its contents; torn envelopes littered the floor. That this was the headquarters of at least a section of the lottery gang Gramont saw without need of explanation. "You're under arrest," said Gramont, quietly. "The game's up, Gumberts. Hands up, all of you! Dick Hearne has peached on the whole gang, and from the boss down you're all in for a term in stir. You with the derby! Take Gumberts' gun, and those of your companions, then your own; throw 'em on the floor in the corner, and if you make the wrong kind of a move, heaven help you! Step lively, there!" One of the men who wore a derby on the back of his head obeyed the command. All five of the men facing Gramont realized that a single shout would call help from outside, but in the eyes of Gramont they read a strict attention to business. It was altogether too probable that one man who dared arrest them alone would shoot to kill at the first false move--and not even Memphis Izzy himself opened his mouth. Each man there had a revolver or pistol, and one by one the weapons clattered into the corner. Gumberts stood motionless, licking his thick lips, unuttered curses in his glaring eyes. And in that instant Gramont heard the porch steps creak, and caught a low, startled cry. "Hey, boss! They's a gang comin' on the run----" It was Charlie the Goog, bursting in upon them in wild haste. Gramont stepped into the room and turned slightly, covering with one of his weapons the intruder, who stood aghast in the doorway as he comprehended the scene. No words passed. Staring at the five men, then at Gramont, the adenoidal mechanic gulped once--and like a flash acted. He ducked low, and fired from his pocket. Gramont fired at the same instant, and the heavy bullet, catching Charlie the Goog squarely in the chest, hurled his body half across the room. With the shots Memphis Izzy flung himself forward in a headlong rush. That desperate shot of the little mechanic had broken Gramont's right arm above the wrist; before he could fire a second time, with the weapon in his left hand, Gumberts had wrested the pistol aside and was struggling with him. The other four came into the mêlée full weight. Gramont went down under a crashing blow. Over him leaped Memphis Izzy and rushed into the doorway--then stopped with astounding abruptness and lifted his arms. After him the other four followed suit. Two men, panting a little, stood outside the door and covered them with shotguns. "Back up," they ordered, curtly. Memphis Izzy and his four friends obeyed. "Tie 'em, boys," said Gramont, rising dizzily to his feet. "No, I'm not hurt--my arm's broken, I think, but let that wait. Got the ones outside?" A stamping of feet filled the hall, and other men appeared there. "Got two of 'em, Gramont!" responded the leader. "The third slipped in here--ah, there he is!" Poor Charlie the Goog lay dead on the floor--a touch of heroic tragedy in his last desperate action; the one great action of his life, possibly. He had realized that it meant doom yet he had done what he could. "I think that's all," said Gramont. "We've sure made a killing, boys--and it's a good thing you jumped in to the minute! A second later and they'd have done for me. Take care of that evidence, will you? Get that mail sack and the letters particularly; if they've been working their lottery outside the state, it'll be a Federal matter." Gumberts, who was being tied up with his friends, uttered a hoarse cry. "Who are you guys? You can't do this without authority----" "Don't be silly, Memphis Izzy!" said Gramont, smiling a little, then twitching to the pain of his arm. "These friends of mine are members with me of the American Legion, and they've come along at my request to put you crooks where you belong. As for authority, you can ask and go hang. "Here, boys, I've got to get out to that barn. Come along, some of you! We'll get my arm tied up later. Nobody hurt out here?" "Not a scrap, even," responded the leader, with a trace of disgust. "All three of those bums were outside, and we covered 'em as we came out of the brush. The one that got away did so by getting his friends between us and him. But you attended to him." "And he attended to me likewise," added Gramont, not without a wince of pain. He led the way out to the barn, and, the others trooping in behind him, entered. He pointed out the car which had brought Chacherre here previously, and ordered the extra seat in back opened up. "I think there's a bundle inside," he said. "What's in it, I don't know----" "Here we are, cap." A bundle was produced, and opened. In it was found the aviator's costume which Gramont had worn as the Midnight Masquer, and which Chacherre had stolen with the loot. Wrapped among the leathern garments was an automatic pistol. Gramont stood aghast before this discovery, as realization of what it meant broke full upon him. "Good lord!" he exclaimed, amazedly. "Boys--why, it must have been Ben Chacherre who killed Maillard! See if that pistol has been used----" The Midnight Masquer had fired two bullets into Maillard. Two cartridges were gone from this automatic. CHAPTER XV _When the Heavens Fall_ The chief of police entered the office of Jachin Fell, high in the Maison Blanche building, at eight o'clock on Friday evening. Mr. Fell glanced up at him in surprise. "Hello, chief! What's up?" The officer gazed at him in some astonishment. "What's up? Why, I came around to see you, of course!" Jachin Fell smiled whimsically. "To see me? Well, chief, that's good of you; sit down and have a cigar, eh? What's the matter? You look rather taken aback." "I am," said the other, bluntly. "Didn't you expect me?" "No," said Jachin Fell, halting suddenly in the act of reaching for a cigar and turning his keen gaze upon the chief. "Expect you? No!" "It's darned queer, then! That chap Gramont called me up about ten minutes ago and said to get around here as quick as I could make it, that you wanted to see me." "Gramont!" Jachin Fell frowned. "Where's Ben Chacherre? Haven't you found him yet?" "Nary a sign of him, chief." The door opened, and Henry Gramont appeared, his right hand bandaged and in a sling. "Good evening, gentlemen!" he said, smiling. "Here's Gramont now," exclaimed Fell. "Did you call the chief over here----" "I sure did," and Gramont came forward. "I wanted to see you two gentlemen together, and so arranged it. Miss Ledanois is to be here at nine, Fell?" The little man nodded, his eyes intent upon Gramont. He noticed the bandaged arm. "Yes. Have you been hurt?" "Slightly." Gramont brought up a chair across the desk from Fell, and sat down. He put his left hand in his breast pocket, and brought forth a document which he handed to the chief of police. "Cast your eye over that, chief, and say nothing. You're here to listen for the present. Here's something to cover your case, Mr. Fell." Gramont produced his automatic from the pocket of his coat, and laid it on the desk before him. There was a moment of startled silence. The officer, looking over the paper which Gramont had handed him, seemed to find it of sudden, intense interest. "What means all this mystery and melodramatic action, Gramont?" demanded Jachin Fell, a slight sneer in his eyes, his voice quite toneless. "It means," said Gramont, regarding him steadily, "that you're under arrest. I went out to the Gumberts place on Bayou Terrebonne this morning, arrested Memphis Izzy Gumberts and four other men engaged in operating a lottery, and also arrested two mechanics who were engaged in working on stolen cars. We took in, further, a gentleman by the name of Dick Hearne; a lesser member of the gang, who is now engaged in dictating a confession. Just a moment, chief! I prefer to do the talking at present." The chief of police had been about to interfere. At this, however, he leaned back in his chair, tapping in his hand the paper which he had perused. He looked very much as though in danger from a stroke of apoplexy. Gramont smiled into the steady, unfaltering eyes of Fell. "You are next on the programme," he said, evenly. "We know that you are at the head of an organized gang, which is not only operating a lottery through this and adjacent states, but also is conducting an immense business in stolen automobiles. Therefore----" "Just one minute, please," said Jachin Fell. "Do you forget, Mr. Gramont, the affair of the Midnight Masquer? You are a very zealous citizen, I have no doubt, but----" "I was about to add," struck in Gramont, "that your pleasant friend Ben Chacherre is charged with the murder of the sheriff of Terrebonne Parish, in which I have clear evidence against him, having been present at the scene of the crime. He is also charged with the murder of Joseph Maillard-----" "What!" From both Fell and the officer broke an exclamation of undisguised amazement. "Quite true, I assure you," said Gramont. "The evidence is, at least, a good deal clearer than the evidence against young Maillard." "My heavens!" said Fell, staring. "I never dreamed that Chacherre----" "Perhaps you didn't." Gramont shrugged his shoulders. "Neither did any one else. I imagine that Ben learned of this room and drinking party, and rightly decided that he could make a rich haul off a small crowd of drunken young sports. He had the costume stolen from my car, as you know, also the automatic which went with it. Two shots were missing from the automatic when we found it in Ben's possession; and you remember the Masquer fired twice at the time Maillard was killed." "Ah! I always said young Maillard wasn't guilty!" exclaimed the chief. "And your man Hammond----" began Fell. Gramont interposed. "You thought you had Hammond sewed up tight, didn't you? To use the language of your favourite game, Fell, development is everything, and the player who gives up a pawn for the sake of development shows that he is possessed of the _idée grande_. You took the pawn, or thought you did--but I've taken the game! "In one way, Fell, I'm very sorry to arrest you. It's going to hurt a mutual friend of ours. I realize that you've been trying very hard to be unselfish toward her, and I think that you've been perfectly sincere in this respect. Nonetheless, I've only one duty in the matter, and I propose to carry it through to the finish." Fell's keen eyes sparkled angrily. "You're a very zealous citizen, young man," he said, softly. "I see that you've been hurt. I trust your little game did not result in casualties?" Gramont nodded. "Charlie the Goog went west. He was desperate, I fancy; at all events he got me in the arm, and I had to shoot him. Memphis Izzy hardly justified his tremendous reputation, for he yielded like a lamb." "So you killed the Goog, eh?" said Fell. "Very zealous, Mr. Gramont! And I suppose that the exigencies of the case justified you, a private citizen, in carrying arms and using them? Who aided you in this marvellous affair?" "A number of friends from my post of the American Legion," said Gramont, evenly. "Ah! This organization is going in for politics, then?" "Not for politics, Fell; for justice. I deputized them to assist me." "Deputized!" repeated Fell, slowly. "Certainly." Gramont smiled. "You see, this lottery business has been going on for a year or more. Some time ago, before I came to New Orleans, the governor of this state appointed me a special officer to investigate the matter. There is my commission, which the chief has been reading. It gives me a good deal of power, Fell; quite enough power to gather in you and your bunch. "I might add that I have secured an abundance of evidence to prove that the lottery gang, under your supervision, has extended its operations to adjacent states. This, as you are aware, brings the affair into Federal hands if necessary." The chief of police looked very uneasily from Gramont to Jachin Fell, and back again. Fell sat erect in his chair, staring at Gramont. "You were the original Midnight Masquer," said Fell in his toneless voice. At this direct charge, and at Gramont's assent, the chief started in surprise. "Yes. One reason was that I suspected someone in society, someone high up in New Orleans, to be connected with the gang; but I never dreamed that you were the man, Fell. I rather suspected young Maillard. I am now glad to say that I was entirely wrong. You were the big boss, Fell, and you're going to serve time for it." Fell glanced at the chief, who cleared his throat as if about to speak. At this moment, however, a sharp knock sounded at the door. "Come!" called Gramont. A man entered. It was one of Gramont's deputies, who happened also to be a reporter from one of the morning papers of the city. He carried several sheets of paper which he laid before Gramont. He glanced at Fell, who recognized him and exchanged a nod of greeting, then returned his attention to Gramont. "Ah!" said the latter with satisfaction, as he examined the papers. "So Hearne has given up everything, has he? Does this confession implicate Mr. Fell, here?" "Well, rather," drawled the other, cheerfully. "And see here, cap! There are two more of us in the crowd and we've arranged to split the story. We'd like to rush the stuff to our papers the minute you give the word, because----" "I know." Gramont returned the papers that bore the confession of Hearne. "You've made copies of this, of course? All right. Shoot the stuff in to your papers right away, if you wish." Fell raised a hand to check the other. "One moment, please!" he said, his eyes boring into the newspaper man. "Will you also take a message from me to the editor of your newspaper--and see that it goes to the others as well?" "If Mr. Gramont permits, yes." "Go ahead," said Gramont, wondering what Fell would try now. He soon learned. "Then," pursued Fell, evenly, "you will kindly inform the editors of your papers that, in case my name appears in connection with this matter, I shall immediately institute suit for libel. No matter what Mr. Gramont may say or do, I assure you fully that no publicity is going to attach to me in this matter. Neither, I may add, am I going to be arrested. That is all, sir." Gramont smiled. "Take the message if you see fit, by all means," he said, carelessly. "You may also take my fullest assurance that within twenty minutes you will observe Mr. Fell safely in jail. That's all." The newspaper man saluted and departed, grinning. Gramont leaned forward, the harsh lines of his face spelling determination as he looked at Jachin Fell. "So you won't be arrested, eh? Let's see. I know that this gang of yours has influence running up into high places, and that this influence has power. The governor knows it also. That is why I was appointed to investigate this lottery game secretly, and in my own way. That is why, also, I brought the chief of police here to-night." He turned to the perturbed officer, and spoke coldly. "Now, chief, you've seen my authority, you've heard my charges, and you know they will be proved up to the hilt. Dick Hearne gave up the names of most of the lottery gang and their confederates; my deputies already wired to their various places of operation for the purpose of securing their arrest. We'll make a clean sweep. "The same may be said of the automobile gang, although we will probably miss a few of the smaller fry. What other forms of criminality the organization may be engaged in I can't say at this moment; but we have secured quite enough evidence. Are you willing to arrest Jachin Fell, or not?" The chief cleared his throat. "Why, Mr. Gramont," he observed, nervously, "about the rest of the gang, we'll take care of 'em, sure! But it's different with Mr. Fell here. He's a friend of the senator----" "Different, hell!" snapped Gramont, angrily. "He's a criminal, no matter who his friends may be, and I have the proof of it!" "Well, that may be so," admitted the chief of police. "But this thing is goin' to raise one hell of a scandal, all up and down the state! You know that as well as I do. Now, if I was you, I'd act kind of slow----" Gramont smiled bitterly. "Perhaps you would, chief. In fact, I don't doubt that you would. But you are not _me_. Now, as a duly-appointed officer acting under authority of the governor of the state, I call upon you to arrest this criminal, and I make you duly responsible for his safe-keeping. Do you dare refuse?" The chief hesitated. He looked at Fell for help, but none came. Fell seemed to be rather amused by the situation. "Well," said the chief, "I ain't seen the evidence yet----" "I'll show you some evidence of another kind, chief," said Gramont, sternly quiet. "Outside the door, here, there are two men who will obey my orders and my authority. If you dare refuse to do your duty you will yourself be taken from this room under arrest, on a John Doe warrant which is already prepared and waiting; and you will be charged with being an accomplice of this gang. Now choose, and choose quickly!" Gramont leaned back in his chair. The purpling features of the chief were streaming with perspiration; the man was in a frightful dilemma, and his plight was pitiable. At this instant Jachin Fell interposed. "Let me speak, please," he said, gently. "My dear Mr. Gramont, it has just occurred to me that there may be a compromise----" "I'm not compromising," snapped Gramont. "Certainly not; I speak of our mutual friend here," and Fell indicated the chief with a bland gesture. "I believe that Judge Forester of this city is at present consulting with the governor at Baton Rouge on political matters. With them, also, is Senator Flaxman, who has come from Washington on the same errand. Now, it would be a very simple matter to end all this anxiety. Suppose that you call up the governor on long distance, from this telephone, and get his assurance that I am not to be arrested. Then you'll be convinced." Gramont laughed with deep anger. "You gangsters are all alike!" he said, turning to the desk telephone. "You think that because you have planted your slimy tentacles in high places you can do anything with absolute impunity. But the governor of this state is not in your clutches. "He's a man, by heaven! I have his assurance that he'll prosecute to the limit whoever is behind this criminal gang--and he keeps his word! Don't think that if your friend the senator is with him, you will be saved. I'll call him, if only to show the chief, here, that influence is not going to count in this game." Gramont took down the receiver, called long distance, and put in a hurried call for the executive mansion, asking for the governor in person. "So you think that he's immune from influence, do you?" Jachin Fell smiled patronizingly and lighted a fresh cigar. The chief of police was mopping his brow. "My dear Gramont, you exhibit a youthful confidence in human nature! Let me topple your clay-footed idol from its pedestal in a hurry. Mention to the governor that you have me under arrest, and that I have asked him to speak with Judge Forester and Senator Flaxman before confirming the arrest. I'll wager you five hundred dollars----" The smile in Fell's pale eyes drove Gramont into a cold fury of rage. "You devil! So your damnable influence goes as far as those two men, does it--those men who are respected above all others in this city? By the lord, I'll call your bluff! I know the governor, and I know he doesn't give a damn for all the dirty crooks and slimy politicians on earth!" "What sublime faith!" laughed Fell, softly. The telephone rang sharply. Taunted almost beyond endurance, Gramont seized the instrument and made answer. In a moment he had the governor on the wire. His gaze went exultantly to Fell. "Governor, this is Henry Gramont speaking," he said. "I've just succeeded in my work, as I wired you this afternoon--no, hold on a minute! This is important. "The head of the entire gang is a man here in New Orleans by the name of Jachin Fell. Yes, Fell. I find it very hard to get him arrested. Fell boasts that his influence is superior to any that I can bring to bear. He asks that you speak with Judge Forester and Senator Flaxman before confirming the arrest, and boasts that you will order me to keep hands off. "Speak with them, governor! If they're in the gang, too, don't you worry. You confirm this arrest, and I'll put Fell behind the bars if I have to turn all New Orleans inside out. Go ahead! I know that you can't be reached by any of these crooks--I'm merely calling Fell's bluff. We have the chief of police here, and he's sweating. Eh? Sure. Take as long as you like, governor." He smiled grimly at Jachin Fell as he waited. Two minutes passed--three--four. Then he heard the voice of the governor again. "Yes?" "Don't arrest him, Gramont." "What?" Gramont gasped. "Don't touch him, I said! Get in all the others, no matter who they are, but leave Fell alone----" "You damned coward!" shouted Gramont, in a heat of fury. "So this is the way you keep your promises, is it? And I thought you were above all influences--real American! You're a hell of a governor--oh, I don't want to hear any more from you." He jerked up the receiver. There was a moment of dead silence in the room. The chief mopped his brow, in evident relief. Jachin Fell sat back in his chair and scrutinized Gramont with his thin-lipped smile. Gramont sat helpless, wrung by chagrin, rage, and impotency. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do. The man behind him had failed him. The entire power of the state, which had been behind him, had failed him. There was no higher power to which he could appeal, except the power of the Federal Government. His head jerked up sharply. "Fell, I've got the evidence on you, and I've got the evidence to put this lottery business into Federal hands. Boys! Come in here!" At his shout the door opened and two of his men entered. Gramont looked at the chief. "You're willing to take care of all the rest of the gang, chief?" "Sure," assented the officer, promptly. "All right. Boys, turn over the whole crowd to the chief, and I'll trust you to see that they're properly booked and jailed. Turn over all the evidence likewise, except that mail sack. Have that brought up here, to this room, and see that the corridor outside is kept guarded. Get me?" The two saluted. "Yes, sir." "Good. Send to the Federal building, find out where there's an agent of the Department of Justice, and get him here. Have him here inside of fifteen minutes." Fell smiled. "I can save you time, gentlemen. The agent in charge of this district will probably be home at this hour. I can give you his address----" He did so. In the pale eyes Gramont read an imperturbable challenge. The effrontery of the man appalled him. He turned to his men. "Confirm fully that he _is_ the agent before you get him," he ordered, curtly. "Have him bring one of his deputy agents likewise, to meet you here. That's all, chief, if you'll go along with these men, you'll be put in charge of our prisoners and evidence. I've left a guard at the Gumberts place at Terrebonne, and I'd suggest that you go through the residence of Gumberts here in town. You might find evidence. That's all." The chief departed without a word. It was obvious that he was mighty glad to be gone. Gramont and Fell were left alone together. "My dear Gramont, your devotion to duty is Roman in spirit," said Jachin Fell, lightly. "I really regret that circumstances so conspire to defeat you! Why can't you be satisfied with bagging so many other victims? You can't bag me----" "Can't I?" said Gramont, taking a cigar and biting at it. He was cooler now. "By heavens, Fell, there's one thing in this country that you and no other man can reach with any influence, political bribery, or crooked connections--and that's the Government of the United States! You can reach judges and senators and governors, but you can't reach the unknown and humble men who carry the badge of the Department of Justice!" Fell made a slight gesture. "Human nature, my dear Gramont. It is quite true that I have not established this gang of criminals, as you call them, without taking proper precautions. Memphis Izzy, for instance, has influence that reaches far and wide. So have I. So have others in the party. I give you my assurance that your Department of Justice man will not arrest me." Gramont paled. "If----" He choked on the word, then touched the automatic on the desk before him. "If he won't, Jachin Fell, I'll put a bullet through you myself!" For the first time the pale eyes of Jachin Fell looked slightly troubled. "You'll hang if you do," he said, gently. "I'll be damned if I don't!" snapped Gramont, and put the weapon in his lap. CHAPTER XVI _The Impregnability of Mr. Fell_ Jachin Fell glanced at his watch. "Lucie will be here at any minute now," he observed. "I suppose your sense of duty will force you to disclose everything to her?" Gramont merely nodded, tight-lipped. A knock at the door, and one of his men entered with the sack of mail they had taken as evidence. "A lady is coming here at any moment," said Gramont. "Allow her to enter." The other saluted and departed. "A sense of duty is a terrible thing," and Jachin Fell sighed. "What about the oil company? Are you going to let Miss Ledanois' fortunes go to wrack and ruin?" "Better that," said Gramont, "than to have her profit come through criminal money and means. She'd be the first to say so, herself. But I'll tell you this: I'm convinced that there is oil under the land of hers! If she'll agree, I'll put up what money I have against her land; we'll be able to have one well drilled at least, on the chance!" "If it's dry," said Fell, "you'll be broke." "I can always get work," and Gramont laughed harshly. Fell regarded him in silence a moment. Then: "I think Lucie loves you, Gramont." A trembling seized Gramont; a furious impulse to shoot the man down as he sat. Did he have the baseness to try and save himself through Lucie? Something of his stifled anger must have shone in his eyes, for Jachin Fell laid down his cigar and continued quickly: "Don't misunderstand. I say that I think she cares for you; it is merely surmise on my part. Lucie is one person for whom I'd do anything. I stand and have stood in the place of a parent to her. She is very dear to me. I have a special reason for intruding on your personal affairs in this manner, and some right to ask you in regard to your intentions." "I don't recognize any right whatever on your part," said Gramont, steadily. Fell smiled. "Ah! Then you are in love. Well, youth must be served!" "I'd like to know one thing," struck in Gramont. "That is, why you were so cursed anxious to get something on my man Hammond! And why you held the Midnight Masquer affair over me as a threat. Did you suspect my business?" Fell threw back his head and laughed in a hearty amusement that was quite unrestrained. "That," he responded, "is really humorous! Do you know, I honestly thought you a fortune-hunter from Europe? When I suspected you of being the Midnight Masquer, and afterward, I was convinced that you, and very likely Hammond as well, were very clever swindlers of some kind. There, I confess, I made a grave error. My friend Gumberts never forgets faces, and he said to me, one day, that Hammond's face was vaguely familiar to him, but he could not place the man. That led me to think----" "Ah!" exclaimed Gramont. "Gumberts saw Hammond years ago, when he was escaping from the law--and to think he remembered! Hammond told me about it." "That's why I wanted you and Hammond in my gang," said Fell. "I thought it would be very well to get you into the organization for my own purposes." "Thanks," answered Gramont, drily. "I got in, didn't I?" Without a knock the door opened and Lucie Ledanois entered. "Good evening, stockholders!" she exclaimed. "Do you know there's a crowd down in the street--policemen and automobiles and a lot of excitement?" "Allow me," said Gramont, taking her coat and placing a chair for her. "Oh, yes, we've had quite a strenuous evening, Miss Ledanois." "Your hand! Why, what has happened?" "One of Mr. Fell's friends tried to shoot me. Will you sit down, please? You remember that I warned you regarding a shock that would come; and now I must explain." Gramont gravely handed her his commission from the governor, and resumed his seat. "When I say that I have come here, not to attend a meeting of our oil company, but to arrest Mr. Fell, you will understand. I am very sorry, Lucie, to have to tell you all this, for I know your attachment to him." "Arrest--you, Uncle Jachin?" The girl glanced from the paper to Fell, who nodded. "And you, Henry--a special officer of the governor's? Why--this isn't a joke of some kind?" "None whatever, my dear," said Fell, quietly. "Mr. Gramont is to be congratulated. He has discovered that I was the head of a large organization of criminals. He has there, under the table, a sack of mail which proves that my organization was conducting a lottery throughout several states; we are now expecting the arrival of Federal agents, to whom Gramont intends to turn me over as a prisoner." "Oh!" The girl stared at him, wide-eyed. Her voice broke. "It--it can't be true----" "It is quite true, my dear," and Jachin Fell smiled. "But don't let it distress you in the least, I beg. Here, if I mistake not, are your Department of Justice friends, Gramont." A knock at the door, and it opened to admit one of Gramont's men. "Here they are, sir--the chief agent and a deputy. Shall I let them in?" Gramont nodded. Two men entered the room, and Gramont dismissed his own man with a gesture. He saw that the agents both nodded to Fell. "Do you gentlemen know this man?" he demanded, rising. "Yes," said one of them, regarding him keenly. "Who sent for us?" "I did." Gramont gave his name, and handed them his commission. "I have been investigating a lottery which has been conducted in this state for a long time by an organization of very clever criminals. Jachin Fell is the man at the head of this organization. To-day I rounded up the entire gang, and procured all the evidence necessary. Under that table is a sack of mail proving that the lottery has been extended to other states, and that part of its operations have been conducted by means of the United States mails. "The lesser members of the gang are in custody. The police department will not arrest this man Fell; his influence and that of his gang is extensive in political fields and elsewhere. I have called up the governor, and have been told not to arrest him. I have disregarded these facts, and I now call upon you to hold him in custody as a Federal prisoner. He has boasted to me that you will not touch him--and if you don't, there's going to be a shakeup that will make history! Now go to it." The chief agent laid Gramont's commission on the table and looked at Jachin Fell. For an instant there was a dead silence. Then, when the Federal man spoke, Gramont was paralyzed. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Gramont, to have to refuse----" "What!" cried Gramont, incredulously. "Do you dare stand there and----" "One moment please," said Fell, his quiet voice breaking in. "It is quite true that I have organized all the criminals possible, Mr. Gramont, and have put the underground lottery into a systematized form. I have done this by the authority of the United States, in order to apprehend Memphis Izzy Gumberts and other men at one crack. These gentlemen will tell you that I am a special agent of the Department of Justice, employed in that capacity through the efforts of Judge Forester and Senator Flaxman. I regret that this had to be held so secret that not even the governor himself was aware of it until this evening. The conflict was quite unavoidable. Not a member of that gang must become aware of my real identity." Fell turned to the two agents, who were smiling. "I would suggest that you take this sack of mail, and arrange with the chief of police in regard to the prisoners," he said. "The chief, of course, must suspect nothing." Gramont sank into his chair, the automatic dropping from his hand. He was suddenly dazed, thunderstruck. Yet he had to believe. He was dimly aware that Lucie had gone to Jachin Fell, her arms about his neck. He stared from unseeing eyes. Realization smote him like a blow, numbing his brain. He saw now why the governor had conferred with Judge Forester and the senator, why he had been ordered off the trail. He saw now why Fell had preserved secrecy so great that even to the chief of police his impregnable position was supposedly due to influence higher up. He saw how Fell must have been working month after month, silently and terribly, to form one compact organization of the most talented criminals within reach--headed by Memphis Izzy, the man who had laughed at the government for years! And he saw himself, furious, raging like a madman---- Gramont dropped his head into his hands. The pain of his forgotten wounded arm stabbed him like a knife. He jerked his head sharply up, and was aware that the agents had departed. He was alone with Lucie and Fell, and the latter was rising and holding out his hand, smiling. "Gramont, you got ahead of me in this deal, and I congratulate you with all my heart!" said Fell, earnestly. "Neither of us suspected the part played by the other man; but you've done the work and done it well. Will you shake hands?" Gramont confusedly took the hand extended to him. "I've been a fool," he said, slowly. "I might have guessed that something unusual was----" "No; how could you guess?" said Fell. "There are three men in Baton Rouge who know the truth, and three persons in this room. That's all, outside of the regular government men. I had not told even Lucie, here! I dared not. And I dare say nothing even now. To the underworld at large I will be known as the crook whom not even the government could touch; in days to come I may be of untold service to my country." "I'm so glad!" Lucie took Gramont's hand as Jachin Fell dropped it, and Gramont looked down to meet her brimming eyes. "For a moment I thought that all the world had gone mad--but now----" Jachin Fell regarded them for an instant, then he quietly went to the door. "If you will excuse me one moment," he said, "I shall speak with your men who are on guard, Gramont. I--ah--I will be back in a moment, as Eliza said when she crossed the ice; and we may then discuss business. If you agree, I think that your company may proceed upon the original lines, and we shall set to work drilling for oil without delay----" Gramont scarcely heard the words, nor did he hear the door close. He was still looking into the eyes of Lucie Ledanois, and wondering if the message they held were really meant for him. CHAPTER XVII _Mi-Carême_ A nameless gentleman from the effete North was enjoying for the first time the privileges of a guest card at the Chess and Checkers. In a somewhat perplexed manner he approached the secretary's desk and obtained a cigar. Then he paused, listening to the sounds of revelry which filled the club, and which came roaring in from the city streets outside. "Say!" he addressed the secretary. "What's this Mi-Carême I've been reading about in the papers, anyhow? I thought everything was tight as a clam down here after Mardi Gras! It's still the Lenten season, isn't it? Mardi Gras doesn't come more than once a year? Then what's all the celebration about?" The secretary smiled. "Certainly, sir, it's still Lent. But the French people have what they call Mi-Carême, or Mid-Lent, and they certainly give it a big celebration! You see, it's a night halfway through Lent, when they can enjoy themselves to the limit--let off steam, as it were. We're having several dinner parties here in the club to-night, for the occasion." A slightly built little man, who had much the air of a shy clerk--had it not been for his evening attire--approached the desk. He signed a check for a handful of cigars, which he stowed away. "Please provide a fresh box of the El Reys later," he said to the secretary. "Most of my party is here, I believe." "I'll send them up, Mr. Fell," answered the secretary, quickly. "Yes, I think the dining room is all ready for you, sir. By the way, Mr. Gramont was looking for you a moment ago--ah! Here he comes now!" Jachin Fell turned. Gramont was plunging at him, a yellow telegraph form in his hand, excitement in his eyes. "Look here, Jachin! This wire just came in from Hammond--you know, I left him in charge of things down at Bayou Terrebonne! Read it, man--read it! They've struck oil-sands at five hundred feet--and sands at five hundred, with these indications, mean a gusher at a thousand! Where's Lucie? Have you brought her?" "She's upstairs. Well, well!" Jachin Fell glanced at the telegram, and returned it. "So oil is actually found! This is certainly going to be one big night, as Eliza said when she crossed the ice! Come along. Let's find Lucie and tell her about it----" The two men turned away together. After them gazed the man from the North, not a little agape over what he had chanced to hear. Before the wondering questions in his eyes the assiduous secretary made haste to enlighten him. "That's Mr. Gramont, sir. They say that he used to be a real prince, over in France, and that he threw it up because he wanted to be an American. Mr. Fell is having a dinner upstairs--it's Mr. Gramont's engagement, you know--and the Mi-Carême ball afterward----" "Oh, I know, I know," and the man from the North sighed a little. "I was reading all about that in the paper. Fell is one of the crack chess players here, isn't he?" The secretary smiled. "Well, he plays a very fair game, sir--a very fair game indeed!" THE END [Illustration] THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS GARDEN CITY, N. Y. Transcriber Notes: Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_. Small caps were replaced with ALL CAPS. Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. Those words were retained as-is. Errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless otherwise noted. For instance, scarfpins was sometimes hyphenated and some times not. On page 49, a quotation mark was placed after "You'd try blackmail, would you?" On page 99, "hundered" was replaced with "hundred". On page 124, "geting" was replaced with "getting". On page 156, "asurance" was replaced with "assurance". On page 156, "he" was replaced with "be". On page 296, "I am not be arrested." was replaced with "I am not to be arrested." 
18958	----	(This file was produced from images produced by the Wright American Fiction Project.) THE BROTHER CLERKS; A TALE OF NEW-ORLEANS. BY XARIFFA. NEW-YORK: DERBY & JACKSON, 119 NASSAU-STREET. 1857. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, BY DERBY & JACKSON, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for Southern District of New-York. THE BROTHER CLERKS. CHAPTER I. There, stranger lips shall give the greeting, There, stranger eyes shall mark the meeting; While the bosom, sad and lone, Turns its heavy heart-beats home. A September sun was casting its parting rays far over the dull waters of the Mississippi, as a steamer, with steady course, ploughed her way through the thick waves and "rounded to" at the thronged and busy wharf of New Orleans. Upon her deck, apart from all other passengers, stood two youths gazing with anxious eyes on the vast city spread out before them. The taller and elder of the two, bore upon his brow the flush of his twentieth summer. His figure seemed already to have gained its full proportions, and in his carriage and tone of voice there was all the pliant grace of youth, combined with manhood's strength and ease. His hair was of that purplish black so rarely seen save in the raven's wing, or the exquisite portraits of the old masters. The full broad forehead, shadowed by its dark locks, the clear black eye, the hue of health upon the check, and the smile upon the red lips as they parted over the snowy teeth, formed a picture of fresh and manly beauty over which the wing of this wicked world had as yet never hung darkly. The younger was a mere boy; and stood beside his brother in that autumn hour, like a pure memory of other days; so marked was his whole bearing with that pureness of grace and refinement which circles some young brows like a halo. His figure was slender and delicate as a girl's; while his hair, almost golden in its hue, hung in curls about the blue-veined temples, and a brow of solid and exquisite formation, such as the lover of the intellectual delights to behold. His eyes were like the blue which lies revealed when the storm ceases and the clouds part in the sunshine; and the long lashes curled upon a cheek of almost invariable whiteness. His nose was of a pure Grecian cast, his mouth one of great expression and most beautifully cut. No one ever looked upon that young face without turning to look again, and felt holier for the gaze, in their hearts. Dear reader, do not imagine this an over-drawn sketch from a romantic fancy. I have only too weakly delineated the reality, as the portrait which hangs before me, looking down with its golden-fringed blue eyes upon my task, can fully testify. During the whole passage the brothers had attracted universal attention, and won the good will of all; and now, as they stood arm in arm, amid all the hurry and bustle of the "first hour in port," not a sailor passed them but raised his dusty tarpaulin with a hearty "good e'en to the lads," and the passengers, as they reached the shore, would look up through the crowd once more at their young faces, to gain one more smile or one more parting wave of the hand, thinking, perhaps, it might be the last time forever. "Guly," said the elder of the two, suddenly throwing his right arm around the slight figure of his brother, and drawing him closer to him, "tell me what makes you silent and thoughtful at this moment, when the scene of our future action lies before us, and our destination is gained. Of what are you thinking? "I was thinking," replied the boy, as he laid his cheek caressingly upon his brother's shoulder, while his thoughtful eyes became suffused with emotion, "I was thinking of home. The sun is setting, and you know, at this hour our mother prays for her absent boys--were you thinking of the same thing, brother?" There came no reply for a moment; Arthur only pressed his brother closer to him, but he answered at last, while a faint blush stole over his cheek: "No, Guly, I must confess my thoughts were far from that. I wish I could always think as rightly as you do, but it isn't my nature so to do. I was thinking of the untried path before us, the probable events of the next few years, the fair home so recently torn from us, the possibility of regaining possession of it through our efforts, and re-establishing ourselves in that station where we have ever moved. We must do this, Guly, for our mother's sake." "With God's help we will." Again Arthur's clasp tightened round his brother's figure, and again for a few moments he was silent; then suddenly resuming he said: "You must strive to make a good impression on Mr. Delancey, Guly; don't be timid or shrinking--such things have a bad effect. Be every inch a man, as you so well know how to be; bear always in mind how much depends on us two, and we shall get on bravely." It was evident Arthur dreaded more for his brother than he thought of for himself. "I dread the meeting," returned Guly; "from the tone of his letter I learned to dread the man, and a boy-novice, as I am, in mercantile business, I shrink from the examination I may have to undergo, while you, with your experience, of course, scarce give it a thought. I have pictured Mr. Delancey as a very stern man." They put themselves and their baggage into a cab, and at length brought up before a large and brilliantly lighted store, with the name "Delancey," in gilt block letters over the door. The cabman set the trunks which comprised the brothers' baggage, within, and pocketing his fare, drove off, leaving the youthful strangers standing upon the stage of their young future, waiting for fate to ring the curtain up. In a short time a tall, heavily built young man, with a fine eye and pleasant smile, stepped between them, with an interrogative expression on his countenance, which asked, without the aid of any words, what might be their business; and Arthur replied that they desired to see Mr. Delancey as soon as possible. The young man glanced at the trunk, and then at Guly's face, and ejaculating an "Ah, yes!" as if he had suddenly jumped at a conclusion, asked--this time putting his question into words--if they were the young chaps Mr. Delancey was looking for from the North; "because," said he, "if you are, I can settle you." Guly replied that they were the same; and informed him they were not a little fatigued with their recent journey, and would be pleased to be "settled" as soon as convenient. The clerk, whose name was Wilkins, regarded Guly attentively a moment, then smiled pleasantly, and said: "You are to sleep in the store--up stairs. If I'm a judge, you've been used to pleasanter places; however, I presume it will soon be home to you. Here, Jeff," beckoning to a tall negro near by, "tote this trunk up for your young masters." "Jeff" appeared, and with a scrape and a bow signified his readiness to show the brothers to their room, and nodding to Wilkins, they followed the negro to the back part of the store, where a long winding staircase led to the floor above. They had reached the stair foot, when Wilkins, who had been observing them, hurried after them, and holding out his hand to Gulian, said: "Don't get a bad impression of all of us here by the dingy room you'll find up there; notwithstanding you meet such a rough welcome, I hope you'll learn to like us and be happy." "Thank you," said Guly, shaking his hand warmly, and feeling pleased at his frank, honest manner, "I've no doubt we shall be very good friends. Good-night." "Good-night," returned Wilkins, and he stood watching the boy as he mounted the steep staircase, until the golden curls and young face were lost to sight. He turned away then with a short deep sigh, which sounded almost like a gasp, and thoughtfully resumed his station near the door. "Dis is a gloomsome sort of place, young massa," said Jeff, the negro, as he placed the trunk at the foot of the bed and turned towards Guly, who was trying to look through the dingy window; "howsomever, 'taint quite so bad in the day time." "What makes it more pleasant then?" asked the boy. "Oh," said Jeff, "when 'tis light you can look straight down from here into de neighbors' kitchens; you can see all dey hab for dinner, how dey 'conomize, how different de misses are drest in de backdoor to what dey are when dey come out de front, and all dat." "A pleasant occupation, truly," laughed Guly. "Does any one sleep in the store beside ourselves?" "Massa Wilkins, sah, and me. Massa Wilkins' room is down below, just under the stairs; I sleeps behind the big door on the floor, and play watch-dog for master." "What's your name besides Jeff?" asked Arthur, amused at the loquacity of the black. "Same as my father's, sah." "And what is your father's?" "Well," said the negro, twisting a lock of wool in his fingers, "dat's a puzzler! His fust name's Voltaire, and I guess his last one's Delancey, 'cause he belongs to master, and his belongings generally take his name--sich as Delancey's hosses and Delancey's niggers; but bress de Lord! I 'spec you's sleepy; good-night, young massars--why didn't I tink of dis afore?" "Good-night," said Guly, at the same time lifting a book from his trunk. Jeff reached the door and laid his hand on the knob to go out, but as he cast his eye back at the brothers, he stopped short, then walked towards them on tip-toe. "'Scuse me, massa," said he to Guly, "but I jist happened to tink mebbe dat big book was de Bible." "And you are right." "Was you gwine to read it, sah!" "Yes." "May dis chile stay an' listen? I like to hear de talk ob dat book; It fecks me inordly and makes me feel better in my heart." Guly signified his assent, and opening the book, read in a sweet, mellow voice a selection of Psalms. Arthur listened attentively, but not more so than Jeff, who stood with parted lips drinking eagerly in every word. When Guly closed the Bible no one spoke; and after a moment's hesitation he knelt, as did his brother and Jeff, and from the depths of his pure young heart poured forth a prayer of sweet and touching eloquence, such as might have graced the lips of older and wiser persons. CHAPTER II. Backward we turn life's varied page, To note the changes written there. On the banks of the Hudson, in one of the oldest settled counties of New-York, stood the handsome dwelling of Arthur Pratt, the elder. All that wealth could buy was lavished upon the elegant house and grounds, to gratify the taste of the owner. Mr. Pratt (or Colonel Pratt, as he was more generally called) had married quite early in life, and having inherited a large fortune from his father, sought out for himself and bride a home suited to their wealth and station. His wife was a woman of great personal beauty, of most engaging and graceful manners, and distinguished in her own circle for her sweet and unobtrusive piety. As far as was consistent with what she considered her Christian duty, Mrs. Pratt mingled in the gay scenes with which she was constantly brought in contact; and her gentleness and affability were the comment of all. Col. Pratt having located himself in business (with the desire of having "something to do," which sometimes prompts the millionaire to busy himself in some way) in the adjacent city of New-York, was enabled to pass much of his time in the precincts of his happy home, and at the same time to enjoy the society of the _haut ton_ of the city. When the happy father clasped to his proud breast his first-born child, the little Arthur, he deemed his happiness complete. The boy was like his father, both in character and beauty; and as he grew in "winsome ways," he became the pride and pet not only of the household, but of friends and visitors. So much indulgence, and openly expressed admiration, did not fail to foster the boy's inherent spirit of pride, and he soon learned to demand concessions and indulgences which were all too rarely denied him. At times, the mother, her fears aroused for the well-being of her child, would remonstrate upon the course of training pursued with him; but a laughing promise of amendment, forgotten almost as soon as given, a kiss, a word of endearment, or a gentle smile, caused the subject to be dropped; not to be renewed until some glaring fault in their darling boy again demanded it. Gulian seemed sent to his father's arms just in time to prevent the utter ruin, by over-indulgence, of young Arthur. He was a delicate but exquisitely beautiful babe, and his frequent illnesses made deep demands on the endearments hitherto so freely lavished upon his brother. For a time Arthur was highly indignant at the new turn of affairs, and openly resented the slights which necessarily he now often received. Naturally, however, he was of a noble and generous disposition, and soon learned to tenderly love the helpless babe, whose blue eyes would brighten when he drew near, and whose lips murmured, for their first word, "Arty." Arthur had attained his sixth year when his brother was born; and when time had written Guly a schoolboy, the closest affection united the children, notwithstanding the difference in their years and disposition. Guly, as he was called, though of a cheerful disposition, never displayed that sprightliness and vivacity which characterized Arthur. Even in his merriest moments, a thoughtfulness mingled with his mirth, which rendered him ever attentive to the comfort of others. There was an attraction about the child which won all hearts--a natural grace and refinement of manner, mingled with a presence whose influence was always for good. With the tattered beggar he came in contact kindly, pressing into his tawny hands the alms he had to give, while Arthur, though equally generous, spoiled his gift by the manner in which it was bestowed, tossing his gold contemptuously at the weary feet of those who asked it, and turning carelessly away. Too early had he learned the power of that wealth to which he might one day becomes the joint heir with his brother, and his pride, perhaps, was censured more than he deserved. His love for his mother and brother were strong redeeming traits in that self-willed nature, and toward those two beings he ever exercised a lofty and ennobling forbearance. Throughout their school-days he assumed the part of defender and protector toward his younger companion, and if a slur was ever cast upon Guly's meekness, or a taunt uttered at his almost girlish beauty, an earnest champion was ever at his side to adopt his cause, and give the lie to those who dared thus to speak; and Guly in return looked up to Arthur as one brave and manly in all things, a superior both in mind and body; little dreaming of the hour when their stations should seem changed, and he assume the part of guide and guardian over his brother. Colonel Pratt was desirous that both his children should choose a profession. But Arthur impatiently expressed his distaste for such a course, preferring the busy hum of mercantile life, to the long study necessary to fit him for a profession. Consequently, after having received a good school education, he was placed in his father's store, there to become acquainted with the business under the immediate care and supervision of his doting parent. Gulian at this time was still at school, the same gentle-souled, spiritual-looking boy; who perhaps more than Arthur had wound himself round the fond heart of his mother, and who seemed to love her presence, and cherish her affection, with a depth of feeling unusual in boys of his age. One morning, late in August, as Colonel Pratt was about to proceed to the city, his wife observed him wandering over the house and grounds with an air of thoughtfulness amounting even to dejection. Astonished at this in one usually so cheerful-hearted, she joined him, and anxiously inquired the cause. "I have suffered for several days from this same depression of spirits," he answered, with a faint attempt to smile. "Perhaps some wise sightseer might declare it a presentiment of coming evil, but it is no doubt the mere effect of a slight indisposition, occasioned by the extreme heat and application to business." "Stay at home with me to-day, Arthur!" said his wife, earnestly, reading beneath his attempts to treat the matter lightly a seriousness which he had striven to conceal. "Nay, my wife," he answered, "it would but seem that I yielded to a superstitious dread. It will all be right to-morrow." Seeing the boat drawing near, the fond husband bade his wife an affectionate farewell, and hurried to the wharf. She saw him safely on board, and watched the steamer till out of sight. In life she never saw that husband more. The boat in which he returned was the ill-fated "Empire," which was sunk near Newburgh, and he was among those who perished. The corpse of Colonel Pratt was not discovered until two days had elapsed, and immediate burial was necessary upon the arrival of the body at that dear home whence he had so lately departed. This blow was so severe to his wife, that for several weeks her reason deserted her, in an attack of long-continued illness. She recovered, only to learn, that extensive speculations, whose prospect of certain success had induced Colonel Pratt to invest very nearly the whole of his fortune, had proved an utter failure, and that she and her children were destitute. Here was something which called forth all her energies, and for her children's sake she nerved herself to action. Their beautiful home, the scene of so much happiness, passed into strangers' hands. Horses and carriage, and even Mrs. Pratt's jewelry, all went in the general ruin. Naught was reserved save enough to purchase a diminutive cottage not many miles from the scene of her former prosperity, and thither she departed, taking with her Arthur and Gulian, who had never before tasted the bitter dregs of poverty or sorrow. As usual, in such cases, the many _friends_ who had so gladly shared her wealth, now apparently forgot her existence, and she was left to battle with the heavy change alone. It was impossible for them all to live together now, and the mother felt that if Arthur left her, Gillian, too, must go to learn the ways of that world, of the hollowness and falseness of which he as yet knew nothing. About this time, a Southern paper fell into their hands, containing an advertisement, by a merchant in New-Orleans, for two young clerks, to fill vacancies recently made in his number of assistants. After due consideration, it was determined that they might fill those places, and the merchant was accordingly written to. An answer was immediately returned, desiring that they should come on as soon as possible, stating that it was not his custom to engage Northern clerks, but that it was a season of the year when it was difficult to procure any one, and for this reason he had decided in their favor. He further stated that he should expect them to remain with him winter and summer, as he could not go to the inconvenience of engaging clerks from such a distance, and then have them away three or four months in a year. On the whole, Mrs. Pratt thought the letter a very stern and disagreeable one in tone, and shuddered as she pictured to herself the character of the writer. What would her delicate and gentle Guly do, in daily contact with such a cold, blunt-lipped man. Still, there was nothing she could devise that would be well for them, and New-Orleans, at that time, was considered an El Dorado, where industry and perseverance soon brought the fickle goddess to bestow her glittering stores. It was a long way to send them from her side, but she experienced a pride which prevented her from applying for situations for them nearer home. Thus, it was decided they should go. In the bright anticipations of future fortune and happiness, which immediately filled his busy brain, in the preparation for departure, and the prospect of his approaching journey, Arthur in a measure forgot the calamity which had over-taken them, and the attendant painful separation from his sole remaining parent. He dwelt enthusiastically upon the fortune he was confident he should soon win. He told how frequent his letters home would be, and hinted that, as soon as practicable, they would contain something more than mere words. His voice, when dwelling upon this subject, was always loud and confident, and even in the midst of all their troubles he sometimes laughed as merrily as of old, when picturing their restored wealth and renewed happiness. Not so Guly. He hovered round his mother like some gentle spirit; saying but little, yet evincing in every glance of his expressive blue eyes, and in every noiseless footfall, the deep sorrow which lay in the recesses of his young heart. When he spoke it was in accents of tenderness and sympathy for his mother; and though he never talked as Arthur did of the approaching journey, and its results, there was an expression of firmness and determination in his thoughtful face, which more than once forced upon the mother's heart the conviction, that in that distant land, this frail being, after all, might prove the stronger of the two. Daily she warned them of the temptations and snares that would beset their path, and taught them to zealously shun such, as they would a viper in their way. They listened and promised; and when the expected day of departure arrived, bade her adieu in the midst of her tears, and prayers, and blessings. Thus was the widow left utterly alone; yet in her faith she felt not forsaken, knowing that the Father of the fatherless was with her in her woe. CHAPTER III. _Number -- Chartres-Street._ With the first ray of the morning light, Gulian was awake. Without disturbing his brother, he rose, dressed himself, and took a survey of his chamber by daylight. It was a large, gloomy-looking room, unceiled and unpainted, and the rough beams and rafters looked like the ponderous ribs of some antediluvian monster, which might crumble in at any time, and bury all beneath them. The windows were large, but dingy and begrimed with the unmoved dust of years; and spiders' webs hung in profuse festoons from the dirty sashes. A quantity of old barrels, boards, wine casks, and other lumber, were carelessly thrown in one corner, and the door which opened upon the staircase was covered with big-lettered advertisements, in such diversified type that it seemed as if the old door was "making faces" all the time, to improve its Punch and Judyish appearance. The windows looked down into the courtyards of adjoining dwellings, which were built up so high that no view was afforded beyond. As Guly looked down now, he saw the servants hurrying about with their turbaned heads and ebony faces, busied with preparations for the morning meal; laughing and joking as they passed one another, apparently as happy in these narrow gloomy courts as though they were the possessors of the proud mansions adjoining. Such was the view from two of the windows of the room. There was another one covered partially by a tattered and dusty painted shade, at the southern extremity of the apartment, but Guly did not approach it, not caring to look down upon what he thought must be a third edition of kitchen scenery. Opposite the bed was a pile of empty dry goods boxes; and one or two pieces of furniture of the same description were placed about the room, which, with the addition of one store stool, minus a bottom, served for seats. The bedstead was of common stained wood, furnished with a tester and flimsy mosquito bar, through the grim and smoky folds of which were visible sheets of unbleached factory muslin, an emaciated mattress, and a pair of lean pillows, which seemed quite lost in the much too large cases which covered them. The boy sighed as he took in all the dinginess and gloom, and his heart throbbed yearningly for the pleasant room which, even in adversity, had been his at home, cheered and enlivened so often, too, by the presence of his tender mother. "It isn't time to get up yet, is it, Gulian?" said Arthur, half-rousing himself, then closing his weary lids again. "The sun isn't up yet, is it?" "The sun never gets into this room, Arthur; we can only know when it's up by the increased light." "I was dreaming of home; oh! such a pleasant dream! I must sleep a little longer," murmured Arthur again, in the lingering tones of one but half-awake. "Not this morning, brother. Come, we must up, and be doing. I hear them opening the store below; we shouldn't be late the first morning, you know, dear Arthur. It is too late to sleep." Alas! that this first bright dream of home, in that old gloomy room, should ever have been broken! Alas! that the first sweet slumber, on that rude couch, should have had its awaking! Alas! for the beauty of that boyish face, radiant in the flush and glow of early youth, with the halo of home dreams upon it, that it had not there and then chilled and crumbled! Alas! for the innocence and purity of that buoyant spirit, that it had not then taken its flight to brighter realms, forewarned of the dark time coming, when it would quake to find in conscience's depths, that, indeed, "it was too late to sleep." Upon going down stairs the first person the brothers met was Jeff, who stood at the foot of the staircase, looking up as if expecting them. They returned his cheerful and respectful salutation kindly, and passed on to the front door, where Wilkins stood in his shirt-sleeves; leaning against the door-post, reading the morning paper. He raised his eyes as they approached, and nodded to them, and, somewhat to Guly's surprise, inquired how they had rested, adding that the room needed some cleaning before it could be made habitable for human beings, and he would see to it. They thanked him, and, as he resumed his reading, they could do nothing more than stand in the door and look out, or walk briskly up and down the floor for exercise. The clerks began to gather in after a while, all of whom gave the young strangers a passing greeting, as they stationed themselves at their respective places. At length beginning to experience the craving of naturally good appetites, they walked up to Wilkins, and inquired where they were expected to board. "Good gracious! sure enough!" said he, flinging his paper on the counter, "I came near forgetting you; and would have been off to breakfast without you in a minute more. Come on," and he put on his coat as he went out of the door, and led the way down street. They only walked a couple of blocks, then entered a large room, opening upon the street, with glazed glass doors, which stood open on account of the heat of the morning. "I always eat here, as it is cheaper than to take a boarding-house, I think; and, besides, you can always have just what you call for. If you take my advice, you'll take your meals here, too," said Wilkins, assuming a very patronizing air, as he rang the little table bell for the waiter. Arthur thanked him for his kindness, and asked him when they would probably see Mr. Delancey. "He's only in the store from nine in the morning till three in the afternoon," replied Wilkins. "You will see him shortly after we get back there." When their meal was over, arm in arm they took their way back to the store. It wasn't nine o'clock yet, so they didn't walk very briskly, but looked about them, and made their comments to each other on the appearance of the buildings, the streets, etc., etc., and Arthur drew some comparisons between them and those in New-York. They reached the store almost at the same time that a pony-chaise, driven by a very respectable-looking negro man, drew up at the door. A tall, spare gentleman, in a suit of black, stepped out of it, and after reaching back for his walking-stick, entered the building. He had, apparently, seen about fifty winters; he was active enough to be fifty, but he was wrinkled and skinny enough to be sixty. His hair was quite grey, and of a dry, husky nature, which prevented its ever looking smooth; and, in consequence, it stuck straight up in front, and straight out at the sides, in a very bristling and business-like manner. He had a deep frown between the eyes, which were of a cold stone color, of a most peculiar expression, and exceedingly quick and restless; always darting hither and thither, never as if looking for a bright side to anything, but always as if seeking for something amiss. His nose was high and pinched, but long, also, and very hooked; so hooked that it seemed as if each nostril had baited a corner of his mouth, and drawn it up in speaking distance, so that when it was open, the end of that prodigious nasal organ might refresh itself by looking down his throat. There was a firmness in his tread, as he passed through the store, looking quickly to the right and left, without turning his head, which told of energy and decision; but there was in the whole appearance of the man something repugnant and disagreeable, and a shadow seemed to fall on every face he passed, so that the whole line of clerks, ranged on either side behind the counters, and a moment before so cheerful and bright, looked as if a pall had been dropped over them after he had gone by. Gulian and Arthur had shrunk back at his first entrance, and felt as certain at that moment that this man was Mr. Delancey as they did a few minutes afterwards, when Wilkins took them up, and formally introduced them. "So, you've come?" said he, by way of greeting, and turning his keen eyes upon them alternately, as Wilkins named them, "which of you is it that's been in the business before?" "I, sir," said Arthur, stepping forward. "What do you know about it? what have you been accustomed to doing--anything more than sweeping out and cleaning the lamps?" "I never swept out, or cleaned a lamp, in my life, sir. I have sold goods, and sometimes taken charge of the books in the book-keeper's absence." "No airs, young man--don't want any exhibitions of pride here; you'll have to do whatever you're set at in my service, if it's washing windows. Can you make out, a bill?" Arthur's face was very red, and angry words were on his lips, but Guly's hand that moment touched his arm, and pressed it gently. He remembered all, and answered calmly that he could. "Step up here, then, and let me see you do it," said Mr. Delancey, making room for him to use the large desk. Arthur obeyed, and in a clear, bold hand, drew up the bill properly, and handed it to him. He ran it over with his eyes quickly and eagerly, as if certain of finding a flaw; and there was something like disappointment in the tone of his voice as he said, briefly, "Right, sir," and laid it down. There was a moment's pause, during which Mr. Delancey busied himself in writing down a great many figures on a piece of paper. When he had finished he handed it to Arthur, with a look of triumph in his face, and said, "Let's see you solve this problem correctly, if you can." That sneering "if you can," to Arthur's mind seemed to imply so much doubt of his capacity, that he felt stung to the quick; and it was with a gesture of pride and impatience, which he could not repress, that he took the paper. He returned it to the desk in a few minutes, and again those cold gray eyes ran over his work, and again they showed disappointment when it proved to be right. "Wilkins," said Mr. Delancey, turning to that individual, who had remained standing near, "Give this young man the vacancy in the bleached goods department, which Jones left." Mr. Wilkins moved away to fulfill the order, and Arthur was about to follow him, when his employer called him back. "It is my custom," said he, "to give young clerks the first year a merely nominal salary, but as you seem to be pretty well acquainted with the business, and have a face that may win custom, you will get liberal pay. I will give you five hundred a year. Five hundred--but mark me, sir, you've got to earn it!--every picayune of it, sir, you've got to work for. When any clerk is caught idling or dawdling about these premises, he's turned out, neck and heels, with only just what he can scrape together on the shortest possible notice. I hope we understand each other. Go, now." Arthur bowed, and moved away with Wilkins, who pointed out his place to him, and having introduced him to the young men on either side of him, returned to his position near the big desk. After dismissing Arthur, Mr. Delancey seemed entirely to have forgotten Gulian, and leaned stiffly back in his chair, regarding the lines of clerks and the customers, who now began to flock in, without taking any notice of him. When Wilkins approached, however, and cast a meaning glance toward him, he seemed suddenly to remember Gulian, and turning round, said, bluntly: "Come here, sir." Guly's face had lost every vestige of color, and his heart beat so violently that it seemed to make him tremble all over, and he came forward hesitatingly, with his eyes cast upon the floor. "So, you know nothing at all about a store, eh?" "No, sir." "Well, I think, for my part, such a white-livered, baby-faced chap as you are would have been better off at your mother's apron strings, than coming so far from home to get initiated." No answer, but the pale face and golden head drooped a trifle lower. "Do you know your multiplication-table?" "Yes, sir." "Step up here, and repeat it." Without lifting his eyes Guly obeyed; and stepping forward, commenced in a low tone to repeat the table. "Louder, sir!" exclaimed Mr. Delancey, angrily; "how do you suppose I can hear such a muttering as that?" The throbbing in his breast increased to such a degree, that Guly felt as if he could not breathe. He reached up and laid one white delicate hand upon the desk tightly, for support, then summoning all his courage, he elevated his voice, and went on, mechanically, to repeat what, in calm moments, he knew as well as A B C, but which now seemed to be a sort of dead memory, which would desert him every moment. "Louder, sir!" again shouted his tormentor, as his voice unconsciously lulled again. "What do you want to play the fool in this way for? If you know it, speak up." There was a sudden turning of heads by the clerks nearest the desk towards the spot, attracted by the unusually loud tone of the proprietor. Guly felt, rather than saw, that he had become the object of attention, and with a last effort raised his voice, and commenced another number, but suddenly he ceased altogether, the white hand slid from the desk, and he fell fainting at Delancey's feet. Wilkins sprang quickly forward, with a hot flush burning on either cheek, and lifted the boy like a baby in his arms. As he did so he cast a look full of deep and mysterious meaning upon Delancey. It was a look difficult for a mere observer to interpret, but the merchant quailed visibly beneath it, and turned aside his head. Wilkins bore the quiet figure in his arms farther back into the shadow of the staircase, and placing him in a large chair which stood there, bathed his temples with camphor water, and held it to his nostrils, gazing upon him meanwhile with an intense and anxious gaze. At length the snowy lids, with their curve of golden lashes, trembled slightly, then opened wide, and the blue eyes were raised an instant, appealingly, to the face which bent kindly over him. "A drop of water, Mr. Wilkins, if you please." It was brought, and he drank eagerly. "Are you better?" "Yes, Wilkins, almost well." He dropped his head upon his hand a moment, and those to whom he was visible saw his lips move earnestly for a moment or two. "I can go on without any trouble, I think," he said, in a voice of gentle earnestness, referring to his unsaid table. "You needn't say any more unless you would like to," returned Wilkins; "I am sure you know it." "I would rather," said Guly, firmly. He rose, and, with Wilkins at his side, again approached the desk where Mr. Delancey had resumed his stiff position, leaning back in his chair. "He will finish, if you please, sir," said Wilkins, with the respectful bow of an inferior, but at the same time fixing his eyes sternly on the merchant's face. Mr. Delancey assumed an air of attention, and Guly, taking his old station in front of him, commenced in a clear, distinct voice, and repeated the table unfalteringly, from beginning to end. "There! why couldn't you have done that in the first place, without acting such a namby-pamby farce, I'd like to know?" "I had not the power, sir." "Well, what do you s'pose you're good for in a dry goods store, anyway, eh? Look at that!" and he lifted one of the boy's small white hands by the tips of the fingers, and held it towards the light, as if he would look through it, then dropped it with a contemptuous "Umph!" "What shall we do with him, Wilkins?" "Give him the embroidery department. His hands are just fit for such delicate work, and besides it will just put him under my eye." "Poh! he'll make such ruinous mistakes, that I'll never be able to stand it, sir. Give him Harper's place in the thread and tape, up here, then he'll be under my eye." Guly shuddered. "He'll do well, sir, in the place I propose," Wilkins returned quietly, but firmly. "With a little instruction, I'll answer for him; and there's a freer circulation of air down there, something he needs." "Well, take him along, and see what you can do with him. I expect nothing more than that he'll die on my hands, before he's earned enough to pay his funeral expenses." Wilkins turned, and beckoned the boy to follow him. CHAPTER IV. _The First Sunday at Church._ Wilkins was head clerk in the establishment, and although he had all the books to keep, his work was lighter than that of any of the rest. He went to work later in the morning, and left it earlier at night. Besides being book-keeper, he was a sort of a superintendent of the whole concern; and the clerks looked up to him as second only to the proprietor himself. To win Wilkins' favor was to propitiate Mr. Delancey: a fact well known, and acted upon. Guly's beauty, or gentle disposition, had evidently gained for him, through Wilkins, the best stand in the store. His work was light and agreeable, he had no heavy lifting to do, and the Beautiful, which in any form was delightful to him, was constantly before his eyes. In addition to this, the clerk who stood next to him, on his right hand, was a most estimable and kind young man, of the name of Hull; who used every effort to assist his young neighbor, in learning to correctly perform his work, and by his own example, taught him patiently to endure its tediousness. This, together with the frequent and kindly-tendered instructions of Wilkins, enabled Guly, who was naturally very quick, to readily acquire the knowledge requisite for his situation; and with his brother, nearly opposite, to speak to occasionally, and to see all the time, he felt that he was highly favored. As Mr. Delancey had never shown any interest in the matter of their board, they still continued to "victual," as Wilkins called it, at the restaurant, and sleep at the store. By dint of working a little before going to bed every night, the brothers, without reminding Wilkins of his promise to "see to it," had managed to make their sleeping apartment present a very habitable appearance. As every moment of their time, since their arrival, had been taken up with business, they remained in their room the first Sunday, without going to church; feeling that for each of them to pour into the fond breast of their distant mother all the thoughts, feelings, and events, which they had experienced since they had left her side, would be as acceptable to Him whose day it was, as to attend church, leaving her to mourn in anxious uncertainty as to their safety or happiness. The succeeding Sabbath, however, they rose early, and, after performing their devotional exercises, prepared themselves to attend public worship. While waiting for the bell to ring, they sought Wilkins, for the purpose of inquiring what church Mr. Delancey attended. Wilkins had taken possession of the merchant's seat at the high desk when they found him, and, as usual had his coat off, reading. He looked up, apparently a good deal surprised, as they put the question to him, and exclaimed, rather dryly: "Why, you don't say you're going to church!" "Certainly, Mr. Wilkins. Won't you go with us?" "Ah! not I." "Do you never go?" "I used to, but it was a long time ago. You forget that I have been in New-Orleans five years." "No, we don't forget that. Mr. Hull said, the other day, that Mr. Delancey would never get as good a clerk as you again, or one that would be as faithful, and remain with him so long. But does being here a few years make any difference about going to church?" "I'm afraid you'll find so." "How can you spend so much unoccupied time without church, Wilkins?" said Guly, earnestly, stepping up on the chair round, and seating himself quietly on the head clerk's knee. Wilkins flung down the novel he had been reading, and, reaching out his strong arms, clasped both hands round the slender figure sitting there, and, throwing back his head, looked thoughtfully into the boy's blue eyes. "I spend it," said he, at length, speaking in a suppressed voice, and more as if talking to himself than another, "in racing on the Shell Road, in betting on fast horses, in excursions out of town, and in visiting"--he stopped short, then added, through his shut teeth, after an instant's pause--"places which I hope to God you'll never know more about than you do now." "Are you going to the race-course to-day?" asked Guly, suddenly lifting his head. "I don't feel quite well. No, I reckon not," returned Wilkins, disjointedly, and moving uneasily in his chair. "I weary you," said the boy, gently essaying to leave his seat on the head clerk's knee. "No! no! you don't!" cried the other, eagerly; and suddenly drawing the bright head down upon his bosom, he added, in a voice of deep emotion, "Oh, that I had you always thus to lie upon my heart, and keep the evil out!" The church bell at this moment began to ring, and, having ascertained where the Episcopal Church was, the brothers started forth, and, arm-in-arm, walked briskly forward. Whenever Guly looked back at the tall store, towering up above its brick-and-mortar neighbors so proudly, he thought of Wilkins sitting in there in the gloom, all alone, and wishing for some one to lay upon his heart, and keep the evil out. When they reached the church, Arthur asked the sexton if Mr. Delancey's pew was full, and, on being informed there was no one in it but himself and wife, he desired to be shown to it. It was situated quite at the head of the aisle, near the pulpit; and the sexton's hand was on the door, before the merchant, who was sitting in his usual position, bolt upright, in the pew, noticed their approach. When his eyes fell upon his two new clerks, the frown between his eyes deepened very visibly, while his whole face wore a look of angry astonishment. Holding the door shut, as the sexton, with his best bow, attempted to open it, Mr. Delancey leaned out, and, in a harsh whisper to Arthur, which was loud enough to reach Guly's ear, exclaimed: "What the devil do you want? I hope you don't expect to sit with me? Up gallery with you! There's seats enough for your class there." So saying, the merchant jerked himself back, and, resuming his stiff position in the pew, looked straight ahead with his stony eyes, as if utterly unconscious of any one else. With burning cheeks the brothers took their way down the carpeted aisle, and reached the pillared porch. "I'm not going up there to sit," said the elder brother, proudly; "if there is no place for me below, there is no place for me in the gallery;" and flinging off the gentle hand that would have detained him, he sprang down the granite steps, and started at a rapid pace down the street. Guly stood for a moment, gazing anxiously after him, half-tempted to follow, but seeing his brother took the direction towards the store, he decided to remain, and mounting the winding stairs, found himself in the spacious but scantily peopled gallery. Guly's was a pure mind, unaccustomed to drawing sarcastic comparisons, or indulging in bitter fancies; but, as he looked down into the body of the church, he could not help wondering to himself which were the most acceptable in God's sight: the mass of life, bowing and swaying in their costly array of silks and laces, and fine cloth, kneeling on their velvet cushions, and bending their brows upon their jeweled hands, or the few earnest and devout, seated in the unornamented gallery, kneeling upon bare floors, seated on uncushioned benches, bending their hearts in simple worship to Him whose Word they came to hear. CHAPTER V. _The Broken Sabbath._ As soon as Arthur's rapid walking had taken him out of sight of the church, he slackened his pace, and walked moodily on along the almost deserted banquette, towards the Levee. Still smarting from the wound his pride had received, his cheeks burning with the flush of anger, and his heart heavy at the remembrance of his unkind words to Guly, the youth looked anxiously about for something to divert his thoughts, and while away the hours till church was out, when he hoped to rejoin his brother, and with him return to their apartment. At this moment, however, he received a hearty slap upon his shoulder; and turning quickly, saw one of the clerks of the store, well known to be of low and dissolute habits, but who managed to retain his place by steady application to business during business hours. Hitherto, Arthur had never had anything to say to him, beyond what was necessary in the store, having intuitively shunned him as an unfit associate. Now, however, he felt that any companion was better than solitude, for the unoccupied Sabbath hours; and although a sense of shame filled his breast, that he should ever have given the opportunity to such a man to approach him thus familiarly, he crushed it with an effort, and extending his hand, exclaimed, in a hearty tone: "Glad to see you, Quirk; whither bound?" "Anywhere that I can get company," returned the other, giving Arthur's hand a close grasp. "This is the only day, you know, that a clerk has to himself, and I always make it a point to have a deuce of a time to begin the week with." And the fellow burst into a loud laugh. Arthur withdrew his hand hastily, and an expression of disgust swept over his fine features. The quick eye of the other did not fail to detect it, and, eager to retain the vantage he had gained, he said: "You musn't mind my easy expressions, Pratt; they come to me somehow like second nature, and I can't help them; just let 'em pass; and tell me what you'd like to visit to-day, and what you'd like to see, and I'll show it to you; for there's no sight in this city that I ain't as used to as measuring tape." "I've never been accustomed to go sight-seeing on Sunday," said Arthur, in a hesitating tone. "That was because you were never accustomed to working every week-day before." "No, it was because I was strictly taught to 'Remember the Sabbath-day, and keep it holy.'" "Fiddlesticks! all that'll do in the North, where folks put on their long faces every Sunday, and go to church, rain or shine, and don't cook any dinners, and don't read anything but pious books, but such things ain't expected here of anybody. Why, this is always a holiday here--the military companies are always drilled on Sunday, the best races are reserved for Sunday, the best plays at the theatre are on Sunday nights, and so are the best balls. Ha! ha! to talk of keeping this day holy here." "You shock me!" said Arthur, with a shudder. "Just what every young prig from the North is sure to say at first, but they get to be one of the 'fast ones' at last. I was quite sober myself when I first came here. I was from the land of steady habits, ye see--the only son of my mother, and she was a widder; but she died, and nobody cared for me here, so I just joined the b'hoys, and learned how to enjoy myself." "I'll tell you what we'll do!" exclaimed Quirk, after another short pause, "we'll just take the cars, and go to Carrolton. That's a fine place, and it can't hurt your conscience any to visit it. Even the ministers ride up there on Sundays sometimes." "How soon could we return? By the time church is out?" "Oh, we can come back any minute we like. Hurrah! Now hop in, or we'll be left." The cars were just on the point of leaving, and they were obliged to run in order to catch their chance. The moment of reflection did not come to Arthur till he had taken his seat, and was rapidly moving away. If there came any pangs of conscience then, they were, from a dread of ridicule, studiously concealed from his companion, and consoling himself with the thought that it now was too late to repent, he gave himself up to the full enjoyment of his ride. After leaving the city, as the charming suburban retreats, one by one, came out upon his view, Arthur eagerly regarded each one, appreciating its brightness and freshness all the more from his recent confinement in the city. The clear sloping meadows, the rural cottages, the fresh air, all served to enliven and cheer him; and, as the cars were crowded with pleasure-seekers, like himself, he forgot it was Sunday, and was happy in his forgetfulness. Near Carrolton a beautiful wood burst upon his sight, skirting either side of the track, and casting soft deep shadows on the bright green sward beneath the branches. The trees were of noble growth, and from every limb hung pendant the tattered sheets of long gray moss, so common in the South, and so solemn and sombre in their effect. "Was there ever anything more beautiful, even on the banks of my own Hudson!" exclaimed Arthur, enraptured at the scene. "Can we not persuade the conductor to stop, and let us down? I would enjoy a stroll there." "Nonsense!" returned his companion. "I can't go with you if you go there. I have a horror of that swinging moss, and can't bear to be near it. Those trees always make me think of ghosts, with rotten shrouds on 'em." "That's a fine comparison, Charley," said a clear, sarcastic voice near them; and a young man, bearing the unmistakable stamp of the genteel loafer about him, stretched out a small white hand, with a large diamond glittering on the little finger, and shook Charley's over the back of the seat. He was quite a youth, apparently not over twenty years of age; but there was an expression in his eye which would lead one to believe him older. It was an eye old in cunning, old in craft, and old in sin. It was small, deep-set, and of piercing blackness. His hair was of a soft chestnut, and curled slightly at the ends. His lips were thin, and his complexion sallow. His dress, in every article, was of the finest material, but arranged with a decidedly foppish taste; and, somehow or other, his whole appearance reminded one of those large bills, stuck up in depots, with "Beware of Pickpockets" on them. Charley leaned back, after shaking hands with him, and whispered something in his ear; then, nodding to Arthur, said: "Mr. Pratt, I'll make you acquainted with Mr. Clinton. Mr. Clinton, Mr. Pratt." Arthur bowed, and accepted the hand cordially extended to him, and politely expressed his pleasure at the acquaintance. "Well, just consider me one of you from this hour," said Clinton, rising, and turning his seat so that he might face his friends. "Just confide to me your intentions for to-day, and you'll find I'm with you, heart and hand." Charley tipped a sly wink at him, unperceived by Arthur, and answered: "We're only going to Carrolton, to stroll through the gardens; that's all." "Ah, yes; going to contemplate the beauties of nature. I understand. Just so. Glad to hear it; for, of all things in the world, it's just what will suit me best. Just consider me one of you." Arthur eyed his new friend with considerable curiosity, as he let off these little explosive sentences, and withdrew his eyes with an unsatisfied look, as the other ceased speaking. "He evidently," thought he, "wants to seem a gentleman, and don't know how." "Here we are!" cried Clinton, as the train stopped. "Now, my dear friends, let's hasten to leave these clattering cars, where I scarcely can breathe. Ah! you perceive this beautiful scenery has already inspired me. I s'pose, Mr. Pratt, you didn't know I was a poet before, did you?" "I was certainly not previously aware of your poetical talents, Mr. Clinton," returned Arthur, laughing, "but I shall never doubt it again." "That's right, my boy. Like your candor. You're excusable for not noticing before that I was a genius. It was no doubt merely because you didn't look closely in my face. Any one can see it who does. There's the pretty Miss Julia Tippet, she declares she'd know me for one through a pair of green spectacles." So saying, Mr. Clinton sprang to the ground, and being a little taller than the other two, he familiarly passed an arm over their shoulders as he stepped between them, and so passed on through the garden gate. As they trod the neat shell walks, and inhaled the fragrance of the many blooming flowers, Arthur enthusiastically expressed his delight; and Mr. Clinton, suddenly drew in a long breath through his nostrils, and exclaimed, at the same time striking an attitude:-- "Delightful spot! I know not what could e'er draw hence my willing feet, Unless it be a chance I see, for some kind friend to stand a treat." "There!" bringing down his right hand, with a hearty whack upon his knee, "if I haven't been off again into one of my spontaneous bursts of poetical effusion! Who ever saw that beat?" "Ha! ha! ha!" roared Charley. "I take the hint; what'll you have; mint-juleps for three, or three for old Cogniac?" "Thank you," said Arthur, as he met Charley's inquiring glance. "Nothing for me. I never indulge." "Oh, you must have something, if it's nothing more than lemonade with a stick in it," returned Charley. "Hurry up your pegs there, Charley!" cried Clinton, at the top of his voice. "Pratt's getting faint, and wants something to strengthen him!" This was said in such a good humored hope-I-don't-offend manner, that Arthur could not repress a smile; and while the smile was on his lips the drinks arrived, and he received his with a bow. That he considered it good, was very evident from the manner in which he drank it, an act which Quirk and Clinton watched narrowly, over the brims of their glasses. Arthur experienced no more pangs of conscience that day; neither did he recall his intended return by the time church was out. After drinking, his companions used every effort to make themselves agreeable, and showed him over the extensive grounds, strolled through the shady avenue on the Levee with him, and then, as the day was warm, declared themselves thirsty, and proposed that Arthur should treat them. He eagerly assented, and for the first time in his life marched boldly into the bar-room, and ordered three strong drinks, all of the same description. Then a military company arrived, and the excitement of the drill, the sound of the martial music, and the fresh uniform of the soldiers, combined with the noise and bustle of railroad travel, and the crowd of lookers on, seemed to dispel all remembrance of Sunday, and the whole afternoon passed in this way, in what then seemed real enjoyment. It was eleven o'clock in the evening when, heated and dizzy from the wine they had drunk, Arthur and Charley took their seats in the cars for home; with Mr. Clinton heavily reclining between them. They were a noisy trio, though an experienced eye might have detected readily that Clinton pretended to be much more intoxicated than he really was. When the cars arrived at St. Joseph-street he alighted, bidding his two friends a hearty good night, and saying, as he shook Arthur's hand: "Hope to see you soon again, Pratt, [hic]--from this day for [hic] ward, consider me one of you." And, with a stagger which threatened a fall, he left the cars, and disappeared round the corner. As he did so, he drew a ponderous key from his pocket, and holding it up between his eye and an adjacent lamp, regarded it closely, then burst into a laugh: "I'll have some fun with this yet, I reckon; I'll teach the governor to forbid my having any of the keys. By the gods! I'll bring him round with this, or die in the attempt," soliloquized Mr. Clinton, swinging the key between his thumb and finger. "By-the-by," he added, suddenly thrusting it deep into a side-pocket, "I'll just stroll down Chartres-street, and see what the boys'll do when they find it out." Mr. Clinton was evidently perfectly sober. Whistling a tune thoughtfully, as he went, he reached Camp-street; when, taking the shady side, he struck into a run, which pace he kept up until he had crossed Canal, then he assumed a slow, careless walk; and as the moon had now risen, the lamps had been put out, and one side of Chartres-street lay in deep shadow. To this side he kept, and when he had arrived nearly opposite Delancey's store, he stepped back into an archway, and remained quiet. In a few moments he heard the voices of his late companions, and saw them coming down the other side of the street, leaning upon each other, and both evidently fully affected by the liquor they had imbibed. As Charley gained the door, he sustained himself by holding with his left hand upon the door-post, while with the right he applied a small steel key to the key-hole. "Why the devil don't it fit? Lend a hand here, Pratt, and see what you can do." Arthur had seated himself upon the step, and sat with his head leaning on his hand, but he rose at Charley's bidding, and took the key. "Why don't it fit?" said he, after looking at it a moment, intently. "Well, the reason is my trunk key don't fit this door, and I'd like to know how you came by it." "Your trunk key! well, where's the other? _Your_ trunk key! _I_ guess so! Well, here's one that will fit," and he drew out a brass house-door key, and shufflingly applied it to the lock. "Devil! wrong again. Pratt, stand up here, and help me." "We'll never get in at this rate, Charley." "I'll give you a lodging, if that's what you're after," said a voice near them, and a hand fell heavily on a shoulder of each. "Nabbed, by gripes!" cried Quirk, suddenly turning round. "But just look here, old feller, I'd like to know [hic] what for you arrest a couple--of gen'l'men for--as is decently [hic] to go home to bed." "Breaking into a store is a new way of going to bed. You're my prisoners; so march along with you." "Do you take us for thieves," said Arthur, startled into soberness; "we belong there, and were trying to use our pass-key." "Let's see your pass-key, then." "It's lost! I can find it neither in my own nor my companion's pockets." "Good story, but won't go down, so trot along." And the watchman, stepping between them, seized an arm of each, and hurried them off to the guard-house. "Phew! that's more than I bargained for," said Clinton, stepping out of the archway, and looking after the retreating figures. "However, that's Grey that's got 'em, and I can make it straight by morning." So saying, he pressed his hand hard upon the ponderous key he held, and muttering, "Ah, a good time's coming," turned his steps toward the First Municipality. CHAPTER VI. Since noonday, Guly had sat in the darkened store alone. He could not go out in search of his brother, being ignorant of the streets; and besides, where in that great city could he have looked with any hope of finding him? When he returned from church, and found Arthur absent, he was not only surprised, but deeply troubled. Knowing what a stranger he was in that vast metropolis, the thought crossed his mind that in the proud and angry mood that was upon him, he might have wandered off, and lost himself. But an instant's reflection told him that any one would be able to give the direction of Mr. Delancey's store, and that Arthur, in such a case, would not be slow to make inquiry. He could but wait patiently, as there was no one near, either to accompany him in a search, or to give him advice. He seated himself to write to his mother, deeming that his time could not be more dutifully passed. The letter was finished and sealed, and still no news of Arthur. Guly had seized his hat with the intent of going forth at all hazards, when the door of his room slowly opened, and Jeff's shining face was thrust in. "Please, young massar, may I come in?" "Certainly. Close the door." The negro entered with a shuffling gait, holding a tattered straw hat in his hands, and with a bow and sheepish look stopped directly in front of Guly. "Anything I can do for you, Jeff?" "Well, I hopes you'll 'scuse my 'trusion, young massar, but I thought as dis was Sunday, mebbe you'd be reading dat big book yourself, and would let me hear you." "To be sure, Jeff, to be sure. Whenever that big book is read you will always be a welcome listener, and whenever I have time I shall always be ready to read it to you." "Oh, young massar, you is so good to de poor nigger--sometimes when I look at you, I can't help tinking you'se just some angel as has lost his wings, and a-waiting on dis airth till they grow agin." "Hush, Jeff." "Yes, massar; if you'se ready to read, I'se ready to listen." Guly smiled at this misconstruction of his words, but opening the Bible he read aloud the fourteenth chapter of John; while Jeff sat with his elbows on his knees, and his chin in his palms, his large eyes fixed attentively on the reader. When the chapter was finished, Guly took the different paragraphs, and in a simple but concise manner endeavored to explain all which was difficult for his listener to understand. "Thar!" said Jeff, flinging his old hat emphatically upon the floor, as Guly ceased, "If that ain't as good as a minister, dis child guv it up, dat's all! Oh, young massar, if you'd just call a meetin' ob de clerks in dis store, and read and 'spound to 'em sometime in dis way, dar'd be a better set in old massar's bizness, to say the least." "Your master's clerks all seem to be well-disposed young men, I'm sure, Jeff--I never see them commit a wrong." "You'se too good yousef to see evil, sah; but mebbe de clerks _is_ good when de Boss's sharp eye is on 'em." "Oh!" exclaimed Guly, starting to his feet, and rapidly pacing the floor, "What a place of sin for a young inexperienced boy to be in, and under the influence of evil companions. Oh! my brother! my brother!" "He'll be home by night-time, Massar Gulian, in my 'pinion. I'se jus sorry I told you, sah, since you take on so, but it just slipped out o' me like, an' I couldn't help it." Guly drew a chair near one of the windows, and though he could see neither sky above or brightness below, he gazed out upon the brick walls before him, and his thoughts flew backward to the past. From that hour of reflection Guly rose up wiser and older. He felt how much depended on himself, and decided that henceforth his watchful eye should ever be upon the brother, who, though so much older than himself, required so much of tender counsel and care. The sun was down when he again approached the table where Jeff still sat, turning over the leaves of the "Big Book." "Massar Gulian, you look in your eyes as though you was gwine to pray. May I hear you 'fore I go?" Guly bowed, and knelt beside his dusky friend; and as he prayed, the great white tears rolled over Jeff's cheeks, and fell down on the box by which he was kneeling. The prayer was ended and Jeff rose to go. "Good night, Jeff," said Guly, holding out his hand. "Good night, young Massar; God forever bress your heart." Left alone, Guly sat down to patiently await the termination of what he could not possibly avert; but the loneliness was so oppressive, the silence and darkness lay like such a weight upon his troubled heart, that he determined to descend to Wilkins' room, and if he were there to remain with him. Having no light in his chamber, he opened the door, and slowly groped his way down the winding stairs. When he had nearly reached the foot he fancied he heard voices, and, surprised at such a sound coming from the direction of the head-clerk's room, he paused to listen; but the step on which he stood creaked loudly, and the voices ceased. Going cautiously on in the darkness, he reached the big desk, and further back saw a stream of light glimmering through the crevice of Wilkins' door. He evidently was at home, but unless his ears had very much deceived him, Guly felt certain he was not alone. Not wishing to play the spy, the boy went forward, and was about to knock, when through the crevice of the door his eye fell upon a scene which again arrested his attention, and held him speechless. Wilkins was seated at a low table, writing, apparently answering a letter, which lay open before him, written in a peculiarly beautiful and delicate female hand. The light of the lamp fell full upon his face, which was very pale; and his teeth were pressed hard into his under lip. Behind him, with one hand clasped upon the back of his chair, stood a young girl; and though her features were of exquisite proportions and beautiful moulding, she displayed in the slight tinge of duskiness upon her skin, and the peculiar blackness of her large eyes, unmistakable proofs, to an experienced judge, of the quadroon blood in her veins. Her hair was long, and of midnight blackness; and fell in thick, close curls over the graceful scarf which covered her shoulders. Her forehead was high and fine, her eyebrows arched and delicately traced--her nose free from all trace of her negro origin, and her lashes long and curving upon her round cheek. Her mouth was small, and the lips parted over teeth of the most perfect regularity; but in this feature, more than in any other, as she stood watching Wilkins, as he wrote, there was an expression of proud bitterness, which came and went over those exquisite features, like gleams of lightning. As Wilkins finished writing, he carefully folded and sealed his letter, and handed it to the girl, without adding any superscription. "There, Minny, give her that; but, remember how much depends upon your secresy. There's a day coming when you shall meet your full reward for all you are doing for us now." "Yes, Mr. Bernard," she replied, addressing him by his first name, and speaking earnestly, "I think of that myself sometimes, and tremble." "And tremble! What do you mean?" "Nothing, nothing; no matter now. Give me a pass, and let me be gone! The great gun has fired two hours ago!" "You are too white to need a pass, Minny." "Ay! but I am a slave." The bitter emphasis with which she uttered these last words sank deep into Guly's young heart, and was the first intimation to him that she was not of unmixed origin. She looked so purely beautiful, as she stood there with that shade of scornful sadness on her face, that the boy forgot the part he was acting in standing there, and remained with his large eyes riveted upon her. "Here's your pass, Minny; but, mark me, it will not be claimed of you." As he spoke Wilkins rose, and handed her the paper. She concealed the letter he had given her in her dress, then folded the pass between her fingers, and prepared to leave. The head clerk had stood still until how, watching her with a strange, eager expression on his face; but as he saw her about to leave him he sprang suddenly forward, and throwing one of his huge arms about her waist, drew back her head with the other, and imprinted kiss after kiss upon her lips. She struggled wildly, but silently; and at last, with an almost superhuman effort, freed herself from his grasp. She turned, as she did so, and lifting her small hand closely clenched, struck him furiously full in the mouth. The blood gushed over his lips; and never, to the latest day of his existence, not even when he saw her lie cold and still in her coffin, did Guly forget the fearful expression in her pallid face, and the almost demoniacal glare in her black eye, as she marked the effect of her blow, and darted by him like some frightened bird, escaped from the spoiler's net. He shrank further into the darkness as she passed him, and saw her rush toward the back part of the building, where the large windows descended to the floor. She flung one up hastily, and leaped through it to the ground. The next moment he heard the swift pattering of small feet in the alley, and the rustling of a woman's dress, as if some one were running. The head clerk had thrown himself upon a couch, face downwards, after he received the blow, and Guly seeing he had been unobserved, thought best not to intrude upon him at this moment; and with a quiet, cat-like tread, and trembling violently with the excitement of the scene he had witnessed, he groped his way back to his own chamber. An hour passed before he ventured to descend the stairs again; and then he found Wilkins sitting as he had seen him in the morning, at the big desk, with his coat off, reading. "This is a late hour for you to be down stairs, my boy! What has happened to make you so pale? Are you sick?" "No, sir, but I am troubled." And Guly stepped toward him, and laid one hand upon the desk, while he related to Wilkins all that he had felt with regard to his brother, since he parted from him in the morning. "Tut, tut!" said he, shaking his head as the boy finished, "this is a bad business. If I had not thought you were together somewhere, I would have been with you. I'm afraid your brother has got into bad company, which I should be sorry enough for, I promise you." Wilkins spoke this in a tone of such kindly sympathy, at the same time laying one hand gently upon the golden head beside him, that Guly's overwrought feelings could no longer be restrained; and the tears gushed thickly from his eyes. "Don't," said Wilkins, tenderly, "don't! This will doubtless be the last time he will wander off in this way--he is impulsive and yielding, and you, who are less so, must guard him in future." Cheered, though not convinced, by Wilkins' words, Guly once more sought his own room. He had never pressed that pillow alone before, and with a desolate and heavy heart, the golden lashes were allowed to droop, and the boy fell into a troubled slumber. Through a narrow chink in the roof above, a moonbeam stole, and nestled down beside him. It lay there in Arthur's vacant place like the gleam of an angel's smile; and all it fell upon was purity and beauty. The night wore on. The boy slept, the moonbeam faded, and troubled dreams and desolate darkness alone remained behind. CHAPTER VII. _Della._ The city clocks were tolling midnight, and the moon rode high in the heavens. In one of the most elegant houses Apollo-street could boast, sat a young girl. The room in which she was sitting presented a scene of almost oriental ease and luxury. There was the rich carpet, giving back no echo to the tread, the gorgeous divans, into which the form sank as into down, the glittering chandeliers, the rare and exquisite vases, statuary, birds, books, and all that the capricious, self-willed spirit, which presided there, could wish to draw around her. The lights in the chandeliers had been extinguished; and save that which crept in from the moon, and that emitted from a small night-lamp, burning behind its alabaster shade, the room lay in soft shadow. The long windows descended to the floor, and opened upon a balcony, from whence was wafted by the slight night-breeze, the delicate fragrance of the jasmine, mingled with that of rare roses, and other choice flowers. At the lower end of the balcony, a flight of steps descended to the garden, where the music of a tinkling fountain fell refreshingly on the ear. This part of the grounds was protected by a high brick wall, thickly overrun with luxuriant vines, which entirely concealed a small door, long left forgotten and unused by the proprietor of these princely domains. This door opened into an adjacent court, little used save by the domestics, and thence egress was easy to the street. Seated upon a velvet cushion, the fair occupant of the apartment gazed eagerly out upon the garden-door. One slipper of small size and delicate hue lay a little distance from her, as if it had been cast impatiently from the unshod foot. Her brow was pressed against the window-sash, and every rustle of the vine-leaves, every whisper of the night-wind, had caused her to start violently, and called forth some low ejaculation of impatience or vexation. "Past twelve, and not here yet!" she exclaimed, drawing from her belt a small French watch, glittering with jewels, and glancing at the hour with a frown. "Ah! Dieu! what can have happened now? I shall be asleep before many minutes, unless--" At this moment there came up from the garden a harsh grating sound, as of some one cautiously turning a key in a rusty lock. The listener started to her feet, and laid one hand upon her heart. There were light steps upon the stairs--a cautious tread upon the balcony--and Minny, the Quadroon, sank at her mistress's feet. "So, child, you've come at last! Where have you lingered this long, long time? I am most distracted with watching for you, and my head aches terribly." Minny lifted up her pale face, with the black hair falling in strong contrast around it, and the angry glitter not yet gone from her brilliant eye. "Lady, I have lingered nowhere unnecessarily. You bade me be cautious, and it takes time to take stealthy steps. Besides, I was obliged to wait before I could approach him, and then--" "Enough, Minny! and then he gave you a letter for me. Give it me, girl, quick!" Minny drew the note from her bosom, and her mistress, approaching the lamp, put aside the shade which obscured it, and bent eagerly over the closely-written page she held. She read it again and again, and a smile of delight lit up the listless features, as she refolded it, and flung to the girl beside her to place in its delicate envelope. "Oh! it is such a sweet note, Minny; such a charming, delightful note! How did he look, Min, when he was writing it? Did he frown, and bite his lips, and grow pale, in that frightful way he has sometimes, or did he look handsome and happy?" "His back was toward me, Miss. I could not see how he looked." "Stupid Minny! Another time get where you can look straight into those black eyes of his, and read what they say all the while." "Another time I will, Miss." "What's the matter, Min? Come here, child. How you frighten me. You are as pale as a ghost! Tired with your long walk, that's it, puss! Kneel down here by me, and I'll play nurse for you." The girl knelt, and her young mistress drew toward her a bottle of lavender water, and poured it upon the bowed head before her; putting it on with her own soft hands till the long black curls glittered with the bright drops, as if decked with diamonds. "There, Minny, you are better now. Wipe my hands and undress me." With gentle, but trembling fingers, the girl proceeded to obey; and as her mistress lay listlessly back in her large fauteuil, proceeded to remove each article of dress, without the slightest assistance from the languid form before her. The jewels were laid away in their velvet cases--the ribbons folded and laid aside--the rich robe placed in the armoire, and the frilled and embroidered _robe de nuit_ placed upon her, and fastened with its gold buttons about her neck and wrists, with no more motion on the part of that passive figure, than if it had been a doll in the hands of a child. Finding herself ready for bed, the young lady arose, and followed her maid into an adjoining apartment. The lace bar was held up, while she laid herself upon the luxurious couch, and Minny arranged the scented pillow beneath the fair young head. "Anything more, Miss?" "No, Minny; yet stay! That dear little note, hand it to me; and the bottle of ottar of roses." The white fingers of the heiress clasped the exquisitely cut bottle containing the precious perfume, and one clear drop was suffered to fall upon the snowy envelope of the note. She then pressed the paper to her lips, and laid it away beneath her pillow. "Anything more, my lady?" "Yes, Minny. Did you ever have a lover? Some one, Minny, to love you with all his heart, and swear he'd die for you--and to write you such tender letters--and to--and to--" Della Delancey slept with the love-letter of Bernard Wilkins beneath her pillow. Minny had stood with every vestige of color faded from her cheek as her young mistress spoke, and her whole frame quivering with emotion, which she tried in vain to conceal. An expression of relief crossed her features, as her questioner fell away into slumber, and, hastening from the bedside, she sought the outer-room, and flung herself down into the large chair Della had so recently vacated. "Some one to love me," she murmured, brokenly. "Ah! yes, yes! One who swore to love me; one who vowed to cherish me, only to forget his oath. Fool! idiot! that I was, to thus yield up my passionate love, forgetful of my birth! But did he not promise all? Were we not wed? God of the just--who sees me--yes! yes! yes!" Springing to her feet, Minny paced the floor wildly. Her white closed teeth glittered through the portals of her parted lips--her black eyes flashed and sparkled, and rained down the tears among the curls upon her bosom, while her white hands were clutched together, or wrung fiercely. She looked not unlike a personified tigress, lashed into fury by the torment of an enemy. Suddenly her whole aspect changed. The clutched hands unclasped, the tears ceased to fall, the knotted brow relaxed--and, choking down her sobs, Minny approached the bedside of her young mistress. Softly she raised the rose-hued netting, and slid her hand beneath the pillow. It rested there a moment quietly, and then was gently withdrawn, holding the note tightly. Gliding away with her treasure, she seated herself by the lamp, and perused its contents. Every word, every line, every expression of endearment, and every sentence of fondness, she drank eagerly in, and seemed to write upon her heart. Again and again she read it; but there were no more signs of emotion, save that now and then her teeth were pressed tight into her lip, or her hand laid hard against her heart. CHAPTER VIII. _The Prisoners._ What pen can describe the anguish of Arthur, when he found himself the inmate of a watch-house! His arrest had completely sobered him, and his intoxication was succeeded by a deathly and overpowering sickness, which he found it impossible to overcome. His companion treated the whole affair with the utmost indifference, and when the key was turned upon them had thrown himself heavily upon a bench, and immediately gone off into a drunken slumber. There were a few other prisoners besides themselves, bearing such a villainous, cut-throat appearance that Arthur shuddered as he looked at them. As his sickness in a measure subsided, he threw himself face downwards upon the hard, unyielding bench, and to escape the jeers of his companions, drew himself close up in a corner near the door, and pretended to be asleep. But alas! no sleep came to those burning eyeballs through those long--long hours, and though racked with a torturing headache and feverish thirst, he knew no way to relieve himself, and dared not move lest he should again encounter the ridicule of the brutes around him. He thought of himself as he was a few short hours before, wending his way to church at his brother's side, happy in the consciousness of duty well performed, and proud in the love and esteem which he felt were but his due. He contrasted the morning with the night; and saw himself the inmate of a guard-house, herding with men whose very breath seemed crime and profanation, and whose every word was blackened with oaths or curses. He felt that the stain of guilt was on his hitherto pure brow, traced there by the finger of a justly angry God, whose laws he had violated, whose commands he had broken, and whose day he had abused. He thought of the coming morning, with the public trial, when he would be turned forth with the stamp of a thief or drunkard upon him, and the finger of scorn pointing derisively at him. He thought of his blue-eyed, pure-minded brother, mourning his absence, and weeping over his shame. He remembered his mother--and the hot tears, so long pent up, gushed like raindrops through his trembling fingers, and bathed the hands which held that stricken head. A sense of weight and oppression came over him--it seemed as if he could not breathe--and gasping, he sprang from his recumbent position. A glow of relief crossed his features as he saw that all the men around him were asleep, and glancing through the barred window he saw the streaks of light in the east, announcing the approach of day. At this moment he heard the key turned in the lock, and thinking that other prisoners were about being admitted, and not caring either to see or be seen by them, he again threw himself full length upon the bench. An instant more and a gush of cool air swept, over him, and a hand fell cautiously on his shoulder. He raised his head, and met the twinkling eyes of Mr. Clinton fixed upon him. "Hush!" whispered Clinton, laying his finger on his lips, as he saw Arthur about to speak. "Not a word; pick yourself up as noiselessly as you can, and get out of this hole. You are free." Arthur glanced towards the door, and saw there the watchman who had arrested them, standing with a dogged expression of countenance in the gray light, and shaking nervously in his hand a gold coin. He comprehended in a moment, as it were instinctively, that Clinton had procured his release by a bribe; and though he felt to rejoice in his freedom, he shrunk at feeling that he must be under obligations to such a man for it. He drew his hat over his eyes, and went out softly. As he gained the open air, Quirk joined him, leaning on the arm of Mr. Clinton, and evidently not yet wholly recovered from what he was pleased to denominate a "dem fine spree." "See what it is to have a friend, _mon cher_!" exclaimed Clinton, slapping Arthur upon the shoulder. "But for our acquaintance to-day, you might have come up for trial this morning, and been sent down for thirty days. 'Oh! my boy, always consider me one of you.'" "Had I not so far forgotten myself as to be one of _you_ to-day, I would probably have never seen the inside of such a place as this. Whatever expense you may have encountered in my behalf, this night, Mr. Clinton, consider me accountable for, and ready to refund at any moment." Arthur spoke proudly, and experienced a sentiment of utter disgust, as he looked upon the two beings who had led him into sin, and been witnesses to his weakness. He felt that, in a measure, his good name lay in their hands, but he could not bend that proud spirit--humbled and chastened though it then was--to treat them in the slightest degree as his equals, or to accept, unrequited, any favor from such a source. "Don't be huffy, boy," said Clinton, again; "and don't insult me by offering _pay_ for what I've done! It's what I'd expect you to do for me in such a case, and I reckon I'd be a little grateful for it, too." "Don't parley with him," chimed in Quirk, bending to the spout of a public hydrant at the same moment, and drinking a long draught. "You see, Clint, he's a fresh hand at this kind of life, and don't know the ropes yet. Let him alone." Arthur deigned not the slightest reply to this, and hastily turning into a side-street, left Mr. Clinton considerably in the rear, to bring up his "dear friend Quirk." Free from the companionship of beings whom he detested, Arthur removed his hat, and lifted his brow to receive the breath of heaven. The sun was not yet risen, and save the occasional clatter of a market-cart, as it went jostling by, or the sluggish step of some sleepy servant, on his way to procure the breakfast for his fastidious owners, there was no signs of life or business in the streets. Arthur was glad of this, and he thought of the alley-way between the store and the adjoining building, and the steep stairs which led from the back of this alley to his own room, and as he happened to have the key of this door about him, he hoped to effect an entrance by this way, and, if possible, to conceal from his brother the fact of his having been absent all night. Elated by this prospect, he struck into a brisk pace toward Charles-street, and, having gained it, hurried rapidly onward in the direction of the store. He was within two blocks of his destination when two figures suddenly turned the corner ahead, and advanced towards him. There was no mistaking the slender form of the one with golden ringlets floating from his brow, and the tall, stalwart figure of the other was instantly recognized by Arthur, though part of the face was concealed by a handkerchief, tied over the mouth, as if the wearer was suffering from tooth-ache. There was no way of retreat, save to turn short round, and go back, which was something that pride would not permit him to do; so assuming as bold an air as he could, with that heavy heart in his bosom, he walked on and met Guly and Wilkins, face to face. "Ah! Arthur, good morning," said the latter, indifferently, as if nothing had happened; "I see you are enjoying a stroll, as well as ourselves, this fine morning." "Mr. Wilkins has been showing me about the city," said Guly, taking his brother's hand, "and giving me such directions about the streets as will enable me to go round alone." "If your walk is not finished allow me to join you," returned Arthur, slipping his hand through his brother's arm, and turning back with them. He was evidently surprised at the cool manner in which his absence was treated, and had been very far from expecting such a reception. From Guly, at least, he had thought to hear some exclamations of joy at his return, some questions and many reproofs. But this was the course which Wilkins had advised to be pursued before they started out, and Guly obeyed him to the letter. It was, undoubtedly, the best mode they could have hit upon--for, to have questioned him, to have rebuked him, would have been to again arouse that fierce pride, and call forth some false excuse for his behavior. As it was, he was left to believe that Wilkins was unaware of what had passed, and that Guly only guessed half the truth, or, if he did, was kind enough to conceal his thoughts. This roused a glow of generous feeling, and he felt that he could only be happy in confessing all to his brother. The three walked on, chatting carelessly about indifferent matters, until Wilkins declared it to be breakfast time; when they turned back toward their restaurant. As usual, the head clerk ordered his bottle of claret, and, as it was brought on, he offered it to Arthur. An expression of ineffable disgust crossed the youth's face as he refused it, which Wilkins remarked with a quiet, half-concealed smile. It was with a racking headache and a fevered frame, that Arthur took his place in the store that morning. He could not plead illness as a pretext for absence, for there was one who he knew would be there that knew his secret all too well, and he could not trust him with it. As there were but few customers in that morning, however, he drew a stool behind the counter, and seated himself; an act which placed at defiance one of the strictest rules of the establishment. He had scarcely done so when Mr. Delancey entered the door, and passed up between the lines of clerks, with his cold eyes, as usual, turning rapidly hither and thither, never looking for the right, but always for the wrong. As his glance fell upon Arthur he stopped short, and, in a tone loud enough to be heard all over the store, exclaimed:-- "Haven't you been here long enough, young man, to know better than to sit down during business hours?" Arthur rose and put away his stool with a flushed cheek, stammering out something about not feeling quite well that morning. "It's very evident," returned the merchant, running his practised eye over the wan lines of Arthur's face, "that you've been having a Sunday night spree, in order, I s'pose, to have a Monday morning benefit. But it won't do here; stick to your post, and if I catch you in that lounging position again, you lose your place." Without another word the merchant walked to the big desk, holding the head of his walking stick against his lips as he went. Arthur raised his eyes, and although he had striven all the morning to avoid it, he caught the gaze of Charley Quirk fixed upon him, and received a quick, sly wink from his left eye. That wink affected him like a blast of winter wind, and he felt chilled all over. The thought rushed upon him, too, that Charley had been keeping up an artillery of winks like that, to the other clerks, while Mr. Delancey was speaking, and he was assured that his case was understood throughout the house. Wilkins, who had been regarding him steadily from behind the open door, stepped down from his place, and, sauntering towards the proprietor, addressed a few words to him in an under tone. The merchant nodded in reply, impatiently, and waved his hand. The head clerk came back again, and laying his hand on Arthur's shoulder, said, quietly:-- "I overheard you, I think, saying to Mr. Delancey you were not quite well. You are unacclimated, remember, and must take care of yourself. Go up stairs, and see if lying down awhile will not restore you." Although Arthur felt certain now, that Wilkins knew all, he felt inexpressibly grateful for his apparent ignorance of it, and his kindness towards him, and showed as much in his manner. "You hesitate--would you rather not go?" "To tell the truth, Wilkins, I dislike to pass Mr. Delancey on my way to bed. He will see, too, that my place is vacant, and perhaps discharge me." "No! You have his permission to go; your place will be taken care of by the next clerk." "You are very kind." "No--not a bit of it." With a smile upon his pale lips, Arthur stepped out of the front-door, and turned into the narrow alley, which lay between the store and the adjoining building, and which was arched overhead, damp under foot, and hung with dirt and cobwebs. He reached a small door at the further end, which led to the right into a narrow paved court, where was a hydrant, which the clerks used for washing and drink. He stopped here for a moment, to bathe his burning brow and quench his parching thirst. As he bent down to place his lips to the faucet, a dark figure sprang out from beneath the staircase behind, and darted through the alley door, and out of sight. Startled and surprised, Arthur ran down the alley swiftly, in pursuit, and gaining the street, looked anxiously up and down, in a vain hope of seeing some one who would satisfy his curiosity as to who or what it was; for it had passed him so fleetly and lightly, that he could almost believe it had been a shadow. He could see nothing, however; but catching a glimpse of Mr. Clinton, leisurely sauntering down the other side of the street, smoking a cigar, he hurried back, lest he should be seen by him, and locked the alley door behind him, saying, as he did so--"It was a careless trick in whoever left that open; I'll see to it myself in future;" and then walked back to inspect the hiding-place of the shadow, or whatever it was. It was the niche formed by the steep flight of stairs; and, as there was a number of old barrels there, and other rubbish, it afforded a fine place for concealment, especially on a dark night. As it was directly in front of the hydrant, and Arthur's back had in the first place been toward it, whoever was there had evidently feared detection, when he should turn round, and so fled. Into this court the long windows of the back part of the store opened, and it was this way that Minny had found egress on the night of her visit to Wilkins; and it was this way that Jeff, whose invariable honesty rendered him a privileged character about the place, always found egress on Sundays, and other hours when the store was closed. Musing upon the circumstances which had just occurred, Arthur took the way to his room, and flung himself upon his bed. It was easy to see what had been Guly's occupation during the previous day of loneliness. There lay the Bible open, on the little rough stand; there was the strip of carpet rumpled before the chair, where he had been kneeling--and there was the folded letter, sealed and directed to his mother. Arthur turned upon his pillow with a moan. How differently had his Sabbath been spent, and how different, in consequence, were his Monday morning reflections! But his sorrow was not a repentant sorrow. It had been in the morning, when he first met Guly and Wilkins, but he was changed now. Had he not been rebuked harshly by his employer, in the presence of all the clerks? Had he not been openly accused of the error he had committed, read through and through by those cold, staring eyes? Had not the attention of all the clerks been turned towards him, and his secret been laid bare to them by the merchant's reproof, and quick, malicious glances? There was no longer any need of further concealment, with the resolution of future improvement--it was all known--and to draw back henceforth, would be but to be reminded that he had already fallen once, and could never retake the step he had made. Such was the view Arthur took of the case, however false a light his pride may have cast upon it; and he buried his face, with the glow of shame upon it, deep in the pillow, while, with bitter resentment, his young heart traced it all back to the primal cause--the contemptuous repulse he had met with at Delancey's pew door. It is not a question for reflection, where the punishment for Arthur's first real sin should rest? Was it for that young heart, till now free from all taint or corruption, save the corruption of pride, to suffer alone? or was it for the older and stronger spirit--the spirit stronger still in pride, and so much older in firmness, and power, and discipline, to bear its share? CHAPTER IX. _Contrition._ At noontime Guly told Wilkins that if he would bring him a trifle of fruit from the Restaurant, or something of that kind, he would spend the time allowed him for dinner with his brother, and would much prefer it. Wilkins very cordially assented, and Guly mounted the winding stairs slowly and thoughtfully, pushed open the old door at the head of the staircase, which was covered with the big-lettered advertisements, and stood before his sleeping brother. The bar was drawn back; and, fully dressed, Arthur lay upon the humble bed. Perhaps the first plunge into dissipation leaves a deeper impression on youthful beauty, than the continued practice begun in older years. Guly was startled at the change in his brother's features, which one night of excitement had wrought. He could see it now, as he lay there sleeping, more perfectly than when he had been with him in the morning, with his face full of ever-varying expression. There was a wasting upon the skin; deep black marks beneath the eyes; the lips were pale, and the nose seemed pinched; and his whole appearance was that of one convalescing after a severe fit of sickness. Guly approached, and taking a low seat by the bedside, laid his face softly down beside his brother's on the pillow, and reaching over, clasped his fingers gently round one burning hand. He lay quite still, with his eyes fixed upon the sleeper's face. Who could tell, save He who knoweth all things, what thoughts were rushing through that throbbing heart, as it nestled there closer and closer, to all it held dear in that distant land? The blue eyes filled suddenly full of tears, bright and pure, even as that boy's path of life had ever been, and dropped down, one by one, upon the pillow. There was no visible cause for them, but they kept falling, those pure bright tears, till the fair cheeks over which they fell were bathed, and the pillow damped. Was there a shadow-like presentiment creeping over that young spirit then, telling him to nestle close, close, for the time was coming when those two hearts would throb no more beside each other, and that the waves of life's ocean would some day cast one upon the shore, and bear the other far out to sea? Even so! It was dim, ghost-like, and undefined; but still the shadow flitted there darkly! The sleeper turned restlessly, and uttered a plaintive moan. It was not a moan of pain, but one of sympathy; as if the grief in the heart beside him had crept into his own. He lifted one arm wearily, and it fell back upon the pillow, and the unconscious fingers lifted the rings of jetty hair from the fevered brow. That bright brow! that pale, proud brow! how it gleamed out in contrast with those glossy curls. Guly gazed upon it, then lifted his head and kissed it; and the tears, still quivering on his lashes, fell upon it--that brother's brow! Arthur opened his eyes, and gazed up steadily at the face bent over him. There was something in the expression of that face which went over his heart like a strain of touching music. He could not bear that it should be turned away from him, or that he should lose it, and he raised both hands, and, laying them among the silken curls, held it there. "Oh, Guly! Guly! do you know all?" "Dear Arthur! don't speak of this." "Yet you have sorrowed for me; you have grieved, and been silent, and unreproachful. Oh, Guly! what a wretch I am!" "Hush, Arthur! oh, don't, don't!" The tears fell down again, unrestrainedly, upon that pale brow, gleaming up from the jetty locks, and for a moment neither spoke. "I feel, Guly, as though I had taken a long leap into sin--such a long one, that I shall never get back; and everything seems at work to keep me in it. What shall I ever, ever do--I am so weak--so--so--" "Oh, Arthur, look up--look ever up. God's finger points out the way to you from the sky; trust yourself to its holy guidance, and be strong." "Guly, I can't. It seems a long while since I prayed at all--since yesterday I seem to have lived an age, and it is black, all black!" "Nay, Arthur, you have wandered a few hours from the fold, and your sight is darkened; but the Great Shepherd calls to you with His gentle voice to return. Listen, and obey." "I should only fall again." "Trust, and you shall be strengthened." "Oh, Guly, I have not your mind nor heart. I cannot be patient, and meek, and charitable, through all things, as you can; I have so much pride that I _cannot_ calmly bear reproof, and here I am fretted, and crushed, and ridiculed into sin all the time, and am too weak to make resistance." "Try, and remember in your heart _how_ we are here. Bear in your mind that we no longer have the wealth or influence that we once had; and that if we ever are to have them again, depends upon the way we acquit ourselves here. Learn to bear and forbear; and in the end, Arthur, you will come out so brightly, with your pride perhaps subdued, but not conquered, and we shall once more be happy." Arthur sighed. "And oh, Arthur! oh, my brother! think, we two are all to each other here. We have nought to lean upon save each other's love and _Him_. Dear Arthur, if you should--if one of us should be led into temptation, and should fall, and should go down into the pit of sin, what a blank would be the existence of the other! Oh! let us pray that our hearts may be bound together, and that no shadow may be allowed to fall upon or divide us." "Oh, Guly, Guly!" Arthur started up, and throwing his arms about his brother's form, as he crept up closer to his side, drew the bright head down upon his bosom, and held it there, rocking backwards and forwards where he sat. "Pray God, indeed!" he murmured, earnestly, lifting his swimming eyes to Heaven, "that I may sin no more. That I may ever keep bright the links of this dear love, which is to us as the thread of life; and oh! may He whose ways are the ways of righteousness, take us by the hand, like little children, and guide our steps aright." "Amen! Amen!" CHAPTER X. _The Merchant at Home._ It was late when Della awoke, and Minny lay with her cheek on her hand, just fallen into her first sleep. "Minny! Minny!" "Bernard!" murmured the girl, in her half-disturbed sleep. "Minny, I say!" "Yes, Miss." "Bring me my watch, Min, and show me the hour. Didn't I hear you say 'Bernard,' just now, in your sleep? You haven't any Bernard; that's for me to say." "No, Miss, I haven't any Bernard." "Well, then, you shouldn't talk so in your sleep." "True enough." "Well, no matter, Minny; it wasn't my Bernard you mean't, I am quite sure. May be you were talking about those priests on that great snowy mountain, somewhere in the world, which you made me so sleepy reading about the other evening?" "The Monks of St. Bernard, Miss." "Yes; how droll!" "Will you get up, Miss Della?" "Yes; how late, Min? I forgot to look, after all." "A quarter past nine." "Papa must have gone." "He never goes down street before seeing you." "Dear papa! Minny, wheel my little chair in front of the dressing-glass. I'll be with you in a second." "It is ready, Miss." "There, Min, I left my note under my pillow! Bring it, and let me read it again while you dress my hair." Minny obeyed. "Minny, I wonder if it's as delightful to be a wife as it is to have a lover?" "It seems strange to hear you talking about either, Miss." "Why, Minny, I am old enough, I am sure." "Yes, but you seem so very young; no one thinks about your being married yet." "Mother does." "Not to this man, Miss Della. For worlds I wouldn't dictate; but, Miss, if all this secresy and deceit ends as it seems it will, isn't it going to break your mother's heart?" "I expect so, Minny; every mother's heart is broken when her daughter gets married; but it heals up always, and is as good as ever." Oh! Della, Della! "But, Miss, when she finds how deceitful you have been, after all her doting kindness, and love, and--" "Don't be tiresome, Minny. Deceitful! oh, that's awful--you know I never was deceitful." "No, no! There, don't cry! Call it secresy or anything; but when it is discovered, I say, think what a house of misery this will be." "Well, Minny, if there's misery it won't be my fault, I'm sure. You know very well that papa wouldn't have me notice Bernard, much more than I would Black Voltaire. If he would, don't you suppose I would be very glad to show him all my letters, and to tell him how we love each other, and all that? But now, if I did, he'd rave, and go into a furious passion, shut me up, maybe, and send Bernard to Europe, or some other horrid place. Oh, I should be frightened to death." "That's the very thing, Miss; he looks so high for you." "Bernard is just as high as papa was when he first came here,--but there's another thing; don't you know I'm not allowed to see any one an instant alone, that wears pantaloons? The very instant that a gentleman calls, and says he'd like to see Miss Della, doesn't papa or mamma, or that provoking old governess, march straight into the parlor, and receive them before me? And isn't it very provoking? Why, even little Charley Devans, a boy three years younger than I, called to tell me a little innocent secret his sister had sent by him, and wasn't there mamma, as straight as a marshal, in one chair, and my governess, stiff as my new parasol-top, in the other, and he couldn't say a word? But you know he met me in the street that day you walked out with me, and told me all about it." "Yes, Miss, but this is all for your good." "No, Minny, it is all for my hurt. Though, maybe, they don't know it. Now, don't you see that if young Mr. Devans could have seen me alone but one little minute that day, he wouldn't have planned a clandestine meeting, and so make me do a very naughty thing, by walking alone with him, after having been charged never to walk alone with any gentleman?" "Yes, Miss." "Well, Minny, I don't often reflect, you know--but the other day, after I had received a note from Bernard, I sat down and reflected a long time. And it was on this subject. And I came to the conclusion, that all this watching--just raise that bandeau a trifle higher--and spying, for it is nothing else, on the part of mammas and governesses, has a very bad tendency, indeed. Don't you see that it throws a kind of mystery about the men, and, right away, young girls--and it's natural for young girls to be curious--want to find out what there is so very awful about them, and go to work to do it?" Minny looked up surprised; she had never heard her mistress talk so fast and so long before. "And then, Minny, see how many very young girls get married to men almost old enough to be their grandfathers, here. Can't you see the reason? It's so that they can be their own mistresses, and say and do what they like. I've had them tell me so after marriage; and then they're almost always sure to begin to flirt a little, and enjoy themselves in this happy way they ought to have been left to do when single; and then their old curmudgeons of husbands get jealous, and angry, and then there are dreadful times! Oh, dear! I think it is a terrible state of society! "Now, Minny, I'll tell you just how I feel when a gentleman calls here. There's mamma, and maybe the governess, in the parlor (now I would rather have them there than not, if I didn't know just what they were there for;) well, the governess fixes her eyes on me when I go in, and seems to say, 'Don't forget your Grecian bend;' and mamma looks down at my feet, and seems to say, 'Be sure and turn out your toes'--and the consequence is, I forget both, and feel red all over, and know that I'm acting like a very silly little fool. I sit down, and both pairs of those eyes are on me; and both pairs of those ears are wide open, and I'm as ungraceful as a giraffe; when I know, if left to act naturally, and wasn't watched all the time, I could appear very well. Then a young man here, no matter of how high family he is, or how good or how worthy, if he happens to be ever so poor, and feels as if he'd like to take some young lady to a play or concert, or anything, he's not only got to take her, but two or three duennas to keep himself and her straight; and it's such a tax on him, that if he does it often he's always poor; and then mothers turn up their noses at him, and say he's not eligible, and all that. "Who could have been more strict, as it is called, with any daughter than Madame Gerot with Louise? Yet see how admirably she turned out! _Mon Dieu!_ it was frightful! Then there's a dozen other cases I could cite almost like her. I tell you, Minny, young people can't learn each other's characters at all, unless they're alone by themselves a little time. But here, a man must pay his devoirs, and make his proposals, with a third person's eyes upon him all the time; and has almost to court the mother as much as the daughter, if not more. Oh! these things make courting very unpleasant, and marriage sometimes very unhappy, when both should be the happiest seasons of one's life. Ah, me! it's very hard to have mothers always act as if their daughters hadn't judgment enough to be trusted alone a minute." "Do daughters prove themselves trustworthy always, Miss, when they are left alone?" "If mothers would make daughters trustworthy, Minny, I tell you they must trust them. Society is not conducted in this manner in the North, yet I believe the young people there are better by far than they are here. But I don't care much about it now. I used to--but I shall be married some day to the man I want, and be happy in my own way. "There, Minny, does that fold, just arranged, look well? Do I appear quite elegant and pretty now?" "Quite, Miss." "What a long lecture I've read you, Minny. I feel quite exhausted, I declare, and quite like going to bed again. Here's Bernard's letter--put it with the rest, and take precious, precious care of it." Fanning herself languidly, Della moved slowly away towards the breakfast-room. A servant stood waiting to open the door for her, with an obsequious bow, and she stood in the presence of her parents. "Dear dort!" cried her mother, (making as she thought an affectionate abbreviation of daughter,) "what is the matter that you look so flushed and excited this morning? Your cheeks are really vulgarly red; dear me, I hope they'll pale off a little before evening." "Good morning, Della," said Mr. Delancey, formally, who even at home sat in his usual position, bolt upright in his chair; "good morning; I'm glad to see that you have acquired a graceful manner of entering a breakfast-room." "If I keep on improving, papa, you will give me the promised winter in Havana I suppose?" "I suppose so, my child. I wish to make you very happy." There was a softness in Mr. Delancey's cold eyes, as he spoke, which one would no sooner have expected to see there, than they would thought to have seen a rock melt. Only his daughter could bring it there. "Miss Della," said the governess, "your attitude is a trifle too stiff--a little more of the bend, if you please." Miss Della tipped a little. "Dort, darling," said Mrs. Delancey, "pray don't display such an appetite--it is really frightful to see you eat so much. A young lady like you should be very delicate at table." "And pay long visits to the cupboard between meals, eh, mamma?" Mr. Delancey looked anxiously to note the progress his daughter had made in the viands before her. "Don't do anything _outré_ in public, Della, no matter what you are obliged to do in private." "No, papa." "I want to see you very perfect in all things,--in all things, Della--do you understand?" "Yes, papa." "Make it your aim to be everything a young lady can be. Remember you are all the child that's left me now. All my hopes are upon you--try never, never to disappoint me!" Mr. Delancey rarely spoke so feelingly--it was a rare manner for him, and the effect of his words was very strange. Della's elegantly embroidered kerchief was clasped suddenly to her face, and she burst into a violent fit of weeping. "Della, how un-self-possessed! you astonish me." "You shouldn't have made that allusion to her brother," said Mrs. Delancey, sympathizingly. "Dry your eyes immediately, Della; I am ready to go," said her father, sternly. Della choked back her tears, and rising, approached her father, and gracefully put her lips to his forehead, and gave the usual morning kiss. "No more scenes to-day, Della." "No, papa." The door closed, and he was gone. CHAPTER XI. "Then I'll look up; My fault is past. But oh, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? Try what repentance can: what can it not? Yet what can it, when one cannot repent?" Hamlet. When Guly returned to his place that afternoon, Arthur was at his side; and when both raised their eyes to Wilkins' face, as they passed him, he read there an expression of calm tranquillity, such a trustful, happy look of hopefulness, that he could not restrain the cheering smile of encouragement, which came up to his lips in answer. A great change had taken place in Arthur's face--or rather in its expression. There was no longer the glance of proud defiance in the eye--the flash of wounded pride upon the cheek, or curl of scorn upon the lip. All was subdued and quiet, and seemed to whisper of a peaceful, contrite heart. Still he studiously avoided the eye of Charley Quirk, and also seemed to wish to appear oblivious of the presence of the flint-eyed being sitting stiffly at the high desk. He could not trust himself to meet the gaze of either, lest the storm of pride and revenge, so lately banished from his breast, should return again in full force,--sweeping away, with its ocean strength, all the great resolves of future good, which he had piled up as a barrier against the door of evil in his heart. Though his sleep in a degree refreshed him, his head still ached; and throughout his whole frame he experienced that feverish debility and painful soreness ever attendant upon a night of dissipation and exposure. With a firm heart Arthur filled his place, and performed his duties unshrinkingly, cheered and encouraged by the beaming face of his brother, which ever and anon was turned toward him, with such a look of happy confidence and love, that it could not fail to carry inspiration with it. Then night came; and after the goods, which during the day had been pulled down, were properly replaced, Guly took his brother's arm, and started out for a walk. They strolled slowly along toward the Place D'Arms, which then possessed all that natural beauty, in the shape of its green lawns and ancient sycamores, which fashion has since seen fit to regard as an eyesore, and to remove for ever thence. They were silent; for the mind of each was busily occupied with its own reflections; reflections good and effective in themselves, yet to which neither wished at that moment to give utterance, and no allusion, however distant, was made to the events of the previous day. Suddenly, a trembling hand was laid on Guly's arm, and a supplicating voice murmured humbly: "Un picayune, Monsieur; in pity, Monsieur, one picayune to buy me bread." By the light of a street lamp, Guly saw a pale and wrinkled face, in which deep lines of grief or misfortune were deeply traced, raised pleadingly toward him. The face was so old, yet so very much lower than himself, that he at first thought the speaker must be in a sitting posture there, beneath the lamp. But a second glance showed to his wondering gaze the veriest dwarf his eyes had ever fallen upon. In height, the figure was not taller than a child of four years; yet the head was very large, the face possessed of its full growth of cunning and experience, the shoulders broad, but painfully humped, and the whole upper portion of the body immensely too large for the short and slender limbs, which served for its support. And yet, as if all this wretched deformity were not enough, one leg was shorter than the other, and the foot was a club one. To assist him in walking, he carried a pair of crutches, apparently much too long for him, which raised his spindle arms in their loose sockets, and rendered the hump more horrible. When he moved, his crutches spread out on either side of him, as he swung along between them, taking up a vast deal of room without any apparent necessity. His coat had apparently been the property of some great man of the previous century, for it was braided and embroidered, and trimmed to an extent rarely seen in the present age; and the immense holes in the elbows, and the tatters in the skirt, laughed heartily at the rusty trimmings which it bore. It was so long and large too, that it almost precluded the necessity of any other clothes, for it quite enveloped his whole person, as he swung along between his crutches, dragged on the ground behind like the train of a lady's dress. His pantaloons had also once belonged to some full grown specimen of humanity, but had been torn off to suit the dimensions of the present owner--and, altogether, the appearance of this miserable object, with his one blind eye, and the cunning leer in the other, was calculated to excite both pity and disgust. The brothers looked upon him for a moment in mute astonishment, until again startled by that squeaking, supplicating voice--"Un picayune, Monsieur--one picayune to buy me bread!" Guly took a dime from his purse, and dropped it into the ragged cap which the beggar extended, while he held his crutches by pressing his arms close to his body. As the piece dropped into its ragged receptacle, he shook it up from the greasy folds, and tipped his left eye down to look upon it, not unlike a vulture glancing down at its prey. After eyeing it a moment, he held the cap toward Arthur, as if expecting something from that quarter. Arthur had already searched every pocket for the change, which he felt certain was there the day before; but, to his utter astonishment, it was all gone, together with a very beautiful portemonnaie his mother had given him when he left her, and in which, the day before, he had placed two ten dollar bills, for the purpose of sending home when he should write. He knew he could not have spent it all in yesterday's rout, and the conviction forced itself painfully upon his mind that he had been robbed. As the mendicant held forth his cap, he shook his head, and showed his empty hands, at which movement the old man raised his eyebrows inquisitively, and muttered a most disagreeable and chuckling "Hih! hih! hih! hih!" He then picked out the dime with trembling fingers, and slipped it quickly into some unseen deposit about his person; then, with one more lift of his grey brows, adjusted his crutches, and swung himself away. The brothers gazed after the receding figure, until the mist entirely obscured it, and the skirts of the long coat could no longer be heard trailing on the pavement; then, again linking their arms, proceeded on their way. Although Guly dwelt wonderingly upon the incident they had just met with, Arthur maintained a moody silence; nor could aught that his brother said, direct his thoughts from the new course the recent event had turned them upon. The time had been, when the loss he had met with would have been regarded as one of no importance whatever; but he felt now, and deeply felt, that it was more than he could afford to spend foolishly, more than even his generous impulses would have allowed him to charitably dispose of, and more by far than he could patiently submit to be defrauded of. As he thought thus, his good resolutions of the morning in a measure melted away before his indignant resentment, and vague plans were floating through his mind, as to how he might and would recover it, the bearing he should feel called upon to assume when next he met Mr. Clinton, &c., &c. To tell Guly of the loss he had sustained, after some reflection, he decided was out of the question. True, he had been gentle and forbearing with regard to all that had passed, but he would not reveal this new discovery to him--perhaps dreading more the rebuking silence of those loving lips, than the stormy reproaches he might have met with from another source. Guly had seen that nothing had been bestowed upon the beggar by his brother; but he forbore to question him, lest it should lead them upon a subject unpleasant to both; and thus grew up the first concealment between those hitherto confiding hearts. Reaching the square, they passed through the gate, and turned into a grassy walk, to enjoy ever so small a glimpse of verdant country scenes. Strolling on, they came suddenly upon a figure reclining at full length upon a bench, and smoking a cigar. As they approached, there was something in the man's appearance that seemed to startle Arthur, for he clutched his brother's arm closer, and turned abruptly to the left; but he was too late to pass unperceived, for, with a bound, the reclining figure gained its feet, and in an instant more Arthur's hand received a cordial grasp, while Mr. Clinton, as nicely dressed, as neatly curled, and as delicately perfumed as ever, stood before him. CHAPTER XII. "How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds Makes ill deeds done!" "My dear fellow, how glad I am to meet you!" cried Clinton, cordially extending his hand in a manner which permitted the diamond on his finger to catch the light, in what he thought a most bewildering glitter. Arthur would have shunned him, as his new resolutions and good genius prompted him to do; but there was that graceful form half-bent for his greeting, there was that smiling face, looking its hearty "How are you?" there was the social yet searching glance of that glittering eye, all saying, "Shake hands with me," and Arthur did. "Mr. Clinton, how do you do?" "Well, my boy, well; really hope you've got over the effects of your Carrolton ride. By-the-by, Quirk got you into that muss, not I, by Jove! You were inclined to be a little huffy this morning; however you were excusable--that's all forgotten. You'll do me justice now--there, give me your hand again, and tell me you consider me one of you." Arthur's generous heart could not withstand this merry, good-humored, yet apparently sincere appeal, and the hand was again given. He thought, too, that he might have been unjust in his reflections about Clinton, for he had met him only by chance on his way to Carrolton, and in truth he had urged him to no wrong, but had only joined him in what he was already doing. Then, had he not kindly been the means of liberating him from the watch-house, when he might otherwise have been left to meet the shame and expense of a public trial? Verily, he had much for which to be grateful to Mr. Clinton, and with one of those sudden impulses, natural to a hasty temper and impetuous spirit, he sought instantly to make amends for what now seemed the unjust and unkindly sentiments he had all day been entertaining toward his new friend. "Mr. Clinton, I fear I have blamed you most wrongfully. However, let all this, as you say, be forgotten." "That's it, my boy, I knew I wasn't mistaken in you. You've just the heart there, in your bosom, that I was sure you had when I first saw you. Believe me, I am proud to know that heart." Arthur was but human, and, like all humanity, the gilded pill of flattery was swallowed without the aid of sweetmeats. He could not but remember, with a great deal of compunction, the great wrong he had, as he felt, done Clinton in harboring towards him such unkindly thoughts. "Oh, Mr. Clinton, pray pardon my neglect!" said he, suddenly turning toward that young gentleman. "Allow me to make you acquainted with my brother. Gulian--Mr. Clinton." Guly bowed distantly. Those young eyes had seen deeper into the heart before him, in the few minutes that he had been an observer of its impulses, than Arthur had seen, or at least decided upon, in forty-eight hours of mingled acquaintanceship and reflection. True, the boy knew but little of the world; but there are some, and they are not the worldly and suspicious, but the pure-minded and gentle, that shrink intuitively from a polluting presence, scarce knowing from what they shrink. There was much in Mr. Clinton which Guly saw to dread, as a companion for his brother; and, at their first recognition, he was assured it was one of Arthur's yesterday acquaintances, and felt a pang of disappointment at not seeing him differently received by his brother. "Where are you strolling?" asked Mr. Clinton, breaking a pause, which had followed Guly's cool reception of himself. "Merely out for a walk," returned Arthur; "it's only before and after business hours, you know, that we have time for recreation." "True, true," replied the other, stroking his chin, and speaking in a commiserating tone. "Ah, that must be terribly dull business, for young chaps like you. I always pity a clerk." "Indeed, sir," said Guly, "we neither deserve nor need pity; we have everything to make us contented and happy in our new situation, and appreciate it, I assure you." Mr. Clinton glanced for an instant keenly at the speaker, then answered, with a light laugh:-- "Yes, yes, just so; I didn't apply my remark beyond myself; in fact, it's something _I_ never could stand." "We have extended our walk as far as we intended for to-night, have we not, brother? Mr. Clinton, we bid you good evening," said Guly, as they, for the third time, gained the gate by which they had entered the square. Mr. Clinton looked up in astonishment. "No! you don't mean to leave so? Come, let's just step over to Royal-street, and take a glass of soda-water. You will find it so refreshing." Poor Arthur "felt his pockets bare," and was about to refuse, when Mr. Clinton slipped a hand through his arm, and drew him with him, saying, as he did so:-- "You know it's _my_ treat this time, Pratt. Don't refuse a friend." As Arthur moved away with him, Guly determined not to leave his side for an instant, while in the presence of so dangerous a companion, and though his heart went down as he saw Arthur thus forgeting all his new-formed resolutions, yet he hoped for the best, and went with him resolutely. They entered a richly ornamented saloon, where all that could please the palate or tickle the taste was most temptingly displayed; and Clinton, tossing a gold half-eagle upon the marble counter, called for "a few choice titbits and a bottle of wine." As the last desideratum was named, Guly glanced anxiously toward his brother, but Arthur's eye was turned another way, and when the collation was brought he sat readily down at the table by Clinton's side. Guly did not wish to appear ill-bred or impolite, and he accepted the hearty invitation of his new acquaintance to "sit by," with as good a grace as he could command. Of the wine, however, he could not be prevailed upon to touch a drop--though he did not fail to perceive the sneer that curled Mr. Clinton's thin lip at his refusal. "You don't mean to say," said the last mentioned gentleman, half-pityingly, "that you expect to remain in New-Orleans any length of time without learning to drink wine?" "I shall never touch a drop, sir, unless absolutely necessary in a case of sickness." "Bah! anybody would know you were from the North, my dear fellow, just by that speech. Nobody hesitates to drink wine here, unless those who are too poor to pay for it"--and the speaker glanced keenly, but slyly, at Guly's face, then added: "Why, it's impossible here to avoid drinking, even if you would. A young man calls upon a lady, and the first thing she thinks of offering him after a seat is a glass of wine. It is always there on the sideboard, and to refuse would be an act of utter impoliteness. What could you do in such a case, my boy, eh?" "I should, I hope, have sufficient courage to tell the young lady I never drank, and must be excused; and if she liked me the less for it, I would bear in mind that if such an act deprived me of her good will, her good will certainly was not worth retaining." "I should like to see you tried once, with a pretty girl in the case," returned Clinton, gulping down a second glass. "I cannot wonder at the depraved state of society in this city," said Guly, earnestly, "when woman, who should be the first to frown upon and discountenance such practices, not only is the tempter, but the hearty partaker of them. I am certain if the other sex were more strict--would positively refuse to attend places of amusement on Sabbath evenings, would refrain utterly from drinking wine themselves, and offering it to others--there would be a great change here for the better. Woman little thinks how much of man's depravity can be traced back to be laid upon her shoulders." "Nonsense!" said Clinton, with a short laugh. "Women, you'll find when you've been here long enough, have less to do with it than rain-water full of wriggle-tails, as they call those young animals that fill our cisterns in summer time, and the no less disagreeable--to one not a native here--muddy water from the river as a beverage. One is absolutely forced to 'tip the goblet red,' in order to have something palatable to rinse down his food. Woman, indeed! Poh! come, have a glass, and be social." "No," said Guly, firmly, drawing back; "I will not drink. However you may scoff, Mr. Clinton, at woman's influence, it is to that I impute my strength to withstand temptation here. My last promise to my mother, was never to become a wine-bibber, and I shall keep it." "Bravo!" exclaimed Clinton. "Here's a bumper to your resolution and your mother," and touching glasses with Arthur, he swallowed the contents of his goblet; though his companion, with conscience awakened in his breast by his brother's words, scarcely touched the sparkling beverage to his lips. "You spoke of the depravity of this city, also"--continued Clinton, shoving back from the table, and wiping his lips. "It isn't, in my opinion, one-half, or, to say the least, any more depraved than any of your Northern cities. The only difference is, here everything is done open and above board; what sin there is, is before your eyes, and you don't feel when you tread our streets, that you are walking over hidden hells, and sunken purgatories, which is, I think, more than you can say in behalf of your Northern cities. Now, isn't it?" "The fact of all the dissipation and Sabbath-breaking here being openly carried on, is the very worst argument, Mr. Clinton, you could bring forward. It proves how much worse the tendency, when it can so harden the heart of society as to regard it without a shudder, and to look upon such things as right. Sunday absolutely loses its identity here, in the manner in which it is kept; and a little more law, more rigidly enforced, would, I am certain, elevate the standard of society into a purer and more ennobling atmosphere. If men still persisted in sin, the fear of punishment would force them to keep out of sight of those who would be Christians, which, for some, must be really a hard matter now. Yesterday, in coming from church, I met a full company of soldiers, in complete uniform, out for a drill. I passed many stores thronged with customers, even as on a week-day, and received an invitation to attend a horse-race on the Metarie Course; all of which, you will admit, was in jarring discordance with the sermon upon which I was trying to reflect, and the Prayer-Book in my hand." Clinton burst into a loud laugh. "The time will come when you'll know better than to reflect upon sermons here, and will put your Prayer-Book in your pocket, instead of carrying it in your hand. People go to church in this place to see and be seen; to learn the fashions and see new faces--not to remember sermons or read prayers. I heard a minister declare, the other day, that he could preach a sermon over every six weeks, and not one in twenty of his hearers would remember to have heard it before. I've had serious thoughts of turning minister myself; donning a gray wig and white cravat, and 'spounding the Bible, as the blacks say, to my deluded hearers. 'Pon honor, it's the most lucrative situation a poor devil can have. Preaching a short sermon, morning and night, to an inattentive but fashionable congregation, who are sure to make a minister popular among 'em, if he don't touch their peculiar sins too closely, give him an immense salary, let him off on full pay for four months in a year, and pay his debts when he accepts a call in another quarter." "A comfortable situation, I must confess," said Arthur, with a smile. "When you take a stand in the pulpit count upon me for one of your hearers." "A thousand thanks for your promised patronage," returned Mr. Clinton, with a bow of mock gravity; "but suppose we discuss the matter moving;" and rising, he led the way into the street. As much as Guly wished to be rid of Mr. Clinton's society, he saw the thing was impossible, at least at present, and submitted to a farther endurance of it with as much suavity as possible. Still keeping by his brother's side, he walked on in silence, anxiously awaiting the moment when their companion should see fit to leave them. "Hallo!" cried Clinton, suddenly stopping before an illuminated window, and peering earnestly into it, "the new numbers for the next lottery are up; come on, let's go in, and take one jointly." Arthur thought of his lost portemonnaie, and felt strongly tempted to run the risk of recovering his money in that way; but he remembered that he had nothing wherewith to buy a ticket, and hesitated. "Don't," said Guly, earnestly, "don't be led into such folly, Arthur. Come, let's go back to the store." "Not till you have tried your luck once," said Clinton, persuasively; "come, it is but a trifle if you lose it, and think of the chance you run." "I've left my purse at home," said Arthur, blushing at the falsehood he stooped to utter; "I would really like to join, but can't to-night, really." "Pooh! if the money is all, I'll advance that; and you can pay me when you like. Come along." Arthur entered the shop reluctantly, it is true, yet ashamed to confess to his social, open-hearted companion, the compunction he felt. The ticket was purchased, and half given to Arthur. "If you are determined to purchase a ticket, Arthur," said Guly, gravely, "I must insist that you do not run in debt to Mr. Clinton for it," and opening his purse, he handed to that gentleman the sum just expended for his brother's half of the ticket. "You are very particular," remarked Clinton, with something like a sneer, and pocketing the change, while he glanced with a look of impertinent curiosity at Guly's grave but beautiful features. "Do you go our way?" inquired Arthur, turning toward him as they left the shop. "No; sorry to say I don't," returned Clinton, lighting a cigar, and offering one to each of the brothers, who refused it. "I am really sorry to part with you; but if you must go, good-night," and with a graceful move of the hand, the young gentleman bade an adieu to his friends, and turning down another street, was soon out of sight. The brothers walked on for some distance in silence. Guly was the first to speak. "Have you enjoyed your walk, Arthur, as much as you would have done, had we been left to enjoy ourselves in our own way?" "Well, I must say, Guly, that I've had a pleasant time. I think young Clinton a charming fellow, and must confess he has enlivened the last hour exceedingly." "And your heart and conscience are both quite as unburthened as they would have been had you not met him?" "I'm sure I've done nothing to burden either, Gulian," returned Arthur, somewhat impatiently. "You must remember I am several years older than you are, and am expected to act differently from a mere boy like yourself." "Did you remember that yesterday was your twenty-first birthday?" inquired Guly, quietly. "No!" said Arthur, with a slight start; "and your sixteenth birthday was last Monday! How differently have they passed from what they used to do at home, when they were always celebrated together." "Mother must have remembered us yesterday," remarked Guly. "How she would have loved but to look over here upon us!" "I would not have had her seen me yesterday!" exclaimed Arthur, warmly, "for all the wealth this city ever saw. Her heart would have broken." "Yet you persist in recognizing your yesterday's companions, and in a measure practising yesterday's pursuits. Mother never allowed wine to make its appearance on our birthday-fetes, my brother." "True, but that was in the North, and our parents were always very strict. What would you have me do when I meet such a social companion as Clinton? He has such a pleasant, happy way with him, that one really can't refuse him; and for my part, a glass of wine, more or less, will hurt nobody, I guess, materially." "The social glass has been many a man's ruin, dear Arthur; and it is better to resist temptation in the beginning, than to fight the influence of liquor in the end. I wish I could coax you to promise never to taste another drop." "What folly," said Arthur, laughing. "Why, my little Puritan, as long as it is the custom here, why not indulge a little? I think I can promise you never to be intoxicated. I shall shun that. But when I'm with young men of such habits, it would seem very odd in me to refuse, and I must now and then take a harmless glass." "Then, Arthur, why not choose companions of different habits? You certainly will admit such a course is wrong for any young man. See the influence even, which Clinton's society has had upon you this evening. He has really induced you to think such practices here are allowable, and even commendable. This morning, without arguing the case, you voluntarily confessed it to be very wrong. Oh, Arthur, I already begin to wish we were out of this dreadful place." "You are a chicken-hearted little body," returned Arthur, playfully; then speaking more gravely, he continued: "Well, Guly, it is not, after all, so much my fault. I am of an age to wish to enjoy myself. I have been accustomed to having every comfort and happiness around me; the fond love and refined society of a mother, together with the noble presence and good advice of our father. Look at the change! We have come here poor, but with delicate and luxurious tastes. We have no father, no mother, no home. One rough and dingy apartment to sleep in, is the only spot we can look upon and call ours, and that we share in common with the refuse lumber of the store and a colony of spiders and bedbugs. Beyond our washer-woman, we haven't the acquaintance of a single member of the other sex in this city; and, apart from each other, not one to call a friend. It isn't a very pleasant state of affairs to reflect upon, Guly; and this morning, when I lay alone up stairs on the bed, I couldn't keep from thinking that these wealthy merchants who employ so many clerks have much to answer for." "How so, Arthur? You surely couldn't expect a merchant to direct and govern the private pursuits of every young man in his employ?" "No, surely not. Those clerks who have their homes and relatives here in the city, are well enough off; but when, like us, they come from the North, without even an acquaintance here, wouldn't it be better, not only for the clerks, but for the merchant himself, if he would show a little kindly interest in them and their welfare? Here, for instance, are ourselves: Mr. Delancey was made acquainted by our first letter with all the train of circumstances which forced _us_ to this course. He is well aware that our family is as good as his own, and why then has he not said to us that we would be welcome visitors at his house, and thus given us one place where we might occasionally spend our leisure hours, and call it home? Would it not at once have placed us in our own sphere, and kept us from looking for social friends among strangers, of whose character we know nothing? With the firm standing and position that Mr. Delancey has here in society, to have taken this kindly notice of us could not have lowered or affected him one particle in the social scale, and would have placed us in that position which we have ever been accustomed to occupy. It would have bound us more closely to him; and instead of clerks, coldly and rigidly performing our assigned duties for him, it would have rendered us his grateful and sincere friends, happy to do aught in our power, either in or out of business hours, which would oblige him or advance his interests. At least, I know this would be the case with me, and I think that when I speak for one I do for both." "I must admit, Arthur, that you are right. Though I have not quite as impulsive a heart as yourself, and am not nearly as proud-spirited, I cannot always bear meekly the curtness and harshness with which Mr. Delancey treats us. And with clerks, as a general thing, it is certainly more for an employer's interest to win them as closely as possible to himself; for, of course, if he forces them to seek companionship among whomsoever they may meet, and they fall into low and dissipated habits, which renders them unfit for business, then, of a necessity, that interest suffers; and were I the employer in such a case, I am sure I could not hold myself entirely free from blame." "Oh, in such a case, the employer thinks no farther than to give a clerk his walking papers, and to show him the door. They never pause to remember that they were probably the primal cause of his downfall; neither will they make amends, by even giving him the good name he brought to them, for another situation. When I reflect upon these things, Guly, sometimes there's a great deal of bitterness comes up in my heart, which I cannot keep down, though I try ever so hard." "Never let it rise there, Arthur. While we both live, dear brother, we are certain of one heart that is as true as life itself. Let us cling close to one another, and try and be happy and contented together, and no harm, save sickness and death, can approach us. In loving one another, we are but being true to ourselves." They had by this time reached the store door, and as Guly ceased speaking, Arthur stepped upon the step, and placing both hands on his brother's shoulders, held him a little way from him, and looked earnestly into the beautiful eyes raised up to meet his own. "Guly, whatever happens--though I hope and am sure nothing will that is unfortunate or sad to me or between us--try and love me all the same; forget my faults and remember my virtues--if I have any; I want always to think of your heart as trusting mine, and loving me." He looked away for a moment, with his eyes bent thoughtfully upon the ground, then parting the hair from his brother's brow, he bent down hastily and kissed it, as if from an impulse which he could not resist. Guly looked wonderingly up in his face for a moment, then drew him away into the shadow of the archway adjoining, and, laying his head upon his shoulder, wept. "Love you, Arthur!" he exclaimed, throwing both arms about his brother, and drawing him close to his heart; "Through all and through everything, come what might or may, I can never love or trust you less than now. Your happiness is my prayer and watch-word; all I ask of you, dear, is but to be true to yourself and me." "Bless you, Guly--there! don't shed any more tears--we shall henceforth, I am sure, be very happy together." "Then, what prompted you to speak so strangely and forebodingly?" "I could not define the feeling, if I should try. It was nothing more than a flitting shadow, cast from my restless spirit upon my heart. Come, let's go in." CHAPTER XIII. "Our early days! how often back We turn on life's bewildering track, To where, o'er hill and valley, plays The sunlight of our early days!" D. W. Gallagher. They went in through the alley-way, and gained their bedroom by the steep back-staircase. Guly, who was fatigued by his day's labor and evening walk, immediately prepared for bed, and sought his pillow eagerly. But Arthur, after rising from their devotion, walked toward one of the windows, and stood for a long time gazing out upon the neighboring wall of brick, as if he found there deep food for reflection. Guly lay looking at him, wondering what he could be thinking of, and even while he wondered his eyes gradually closed, and he fell fast asleep. As Arthur heard his soft but regular breathing, and felt assured his brother slumbered, he threw off his coat, and seated himself on the bedside, gazing fixedly down upon the innocent and happy brow before him. There was a thoughtful softness upon the watcher's face, that came not often there; and ever and anon he raised his hands, and pressed them tightly upon his eyes, as if to keep back some emotion which would fain force itself thence. "What can have put these thoughts in my mind to-night?" he murmured, impatiently, rising and walking the floor with bowed head and folded arms. "I could almost believe the wine I drank was drugged with memories of the past, and dark forebodings for the future. What form is this that rises constantly before me, with haggard face and burning eyes, pointing its skinny finger backward, ever backward, like an index turning ever to the days gone by? It haunts me like a ghost; and turn I here or there, 'tis always crouching close before me, pointing that skinny finger backward. Heavens! what does it mean?" With a sharp shudder, Arthur again sought his brother's side, and sat down upon the bed. "If I should ever--if I should ever--_ever_ fall so low, _I_! Oh, impossible! What a horrible picture! Yet, surrounded, as I am, by danger and temptation--the beautiful habiliments in which vice here presents itself--the constant laceration of my haughty pride--would it be, after all, so impossible? Oh, my poor heart, be strong. Still that white figure pointing backward. Can this be the foreshadowing of my own fate? Oh, never, never! the wine I have taken has heated my brain. Guly! Guly! wake up! I cannot bear to be here by myself!" And, with a moan of anguish, Arthur buried his face in the pillow. Guly started up quickly, and looked wildly around, like one suddenly aroused from a nightmare; then his eye fell upon the prostrate figure beside him. "Dear Arthur, tell me what ails you to-night; you seem strangely at variance with yourself. Tell me what troubles you, my brother." "A ghost in my heart, Guly. I can't tell what brought it there--I feel it, I see it constantly--a pale, haggard figure, pointing with its bony finger backward." "You have been asleep, and dreaming, Arthur; undress and come by me here, and we will talk of something else." "No, no, Guly, not asleep, but wide, wide awake--in my heart, in my soul, everywhere!" exclaimed Arthur, flinging his clothes hastily off, and creeping to his brother's side, as if flying from some horrid phantom. Guly threw an arm about him, and with the other hand stroked the dark locks soothingly back from the excited brow. "There, Arthur! brother! hush! don't sigh and shudder so, don't; it's all fancy, all mere idle fancy. Do you remember, Arthur, how, on such a night as this, the moon used to shine down upon the tall trees and green lawn at home? And when all those merry friends used to visit us, how their figures would flit in and out so brightly through the long green avenues, and the shadows falling at their sides--do you not remember, Arthur?" "The shadows falling at their side? Yes, Guly, I remember." "And how, when on such bright nights we sailed upon the Hudson, the diamond foam broke away from the prow of our little boat, like a peal of jewelled laughter, if such a thing could be? When we get the old home back, Arthur, we will find that old boat out, and have it, too--eh, brother?" "Dear Guly, yes." "Everything will be so like its old self, we shall almost think all our troubles and separation one long dream. When that time comes we can have no more of earthly happiness to ask for--our old home and our old joys." "And our old friends, Guly, gliding through the green avenues, with their shadows under their feet. Our old friends, with their old shadows--" Arthur was asleep; soothed to slumber by the gentle words and fond tones breathed upon his ear, and he lay quietly, with his face calm, and his cheek upon his hand. Dreams came to him in the hours of that long night, and he was happy. Time and distance were annihilated, and he was back upon the shores of old Hudson, sporting with its waves, and gliding on its waters. There was the old boat, with the sparkling foam parting from the rushing prow, and the music of the dipping oars was falling gently on his ear. Again he was on the green lawn, and the moon was looking down upon the tall trees, and the soft green grass which lay before the broad door of the olden home. There were the gayly-robed figures, flitting in and out along the shaded avenues, their shadows falling by them always, and he was in their midst--a child, merry-hearted, but fretted and proud--toyed with by this one, caressed by that, and the favorite of all, commanding but to be obeyed, frowning but to be more attended, angered but to be coaxed to good-nature, first in his parents' hearts, and high in the proffered love of every guest, reigning, like a boy-king, over all he surveyed. Then his dream for a moment grew clouded, and a tiny form, with snowy robes and gentle blue eyes, rose up before him, and took his place upon his mother's bosom, and he knew he had a brother. The form expanded, and grew in height, and the hair hung in golden ringlets down to shadow the beautiful eyes. And a tiny hand sought his, and tottering steps fell lightly at his side. Still the form grew, till in his dream it seemed to rise above him--not _grown_ above him; but the feet stood upon a silver cloud, which kept rising higher and higher, till the tiny hand he clasped in his was drawn perforce from his grasp, and still standing on the silver cloud, the light form, the golden hair, and blue eyes, passed from his sight; and looking up, he learned to believe it was an angel, not a brother, which had been sent to him. And while he looked yearningly after it, a mother's hand fell upon his shoulder, and her sweet voice trembled as she pointed upward, and bade him follow. Then he showed her his empty hand, from which the tiny hand had been drawn, and stepping quickly backward, he plunged headlong over an unseen precipice, and fell, fell far down, where all was darkness; but finding no bottom, and shuddering with the thought that so he must go dizzily rushing through that blackened space to all eternity! But, looking up, a glorious light broke through the surrounding gloom, and the light form, with the golden hair, was coming down--down with a smile of thrilling happiness, and outstretched arms to save him. It reached him, it clasped him to its warm bosom, and he felt a quick heart throbbing there, and knew again it was his brother, with the sunny curls and radiant smile, who had saved him from that bottomless pit, and mounted, holding him upon his heart, to purer and to brighter realms. Thus the spirits of his earlier days thronged his fancy, as he slumbered there; but the pale ghost in his heart, pointing with its skinny finger backward, came not to him as he lay there dreaming, with his cheek upon his hand. CHAPTER XIV. "Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring; As fair in form, as warm yet pure of heart, Love's image upon earth without his wing, And guileless beyond hope's imagining." Byron. A month went by, and Arthur during that time never once went out without his brother, never tasted a drop of wine, nor met those companions whom he had begun to deem so social-hearted, and so necessary to his happiness. He seemed to shrink fearfully from the thought of coming in contact with them, and invariably after business hours sought his brother's side, passing his leisure in whatever mode Guly chanced to propose. His proud will was kept in constant curb, and when he received the stern rebuke of his employer, or the taunt and sneer of those who would have led him their way, he answered nothing, but turned away with swelling heart and silent lips. Guly noticed that nightly, as they prayed, Arthur's voice grew more earnest, and his manner more humble and contrite; and he began to censure himself for the unjust fears he had entertained on his brother's account, while his heart rose in thankful praises to Him "who doeth all things well," for the happy change. None knew, save Arthur himself, the cause of it. Since the night when the "ghost," as he called it, first entered his heart, and since the dream of home hovered over his pillow, he had felt as if it might be possibly a visionary counterpart of one of those events which "cast their shadows before," and he had striven right manfully against every impulse which might in any way tend to make himself the fulfiller of it. Often, when the stern reproof, or the sly sneer, had awakened his resentment and called the flush of anger to his cheek, a glimpse into his throbbing heart placed the seal of silence on his lips; for, with a shudder, he beheld the haggard figure, with its burning eyes, pointing ever its skinny finger backward. It was something which he could not understand, yet which exerted over him an all-powerful influence. He often thought upon it, trying to devise what it could mean, and what could have brought it there within his heart; and the only answer his reflections ever gave him, was that the fore-shadow had risen to warn him from the awful gulf. Wilkins had of late kept a quiet but steady eye upon the movements and character of the brothers, and, in spite of the usual coldness and indifference of his great heart, he had begun to feel a deep interest in them, and everything pertaining to them. Guly especially, he had learned to feel towards even as a younger brother. Still, with that unaccountable feeling, which sometimes forbids a generous sentiment to betray itself to another, he veiled his earnest friendship under a guise of mere clerkly companionship, rarely giving way to those bursts of tender feeling, which rendered him, in Guly's young eyes, an absolute enigma. One day, as Arthur was about leaving the store for dinner, Wilkins called him back, and gave him some money to deposit in the bank, which he had to pass on his way to the restaurant. "We are so busy to-day," remarked the head-clerk, as he gave it to him, "it is just now impossible for me to leave before the bank closes, and you can do this as well as myself." Arthur bowed, and viewed the bills with a glow of proud pleasure in his breast, at the trust reposed in him, and started away. Guly left his place an instant, and stepped quickly to the door, prompted by a feeling for which he could not account, to look after him; and stood gazing upon his brother's receding figure until lost to sight in the stream of busy life, which flowed through the narrow street. As he resumed his station, a light and exquisitely beautiful female form glided in at the door, and stopped at Guly's counter. As he bent forward to inquire her wishes, she threw aside the veil, which concealed her features, and revealed to the boy's bewildered gaze the most dazzling, beautiful face he had ever beheld. She was quite young; apparently had just entered upon her fifteenth year, an age which in the North would be considered only as the dividing step between childhood and girlhood, but which in the South, where woman is much more rapidly developed, is probably the most charming season of female beauty, when the half-burst blossom retains all the purity, freshness, and fragrance of the tender bud. She was slight and delicate in figure, yet beautifully rounded and proportioned; bearing, in every movement, that charming child-like grace, which is so frequently lost when the child merges into the woman. Her complexion was that of a brunette--but beautifully clear; and her cheeks, with their rich color, might well bear that exquisite comparison of somebody's--a rose-leaf laid on ivory. Her hair was of a rich chestnut brown, and having been cut off during severe illness, was now left to its own free grace, and hung in short close curls about her full pure brow. Her eyes were of the same hue as her hair, large and full, and replete with that dewy, tender expression, when she lifted the long lashes from them, which sends the glance into the depths of the heart. Her mouth was small, and the full lips, like to a "cleft pomegranate," disclosed her polished and regular teeth. Guly's eye took in the exquisite picture before him at a glance, and the words which were on his lips when he first bent forward remained unspoken, while he looked the glowing admiration which filled his heart. She seemed slightly embarrassed as she met his gaze, and, in a voice of clear richness of tone, she remarked:-- "Mr. G---- is no longer here? I have always been accustomed to seeing him, and have my work ready for disposal." "I occupy Mr. G----'s place, Miss," replied Guly, with a slight blush upon his young cheek, as he resumed his erect position. "Can I do anything for you?" "Ah, Miss Blanche! how do you do?" exclaimed Wilkins, getting down from his desk before she could answer Guly's question. "It is a long, long time since we have seen your young face here. What has been the matter?" "Ah! Monsieur," she replied, in a tone of inexpressible sadness, and addressing him in French, "I have had much trouble in the last two months. I have been greatly bereaved. My poor mother, sir--" she could go no farther, but broke down as she glanced at the black dress, and burst into a fit of silent but bitter weeping. A shade of sympathetic sorrow passed over Wilkins' face, and with a delicacy of feeling which would not have been expected in him, he stepped around to that side, where she was exposed to the view of the customers and clerks, and stood there as if he would, by the intervention of his huge form, screen her sorrow from the vulgar gaze. After a few moments Blanche dried her eyes; and with a violent struggle for self-control, seemed to swallow her grief into her heart. "You must pardon me, Mr. Wilkins, for giving way here. I thought, Monsieur, I could do better; but my grief lies very, very heavy here;" and she laid her hand, with touching grace, upon her heart. "Ah, Mademoiselle," returned Wilkins, also in French, "I feel deeply for you, believe me. And you are alone now, and have no friends?" "Oui, Monsieur, I have my blind grandfather, poor grandpapa; he is very feeble and infirm." She paused, as if the subject was one too painful to dwell upon, then drew toward her a little bundle, which she had laid upon the counter, and said: "I have here my broderie. I hope, Monsieur, you have not engaged any one else. I have worked day and night to finish what I had undertaken. I hope they please you." Wilkins took the little roll, and drew thence several specimens of exquisite and tasteful embroidering, consisting of one or two heavily worked _mouchoirs_, several collars, some insertion, edging, &c., &c. He examined them with a close and critical eye, then laying them down, with an encouraging smile, said:-- "These are more beautifully done than any we have yet had, Mademoiselle. These, really, command the highest price." "I am very glad, Monsieur," Blanche replied, quietly. Wilkins drew a small reference-book from his pocket, and after glancing over its pages a moment or two, he counted out a few pieces of gold from a drawer at his side, and Guly saw that, under pretence of making change, he added to the sum a little from his own purse. "There, Mademoiselle, that is well earned." "Here is more than I received last time, Monsieur; and you have had to wait for the work. Are you sure this is right?" "Quite right. As I before told you, it is better done than any you have given us before. Take these articles, Guly, and put them in the box marked 'French Embroidery.'" Guly obeyed, and his fingers lingered on the fair work before him, with an unconscious touch of admiration. "You think you can bring your articles weekly, now, Mademoiselle?" "I think so, Monsieur Wilkins. I have nothing to occupy my time now, except a few little favors for poor grandpapa." "Very well. Mr. G. has left, as you see. Henceforth Mr. Pratt will receive your work, and pay you for the same, as he has charge of this department. Let me make you acquainted. Guly, this is Blanche Duverne," said Wilkins, in his brief, peculiar manner. Blanche held out her small hand, with an air of naïve and innocent frankness, and Guly took the rosy finger tips, as he bent across the counter, and pressed them to his lips. It was an act totally unexpected by Blanche, but it was done with such a noble grace by the boy, and with an air of such delicate refinement, while a glow of boyish bashfulness swept over his fine face, that the most fastidious could not have found in it just cause for resentment, much less the guileless and innocent child-woman before him. As Guly released her hand she looked at him more attentively than she had done before, and said, sweetly, in pure unaccented English-- "I hope we may be very good friends, Guly." "Amen," said the boy, with a smile. "And you will sell my work to your choice customers, won't you?" "Invariably." "Adieu." "Adieu, Miss." She flitted out of the door so like a spirit, that she was gone almost before Guly was aware she had left her seat. He longed to go to the door and look after her, but a sense of timidity withheld him; and having no customers just then he took down the box which contained her work, under pretence of arranging it more nicely, but in reality to look upon the delicate labor of those rosy fingers once again. Wilkins was watching him, mischievously, from his desk, and Guly looked up, and caught his eye, with a blush and a smile. "Tell me, Wilkins, who she is." "A poor girl, and very pretty." "And friendless?" "Only her grandpapa, you heard her say." "Poor thing, she does this for a living." "For a living? Yes. And it's a hard one she gets, after all." "You know all about her! What else? Tell me more." "She is very good and pure." "May she always be so. Go on." Wilkins looked at him searchingly for a moment, but the boy met his glance steadily, and the head-clerk withdrew his eye with an air of one who is suddenly made aware of entertaining unjust suspicions; and he went on, with a smile, getting down from his desk, and standing near to Guly meanwhile. "It would not be to every one, Guly, I would give poor Blanche's history, or what I know of it; but to you I am certain I can do so safely. To begin then at the beginning: She was the daughter of one of the wealthiest bankers in this city, who died several yeas ago insolvent, and left his wife and child destitute. Of course, their former friends cut them, all except a very few; and they took a suite of rooms in the Third Municipality, and removed thither with their few articles of furniture, and their blind and helpless relative. The mother's health began to fail, and after a little while she was unable to do anything toward their support; and all the duties of the household, together with the labor for a livelihood for the three, fell upon little brown-eyed Blanche. She went to work heroically, and turned her accomplishments to profit, and is, as you see, one of the very best _brodeurs_ that can be found. She loved her mother devotedly, and I suppose it almost broke her little heart when she lost her. She has sickened and died within the last two months, as you heard her say. She had all that care upon her young shoulders, beside that of her old grandfather, yet she has neglected neither, and finished her work with it all. Think of it! As you perceive she has an innocent little heart, is a stranger to guile, and is ready to believe every one is what he professes to be. God help her, poor thing!" "And is that all you know of her, Wilkins?" "This is all. I know her well; for four years she has brought her work to this spot, and sold it at this counter." Guly's eye dropped upon that counter almost reverently. "Where are her relatives, Wilkins?" "North, I believe. Her father was a poor but talented man when he came here, and his family, though highly estimable at the North, were also poor. He met his wife in some of the high circles, to which his letters admitted him, and they fell in love, and married, though in the face of decided opposition from all her family. Her friends never noticed her afterwards, though he rose, as I told you, to high station and standing; so when he died there was no one to apply to." "How did you learn all this, Wilkins?" "She told it to me herself." "But her Northern friends, they may have grown rich by this time." "No. She told me her father's family consisted only of his parents and one deformed brother. When he was making a fortune so rapidly here, I believe he received a letter from this brother, stating that he was coming on to try his fortune here, too. But Mr. Duverne, Blanche's father, wrote back to discourage his intentions, for he seemed to think it was too long a journey for one so helpless as he. They never heard from the brother again; for, soon after, Mr. Duverne died, and the state of his affairs became known, and all intercourse between the families ceased." "And they never knew whether he came here or not?" "Oh, he of course never came, or they would have heard of him, you know." "Is Blanche French?" "By the name, you see she is of French descent; and she speaks the language like a native born _Francaise_; however, her mother was purely American, and her father never spoke a word of French in all his life. She has acquired it by mingling, no doubt, with the Creoles here." "You speak it yourself, Mr. Wilkins?" "Yes; and I acquired it in that way." "You know where Blanche lives?" "Yes." "And visit her sometimes?" "Occasionally." "Can I accompany you there some evening, sir? I would like to know her better." "To be sure you may, Guly; especially, as you are henceforth to be somewhat associated in the business line. As I have told you, Blanche is a noble little girl; I respect her highly; very few know where she lives, and I wouldn't take every one there. You understand?" "Certainly. I shan't name her residence to any one." "Very well, then; whenever you say--_you alone, remember_." "Thank you, Wilkins; when I can go I will tell you." "Just so." Wilkins stepped back to his desk, and Guly still stood arranging the new pieces of embroidery. There was for him a charm about them. Accustomed as he was to seeing such things, he could not get tired of looking at these. They were far more beautiful than any of those which were really French, and had come from over the seas; and from every graceful twig and twining tendril, there looked up at him a pair of soft brown eyes, whose gentle glances went down, and made themselves a home in the boy's pure heart. CHAPTER XV. ----"He is a man, Setting his fate aside, of comely virtues; Nor did he soil the fact with cowardice-- An honor in him which buys out his faults-- But with a noble fury and fair spirit, Seeing his reputation touched to death, He did oppose his foe." Shakspeare. "Mr. Delancey, will you wait one minute, sir!" exclaimed Arthur, coming in, apparently much excited, just as Guly replaced the box on the shelf. The merchant stopped just as he was going out of the door, and planting his cane firmly down upon the floor, turned round with the frown between his eyebrows quite visibly deepened. "Well, sir, what will you have?" "Your attention, if you can give it, sir--one moment at your desk." "Whatever you've got to say, say it here." "No, sir, I must see you privately." Wilkins and Guly both looked at Arthur in mute astonishment. His face was flushed and heated, his breath came short, like one who had been running, and his eyes and lips, and whole manner, evinced intense agitation and excitement. "Is it such particular business, young man, that you must detain me now?" said the merchant, somewhat angered at the prospect of detention from his usual dinner hour. "It is very particular business to me, sir; and interests you not much less." Mr. Delancey waved his hand impatiently, for Arthur to precede him to his desk; then, with hasty step, and planting his cane each tread visibly on the floor, he followed him, and seating himself with formal precision, took off his hat, and leant stiffly back in his chair. "Well, sir?" Arthur would almost have as soon undergone the terrors of the Inquisition as to brave the tempest he expected soon to fall upon his devoted head. He called up all his courage, however, and began. "This afternoon, sir, I took some money from Mr. Wilkins to deposit in the bank." "Well? come, be quick." "I put it, as I thought, safely in this pocket; I went from here straight to the bank. I don't know how it happened, I'm sure I can't imagine," said Arthur, growing confused, with those stern, strong eyes staring straight into his, "but when I got to the bank I found, sir, I had lost it." "The devil you did!" "I am sorry to say it, it is true." "And what were you doing, on your way to the bank, that you hadn't an eye on that money, I'd like to know?" "The money I supposed was safe, sir, and I walked straight along without thinking about it, till I reached the bank." "A likely story that! Who did you talk to, or see, on your way? any of your companions?" "I saw only one person, sir, whom I knew at all; one whom I have not seen before for several weeks." "And that very one, I dare say, picked your pocket. What was his name? who was he?" "He is a gentleman, sir, who would not do such a thing, I'm sure, any sooner than you would. He is a friend of mine." "What is his name, I say?" "Clinton, sir. No one that you know, probably." The merchant leaned forward, and peered keenly into Arthur's face, as if to see if there was aught of hidden meaning in his words; and his features grew ashy pale while he asked, in a hoarse whisper:-- "_Clinton?_ Clinton what?" "Mr. Clinton is the only name I know him by. I haven't heard his given name," returned Arthur, surprised at the merchant's agitation. Mr. Delancey said nothing for a moment; but sat leaning forward, with his pale face dropped in thought upon his breast. "Did he talk with you long?" he asked, at last. "No, sir. He walked with me one block." "You had the money when he left you?" "I did not touch it from here to the bank, sir; and knew nothing of it from the time I left this door, till I reached the bank counter." "Hem! yes, yes, a very likely story. It couldn't have got out of your pocket without hands, young man; and if your friend wouldn't do such a thing, and your pocket was safe, I don't think but what you know something about it." "Me, sir? Mr. Delancey, you don't mean to say--" "Tut, tut, I know about you young chaps; I might have known I would have just such trouble when I took you, I suppose you think I don't know that Henriquez's billiard table is between here and the bank, eh?" "If you do, you know more than I do, sir." "Dare you tell me that? Here, haven't you been gone a good two hours?--and all that time going to the bank, eh?" "I tell you the truth, Mr. Delancey; and I am sure you are aware of it." "Well, there's no use talking now; you will not convince me if you talk till doomsday. That money you've got to replace out of your salary." "Why, sir, it was three hundred dollars." "There! there! how do you know how much it was, if you didn't look at it, I'd like to know." "I heard Wilkins say this morning he had such a deposit to make. Ask him, sir, if he didn't." "I've heard enough about it. You must make it up, that's all; and you'll be more careful henceforth." "And, sir, you will retract what you insinuated had become of it? I'll willingly make it up to you, if it takes every cent I earn; but I'll not have a blight upon my reputation, even in your opinion, sir." His words fell upon empty air; for Mr. Delancey had already left the high desk, and was striking his cane heavily down with each step, as he stalked down through the store. Arthur sank upon a chair, and buried his face in his hands. "A hard fate," he murmured, bitterly. "First to suffer the loss, and then to be accused, or at least suspected, of appropriating it. Heavens! it is too much; I will not and cannot stand it." "Be calm, Arthur," said Wilkins, in his full deep tones; "look up, and tell us what has happened." Arthur raised his head, and told his story unhesitatingly. "This is a bad business, my young friend. I am extremely sorry; but the only way for you is not to mind it. This is Mr. Delancey's way. Intercourse with the world has rendered him suspicious, and you'll never convince him that you don't know something about the money. No one else that knows you will ever think so, though; and you will stand just as high as ever. Yours isn't the first case of this kind." "It is too outrageous, Wilkins, and I won't bear it. Do you think I'll tamely submit to be called, or thought, a thief?" "What can you do? It is useless to talk or feel thus; say nothing, go steadily on, and Delancey himself will forget, after awhile, his suspicions. As to replacing it, I feel that you have been unfortunate through my means, and I will assist you in that." "I don't wish you to, thank you, Wilkins. I don't care so much for my money as I do for my good name. To be robbed of it in this manner, is more than I can possibly endure." "Let me beg of you to think no more about it. Follow my advice, and all will yet be well." Arthur sat moodily down, and gave himself up to thought. He fancied there was no possible way to extricate himself from the difficulty, and that it would be useless to argue with such a man as his employer. With flushed cheek and thoughtful air he rose and took his place behind the counter. Wilkins watched him anxiously, and then, as though Guly were the elder, instead of the younger brother, he sought him for a consultation. He was busy with a customer, and Wilkins noticed that he was displaying some of Blanche's new work, and wondered whether it was that, or interest in his brother's behalf, which brought such a bright glow to his cheek. "It is very beautiful," said the lady who was buying, examining one of the collars closely, "Very beautiful; is that your lowest, Master Pratt?" "The very lowest, Madame. I have been gratified in being able to show these articles to you _first_. They are quite new, and I know how well you like the first choice." "No one else, then, has bought from these before?" "No, Madame." "It is high, but I'll take it." "Yes, Madame." As the lady left the store, Guly turned to Wilkins, with a bright smile: "You see I have kept my promise to Blanche, and have sold her work to a 'choice customer.'" "I see," said Wilkins. "A word with you, Guly." Guly stepped toward him. "Arthur has--" "Poor Arthur! true enough! how could I forget him; what was the matter, Wilkins? I have been so busy, you know." "He has got into sad trouble; I feel very sorry for him; but I can't help him an iota, that I see; it's too bad, I declare." Wilkins then gave Guly the details, as far as he knew them, of Arthur's misfortune. "Well, Mr. Wilkins, this is outrageous!" exclaimed Guly, with a vehemence unusual to him. "It would require the virtue and forbearance of a saint to bear up under such things. It isn't the money so much, though I'm very sorry he lost it, but it is his good name; to have that sullied, even in thought! It is enough to drive any one to desperation." "Don't tell Arthur so, for the world," said Wilkins, very earnestly. "No, no, I'll not--can I go to him?" "Of course." "Dear Arthur," said Guly, beckoning his brother a little one side, "I know all. You know how I sympathize with you, my brother; but cheer up, we can live through it all; and you will be, in the end, thoroughly acquitted of what Mr. Delancey suspects you of, even in his own heart. The only way to convince him of his error, is to show him by your future course how much such an act would be beneath you." "Oh, there's no use, Guly; I never could convince such a flint-hearted man in the world, of my innocence, if he chose to think me guilty. I was horrified at first, but I've thought of it, and thought of it, till I don't care much. It's my fate, I suppose." "Don't give up in this way, Arthur; think of your own proud self, of how much depends upon you, of our dear mother, and all that. Don't allow yourself to be crushed." "Guly, just think of it--a _thief_!" "Only so in the opinion of one who will not reflect upon it long enough to see its utter impossibility." "And all this year's labor lost, Guly; and nothing to send home now to mother." "We'll try what we can do with _my_ salary, Arthur." "Pooh! the whole of it just covers the amount lost; and how are you going to live?" "Don't give it up so, don't! There is One who will never desert those who trust Him. Remember that, Arthur, and look up." "It is my fate to be forced to look down. It is useless for me to try to struggle against it. I can't be otherwise." "You are too desponding, Arthur; many a man, now rich and happy, if he could tell his experience in getting so, would no doubt relate a harder life than yours can ever be. This should only serve to make you stronger." "If Mr. Delancey was only a different-tempered man, perhaps I could do better. If he had sympathized with me, and assured me kindly of his belief that it was all an accident, oh, I would have felt so differently, so happy in comparison! There is no pleasure in serving such a man; it is only rigid duty, rigidly performed, for one you cannot but hate. He is never so happy as when mixing gall with the honey of one's happiness. I am miserable, Guly, miserable! and I can't rouse myself. I wish I was as meek and forbearing as you are, I could be happier; my pride, my strong unbending pride, has been, and ever will be, my curse." Arthur's tones seemed to struggle up so heavily in his sorrow, from his heart's depths, that Guly felt strongly inclined to tell him there were very few, however meek and charitable, who would submit to an insult of this kind quietly; but he remembered his promise to Wilkins, and refrained. "If I could reason with Mr. Delancey, if he would talk with me as it is his duty to talk with me, I am sure he would think differently upon the matter; but for me to stay here for the ensuing year, as I now am forced to do, whether or no; and for me to feel that every time those cold eyes are turned upon me, they believe themselves to be looking on a thief! Oh, my God! Guly, it is too much!" Arthur was intensely excited, and the veins in his forehead stood out like cords, so swollen were they, and his face was deeply flushed. Guly's heart ached for him, and he was trying to think of something which he could say to comfort him, when he was called away by a customer, and, with a kindly pressure upon his brother's hand, he left his side. Arthur also stepped back to his place; but every attitude he assumed, every changing expression of his handsome face, told the restless misery of that young heart, and the crushing weight upon that lofty spirit. Guly waited anxiously for night to come, that he might talk to, and try to encourage, Arthur. When the lamps were lighted, and the customers had gradually thinned out, he was about to cross over and speak to him. To his surprise he saw that his place was vacant, and he was nowhere to be seen. A sharp pang went through the boy's heart, succeeded by a sickening faintness; and he leaned against the counter for support, filled with undefined fears of sorrow, and danger, and unhappiness. With a blush at his apparently causeless emotion, he stepped to the clerk who always stood next to Arthur, and inquired if he knew where he had gone. "No," the young man said; "he went out about half an hour ago, and Mr. Quirk was with him." "Quirk!" ejaculated Guly, involuntarily, while the pang went through his breast again; and seizing his cap, he started forth, in the hope of discovering Arthur's where-abouts. CHAPTER XVI. "Press me not, I beseech you, so; There is no tongue that moves, none, none i' the world, So soon as yours could win me; so it should now, Were there necessity in your request, although 'Twere needful I denied it." Winter's Tale. Through the damp streets, where shone mistily through the heavy fog the lamps on the corners, Guly, with anxious heart and hurried step, wandered alone. He sought every place of which he believed his brother to have any knowledge, and left no spot unvisited where they had ever been together. All in vain. None of whom he inquired had seen Arthur, and of many he could not bring himself to inquire, blushing at the thought of his brother being known to them. Still, as he turned to retrace his steps, he found himself involuntarily looking into the richly furnished saloons, where the show of luxury, and display of wealth, lead so many, through their very love of gorgeousness, to drink, to distress, to death! Each time, as his eyes turned thitherward, a sigh of relief rose from his heart to find that Arthur was not an inmate there. Thus seeking, thus hoping, he found himself again before the door of No. --, Chartres-street. Having no pass-key, he rapped for admittance, for the store was closed, and all around it dark. Wilkins' voice bade him enter. Trying the door, he found it unlocked, and going in, saw Wilkins sitting by the coal fire--which the chill air of November now rendered necessary--alone, and apparently in deep thought. With as cheerful an air as he could assume, he approached him, and laying a hand upon each shoulder, as he stood behind his chair, bent forward, and looked up in the thoughtful eyes gazing on the fire. "What can be the subject of your meditations, Mr. Wilkins? your face looks sad enough to be the index of a sorrowful heart?" Mr. Wilkins made no reply, but lifting his arm, drew the golden head upon his bosom, and held it there, stroking back with listless fingers the soft bright curls. "Has anything unpleasant happened since I went out, Wilkins?" "No, Guly; nothing has happened. I was alone here--the fire was bright, the arm-chair empty, so I sat down, and fell to thinking, that's all. Have you been to see Blanche?" "Blanche! I don't suppose I could have found her, had I thought of trying." "True enough. We are going there together. What of your brother, Guly?" Guly told him of his ineffectual search; the fact of his not having seen him in any of the saloons, and the hope he entertained of seeing him walk in, by and by, feeling happier for his walk, and seating himself there by the fire. Wilkins shook his head, doubtingly. "Your brother's spirit is one which needs to be peculiarly dealt with, until he grows a little older, and less impetuous. I'm sorry to say it, but he has more pride than principle just at this age; and he ought to have the blessing of a home and a mother's love, till the principle could be made to predominate. Get a chair, Guly, and sit close by me, here." Guly brought the chair, and placed it close to his companion, and seated himself. Wilkins drew his head again upon his bosom. "It is about _him_," continued Wilkins, "that I have been thinking this evening. I really take a deep interest in his welfare, and wish I knew how to guide him. For his sake I wish my own heart was more disciplined, that I was not so utterly incapable." "Don't let such thoughts as these prevent you from using your influence with my poor brother, Wilkins. I am too young, too weak, too inexperienced, to control him. He would naturally scorn the advice of one so much younger; but _you_, oh! don't let too lowly an opinion of yourself deprive Arthur of the counsel and guidance he so much needs." "Ah! Guly, you don't know me. I might tell him how he should do; but my example, if he should ever chance to see it, would disgust him with my advice. Had it been different when I first came here, I might now be a better man. I was an orphan, came here from the North, had no soul in this vast city to love or care for me, and for five years I have lived here loveless and lonely, save when with those companions which a friendless being is almost sure to fall in with here; and I can turn to no one, feeling that they care for me." "Wilkins, I love you; indeed, I love you as a brother." "I believe you, Guly; though we are so different; though my cherishing you is like the lion mating with the lamb, still I believe in my heart the honest love I feel for you, God has blest me by causing you to reciprocate. I have been a better man since I first held you here on my heart. A better man, Heaven knows!" "Wilkins, in all the five years you have been here, do you mean to say Mr. Delancey has never asked you to his house, or noticed you any more than he does now?" "I have never been asked to enter his door, Guly, any more than you have. He would as soon, I suppose, turn a herd of swine into his drawing-room, as to ask his clerks there. He is very proud." "That isn't pride, Wilkins; it is meanness. A truly proud man would adopt the contrary course, I am sure; and so attach all his employees to himself, and to his interests." "Ah! he never thinks of that. His negroes get better treatment than his clerks, by far; and there isn't a soul among them but what loves him dearly, and would die for him, I don't doubt, at any moment. So you see he can be kind, strange as it may seem." "It is strange, Wilkins. Mr. Delancey is a man I cannot understand or appreciate. I don't think I like him at all." "He certainly has done nothing to make you, my poor boy. His pride, for it is pride, renders him very disagreeable. If all the sin, which his harshness and indifference has caused in others, were laid up against him, 'twould make a mighty pile. There's a day of retribution coming for him, though." As Wilkins spoke he bent forward, and rested his head on his hand, with a peculiar smile upon his lips. "A day of retribution! What do you mean, Wilkins? Is there any trouble brooding for him?" "All pride must have a fall," muttered Wilkins, as if to himself, while he gave the coals a vehement thrust. "Don't ask me anything more about it, Guly." "But you have roused my curiosity," said Guly, looking up in surprise. "If it isn't a secret, I would like to know more of what you mean." "I mean a great deal, and would tell you sooner than any one else; but it would do you no good if I would tell you, which I can't, and so we'll say no more about it." "Has Mr. Delancey any children?" "Two--a son and a daughter; at least he _had_ a son." "And did he die?" "Oh, no; he fell in love with a poor but worthy girl, who has no doubt made him an excellent wife, or at least would have done so had it been in her power. Instead of taking his daughter-in-law to his heart and home, and making her what his wealth could have made her, with her worth and beauty, he met the whole affair with stern opposition, and after his son's marriage turned him from him with a curse, and disinherited him. How the poor fellow has managed to live since, I can't imagine; for he had no profession, nor anything to live by but his wits. I heard once he had become reckless and dissipated, and had sworn vengeance on his unnatural father, but I've heard very little of him of late." "This is shocking. A clerk can expect but little from such a father. Oh, horrible!" "He is a man you will probably never know, however long you may live with him. Had it not been for the necessary contact my position in his employ brought us into, I should never have known him at all." "And you believe he really deemed Arthur guilty to-day?" "That is more than I can answer. Mr. Delancey is close with regard to money matters." "My poor brother! Wilkins, promise me to do all you can for him. Oh! I know how much danger surrounds him. What can I, so young and feeble, do? We two are all that is left our mother. Help me--I'm sure you will--to save him." "I will, Guly--by my sworn love to you, I will. Sometime, my boy, when I may greatly need a friend to help me through a trouble or sorrow that is coming upon me--when those that know me may shun me--you, who love me, will be that friend. May I rely upon you?" "Depend upon me?--yes, truly, Wilkins--in anything that's right." Guly's heart was racked with more sorrowful anxiety for his brother than he could, or cared to, express; but in spite of his efforts to restrain them, the bright tears fell down his cheeks at Wilkins' kind words, and dropped upon the broad breast which supported him. Wilkins raised his hand, and wiped them away. "Don't cry, Guly; your grief unmans me." "Oh, Wilkins, how can I help it?" Wilkins answered nothing, but drew the slight form closer in silent sympathy. The hours went on, and midnight still saw them sitting there together--the golden head upon the broad, kind breast, and the eyes of both looking thoughtfully into the coals. CHAPTER XVII. "She's beautiful, and therefore to be woo'd; She is a woman, therefore to be won." Henry VI. ----"Bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose, with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell." Childe Harold. Della sat in her large chair, before the dressing-glass, with her delicate feet buried in the rich softness of a velvet cushion; her hands were folded in her lap, and her eyes fixed upon Minny's face, which was clearly reflected in the mirror, as she stood behind her mistress, arranging the shining bands of long fair hair. "Minny, how very, _very_ white you are! How came you to be so white, when your mother is the blackest slave papa owns?" A scarlet flush rose to the quadroon's cheek. "My father, Miss, was as white as your own." "Were you born here, Minn?" "My mother was in your father's service when she gave me birth, Miss Della. Will you have your bandeaux single or double for this evening?" "Double, Minn, so the wreath can lie nicely in between; and make those braids as rich as possible. I wish to look my best to-night. You have always lived here since you were born, Minn?--was a baby when I was a baby?" "Yes, my dear Miss, and my mother was your nurse; your own mother not liking to spoil her figure by nursing her child, you were put to my mother's breast. So mother tells me." "Well, if you had been a white child, that would have made us foster-sisters, wouldn't it? That's the reason old Mag loves me so well. I never knew of this before." "It's something very common here, you know, Miss, for white children to have their foster-mothers among the slaves. Fashionable ladies always think it ruins their forms to have a child at the breast." "Yes, I know, Minn; and I think it a very shameful practice, too. I never want to be a fashionable woman, if it is going to deprive me of performing a mother's holiest offices for my children. I'm sure after a child of mine had been reared at a black mother's breast I should feel they were black children, had black blood in their veins, and I never could feel right toward them again." "You are one in a thousand, dear Miss Della; and such feelings are right, and good, and noble. But if you ever wish to be truly a mother to your children, don't marry a fashionable man, whose pride will be to show you off all the time in gay company, and who will be always fretting to keep your beauty good. It is such husbands that make bad mothers. A woman can't be a votary of fashion and a good mother." "I never shall marry a fashionable man, Minny--you _know_ that; but when I _do_ marry I shall try and be a good, and true, and dutiful wife, nothing more. I haven't a taste for high life--that is, gay life, which has no heart in it. But, Minny, let's go back to you; I commenced about you; what made you change the subject, child?" "Did I, Miss?" "Yes. Who was your father, Minny?" Minny's cheek lost it's flush, and became pale as death. "I cannot tell you, Miss." "But you _know_." Minny made no answer, but her hands shook violently, and the braids she had just fastened fell loose again from her trembling fingers. "What ails you, Minn? why don't you answer me?" said Della, looking up earnestly at Minny, in the glass. "I never told you a lie in the world, Miss Della; and I don't answer you because I can't tell the truth now." "You _must_ tell me if you know, Minny; and you must tell the truth, too." "Oh, Miss Della," said the girl, sinking at her mistress's feet in a fit of wild weeping, "don't, don't ask me this. I never knew it myself till yesterday, and then I wrung it from my mother, who charged me, if I valued her life, never to lisp it again. It made me wretched. Oh, Miss Della, it would kill you." "Kill me? How can it affect me, silly child? What nonsense." Della lifted up the beautiful head which was bowed before her, and turned the pallid face toward her own. "Tell me, you foolish one," she persisted, her curiosity fully aroused. "I must and will know about it now;" and she stamped her little foot with an air of command, which, toward her favorite, was very rarely assumed. Minny pressed her hands, clasped one upon the other, hard against her heart, as if its throbbing was painful, and raised her eyes, full of a strange, wild light, to her mistress's face. "I would sooner die than tell you, Miss." There might have been something in that agonized look that called forth emotion, or there might have been something in that cold, fixed gaze, which stamped for the instant the father on that upturned, ashy face; for as she met the glance, Della suddenly clasped her hands to her face, and, with an exclamation of horror, fell back fainting. Minny sprang wildly to her feet--"Oh, Miss Della!" she exclaimed, as she bent over the senseless form before her, pouring out her passionate accents as if there was an ear to hear them. "Oh, Miss Della, how could you crave this knowledge to-day, of all other days? Had it been yesterday morning, or ever before in all our life here together, I would not have known, and you would have never known. To-day, of all days! Oh, I have broken this poor, sensitive heart; woe is me, woe is me! Oh, if I had only died before I learned this dreadful secret, only died! only died!" With trembling hands, and eyes raining down their gushing tears, Minny bathed the pale brow, and brought rare perfumes, and chafed the little hands. "Miss Della! Miss Della! I knew it would kill you--and you only guessed; I never told you--oh, no, never, never, never!" Slowly Della returned to consciousness, and as her eyes unclosed, they fell upon the agonized face of her weeping attendant. She closed them quickly, and raised her hand so as to wave her from her sight, but it dropped listlessly back into her lap, and she lay still in the large chair, apparently as weak and helpless as an infant. "Oh, Miss Della! God forgive me for what I have done, though I never meant to do it--never thought to do it. What could have turned your thoughts on this to-day?" "Go away," murmured Della, faintly; "go away, so that I may open my eyes and not see you." Minny moved a few paces back. "I can see you in the glass yet; go away so that I can't see you anywhere, Minn." Weeping bitterly, Minny retired to the other apartment; and Della, with folded hands, sat quite still with downcast eyes and pallid cheeks, looking like a statue of meditation. A little French clock upon the mantle-piece struck the hour, and went on with its monotonous tick, tick--that unobtrusive voice of warning and admonition--until the half hour was sweetly chimed, and still Della sat there, pale, and still thinking. At length she rose, and with an energy unusual with her, walked hastily back and forth across the room. It had a soothing effect, and her brow was calm and resolute, yet shadowed as if with some new lesson of life, harshly forced upon her. She seated herself once more before the mirror. "Minny, I am ready for you now." Minny came, with her face calm and corpse-like, and once more essayed to bind up the rich bands of hair. "Place my wreath a little more front. My cheek needs the shade of that bright rose to relieve its pallor--so--that effect is charming." "Your hair is dressed, Miss." Della sprang to her feet like one who resolutely tossed some load from the heart, and taking the hand-mirror from the table, surveyed the arrangement of her hair altogether. "Beautiful! Minny, you have excelled yourself to-night." "Thank you, Miss. What dress?" "My India mull, and the rose-colored ribbons." The dress was brought, and Della stood before the full-length mirror while Minny fastened it. "Tie my shoulder-knots in your prettiest manner, Minny." "Yes, Miss; and my reward shall be a rehearsal of the list of conquests?" "I suppose so," smiled Della; "Minn, I pet you a great deal too much." "I know it, Miss; and make me love you a great deal too well." Della sighed. At this moment there was a tap at the door, and Mrs. Delancey, in full evening costume, entered the room. "Most ready, dort, darling?" "Yes, mamma, I will be down in a few minutes." "You look very sweetly in that simple dress; what prompted you to choose that to-night, treasure?" "An instinctive knowledge, I presume, mamma, that I would look very sweetly in it," replied Della, archly. Mrs. Delancey was a fine-looking woman--very fussy and very French. She smiled, and displayed her brilliant teeth at her daughter's answer, then stooped, and kissed her brow. Mrs. Delancey loved her child, with all the strength of affection she was capable of feeling. She was even first in her heart in some moments of pride and ambition, and second never, save to her love of fashion and display. "Clasp this string of pearls about your throat, it will relieve the plainness of your attire." "I'd rather not have it relieved, mamma." "What a strange whim," returned the lady, proceeding to fasten on the necklace. As the toilet was declared finished, Mrs. Delancey stepped back to observe the effect. "_Charmante, ma chere!_" she exclaimed. "Remember, love, your father and I wish you to be particularly agreeable to General Delville this evening. He is a splendid match, rich as a Jew, and of such fine family!" "He is the gentleman who was of age when papa was born, isn't he, mamma?" "Hush, child; what of that! He may be a little old, but all the better--you'll be left a charming young widow the sooner." Della lifted a bracelet from the table, and fell to examining it with the closest inspection, while her little satin-slippered foot kept up an unconscious, nervous tapping upon the carpet. Mrs. Delancey looked at her watch--"Nine o'clock, Della; the guests will begin to arrive, shortly. You need not come down till your father comes for you. Remember, _ma chere_, General Delville, particularly." So saying, the proud mother swept from the apartment. As the door closed upon her, Della stepped through the open window, and passed out upon the balcony. Minny busied herself with putting aside the jewels which had not been wanted, and other unnecessary articles of dress, which the capricious fancy of her mistress had drawn from their proper places during the process of preparation. A half hour passed before Mr. Delancey sought his daughter's apartment; when he entered, Della was seated gracefully on an ottoman, arranging a bouquet of orange flowers and mignonnette. It was a sweet picture, and the father stopped to look upon it. Della looked up, and her eye went quickly from her father's to Minny's face, then dropped again upon her flowers. "Are you ready, Della?" "One minute, papa." "You are looking very lovely to-night, my daughter. Be careful and have your manners to correspond with your looks. My choicest friends are here this evening, and I wish to see you Queen of Hearts." "Especially to General Delville?" "Especially to General Delville, Della. I shall be very happy to see you his wife, and it is in your power to become so if you choose." "I should like to know how many wives he has already, before I take that step, so that I may know how strong a fortification my eyes need against finger-nails." "Fie, Della! the General has never been married, and you will no doubt occupy the first place in his heart." "I have always hoped that when I married such might be my lot, but it cannot be in this case, I know. If General Delville has lived in New-Orleans till he has grown old enough to be my grandfather, he can't have much of a heart left." "Della, you astonish me!" said her father, with the frown deepening. "One would think you had no ambition whatever to make a good match." "Papa, do you love me at all?" Mr. Delancey started at the abrupt question, and gazed upon his daughter in surprise. "Love you, Della? the whole of my heart is centred in you." Della sighed, as if the answer did not quite please her, and taking her father's proffered arm, went down the broad staircase, and into the magnificent drawing-room. Wealth, and beauty, and state, and grandeur, all were there; yet first, and fairest, and brightest, shone the merchant's daughter. The happy father and proud mother watched her, as with a light step she flitted through the thronged rooms, the "observed of all observers," and there was a light in her eye, an animation in her tread, and a glow on her cheek, which was all the more beautiful for being rare. She leant upon Mr. Delville's arm, the envied object of many a young heart there; and when seated at the harp, her clear, unaffected voice rose in strains of thrilling melody. General Delville was at her side, listening with earnest attention, and turning the leaves of her music with all the grace of a more youthful courtier. Aware, as he was, of the sanction of the father and the eagerness of the mother, it was no wonder that the General strove to win to his withered heart so fair a flower. He had been a great traveler, and had feasted his eyes on the beautiful women of the East, and the more frigid beauties of northern climes. He had been courted rather than courting, and had gone through life dreading to take to his heart a wife, lest, when too late, he should find his wealth had been the talisman that drew her there. But in Della, he thought he saw a sweet and guileless girl; and put forth all his attractive powers of conversation and graces of person (which, old as he was, became him well,) to interest her in himself. Her father watched the progress of their acquaintance with a delight which manifested itself, even in _his_ cold eyes, and Della received the assiduous attentions of her white-haired admirer with a triumph for which she was excusable; yet with no desire to win him closer than now. The evening wore away, the splendid supper was over, and the guests, one by one, took their departure. Many a youthful suitor made his adieus to Della that night with a jealous pang, as Delville's apparent success arose to his mind. When the rooms were cleared, Mr. Delancey called his daughter to his side. "I cannot let you retire, Della, without telling you how much you have pleased and gratified a father's heart this night. I am more than ever proud of you; you will well adorn the station in which Delville can place you. Bless you, Della. Good night." "Good night, papa." Della moved gracefully away, and slowly mounted the broad staircase leading to her chamber. "No blessing of love--no blessing of affection," she murmured softly, as she went on, step by step--"only a blessing through his pride--cold, hollow, empty pride, with nothing noble, nothing lofty in it; having for foundation only an eligible match for me, or my station, or my appearance. What a life, what a life!" Della expected to find Minny asleep, as the hour was late; but when she entered her apartment, Minny was there, walking the floor with her hands clasped thoughtfully before her. "Undress me, Minn. I am weary--weary." "Haven't you been happy, Miss?" asked the girl, as she knelt to unfasten the slender slipper from the pretty foot. "Yes--and no, Minn. If triumph could make me happy, I must have been, so far as that is concerned; but in thinking of you I have been unhappy; and I have thought of you all the evening." "Of me, Miss, in the midst of all that gaiety!" "Of you. Would you like to be free, Minny?" "Free, Miss Della? to have my freedom, and leave you?" "Yes, Minny, if you would like your freedom, you shall have it this very night; papa will do anything I say with regard to it, and you may go, dear Minn, whenever you choose. You shall have money to carry you where you like. In the North you might do well; marry some rich abolitionist, perhaps, and be very happy. I am in earnest, Minn; you have but to speak." "Miss Della, if I have offended you in any way, if I have hurt your heart by any means, if I have spoken, acted, or looked anything that displeased you, do anything to punish me save sending me from you. What would my freedom be to me away from you? Miss Della, you will never know how poor Minn loves you." The girl had spoken in such a subdued voice, uttering her short sentences between the sobs that were trying to struggle up, that, as she paused in her task, and looked in her mistress's face with an expression of such tearful, doubtful anxiety on her features, Della was deeply touched, and sat a moment with her handkerchief pressed to her eyes. She took it down at last, and went on very calmly and thoughtfully. "Minny, it is very painful for me to talk of this, but you must understand me: I'm afraid I can never be quite happy again, with you performing such offices as this for me. The discovery I made this afternoon--that unfortunate discovery for both of us--was terrible--very terrible!" "Oh, Miss, that of all things you should have asked me that! I will never, never remember it, if you will only forget it, and let me be to you what I have ever been." "I was right in what I suspected--I am sure I guessed the truth--you must tell me now, Minny," said Della, taking one of Minny's hands in hers, and speaking in a tone half doubtful that she might be wrong. "My father was your father, _n'est ce pas_, dear Minny?" Heedless of the kindness with which the words were spoken, Minny threw up her hands with a gesture of despair, then flung herself full length upon the floor, in a burst of passionate grief. "Get up, Minny; get up, and come by me here; come!" With the deep sobs still bursting from her lips, the girl rose, and sat, with bowed head and falling tears, at her young mistress's feet. "Minny, you understand me now, don't you? Think of it, Minny: you are my sister!" "Oh! none the less your slave, Miss." "My father's child must never be a slave to me." "Miss Della! Oh that this knowledge should have ever come to either of us; don't for the love of mercy talk so; don't put me from you; what am I but a negro's child, the fruit of the white man's sin?" "I know, Minny, I know the world would never look upon this as I do; but you are in my sight as much my sister as if my father had lost a first wife and wedded again, and we were the fruits of the two marriages. The same blood is in your veins that is in mine. He who gave you being, to me is 'father,' to you is 'master.' You are more beautiful than I, as well as better fitted for the society into which I am forced to move, yet you are a slave!" Della leaned back in her chair a moment; and again held her handkerchief to her eyes; she controlled herself quickly however, and continued: "I set the case before you just as it is, Minny; I want you to view it in its true light--then choose between what I offer you, and what you must otherwise be. Don't tremble so, Minny; I never have felt towards you as a mistress would to a slave. When I look back, I remember you were the only playmate I ever had, the closest and best companion of my wayward girlhood; and I feel that I have always loved you, always respected you, and, Minny, I always shall. I am certain, Minn, that though there may be black blood circling round it, there never was a purer heart, a nobler soul, than yours. Were it not for my father's sake your position should be different in this house, but in honor to him I can only do you good by sending you where your birth and parentage will ever be a mystery. Minny, dear, will you go?" The girl had sat during all this time quiet as a statue, at her mistress's feet. As she heard her stop speaking, she raised herself upon her knees before her, and clasping her small hands above her, exclaimed:-- "As God hears me, Miss Della, I would rather stay by you, rather be the veriest slave that ever breathed, a mere thing to answer to your beck and call, so that I may be near you, and love you, and do for you, than to be the wife of the richest white man that ever lived--to be looked upon as white myself--or to move in those circles which you would fain believe me fitted for. As God hears me this is true!" "Heaven bless you, Minny! Then we will never part." With an exclamation of joy, Minny clasped her young mistress to her heart, and poured forth, with passionate vehemence, her prayers and tears and blessings. It seemed as if she could never cease, and Della twined her fair arms, jeweled, and white, and beautiful, beneath the thick black curls, which covered Minny's neck, and gave her kiss for kiss, and tear for tear. "When I am Bernard's wife, Minn, then I can make you happier. You have all those dear letters safe, quite safe?" "I keep them as the apple of my eye, Miss. You can never make me happier, dear Miss, than I am now. I can never wish to be more blest than I am this minute." "Dear Minny, you have a woman's heart, and that must know a woman's longings. When I have it in my power I shall at least try to make you happier, though it may be in a different way. You have always been more a friend and a fond companion than a slave to me, and now, now--" Della paused, as if it were impossible for her to speak the words she would, then added, after a moment's pause, "Minny, never let this dreadful secret go farther, place a seal upon your lips, and let it die with you for my sake. And, if you will stay, Minny, rather than to go and be free and happy in your own way, I will do everything for you, love you, care for you, all--only never, never let this dreadful truth be known." "Never, Miss, so help me Heaven! Only let me stay with you, and be what I have ever been to you, and I will be content. Try, dear Miss, to forget all that's passed to-day, and let us stand together in the old light." "No, Minny, I can never forget it. The old light can never shine on me again; but I will try always to remember it as I should; and now, Minn, finish, undressing me; or rather, teach me to undress myself." "I claim this as my privilege, Miss, and never want you to learn how." Della smiled, and patted Minny's cheek. There had a change come over her in the last few hours, such as she never thought to experience. It seemed as if she had become more of a woman in that short space than she had ever thought she would become. Her judgment and heart, too, seemed suddenly to have expanded; and she felt more respect for herself than she had ever done before. She had always been one who thought for herself, notwithstanding there were so many to think for her; and, with a spirit above all affectation, she looked at things in a plain, common-sense, and true light. When the first shock was over in regard to her relationship to Minny, she had struggled with her natural feelings of wounded pride, till the matter stood before her as it was. Her father was not one to win his child's affections, and Della had always feared more than loved him; but of one so cold and stern she had never in all her life thought this. But now that she knew it, she almost wondered how it was she had never suspected as much before. Few girls, in Della's position, would have talked with a slave as she talked to Minny--would ever have thought of placing matters in so strong a light before her; but Della was guileless and innocent at heart, with a child-spirit in some things, yet more than woman's strength in others. She never thought Minny could take advantage of the new aspect of affairs she painted for her; she only felt that Minny was enduring a life of wrong, and longed to give her redress. And Minny's was a great, and noble, and truthful heart. From earliest childhood she had been taught to regard Miss Della as her mistress, and was never absent from her side. Della had been educated at home; and Minny, with her quick mind, and an occasional lesson from her young mistress, together with her earnest desire to learn, had acquired more real knowledge than Della herself, though lacking some of the light accomplishments in which her mistress excelled. Thus had they grown up together, and they were not to be parted now. CHAPTER XVIII. "Alas! the heart that inly bleeds Has naught to fear from outward blow; Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Cares little into what abyss." Byron. When Arthur left the store, the evening after the unfortunate affair of the bank deposit, he had gone forth with no definite purpose, no chosen course for his footsteps, only with a longing desire to feel the breath of Heaven upon his hot brow once again, and to look up at the stars, which he felt glad would gaze on him always the same, from the deep blue sky above; no matter what changes came o'er the heart of man, or how black the frown adversity might bend upon him. Perhaps had the youth, that night, been left to commune with his own rebel thoughts, and to the companionship of those holy stars, and the still voice of the night, he would have become himself again, and sought his pillow with a heart refreshed from the storm that had swept over it. But his evil genius pursued him; and before he reached the first corner, he heard a quick step behind him, and turning, stood face to face with the last person he at that moment wished to meet--Quirk, his fellow-clerk. Since the Sabbath which they had spent so disgracefully together, he had shunned Quirk in every way. He had avoided his glances, shunned his presence, and turned a deaf ear to his sneers and gibes. But now there was no way to avoid him, and Arthur greeted him with as good a grace as possible. "What the devil's the matter with you, Pratt?" he exclaimed, after the first words of recognition. "I can see plainly there's been a muss between you and old D., someway, but I'll be hanged if I could find out what 'twas about. He hasn't found out we lost that pass-key, has he?" "D----n the key," said Arthur, uttering his first oath with cool nonchalance; "I don't know whether he's found it out or not, and care less." "You'd have to care, I reckon, if he did find it out, though," returned the other. "Don't you see the store is liable to be entered any night, if a clever fellow happened to find that key? You see the number of the store and all is on it." Arthur walked on for a moment in silence, then replied: "If a 'clever fellow,' as you say, had found it, and wanted to use it for such a purpose, he'd have been in, I guess, before now--that key has been gone a month or more." "Aye, but the nights have been too fine; starlight or moonlight all the while; and may be he is waiting for the new stock of goods, who knows?" "Well, if that's going to happen," said Arthur, earnestly, "I only hope it will not come just yet; I've got trouble enough for one season." "Trouble! what have you got to trouble you, I'd like to know? But I forgot, you haven't told me what occurred to-day; and that's just what I come after you for, to find out." "Well, I may as well tell you, I suppose, if you are so anxious to know. Delancey, I don't believe, will keep it to himself, and you may as well know it from me as him." "Never hope for him to keep anything secret that could hurt a body; I never knew him to screen a clerk's faults yet. He is of the opinion that to make the matter public, is the best way to ensure better luck next time. Let's step in here, and take something refreshing; and you can tell me the story over our glasses." Arthur complied, and entering one of those gorgeous saloons, which can be found in almost every block of the Crescent City, Quirk stepped to the counter, and ordered a bottle of wine, and, in an under-tone, added:--"A private apartment, also, if you have one empty." The clerk, who was a portly, sensual-faced, red-haired man, raised his brows, and, tipping a sly wink at Quirk, said:--"Up stairs or down?" "Both, perhaps," returned the other, with a laugh; "but if we want an upper one, we'll let you know. Down stairs for the present." The man had by this time lighted a lamp, at the wick of which he had been working for some time, and taking the bottle of wine, he led the way into the back part of the saloon, where was a door partially concealed by red moreen hangings. He shoved aside the curtain, and passed into a long vestibule, elegantly furnished, with doors opening on each side, not unlike the state-rooms of a steamboat. These doors led into small apartments, carpeted, lighted, and containing four chairs and a card-table, with a pack of cards. "You are perfectly private here, gentlemen." "Yes," replied Quirk, seating himself with the air of a man who has bought his comfort, and means to enjoy it. "Ah, Quibbles, what shall we do for cigars? I forgot them." "We have some prime Havanas, sir; how many did you order?" "Oh, bring me half a dozen; that's enough after wine." Quibbles departed on his mission. "This is a nice place, Pratt, to tell secrets in; don't you think so?" "I do, indeed," said Arthur, looking around with a knowing air, and thrumming on the table with his fingers. The clerk at this moment returned with cigars and wine glasses, and drew the cork of the wine bottle. "Quibbles." "Yes, sir." "Has Clinton been here to-night?" "Not yet." "When he comes tell him we are here, and send him in, will you?" Quibbles bowed, and retired. "Is that the proprietor of this establishment, Quirk?" asked Arthur, helping himself to a glass of wine. "Ho, ho, bless your heart, no. The proprietor is one of the pillars of an up-town church, and would feel his reputation ruined, and himself disgraced, if seen behind the counter of such a concern. He hires this man to play proprietor, and keeps the place open for the benefit of those who prefer bar-rooms to churches. You see, Christians go into anything that pays well, here." Arthur bent over his glass with something like a frown on his young brow; then holding his wine up between his eye and the light, he shook it slowly, and watched the ruddy reflection playing on his hand. "Didn't I hear you ask if Clinton had been here, Quirk?" "Aye, just so." "Does he frequent this place?" "Well, between you and me, he does." "Does he use these?" said Arthur, lifting a few of the cards, and letting them fall slowly through his fingers. "Well, sometimes he does one thing, sometimes another; you see this is a very extensive establishment, and sometimes he drinks in the saloon, sometimes gambles in here, and sometimes passes the evening up stairs with the ladies, and occasionally does all in the course of an evening. He's a fine fellow, I tell you; a fast un, though." "What ladies are in the house, the family of the man out yonder?" "Ha! ha! ha!" roared Quirk, uproariously; "what a prime innocent it is, though. Why, my boy, this is one of the fashionable establishments of the city." A glow of shame crossed Arthur's cheek, as the truth flashed upon his mind, and dashing his glass angrily down, blushing at the thought of being led into such a place, he was about to pass out of the door. "Why, hold on, Pratt; have you forgotten what you came here for? You haven't told me a word of what you were going to." "Nor shall I in this hole," returned Arthur, laying his hand upon the door-key; "if you want to hear it you must get out of here." "Nonsense!" exclaimed Quirk, trying to detain him; "hold on till we finish this bottle." "Not I," replied Arthur, "I've had enough;" and dashing open the door, he rushed against the trim figure of Clinton, who was just about to enter. CHAPTER XIX. "Fate is above us all; We struggle, but what matters our endeavor? Our doom is gone beyond our own recall; May we deny or mitigate it? Never!" Miss Landon. "Whither so fast, whither so fast!" cried Clinton, so cheerfully, as he laid both hands on Arthur's shoulders, and playfully detained him, that he could not answer the speaker with a frown; so, holding out his hand, he shook that of the new comer heartily, and suffered himself to be led back into the card-room. "If you hadn't have come just as you did, Clin, this chap would have been off like a shot from a shovel, his young modesty was so shocked just by my telling him the state of affairs in the house here," said Quirk, tipping back in his chair against the wall, while a sneer mingled in the smile upon his lips. "Well, if he isn't used to such things, I don't wonder," returned Clinton, drawing Arthur to a seat by his side, and squeezing cordially the hand he still held. "You're a pretty one to side that way," said Quirk, half angry at Clinton's remark. "If he ain't used to such things, it's time he was initiated, if he ever expects to be a man." "Time enough, time enough," replied Clinton, good-naturedly, shaking the bottle to see if there was anything left in it, then touching a table-bell at his side, he summoned Quibbles. "A couple of bottles of champagne here, and clean glasses." They were brought instantly. "How came you to drop in here, boys, to-night? I declare it is an unexpected pleasure." "Pratt had something on his mind, and came in here to tell me of it; but he got so d----d huffy, I don't suppose I shall hear it now." "Something on your mind, eh, Pratt?" said Clinton, in a commiserating tone, as he filled Arthur's glass, and shoved the bottle to Quirk; "if so, here's to the end of it." They touched glasses, and drank off the sparkling draught. "Now for the story, whatever it is!" cried Clinton. "It is no story, only a little affair that happened after I left you this afternoon," returned Arthur. "Indeed! after you left me! I am all impatience, my dear fellow, let's hear." In as few words as possible, dwelling as lightly as he could on what Mr. Delancey had said to him, Arthur told it all as it had happened, his companions listening attentively meanwhile. "Why, my dear soul!" cried Clinton, clapping his hand on Arthur's shoulder, as he finished speaking, "your pocket must have been picked. There's always a crowd in the street at that time of day, and somebody has just been cute enough to rob you." "So Mr. Delancey thought, and he said probably you did it," returned Arthur, though in the tone of one who tells what he feels assured is false. "The deuce he did!" exclaimed Clinton, filling the glasses again, and holding up his own to conceal the flush upon his face. "Well, it's too bad anyhow," said Quirk, with returning good nature. "You don't get any credit for honesty, and have to bear the loss besides--outrageous!" "How did the old man know anything about me?" said Clinton, with an indifferent air; "I'll have to call him out, if he touches upon my character in this style." Quirk laughed, and Arthur hastened to explain to Clinton how the remark had been made, and how light a bearing, after all, it had upon himself. Clinton received it with a careless bow, as if, at best, he considered it a matter of no consequence. "And so he actually insinuated that you had it, eh, in the end?" "Yes--and that's the most I care for; if he had believed me honest, I could have borne the rest unmurmuringly; but to be thought a thief!" "It seems hard enough, don't it?" said Clinton, in a tone of sympathetic kindness, well-calculated to win on the trusting heart beside him, and laying one hand familiarly on Arthur's knee. "It's a deuced piece of business, that's all about it!" cried Quirk, growing excited with the wine he had swallowed; "it's an insult I wouldn't take from any man--old or young, or little or big; I'll be dem'd if I would." An insult! that was a light in which he had not exactly placed it before, and Arthur's blood rose at the thought. Clinton remarked it, with a twinkle of gratification in his keen eye, which he strove to conceal from Arthur's observation. "It's enough to drive one desperate! I scarcely know what I should do under such circumstances," said he, suddenly, with his eyes fixed keenly upon Arthur's flushed face. "There's no way for me to do but to put up with it," returned Arthur, doggedly; "I've got to stay there, and make it up; and I may as well do it quietly as to make a disturbance about it, because it's got to be done." "It's enough to tempt one to try the strength of the old adage----," continued Clinton, thoughtfully, and pausing in the midst of his sentence. "What's that?" asked Arthur, without looking up. "Why, to take the game as well as the name," said the other, with a short laugh, and without taking his eyes from Arthur's face. "True enough," cried Quirk, "you might as well be a thief as to be called one, according to my opinion." Arthur placed his elbow on the table, and looked into the lamp-blaze thoughtfully, with his head on his hand. "You are both ready to advise," said he, after a moment's silence, "but I doubt if either of you know what you'd do in my case, after all." "I'd be avenged," said Clinton, resolutely; "but you are not me, and I don't ask you to do as I would." "That's just the thing!" cried Quirk; "and if you can hit upon a plan, carry it out; there'll be some satisfaction in that." "Revenge!" said Arthur, bitterly; "how can I be revenged? It would be a sparrow struggling against a vulture." "You admit you have been wronged?" "Most unjustly so." "And you would be avenged, if you could?" "Yes, if I spilled my heart's blood." Arthur had drank deeply of the wine, and his blood was heated with it, and his worst passions aroused. He had been goaded into the belief that he had been grossly insulted and had taken it submissively, and that revenge was his only resource. He threw aside his chair, and strode back and forth across the narrow room, with the excited tread of the caged lion. Clinton watched him furtively from beneath his brows for a moment, then rising, linked arms, and leaned toward him in a confidential manner. "My poor friend, I pity you from the bottom of my heart; count upon me whenever you are in want of a friend, will you?" "Always, Clinton; thank you." "And if I should try to think upon some good plan, lay some good plot, by which you could gain retribution for this great wrong, would you then be courageous, and carry it out handsomely?" "Would I? Never fear me there. I'll show you that I'm not one to bow my neck to the insults of a money-holder. I'll carry out anything you say." "Bravo! my boy; you've got the right kind of spirit in you; that's what I like to see--you're a man of pluck." "About when do you think you'll have this grand plot ready for me, eh?" "The first dark night." "You'll consult the clerk of the we-weather as to when that is c-coming, eh?" "I suppose so," said Clinton, laughing. "Meanwhile, come down to my house the last of the week, say Friday night, and I'll have all things in cap-a-pie order for you." "How do I know where to find you, my more than brother," said Arthur, clasping Clinton's hand closely. "Quirk knows the way. You'll come?" "Depend upon it." "Good! that's settled; now for a bumper on it." "Well, I don't know, Clinton; I--I--declare I'm afr-afraid I'll be (hic) drunk if I drink any more." "Nonsense! down with it; let's finish the last bottle." The wine was swallowed, and Clinton, taking Arthur's hand in his, shook it heartily. "Ah! my boy, you've proved yourself 'one of us' to-night; glad to claim you as a b-hoy. Whenever you're in want or trouble, signal the b-hoys, and you'll be helped out of it. It's a better society than any of the Odd Fellows or Free Masons can ever be, and costs you nothing besides. What say you now for a stroll?" "Agreed! for my part, I am ready for anything." "Then hurrah, boys!" cried Clinton, beginning to sing a lively air; and lighting their cigars, they passed out into the saloon. "Put all this in my bill, Quibbles," said Clinton, as he passed that gentleman, on his way to the door. "That'll do, sir--all right." With noise and laughter, and rude jest, the drunken trio went down the street. It needed but a glance to show that the younger of the three, he with the bright complexion and jetty hair, was but a novice in dissipation, and more than one felt a glow of pity, as he jostled past them in the light of the bright windows of Royal-street. Alas! alas! Arthur; where was the ghost in your heart now? that haggard figure, pointing ever with its skinny finger backward! They kept on until they reached St. Ann-street, into which they turned; as they did so, their attention was attracted by the appearance of a slight female figure, with a short cloak about her shoulders, and the hood drawn over her head. The moment she heard the unsteady steps behind her she hurried her pace, which was already rapid, and sped along with feet winged with fear. "By Jove! that's a graceful little minx!" exclaimed Clinton. "She's inclined to lead us a chase, too," said Quirk. "Let's after her." "Agreed." And with a shout, the three started in pursuit, scarce conscious, in their excitement, of the object they had in view. With a scream, the light form bounded onward, and fled away like the wind. Strong limbs followed; but her feet were fleet, and lightly clad, and with the hood falling from her head, and hands clasped upon a parcel she carefully carried, she seemed almost to fly before her pursuers. With a cry of delight, she saw the gleam of a lamp come through an open door, a little beyond, when, as she attempted to spring an intervening gutter, her foot struck the curb-stone, and she fell to the earth. In an instant she was lifted in the arms of Quirk and Clinton. "Oh, grandpapa! grandpapa!" she shrieked, in thrilling accents, "what will become of your poor, poor Blanche? Help! help!" Her cries were unheeded by her merciless captors, and they bore her down an adjacent street. CHAPTER XX. "Oh! Clifford, how thy words revive my heart!" King Henry VI. "Villains!" cried a deep, powerful voice, as a huge form met them, in full career, staggering through the darkness; "villains! unhand this girl, or, by Heavens, you'll rue the hour you ever placed a finger on her." "Help! help!" "And who are you, I'd like to know, that dares to put his finger in our p-p-pie?" returned Quirk, trying to dash past the tall figure with his burden. "I am one that dares to protect defenceless virtue, whenever I see it thus assailed. This girl is not what you take her for, or she would never cry for help; and I tell you to put her down, or I will make you," returned the other, lifting his strong arm, and still preventing them from passing. The girl struggled in the grasp of her captors, and moaned. The new comer sprang forward with a bound, and clasping his arms about her, strove to draw her from their hold. "Not so fast, not so fast," said Clinton, placing one hand over the girl's mouth; "remember we're three to one here, and if you don't want your head broke, you'd better keep away." "That's the kind," said Arthur, coming forward; "hold on to her, Clin--" The words were no sooner spoken, than the speaker fell to the pavement, leveled by a heavy blow from the arm of the intruder, and a second blow sent Quirk, staggering, into the gutter, while at the same moment the girl was snatched from the now yielding arms of Clinton. As she gained her feet, she flung back her hair from her eyes, and looked up in the face of her rescuer. "Monsieur Wilkins!" "Good Heavens! is this Blanche?" At the mention of Wilkins' name, Arthur and Quirk sprang to their feet, and started on a run down the street, followed by Clinton. "A devilish muss this," cried Quirk, as they paused on a corner, a few blocks from the scene of their discomfiture. "It was too dark for him to recognize a soul of us," returned Clinton; "if it hadn't been for the lamp gleam coming suddenly through that window, she would not have known him." "I hope he didn't know me," said Arthur, rubbing his forehead, which had struck the pavement as he fell, and feeling considerably sobered by his fall, and the recent flight. "I don't want this scrape to go back to Guly." "Who's that? your young milk-and-water brother! Pshaw! what does he know about the fun of such things? If you want to enjoy yourself, I advise you to keep your sprees a secret from him; he has no soul to appreciate such affairs." "You are more than half right there." "He's the kind of character I can't bear to be near," said Quirk, emphatically. "You couldn't pay him a higher compliment than to say that," returned Arthur, warmly. "Well, well, don't get into a miff about a trifle now. Clint, where shall we go to?" "I shall go home, I reckon; my head aches," said Arthur. "No, you won't go home either," replied Clinton, pulling him along with him, good-naturedly. "Let's make a night of it, now we have begun. What do you say for the Globe ball-room? There's a high affair there to-night, and 'We'll dance all night till broad daylight, And go home with the gals in the morning.'" "Agreed," said Quirk; "come along, Pratt. Your foot's in, and it'll be dirty, whether you pull it out first or last; you may as well have the good of it." With a heart responding to this idea, Arthur suffered his companions each to take an arm, and went on with them to the Globe ball-room. The haggard ghost, the pale figure of warning and remorse, was gone for ever from Arthur's heart. Wilkins, the moment he discovered who it was he had rescued, gave scarce a thought to the flight of those who had opposed him; but, with a gush of thankfulness in his heart, he drew Blanche's arm within his, and led her back toward her own house. "How came you to be in the street at this hour, Miss? Do you know it is after midnight, and young girls like you are never safe in these streets at such hours?" "Oh, sir," said Blanche, bursting into tears, "my grandpapa was taken very ill. I had no one to send, you know, and of course I had to go for assistance myself. I looked all up and down the street, and saw nobody, not even a watch-man; so I put on my cloak, and ran for the doctor. He wasn't home; so I went a little further to see old Elise, who always gives me medicine that helps grandpapa, and she detained me a little while preparing it; and when I came out, _they_ came behind me; I tried my very best to run away, but I fell down, and they caught me. Oh, Mon Dieu! Monsieur! what if you hadn't come just as you did!" "You would have been a most miserable little girl, without doubt, Miss Blanche." "I can never thank you enough, Monsieur." "You can repay me by never going out at such a time again." "And when another case comes just as extreme, Mr. Wilkins, what can I do? I couldn't let poor grandpapa die, could I?" There was such an earnest intonation of voice in these words, and such a simple innocence of manner, that Wilkins couldn't repress a smile. "If I furnish you with a tidy little black girl, will you take good care of her, Miss Blanche, and let _her_ do your errands?" "Oh, Monsieur, that would be too much for you to do." "No; I own a number of slaves, and the daughter of one of them is too young to be put out to a place, and is just old enough to work for you." "You are so very kind!" By this time they had reached Blanche's home, and as she tripped up the steps, she said:-- "Come and see grandpapa to-morrow, Mr. Wilkins; and let him thank you for his kindness to his little house-keeper." "I will come, Miss Blanche." "And, Monsieur," she added, coming out again after she had passed into the door, "bring Guly with you, won't you?" "Oui, Mademoiselle." The door closed, and Wilkins passed on, thoughtfully, towards Royal-street. In the excitement of the recent adventure, he had almost forgotten what had called him forth at that time of night, and now walked on, like one who wanders forth purposeless, into darkness and solitude. But suddenly, in passing a brilliantly lighted café, the thought of Arthur crossed his mind; and, for the first time, the idea flashed upon him, that he might have been one of those concerned in the capture of little Blanche. He stopped short, and was about to turn back, to endeavor to trace the fugitives, when he remembered that Arthur had as yet but just commenced the downward path, and that he could not already have become so fallen as to commit so base an act as that which he had just witnessed. It had been too dark to recognize faces, and his own excitement had prevented him from thinking to notice the voices; and the more he thought of it, the more convinced was he that Arthur was not among them. He had sat with Guly by the fire until the midnight hour had passed, waiting for Arthur's return; but when the fire died out, and the lamp faded, and he still was absent, he persuaded Guly to go to bed, promising that he would seek his brother before he slept. Guly would fain have accompanied him, but Wilkins induced him to remain, not wishing to familiarize the pure heart of his boy-friend with the scenes in which he felt convinced he must look for the wanderer. Wilkins faithfully kept his word, and left no place unsearched wherein he thought it possible to find Arthur. He believed he would find him in some one of the popular places of resort, standing ever open, with their false glitter and dangerous splendor, to lure their victims to destruction. But 'the wee small hour ayont the twal' found him still searching, and still unsuccessful. Disappointed, with lingering steps he turned toward the store, but, as he stepped upon the sill, a slender figure darted from the alley-way, and laid a chill and trembling hand upon his arm. "Bernard!" "Heavens, Minny! what brings you here?" "Hopes and fears, and memories, and sorrows, which _will not_ die." "Pshaw, girl! harping on the old string yet! What of your mistress?" "She is well, and by this time happy in her dreams." "And did she send you to me? how came you here?" "I came here with the pass, which gives any negro a right to the highway; and though I forged it, it served me well." Minny stepped back into the shadow of the archway, and Wilkins, obeying the convulsive grasp of that delicate hand, followed her. "Bernard," said she, dropping her voice almost into a whisper, which echoed deep and clear through the dark and narrow alley, "I have come to you to-night, for the last time in my life, to stand before you for a moment in the light of other days." She paused, as if some smothered emotion overcame her; and the trembling hand upon his arm slipped down, and was clasped an instant in Wilkins' grasp. It lingered there but a moment, one wild sad moment to Minny, and was withdrawn hastily, with a gush of tears. "I cannot tell you," she proceeded to say, in a tone of touching sadness, and speaking every word with impressive distinctness, "I cannot tell you what came over me to-night, as I sat by the tall window, looking up at the pale stars, and listening to the night-wind, but it seemed to me like some vivid dream, or some shadowy vision of the past, and as my mistress fell asleep, I sat there still, looking up at the stars, with my vision between me and them. Listen, Bernard, and let me tell you what it was." Wilkins' heart was touched by the soul-reaching sadness of the girl's manner, and he folded his arms patiently upon his breast, and leaned back against the brick wall of the archway, with his head bent forward to listen. "I saw myself, Bernard, at first, as I was when first you came here. I knew none of the sorrows of my situation then, if there were any; at least I did not think it was anything to be a slave, and I was light-hearted and innocent, and very happy. I saw myself tripping along with my basket in my hand, as I so often used to do in my frequent errands to the store, and I met you, and at last, one moonlight night, you started with me from the store, and talked with me kindly and gently, and left me only at the gate of the great house where I lived. Bernard, do you remember?" "Yes, Minny, I do remember." "And the next night, and the next--and still the next--they all came before me to-night so clearly. You were by my side, and talking sweetly, gently, lovingly. Yes, you told your love to me, Bernard; I saw you in my vision to-night as plainly as I saw you in reality then. On your knees before me, me the quadroon, clasping my hand, kissing it, blessing it, praying, imploring, beseeching me to be your wife. You were younger then, and less ambitious. I loved you so passionately, so wildly--Oh! my God! with what intenseness--and I told you so. To-night, looking up at those stars above me, I seemed to hear the old cathedral bell, I saw the doors swing slowly open, I heard the solemn service, you clasped me to your heart--your own." "Girl! girl!" cried Wilkins, striking his hand upon his brow passionately, "why do you come to call all this up now?" "Hear me, Bernard," said Minny, laying her hand again upon his arm. "You must hear me out. My lips shall never call the past to your mind again, never; but hear me now. I kept my place, and you kept yours. We met clandestinely, when we could, and where we could; and when I found that bondage kept me from your side, and that you had neither the gold to buy me, nor the courage to have it said you bought your wife, then, then I learned the bitter lot the quadroon has to bear. I was as white as you, as free in heart and motion, with high and good impulses, and a cultivated mind; and yet I had no liberty to go abroad, and make my home with him I loved, and, for the first time in my life, I cursed the fate which rendered me a slave! A little time went on, and what a change! Oh! Heaven! that I should e'er have lived to see it! you grew cold and distant as you rose in life, and when you gained the position you now have here, I saw, because my very love made me see, that an ambitious heart had turned your thoughts higher than the poor quadroon, the beautiful but wretched slave. You loved my mistress! my master's daughter! She whom he would rather this day bury in the Potter's field than see your wife--and you know it! Oh! what agony then was mine! It was my turn then to weep, and pray, and plead; was I not your lawful wife, your own? Ha! what answer did you give me then? That our marriage was a mere form, that it was illegal, and I was--what? No marriage could be performed lawfully, you said, between a white man and a woman with the blood of my race in her veins. I wonder that I did not go mad then; I was taken terribly ill, but it was my fate to live on in misery. I lived to see you and Miss Della meet often, after that first meeting at the masked ball, and I lived to see her love you. When I found her secret out, I gave you up for ever; and from that moment my love froze up, and has hung in my heart like an unthawing icicle ever since." "Have done, girl!" cried Wilkins, suddenly laying his heavy hands on her shoulders, as she stood before him with the starlight she so loved, just making her pale face and glittering eyes visible; "have done, I say, or I will curse you. Hence! I have heard enough of this; why do you come prating here, to tell me what I already know too well?--out upon you!" In his impatient anger, Wilkins threw her from him, and strode hurriedly, up and down through the narrow alley, where they stood. Minny waited until his excitement had in a measure subsided, and he stood once more with folded arms before her, and his dark eyes looking into hers. "Now," said he, speaking half in mockery, half in awe of the firm-hearted girl beside him, "now, my sin, my concentrated lightning, my beautiful passion, my quintessence of gall and bitterness, go on. I'll stand and listen now till doomsday, if you will it, though your lips drop burning coals into my bare bosom, and scorch my soul. Go on, I say, I'll listen." Minnie drew herself up proudly before him, as she heard his words, and stood with her beautiful head erect, and her keen eye fixed upon him, unwaveringly. "Had you possessed a soul to burn over a woman's woes, and a woman's wrongs, it would have been scorched out long ago, Bernard; but let that pass. I came to you this night, not only to tell over my own wretchedness, a reviewal of which had risen up so forcibly before me, but I came to you anew as the spirit of the past, to call up in your breast the memory of what you have been, and to ask you if the future brings a change. And now, Bernard, on all your hopes of happiness, here or hereafter, answer me truly. Do you sincerely love this girl, whose guileless heart you've won?" "And whether I do or not, girl, is it you I must make my confessor? No, never. It is a matter which concerns you not at all. Whether my heart be black as hate, or pure as an angel's pinion, I lay it bare to no one. Whatever my feelings or intent in this matter, they are my own." "Not so, Bernard. If ambition has prompted you to gain her affections, if love of wealth has sent you a wooer at that shrine, having in your breast no faithful heart to bestow in return for hers, let me beg, let me implore you, to stop where you are. Be merciful, compare the home which you can give, to the home from whence you take her. Compare the happiness which you can bestow to that of which you rob her, and feel, that if you take her, with all this, to a loveless breast, you take her to misery, to desolation, and death!" "Do you deem me a villain, woman?" "What you have been, you may be again." Wilkins mused a moment; then, in a softer and more subdued tone, said:-- "No, no; oh no! God only knows--but never that to her, oh never!" "Bernard! my mistress is dear to me; her happiness more sacred to me than my own. If I believed that you would ever play her false, if I believed that a sinister motive led you to accomplish this end, as I stand before you here, I would expose you as you are. I would lay bare to her the secrets of the past. I would warn her to recall the love which she has lavished on you, though the next hour should be my last, in consequence. Her happiness shall never be wrecked while I have the slightest power to guide it clear from danger." With his impetuous spirit growing calm, as Minny became more excited, Wilkins looked upon her, as she confronted him, with her soul in her face, and his eyes kindled with the admiration his impulsive but generous heart could not but feel. "Most nobly spoken, Minny!" he exclaimed, earnestly, "and now, as Heaven hears, let me speak what I feel is truth. Minny, there is a first love, a wavering, flickering, effervescing sentiment of youthful hearts, faithful and enduring in some instances, but not in mine, and this, God forgive me, I gave to you. True, I believed then I could never change; but the change came, with the exhalation of my heart's first passion, and though I never hated, I found I could no longer love you. Our marriage was illegal; I did not know it when it took place, but I learned it afterwards, when my love had chilled, and with perhaps a cruel, but a just hand, Minny, just to us both, I severed the cord which had bound us so sweetly, and our parted hearts drifted out of each other's sight, on the billows of life's ocean." "Aye, Bernard, the one, a torn and shattered wreck, cast helpless on the desolate shores of sorrow and despair; the other, strong and uninjured, floating away to new and pleasant places, with only the shadow of a sad memory following it." "Too true, Minny, too true! alas for the restless impulses of my misguided spirit. Alas for the trusting hopefulness of thine. But, Minny, as I stand before you now, with my whole heart open to your sight, I can most truly declare, that my love for Della is all that you would have it. She is trusting and innocent. I will never blight the one, or betray the other. I will hold her to my strong heart as some tender flower, which needs protection from a wintry blast, and from the world's cold breath; I will shield and guard, and cherish her with my life. God help me so to do!" "Amen, Bernard, amen!" "Minny, are you satisfied?" "Yes! my heart trusts you once again. Even more hopeful for its trust for another, than even for itself." "Bless you, Minny; and now 'tis time your anxious heart found rest. I will see you safe to your own gate, and then good-night." Minny suffered Wilkins to draw her hand within his arm, and lead her forth once more beneath the starry skies. They walked on silently, each engrossed with their own reflections, with only the occasional interruption of the watchman, or the rattle of some noisy vehicle, hastening along the stony streets. Minny at last stopped at the entrance of the vacant court, leading to the secret garden door. As she was about to withdraw her hand from his arm, Wilkins retained it, firmly, yet respectfully, in his own. "I have been thinking, Minny, more deeply than I ever thought before, of the great wrong which I have done you. The time may never come again when we shall meet as to-night we've met, and before we part, I must hear your lips pronounce my forgiveness." "From the bottom of my heart, Bernard, I forgive you all that you may ever have done to me; either in word, or thought, or deed." "I have been a wretch, Minny." "But," continued the girl, without heeding the interruption, and speaking in an earnest, thrilling tone, "by the Heaven that is above us both, Bernard, I here swear, that if you are ever cold or cruel to the new bride you are winning, as true as there's a heart in my bosom, I will be her avenger--mark my words; though I should have to follow you to the ends of the earth, that revenge shall be mine." A moment of silence ensued, and Minny stood like a breathing statue of retribution, with her glittering eyes fixed upon the face before her. "Ah, Minny, the chill breath of desertion and sorrow has extinguished the last spark of affection which once glowed in your breast for me, or you could never speak thus. But fear not; your young mistress shall be to me as the apple of my eye, even as the core of my heart." "Enough, enough. Good-night." "Stay, Minny; can you learn to think of me kindly; and, in coming days, to witness my affection for another unshrinkingly?" "I have already learned to do so." "And you will not let these gloomy visions of the past rise up between you and the far-off stars?" "Never again, never again." He pressed the trembling hand he held between his own, and touched it to his lips. It was drawn quickly from him; a stifled sob fell upon his ear, and he stood alone. Slowly he turned his steps homewards, and with every echo of his solitary footfall, with every sob of the passing night-wind, came back upon his troubled heart, with thrilling sadness, Minny's last mournful words, "Never again, never again!" Again he reached the store, and the lock, obedient to the ponderous key, turned noiselessly, and Wilkins entered. It was dark and gloomy, and a chill passed over him as he fastened the door, and groped his way along between the deserted counters. The scene through which he had just passed had called up bitter and unpleasant memories, and there came over him a sense of lonely desolation, such as he could not endure to experience. He stopped a moment as he reached the high desk, and stood there, silent and thoughtful. "I will go to him," he muttered; "there is something holy in his presence, which will make me happier." With cautious steps he mounted the winding stairs, and sought the room where Guly lay. The moment he approached the bedside, the boy started from his restless pillow. "Arthur, is it you?" "It is me, Guly," returned Wilkins, in a low voice. "You! and you come without him?" "I come alone, Guly." "And has anything happened--oh! do not keep it from me! Is Arthur hurt? What brings you here, Wilkins, if it is not that?" "I came here, Guly, with my own troubled heart, to look upon you as you slept, and to go away happier. I have no news, either good or bad, of poor Arthur." Guly was silent a moment, then taking Wilkins' hand, he said:-- "I cannot tell you how much I thank you for the long and dreary walk you have taken for my sake. Some day I hope to be able to repay your kindness." "Don't mention it, Guly; a mere trifle." "It was a great deal to me; and now, Wilkins, would you just as soon lie down by me as to sleep in your own bed? It must be nearly morning, but this is a gloomy place to lie in alone, with only a troubled heart for company." "True, Guly; I will be with you in a moment." They lay down together, and soon slept, side by side, exhausted by watching and weariness; and the boy's fair head was pillowed on the man's breast, rising and falling there like a golden shield, resting on the bounding heart, "keeping the evil out." CHAPTER XXI. "'Tis done! I saw it in my dreams. No more with hope the future beams; My days of happiness are few. Chilled by misfortune's wintry blast, My dream of life is overcast. Love, hope, and joy, adieu-- Would I could add, remembrance too." Byron. Arthur was at his place in the morning, almost as soon as Jeff opened the door. His face was pale and haggard, and wore upon it a look of unbroken gloom, and his eye wandered restlessly, as if dreading to meet another's gaze. He had arrived at his post so early, however, that no clerks were yet in the store, and for some time his only companion was the busy negro. "Jeff," said he, at last, in a hesitating tone. "Yes, massa, I'se here, sah." "Did you sleep here behind the store-door last night, as usual?" "Yes, massa, ob course." "Did my brother go to bed early that you know of?" "Well, no, massa, he didn't. He and Massa Wilkins sat back dar by de fire pretty late, sah!" "Indeed! what could they have been talking of to keep them sitting up?" "Well, massa, I don't 'spect 'twould be berry hon'ble in me to tell, case I know dey taut I was sleepin', and didn't know I couldn't help hearin' ebery word dey sed." Arthur blushed as the thought crossed his mind, that the negro's sense of honor was higher than his own; but his curiosity overcame his scruples, and he went on questioning Jeff, as he rubbed up and trimmed the lamps for evening. "Perhaps you heard my name, Jeff, eh?" "Well, 'casionally, I 'spect I did, sah. Bery common ting for brudders to talk of one anudder," said Jeff, rubbing away on the lamp he held with redoubled earnestness. "Did Mr. Wilkins leave the store, that you know of, after it was closed?" "Well, I bleeb he did, sah! He couldn't a come in widout he'd been out, and I know one ob my toes got pinched in de crack ob de door by his coming in when 'twas most mornin'." "My brother was not with him then, was he?" "Well, I had my eyes shut, sah! and it was too dark to see if I'd a had 'em open. 'Alus de darkest hour 'fore day,' you know, sah." "You don't know whether my brother asked Mr. Wilkins to go out, or not, I suppose?" "Really, couldn't tell anyting 'bout it, sah," said Jeff, mounting on a wooden stool, and taking down another lamp carefully. As he gained the floor his eyes met Arthur's face. "Bless de Lord, young massa, how came you by dat offal bump 'long side ob your head?" Arthur drew his hat hastily over his brow, and turned away with a dissatisfied air, without giving any reply. He stood in the door, half-angry at the unsatisfactory answers he had received, but ashamed to show, even to the black, that he felt any real interest in the matter. Preferring, too, to continue the conversation in any way rather than be left to silent communion with his thoughts, he turned suddenly, and said:-- "Jeff, wouldn't you like to be free?" "Free, massa!" exclaimed the negro, rolling up his great eyes at his questioner, in earnest wonder; "why, what de debil put dat in your head? No, sah! I wouldn't be free for nuffin. If dares one ting in dis world more mean dan anudder, I 'spect it's a free nigger. Guy! de Lord deliber dis chile from anyting ob dat kind." "You astound me, Jeff. This is all nonsense." "You'se not de fuss pusson from de Norf, massa, dat's been 'stounded by what de niggers say in de Souf here. I 'member wunst old Massar hab a fren cum here from somewhar, State of York, I tink 'twas, an' he taut a great sight ob him, and took him roun' de city in de big carriage, and made big dinners for him, and 'vited all his notorious 'quaintances to meet him at his house, and all dat. Well, all de time dat Master was makin' so much ob him, dat man was catching ebery chance to try and git his niggers away from him, and de Master knowin' nuffin 'tall 'bout it, and treatin' him like a king. "Well, one day, dis ole debbil cum to me, ('scuse me for calling him so 'fore you, Mister Pratt, but he warn't nuffin else,) an' stood an' looked at me awhile, as I was workin' away, and he sez, 'Jeffrey'--he allus called me by my hull name, and wus a kind of pious-lookin' man, wore a white neck-tie, and alus folded up his hands kinder solemn when he spoke--'Jeffrey,' sez he, puttin' on a bery long face, 'I do feel so much pity for you!' "'Caus why, massa?' sez I. "'Why, 'cause I see you here sich a fine, strong, young man, with sich able powers o' your own, and sich excellent caperbilities to make a fine livin' for yourself, a workin' here, day in and day out, an' a givin' all your life fur de benefit ob anudder. Oh, I feel so sorry fur you!' an' he sighed when he sed dat, like a tired mule. "'Well,' sez I, 'massa, I'se contented where I is. I hab my victuals and clothes, and a good hum, and for all I can see, dat's all my Master has. Ob de two I does tink I'm de best off. Sometimes, when I see him cum in lookin' all pale and flurried like, from his business, I tink to myself I wouldn't hab all his 'sponsibilities on my back fur de world. Guy! I'd rather be de slave dan de master, any time; and as fur when de time comes to die, I reckon I'll take jist as much out of de world as he will.' "'Poor benighted soul,' sez he, liftin' up his hands again, mighty solemn, 'so they've really learn't you to talk so, eh? To think ob perwerting a human soul in dis way! Drefful! drefful!' "'Now,' sez I, 'massa, nobody told me to say dat at all. Don't you 'spect brack man's got sum common sense, and can see as fur into a cane-brake as anybody else? A brack man's nebber a fool 'cept when he's coaxed to run away from a good master, sah! Better bleeb dat.' "'But only to tink,' sez he, 'ob bein' whipped like a hoss when you do anyting wrong, and all dat.' "'Well,' sez I, 'I 'spect if you've got any chillen, you puts de gad on to dem when dey do wrong, too. I'se got a kind Master, and one ob de bes young Mistresses in de world. Fur my part, I'm happy as de day is long.' "'But,' sez the ole feller, 'if you get away, and go North, see how much happier you'll be. You'll have all you earn to yourself, and can buy your own clothes, and can have your own hum, and be out ob de chains of slavery--be a free man, tink ob dat! Cum, if you want to go, I'll help you to run away.' "'Tank you, massa,' sez I, 'but I'd rather stay, and hab ebery ting provided fur me, to trying to be free, and habbin' to dig like a dog to airn my living, an' den not half live. But if you want to set me free so bery bad, and feel so 'stremely bad 'bout my sitiation, if you'll jist walk into de house, an' offer to buy me ob my Master, you can get me, I 'spect, because I ain't one ob de best niggers in the world, an' I'll jist try dis freedom you talk ob, for awhile.' "'Buy you!' sez he, wavin' of his white hand at an orful rate, 'nebber! 'Spose I'll lay out my money to buy a nigger free? Be dem, no! Go free! you've a right to be free; jist cut, and run 'cross de line, an' be happy." "'Cross de line, and go to de debbil!' sez I. 'No, sah! I'se got too much respect for my Master to leeb him in dat style; 'side dat, I'd never 'spec to go to Hebben in de wurld, 'cause I might jist as well rob him ob so much money, fur he paid a good price for me, I tell you. No, sah! I say. I'll stay where I am as long as I can, fur, 'cording to my idee, dar's nuffin meaner in all creation dan a free nigger, 'cept it's a hypercritical abolitionist.' "Lord! I had to run den, as if de ole scratch was at my heels, fur he flung his cane at me so hard, dat when it struck, it stood straight up in de ground. I peeked roun' de ara winder when I got out ob reach, and he was shakin' all ober, he wus so mad, and swarin' fit to kill. Yah, yah, I fixed de ole feller dat time, Massa Pratt, I 'sure you." Arthur could not help smiling at Jeff's enthusiastic relation of the circumstance, and at the same time he saw it was useless to carry on a conversation upon this subject with one of his quick wit; so he only remarked to the negro, who seemed waiting for some encomiums, that he "served him right," and then turned away, and began arranging the goods in his department for the day's sale. Steps were now heard upon the stairs, and Wilkins, followed by Guly, came down into the store, the latter looking pale, and half-sick, from the previous night of lonely and anxious vigils. Wilkins passed Arthur with a cheerful "good morning," and Guly advanced to his side, trying to smile; but the attempt was futile, and he gained his side, and took his hand, silently. Arthur's heart had not become so hardened, in so short a space of time, as to lose all its generous impulses, and he was deeply touched by the expression of his brother's face, so full of grief, yet with such an apparent effort to conceal all sorrow from him. Wilkins was engaged with his books, and Jeff was busy in the back part of the store; and, assured that he would not be observed, he threw an arm about his brother, and drew him close to his side. Guly lifted his large blue eyes, sad and moistened, to Arthur's face. "Dear Arthur," he whispered, "could you but know how much I loved you, you would never--never--" he could get no farther, and stopped suddenly, struggling to keep down his rising emotion. "I would never go astray thus, you would say, Guly; but think not so. It is my fate; I cannot turn aside from it, nor avert it; when I would stop and struggle, on this slippery, downward path, I find it impossible, and I rush on, like one who must keep moving, or fall." "You do not call upon One to aid you, who would surely hear your cry." Arthur was silent. "If we knelt oftener, side by side, as we used to, dear brother, do you not think that your heart would grow more humble and more submissive? and that we both would be happier far?" "Guly! do not charge me with having totally neglected those duties. The past night must, indeed, have been a long one, if you can believe that we no longer do as we _used to do_. Night before last, remember, Guly, I was by your side, looking over with you the pages of the Holy Word, and kneeling to Him who bids us obey it." "True, Arthur; but the night has seemed to me almost interminable. It is very lonely without you, Arthur." "I am not sorry you miss me, Guly; it seems to whisper of so much love; and your love is very dear to me. Remember what I told you the other night upon the step, and always try to feel this affection for me." "Always, Arthur." "There is a terrible weight upon my spirits this morning," added the elder brother, speaking huskily; "I have never felt such a heaviness of heart before. All that was ever bright in my past life, comes up to my memory with a pall wrapped around it, and the future shows no fairer scene. In truth, I have witnessed more vice since I parted from you, Guly, than I have ever imagined the world contained." "Don't you feel ill, Arthur? If you will lie down, I will see that your place is taken care of." "No, Guly, I am getting used to it; I require no rest now; and I may as well bear up, after a night's dissipation, first as last." "I beg you, Arthur, not to talk in this way. Surely you do not mean to continue this course; you will not, you cannot, I am sure. What would I ever do, dear brother, left utterly alone and friendless here?" "My poor Guly! alas, I dare not promise myself to make another attempt to do better; my pride is my misfortune; and I feel as if the hopes and promises of all my young life were dead. I am wretched, wretched!" At this moment Quirk entered the store; and as Arthur looked up, he caught the leer of significant meaning, sent from a quick wink of the eye, and a momentary elongation of the visage, of his late companion. He smiled in return, but at the same moment blushed deeply, as if ashamed to be seen exchanging significant glances with such a being. He also gently withdrew the arm which was about his brother, and moved a little away from him. The clerks now began rapidly to fill their respective places, and the brothers started forth, accompanied by Wilkins, to the restaurant. Wilkins observed, that at breakfast Arthur helped himself freely to claret, and drank heartily, as if to satisfy a burning thirst. He made no remark upon it, however, and the meal was altogether a sad and silent one. All were reflecting upon the events of the past night, a subject which each felt a peculiar sensitiveness about broaching, and with the mere table ceremonies, which even in such a place the brothers did not fail to observe, the breakfast was finished. As was frequently the case, Wilkins was the first to be through, and as soon as he had taken the last mouthful, he took his hat and started for the store, as if there was something painful in the silence which had fallen over them. Though left to themselves, the brothers did not resume the subject they had been discussing before Quirk's appearance, and though Guly longed to ask about the bruise standing out blue and prominent on his brother's brow, he could not frame the words with which to ask the question. He felt, too, that the knowledge might bring him much more trouble and uneasiness, than the unexplained sight of the blow, and they passed forth into the street, with linked arms, but divided hearts, and turned their steps toward the store. They had gone but a short distance, when Guly's attention was attracted by a gathering crowd upon the opposite side of the way, and, with a natural feeling of curiosity, he hastened across the street, accompanied by Arthur, to discover the cause of the excitement. What was his astonishment, to see extended upon the pavement, face downwards, while with his long arms he swept his crutches around him, like a pair of oars, to keep his tormentors, the boys, away, his old acquaintance, the dwarf. He had evidently fallen down, and in his descent had dropped his greasy cap, from which had rolled a few of his precious picayunes. He either was unable to rise, or else would not do so, lest while he was engaged in righting himself, the boys should rob him of his scattered silver. They had gathered about him at his fall, but he had swung his long crutches so dexterously around him, keeping his one eye fixed gloatingly upon the bits of change meanwhile, that not one dared to approach him closer. The moment Guly's eye fell upon him, he hastened forward with an exclamation of pity upon his lips, and in spite of the crutches, he stepped behind the unfortunate old man, and raised him to his feet. Without hesitation he commanded the boys to leave the picayunes untouched, placed the cane properly in the dwarf's hand, then restored to him the cap, and its scattered contents, at the same time adding a trifle from his own purse, to the little stock. "Hih, hih!" chuckled the little man, for the first time looking up, as he received his treasure; "hih, hih." His one eye, with its odious expression, lit suddenly upon Guly's face, and became illuminated instantly with a new light. It regarded him earnestly, and though he stepped back to avoid the gaze, the immense head, with that one eye burning in it, turned still toward him, on the slim, wrinkled neck. "You pick me up, Monsieur?" Guly smiled, and nodded. "Hih, hih; I am obliged to you; will you keep the boys away till I get started?" "They shall not touch you." Taking one more earnest look of Guly, he threw his weight upon his long crutches, and swung away between them, with the skirts of his coat, as usual, trailing behind him. "You have met this miserable object every morning, for more than a month, now, Guly, and he has always begged for alms, and you have never refused. How do you know whether he is worthy or not?" said Arthur. "His deformity is sufficient to testify to that, brother." "With your salary, I can't imagine how you can afford it." "A picayune a day is a mere trifle; I save for him what I might otherwise spend in selfish indulgence." "Well, charity begins at home. _I_ can't afford to be so benevolent." "Whoso giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord," replied Guly, with a smile, as they entered the store. CHAPTER XXII. "I love that soul so nobly proud, That misery cannot blight; The soul that braves the jeering crowd, And sternly claims its right." Anon. Guly took his place with a more cheerful heart than the early morning had promised him; for the consciousness of having performed a kindly deed, imparted a buoyancy to his spirits, which on the previous night he had almost fancied he could never experience again. He had been in his place but a few moments, when a lady entered to purchase some embroidery. The article she desired was an expensive one, and the contents of the whole box were searched before she found it. As Guly was folding it for her, he perceived, as he held it between him and the light, that there were several threads broken here and there between the delicate fibres of the work, as if it had been eaten by an insect. He immediately pointed out the defect to his customer. She examined it, and finding that the piece had suffered in the same way throughout, she expressed her thanks to him warmly for having made her aware of the imperfection, and also manifested her regret at not being able to take the article under such circumstances, for she had intended it as a bridal gift to a young friend of hers, and would have felt deeply mortified if the discovery had been made after the presentation. After a few more trifling purchases, she turned away, and Guly restored the rejected piece of work to its place, and put the box upon the shelf. As he turned round, his eye fell upon the face of his employer, who stood bolt upright on the opposite side of the counter. Guly bowed politely, and wished him good morning; but the hard face before him relaxed not a muscle, and stared straight and rigidly into the boy's eyes. It needed no second glance to show that Mr. Delancey was very much enraged. "Did I see you, sir," he demanded, at last, in a tone far from being inaudible, "point out to a customer a defect in her purchase, and so lose a sale?" "I certainly did so, sir; you would not have me sell an imperfect piece of goods, knowing that it was so, for perfect, and take the full price for the same, would you?" "What was it to _you_, I'd like to know, after she had examined the piece, and declared that it suited her, whether there was a blemish in it or not, if she had not discovered it?" "She might have discovered it afterwards, and would no doubt have thought I meant to deceive her, and, in all probability, I should have lost her custom altogether." "Nonsense! young man; she would have sent it to her milliner to make up, and in an hour the imperfection would have never been discovered. The next time I see you do a thing of this kind, you lose your place." "Then I must, sir," returned Guly, firmly; "I can never sacrifice principle to profit, under any circumstances." "You're a fool," said Delancey; pale with anger at the firm but mild demeanor of his clerk. "How much would the sale have amounted to?" "Thirty-five dollars." "It shall be taken from your salary. Teach you better another time." "Very well, sir. Wilkins, be kind enough to mark my salary thirty-five dollars less, if you please." Mr. Delancey had carried on his part of the conversation in so loud a tone, that it was audible to a number, who were not too busy with their own affairs to pay heed to it; but Guly felt deeply chagrined to observe, as Mr. Delancey turned away, that his late customer had been standing just behind the merchant, examining some goods at another counter, and had probably heard all that had passed. As she left the store she looked up at Guly, with a smile, bowed to him, and passed out. As small as Guly's salary was, he looked upon the loss which he had suffered as a mere trifle, when compared with the pleasure he received from an approving conscience. Ho felt that he had acted right, not only in exposing the defects in the desired article, but in remaining firm to his sense of duty under the anger of his employer. The incident awakened in his breast a wish to know the name of the lady who had looked at the goods, and he turned to Mr. Hull, the clerk who stood next to him, to make inquiry. Hull informed him that he knew little of her except as a customer; that he had never learned her name, as he did those of most of his customers, by sending goods to their houses, for she always came in her carriage, and brought her own servant. He added, that her affability had won the esteem of all the clerks; more than this he could not tell. When the dinner hour arrived, Quirk sauntered down past Guly, looking at him with an impudent stare. He turned back, as he reached the door, and stopped at the counter. "Anything you will have, Mr. Quirk?" "No, I reckon not; when I do, though, I'll know where to come to find an honest chap to deal with," and he curled his disagreeable mouth into a sneer. Guly was silent; not wishing to prolong the conversation with one for whom he felt such an aversion. Quirk, however, was not to be put off in this manner; and drawing out his tooth-pick, he began using it among his huge masticators, and continued:-- "I s'pose you thought the boss was of the Puritan stamp, and would perhaps promote you for that nice little affair of this morning, eh? You found yourself mistaken, I reckon, when you had the _thirty-five_ charged over, ha, ha!" "I thought, sir, of acting honestly, only; and since you happened to overhear the conversation, let me tell you that I should have done the same thing the next moment, under like circumstances." "Well, you're a precious ninny, that's all I've got to say about it." "If so, perhaps you'll be willing to lounge on your own counter instead of mine, Mr. Quirk." "No," he replied, at the same time changing his position, "I'm comfortable enough here; so long as the boss don't see me, I believe I will stay where I am." Guly made no reply. "Well, say," said Quirk, again wheeling round so as to face Guly, "what's the reason you can't be a little sociable with a feller, when he comes and tries to talk with you. Pshaw, your brother is worth two of you." "I prefer devoting business hours to business," returned Guly. "And paying for lost sales out of your own salary. Let me advise you, if you are going to stay in this place, to let the customers find their own blemishes, and take the responsibility." "I shall always act according to my own judgment in such cases, Mr. Quirk," replied Guly, taking his hat, and leaving the young gentleman to pour out his advice to an unoccupied counter. Arthur had gone to dinner before him; so Guly trudged on alone, and, on entering the restaurant, found Wilkins seated at the little table, which the three so frequently shared together, by himself. "Where's Arthur?" inquired Guly, anxiously. "He finished before me to-day, for a wonder," returned Wilkins, smiling, "and went out some time since; you probably passed each other on opposite sides of the way." This last suggestion quite comforted Guly, whose apprehensions for his brother had, of late, become most painfully awakened, and he fell off into conversation with his companion, upon the various topics which chanced to present themselves to their minds. Suddenly Wilkins looked up, and remarked:-- "I have an engagement for you to-night, Guly." "For me! what is it, pray?" "Guess." "Oh, I never can. You must tell me, if you ever expect me to know." "What would you say, if I told you 'twas a visit to Blanche?" "Can it be possible?" Guly blushed very deeply, which Wilkins observed, and commented upon with mischievous delight. "Did the invitation come from her own lips, Wilkins?" "To be sure it did." "And you accepted in my name?" "Certainly." "Thank you! I shall be delighted." "At eight o'clock, then." "Very well." And so they parted, and Guly was left alone at the little table. It was an hour when the restaurant was pretty well filled, and the numerous inmates busily discussed the news, foreign and political, and affairs private and public, in their various languages and different manners. Guly looked round from his solitary table, an amused spectator of the scene. But suddenly his attention was attracted by a sound of shuffling steps upon the floor, and turning, he beheld his friend the dwarf, making his way in between the tables, with a dexterity which his long canes would scarcely warrant. Though surprised at the presence of one so poor in such a place, Guly advanced, and placed a chair for him at a table near his own, and helped him to mount upon it. "Hih, hih! Monsieur; you are very good," puffed the little man, quite out of breath, without looking up at his kind assistant. "Give me a little bean soup, if you please, Monsieur. I am very poor, and very hungry to-day. Must spend one picayune for one cheap dinner, or else must have one cheap coffin made for me at the expense of the corporation! Hih, hih!" Guly smiled at this odd speech, and rang the little bell for the waiter. As he did so, the dwarf suddenly wheeled his head round on his slender neck, and tipped his one eye curiously up at the face beside him. "'Tis you, Monsieur. Be gor, I thought it was one waiter. Hih, hih! I am very hungry, Monsieur." "Here is the waiter. What will you have, my friend?" "One cheap dinner--bean soup--I am so very poor. Ah, Monsieur, 'tis hard to be so poor." Guly ordered some meat to be added to the old man's frugal repast, and then returned to his own table to finish his dinner. The dwarf seemed to dispatch his meal with a fine relish, though interrupting himself in the process of eating, every few minutes, by twisting his crooked body half-way round, and turning his one eye up at Guly, as if to make sure he was there. The singular appearance of the dwarf, and the ready and gentle assistance rendered him by Guly, had attracted considerable attention, from those who yet lingered over their viands; and when Guly took his seat, a young exquisite, who occupied a table just at his left, and who had been obliged to use two of his fingers to part his glossy moustache, while he passed in his food with his other hand, now turned round, and regarded him with an impertinent stare. "I say, Mistar, is that gentleman with crutches yondaw, a brothaw of yours?" "By the laws of humanity he is, sir." "Awr! I'm glad to find there's no closaw tie, so I can express my opinion of him. He is a scamp, sah!" "Indeed! why so?" "Because he is, sah!" "You know him?" "Perfectly well!" "And he is a scamp?" "If he's no relation of yours, yes, sah." "Does he tipple?" "Not zat I know, sah!" "Steal?" "No, sah!" "Meddle with other people's affairs?" "Yes, sah! zat is, every day he puts his disgwusting digits on my spotless cassimeres, and asks for money!" "You of course grant his request?" "Not I, sah! I feel always like touching the twip of me pwatent leather gaitaw just beneath the lowermost extreme of his spinal column, and elevating his dangling supporters a few feet in the air, before pwopelling him into the nearest guttaw." "A very unpleasant feeling, most certainly." "Vewy true, sah!" "Yes, sah, especially when you know your stwaps are too tight to admit of any such use of your unmentionable members," squeaked the dwarf, mockingly, who had sat unmoved within hearing distance of the whole conversation. A roar of laughter followed this speech, through which the dandy sat frowning darkly. When it ceased, he sprang near the dwarf, shouting: "You mean to insult me, do you, eh?" "Hope you wouldn't notice such a scamp as me, sah!" squeaked the dwarf in answer. "I will pwummel your cwooked legs, sah!" "Wipe that off of your own, sah, first," cried the other, dexterously turning a fresh plate of bean soup over the dandy's "spwotless cassimeres." Another roar of laughter followed this act, amid which the exquisite made his exit with his pocket hankerchief spread over his lap, swearing he would "go stwaight and sue for dwamages," that he was "scalded to death by the dem beggar, and he would have revenge for his ruined trousers, be gar!" Guly, after assisting his helpless friend to his crutches and a firm standing, was about to leave; but the dwarf detained him by twitching the skirt of his coat, then exclaimed: "Hih, hih! monsieur, I lost my bean soup but I saved my head, hih! hih! bean, soup's good, but 'twas spilt in a glorious cause; paid for monsieur?" This last question was put in such a comic manner, with that one eye tipped up towards him, that Guly could not repress a smile; but he cordially satisfied him on that point, feeling still able, in spite of his diminished salary, to pay for a beggar's dinner, which is more than many, with their well filled purses, can make themselves afford to do. Freeing himself from the companionship of his singular friend, Guly hurried away to the store; with every light footfall, and each thrilling heart-throb, whispering to himself one word, which fell upon his thoughts in the midst of the crowd and din through which he hastened, like the tinkling music of a waterfall in the midst of a broad desert, "Blanche! Blanche!" CHAPTER XXIII. Pure thoughts are angel visitants! be such The frequent inmates of thy guileless breast; They hallow all things by their sacred touch, And ope the portals of the land of rest. At eight o'clock precisely, Wilkins stepped down from his desk, gave orders to have the store closed, and told Guly he would be ready in one moment. The clerks, most of them, dropped the curtain of linen over the goods, and went out, not sleeping in the store and having no pass key. While Jeff was putting up the shutters, Guly went to Arthur and told him he was going out to see one of Wilkins' friends a little while, but would be back soon, and begged him to go to bed and try to sleep that haggard look from his face. "Yes," Arthur said, he had no doubt but he needed rest and would try to gain it; and shaking hands they parted. Wilkins seemed waiting for the two or three clerks who yet remained, to go away before he left, but as he stood drawing on his gloves, Quirk came up and whispered something in his ear which Guly did not hear, but to which Wilkins answered aloud, saying: "I can't leave the key with you, but I'll lock you in." "And how long will you be gone?" "Only an hour or two." "All right, then." Wilkins and Guly went out and locked the door, leaving the young men in there. They walked on, through the busy streets thronged with pleasure seekers, some on foot, some riding, all gaily dressed and full apparently of bright anticipations and buoyant life. Sometimes a lamp gleam would fall through the plate-glass windows of some princely structure, where light forms of beauty, attired in fashion's garb, were flitting through the mazy dance or listening to music's enrapturing strain. As Guly walked on, noting the panorama of life which passed by him, he fell into a fit of musing from which he was unable to rouse himself, until they turned into another street, and Wilkins remarked quietly that it was the one in which Blanche lived. Then his whole attention was awakened, and there was no more musing, no more lack of conversation till they paused to rap at the door of the little house where Blanche lived. She opened it herself, and held out a hand to each of the new comers. "I am so happy to see you," said she earnestly, as she permitted them to enter. "Guly, this is grandpapa, you will soon be acquainted with him, for we have been talking about you all day, and I have been describing you to him, so that he might know how you looked, and could know just how you would always act when I was giving you my work for sale, and all that." The old gentleman was very venerable in appearance, and sat in a large stuffed chair with his grey locks floating over his shoulders, and his hands clasped upon a staff he held before him. His sightless orbs were turned in the direction whence came his good child's voice, and when she mentioned Guly's name he held out one trembling hand, and expressed, in a feeble, faltering tone, his pleasure at "seeing" them. Guly took the extended hand, shook it cordially, and sat down near the old gentleman and entered into a brisk conversation with him, leaving Blanche to be entertained by, and to entertain, Wilkins. "She called you Guly, this child of mine," said the old man, suddenly breaking a slight pause which had occured in the conversation. "Blanche, my love, when will you ever learn to be polite?" "Dear grandpapa," returned Blanche, approaching him and stroking down his snow-white locks with her soft hand, "don't call me impolite, only a little too thoughtless and informal, grandpapa." "Thoughtless and informal then, my dear; but I could wish you not to address young gentlemen by their given names." "Well, grandpapa, I always say 'Mr.' to Monsieur Wilkins, because he is twice as tall as I, and looks always as if he expected to be mistered; but, grandpapa, just feel of Guly--he is nothing but a boy, only a little taller and a little older than I. Do let us be Blanche and Guly to each other." There was no withstanding the simple and artless manner with which these words were spoken, and Blanche hung fondly over her grandfather's chair. The old man smiled as he listened to her, and, turning to the side where Guly sat, he said, in an apologetic manner: "Blanche's reasoning springs from her heart; she studies no etiquette save that which nature teaches." "Which will carry such a spirit as hers through the world more safely than any other," said Wilkins, drawing his chair also to the side of his blind friend. "Still," said Guly, blushing as he spoke, "it may make her heart so rare a gem that too many will covet it." A shade of anxiety crossed the blind man's features as he heard the words, and he turned his dim eyes toward Guly as if he would give worlds to read the expression of face with which the sentence had been spoken. "Lately," said he, leaning forward more heavily on his staff, "I have such thoughts myself. I am a weak, powerless old man, already bending over the grave into which I must so soon drop. When I think of this poor, dear child, left unprotected and alone in this great city, I am very unhappy, very miserable." Guly saw a tear sparkle, and trickle down through the wrinkles of that aged face, and his own heart yearned sorrowfully. "Blanche will never be without friends," said Wilkins, encouragingly. "At least she will never lack for one while I live." "Or I," exclaimed Guly, earnestly. The old man shook his head, and smiled sadly. "Two young men, however worthy and noble they may be, are not exactly the ones to offer their protection to an orphaned and beautiful girl. Such things I don't doubt may be done uprightly and honestly; but the world, the suspicious world, is ever ready to cast the blight of shame and slander on such things." Blanche suddenly left her grandfather's chair and hurried away to a distant corner of the room, from whence she brought a little stand containing a work-basket and the lamp. She placed it just in front of her grandpapa's chair, and between Guly and Wilkins. With a smile she seated herself at it, and began to embroider a strip of insertion; nimbly plying her needle among the slender vines and tendrils she was working. "Are you there, darling?" said the old man, stretching out his unsteady hand and laying it on her head. "Yes, grandpapa, right here in my old place." He withdrew his hand with an air of pleased satisfaction, and resumed the subject he had just dropped. "Blanche needs a mother--some female friend to guard and protect her, when--when her old grandfather shall be gone. I am afraid I shall drop off suddenly one of these days; I have sudden turns of illness which are very severe. I was quite sick last night--ah, she told me of your kindness to her, Mr. Wilkins; God be praised--and I could not help feeling then that my thoughts turned more upon my poor desolate child here, than on that other world to which I might be hastening." Blanche dropped her head lower and lower over her work, till her short glossy ringlets shaded her soft brown eyes. "This world," continued he, with that love of pursuing the prominent subject of thought so common with aged persons, "has, of course, lost its fascination for me. I am blind, and very old; and am swiftly descending from the summit of life's mount, and must soon drop from its base into that vast eternity of which we know so little. Poor Blanche! I am of course a trouble, so helpless and blind, but she will miss me when she's left alone. Poor child, poor child!" Blanche lifted up her head quickly, and showed her cheeks wet with streaming tears. She rose from her seat, took the staff from the old man's hands, and threw herself sobbing aloud upon his bosom. He folded his aged arms around her and drew her to his heart, while he bent his head, and his white hair, so silvery, floated forward and mingled with the raven blackness of hers. Thus they sat, a touching picture of youth and hoary age, of life's spring-time and the calm tranquillity of its withered autumn. "Oh, grandpapa!" exclaimed Blanche at last, lifting up her face and looking tearfully into those dim eyes as though they could see all that she wished them. "Never, never talk any more about dying and leaving me here alone, unless you wish to break poor Blanche's heart. You are all that God has left me on this earth to love, and if He takes you, I want to go too. And you said you were a trouble! Don't ever, ever say that again, dear grandfather, if you love me dearly, as I know you do." "But I wish to prepare you, darling, for the change that must surely come." "Don't say so. You never could prepare me for such a dreadful thing, and please don't try to." The old man drew a long shivering sigh, and leaned back in his chair. Blanche sat up, smoothed his thin locks, kissed his brow, and soothed him once more into a placid calm. She slid from his arms, then placed the staff in his hands, and he bent forward on it as if already forgetful of the scene just passed. Guly and Wilkins were deeply impressed by this simple occurrence, and the former had looked on, with difficulty keeping the answering drops from his large blue eyes. There had been something so natural in it all, yet so affecting and heart-touching. There had been no attempt to check the heart's first impulse, no struggle of affected prudery, but the free gushing forth of her warm affection, forgetful of everything save the strong love for her blind grandfather. "Now, Guly," said Blanche, playfully, breaking the sad pause which had followed the recent excitement, "I am anxious to finish this piece of work this evening, and you must thread my needle for me. That will help me." Guly expressed his willingness to obey, and drew his chair closer to the little table for the purpose, as he said, of receiving instructions. Blanche gave them, and he sat watching her taper fingers, and waiting impatiently to see the thread used up that he might proffer another. The old man talked pleasantly, Guly loved to hear him talk; Wilkins conversed with them all in a general maner, yet watched, with a pleased expression of countenance, Blanche and Guly as they sat side by side at the little table, the blue eyes looking into the brown, and the locks of gold lending a tinge of additional brightness to the curls of jetty black. They rose to leave at ten o'clock, and the old man took Guly's hand, expressing a hope that he would repeat his visit; the boy uttered what his heart at the moment felt, that it was the pleasantest evening of his life, and his memory of it would not fail to induce him soon to seek a like enjoyment. Guly walked home like one in a dream. A seed had fallen on his heart's rich soil, to spring up in time into fragrant bloom. In the holiest niche of his heart a new lamp was lighted, and it burned before the image of a Virgin! CHAPTER XXIV. "Never more Shall hope's bright chain be gathered from the dust, And, re-united, glitter as before, Strong and unsullied by corroding dust." When they reached the store door, Wilkins rapped before entering, and Guly, remembering that Quirk was within, and not wishing to meet that young gentleman, told Wilkins he would go to his own room by the alley-way. He had the pass-key for the small door; so they shook hands and parted, just as the front door was being opened. In a few moments Guly stood in the large old room, which was the only spot he could look upon as home. All that surrounded him was darkness and gloom; for he had no lamp, and the night-light of heaven never entered there. But Guly was happy, and the bare floor had lost its hardness to him as he knelt to pour out the fervent prayer of gratitude gushing from his heart. He had forgotten to listen for his brother's breathing, from the lowly bed in the corner; the throbbing of his own glad heart was all he heard, and for once in his life Guly was selfishly happy. But when he threw himself upon his pillow, he became conscious that he was alone; there was no gentle hand, half-roused from slumber, to creep about him with a brother's love, and there was no half-escaped sigh or murmured word of half-awakened welcome. Arthur's pillow was cold, his place deserted. As soon as he became conscious of this fact, the glow of happiness and delight went out in his heart, like a suddenly smothered lamp. He had expected Arthur would return as soon as he left him, but he had not done so, and Guly grew restless and anxious in wondering where he could have gone, and in what way he might be occupied. Never in all the hurry and excitement in which he had been thrown, never in all the trouble and apprehension which had so early burdened his young heart, had Guly forgotten his mother's parting injunctions, her tears, her sorrow, or her counsel. Their memory had burned in his bosom with a steady beacon blaze, and he had watched and guarded the flame even as did the ancients their sacred fires. Now, as he lay pondering on his brother's danger, he felt that he could not sleep happily, conscious of a duty unperformed, and he determined to rise and go in search of him. As he crossed the floor to find his clothes, he struck his foot against some light object, which went half way across the room with the strong and sudden impetus he had given it. He remembered that the lamp they had used the night before was left upon the floor beside the bed, and had probably not been removed. Glad to gain a light, he groped about until he found it, struck a match, and the lamp's feeble blaze illuminated some portion of the surrounding gloom. He was partially dressed when he paused to listen, sure that he heard the murmur of excited voices coming from the store below. He threw a white flannel dressing gown about him with facings of pale blue silk, and cord and tassel of the same delicate hue, bearing evidence of its being a relic of better days. Scarce knowing what he did, the boy took the lamp in one hand and his Bible in the other, and passed forth from the room; the door, covered with its gay advertisements, swinging solemnly, shut behind him, as if it partook of the anxious sorrow of that youthful breast. With firm step Guly went down the winding stairs. He descended slowly, and the voices he heard grew more distinct with every step. As he gained the last turn in the staircase, he stood in view of the whole main part of the store, and stopped, looking at the scene before him in sad astonishment. Between the counters, about half way through the store, was a small deal table, containing a lamp, four hands of cards just dealt, and several wine glasses partially emptied of their contents. On one of the counters stood a number of bottles; some empty, some half filled, and one as yet unopened. Arthur was seated at the head of the table with a small pile of gold beside him, and his face flushed and excited. Quirk was opposite him, and two other clerks made up the party. Wilkins was standing behind Arthur, attempting with earnest tone and warm entreaties to draw him away; but with every sentence Arthur answered him insolently, and rudely shook the pleading hand from his shoulder. "Your conduct shall be reported, sir, to-morrow," at last said Wilkins, hoping to move Arthur by his pride. "Report it then if you choose; don't you see I'm trying to win enough to pay that d----d debt of mine?" "How much have you won already?" "One hundred and eleven dollars." "One hundred and eleven dollars! well, boys, you must be staking your salaries to-night, I should think; but, come, Arthur, if you have won that much, stop now; for you won't win much longer, and if you'll give up this kind of business, I'll make up the rest for you, and your debt shall be canceled. Come, I can't bear to see a young man of your abilities, and one who has a mother with a heart to break, beginning this practice. It's awful!" At any other moment an appeal of this kind might have touched Arthur's heart; but he had drained his wine cup several times, and the exciting draughts had already exerted their powerful influence over his young frame to a degree which rendered him deaf to everything beyond the prospect of regaining that sum which he had so unluckily, as he declared, lost. "You are altogether too good, Mr. Wilkins, but I don't need any assistance when I am prospering as I now am." "That's right, Pratt!" exclaimed Quirk, with an encouraging wink; "pick up your cards, and show 'em you ain't to be nosed around by anybody, and that you didn't come so many hundred miles from home tied fast by your mammy's long apron-string." "Had I known this was your intention, Mr. Quirk, when you asked me for the key, you would never have got it I assure you," said Wilkins, coldly. "Isn't it enough for you to be bad and unprincipled, without dragging those who might do better, if let alone, with you into the pit?" "'Taint my fault if he can't resist temptation," replied the other, doggedly. "Come, Pratt, it's your play." "Arthur, don't throw another card!" exclaimed Wilkins, at the same time arresting the uplifted hand. Arthur struggled to release it, but Wilkins held it firmly, and drew him back from the table as he sat in his chair, and held him fixedly there in his grasp. "Arthur, I treat you as I would a younger brother; an eye experienced in such matters shows me the danger you are in; stop now, in mercy to yourself and all who love you." "Release me, Mr. Wilkins; you have no right to act in this manner to me, sir." "Yes!" shouted Quirk, seizing an empty bottle with a dreadful imprecation, and levelling it at Wilkins' head, "release him this minute if you don't want this through your skull!" At this instant one of the other clerks caught sight of Guly, who had stood where he stopped, as if spell-bound, through all this scene. "Look there!" cried the young man, pointing toward the staircase, and dropping the cards he held. They all turned their heads and looked toward Guly, who seemed, standing there in his white robe, with the lamp elevated just in front of his forehead, not unlike some spiritual visitant bearing a star on his brow. The attention which had been called to him, seemed in a measure to rouse Guly, for he came on slowly down the stairs, but with his blue eyes open and fixed like one walking in his sleep. Not one of the startled group before him moved a muscle or dropped an eye as he advanced, but gazed upon him like persons under the influence of magnetism. He approached the table, put his lamp upon it, and laid his Bible down beside it. He turned his eyes upon Arthur, and stood with his hands clasped, looking at him as Wilkins still held him drawn back from the table in his chair. Still no eye was turned, no lip moved, not a word was uttered. There was something to awe the stoutest soul in the almost unearthly expression of the boy's face, as he gazed upon his brother with an unutterable hopelessness shining from his eyes. Never, in all his fears for Arthur's erring steps, had Guly thought of this. Never had the idea of gambling crossed his mind; and now, as he saw him engaged in it, his heart seemed to grow cold, and he stood looking at him as if he felt the future was but a wild abyss, into which he must inevitably fall, and near the brink of which he had too closely approached ever to escape. All his hopes, his aspirations, and ambition for that brother fell on the instant from their throne, and, as they vanished, gave back but the one sad echo--"Lost! lost! lost!" Arthur had looked up, and met the light of those sad eyes but for an instant, then dropped his head, and sat, with changing cheek, nervously fingering the cards which, at Quirk's suggestion, he had picked up from the table. The silence which had fallen upon the party was abruptly broken by Quirk, who suddenly bent forward and read the title of the book which Guly had laid upon their card-table. "H--ll!" he muttered between his short teeth; "what the devil did you lay that right in the midst of our cards for? that's no place for it. Who ever heard of cards and Bible keeping company on the same board?" "Had you never neglected the one, you would not now be engaged with the other," returned Guly, speaking in a soft but impressive voice; and turning his eyes for an instant from Arthur to Quirk, but immediately reverting them. Arthur flung his cards upon the table, but without once lifting his eyes. He seemed to feel all that his brother looked, without meeting that full, sad gaze of hopeless sorrow. "Come, now, Arthur," said Guly, at last, laying his small, girlish hand upon his brother's brow; "you are tired and excited. It is late, too--come with me to our own room." Arthur was ashamed to show any heed of his brother's words before his present companions, and he drew his head away from the gentle touch of that kindly hand, and remarked that he would go when he chose--not before; that he was used to late hours, and he'd run the risk of all deleterious effects. "That's it--I like your pluck!" shouted Quirk, too excited by the wine he had drank to heed the presence of the head clerk. "Don't let's be scared out of our rubber by a baby-faced boy, and a big Bible--'hanged if we will." "You shall not play another round beneath this roof to-night," said Wilkins, resolutely. "If you do not vacate this place within five minutes, I will turn every one of you out of doors by main force." "I'd like to see you try that game once," replied Quirk, instantly, bending suddenly forward, as if to grasp the book upon the table. Before he could touch it, Guly had caught it in his own hands. "This was my mother's Bible. Never shall a defiling finger touch its sacred pages. Oh! Arthur, if there is any brotherly love left in your heart for me, go with me to-night. You well know there is no fear of reproof from me--I could not give it, if I would." Arthur rose resolutely, swept the gold into his pocket, and took his brother's hand. "Zounds, Pratt! you won't leave us so!" "Your five minutes are up," said Wilkins, firmly, lifting his foot and turning the table, with its contents, over upon the floor. "Ten thousand devils!" shouted Quirk, madly; and catching up the neck of a broken bottle, he hurled it fiercely at Wilkins, who was approaching him. It glanced--turned aside by the head-clerk's self-defending hand--and struck Guly upon the temple. With a faint moan he sank bleeding to the floor, clasping his mother's Bible to his breast. CHAPTER XXV. "Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell A votress in Maronan's cell-- Rather through realms beyond the sea, Seeking the world's cold charity, An outcast pilgrim will she rove-- Than wed the man she cannot love." Scott. "Who rang the bell, Minny?" inquired Della one morning, as she sat looking over a richly-bound volume of engravings, a recent gift from her father. "General Delville, Miss." "Has mamma gone into the drawing-room?" "Not yet, Miss; she is preparing to do so." "Well, Minny, do you go to her, and tell her that Della says, please not go in this morning, she wishes to see General Delville alone." "Oh, Miss Della, she would never consent to your seeing him alone in the world. I'm certain she won't; and there is scarcely any use of asking her." "Do as I tell you, Minny dear." Minny went out. Since the evening of the party, the General had been very assiduous in his attentions; waiting upon Mrs. Delancey and her daughter to concerts, operas, theatres, and every other place which he believed would be interesting and entertaining to them. His bouquets for Miss Della were always selected with the greatest care and taste, and had the fair recipient been possessed of sufficient patience to study out their language, she would have found the General by no means ignorant of that delicate manner of expressing thoughts which lose their chief beauty by being spoken. Mrs. Delancey, with a watchfulness highly commendable, had never allowed Della and the General to remain a moment alone together; and she triumphantly declared, to her _very intimate and confidential_ friends, that not a sentence of admiration or esteem had the General ever uttered, but what she had listened to, as well as Della; and that she should, of course, as much expect to be present when he made his declaration, as to have Della herself there. Twice had Della summoned courage to declare, in the presence of both her parents, that if General Delville came with any idea of winning her love she wished his visits to cease; for marry him she never would; but both times had she met with such stormy reproofs from her father, and such loud appeals to her pride and dignity from her mother, that she had ceased to argue the matter, and by both parents her acceptance of his suit was considered a settled thing. A man with a title _militaire_, and, moreover, half a million at his command, was not to be found as a wooer every day; and what though his years were many, when he had a fortune to long outlive him, and station, which any woman might be proud to gain? Surely, Della would be worse than silly, to throw away such an opportunity. Mrs. Delancey was standing before the glass, arranging the folds of her elegant dress, with all the care of a Miss of eighteen, as Minny entered the room, and, standing at a respectful distance, delivered the message her young mistress had given her. To her surprise, Mrs. Delancey merely raised her eyebrows slightly, as she heard her out, then turned round, with a smile upon her lips, and said:-- "Well, I suppose it would be better so. Matters have gone so far now, it is all as good as settled, and she, no doubt, is aware that he comes to-day to declare himself, and feels timid, poor thing, about giving her answer in the presence of a third person. It is but natural. Tell her, Minny, that her wishes are acceded to." Minny left the room with a smile, though it was concealed from Mrs. Delancey. She bounded like a fawn through the shadowy passages to Della's apartment, and repeated her mother's answer. "I told you so, Minny!" "I never could have believed it, Miss!" With a changing cheek, but firm, resolute step, Della descended to the drawing-room, and gracefully received her visitor, who looked no less surprised than pleased to see her enter alone. General Delville was a splendid-looking man; and this, united with his wealth and station, could scarcely have failed to win to his heart any maiden whom he chose to address, less frank and upright than Della Delancey. His fine features were lighted up with a beaming smile of pleasure, as he took her hand and led her to a seat, nor did he resign that hand without a gentle pressure of the white and perfumed fingers. For an instant Della sat, with downcast eyes, in silence, while the General gazed upon her with the same smile upon his lips, but no words. Suddenly Della lifted her eyes, and turned them full upon the face before her. "General Delville?" "Della." "Pardon me, sir, for what I am about to say to you, and which I would have said long ago had I only had the opportunity; and--and-- "Go on, Miss Della," said the General, though he moved uneasily in his chair. "General Delville, I, of course, am not unaware of your intentions with regard to myself, or the object of your visits at papa's house. I would not pain you for the world, sir; I esteem you, I _love_ you so very much; but I want to tell you openly, as my heart dictates, that I have not for you the love that a wife should feel for her husband--only the love that a child should feel for a dear father; and if I married you, I could never feel for you anything more." The General sat before her, looking all the astonishment he felt, but said not a word. Della went on, with flushed cheek and fluttering heart, but with voice calm and steady. "Indeed, sir, I feel for you all the earnest esteem, all the warm, enduring affection, which a knowledge of your character cannot fail to inspire one with, especially one so very much younger than yourself as I. But as for that love which would make me truthfully perform the marriage vows, I do not experience it, and never can. I have never, since the first evening I met you, sir, intended in the least to encourage any particular attention on your part for myself. The encouragement, which I will admit has been by no means slight, you must acknowledge has been entirely on the part of my parents." "And that is where a gentleman looks for encouragement, Miss Delancey." "Most unfortunately, too true, sir; but in this instance I cannot conform to such a code of ethics, and give you a heart beating always indifferently for you. I set the case before you as it is. I tell you the _truth_, which I have longed to do long since, but _could_ not; and now, knowing this, can you wish to make me your bride? I am sure you cannot. Still, if you persist, here is my hand, given in obedience to my parents." The hand was taken, and held fondly against the stout heart beside her; and for a moment neither spoke--the old man looking thoughtfully upon the floor--the young girl gazing anxiously into his expressive face. "Deep as is my disappointment, Miss Della, I cannot but confess that you have acted nobly. You have even won my heart closer in the last half hour than ever before. You have done what I would never have expected you would do; and, though I am the sufferer, I honor--I admire you for it. True, I am an old man; I could never have _seemed_ other than a father to you, however much the husband I might have _felt_. I came to-day to lay my heart and fortune at your feet: a heart which, though old, would have been true to you, and loved you dearly. It is, of course, needless to tell you how great is my disappointment. I ask no sacrifice of you, however. May you always be happy! God bless you!" Della burst into tears. "General Delville, I knew I could not be mistaken in your noble nature." "Pardon an old man's curiosity, my child," said he, dropping at once into the relationship Della had chosen for them; "but may I ask if a younger suitor influences you in this matter?" Della blushed very deeply, but answered, frankly, through her tears, in the affirmative. "You are sure you have chosen one worthy of such a heart as yours?" "I think so, most truly." "And his circumstances and station befit your own?" "In point of wealth and station he is undoubtedly beneath me; but in nature, in heart, I am certain he is all I could wish." "And, knowing this, how could your father sanction my suit?" "He knew nothing of these circumstances, sir. I have, from necessity, kept it a secret from him. May I trust you to do the same?" "You may, indeed. I would not sanction duplicity between father and child; but neither would I have you sacrifice your happiness to a father's pride. In early youth, had she, who won my first affections, been as true to me, through such a test, as you have been to him you love through this, I would, probably, have never occupied the position of an old and disappointed suitor before you here." "I would gladly reveal all to my parents, but that I know and dread the consequences. And when they learn the course I have this day pursued with you, the storm will perhaps be no less fierce." "Fear nothing, Della; from this hour I am your sincere and devoted champion, in all causes wherein I believe you to be _right_. The confidence you have placed in me shall never be betrayed. Your father I will gradually turn aside from the ideas he has cherished with regard to you and myself. It is all better, no doubt, as it is; this, I must admit, however lonely my heart may throb in saying it. I had hoped to be happy in holding you to that heart, as one of its own rightful treasures. I will now strive to make myself happy in seeing her so I could not win. Whenever you want a friend, my child--one faithful and sincere, and uninfluenced by selfish motives--you will ever find one in the old man who has dared to love you, and whom you have this day rejected." Della placed both hands in General Delville's, and looked up earnestly and trustfully into his noble face. "Believe me, I always will." "And I may continue to be a welcome visitor here?" "Always, always." "Enough, Della. Farewell." "Adieu, _mon ami_!" The General's tall figure passed into the lofty hall, and Della heard the door close behind him. She hurried to a window, and watched him as he descended the steps and entered his carriage, then, with a feeling of reverential affection for that proud spirit and noble heart which an hour before she had scarcely expected to feel, she passed out of the parlor on her way to her own room. Traces of tears were still upon her cheeks, and her whole face still bore evidence of recent agitation. As she was about to ascend the stairs, Mrs. Delancey's maid met her, with the message that her mother desired an interview. "Say to my mother, that I beg to be excused for a few moments, but will be with her presently," said Della, proceeding up the stairs. The girl obeyed, but returned immediately, and over-taking Della on the stairs, said:-- "Mistress says you must come instantly, Miss; that she wishes to see you before you go to your room." Dispelling, as far as possible, all traces of agitation, Della returned to her mother's apartment. The moment Mrs. Delancey's eyes fell upon her child's features, she held out her hand, with a bland smile, exclaiming:-- "Ah, Dort, I see how it is, dear; couldn't get through with a proposal without crying a little, eh? Rather undignified, I must say, but perfectly natural for unexperienced girls, I suppose. Allow me to congratulate you." Della pressed the hand her mother gave, and made an effort to speak; but choked, faltered, and failed entirely, bursting into a violent fit of weeping instead. "Really, my child, you surprise--you shock me; if you can't behave any better now, what will you ever do at the wedding? Really, I am ashamed of you! At your age I had received seven offers, and never shed a tear!" "Perhaps you didn't accept them, Madam; and so, sever the ties which bound you to father and mother, and home," said Minnie, who had entered just in time to hear Mrs. Delancey's last remark. "That's true enough," returned the lady, as if she had not thought of the fact before. "Della, you can go to your room till you are more composed; I will tell your father what has happened, so your timidity will be spared that." "Oh, don't tell him anything, mamma; don't tell him this," sobbed Della. "Nonsense, Dort; worse and worse. Go to your room, and don't make your appearance again until you can come with a face more composed, and features not all swollen and distorted by weeping." Della obeyed, and her mother saw her no more that night. "Oh, Minny!" exclaimed the young girl, as the privacy of her own apartment was gained, and she threw herself, still sobbing, on the quadroon's bosom; "didn't you know before I went down that I never would accept him, that I never could marry him, never?" "Yes, Miss, I knew it." "Yet you implied to mamma, Minn, that you believed I had accepted him, and you know she thinks I tell you everything. Oh, Minny, you musn't tell falsehoods for my sake!" "I told no falsehood, Miss; I only asked your mamma a simple question, that you might get free, as I knew you wished to be." "But I know she thought you meant that." "It is wrong for people, to jump so hastily at conclusions." "But, Minny, you know you intended mamma should jump at that." "Well, Miss Della, don't chide me now about it; if it got you off without any more questions you are very glad, are you not?" "Of course, if it wasn't falsehood." "It certainly was not, Miss Della; now dry your eyes, and I will show you something." "A letter, Minn, from--from _him_?" Minny smiled, and nodded her head. "Bathe my eyes, then, and I won't shed another tear." Minny obeyed; and Della, with trembling fingers, tore open the letter, and perused it. "Is it good, Miss?" "Sweet Minny, read it yourself." The quadroon took it, and, as she stood behind her mistress, the tremor which seized her frame, when she looked upon that handwriting, was unseen and unthought of by any but herself. "Delightful, Miss Della." "Yes; now, Minny, put it with the rest." "You won't have it beneath your pillow then, for the first night?" "No, Minn; put it away. I am going to dream of General Delville, to-night, if I can--the best and noblest, and kindest man, excepting somebody you know, that ever I knew." "Indeed, Miss! I'm so glad he proved so." "Oh, yes, Minn, I can never tell you how noble and good he is; but, Minn, these letters--Bernard's letters--you are very sure you kept them all safe, perfectly secure?" "As the apple of my eye, Miss." "I have felt anxious about them sometimes of late, and have thought of offering to take care of them myself; but there's Madam Gerot in these rooms every week; I could hide nothing from her lynx eyes. I think I might do without a governess now--don't you, after having had a proposal from a General?" "Your mamma thinks she perfects your manners, Miss." "All nonsense! I never have any grace or manner when she is in sight. Minny, the truth is, I am prettier and more graceful when I am right here with you, than I would be with all the French dancing-masters and ornamental governesses in the world." "Bless your dear heart!" "Thank you, Minn; nobody ever blessed me save you and General Delville; he blessed me to-day in such a beautiful way, it went straight to my heart. Oh, if it is so sweet to be blessed by the rich, what must it be, Minny, to be blessed by the poor?" Minny was silent. "If ever I get out of fashionable society, Minn, I shall never court it again. It is a heartless sphere! I would sooner be a stone than human, with no humanity beyond flesh and blood, and that cast in a fashionable mould." "Your mamma is a fashionable woman, Miss, and seems very happy." "It is only seeming, Minn. She has more misery over an ill-fitting dress, an unshapely shoe, or an awkward glove, than you and I have in an age. I was born out of my sphere, I know I was; I ought to have been poor." "You may be, one of these days, Miss." "How so, Minn? What do you mean?" "Disinherited." "Oh, no! that will never be, I am certain." "But you'd not be unhappy if it should happen?" "Only for Bernard." "I am very happy to hear this." "Dear Minnie, you have so many foolish fears!" "It is better to think of these things." "True enough. Good night, Minn!" "Good night. You are going to sleep early, Miss?" "So as to have bright eyes in the morning, dear." Lonely, without her mistress, Minnie also prepared for sleep; and that night Bernard's letter was placed beneath _her_ pillow, and her dreams were of him. Della, as she had hoped, dreamed of General Delville. All night long was his noble face before her, wearing that radiant expression which had illuminated it when he bade God bless her. Never afterwards, in all her waking hours, whether in joy or gloom, light or darkness, did Della cease to remember him as she dreamed of him there with the halo of that blessing circling him and her. Lightly as he had seemed to give her up, it had cost the General a more severe struggle than Della had imagined. He had truly _loved_ her, old as he was, and had not loved lightly; but he could not take to his heart the heartless wife which she had frankly admitted she must be if he married her; and Della had, unwittingly, skillfully touched a tender chord, when she made the appeal to his feelings which she did. He had felt the force of her reasoning, and had been delighted with her frankness and her confidence; though it pained him to relinquish her, he was too much a soldier to display his wounds; and, though he parted from her nominally a _friend_, he was never more her lover than when he that afternoon called her his child and bade her adieu. CHAPTER XXVI. Many and sharp the numerous ills Inwoven with our frame! More pointed still we make ourselves Regret, remorse, and shame. And man, whose heaven-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn. Burns. "Wretch!" cried Wilkins, striking at Quirk with his brawny fist, as he rose from the prostrate form of Guly--"Wretch, you have killed him!" and, seizing the offender by the collar, with the united force of foot and hand he hurled him into the street. The two other young men, who had drunk less freely of the wine, and were less excited, passed out also, expressing to Wilkins their regret at the unfortunate occurrence. Locking and barring the door, the head clerk hurried back to Guly's side, and lifted him gently in his arms. With the tender care of a mother, he bore him to his own bed and smoothed the golden curls from the wounded temple, as he laid him softly on the pillow. The old gush of love had swept back to Arthur's heart when he saw his brother fall at his side, and with throbbing pulse he implored Wilkins to fly for a physician leaving him to watch by Guly's pillow. Wilkins acceded to his request, and, going out by the alley door, locked it after him, and dashed down the street in search of his own physician. The sound of his heavy footsteps, as they fell upon the pavement, rang far and near through the silent streets; and, as he sped on, their echo fell upon his ear fearfully, and sent a thrill of something like terror through his strong frame. He even slackened his pace, and strove to lighten his tread that the desolate sound might not thus sweep constantly after him; but his anxiety with regard to Guly was so intense that he found it impossible to go at a slower gait, and he went on, running strongly, his huge chest heaving with the unwonted exertion, and the big drops of perspiration standing out like rain-drops on his brow. Suddenly there came a low hum of voices to his ear, not unlike the murmur of a distant sea. Louder and louder, it came upon the midnight air, till, answering to the echo of his flying steps, came the distant cry of "Murder! stop him! stop him! Murder!" And the prolonged, terrific cry sent a panic through every limb, as for an instant the head clerk paused to listen. As by instinct, he comprehended all. He felt as fully aware as though he had been plainly told so, that the echo of his hurried pace had been caught by the quick ear of the night guardians, and he was pursued as a midnight assassin. Thinking that the safest course would be to hurry straight to the physician's office, where he was well known and where the statement he might make would be corroborated, he again struck into a run, and with all his strength endeavored to elude the pursuers, whose voices every moment fell more clearly on his ear. He felt in his great heart all the terrible consequences which might accrue to Guly if he should be captured, for there would necessarily be more or less delay in his again obtaining freedom. But, swiftly as he fled, he felt he was no match for the swift-footed pursuers behind him, and the cry of murder, and the sound of clubs upon the banquette, and the sharp, quick watchman's rattle, fell on his ear more startlingly clear every moment. Suddenly he thought to dart down the first dark street, and at the next block double on his pursuers. But his design had been anticipated, and as he dashed at a headlong pace round the corner, he found himself face to face with a posse of policemen, and a crowd of half-dressed coffee-house loafers, who are always abroad upon the first hint of an excitement. With a shout of triumph, Wilkins' arms were pinioned at his side; and despite all his prayers and entreaties, he was hurried away to the guard-house. He begged to be allowed to stop at Doctor C.'s office, and deliver him the message he had brought, assuring them that, would they but give him a few minutes' time, he could fully assure them of his innocence; but all in vain. An atrocious murder had been committed somewhere up town, and they had been chasing all night, they said, to find the assassin, who had escaped. They declared themselves "fagged out," and swore they must "chuck" somebody, and if he wasn't the right man he could prove it in the morning, and that was all they had to say; and, in bitterness of heart and anxiety of mind, Wilkins heard the heavy door shut with a short clang, and knew he was a prisoner! Wearily the night sped away; and, tortured with anxiety for the pale young being whom he had left senseless on his pillow, Wilkins walked the narrow precincts of his cell moody and disconsolate. For with all the evil of this man's strange nature, there were some pure and sparkling gems of good, which cast a radiance, bright and purifying, over the dark traits of his character. This love for Guly was one of these. Springing up, as it did, from among the rank weeds of sin and recklessness in his breast, it proved that he could appreciate the lovely, and knew how to cherish it. Then, his guardian care of Blanche, the brodereuse--where a thousand men would have but thought of evil, his sole care was to ward it from her. And now, as he walked back and forth across the heavily spiked floor, another ray of glorious and intense light shot from his great heart heavenward. It was a prayer! breathed there in the midst of the perplexities and troubles which surrounded him, earnestly, hopefully breathed for Guly; and if ever a prayer ascended to the "Great White Throne," accepted for its faith and sincerity, that one did, sent from the burning lips of Bernard Wilkins that night. Morning came, and he was taken before the Recorder, and though it required but little trouble to prove his innocence, it took _time_, and it was with a breast lacerated by a thousand fears that he found himself again at liberty, and turned his steps towards the store. As he had left the front door key inside, Jeff had as usual been able to open the store and put things in order. The clerks were many of them in their places, but he scarcely noticed any one; passing up between them, with long and rapid strides, he struck his foot against the door of his room, and the next instant stood at Guly's side. He lay as he had left him, on the bed, still wrapped in his white robe, pale and very beautiful. Wilkins bent breathlessly over him, and the blue eyes at that moment opened, and smiled a welcome upon him. Clasping his hands together with an upward look of thankfulness, Wilkins fell upon his knees beside the bed and buried his face in the covers, as if he would fain conceal the too vivid pleasure expressed in his features. A hand was laid upon his shoulder. He started, looked up, and met the gaze of Arthur. "Ah, yes, Arthur, I had forgotten you. How did you manage? What could you do?" "Finding you did not return, I suspected something had occurred, and dispatched Jeff after the nearest physician. He pronounced Guly's wound not dangerous, but recommended quiet for a day or so. You see he is doing nicely; he wasn't hurt much after all. As Quirk says, he is such a weakly affair, that it takes nothing at all to knock the senses out of him." "Then you have had a conference with Quirk, this morning, have you?" returned Wilkins, coldly. "Well, your very humane judgment is worthy of both of you; you can now go to your counter, sir, if you like, or seek rest if you are fatigued, as you choose." Arthur took his place in the store. Aided by Quirk's slurs and inuendoes, as soon as he saw Guly recovering he had experienced another revulsion of feeling, and really cherished a sentiment of anger, when he remembered that he had allowed himself to be so "bullied," as Quirk expressed it, by a stripling so weak and "curdy" as Gulian. He convinced Arthur, with his reckless reasoning, that in gambling for a little "innocent amusement," there in the store, they were but doing what all young men with any idea of fashionable pleasure did, and that Wilkins had no right to exert over them the authority which he did. That, as for Guly's wound, it was Wilkins' fault he had received it, and, altogether, they ought to have fought it out before yielding so easily. But though he had succeeded in leading Arthur to think that Guly was meddlesome and intrusive, he could not succeed in rousing his ire towards Wilkins; for Arthur was not so blind as to be unable to see that Wilkins was his truest friend. Still, there was a restless and undefined uneasiness in his breast, a fancy that his dignity had been insulted, yet so vague was the impression left on his mind by the wily Quirk, that he could scarcely decide from whom he had suffered it, Wilkins or Guly; but with that unnatural perversity which sometimes enthrals the human heart, he was more than half inclined to think it was his brother, and cherished an indignant feeling against him, which even the memory of his pallid face as he lay before him the night before, with the blood slowly oozing from his wounded temple down the blue-veined cheek, could not dissipate; and whenever, during that long day, he went into Wilkins' darkened room to look upon the young form lying there, it was not in sorrow and love, but silence and coldness. When Mr. Delancey came to the store that day, which was at an hour later than usual, Wilkins joined him at his high desk, and held with him a long conference. The merchant had shown many signs of impatience during its pending, and no slight evidences of anger. As Wilkins turned away, Mr. Delancey sat looking down through the store for some time, leaning stiffly back in his chair meanwhile. The moment he saw Quirk disengaged, he called his name in his sharp, peculiar tone of voice, at the same time beckoning to him with his forefinger. Quirk flung down the piece of goods he was about folding, and a scarce perceptible pallor spread over his coarse cheeks, as, darting a malicious glance at Wilkins, he approached the high desk. "So, sir, you took the liberty to gamble in my store last night, eh?" "I wasn't the only one." "Hold your tongue, sir. You dare not tell me you didn't propose it?" "Mallory, Adams and Arthur Pratt joined me." "You knew the store's rules better than they. Do you know that I think any one that gambles will steal?" "Then your store is full of thieves." "The more need, then, of making an example for their benefit. Take your place, sir; you have a fortnight's warning to find another situation, and quit." With cheeks glowing with anger and fierce resentment, Quirk went back to his place, knowing there was no use in arguing the matter with such a man as Delancey; who had, in fact, acted entirely upon Wilkins' suggestion; whereas the others would no doubt have shared the same fate, had he acted upon his own. The head clerk had laid the whole matter before him exactly as it was, quietly throwing in his own advice and ideas on the subject, and there were reasons why Mr. Delancey didn't choose to differ very materially from what his head clerk said. After he had dismissed Quirk, the merchant every now and then turned his eye upon Wilkins' room door, as if he fain would enter there could he possibly do so without being seen. Unconsciously, as it were, Mr. Delancey had that morning missed the bright young brow and gentle eyes, which in all his moods never had failed to show him the respect of an obeisance and a greeting regularly upon his entrance. There was an uprightness and nobleness too, characterizing Guly's every deed which the merchant had not failed to observe, and which had created a respect and esteem for the boy even in that obdurate heart. Mr. Delancey stepped down from his high desk, and began to traverse the space between it and the long windows. But every turn brought him nearer and nearer to the little bed-room door, and at last, certain that he was unobserved, he laid his hand upon the knob and slipped in. If ever the merchant displayed his awkwardness, it was in a sick room; the knowledge of which fact, perhaps, made him so rare a frequenter of such places. As he stopped at Guly's bedside, with his long fingers pressed down among the pillows, the boy opened his eyes, and looked up in his face with a smile, expecting to see Wilkins or Arthur. He was greatly surprised at seeing his employer, but immediately extended his hand and said: "Is it possible 'tis you, Mr. Delancey? This is an unexpected pleasure." Mr. Delancey took the proffered hand in his, held it loosely for a moment in his bony fingers, as if unaccustomed to holding friendly hands, then let it drop back again upon the bed-clothes. "Why is my presence so unexpected? Don't you suppose I ever look in on sick clerks?" "I certainly hope so, sir; I scarcely expected it in my case; but I am very happy to be disappointed--sit down sir?" The merchant seated himself, and said: "So you got in a row last night." "In _trouble_, sir; most unfortunately. I hope that it is the last case of the kind." "Yes, bad to have your place empty--want all my men at their posts. Get about as soon as you can. Be up to-morrow, I 'spose?" "Yes, sir, God willing." "God willing! Do you always put that in?" said Mr. Delancey, half rising from his chair, then reseating himself. "Yes, sir, always." The merchant sat for a moment, with his cold eye fixed on his earnest face. "Invariably you say that, eh?" "Invariably, sir." "Humph! I don't!" returned the other, rising abruptly from the chair, and, without another word, he slipped out of the little door as cautiously as he had entered, and again took his seat at his desk. The day wore on with an occasional visit from Arthur, a frequent one from Wilkins, and numerous inquiries sent by all the clerks, who could not help but feel an interest in the young sufferer. By the increased darkness of the room, Guly knew the day must be most gone, and he lay looking upon the little table where one night he had seen Wilkins writing, with the quadroon standing behind his chair--that night which he had remembered so distinctly and pondered on so much. As he lay musing upon that event, his attention was attracted by a singular noise outside his door, and the next moment it was thrown open, and to Guly's utter astonishment the dwarf swung himself in upon his long crutches, with Wilkins, looking like a giant, walking smilingly behind him. "Here's a friend that's true to you, Guly; he misses you, you see, as well as the rest of us." "Hih! hih! Monsieur," chuckled the little man, reaching up and catching hold of Guly's fingers; "I have seen you nowhere to-day; I think you very sick or very dead. I get no picayune to-day, no bean soup. Hih! hih! Monsieur, I miss you very much." "You are kind, to come and see me, my poor friend. It seems very natural to see your face. You are welcome." "Me welcome?" squeaked the dwarf, climbing up with much difficulty into the chair Mr. Delancey had so recently left; "me welcome, Monsieur! Hih! that's mor'n has been said to me these many years--hih! poor deformed little devil that I am!" Guly heard a sound, a strange sound, something between a schoolboy snivel and a sob, and looking up, to his amazement saw a bright tear rolling down his visitor's wrinkled cheek, and his one eye, seeming to lie out farther on his face then ever, was glistening with more. "You have never told me your name," said Guly, hoping to divert his attention. "No,'cause I never thort you cared to know it," returned the other, wiping his eye on the cuff of his coat. "The boys call me King Richard, because, as they say, he was stoop-shouldered like me, Monsieur. They daren't exactly call me humped for fear of my crutches, hih! hih! You can call me Richard, or Dick, or what you choose." "You musn't talk too much to Monsieur," said Wilkins, kindly; "he is too ill to hear much conversation--hurts his head." "Hih! no, I won't hurt him. A picayune, Monsieur: I've had no bean soup, to-day. Pauvre Richard!" Wilkins dropped a piece of silver in the claw-like hand, and went back into the store. The dwarf sat rubbing the dime on his sleeve, brightening it, and looking curiously at it with his one eye, as if to assure himself it was good--then disposed of it somewhere about his person. "Are you hungry, Richard?" asked the boy, eyeing him pityingly. "Oui, Monsieur, hungry and poor and friendless. Oh, Lord! but I've got a dime to buy bread now, hih! hih! hih!" "I am your friend, Richard; never go hungry when you are destitute. I am not rich, but I always hope to be able to give you a piece of bread, and you musn't call yourself friendless ever again." The dwarf hitched himself round on his chair, and fixed his great raw-looking eye inquisitively on the gentle face looking upon him. "Friend to _me_, Monsieur, such a horrid little ape as me? Hih! hih! can't think that." "Don't call yourself such names, Richard. The hand that made me, made you; and He has commanded us to love one another," said the boy, sweetly. "And you _can_ love me, you? Hih! no, no, no, I wasn't born to be loved, only to be kicked round the world like a football while I live, and when I die to be kicked into a pauper's grave. Hard lot! deformed, friendless, wretched, poor. Nothing to love, no one to love me, hih! wonder what I was born for. Monsieur, what hurt you?" Guly smiled at the sudden transition in the dwarf's manner, and replied briefly that he had been hurt with broken glass. "Hih! that's bad. I must get down and go away--make you talk too much--'hurt your head.' Always hurt people's heads, I do--that part where their eyes are. Adieu, Monsieur." The dwarf, after some labor, reached the floor, and succeeded in tucking a crutch under either arm. "Hope you'll get well, Monsieur." "Be round to-morrow I hope, Richard; thank you." "Hope so. Adieu." "Adieu." He swung away, and reached the door, but hobbled back to the bed again, and raising his red, skinny fingers, took Guly's hand in his. "You meant what you said, Monsieur, about loving one another?" "Yes. Truly so, Richard." "And I may think of you as loving even _me_?" "As loving you, Richard. As loving you for one of the Great God's cherished works, sent here expressly to call forth our love, and awaken the dormant sympathies of our nature." "May that Great God, bless you, Monsieur. Hih! hih! Adieu." Once more he gained the door, and this time it closed behind him, shutting him out. And Guly fell asleep, with the earnest blessing of the poor deformed one brightening his dreams, and the holy words, "Love ye one another," ringing sweetly through his heart. CHAPTER XXVII. "Nor heaven nor earth hath been at peace To-night." Shakspeare. The Friday night, which had been set aside by Clinton for his meeting with Arthur, arrived. It came in "clouds, and storm, and darkness," with darting lightning and crashing thunder, and all the wild fierceness which ever characterizes a thunder-storm in that climate. Arthur had been nervous and ill at ease all day; a fact which all noticed, but which was attributed to anxiety on Guly's account, who, contrary to expectation, was still unable to be about. Evening came, the store was closed, and all the clerks were out, save Quirk, Arthur, and Wilkins, who still lingered within, talking of Guly, and commenting on the unusual wildness of the storm. Through the day, Quirk had managed to slip a scrap of writing-paper into Arthur's hand, which had been duly read, and destroyed, and both now waited an opportunity to act upon what it contained. Quirk quietly lighted a cigar, and, seating himself, turned good-naturedly to Wilkins, remarking:-- "I suppose you know, old boy, that I got my discharge from these premises t'other day." "Indeed!" returned the head-clerk, coldly, striking a match to light a cigar for himself. "Yes, cleared out, within a fortnight, bag and baggage; all on account of that deuced little spree we had here the other night. By-the-by, Mr. Wilkins, I believe _you_ have had a finger in this pie. How could you treat a fellow so?" "I told you I would report you." "Well, 'twasn't hardly fair, I vum. I didn't do more than the rest, but I suffer all alone. However, I don't bear anybody any ill will, and hope when we part it will be on good terms." "I hope so, I'm sure." "I've a bottle of prime old Port left of the other night; what say you to taking a drink this stormy time, to our future good friendship?" "I've no objections--most certainly." Quirk went to the other end of the store, and took a bottle and some glasses from under the counter. He filled three of the glasses, and handed one to each of his friends, and kept the other for himself. "Here's oblivion to the past, and brightness for the future." Wilkins smiled, nodded, and the glasses were drained to the bottom. At this moment Quirk caught sight of Jeff, who had just been in to see Guly, but who now stood with his great eyes fixed upon the group before him, with a mixture of wonder and sadness in his glance. "Ah, Jeff! oughtn't to forget you to-night. Have some?" "Don't care, massa." Quirk filled another glass to the brim. "Now, Jeff, you must give us a toast, or you can't have the wine." "Guy, massa, who ever heard of a nigga's toastin' white folks," replied Jeff, showing his whole range of ivories. "Must give us something." "Well, den, massa, if I must, I must. Here's hopin' you'll never be less de brack man's fren dan now you am." The negro's toast was drunk with a hearty good-will, Quirk only pausing, thoughtfully, to ask if he spoke in general terms of the colored race, or referred to himself singly; to which Jeff merely said "Yes," leaving the matter as obscure as before. When his cigar was finished, Quirk buttoned his coat to the throat, and, taking an umbrella, shook hands with Arthur and Wilkins, and proceeded toward the door. "You might stay, and share Arthur's bed to-night," said Wilkins, calling after him. "It's a dreadful storm to go out in, and he is alone, you know--Guly being in my bed." "Thank you," returned the other, "not to-night." "I wish you would," joined in Arthur; "that's a gloomy old room to be alone in, in such a noisy night as this." "Hope you ain't afraid of spirits," laughed Quirk. "I would really like to stay, but I have an engagement to meet a friend at the St. Louis bar-room to-night, and I ought to have been there half an hour ago. Good-night." He opened the door, and passed out, while a gust of wind and rain swept in through the opening. Arthur shuddered. "Really," said he, speaking to Wilkins, "I believe I am nervous to-night; I feel as fidgetty as an old woman; yet I have seen the time when I could glory in such a storm as this, and climb to the summit of old Cro'nest, on the Hudson, in its midst." "You have been dissipating a little of late, you know," returned the other, patting his shoulder; "that makes a difference. Then, you have, no doubt, been anxious about your brother, and that makes a difference. Perhaps Jeff had better take his bed to your room to-night, and lie there. He will be better than no company, with the lightning and thunder on such a spree about one's ears. What say you?" "But Jeff is needed here." "No, he isn't. He only lies behind that door in the capacity of a big watch-dog," returned the other, laughing, "to bark if he hears any one breaking in, and he hasn't had cause to do that since I've been here. Jeff, take your mattress to Master Pratt's room, and sleep there to-night." Jeff obeyed, glad himself to be near somebody during this fierce battle of the elements; and Arthur told him to go on up stairs with the light, and he would be with him presently. Leaving Wilkins smoking in the store, Arthur stole softly into Guly's sick chamber. A night-lamp was burning on the table, casting its mellow light faintly through the apartment, and displaying the sufferer's pale features, as he lay asleep, with his bright hair floating back upon his pillow. Arthur knelt by the bedside, and took one of his brother's burning hands in his, and bowed his head upon it. He uttered no word, heaved no sigh, but knelt motionless and silent--so silent that his heavy heart-throbs were audible. When he raised his head, tears were on his cheeks, and, as he bent to press his lips to Guly's, those tears fell down upon that fair, pale brow, and glittered there like gems. Dashing away these traces of what he deemed his weakness, Arthur passed out of the room, and shaking hands with Wilkins, as he bade him good-night, mounted the winding stairs, and entered his own chamber. "Massa Pratt," said Jeff, turning on his mattress, as Arthur entered the room, "you don't think as how your brudder's gwine to die, do you?" "Die! Heavens, Jeff, no! What put that in your head?" "Don't know, sah! don' know nuffin' 'bout it." Arthur slowly undressed, and placing his clothes near the bedside, lay down upon his pillow. "Jeff, do you ever expect to get to sleep in such a tumult as this?" "Guy, massa, guess I does. Neber was so sleepy afore in all my life. 'Spect it's dat wine dat makes it; I don't often git sich drinks as dat. Massa Quirk mighty good just on de ebe of lebin de business. Yah! yah!" In a few minutes Jeff was asleep; and his loud breathing was audible, even above the howling of the storm. Arthur lay still for half an hour, restless, and with ear strained to catch the faintest sound coming up from the store below. But all was still, and he rose up, and dressed himself, throwing over his other garments a cloak, which he wrapped closely about him, as if preparing to breast the weather. He laid his hand on the small door, leading down the steep staircase into the court, and was about to pass forth, when, with a sudden impulse, he dropped the cloak from his shoulders, and opened the door leading down to the store instead. Arthur could not go out upon his mysterious errand, without casting one more look upon his brother's face. Perhaps he felt it might possibly give him strength to resist temptation, or might urge him to forego some premeditated evil; whatever it was that prompted him to seek his side, he obeyed it, and in a moment stood in the door of Wilkins' chamber. The light of the night-lamp revealed the form of the head clerk lying stretched upon his bed, sound asleep, and breathing heavily; one of his strong arms encircled Guly, and his broad breast pillowed the boy's head. Arthur looked at them earnestly, fearless of their waking, for he had seen (what none of the rest observed) Quirk sprinkle into Wilkins' wine, as also into Jeff's, a few grains of a drug, intended to make their slumbers deep; and Guly, he knew, slept an invalid's sleep, heavy from weakness and exhaustion. After gazing at them for awhile, Arthur stepped to the table, and extinguished the lamp, then drew the door close after him, and groped his way back up stairs. Again he wrapped the cloak about him, drew his cap over his brows, and went down into the court. He paused once more, as he opened the alley-door with his pass-key, and turned his eyes back toward the spot he was leaving. The darkness was impenetrable, but he gazed earnestly back as if all were distinctly visible, then closed the door behind him, and went shudderingly forth into the tempest. He had crossed that threshold for the last time bearing in his breast a crimeless-soul, and he felt it instinctively. Gaining the street, he hurried on till he had reached the saloon where he had seen Quirk and Clinton the night after the lost bank deposit. He hastily inquired of Quibbles if either of his friends were there, and on being informed that Quirk had just come in, he desired to be shown to his presence, and found him in the same room they had occupied before, smoking and drinking there by himself. "Come at last, eh, Pratt? All snug?" "All asleep--Jeff in my room, as you suggested." "Good! Now for Clint." "But what was the use of all these preliminaries at the store? I scarcely understand." "Oh, you're a little springy as yet; after to-night you'll understand more about these things. Clinton will explain everything when we get there. Now, if you're ready, come along." They went out together, Arthur first swallowing several glasses of wine, for the purpose, as he said, of keeping his spirits up. The walk to Clinton's house was a long one, and on such a fierce night as this, particularly disagreeable; swollen gutters, slipping pavements, and deluged streets, rendering it next to impossible to keep one's footing. Arriving, at last, at the door of a small but neat domicile, Quirk rapped, and they were admitted by a small black girl, who showed them into a pleasant little apartment, lighted cheerfully, prettily furnished, and tastefully arranged. A table stood in the centre of the apartment, and Clinton was sitting by it when they entered, reading to a young and pretty woman, who was busily engaged with her needle, and rocking a cradle, containing an infant son, with her foot. She rose gracefully as Clinton introduced her as his wife, and received his friends with ease and dignity. Arthur felt not a little astonished to find Clinton a husband and a father, and told him as much. He blushed slightly, and replied that every one knew these facts that knew him well, and laughingly advised Arthur if he wished to be happy to become one too. Mrs. Clinton then rose, and going to the sideboard, set out wine for the guests, and Arthur observed that it was served on a silver salver and in cut crystal--articles scarcely corresponding with the small house, and very pretty, but plain furniture. "Is the back room lighted?" said Clinton to his wife. "No, but it shall be, if you wish it." "I do. My friends have a little business to transact with me." Arthur noticed that when Clinton said this, his wife looked at him very penetratingly, as if she would read his thoughts, but turned away re-assured by the bright smile he gave her, and lighted the room. "Now," said Clinton, when they were alone, "let's at once to business. I had intended this night only for planning; but we must plan and work both, to-night, for we may not have such another storm in a month. You've good pluck, eh, Pratt?" "Same as ever." "Good. You got my note and fixed the wine, Quirk?" "Just so." "And you are sure you're ready, Pratt, to help to carry out the plan I've laid for you?" "Ready for anything short of murder." "All right, then, there's no murder in the case, only a nice little game of lock-picking and so on. No backing out now, and beforehand we must all take this oath: that if any one of us is nabbed, and should by any chance suffer the penalty of the law, he shall not implicate any of the others." "That's fair," said Quirk; "all stand the same chance." The oath was administered, and each one laid his hand upon the Holy Book, saying: "I swear," "I swear," "I swear." "Now," said Clinton, "what I propose is this: that we just walk into your boss's store this night, and walk out of it with goods enough to make us rich men. We can do it easy as guns." Arthur turned pale and remained silent. "What's the matter, boy," said Clinton, laughing, "you ain't going to play chickenheart, are you?" "No," said Arthur, ashamed to confess his dislike to the plan, "but why can't you take some other store?" "Because we havn't the men drugged in any other store, and, in case of detection, we're safer there than any where else." "How so? I should think the chances in that case would be equal anywhere?" "Oh, no. I'm somewhat related to the proprietor of your store, and when he found 'twas me, he'd hush the matter up--and let it go," said Clinton, quietly. "Related to Mr. Delancey! Pray, how nearly?" asked Arthur in astonishment. "Oh, quite near. But no matter about that now, maybe you'll find it all out one of these days. Another reason for choosing that particular store is, we can get in with less trouble. Look there." Clinton, as he spoke, flung down upon the table a heavy brass key, which, to his amazement, Arthur saw was the one he had lost on his Carrollton ride. "How in the world came you by this?" Clinton laughed--"If you lost it, I must have found it; but no time is to be lost, and if we're all agreed let's go to work." "All agreed," said Quirk; but Arthur was silent; sitting with his head bent down, as if closely examining the key, but in fact to hide the emotion he knew was visible in his face. "Well, then," said Clinton, rising and unlocking an armoire which stood in one corner of the room, "here are some bags for us, which I have had prepared expressly. Each of us will take two; and with what else we can carry about our persons, they will be enough. Here, Pratt, are yours. What the devil ails you, man, to look so down?" "Nothing ails me," replied Arthur, rising and taking the bags, with an effort to look interested and cheerful. "Well," continued Clinton, "now, my plan is this: all you have got to do is to unlock the door and go in; for Quirk tells me that early this morning he managed to fill the bolt socket in the floor, so that the bolts wouldn't sink; and that he is certain Jeff was too fuddled with the wine he gave him to note the difference. If this was so, you can go in without the slightest difficulty, and as you two know all about the store, which I don't, while you are gathering the goods, I will saw off one of the window shutters, and cut out a pane of glass, so that it will seem the entrance was effected by that means. Here are the implements, you see," said he, holding up a saw and file. "Aye," said Quirk, "but you'll need a diamond to cut the glass." "I'll use this," said he, showing the ring on his finger. "Just as it is?" "Yes, as good so as any way. Now, the first thing you do after getting in, is to pull out that filling from the bolt sockets if you care to save yourselves, then pitch into the goods. Get the lightest and most valuable--silks, embroideries, rich laces, everything of that kind, but avoid the linens, cloths, and all that, as too heavy, and besides might be detected by the stamp. Lock and bolt the door after you when you go in, and you, Pratt, pocket the key; for no doubt it will be asked for to-morrow. I'll have a place ready for you to get out. And now let's be off--here are dark lanterns for you." "But the watchman," suggested Arthur. "Oh, never fear a watchman such a night as this; he's snugly asleep somewhere, no doubt--and if he should come too near, this would 'his quietus make,'" said Clinton, displaying a glittering dagger. Arthur shuddered visibly. "You promised no murder, Mr. Clinton." "And I'll endeavor to keep that promise, Mr. Pratt," laughed Clinton. "Now let's be going." They went out without again seeing Clinton's wife. The storm swept on unabated, and Quirk and Clinton, arm-in-arm, started on ahead, while Arthur, reluctant, and remorseful, but ashamed to betray his feelings, followed in their footsteps, the suffering victim of his own and another's pride. The store was reached. The noise of the tempest rendered much caution unnecessary, for thunder, wind and rain were so loudly uniting their forces that almost any noise would but have seemed the natural effect of their fury. But it was with extreme caution that Arthur applied the key to the lock, opened the door and permitted Quirk to enter. The latter instantly stepped to the window, and assisted Clinton in taking down a shutter, and the last named gentleman, with file and saw, soon gave it the appearance of having been taken down by such instruments alone from the outside. He then proceeded to cut out one of the large panes of glass, while Quirk and Arthur, having opened the bolt sockets and fastened the door with lock and bolt, proceeded to collect the goods. Suddenly Arthur stopped, and turning to Quirk, whispered faintly: "I can't go on. Oh, this is awful, awful! Think of my poor brother, sick, maybe dying, in that room yonder, and I engaged thus! Oh! I never, never can go on!" "Furies!" muttered Quirk, between his teeth, "this is a pretty time for such thoughts! The brat in yonder is doing well enough, I'll be bound; but if you give him time to come out here and see you, he would die for certain. You may just as well yell out and give us all up to the police as to stop now--a nice body you are to take _revenge_." That one last word acted as a spur, and Arthur again resumed the packing of the bags, and Quirk coming up to him, said, softly:-- "Now you're a man again--ain't ashamed of you now. Here's a mask for you, tie it on. I don't fear detection, but it won't do any harm to wear it. I've got one for myself." Arthur obeyed mechanically, and tied the mask over his features and went on with his work. Boxes were rifled, drawers were emptied and shelves left vacant. The bags were filled. Everything light and valuable that could be stowed away in them had been, and Quirk and Arthur passed them up into the window for Clinton to set into the street. He lifted them all out, and wrapped them in oil cloth to prevent the goods from being damaged by the rain. He placed them in a pile beneath the window arch, so that they might be easily lifted away even by two strong pair of arms, and left them there, certain that the raging storm would prevent all chance of discovery. Quirk had crept out also, through the open pane, after having placed the goods in the window, and now seated himself upon the pile and wiped his brow, like one wearied with a long fatiguing task. Arthur had wrapped his cloak around him preparing to leave, when Clinton again made his appearance at the window and vaulted into the store. "I want to see if you have made a clean sweep," said he, taking Arthur's lantern from his hand, and passing lightly up through the store with a practised tread and running his eye eagerly over the shelves. "Velvets," said he, suddenly pausing to read the lable of a large box. "Why the devil didn't you get them?" and forthwith he drew it down and turned its rich contents out into an immense bandanna handkerchief which he drew from his breast. "Oh, for Heaven's sake don't stop for them!" whispered Arthur, nervously, "let's be gone!" "Zounds, man! here's a little fortune in itself," returned the other, carefully tying them up. "I'd be a fool to leave these." Neither saw, so intent were they on what they were doing, the door of Wilkins' room swing slowly open, and a white-robed figure, bearing a night-lamp, glide ghost-like toward them. So feeble was the light it held, it scarcely served to reveal the way, and one trembling foot struck against a store stool, making sufficient noise to attract the attention of the robbers. They both turned suddenly, the light of their lantern fell that way, and they stood face to face with Guly. In an instant Clinton's hand was on his dagger; it rose glittering high in air, and aimed at Guly's heart, descended with a fearful plunge toward that pure young breast. "Murderer!" cried a voice behind him, and a counter blow from a well directed hand, sent the instrument of death clattering upon the floor. At the sound of that voice, though it had come from beneath a mask, Guly uttered a cry of anguish a thousand times more heart-rending than would have been a death cry, and sank senseless upon the floor, the lamp going out in its fall. Trembling with horror, Arthur felt himself pushed forward by Clinton's strong hand in wild haste to the window. Self-preservation was strong within him, he bolted through, Clinton followed, and they once more stood in the street. "We'll take care of the bags," whispered Clinton, hurriedly, to Arthur; "you fly up that alley, get you to bed, and take care of yourself, you'll only hinder us if you go along--pull off your boots." Loaded with their booty, Clinton and Quirk passed away like shadows in the stormy darkness, and bewildered, yet aware of the stern necessity for obeying Clinton's advice, Arthur drew off his boots and darted like light up the alley, noiselessly unlocked the small door, fastened it, and once more breathed in his own room. Quick as thought he rinsed the mud from his boots in some water he knew where to find, turned the India rubber cloak wrong side out and hung it on the peg whence he had taken it, undressed, all in that to him fearful darkness, and once more sought his pillow, without causing a break in the loud snoring of Jeff who still slumbered on his mattress, unconscious of the trouble soon to fall on his devoted head. Clasping his hands upon his wildly beating heart, Arthur lay still to listen for any sound to indicate that life had returned to Guly, or that Wilkins had awakened. For the first time, he bethought him of his mask, and raising his hand to his face found it had fallen off, probably, he concluded, in his hurried flight through the window. CHAPTER XXVIII. "Who hath done this most foul deed?" It were hard to tell, perhaps, what broke the head clerk's heavy slumber. It may have been Guly's wild cry, when he sank quivering to the floor, which reached his ear, even above the tempest-din. It may have been that instinct, which, sleeping or waking, teaches the heart to miss what it loves, or it may have been the natural effect of the drug, which had spent itself, that aroused him. He opened his eyes, turned heavily, and instantly became aware that the golden head no longer nestled on his bosom. Alarmed, he sprang to his feet in an instant, wide awake. He reached for the lamp, but found it gone; and, with nothing but a lighted match in his hand, he started out to look for Guly. The match went out before he was half way down to the store, but he went on, groping in the thick darkness, till suddenly his foot struck Guly's body; and with a moan of agony, he stooped and lifted him in his arms, and bore him hastily back to his bed, where he laid him down, in wild suspense, not knowing whether he was alive or dead. After several minutes he succeeded in finding a store-lamp; but the moment he lighted it the wind gushed through the open pane and blew it out, leaving him again in total darkness. Cursing the luck, he turned to obtain another match, when another gust of wind rushed in, and swept across his face; and, like a lightning flash, the truth darted through his brain. Taking the lamp to his own room, he lighted it there, and finding, to his joy, that Guly still lived, he immediately applied the restoratives he deemed necessary; and soon saw the chest heave, the eyelids quiver, and the whole form once more wearing the glow and motion of life. "Oh, Wilkins, such a dreadful dream! Horror! horror!" "There, Guly, compose yourself. Don't tell me about it till you are better." Guly obeyed, and lay quite still, trying to recall his wandering senses; and soon the truth rushed back upon his mind, in all its stern reality, and he felt it was no dream. "Have you been in the store, Wilkins?" "Only in the dark--to bring you back." "Things are in wild confusion there. Oh, could I have only wakened you, it might have been different." "Did you try, then, and fail?" "Oh, yes; I could not thoroughly waken you, all I could do; you seemed to be in a sort of stupor. But I was certain that I heard a voice, something too human in its sound to be the fury of the storm. It was dark here, and the door was shut." "The deuce it was! I left the lamp burning, and the door wide open; the wind must have done that work." "It was as I tell you; and I went out, having lighted the lamp, and saw them in the very act, Wilkins, of finishing their robbery. Had I not been so weak and ill I would have cried aloud to you; but I came upon them so suddenly--so unexpectedly to myself, in the faint light, that I was surprised, for the moment, into silence, and then one turned, and raised his dirk to stab me; but the other, who had on his face a hideous mask, averted the blow." "And you fainted?" "I remember no more," said Guly, shuddering, as he rejected the too familiar tones, which, in that dread moment, had fallen on his ear. "I fear," said Wilkins, kindly, "that this excitement has been too much for you. If you will remain here, and try to get some rest, I will look after the affairs in the store, and will call up Arthur and Jeff to assist me." At the mention of Arthur's name, Guly looked anxious, but expressed his willingness to accede to this proposition. So, taking the lamp, the head clerk turned his steps toward the gloomy room at the stair-head, first taking a casual view of the confusion manifest in the store. It was not without some slight suspicions, and many misgivings, that Wilkins went in search of Arthur; but as he pushed open the door, and looked into the room, an expression of immense relief passed over his features, and with a freer step he approached his bedside. Arthur lay there, apparently in a profound slumber. One arm was thrown listlessly above his head, his dark curls, disheveled and tangled, were stroked back from his brow, and his cheeks, though hotly flushed, looked as if bearing the bright glow of some pleasant dream. Wilkins laid a hand upon his arm, and awakened him. The young man started up in bed, impatiently asking the cause of his being thus disturbed. Wilkins told him in as few words as possible, and turned to awaken Jeff, while Arthur hastily proceeded to dress himself. To his surprise the head clerk found Jeff already awake, and trembling like an aspen leaf, as he sat up on his mattress, looking in dismay at Wilkins. "What's the matter with you, Jeff?" "Debbil, massa! Didn't I har you say de store broke open?" "You did; and I want you to be up, and stirring quickly." "Well, if dis doesn't beat de witches! Nuffin dis kin' eber happen afore. All jest 'cause dis nigger lef his post. See'f ole Massa don't say dat." Wilkins bade him talk less, and dress quick; and in a few minutes the three descended the stairs together. The fury of the storm was well-nigh spent; and the flashes of lightning, and loud peals of thunder, came at longer intervals. Faint streaks of light in the horizon, also told of scattering clouds, and approaching dawn. Closing the open pane as well as he could, so that he could carry his lamp without danger of its being extinguished, Wilkins, with Jeff and Arthur, proceeded to examine the "amount of damage done." Suddenly Wilkins paused, and pointing out a number of clearly-defined tracks upon the floor, distinctly marked, in yet moist mud, he bade them be careful in preserving them as they might possibly give some faint clue to the robber, whoever he was. Jeff's quick eye caught at that moment what Wilkins failed to see--he observed that Arthur eagerly inspected the foot-prints, and cast a furtive glance from them to his own feet, as if to note if there were any similitude; and he saw, too, as the youth bent beneath the rays of the lamp, that his black curls, in one or two places, sparkled with heavy rain-drops. Jeff's ready mouth was open to speak; when the thought of Guly flitted, like a restraining angel, before him, and he remained silent; but, with his quick mind, convinced of Arthur's knowledge of the affair. It was decided, that as soon as it was day, Jeff should be dispatched for Mr. Delancey; and, waiting for the dawn to break, they gathered round Guly's bed, to discuss the events of the night, and propose measures for the future. When Mr. Delancey arrived he said but little, going about to see what goods had been taken--minutely examining the spot where the apparent entrance had been made, and silently drawing his own conclusions. When the foot-print upon the floor was pointed out to him, he started, and turned slightly pale; inspecting it at the same time closely. There were marks of other feet, but they were mixed and confused, but this had gone higher in the store than the rest; there were tracks going and returning. The foot was small, elegantly-shaped, and, from appearance, with an instep so high that water might flow freely under without soiling the sole. After examining it for awhile, Mr. Delancey was observed to set his own foot on it, as if to note if there were any similitude. He turned away with a puzzled look, but in a few minutes called Jeff to him. "How came you away from your post last night, eh?" Jeff explained. "Well, how came this handkerchief of yours, and this jack-knife, that I gave you the other day, lying near the broken pane, in the bow-window, this morning, eh! you black rascal? tell me that!" Jeff trembled in every joint, and caught hold of a chair for support. "Guy, Massa, dem tings was in my pocket last night, jis 'fore I went to bed; I remember usin' 'em 'fore Mr. Quirk went out; but I'se sure I know nuffin more 'bout 'em." "Don't you lie to me, sir! If you've had a hand in this business, I'll have your black neck twisted off, I will. Get out of my sight!" The expression of poor Jeff's face was pitiful to behold. He turned away, with his trembling hands clasped before him, and his great eyes looking upward, as if imploring mercy. Mr. Delancey then went into Guly's room, and listened to his recital of what had occurred, so far as he knew, during the night. "And you are sure you have seen this young man, who drew his dirk on you, before?" "Positive of it, sir. I caught but a glimpse of him last night, but it was sufficient to show me who it was." "If I send for an officer, you will describe him?" "To the best of my ability, sir." "Be up to-day, I s'pose, won't you?" added the merchant, putting his head into the room after he had gone out. "Shall try to do so, sir." "Sure you know nothing of that other scamp?" "As I told you, sir, he was masked closely, and--" The door closed without giving him time to finish the sentence; a fact, which Guly was not sorry for. Mr. Delancey ordered the store to be kept closed until things could be put in proper order; gave Wilkins orders to purchase and replace, as far as possible, the stolen goods, then stepped into his carriage, and drove home to breakfast. The merchant's commands were always promptly obeyed. The officer came to converse with Guly--the broken shutter and window-pane were mended or replaced--new goods wore purchased, and put in place of the old ones, and by afternoon no one would have suspected that a robbery had been committed at No. -- Chartres-street. CHAPTER XXIX. "It requires swift foot." Timon of Athens. "Fly now, for your life fly," whispered Quirk, eagerly, to Clinton, as, rid of Arthur, they pursued their way through the thick darkness and pelting storm. "If the cry of that white-faced stripling has roused Wilkins, we're as good as lost, unless we outstrip him; for I'd about as soon have a dozen blood-hounds at my heels as him." They sped on in silence--only now and then stopping to change hands with their heavy load--until they once more stood at the door of Clinton's house. Here, placing their booty upon the ground, Clinton lifted up a trap-door, concealed just under the steps leading up to the front entrance. With Quirk's assistance, he placed the bags of goods, one by one, in a sort of cellar, rather large than deep, thus made on account of the thinness of the soil, and closely stoned and cemented, in order to be perfectly dry. Closing the door cautiously, once more, Clinton locked it, placed over it some broken bricks, loose earth, and tufts of grass, so as effectually to conceal it, then crept out, and rubbing the dust from his clothes, prepared to enter. Quirk went in with him, and they seated themselves in the little back-room, which they had left two short hours before. "A capital haul for one night," said Clinton, triumphantly, flinging off his great-coat, and drawing his chair to the grate, where a cheerful fire was burning, rendered necessary by the dampness. "It isn't the first thing of the kind you were ever engaged in, Clin?" "You know better," returned the other, with an easy confidence, but at the same time a grave look crossing his features. "Believe me, I don't want to pry into private matters, but I couldn't help wondering to-night, as we came along, if this pretty little wife of yours knew the secret of your outgoings and your incomings." "No, thank Heaven!" replied Clinton, with more earnestness that one would have deemed him capable of. "No, she hasn't a suspicion of such things." "Glad of it," said Quirk, "she's happier; but I say, old boy, havn't you sometimes regretted the faithfulness to a poor girl which has deprived you of your inheritance, and forced you upon such deeds as to-night for a living?" "No! My faithfulness to Marion has made a better man of me in some respects than otherwise I ever could have been, though it may have made me worse in others. I have in her a noble and excellent wife, with all the sterling good qualities, which, had I married a fashionable woman, I could never have found. As for my inheritance, I would care little had I but some honest trade by which to live--but that my father thought too plebeian to be introduced in the education of _his fashionable son_--however, if I can pick his clerk's pocket of a few more bank deposits, with my part of our spoils to-night, I'll do. I'm not always going to be so bad. If my life is spared till this business is settled, I shall spend the rest of my days in Havana. Even with the memory of my crimes in my heart, I believe I can be happy with such a treasure in my bosom as Marion. My father's pride has been my curse--my sins be upon his head." "And if you're found out in this business, what do you think will be done?" "Oh, I shall be bought up, without doubt. The old man's spirit could never brook to have it said he had a child in prison committed for burglary." "Well, 'tis as well to be cautious; for I fear that young Pratt knew you, and he'll tell all he saw, I'll be bound. Reckon though if he knew he had a brother in the scrape he'd be tongue-tied. I have tried to turn suspicion on Jeff, the negro. I picked his pocket of a knife and a handkerchief, and threw them down there somewhere. I 'spose the boss would almost be tempted to string him up if he thought him guilty; however, a nigger more or less is nothing--but when it comes to such valuable members of society as you and I, caution is necessary." Here Quirk laughed coarsely. "I'll wear whiskers awhile; that'll be disguise enough for me," said Clinton. "All that worries me is Arthur Pratt's proceeding--hope he's been good pluck." "Never fear him; he's a little too conscientious yet awhile to be much of a b'hoy, but he'd be ashamed to show he couldn't do as well as the best of us. If that nigger didn't wake up when he went in we're safe enough in that quarter." "Have as little to say to him as possible, to-morrow, and remember to be duly surprised at the news of the burglary." "Trust me for that; I shall take proper care of our interests, I assure you." "As for the disposal of the goods, that, I suppose, comes entirely upon my shoulders. I think I will dispose of this lot to Talbot; he is the best paymaster, and the first dark night I will get them away from here. After that, call for your dividends. If you are by any odd chance arrested before that, remember your oath--don't implicate anybody. Honor among thieves, you know." "Aye, aye," returned Quirk, drinking deeply of some wine which stood upon the table. "You'll live long if you wait for me to hang you. Good night." "Good night." They shook hands and parted, and Quirk hurried away to his lodgings, in order to be able to say that he had occupied his own room, etc., etc., in case of trouble. As he strode away, a strange little figure enveloped in a long coat and a tattered old shawl, the better to protect it from the weather, appeared from the shadow of an adjoining building, and swung himself along between his crutches, muttering to himself: "Hih! hih! get the reward for these thieves--watch the papers _I_ will--know all about 'em--get the reward, hih! hih! hih! hih!" and the darkness swallowed him up as it had done him who had gone before. CHAPTER XXX. But, Othello, speak-- Did you by indirect and forced courses, Subdue and poison this young maid's affection? Or came it by request, and such fair question As soul to soul affordeth! Shakspeare. Mr. Delancey sat in his drawing-room conversing with General Delville; whom he was yet allowed to believe he might one day look upon as his son-in-law. The night was dark, and a penetrating, drizzling rain was falling, which rendered the cheerful scene in that vast appartment all the more bright and pleasant. Suddenly there came a startling ring at the door bell, the sound of which sent the blood in a hot flush to Della's temples, as she sat there quietly between her mother and the General, with her thoughts wandering where they chose, though she seemed to be listening to the conversation. A servant entered, saying that a gentleman desired to see Mr. Delancey. "Tell him I am engaged." "I did so, sir; but he insisted upon seeing you." "Perhaps some one bringing you news concerning the robbery," suggested Madame D. "Ah, perhaps so. Show him into the library and tell him I'll be with him in a moment." Excusing himself to his guest, the merchant sought the library. A tall man, wrapped in a heavy cloak, his hat still on and drawn over his brows, was walking impatiently back and forth across the floor. Mr. Delancey turned his cold eyes upon him earnestly for a moment and withdrew them nervously. "Mr. Wilkins, I believe?" "The same, sir." "And what brings you to my house to-night?" "That which has never brought me here before, sir, and never will again--business of a strictly private nature." Mr. Delancey looked somewhat disturbed, but drew a chair beside a large writing-desk, and motioning his visitor to be seated, placed himself in front of him. "Nothing wrong about the last load of goods? No trouble with the boats, is there, Wilkins?" "Nothing of the kind, sir; my business, as I told you, is of a strictly _private_ nature." "Proceed, I am ready to listen." "And will you, sir, listen to me calmly; and make no sudden outbreaks or disturbance? I hate scenes, even with women, but with men, Heaven defend me!" "I know of nothing you could say, sir, that would call forth any such ebullitions as you speak of; I am not a man of unnecessary words, as you well know." "What I have to say can be told in a few words. I would, perhaps, do better to leave it unsaid; but I wish to repair, with what honor I can, a course, which in itself has not, perhaps, been strictly honorable. Do you know, sir, that I love your daughter?" Mr. Delancey stared at the head clerk for a moment, like a man suddenly struck dumb; then every trace of color vanished from his face. "_My_ daughter, sir! You surely don't mean Della!" "Have you, then, another daughter? I mean none other than Miss Della; and I this night come to ask your consent to our union. We have loved long and sincerely, and--" "How dare you utter such words as these to me? You dare to tell me, that a child of mine has stooped to notice her father's clerk?" "Aye! not only has one stooped to _love_ a clerk, but has not the other wedded a clerk's daughter? Mr. Delancey, I come to you as man to man; put away the difference of your wealth, and I am as high as yourself; as much a man, as high in station, and more honorable than yourself. Thus I dare to seek your daughter's hand; and crave her father's blessing." "Have a care, sir, of what you say--_more honorable_? you dare to tell me that?" "You know it to be the truth." The merchant turned slightly pale. "Mr. Wilkins, you put such a proposition as this you have suggested, merely for--merely to try me; you surely do not, cannot mean it?" "I mean it all, sir. I am not given to trifling on such matters, and I have come to you like an honest man to ask your child's hand, and gain consent or refusal." "And Della loves you?" "If I may believe her words, she does; and I have her sanction to tell this to you." Mr. Delancey started to his feet. "And how have you dared, sir, to steal into my child's heart, and rob me of her affections? how have you dared to come like a thief in the night, and steal that heart away? I had never a suspicion of this--never thought of it. Brute that you are, thus to abuse my confidence!" "Beware of what you say, sir. I have abused no confidence. Had you ever made me a guest at your house, ever treated me as if I had been human, like yourself, this might never have been. At least I would have wooed like an honest man, and your influence with your child might have nipped it in the bud. You must put up with the consequences of your own folly." "Where have you ever met my daughter?" "Never in this house, as you well know. Abroad, riding, walking, in spite of duennas and guardians, I have wooed, and won her to myself." "She must then have deceived you. I am certain she is the betrothed of General Delville, who this moment converses with her in the parlor." "You, sir, may be the one deceived. Della would not leave you without giving you a knowledge of her love. She bade me come to you, to ask her of you openly, and to tell you all." "Then, sir, once for all, let me tell you, you talk in vain; never will my pride permit my beautiful child--she whom I have educated and trained to grace the home of the first in our land--to become the humble bride of a hireling clerk. Out upon you, for daring to ask it!" "And where would be the pride you boast of, should I choose to bruit to the world those tales that I could tell, of long years of practiced deception and guilt on your part--of wealth acquired by fraudulent means--of midnight hours of watchfulness, which have brought you ship-loads of contraband goods--of days and weeks spent in devising means to escape the vigilance of our Government officers, of--" Wilkins stopped suddenly, for Mr. Delancey fell back in his chair, groaning aloud. The head clerk held a glass of water to his lips, and he slowly recovered, and looked up in his visitor's face with a beseeching glance in his cold gray eyes. "I am in your power, but spare me! spare me! Have mercy on an old man, who is weak and erring, but whose withered heart clings to his only daughter!" "You give me your consent?" "Ask anything but that." "And you prefer to have your name go forth to the world branded with shame and infamy, rather than give your daughter to an honest man, who will strive to make her a good husband, and whom she already loves?" Mr. Delancey moaned, and covered his face with his hands. "Rather would you that men point at you with the finger of scorn--that former friends despise you--that the world look down upon you, and speak your name with scoffing, rather this, than see your child happy with the man of her choice?" "Yes!" cried the merchant, springing to his feet, "if that man be you, a thousand times, yes! Go; do your worst; cast forth my name like waste-paper on the winds, scourge it, brand, blacken it; do what you will. Though you curse me to the confines of purgatory, my daughter never shall be yours!" "This is your final decision?" "My last--leave my house, sir, and never do you dare to darken its doors again." "You may regret, sir, what you have said to-night," said Wilkins, putting on his hat and cloak. "I shall always abide by it. Begone, sir! Why do you tarry?" The folds of the heavy cloak fluttered a moment in the door-way, then passed through it, and disappeared down the long stairs. Through those vast halls, with frowning brow and heavy tread, Bernard Wilkins strode, and the massive door closed after him for the first and last time, and he went forth into the silent streets. CHAPTER XXXI. "I do beseech you, send for the lady, And let her speak." Othello. "Send the girl, Minny, to me," said Mr. Delancey to Della, as she was about leaving the breakfast-table, to go to her own room, the morning after Wilkins' visit to her father. Mr. Delancey, as was usual with him, had said not a word with regard to his interview with Wilkins, but he had thought of it deeply, and was now prepared to act. Della flew to her room. "Minny, dear Minny, papa wants you. He sent me for you, and I am certain something terrible is about to happen, his eyes look so strangely. I know Bernard must have come last night, as he said he would, and that is what has made papa seem so silent and angry. He wants to ask you about everything. Oh, Minny, tell him what you choose, but don't give up my precious letters--don't!" Della sank sobbing upon a chair, and Minny, pale as a ghost, glided away, and entered the apartment where Mr. Delancey awaited her. "So, girl, you have chosen to play the go-between for your mistress and a worthless fellow?" Minny was silent. "You who must know all, tell me what you know of this matter." "Nothing, sir, dishonorable to my master or his daughter." "No prevarication, minion. Whatever you know of, as having passed between Miss Della, and--and--this man, I wish you to state plainly here." "I can tell you no more, sir, than you already know." "By what means has this acquaintanceship been carried on? I know there has been no opportunity for much personal intercourse. Have you letters?" "If I have, sir, they are the property of my young mistress, and as such, I will deliver them to no one without her consent." "Fool! do you forget that you are my slave?" "As such, my first duty is to the mistress you have bade me serve." "Are the letters in your possession?" "They are, sir; placed there for safe keeping." "Bring me them instantly!" said Mr. Delancey, stamping his foot heavily upon the floor. "No," said the girl, calmly folding her hands on her bosom; "whatever questions my master has to ask, I am ready to answer; but I can do no more." "What do you mean?" cried the merchant, rising, and laying his hands upon her shoulders. "Go and do my bidding instantly. What did you confess you had them for, if you didn't expect me to get them? Any other of my negroes would have lied." Minny's face flushed crimson. "Your other negroes, sir, might act differently, under many circumstances, to what I would do--but," she continued, more calmly, "Miss Della taught me never to tell a falsehood, and these lips have never lied." The merchant looked keenly at Minny for a moment, then said:-- "Do you know that if you disobey me I will use the lash? You are but a slave, if you have a paler skin. Do you hear? Either tell me where these papers can be found, or bring them to me yourself, or I will lash you till your back runs pools of blood." "And I will bear it, sir, though you should make it run rivers. My mistress's confidence is more sacred to me than any drop of blood that circles round my heart, and I will shed it all sooner than betray her." Mr. Delancey paused a moment, with a glance of something like admiration lighting up his cold eyes; perhaps he saw something of his own indomitable spirit in the girl's firm demeanor, and, perhaps, the thought that nature gave her a right to the possession of that spirit never entered his mind. With his anger every moment growing more intense, the merchant again laid his hand upon her arm. "No more parleying, girl--bring me the letters." "Never, sir." "Dare you speak thus to me? I _will_ have them." "Not while it is in my power to prevent you, sir." "Fool! Minny, slave, out of my way!" Minny moved not a muscle. "Do as I command you, or, by Heaven, I'll make you. Was ever such disobedience shown a master?" Minny stood firm, but silent, her back against the door. Mr. Delancey laid his hand upon the bell-rope, and pulled it violently. "Voltaire," said he, to the servant who answered it, "bring me the heavy whip, with the braided lash." It was not often that Mr. Delancey punished a slave, but when he did he was very severe. In this case, pride, anger, and a feeling something like revenge, for what he deemed Minny's obstinacy, spurred him on. The refusal of the letters had made him determined to possess them, and nothing could now have turned him from his course. Reader, he was a father; and his daughter was his idol! The servant brought the whip, laid it on the table, glanced pityingly at Minny, and went out with a shudder. Mr. Delancey seized Minny by the arm, and pushed her on before him, until he reached an upper balcony, near the sleeping apartments of the domestics. "Now, girl, down with you." "No, sir; if you lash me, let me stand and bear it like a human being, not like a dog, with my face to the dust." "Down with you, or I will knock you down! You shall take it, as would any other slave." Minny threw back her curls, and knelt before her master. "On your face, girl, _down_!" He raised his foot, and pushed her forward on her face. She lay there, with her heavy curls falling round her like a mantle, entirely concealing the tearless, livid face. Delancey raised his arm, and the heavy lash descended, whirring through the air, telling how fierce the hand that dealt the blow. The tender flesh could almost be seen to quiver through the thin, light dress; but Minny moved not, uttered no moan, nor raised her head. "How now, girl, does your spirit hold out? Will you give up the letters?" "Never!" Again the lash came down, and this time, across one fair, polished shoulder, gleaming out from among the curls, in her low-necked dress, was marked a braided cut, from which the blood oozed in small round drops, staining also the waist of the dress, where the lash had fallen. "How now?" There came no answer: Minny lay still and quiet. Again the enraged master raised the whip, and this time the strokes were a trifle lighter, but more frequent, with no power for questioning. Della sat in her room waiting for Minny's return. Suddenly a strange sound struck upon her ear. She started, bent forward, and listened eagerly. It came again and again. She sprang to her feet, and darted like lightning down the stairs. She ran hither and thither, scarce knowing whence to trace the sound, when suddenly she met one of the servants. "Voltaire, in Heaven's name, where are papa and Minny?" "On the back gallery, Miss," returned the man. With the speed of thought, Della sped through the long passages, up the stairs, and out upon the balcony. She gained the spot just as the strong arm was upraised to give another blow. "Papa! papa! for the love of mercy, stop!" At that sound Minny slightly raised her head, but dropped it again, and the blow came down. Della sprang wildly forward. "Papa! papa! what has turned you into such a demon!" With an almost superhuman strength, she caught the whip, as it was again descending, in her own jeweled and delicate hands, wrested it from her father's grasp, and flung it over the railing into the court below. Dropping upon her knees, she lifted the quadroon's head upon her lap. The eyes were closed, and the pallid face wore the appearance of death. Minny had fainted. Springing to a water-pipe, Della filled a basin, and drawing the girl tenderly upon her breast, rocked her gently, back and forth, as she bathed the blue-veined temples with the cooling fluid. Still pale with anger, Mr. Delancey stood looking on. "Poor child, poor Minny!" sobbed Della, as the tears rained down her cheeks; "all this you have suffered for me--poor thing, poor thing!" Suddenly lifting her eyes, Della confronted her father. "Not another night!" she exclaimed bitterly, "shall Minny stay beneath your roof. She is your own flesh and blood, papa; you know she is. You might as well have whipped me as to whip her. Oh! papa, that you should use your own child thus!" Mr. Delancey started forward. "Who has dared to tell you such a tale as this!--who has presumed to whisper such a falsehood in your ear?" "It is no falsehood, papa; it is truth, all truth--would it were not! It requires no talking to see it. Has she not your look, your spirit, much of your pride? But none of your cruelty. No, no, poor Minny, you have indeed been a sister to me. Look, papa, at this poor bleeding back, see how this dress is dyed with blood; blood which you cursed her with, blood which you have drawn forth again with the lash! _The lash_--think of it; and she your own daughter!" Untouched by his child's words, Delancey turned away, every vein swelling with the wrath which he could not conceal. "I'll teach you both to carry on your private dealings with dastardly clerks. Back to your room, and leave this heap of bloody flesh and rags for the negroes to care for." "Shame on you, papa. No! I shall not leave her for a moment. With regard to this poor child, your authority is as naught to me." "That remains to be seen," returned Mr. Delancey, in his cold, deep tones; and, stepping to the stairhead, he called Voltaire to his presence. At this moment Minny drew a long, shivering sigh, looked up, and met her mistress's tearful gaze with a smile. "They are safe, Miss--all safe; he could not get them," she whispered, faintly. "Hush, Minny, darling. Oh, you have suffered so terribly for my sake! This is dreadful, dreadful!" "Anything for you, Miss Della, anything." Della's only answer was a closer pressure of that young form to her heart. "Now," said Mr. Delancey, approaching them, with Voltaire walking behind them: "now, Minny, up with you, and get yourself out of my sight; and, mark me! you may get your back ready for another scourging unless you give me those papers before to-morrow." "Papa, you _know_ Minny isn't able to walk. Let Voltaire carry her." "Well, up with her, then. Take her to some of the negroes' rooms, and let her lie there till she repents of her obstinacy." "Voltaire," said Della, stepping forward, "take her to _my_ room, and put her upon my bed. Go!" The negro obeyed, and Mr. Delancey offered no opposition. There was a look in his daughter's eye which he had never seen there before, an imperative manner which enforced command, and he allowed the man to pass him, bearing the bleeding and exhausted Minny in his arms. "Now, Della," said he, turning to his child, "follow her. Until I can get this vile piece of romance out of your head, you shall remain a prisoner in your own room. Shame on you for your want of pride!" "Thank Heaven, papa, that I have no more." They parted--father and daughter there--both turning their heads, as they passed, to look back upon each other; then went from sight, silently and coldly. CHAPTER XXXII. "All the world's a stage." "Oh, Massa Gulian," said Jeff, one day, following Guly, who had entirely recovered from his illness, to his room, "what shall I ever do, Massa Gulian, I'se so berry mis'ble?" "And what has occurred, my poor fellow, to make you so unhappy?" "Why, it's 'bout dis robb'ry, young massa. Don' you see dat old Master s'picions me? Tudder day, he said he bleeb'd I know'd suthin' 'bout it, 'cause he found dat knife of mine dar in de winder; and the Lord knows I'se innocent as a lamb, ob eben tinking such a ting." "Mr. Wilkins, I think, convinced him of your innocence, Jeff. He told him every fact, concerning you, that he could think of, to prove you guiltless." "Yes, but--but I heerd Master mutter to hisself dat he couldn't clar me in his own mind till somebody else was cotched, and proved guilty; and nobody has been cotched, and I'se berry wretched, 'deed, sah, I is." Jeff looked all he expressed, and Guly pitied him in his heart. "Be of good cheer, and trust in God; all will yet be well. It were impossible for any one to think you guilty, Jeff, of this." "Seems to me dat de Lord has deserted me 'tirely. What makes my heart ache most, is Massa's manner; you see he allus used to be berry kind to me; fact is, he neber whipped me in the world, and he used to trust me with so many of his private affairs, and wus allus so kind of confidential like, long o' me, and sometimes sent me wid money to de bank, and all dat. Don't do it now; scowl on his face de minit he cum near me, and look so like a tunder cloud, I 'spects to be struck wid lightnin' ebery minit. If he'd tie me up, and whip me, and den be hisself agin, I wouldn't care; but de Lord knows I lub my Massa dearly, and can't bar' to hab him turn de cold shoulder to me, and show he hab no more confidence in his nigger, 'tall." Guly tried to say something encouraging; but, though Jeff listened respectfully, it was very sadly; and several times he wiped the tears from his cheeks, while his young master was speaking. "Massa Guly," said he, taking a small parcel from his pocket, "here's suthin' I found in de winder, de morning after de robb'ry, when dey was cleaning up. I 'spect it b'longs to de tiefs, but I don't want you to open it till some one's cotched, and then if it finds an owner, well and good; but if it don't, I want you to keep it to 'member me. It's a purty thing, an' it's mine if it don't get an owner, 'cause I found it; and, as I said, I want you to hab it." "You are not going away, are you, Jeff?" "Yes, young massa, berry fur." "Why, how so?" said Guly, in surprise, "I had heard nothing of it." "Well, please not to say nothin' 'bout it, massa; 'twouldn't do no good, an' I don't want it talked of. Ole Massa's plantation's a good way up de river, an' he sends all his bad niggers dar. Mebbe I won't see you 'gin, Massa Gulian, so good bye." Gulian gave him his hand, and the negro took it in both of his, and bending over it, burst into a loud fit of weeping. "Oh, Massa Guly, if I'se ever hurt your feelin', or done anyting berry wrong, I hopes you will forgive me. De Lord bress you, Massa Guly; you'se been de light ob mine eyes, an' de joy ob my soul, eber sin' you fuss cum here. De Lord bress you, foreber an' eber." With a despairing, broken-hearted gesture, Jeff dropped the hand, and hurried from the room; and, at that moment Wilkins, who still retained his place as head clerk, called Guly a moment to his side. "Guly," said he, laying his hands upon his shoulders, "do you remember the time you promised me, if ever I needed a friend, you would be that one?" "Yes, Wilkins; and will fulfill my promise any moment!" "Will you be at the Old Cathedral, with Blanche, at midnight?" "Blanche! midnight! the Old Cathedral? I don't understand your meaning." "I want you to meet me at that hour, with Blanche, at the Cathedral." "Would she go?" "Oh, yes; I have it all arranged with her; Old Elise will stay with her grandfather till she returns. You will be there?" "Since you wish it--yes, without fail. You will explain matters when we meet there?" "They will explain themselves. Don't forget." The day wore on, and everything went on in its usual manner, until just before Mr. Delancey's dinner hour, when, to the surprise of all, the loud report of a pistol was heard, coming from the little court, just at the back part of the store. As its echo died away, all those clerks not at the moment engaged, rushed to the long windows, and sprang through into the court, to learn what the matter was. Guly was the first on the spot, and to his horror and amazement, found Jeff lying on the ground, weltering in his blood, but still showing signs of life. "Jeff!" he exclaimed, bending over him, "what have you done!" "Oh--Massa--Guly"--gasped the negro, turning his dimming eyes to the boy's face, "you'se come with your blue eyes to light me to Heaven. Couldn't lib longer, and hab de master dat I lubbed tink me a robber. I'se tried allus to be a good nigger, an' hope's I'll go to de good place." "God grant it." "Young Massa, is dis death?" "'Tis coming, Jeff." "Let me pray; I only knows one prayer, an' it's so short." "Say it." "'Now I lay me'--oh, I'se goin' fast, young massa." "Go on." "'Down to sleep'--Massa Guly dis long sleep." Guly took his hand. "'I pray de Lord my--soul--to keep; an'--should--I die'--Oh, dis is de wrong prayer--Bressed Lord, forgive my sins, and take me to dat Heaven where de white folks go, dat I may see Massa Guly, wid his white wings on. Good-bye, young massa. Last at my side in death, I'll be fust at yours in Heaven." With a convulsive effort, the dying man turned upon his side, the limbs grew rigid, the death-rattle shook an instant in his throat, and poor Jeff was dead. Guly left the negro's side, to acquaint Mr. Delancey, who had remained sitting stiffly in his chair, of the facts. The merchant listened unmoved, but ordered the body to be sent to his house, and a longer or better ordered funeral never passed through the streets of New-Orleans, than that which next day bore poor Jeff to his last resting-place. Whether or not that Master felt he had wronged a true and faithful slave, could not be told; but all he could do to show he honored his memory, was done; and as much expense and pomp were displayed in those last rites, as ever were lavished over a white man's bones.[A] [Footnote A: A fact.] "Everything ready now, Minny?" said Della, glancing tearfully around her sumptuous apartments. "Everything is prepared, Miss. Shall we go?" "Sure you are able to walk to the carriage, Minny?" "Oh, yes, Miss; certain of it." Once more Della turned to look upon those objects, which use and long association had endeared to her. There were her books, her birds, her flowers, the bed, where she had dreamed so many happy dreams, and the cushioned chair, where she had so often sat listless and happy. With a sigh, which she could not repress, she waved them a fond adieu, and, taking Minny's arm, crept out upon the balcony, down the stairs, and through the secret garden-door. Here was an outlet Mr. Delancey had never thought of; and while the guard, he had placed at her door, stood vigilant and wakeful, the bird flew through the window. Once in the street, at night, and in darkness, Della grew timid, and clutched convulsively her attendant's arm; but they went on steadily, until arriving at an adjacent corner, a third person joined them, and helped them into the carriage, which stood waiting near by. "Oh, Bernard!" cried Della, laying her trembling hand upon his arm, as he sat beside her in the carriage, with Minny, and they were being whirled through the almost deserted streets, "no hand can ever come between us again. I am yours at last." "Nothing shall ever part us more," returned Bernard, drawing her fondly towards him. "You have given up much for me, but the aim of my life shall be to make you happy." "I have lost nothing, Bernard, compared to the love I have gained. Only never let that swerve or falter, and I shall be the happiest wife that ever God looked down upon and blessed." The carriage stopped at the door of the cathedral, and the party entered the church, where a priest was already in waiting. Blanche and Guly made their appearance from a side aisle, and Wilkins introduced them to Della, telling her he had engaged them, as dear friends of his, to officiate in the approaching ceremony. Della expressed her pleasure, and half-crying, half-smiling, kissed Blanche affectionately, telling her she hoped, since she was one of Wilkins' friends, that she would henceforth be a sister to her, and that they would all be very happy. Then Wilkins drew that fluttering hand in his, and led Della to the altar. Guly and Blanche stepped to their places, and the ceremony began. Leaning against a pillar, a little in the shadow, behind the marriage-group, stood Minny, the quadroon; with face blanched to an almost unearthly pallor, she listened to the vows which fell from Bernard's lips. With chilled heart, again came back the memory of the hour when those same lips, in this very spot, had thus sworn to love and cherish her. But what of this? her heart had been _legally_ broken, and she had no right to complain! The ceremony ended, Bernard and his bride, and Minny, started for the lake shore, where, though late in the season, they intended to remain awhile, previous to returning to take up their residence again in the city. They set Blanche down at her own door, and Guly, who was waiting for the adieus to be over, stepped forward, and pressing Wilkins' hand, exclaimed:-- "Matters have indeed explained themselves, my friend; I little thought of this. May you be as happy as you deserve to be!" "Thank you, Guly; I shall, no doubt, be much happier than I deserve to be." Then bending forward, he added, in a lower tone, "If the old gentleman is stormy to-morrow, at the loss of his daughter, remember you know nothing about the affair; you'll lose your place, I'm afraid, if you do." "You surely don't mean 'tis Mr. Delancey's child?" "Aye, the same." "Can it be possible! It will, no doubt, be a bitter blow to him; but I believe you worthy of any man's daughter, Wilkins. God bless you." Wilkins smiled at Guly's warmth, and, waving his hand, the carriage rolled out of sight; and Della, trustful and happy, laid her head upon the broad breast which had vowed to cherish her, and wept her tears, and smiled her smiles--a bride. Guly, after seeing Blanche safely to her home, turned away, and hurried to his room, thinking over the strange events of the day, and wondering what the morrow would bring. In wedding Della, Wilkins had accomplished two things; he gratified the love he really felt for her, and, at the same time, in so terribly wounding Mr. Delancey's pride, he had amply revenged himself for the long years spent in his service in that humility of manner which the merchant ever seemed to exact from his clerks, as though they were but slaves of a whiter hue. CHAPTER XXXIII. "Oh! that such a son should stand before a father's face." Byron. It was early in the morning, the day after Della's elopement, and Mr. Delancey, who had just risen, was walking back and forth upon the verandah, sipping his cup of strong coffee, nor dreaming of the shadow which had fallen on his hearth-stone. He was interrupted by a servant, who came to inform him that a messenger had just been sent, to say that one of the men, suspected of committing the robbery, had been arrested, and if he chose to see him, his case would come on the first one; and he might go early to the Recorder's Office of the Second Municipality. Mr. Delancey decided to go; and without waiting for breakfast, which was always served late, he ordered his carriage, and drove directly to the spot. When he entered the court-room, Guly was just giving in his testimony, and the crowd, that had congregated round, prevented the merchant from catching a glimpse of the prisoner. Guly gave his evidence in a clear, concise manner, recognizing the prisoner as the man he had seen in the store on the night of the burglary. "I have here," he added, drawing a small parcel from his pocket, "something which was found by my employer's negro, in cleaning up the bow-window, the morning after the theft. He supposed it belonged to the burglars, and gave it me previous to his death, begging me to keep it, unless some one were arrested, whose property it might prove to be. I have not opened it, or looked upon it, and do not know even what it is." He passed it to the judge, who, untying the paper, drew forth a small box, such as is usually used to contain articles of jewelry. Lifting the lid, he held up to view a superb diamond ring, the curious setting of which Guly recognized at once, as being the same as on a diamond ring, of like appearance, he had seen the prisoner wear. While examining it, some words engraved on the inside, caught the judge's eye, and turning it to the light, he read, in full, clear tones, the name of "_Clinton Delancey_." At that moment there was a sudden opening in the crowd, and Mr. Delancey tottered forward, with features ashy pale, and the strong eyes softened almost to tears. "My son, my son!" A gleam of triumph shot into Clinton's gaze, as stretching forth his hand, he exclaimed:-- "Aye, father, behold your son! It was not here I thought next to see you when we parted last; but it is one of those retributive meetings, which come sometimes, God-appointed. What you see me, you have made me. By your own false pride I was forced to beg or steal. In taking from you, I felt I took but my just due. This shame be upon your own head!" A dead silence fell upon all, and a glance of sympathy for Mr. Delancey ran round the court and the crowd of spectators; but, after a strong effort, the merchant drew himself to his full height, and, in a moment, all his coldness and flintiness of manner had returned to him. Turning to the Court, he said, firmly:-- "Let the law pursue its course," and passed from the room, striking his cane heavily down with each step, as Guly had often heard him do before. The prisoner dropped his eyes, with a look of keen disappointment, and, at this moment, the strange figure of the dwarf forced itself in through the crowd, and, balancing himself on his crutches, stopped full in front of the judge. "Hih! hih! Monsieur," he panted, turning his one eye up at the grave face of the officer, "I got something to say; please, sir, may I be heard?" "Testimony with regard to this matter?" "Yes, Monsieur; I hang round the courts, I find out what this man has done; I understand then something I saw him do. I may tell?" The Court assented; and he went on to state where he had seen Clinton deposit the goods, on the night of the burglary, adding, that another man was with him, whom he did not know, but whose name the other had mentioned, and he remembered it was Quirk--_Charley_ Quirk, he guessed, because sometimes Mr. Clinton addressed him as Charley, sometimes as Quirk, and he continued: "You go there, Mr. Court, you find ze goods where I tell you; hih! hih! you dig um up, an' give dis poor little wretch someting for his information." The dwarf was dismissed, but waited to hear the end of the trial; and had the satisfaction of seeing Clinton, against whom the testimony was so strong, sentenced to five years' imprisonment; and the veritable Charley Quirk brought in under arrest, on the strength of his evidence. He then turned to go away, but catching sight of Guly, he advanced toward him, nodding his head, winking his great eye, and chuckling joyfully to himself. "Hih, Monsieur; not seen you since that day you so sick in bed. Tink of you one great deal--miss you great deal--need your picayune a great deal--love me yet, Monsieur?" "Yes, Richard," said the boy, kindly, laying his hand on his great ill-shaped head, as they went out together. "Have you suffered for want of my humble charity, in this great city, poor fellow?" "No, Monsieur; I have lived on the dime the tall man gave me, in your room the other day. Hih, hih! but I've suffered for want of your face, Monsieur. Rare thing for poor Richard to look in any one's face, and remember he has said he loved such a dismal little thing as me; hih! rare thing that, yes." Guly sighed as he listened to these touching, mournful words, and slipping some money into the dwarf's hand, bade him good-bye, telling him he would see him soon again, and hurried on to the store. He missed Wilkins' kind face, as he passed his desk, and felt sad, when he remembered he might never see him there any more. Mr. Delancey was not in the store either, and there was evidence of the want of a presiding mind in the appearance of the whole store; clerks talking together in knots, while some of the customers were being neglected; goods still covered with the linen curtains, and counters undusted and unattended. As Guly took his place, Arthur crossed over, and inquired, in a steady tone, but with an excited manner, how the trial had gone. Guly informed him, at the same time telling him the fact of Clinton's proving to be Mr. Delancey's son. Arthur started violently, and turned away to conceal the emotion which he could not repress, as he remembered he had unconsciously assisted a son to rob his own father! The thought brought so much remorse with it, that, seizing his hat, he started away to the nearest saloon, to procure something to drown the unpleasant memory. Guly looked after him with a deep sigh, feeling that what influence he might once have possessed over him, was gone for ever,--wrested from him by the overpowering hands of an honest pride, unjustly dealt with, and the attendant circumstances of evil society. The memory of the voice, which came from beneath the mask on that fearful night, had never passed from the boy's heart; and though he studiously concealed his fears, he could but tremble at the conviction, that Arthur might, at any moment, share the fate of the unfortunate young man he had just seen convicted. But, though Quirk and Clinton both were found guilty, they faithfully kept their oath, and threw no suspicion upon Arthur. Poor Jeff, who had felt convinced of his guilt, had allowed his secret to die with him, for Guly's sake; Wilkins had rejected any such idea he may have entertained, the moment he saw Arthur that night in bed, and Guly alone was left to his cruel doubts, with the memory of that familiar voice haunting him, always haunting him. CHAPTER XXXIV. "Is there no constancy in earthly things? No happiness in us but what must alter? No life without the heavy load of fortune? What miseries we are, and to ourselves! Even then, when full content sits by us, What daily sores and sorrows!" Beaumont & Fletcher. Mr. Delancey hurried from the court-room to his own house. He said nothing about what had occurred, to his wife, but, stern and silent, took his seat in the breakfast-room, waiting for the morning meal to be served. "Go to Miss Della's room," said he, to a servant, who entered, "and tell her I wish her to fill her place at table this morning." The servant returned in a moment, telling his master that he had knocked loudly, but received no answer, and he could hear no one stirring in the room. "And has Ruth been by the door constantly, as I bade her?" "She has, sir; but says she has heard no sound in the room since the usual hour for retiring last night." "She can't be asleep at this hour," said Mrs. Delancey, looking up from the morning paper. A sudden thought seemed to strike the merchant, and starting to his feet, he hurried away to his daughter's apartment; he knocked, but all was still; he tried the door, but it was locked. "Go," said he, to a servant standing near, "and bring me the brass key lying on my dressing-table; it fits this lock." The key was brought, and Mr. Delancey entered the room, closing the door behind him. All was silence and loneliness around him. He called his daughter's name, there was no responsive voice; he rushed to her sleeping-apartment, but the luxurious couch, unrumpled and unpressed, told it had known no occupant during the night. The balcony, the garden, belonging to her rooms, all were searched, but in vain; and the agonized father threw himself upon the chair Della had so often occupied, with all the terrible truth rushing across his heart. He buried his pallid face in his hands, and _wept_; aye, _wept_ hot, burning tears, from those steady eyes that had never wept for another's woe, and rarely for his own. There was no note, no word, or line, left to tell him of her flight, but he knew all without; and bitter, bitter was the crushing weight upon his mighty pride. He sent word to Mrs. Delancey, that she would breakfast without him; and two hours passed before he again stood in the presence of his anxious wife. None might know what fearful storms, what blighting whirlwinds, what earthquakes of passion, had passed over that strong heart in those two short hours. However fierce had been the struggle, it had been conquered, not by prayer and pleading at that Throne whence all mercy flows, but by the unbending power of that strong, indomitable will. When he broke the news to Mrs. Delancey, the voice was calm and quiet, and no signs of emotion were visible. But with his wife it was different. She shrieked, and screamed, and tore her hair, and wept with a wild violence; Mr. Delancey looked upon her anguish with those same cold eyes; and when she went off in a fit of violent hysterics, he ordered her attendants to convey her to her own room, and then drove off to the store, as though nothing had happened. But what a hidden fire was scorching up the heart within! Shame and sorrow, remorse and wounded pride, all struggling and battling there, with their volcanic fires striving to burst forth, but smothered and kept down by the strength of the proud heart they lacerated. Arrived at the store, he seemed to take no notice of Wilkins' absence, but went straight to his own high desk, and sat there with his eyes looking out of the door before him. Those who knew the result of the morning trial pitied him deeply, wondering at the calmness he displayed; but Guly, who knew how much more he had suffered by the flight of his only daughter, and sole remaining child, felt for him a deep and earnest sympathy which he longed to, but dared not, express. Suddenly the merchant rose in his seat. "Gulian Pratt, if disengaged I would like to see you here." Guly bowed and advanced toward him; but it was with a heart bounding forebodingly, for he remembered he had been chiefly instrumental in getting his son convicted, and he fancied that the merchant was about to discharge him. He saw that Mr. Delancey looked ten years older than when he had seen him in the morning, and with a gush of sympathy in his warm heart, he gained the merchant's side and extended his hand. Mr. Delancey took it, and for the first time pressed it kindly. "Pardon me, sir, for touching upon a painful subject, but allow me to express the sincere sympathy I feel for you." The merchant bowed, and for an instant both were silent, Mr. Delancey sitting with his eyes looking down. "I sent for you," said he at last, speaking very quietly, and in a measured tone, "to ask you if you think yourself capable of filling the--the vacant place yonder?" "The head clerk's." "The same." "I certainly think not, sir," replied Guly, blushing; "even though I were capable--which I think I am not--it might give rise to dissatisfaction among the other clerks." "As for the dissatisfaction, that is my business. Did you ever study book-keeping?" "I have, sir." "Know something about it?" "Something, sir." "Then take your place at the desk yonder, and consider the situation and the salary yours." Guly was utterly astonished. It was something so far from his expectations--a promotion he had only aspired to in the future; and to receive such unexpected good fortune was something for which he felt deeply grateful, and he told the merchant so. But, as Guly was moving away, a sudden thought crossed his mind, and with a glance of sorrow, not for himself, but for the bereaved father, he said: "Mr. Delancey, I fear if you knew all you would not feel disposed to do this for me. There are some circumstances I would feel happier to have you know, and then if you still feel thus inclined, I shall take the situation, feeling that I have acted honestly with you." "Whatever you wish to say, speak; I am ready to listen." "Last night I was _there_," said the boy, hesitatingly, scarcely knowing how to tell it; "I saw them married--in the old Cathedral--Mr. Wilkins and--" "Enough!" said the merchant; starting violently; then with an effort regaining his calmness, "don't speak that name in my presence, ever. How came you, young man, to be present at a ceremony you knew was without my sanction or knowledge, and utterly against my will?" "I knew nothing of the circumstances, sir, before hand; not even aware I was to witness a marriage ceremony till after I reached the Cathedral. But I like Mr. Wilkins--have been a warm friend of his since I've been here, and when I found he was to be married, I officiated with pleasure." "Knowing it was my--knowing who the lady was?" "No, sir, not till afterwards--just as they were about to leave; but when I found out the truth, I did congratulate my friend most heartily, for I deem him worthy of any lady in the land, and rejoiced to see him happy." "And they seemed happy. Oh, curses on them!" "Nay, do not curse them. Your daughter's view of happiness was but different from your own, and she has seen fit to follow it out. She shed many tears, no doubt, for her father; but she smiled also many times upon her husband, and I know must have felt much sorrow mingled with her joy. Had she but gone with her father's blessing, how unalloyed would her happiness have been." "He took her for her fortune; curse him, I say! Not a cent of mine shall he ever touch. When poverty falls upon her head, she'll think of what she's lost by her disobedience." "A father's curse is a fearful thing," said Guly with a shudder. Mr. Delancey suddenly drew himself up as if just aware that he had been betrayed into saying a great deal more than he ever intended to, and at the same time cast a look of mute wonder upon Guly, who stood with his eyes fixed upon his face. It was rarely that any one dared to approach the merchant, (at least any of his subordinates,) as, cold and stern, he sat at his high desk during business hours, and none ever thought of differing from his opinions, or advancing any of their own. Guly's courage astonished him. "Go to your place, young man." "My old place, I suppose, sir." "Didn't I tell you to take the head clerk's? what I say I mean. Do your best, and I shall be satisfied. I have no more daughters to lose," he muttered as he looked after Guly's retreating figure, "and nothing to fear." With a blush, Guly took his place at Wilkins' desk, to the no small surprise of the clerks, but the first moment that the store was clear of customers, Mr. Delancey rose up, and formally stated that henceforth Gulian Pratt would occupy the situation of head clerk, and he hoped that all would look up to and respect him as such, and having delivered this speech in his peculiar formal manner, the merchant left, and drove home to dinner. Guly's promotion gave general satisfaction, and as he sat there with his young face and golden curls bent over the great books, not an eye sought his, but had a warm glance of congratulation in it, and many pressed forward to express in words their gratification at the new arrangement. Now that Quirk was gone, not one in the establishment but loved and respected Guly; and, though there were many there older, who might perhaps more fitly have filled the important vacancy, all felt that it was held by one whose firm principles and noble heart would prompt him rightly to perform the onerous duties resting upon him. Guly, henceforth, occupied Wilkins' room with Arthur. Mr. Hull took Guly's old place, and a new clerk filled his own, and soon everything was again smoothly jogging on at No. -- Chartres Street. CHAPTER XXXV. "'Tis but the just reward of merit that I give." Old Play. It was New Year's eve, and the brilliantly-lighted shops were thronged with purchasers of the innumerable articles exposed to tempt the purses of those able to buy. Any one who has been in New Orleans during the winter season, knows what a scene the thronged streets present on this night of nights. Guly stood in the store-door, looking out upon the crowd of passers-by, when suddenly a liveried servant approached him from the mass, looked at him a moment intently, then thrust a small box in his hands, and disappeared. Surprised at the occurrence, Guly turned away, and waiting until the store was clear of customers, opened it. It contained an expensive gold watch, richly wrought and elaborately finished. Puzzled to know what it could mean, Guly was about to restore it to the box, when a small folded paper in the bottom caught his eye. It was directed to himself, and on unfolding it, Guly found but these simple words: "To him who never sacrifices principle to profit." Guly immediately remembered that the lady to whom he had pointed out the blemishes in her purchase, and thereby lost a sale, had never been in the store since; but that she remembered the occurrence distinctly and gratefully was evident. The boy had noticed the servant's livery and now recognized it, and hoped that this might afford him some clue to the name of his kind friend. As soon as the store was closed he put his present in his pocket, and started forth to show it to Blanche. Arthur was so rarely in the store any more at evening, that he could not talk it over with him, and with light steps he hurried to the presence of the pretty brodeuse. She had become the light of the boy's existence, and he could dream of nothing else. He was young to love, but his heart was older than his years, and it gave out its affection with the strength of manhood. "Oh! grandpapa, if you could only see Guly's gift, his New Year's gift!" said Blanche, enthusiastically, after examining it herself. The old man smiled, and taking it in his hand, held it for awhile and returned it, saying it was very beautiful. "And have you no clue to the giver?" said Blanche. "Only what I told you." "What did you say was the servant's livery?" Guly described it. "I remember a lady," said Blanche, musingly, "whose servants used to wear such livery as that. She was a dear friend of mamma's when we were rich, and they used to be just like sisters. Her name was Belmont--Mrs. Belmont." "And what became of her?" asked Guly. "Oh, she went to France just before all our troubles came upon us, and I suppose she is there still. She wrote once or twice to mamma, but she was too ill to answer the letters, and so it all dropped." Guly put up his watch, and sat conversing with Blanche until the clock struck ten, when he took his leave, telling Blanche, as he pressed her little hand at parting, that it was the most delightful New Year's eve he had ever spent. Blanche replied that she could say the same, and added that she supposed he knew Della and Bernard had returned. Guly informed her he did not. "Oh, yes," she said, "returned yesterday, and have taken a house in Esplanade Street, and are very happy I think. Della visited me, yesterday." Guly expressed his pleasure at the good news, and left her, and returned home to dream of the mysterious donor of his New Year's gift and Blanche the brodeuse. The winter glided pleasantly away; summer passed, and winter came again. Fortunately for the brothers, the first summer of their stay in the Pestilential City was free from epidemics of any kind, and they escaped all sickness, with the exception of a slight acclimating fever. All that Guly had to weigh upon his heart was Arthur's dissipation, which gradually grew worse and worse, and he dreaded lest one day he should have the pain of seeing Mr. Delancey discharge him. Guly had retained the new situation which had been given him, and discharged its duties with honor to himself and to his employer. There was not a clerk in the store but what looked up to him with respect and affection, and since he had become head clerk there had never been a bottle of wine uncorked or a game of cards played under that roof. Mr. Delancey himself, with all his natural coldness and harshness of manner, could not conceal the high esteem in which he held him. Guly frequently spent his evenings at Wilkins' house, and sometimes Arthur accompanied him; but he could not conceal from himself that those evenings that Arthur went with him were not the pleasantest, there being always a restraint in his presence, which was not felt when he was not there. Wilkins had always rejoiced at Guly's good fortune in obtaining his vacant situation, and loved to sit by him and talk over the past or chat about Blanche and the happy future. The evening after the brothers had been visiting at Wilkins', Arthur passed his arm through Guly's, and said: "I have quite lost my heart, Guly, with a pair of the brightest black eyes that ever shone; she's a pretty little witch, but I am afraid some one has stepped in before me, for I can't contrive to make myself agreeable, and every time I call she grows more and more distant. She lives but a little way from here; what say you to making a call with me? perhaps you could assist me immeasurably. What say you, will you go?" It was not often now that Arthur make a confidant of Guly, and the younger brother was surprised to find him in such a mood to-night. He had, on his part, with a caution he could scarcely define, always studiously concealed from Arthur his visits to Blanche, and had not sought his confidence lest he might see fit to ask for his own in return; and he answered almost coldly: "No, Arthur, not to-night. It is already late, and I hope you wouldn't think of calling upon any young lady at such an hour as this." "Well, what can I do to pass the time between this and bed-time?" "It is bed-time now, Arthur; but I'll tell you what to do. Mr. Hull has gone out to the opera to-night, and if we go back to the store we can be there by ourselves. Let's go and do what we have not done in a long, long time--sit down together like the two brothers we once were, and talk over old scenes, old friends, and old times; will you do so?" After a moment's hesitation, Arthur signified his consent, and they went into the store together. Guly raked up the dying coals in the stove, threw on some fresh anthracite, and they sat down side by side. "Oh!" exclaimed Guly, laying his hand upon his brother's, "Arthur doesn't this make your heart bound? There is such a glow of home about it, such an air of other days." Arthur sighed deeply. "There is, indeed, Guly; this is a socialness which we have not shared before for months, and never may again." "Why do you speak so despondingly, Arthur? The brightness or blackness of the future lies with ourselves, I am inclined to think; and since we can be so happy in each others society, why should we do ought to prevent our constantly having this enjoyment?" "_You_ never will, Guly; it is me, all me--I have gone too far to return. I cannot tear myself away from the bonds which are dragging me down to destruction; evil companions, strong drink, and exciting play. Excitement is now necessary to my existence. I cannot live without it. This is why we have no more of this kind of enjoyment. To-night I relish it because I'm in the humor; but as a general thing it is unbearable--too tame and prosy." "Oh!" exclaimed Guly, "I have so often felt that the day we left the Hudson home was a fatal one for us. I had rather have staid there and toiled in the most humble manner, than to have ever heard such words as these pass your lips, and in my heart be forced to feel their truth." "It is useless to repine, Guly. Perhaps 'tis all for the best. Sometimes when I have looked upon your calm and tranquil face, and noted the high principles which have governed your every action, I have felt as if I would give worlds to be possessed of the same; but again I have thought, perhaps you could not have been thus sustained had it not been for my fearful example, such a terrible, terrible lesson in itself of an undisciplined and erring heart." Guly was silent. If this thought could afford his brother any consolation for the downward course he had been pursuing, it was not in his heart to deprive him of it, however much he might feel the reasoning to be false. "I can never go back again," continued Arthur, "to what I once was. If this were possible, I might, perhaps, endeavor to reform; but I am so deeply steeped in sin, that its memory will be haunting me always, always; and it is useless for me to strive to do aught but drown life and memory in the same cup." "Wrong reasoning, my brother, wrong reasoning," said Guly, impressively, laying his hand on Arthur's arm; but he could say no more, his heart was too full; and, lifting his head, he sat looking into the coals, struggling to keep down his rising emotions. Reaching out his hand, Arthur clasped Guly's in his and held it closely. Thus they sat side by side once again, heart to heart, and hand in hand. The bright fire-glow played and flickered on their thoughtful faces as they called up old memories and thought of old scenes; while the coals faded and died out--fit emblems of the dreams they were dreaming. CHAPTER XXXVI. "Oh! how this tyrant doubt torments my breast! My thoughts, like birds, who, frightened from their nest, Around the place where all was hushed before, Flutter, and hardly nestle any more." Otway. From this night, Arthur's course was more swiftly downward than ever it had been before. It seemed as if the last redeeming moment of his life was passed, and that some strong arm was hurrying him fiercely forward into the blackened pit of which he had dreamed one night long ago, when slumbering sweetly at his brother's side, his cheek upon his hand! Every succeeding night plunged him deeper beneath the waves of that sea of dissipation upon which he had thrown himself. Theatres, dissolute balls, the gambling saloon and billiard table, each with their attendant quantity of exciting drinks, were his constant places of resort; and though Guly pleaded, and prayed him to renounce them forever, and come back to his old ways, 'twas in vain. The Demon of Remorse was gnawing at his heart-strings for the crime he had committed, and pride, that fatal pride, was stinging him into silence and misery, withholding him from confessing, even to his Maker, his sorrow and repentance. He had given his right hand to the Evil One, and his left there was none to take. Every morning, as Mr. Delancey's keen eyes searched that haggard and bloated face, Guly expected to hear him dismissed; but as yet that trial came not, and Guly felt that it was for his sake the merchant spared his brother, and the kindness sank deep into his young heart, never to be forgotten. One night after the store was closed, Arthur sauntered up to Guly, and, laying his hand upon his arm, said: "You remember the little black-eyed Creole I told you of one night some time ago?" "The one you fancied had got your heart?" said Guly, kindly; "yes, I remember." "Three nights ago, I proposed to her, offered her heart and hand, and told her, what was truth, that I loved her dearly, and, do you believe, she refused me flatly." "She proved herself more prudent than you, Arthur. You should have known better than to ask a young girl to be your wife, when you have nothing, and will keep nothing, to support her. "I'll risk the support," returned Arthur, with a short laugh, "if she had consented we could have managed to live, I fancy; and had we failed, we'd have called on our relations." Here Arthur cast a meaning, but half-mirthful glance at Guly, who, seeing that even then he was half intoxicated, shrunk away, not wishing to prolong the conversation. "Do you know what I am going to do?" continued Arthur, again looking up. "Nothing wrong, I hope, Arthur." "You may think so. Since I can't get her by fair means, I'm bound to get her by foul; that's what I'm going to do." "For pity's sake, my brother, if the girl is good and innocent do not wrong her; there are enough ready to gratify your idle whims, without robbing the pure and happy of their peace. Where does she live?" "Perhaps you think I'll tell you that, and have you play the defender? Ah, I've got my senses yet." "How did you get acquainted, and where?" "_How?_ By my own natural conversational powers, which called out hers. _Where?_ In the street, in the first place, where I was so fortunate as to meet her just as she had dropped one of a number of parcels of herb medicine she was carrying. I had the pleasure of picking it up for her, and of relieving her of some of her load. Thus I found out where she lived, and then took it upon myself to call again; but she hasn't seemed to like me from the first--hang her pretty eyes; but I'll be revenged for her refusal--see if I'm not." "Let me beg of you to give up this cruel idea, Arthur. Shame upon you for harboring it for a single moment." "Pooh!" said Arthur, scoffingly, "it's no use talking, I shall embrace the first opportunity." Guly turned away heart-sick; he felt it was useless arguing the matter, and knew that had not Arthur been half intoxicated at the time, he would never have given him so much of his confidence; for he rarely now took an opportunity to say anything to him unless it was when extra draughts of wine had taken all restraint from his tongue. It being the busy season of the year, Guly had of late been so confined to business that it had been impossible for him to slip away and visit Blanche as he had done formerly. Occasionally, he had written her a note and sent it by his friend the dwarf, making such errands the occasion of a round remuneration to the miserable cripple. He would always hobble his way back after performing the errand, although the walk was long, to say to Guly: "Hih, hih, Monsieur, but she's a beauty, one of her pretty smiles is as good as a picayune to me; bless her heart; I think, Monsieur, she make you very happy one of these days when you both get old enough for the priest to pronounce you man and wife; hih, hih, that I do." These were honest words; the dwarf meant every syllable of them; and the reward he received in Guly's bright smile, and sometimes an additional bit of silver, had nothing to do with calling them out, however joyfully such tokens were received. The second evening after Guly's conversation with Arthur, the former stood in the store door waiting anxiously for the customers to leave that he might "close up" and visit Blanche. Arthur had already gone out, and he felt a nervous and anxious dread for which he could not account, and which made him all the more eager to be free. As he stood thus, he felt some one sieze the hand which was hanging at his side, and looking down, beheld Richard the dwarf. "Hih! hih! Monsieur, very long walk, very much tired. She looks more beautiful than ever to-night, though she sheds very much tears. She say to me to-day, when I went by: 'Come to me to-night, Richard, grandpapa is very ill; I may have a message to send by you.' So to-night I went; I tapped at the door with my longest crutch, she come out, cry very much, and tell me give you this." Guly took the little note the dwarf handed up to him, and hastened up to the light to read it. It merely stated that her grandpapa was very, _very_ ill, and begged him to get word to Mr. Wilkins and sister Della, who were her only friends, beside himself, and old Eliza who gave her medicine for her poor sick grandpapa. After he had read the characteristic and simple little note, Guly slipped a piece of money into Richard's hand, thanking him warmly for the service he had done him, and the little man swung himself away, talking pleasantly to himself as he went. It was late before it was possible to shut the store, but the moment he could do so, Guly did; and then with a sinking heart took his way to Wilkins' house. Della and Wilkins were sitting by the grate when he entered, while Minny sat on a low stool just in front of her mistress, with one fair round arm thrown caressingly over Della's lap. It seemed too bright a picture to be disturbed, and Guly, who had entered unannounced, stood looking at it a moment before he did so. The moment he told his errand, Della begged Wilkins to go and do all he could, to take Minny with him, and to give Blanche her dear love, and tell her she would have gone herself had she not felt too much indisposed. Minny tied on her hat, threw a light shawl about her shoulders, and started away with Wilkins and Guly at a rapid pace. The moon was shining brightly, and as they walked briskly on, their shadows fell long and slender, marching on before them. They had approached within a few blocks of the house, when Guly's attention was attracted by the appearance of some dark object on the opposite side of the way, going slowly along in the shadow of the buildings, and evidently seeking concealment. With his curiosity awakened, he pointed it out to Wilkins, and bidding Minny seek the shelter of an adjacent doorway, they crossed the narrow street to discover if possible what it was. As they approached, the object moved more quickly, but they soon drew near enough to see it was a female form, borne in the arms of a stout negro, and Arthur. As they passed an opening between two houses, the moonlight streamed down full upon the upturned face of the girl they were carrying, exposing her features clearly to Wilkins and his companion. "Blanche! my own Blanche!" Uttering these words, Guly sprang wildly forward. Arthur, finding he could not escape, turned short round and met him face to face. The brothers grappled; all of Guly's meekness and forbearance was merged in the base insult which had been offered her he loved, and he seemed for the time gifted with almost superhuman strength. The struggle was brief; and Arthur was flung heavily upon the pavement. In an instant Blanche, whom Wilkins had released from the negro's grasp, was weeping on his bosom. With an effort, Arthur managed to pick himself up, and slunk away into the shadows, leaving Blanche with her defenders. From that night the bonds of sympathy were broken between the brothers; and each trod his chosen path almost unheeded by the other. "Tell me, Blanche," said Guly, as, rejoining Minny, they proceeded to her grandfather's house, "how this happened. What took you away from the sick-bed to be exposed to the craft of bad men?" "Oh, I was so anxious and so unhappy," said Blanche, weeping bitterly, "I feared grandpapa would die before any of you came. I left Lilah, the little girl you sent me, Mr. Wilkins, to watch by grandpapa while I ran down the piazza steps to see if you were coming. The moment I reached the last step, that horrid negro threw his arm about me. I struggled and tried to scream, but the other forced a gag in my mouth, and carried me off. I gave myself up to die, but God sent you, dear Guly, to save me, and you, Mr. Wilkins, for the second time. This same bad man has hung about here for a week or more; but I have always tried to elude him, because I believed him wicked, though he pretended to love me and all that." Guly shuddered as he felt it must have been Blanche of whom Arthur had spoken a few evenings before; but he said nothing, and stood once more in the little room where many times they had been so happy together. The old man's easy chair was empty now, and from an inner room came low faint moans of suffering. Blanche hurried to the bedside, and stood bending over her grandfather, weeping bitterly. It was evident his hours were numbered, and they all gathered round, silent and tearful, to see the old man die. Blanche stood on one side of the bed, with Minny by her side, and Guly and Wilkins directly opposite. Slowly the breath came through those aged lips, slow and faint. In his effort to get air, the dying man threw out his arms upon the coverlet. His hands met those of Blanche and Guly, as they rested on the bedside. It might have been accident, but the trembling fingers clasped them tightly, and with a last effort folded them together above him. There came a shiver, a faint moan, and the grandsire was dead, with his chilling fingers still folding those two young hands together. There seemed to be no bounds to Blanche's grief, and it was with the greatest difficulty she could be persuaded to leave for a moment the corpse of her grandfather. When she was at last induced to do so, Wilkins sent for an undertaker and had the body fitly prepared for its last resting-place. Finding that Blanche would not think of taking a moments rest, or of remaining away from the corpse, Wilkins, and Guly, and Minny remained with her in that lonely and desolate room, where the shadow of death hung so darkly, until the morning sun streamed in through the little windows, robbing the chamber of some of its darkness and gloom. It was not thought advisable to keep the body long, and the next afternoon the funeral took place. Guly attended it, as did Wilkins' family, and a few of Blanche's Creole neighbors. When the last sad rites were over, Guly attended Blanche back to her lonely home. Wilkins kindly offered her a home in his house, an offer which Della warmly seconded; but Blanche had sufficient tact to see that Wilkins was poor, and had no little difficulty to support his own family comfortably, and she gratefully declined his invitation, stating there was much that required her attention for the present at home, but that she would soon visit them. When she returned to the old spot, endeared to her by so many fond associations, her grief again burst forth, and Guly drawing a chair to her side strove to soothe and comfort her. He could not leave her there without telling how deeply and truly he loved her, how faithfully his love would always endure, and how earnestly he desired that love should be returned. Placing both her hands in his, Blanche told him in her own frank, innocent way, how dearly she loved him in return, and how fondly she had thought of him since the first day they ever met, and that she would never love any one else, never, never. "And one of these days when I am a man, and have a nice little home to offer you, you will be my own dear little wife. Blanche, you promise?" "I promise, Guly, I could never be happy as the dear little wife of any one else, and when you say, 'Blanche, I want you now,' then Blanche is yours." Guly pressed her to his heart and they plighted troth. This was but boy and girl love, but it was a love which decayed not, neither did it fade, but flourished and grew, even with the hand of sorrow and trial crushing out its young life. CHAPTER XXXVII. "Will fortune never come with both hands full, But write her fair words still in fairest letters? She either gives a stomach and no food-- Such are the poor in wealth; or else a feast, And takes away the stomach--such are the rich, That have abundance, and enjoy it not." Shakspeare. Della sat rocking by the fire, looking pale and ill, and Bernard was fondly hanging over her chair. Minny sat a little way apart, holding upon her lap the first-born babe--a boy--"the darling of their een." Never was a happier father, never a prouder and more delighted mother. "Bernard," said Della, looking up in her husband's face, "I have a plan to propose." "What is it, dearest?" "Will you grant it?" "Perhaps." "Well, I think that now little Bernard is old enough to do a little while without me, and what I have to propose is, that you send me in the country, to visit our friends, and to regain my health, which you know is sadly impaired, while Minny stays home, and takes care of you, and plays mother to baby; what say you?" "And leave me a widower?" "Just a little while." "And why not take the boy and Minny with you?" "Oh, that would never do. Must leave my cares behind, when I go for my health, you know." "Poor child! it seems strange to hear you talking of cares, you who were born to so much wealth and luxury." "Hush, hush! you musn't talk so. Happy cares mine are, and you know it, though not just the ones to take with me on a visit. Now confess, that you never knew a happier little wife than yours, or a more joyous little household than ours." "True, in spite of our poverty." "Yes, in spite of everything. Love is our wealth, and we are so happy in the possession of it." "Yet you want to run away from us all!" "Yes, since you will have it so; do you consent?" "Submissively." It was so arranged, then, that Della should leave on one of the evening up-river boats, and the rest of the day was spent in the hurry and bustle of preparation. Though Minny had felt really unhappy at the idea of being left alone with Bernard, toward whom she stood in such a peculiar relation, she studiously concealed her feelings from Della, not wishing to mar the bright anticipations in which she was indulging; and, smothering her own forebodings, hoped for the best. The parting hour arrived, and with many charges, and tears, and warnings, Della clung to her husband and her baby, regretting, even at the last moment, that she had made up her mind to part with them. "Dear Bernard, I leave Minny in your charge; take precious care of her for my sake. A great charge I leave with you, dearest--my boy and dear Minny. You must be mother and sister till I come back." "I will, love; truly is my charge a sacred one." "Good-bye, my treasures." "Good-bye." She passed out to the carriage. "Send Minny to me once again, Bernard." Minny came. Della threw her arms around her, and pressed her to her heart. "I never parted from you before, dear Minny, and I can scarcely give you up. Were it not that health demanded it, and a narrow purse forbade our both going, this would have never been. There! don't cry, Minny; when we meet, it will be never to part again." Was there prophecy in those parting words? As the carriage rolled away, Minny stood holding the heavy black curls from her brow, gazing earnestly after it as long as she could see Della's white handkerchief waving her adieu; then, bursting into a flood of tears, she took the babe from its father's arms, and entered the house. Bernard was a good husband to Della, and loved her as dearly as it was possible for him to love. But his marriage with her had not bettered his fortunes, and he was a poor man. This sometimes induced him to indulge in his old habits, in spite of Della's remonstrances, and tearful assurances that they were rich enough, and surely very happy, if he wouldn't follow these bad practices. He occasionally played high, in the hope of mending his purse, and then drank deep, to drown his disappointment. Several times since their marriage, he had gone home in such a state as this; but, every time, Della's unfeigned distress had called forth an earnest promise of amendment, which at the time he had faithfully meant to fulfill. But now Della was gone, and her restraining influence gone with her. She had been absent but a few days, when one night Bernard stayed out very late; and Minny, tired of waiting up for him, arranged the latch-key so that he might enter, and taking the baby in her arms, retired with him to her own room. She had but just laid the child upon his pillow when she heard his fathers step upon the stairs. She knew instantly, by its unsteadiness, that he was intoxicated. She did not disrobe, but, sitting down beside the bed, listened with painful anxiety to hear him go quietly to rest in his own room. She sat almost breathless, while a thrilling and undefinable dread crept through her whole frame. The steps went slowly on, she heard them pass into Della's chamber, linger there a moment, and then, oh, horror! they were directed straight toward her door. They came on, in their wavering unsteadiness, and, with a sudden impulse, Minny sprang to the bed, thinking to catch up his sleeping son, and meet him in the hall; but ere she could carry out her design Bernard had reached the door, entered, and closed it behind him. His blood-shot eyes, his flushed face, and trembling hand, as he held the lamp before him, all bore evidence of the excitement under which he labored. "So, so, pretty one, how do you progress in playing mother, eh?" "Very well," replied Minny, with forced calmness. "Did you come to look after him?" "Look after him? no, I didn't; I knew he was doing well enough; I came to look after you." "Is there anything you want, which I can get you," said Minny, approaching the door, and laying her hand on the knob. "No, my beauty," returned the other, placing his back against the door, and turning the key in the lock, while he placed his lamp on the table beside him, "there's nothing I want which you can _get_ me, but there's something I want which you can _give_ me, and that's a kiss. Come here." He seated himself, and motioned for her to come and sit upon his knee. Minny grew deathly pale, and laid her hand upon her heart, to still its tumultuous throbbing. There was no way of escape; the window was too high from the ground, and the door was locked, and her persecutor had the key. Striving to conceal her agitation, she said, as quietly as she could:-- "I cannot give you that, Bernard; such manifestations on your part, you should remember, belong to your wife and child." "And isn't the mother of my boy my wife? and did you not just confess you were his mother?" "In the absence of his rightful mother, I have striven to fill her place; and if you choose to look upon me in such a light, show me the respect which is my due. Leave my room, sir!" "By Jove, girl, you are saucy; come here, and sit upon my knee. You're a little wrathful just now, but all the prettier for that. Come." Minny rose up, with her face ashy pale, and stood in her calm womanly dignity before him. "Are you not ashamed to show a defenceless woman such an outrage, in your own house? I have seen the time when Bernard Wilkins would have scorned so cowardly an act as this." "That was when he had drank less wine, and lost less gold; come, there is no use in parleying, come here by me." He started forward, and grasping her rudely by the wrist, drew her toward him. Minny struggled wildly, but his hold was firm. "Oh!" she exclaimed, as with a violent effort she wrenched her wrist from his grasp, "for Heaven's sake, Bernard, remember what is due to your absent wife, what belongs to yourself, what in duty bound you owe to me. Think of your innocent babe, and be a man once more. I beg you leave me to myself." "Nonsense, girl; haven't I a right here? Didn't I marry you once, and doesn't that make my presence here proper and right? Have you forgotten that?" "No, never! but _you_ forgot it. _You_ made the bonds, which united us, illegal, and took to your heart another bride. You have forgotten this, too, it would seem, or you would not thus insult me. I am no more to you now than if those days had never been." "Zounds! my pretty one, we think differently on that score," said Wilkins, throwing his arms about her slender waist. "Let go your hold this instant!" cried Minny, "or I will shriek for help, and expose you to the neighborhood." "Shriek as loud as you choose," returned the now determined man; "who, do you suppose, will hear? Scream, and let me see how well you can do it up." Still struggling in his grasp, Minny flung herself upon her knees before him, and clasped her hands upon her breast. "Oh, Bernard, have mercy!" "Yield, then." "Never!" "By Heaven, then, I will make you." Tightening his clasp about her with one arm, with the other he drew a pistol from his side-pocket, and presented it at her forehead. "How now?" "Oh, Bernard, is this the sacred charge that Della left you?" "Do you give up?" "No, no! with my latest breath, no!" "Then I shall fire." "Fire, then! here is my heart, fire! I would sooner die a thousand deaths, than have my mistress think I was so base a thing as you would make me. You never shall dishonor her while Minny has power to prevent it." Surely a demon had crept into Bernard's heart, as he stood an instant, with fascinated eye, gazing on the young girl, as she knelt in all her fearful beauty before him. He seemed to have lost entirely all control over himself, and with excited mien listened to the echo of those last words. It was but a second's pause, yet it embraced an eternity; the fatal trigger was drawn, by an impulse he could not withstand, and Minny fell backward on the floor, with her long curls falling round her like a pall. The ball had entered just beneath her chin, glanced, and lodged in her right side. It was a most ghastly wound, and as the blood poured from it, over the snow-white dress, and trickled slowly along the floor, Bernard stood gazing upon it like one petrified. His eyes opened wide with horror, his limbs grew rigid, his very hair seemed to rise up, in the intense agony of the moment. The pistol dropped from his extended hand, and he fell upon his knees beside his victim, completely sobered, and awakened to the full magnitude of the crime he had committed. "Oh, Minny, Minny! I have been the curse of your life-time; a shadow, mingling with all your sunlight; fearful, fearful is the retribution cast from your dying spirit upon mine. Forgive me, oh, forgive me!" Suddenly, with the last remnant of strength gathered to speak once more, her small hands were raised convulsively, and placed in Bernard's, while her dark eyes, softened, and even more beautiful in their death-hour than ever before, sought his face. "God forgive you, Bernard, as I this moment forgive you _all, all_. To your wife, Bernard, your Della, henceforth be faithful; be true to her, love her, cherish her, guard her as your life. Do this, and the shadow of this hour will rest ever on your heart holily." "I promise; as God hears me, I promise." There was a faint pressure from the hand he held, the lips moved, but gave out no sound, and Bernard sat alone in the chamber of death, clasping in his own the cold hands of the murdered Minny! CHAPTER XXXVIII. "Adversity, sage, useful guest, Severe instructor, but the best; It is from thee alone, we know Justly to value things below." Somerville. Roused at last from the stupor in which he fallen, Wilkins rose from the floor, and taking his infant son in his arms, went out and told the neighbors what had occurred. Leaving his child with a friend living near by, he next went in search of a coroner, and returned with him to the house. All this Bernard did calmly, quietly, almost like one in a dream, with no thought for his own safety, no idea of danger to himself. The coroner was a gentleman well known to Bernard, acquainted with both the good and bad traits of his nature. In looking upon the corpse he readily understood the whole matter, and pitied the unfortunate murderer, even more than the beautiful victim. A jury was summoned, and the verdict returned was: "Died by the _accidental_ discharge of a pistol, in the hands of Bernard Wilkins." The sincere and unaffected sorrow which Bernard evinced, served to corroborate this statement, and if any _guessed_, none _knew_, the real truth. Della was sent for, and came hastily. Though almost overwhelmed at the terrible death of her favorite, she spoke no word of reproach, uttered no sentence of reproof, to that husband, who, it was plainly evident, suffered immeasurably. Della's own hands prepared Minny's body for the tomb. She robed her in one of her own dresses--an India mull, of spotless white, and folded the tiny hands below the exquisite bust, clasping a few pale flowers. The fatal ball had left the face uninjured, and the wound beneath her chin was skillfully concealed. The eyes were closed perfectly and naturally. The lips, yet red and full, slightly parted over the pearly teeth, as if with a smile, and the long black curls floated gracefully down the fair neck and bosom. To have looked upon her, one would have deemed her sleeping. As long as it was possible, Della kept the body unentombed. The news of the fearful death had spread over a goodly portion of the city, and hundreds came to look upon the corpse, and turned away with wet cheeks, declaring it the loveliest sight they had ever looked upon. The day of burial arrived at last, and, bending over the coffin, Della, with raining tears, pressed her lips for the last time upon the brow of that being, who had been faithful to her, even to death. The long concourse moved slowly away. Guly walked at Wilkins' side. As the boy glanced upon that pale face once more, before the tomb closed upon it for ever, the memory of the first time he ever saw her, came back upon his mind--the time when, with the wild glitter in her eye, he had seen her strike Wilkins that fearful blow, and rush shudderingly past him into the darkness. On returning from the cemetery, Wilkins found General Delville's carriage at the door, and its owner within, conversing with his wife. She had not gone out to the burial on account of her child, who was not well. The General seemed overjoyed to find Della the happy wife and mother, which, under such sad circumstances, she appeared. He told them how eagerly he had searched the city over, in the hopes of finding them, since their marriage, but had signally failed, until the papers, in recording the fearful event which had just passed, had given him some clue to their whereabouts, which he had immediately followed up. "I am now," said he, "on the eve of starting for Europe. America has no tie of kindred for me; I've not a relative living in all this broad land, and I shall launch myself upon the waves of the Atlantic to-morrow, no doubt for the last time, before sinking into the vast ocean of eternity, whose waves are ever loudly beating on the shores of time. I hope to end my days on classic ground; and to have my grave swept by those breezes which have fanned the brows of the great masters, whose works I have loved. Thus, I shall die happy. Sometimes," said he, taking Della's hand, and smiling upon her the same smile which had so lightened her heart months before, "sometimes give a thought to the old man, whose bones will drop to dust in foreign lands, but who, to the latest hour of his existence, will cherish his love and fond remembrance of you." With one more earnest pressure of the hand, he bade them farewell; and with sad hearts, Della and her husband waved back his last adieu, and saw him pass from their sight, for the last time, for ever. Upon turning to re-enter the house, a folded paper, lying on the table where the General's hat had stood, attracted Della's attention. She found it directed to herself, and upon opening it found it contained a check for one hundred thousand dollars, upon one of the city banks, left for her as a parting gift from him, who, though he could not be her husband, had proved himself her friend. "Oh, Bernard!" exclaimed Della, as she realized the fortune which had so unexpectedly fallen to her lot; "let us at once leave this place. We have no friends here. My parents, who have disowned me, I haven't even the claim of love upon; and there are no ties, save Minny's grave, and the friendship of a few constant hearts, to bind us here. These, sooner or later, must be broken at last, and I would rather seek some home, wherein to spend the residue of our days, free from the sad associations which cluster here." To this proposition Bernard consented; and immediate preparations were made to depart for the Isle of Cuba, that gem of the Antilles, whose sparkling lustre has won the admiration of the world. Before their departure, Della caused a marble tomb to be erected over Minny's remains. The design was simple and elegant, and the marble as pure as the cold young heart it covered. It bore the simple inscription:-- "MY SISTER." Della proposed to Bernard, now that they were so abundantly able, to offer a home to the friendless Blanche, and let her be as a sister to them. Accompanied by Guly, who was still Wilkins' warmest friend, they went to the little house, to offer this proposition to the beautiful brodeuse. To the utter astonishment of all, and to Guly's chagrin and despair, they found the house deserted, the door closed, and the familiar card, "_To Let_," swinging from the upper balcony. Blanche was gone, none knew whither. Della and Bernard waited several days, in the hope of hearing something of their young friend; but thwarted in their generous desire, they at last left the city, bidding an affectionate farewell to Guly, who stood upon the levee, watching the departing vessel, bearing away those true and tried friends, till lost to his aching sight. They bought a delightful country residence, near the city of Havana, and established themselves there, in the heart of a pleasant neighborhood, and were soon surrounded by warm and faithful friends. Bernard Wilkins became an altered man. His habits of dissipation were broken for ever; and he remained a faithful husband and happy father. Thus, performing his promises to the dying Minny, her departing words were fulfilled; and the shadow of her last hour rested on his heart ever holily--holily! CHAPTER XXXIX. "And there we shall have our feasts of tears, And many a cup in silence pour; Our guests, the shades of former years, Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more." Tom Moore. Weeks passed away, and Guly, in spite of all his earnest endeavors, heard nothing more of Blanche. A strange mystery seemed, as it were, suddenly to have swallowed her up, and left no trace. Summer came again, and brought with it one of those fearful epidemics so frequent in that ill-fated city. Cholera was spreading itself broad-cast among rich and poor, the humble and the high alike. Hundreds were weekly being swept into their yawning tombs, and it seemed as if the city most surely must be devastated. Nurses could not be procured to care for the sick; and the dead-carts went gloomily through the silent streets, groaning beneath their fearful load of death, all the day long, while the grave-yards yawned constantly, as though their hunger never could be appeased. Several of Mr. Delancey's clerks had died, and others had fled the pestilence, but Arthur and Guly still remained; the one, in order to gain enough to carry on his career of dissipation, the other, from a high sense of duty, which, though in the midst of danger, kept him faithful to his post. Mr. Delancey had been more lenient with Arthur than with any other clerk of like character he had ever had. Although he could not but note in his countenance the course he was pursuing, he forbore to dismiss him, and the brothers still lived, side by side, beneath the same roof. Though his receipts were spent in debauchery, Arthur managed, as a general thing, to fill his place through the day faithfully; and since the sudden demise of clerks in the establishment, it had become absolutely necessary. But one morning, Guly noticed that Arthur looked pale, and suffering, though resolutely remaining on duty. Alarmed lest he should be taken with the prevalent disease, to which his habits rendered him peculiarly liable, Guly questioned him, and finding that he was really unwell, turned to his employer, and said:-- "Mr. Delancey, Arthur is too ill to remain longer in his place; he must give up until he can get better. He has remained here too long this morning already, with the symptoms of cholera about him." "Well, he's a fool for that," muttered the merchant, in reply, with much of his old manner; "I should suppose he was old enough to know that he must give up when he's sick. I'd whip a negro of mine that worked round, and didn't tell when he was sick. Let him lie down here in your room." It was the old room which Wilkins used to occupy; and Arthur, every moment growing worse, hastened thither, and threw himself upon the bed. Guly immediately sent for a physician, and put aside all his business, to attend upon his sick brother. Slowly the hours went by. Everything that could be done was done, and, in fearful anxiety, Guly hung over the form of that brother--now, in this dark moment, forgiving him all his sins and unkindness, and loving him, oh! how tenderly! The sun went down, and Guly had no brother! In fearful agony he had yielded up his strong spirit, and now lay pale and still in the fond arms which encircled him. The dead-cart stood waiting at the door, and with tears, which he did not struggle to repress, Guly saw the corpse robed in the habiliments of death, and placed within the coffin. Those were times which permitted of but little delay, and bodies were often beneath the turf before they were fairly cold, and even while Guly bent to take a last adieu of the still form before him, the cartman, a burly negro, was loudly vociferating for "the body," declaring it would be dark before ever he could get his "load dumped." The coffin was placed upon the top of a number of others, and Guly, too overcome by the grief and anxiety he had experienced, to be able to follow it to the cemetery, stood in the door-way, watching the dismal cart, as it rattled along, bearing to its last resting-place, all that remained of the once proud and happy Arthur. The negro sat upon his pile of corpses, and jogged along over the uneven streets, whistling as he went! It was late when he reached the graveyard, and the stars were beginning to peep out in the sky. It so happened that his was the only cart at that time depositing in the cemetery, and, accustomed as he was to such things, the man's hand trembled nervously as he moved about among the tall monuments, and at last stopped in an open space to deposit his load. He ceased whistling as he drew the bolt from his cart box and slid the contents out upon the ground. As they struck, there came a crash; a sound which fell fearfully upon the ear in that silent place, and the cartman righted the box hurriedly, and hastened round to see what was the matter. While peering into the dusky light, he felt a cold hand grasp him about the waist, and suddenly turning his head, saw that the last coffin he had taken, from being placed high, had split in its fall and burst open; and, oh, horror! its occupant was _creeping forth_ with its ghastly face peering up into his! With a mad yell the negro bounded to his cart. He leaped wildly in, but the cold hand clung close, and the sheeted figure sustained itself behind him. With shrieks of terror, which echoed fearfully in and out among the tombs, the man plied the lash to his affrighted horse, and they dashed away through the dim streets at a mad pace, the negro, with eyes starting from their sockets, and mouth wide open from fear, ever and anon turning his head, but always meeting that ghastly face close to his, and seeing the grave-clothes floating backward in the wind! Then the whip fell more heavily on the poor horse, and the screams of mortal fear rang out more startlingly clear; but the fearful scourge had rendered the streets almost deserted, and the ghostly form still clung to the affrighted negro, sometimes sinking as if from exhaustion, upon its knees, sometimes again drawing itself upon its feet; but holding ever on with the pale shroud floating backward in the wind.[B] [Footnote B: A well authenticated fact.] Suddenly, in turning a corner at a slightly relaxed speed, the cartman felt the hold upon his waist loosed, and turning, he found that his frightful passenger had vanished, when or how he knew not, but then and there he drew up his horse, and vowed never to take another cholera subject to the grave-yard, and so run the risk of having the ghost ride home with him; and he kept his vow. Guly lay upon the bed in the gloomy room up stairs, himself suddenly smitten with the fearful disease. He was alone, his only attendant having gone out to procure medicine. His thoughts were dwelling upon the sad events of the day, when suddenly the door opening into the alley was swept back with a hasty hand, and the pale figure of Arthur, robed in a dampened shroud, sank down at Guly's bedside. The boy started wildly up in bed, with a natural pang of terror darting through his heart. But the next instant, the panting voice of Arthur, faint, but in its old accustomed tones, fell upon his ear, and Guly listened in mute wonder. "Oh, Guly, oh, my brother, behold me thus strangely cast back from the grave which was yawning to receive me. I thank God I was spared the fearful doom of being buried alive! The coffin burst, the shock, the sudden rush of air restored me, and I found myself awakened from a fearful trance, sent back to life and earth. The lesson has been fearful. But my close approach to death may yet prove my salvation. Give me my clothes to robe myself while I talk to you." Guly pointed silently to the clothes which hung upon a chair, where they had been placed never to be worn more. He also extended a bottle of cordial to Arthur, bidding him drink and be strengthened. "Now, Guly," said the elder brother, as, once more robed, he bent above him, "Let me remain as one dead to you, I am going far from you; but I am a changed being; fear not for me, I shall commence a new life, and when I return, I shall not cause you to blush for me. Guly, farewell!" Guly threw himself into the extended arms, completely overcome with his emotions. "Oh! Arthur, I can scarcely realize this strange and sudden restoration; but now that God has given you back to me, do not leave me, do not desert me, stay with me; let us learn to be happy in our old love and our old ways." "Nay, Guly, it may not be, I might but fall again. Let my former self--what I have been to you for the past few months--be remembered only as the dead; think of me but in the light of our early days, and in that light I will once more come back to you." "And, Arthur, you will remember me with love and kindness, letting all the bitterness of the past drop into oblivion?" "I will, I will--and you?" "With love, always, with love, dear Arthur, shall this heart remember, shall this spirit enshrine you." "God bless you! God keep you till we meet!" There came one long, tender, tearful embrace, and once again the brothers parted; Arthur's footsteps falling gently on his ear, as he stole out through the arched alley way below. Thus they met, and thus they parted, in the same gloomy old room where they had experienced so much joy and so much sorrow at their first outset on life's troubled ocean. CHAPTER XL. "I may not love thee; For thou art far as yon star, above me." Guly's attack had not been a severe one, and he was once more performing his usual duties. One day as he sat writing, the dwarf with a chuckle made his way to his side, and stood there on his crooked legs panting heavily. "Hih, hih, Monsieur, God spare you yet? God spares the good. Long time, Monsieur, since I saw you." "Long time, indeed, Richard; I scarcely knew what had become of you; I am glad to see you among the living." "Mean that, Monsieur?" "Every word of it." "Miss me, Monsieur?" "Truly I have." "Good!" "And now where have you kept yourself so long, Richard?" "In one little hovel down town; I no put my nose out de door, fear dey chuck me into ze ground. Bury folks dis summer sometimes all warm and limber. I want to live till I'm dead, so I keep down. Life's as sweet to me as others, though I am misshapen, and lame, and poor, and miserable to look upon. Hih, hih, Monsieur, yes, life is sweet." "And how come you to be out to-day?" "I strolled out for one walk, hih, hih, one walk for the health of my crutches and myself; and as I passed along, some one give me this note for you, hih, hih, Monsieur. Goodbye! I must be going, or the undertaker will have me stuck two feet in the ground before I get back. Goodbye. Take care of yourself, hih!" "Goodbye, Richard." "Monsieur, you remember what you told me one day, long time ago?" "What about, Richard?" "About loving one another. Hih, hih, you forget?" "No, Richard, never forgotten." "Mean it yet?" "Yes, in my heart I do." "Hih, that's good--adieu!" Turning up his one eye at Guly to give a parting glance the dwarf swung himself away, and the clatter of his crutches on the pavement came back with a mournful echo to the boy's ear. Guly proceeded to read the note which had been handed him. It was simply an invitation for him to come to a certain number in an up-town street, and though neatly written, bore neither date nor signature. Concluding it was merely a notice asking his attendance on some person sick, he having frequently performed such offices during the summer, at the hour designated Guly turned his steps toward the stated spot. It was a large house he found, standing somewhat back from the street, and presuming that it might be one of those wealthy homes which the devastating scourge had rendered desolate, leaving perhaps, one lonely sufferer, he advanced up the steps and gave the bell a gentle ring; a servant opened the door and ushered him into the drawing-room. Two ladies rose to greet him. One he recognized as the donor of his New Year's gift, and the other, could it be--his own brown-eyed Blanche? Guly felt a wild thrill of joy sweep through his heart, as Blanche, grown, it was true, more womanly than when he saw her last, came forward with her white hand extended to greet him. Oh, how annihilated did all the past, in that one wild moment, become! and as he bent his lips to that loved hand, and his brown hair swept forward over his pale temples, shutting out the bright scene around him, he seemed, for the instant, once more sitting at the little table in the humble cottage of the brodeuse, listening to the trembling voice of the blind grandfather, and threading needles for Blanche. "This," said the young girl, in her sweet musical voice, as Guly raised his head, "is our mutual friend, Mrs. Belmont; your acquaintanceship, I believe, however, dates from long ago." Guly expressed his pleasure at the opportunity afforded of at last acknowledging his New Year's gift; and in a few moments they were seated together a happy trio, with the ease and cheerfulness of old friends talking over the events of the past. Mrs. Belmont explained, that she had met Blanche one day in the cemetery, kneeling by her grandfather's grave, just as she was on the eve of starting away on a long journey. That, struck by her resemblance to her mother, she had addressed her, and soon gleaned her whole history; that then she had adopted her to her childless heart as her own, and hurried her away with her, not having time to allow her to communicate the change to any of her friends; hence the long and hitherto unexplained mystery and silence which had so distressed and harassed Guly. They had returned but a few evenings before, and to-day, Blanche, happening to catch sight of her old acquaintance the dwarf, in the street, had seized that opportunity of communicating to him their arrival, and treating him, she hoped, to a joyful surprise. It was late before Guly parted from his kind friends, and when he did, it was with a sigh of regret for his own fate, though he could not help rejoicing in his generous heart at Blanche's good fortune. As the pretty and innocent brodeuse, he had hoped to win and wear her as his own; but as the adopted daughter of one of the wealthiest ladies in the Crescent City, accomplished, rich, polished, and refined, this Blanche he dared not, could not hope to win. It was a height to which he, a poor salaried clerk, could never aspire. With a heavy heart he wended his way through the star-lit streets, dreaming of the days of the blind grandsire, and the little work-table at which he used to thread needles for Blanche, and wondering if those times ever would return. CHAPTER XLI. "Hast thou loved in the good man's path to tread, And bend o'er the sufferer's lowly bed? Hast thou sought on the buoyant wings of prayer A peace which the faithless may not share? Do thy hopes all tend to the spirit land, And the love of a bright unspotted band? Are these thy treasures?"---- It was twilight, and Mr. Delancey was sitting at his high desk, with his eyes looking thoughtfully out from under his pale brow. Changes had come upon him, and it was evident that though the strong will was there, the fire of that stern pride that once glowed there was crushed out, and burned now only in a few smouldering embers. Cholera had taken his wife from his side, and he inhabited the great house on Apollo-street, a desolate and childless old man. "Gulian," said he, as the boy approached him with a bow, "how is it that you always can succeed in preserving your amiability and politeness under all circumstances? I cannot understand." "Simply, sir," replied Guly, with a smile, "by remembering the one great law which God has given us to write upon our hearts, 'Do unto others as ye would that others should do unto you.'" "Humph!" Guly stood in silence, looking up into the hard, pale face beside him. "I have been thinking of you to-day, Gulian, something for your advancement. You have served me faithfully, and I wish to do something for you." "You have already done for me much, very much." "And you have never presumed upon it. I would do more. Do you think you could love me?" "Love you, Mr. Delancey?" "Even so; I am loveless and childless in my old age; be to me a son, I will strive to be to you a father." The merchant opened his arms, and Guly for the first time felt himself held to that proud heart with a cordial grasp of affection. "Be to me a son," continued Mr. Delancey, "and all my wealth, all that I possess, shall be yours. I am old, and want some one to love me; some one to miss me when I am gone. Do you consent?" Guly thought of Blanche, and his heart bounded; but the next moment his own noble self came back, and he answered promptly: "I will gladly be to you, Mr. Delancey, the son you desire. I will love you, cherish you; do as a child should do toward a parent. But your wealth I cannot take. Let me see that distributed between those children who were disinherited by your wounded pride, and I shall be happy and contented in performing those duties which belong to you, from which you so cruelly cut yourself off." "Children? _my_ children? I have none." "Where is Clinton's wife and his little son? Have they no claim upon your kindness?" "It may be, it may be." "And Clinton himself, he has been pardoned out, and is wasting his young life to gather a pittance which you could so easily bestow." "Has he not disgraced and shamed me?" "Pardon me, my friend; but was not the primal fault your own? Was he not driven to his desperate course by a father's pride and unkindness?" "It may be, oh, it may be." "Write their names upon that scroll from whence they have been crossed, and restore them once more to their rights and happiness." "And leave you poor?" "I am better accustomed to poverty, and can fight my way while I have strength and God's help." Mr. Delancey drew some papers from his desk and spread them before him. "Since you so desire, my will shall be altered; I had hoped to make you happy in the possession of my wealth; if it will make you happier to see it in the possession of others, it shall be done. Young man, you have acted nobly." The merchant bent over his desk and wrote rapidly for some time. Lifting his head at last, he called Guly to affix his name, then folded and put them once more out of sight. "There," said he, "it is done; if any error lay there, I have done all in my power to repair it now." "And you will receive your reward." The merchant said nothing, but sat with his head leaning on his hand. "I cannot tell," said he, "what can have put such thoughts into my mind; perhaps, 'tis because I am growing old they come there; but I have been thinking of the other side of the river to-day, the River of Life." "My dear friend," said Guly, turning suddenly and taking the merchant's hand respectfully in his; "I am heartily glad that your thoughts have been turned seriously in this direction. It is a subject which ought to frequently intrude upon our minds, and I am inclined to think, that whether our passage across that river be pleasant or painful, lies much with ourselves. We should live to die, even as we would die to live." Delancey shook his head. "I have lived many years," said he, with a sad look which Guly never remembered to have seen in that hard face before, "and to-day, for the first time, the thought has forced itself upon me, that I have lived to very little purpose. I have had no aim for life, and the account of my stewardship here below must fall far short of what is required." "There are very few," replied Guly, encouragingly, "who can strike the balance-sheet of life, and be content. Your reflections are, no doubt, the natural effect of the sad season we have passed through, and of your desolate loneliness." Mr. Delancey leaned forward, and held his hand on Guly's arm, impressively:-- "Young man, while you are yet young, let me warn you to beware of a purposeless life; have an aim, have a mark, struggle for it, grasp at it, and though you may never reach it, you will die happier." The merchant relapsed again into silence, and Guly turned to a window, to note the fury of a wild storm which was raging without. Suddenly there came a blaze of light, instantly followed by a loud and crashing peal of thunder. "How fearful! that bolt must have passed near, or struck us," said Guly, turning toward the merchant. There came no answer, and the boy went up, and laid his hand upon the old man's shoulder. He was sitting bolt upright in his chair, with his stony eyes fixed upon vacancy, as he was so often wont to sit. Guly lifted one of the bony hands in his, but it dropped heavily, lifelessly, back upon the desk. Mr. Delancey was dead! The fearful lightning had borne him across life's river, without pain and without warning. CHAPTER XLII. "Man wants but little here below." Mr. Delancey's funeral was scarcely over, before Guly received a message, stating that his friend the dwarf, was very ill, and desired to see him. The ragged boy, who brought the message, offered to act as guide to the cripple's hovel, remarking, that Richard said Monsieur would give him a dime for so doing. The money was readily bestowed, and in a few minutes Guly stood by the bedside of his wretched friend. Everything about the place indicated poverty, destitution, and filth, and the dwarf lay curled up, in the last stages of cholera, beneath the few rags which served him for a covering. It was evident no physician had been called, and it was now too late for one to do any good. "Hih, hih, Monsieur," squeaked the poor old man; "come, at last, eh? Look a long time for you; very cold, Monsieur, very." Guly took the cramped and chilling hands in his, and strove to warm them there. "Hih, hih, Monsieur; poor little dwarf's time's come at last. Can't talk much, Monsieur; but got very much to say." "Don't exert yourself much, Richard." "Only one little. I must improve my time. Ugh! Monsieur; that cramp was very dreadful!" A moment of silence ensued, broken only by the rattling respiration of the expiring dwarf. "Underneath this bed, Monsieur, and underneath the broad plank in the floor--when I am gone, Monsieur, look, and you will find one strong box. It holds a little money--only a little--which I have got for little odd jobs and begging. After I am under the ground, that is yours. You are the only one ever really kind to poor Richard, and now that he's going away for ever, he wants you to remember him kindly." "I could do it without this, Richard, always." "No matter, Monsieur; dat is yours. Ugh! Monsieur, 'tis so cold. Don't forget--under the broad plank. Think I'll be a straight man in the other world, Monsieur?" "Yes, Richard." "Think you will know and love me there?" "I hope so, Richard." "So do I; in my heart, I do. Ugh! ugh! how cold. Give me your blessing, Monsieur." "God bless you, Richard." "Ugh, Monsieur, I am going. Good-bye. There is a time when life ceases to be sweet. Hih, hih!" The poor cripple threw himself over towards the wall; and, with a shivering moan, died. Guly gave the remains of his friend a decent funeral, and afterwards proceeded to find the strong-box, which his last request had been for him to seek. He found it in the designated place--strong-box indeed, and very heavy. On lifting the lid, the following words, scrawled on a bit of paper, in the dwarf's own hand, met his eye:-- "For Gulian Pratt--the only man who ever gave me money without seeming to begrudge it." Just beneath was written:-- "Love ye one another." Upon counting the contents of the box, Guly found himself the possessor of forty thousand dollars, the miserly savings of his crippled friend. Verily, "Cast thy bread upon the waters, and after many days it shall be returned to thee." He had enough to wed Blanche now! With a bounding heart, the boy hurried to her side, to tell her all. He did so, in the presence of Mrs. Belmont. "It required no fortune on your part," said the lady, kindly, "to have made your suit prosper with Blanche. To have known she loved you would have been sufficient, for to see her the bride of one whom I know to be so noble and good, is the highest boon I could ask for her. You are both, however, too young as yet to wed; but if, in two years' time, you find your love unchanged, you then shall have my sanction and my blessing." Two years! dear reader, they pass quickly with young hearts, and they were soon flown. In the softened shadow of the old cathedral windows--at the altar, where once before they had stood with Della and Bernard--Blanche and Guly took their places, side by side, with no one to divide them now or ever, in after life. There had come but little change upon them since we saw them last, save that Guly's hair had more of the brown and less of the golden about it, and his face grown even more noble in its lofty expression. As the ceremony was ended, they turned to leave the church, but a stranger, tall and dark, stood in their path. There was a moment's doubtful pause, then the brothers were clasped in each other's arms! Those who had filled the building, to note the marriage ceremony, filed slowly out; and the wedding-party still stood in the dim and shadowy aisles, forgetful of all about them in this new joy--the delight of this unexpected meeting--and the hurried explanations which, even here, Arthur was induced to give. He told of long and lonely months in distant lands, of weary hours and heavy days, of fierce struggles with his rebellious spirit; of battles with his stubborn pride, and resistance to the force of evil habits. He told, too, with his handsome lip quivering with emotion, how the wild struggle ceased at last, and "the peace of God, which passeth all understanding," came to his troubled breast. "And," continued he, "with my love and trust in 'Him who doeth all things well,' once more restored to my rebel heart, I found myself possessed of renewed energy, and an indomitable spirit of perseverance, which seemed to conquer all difficulties. I made many friends, and acquired much wealth, and then started for my native land. I rfeached it,--a crowd about these doors drew me hither, and you know the rest. The old times at No. -- Chartres-street hang over my manhood only as a finger of warning, and I have learned that they alone can tread a prosperous path in this life, who follow God's Guide-board, which is the Bible, and trust to His finger to point it out to them." The joyous party left at once for the shores of the Hudson. There Arthur re-purchased the old homestead for his mother, and remained "a single man," the comfort and blessing of her old age. And every summer sees Blanche and Guly there, while "_Uncle Arthur_" looks out upon the lawn, watching the bright figures flitting among the trees, and smiles to see the shadows falling by them, as in the olden time. THE END. 
688	----	THE GOODNESS OF ST. ROCQUE AND OTHER STORIES By ALICE DUNBAR To My best Comrade My Husband CONTENTS THE GOODNESS OF SAINT ROCQUE TONY'S WIFE THE FISHERMAN OF PASS CHRISTIAN M'SIEU FORTIER'S VIOLIN BY THE BAYOU ST. JOHN WHEN THE BAYOU OVERFLOWS MR. BAPTISTE A CARNIVAL JANGLE LITTLE MISS SOPHIE SISTER JOSEPHA THE PRALINE WOMAN ODALIE LA JUANITA TITEE THE GOODNESS OF SAINT ROCQUE Manuela was tall and slender and graceful, and once you knew her the lithe form could never be mistaken. She walked with the easy spring that comes from a perfectly arched foot. To-day she swept swiftly down Marais Street, casting a quick glance here and there from under her heavy veil as if she feared she was being followed. If you had peered under the veil, you would have seen that Manuela's dark eyes were swollen and discoloured about the lids, as though they had known a sleepless, tearful night. There had been a picnic the day before, and as merry a crowd of giddy, chattering Creole girls and boys as ever you could see boarded the ramshackle dummy-train that puffed its way wheezily out wide Elysian Fields Street, around the lily-covered bayous, to Milneburg-on-the-Lake. Now, a picnic at Milneburg is a thing to be remembered for ever. One charters a rickety-looking, weather-beaten dancing-pavilion, built over the water, and after storing the children--for your true Creole never leaves the small folks at home--and the baskets and mothers downstairs, the young folks go up-stairs and dance to the tune of the best band you ever heard. For what can equal the music of a violin, a guitar, a cornet, and a bass viol to trip the quadrille to at a picnic? Then one can fish in the lake and go bathing under the prim bath-houses, so severely separated sexually, and go rowing on the lake in a trim boat, followed by the shrill warnings of anxious mamans. And in the evening one comes home, hat crowned with cool gray Spanish moss, hands burdened with fantastic latanier baskets woven by the brown bayou boys, hand in hand with your dearest one, tired but happy. At this particular picnic, however, there had been bitterness of spirit. Theophile was Manuela's own especial property, and Theophile had proven false. He had not danced a single waltz or quadrille with Manuela, but had deserted her for Claralie, blonde and petite. It was Claralie whom Theophile had rowed out on the lake; it was Claralie whom Theophile had gallantly led to dinner; it was Claralie's hat that he wreathed with Spanish moss, and Claralie whom he escorted home after the jolly singing ride in town on the little dummy-train. Not that Manuela lacked partners or admirers. Dear no! she was too graceful and beautiful for that. There had been more than enough for her. But Manuela loved Theophile, you see, and no one could take his place. Still, she had tossed her head and let her silvery laughter ring out in the dance, as though she were the happiest of mortals, and had tripped home with Henri, leaning on his arm, and looking up into his eyes as though she adored him. This morning she showed the traces of a sleepless night and an aching heart as she walked down Marais Street. Across wide St. Rocque Avenue she hastened. "Two blocks to the river and one below--" she repeated to herself breathlessly. Then she stood on the corner gazing about her, until with a final summoning of a desperate courage she dived through a small wicket gate into a garden of weed-choked flowers. There was a hoarse, rusty little bell on the gate that gave querulous tongue as she pushed it open. The house that sat back in the yard was little and old and weather-beaten. Its one-story frame had once been painted, but that was a memory remote and traditional. A straggling morning-glory strove to conceal its time-ravaged face. The little walk of broken bits of brick was reddened carefully, and the one little step was scrupulously yellow-washed, which denoted that the occupants were cleanly as well as religious. Manuela's timid knock was answered by a harsh "Entrez." It was a small sombre room within, with a bare yellow-washed floor and ragged curtains at the little window. In a corner was a diminutive altar draped with threadbare lace. The red glow of the taper lighted a cheap print of St. Joseph and a brazen crucifix. The human element in the room was furnished by a little, wizened yellow woman, who, black-robed, turbaned, and stern, sat before an uncertain table whereon were greasy cards. Manuela paused, her eyes blinking at the semi-obscurity within. The Wizened One called in croaking tones: "An' fo' w'y you come here? Assiez-la, ma'amzelle." Timidly Manuela sat at the table facing the owner of the voice. "I want," she began faintly; but the Mistress of the Cards understood: she had had much experience. The cards were shuffled in her long grimy talons and stacked before Manuela. "Now you cut dem in t'ree part, so--un, deux, trois, bien! You mek' you' weesh wid all you' heart, bien! Yaas, I see, I see!" Breathlessly did Manuela learn that her lover was true, but "dat light gal, yaas, she mek' nouvena in St. Rocque fo' hees love." "I give you one lil' charm, yaas," said the Wizened One when the seance was over, and Manuela, all white and nervous, leaned back in the rickety chair. "I give you one lil' charm fo' to ween him back, yaas. You wear h'it 'roun' you' wais', an' he come back. Den you mek prayer at St. Rocque an' burn can'le. Den you come back an' tell me, yaas. Cinquante sous, ma'amzelle. Merci. Good luck go wid you." Readjusting her veil, Manuela passed out the little wicket gate, treading on air. Again the sun shone, and the breath of the swamps came as healthful sea-breeze unto her nostrils. She fairly flew in the direction of St. Rocque. There were quite a number of persons entering the white gates of the cemetery, for this was Friday, when all those who wish good luck pray to the saint, and wash their steps promptly at twelve o'clock with a wondrous mixture to guard the house. Manuela bought a candle from the keeper of the little lodge at the entrance, and pausing one instant by the great sun-dial to see if the heavens and the hour were propitious, glided into the tiny chapel, dim and stifling with heavy air from myriad wish-candles blazing on the wide table before the altar-rail. She said her prayer and lighting her candle placed it with the others. Mon Dieu! how brightly the sun seemed to shine now, she thought, pausing at the door on her way out. Her small finger-tips, still bedewed with holy water, rested caressingly on a gamin's head. The ivy which enfolds the quaint chapel never seemed so green; the shrines which serve as the Way of the Cross never seemed so artistic; the baby graves, even, seemed cheerful. Theophile called Sunday. Manuela's heart leaped. He had been spending his Sundays with Claralie. His stay was short and he was plainly bored. But Manuela knelt to thank the good St. Rocque that night, and fondled the charm about her slim waist. There came a box of bonbons during the week, with a decorative card all roses and fringe, from Theophile; but being a Creole, and therefore superstitiously careful, and having been reared by a wise and experienced maman to mistrust the gifts of a recreant lover, Manuela quietly thrust bonbons, box, and card into the kitchen fire, and the Friday following placed the second candle of her nouvena in St. Rocque. Those of Manuela's friends who had watched with indignation Theophile gallantly leading Claralie home from High Mass on Sundays, gasped with astonishment when the next Sunday, with his usual bow, the young man offered Manuela his arm as the worshippers filed out in step to the organ's march. Claralie tossed her head as she crossed herself with holy water, and the pink in her cheeks was brighter than usual. Manuela smiled a bright good-morning when she met Claralie in St. Rocque the next Friday. The little blonde blushed furiously, and Manuela rushed post-haste to the Wizened One to confer upon this new issue. "H'it ees good," said the dame, shaking her turbaned head. "She ees 'fraid, she will work, mais you' charm, h'it weel beat her." And Manuela departed with radiant eyes. Theophile was not at Mass Sunday morning, and murderous glances flashed from Claralie to Manuela before the tinkling of the Host-Bell. Nor did Theophile call at either house. Two hearts beat furiously at the sound of every passing footstep, and two minds wondered if the other were enjoying the beloved one's smiles. Two pair of eyes, however, blue and black, smiled on others, and their owners laughed and seemed none the less happy. For your Creole girls are proud, and would die rather than let the world see their sorrows. Monday evening Theophile, the missing, showed his rather sheepish countenance in Manuela's parlour, and explained that he, with some chosen spirits, had gone for a trip--"over the Lake." "I did not ask you where you were yesterday," replied the girl, saucily. Theophile shrugged his shoulders and changed the conversation. The next week there was a birthday fete in honour of Louise, Theophile's young sister. Everyone was bidden, and no one thought of refusing, for Louise was young, and this would be her first party. So, though the night was hot, the dancing went on as merrily as light young feet could make it go. Claralie fluffed her dainty white skirts, and cast mischievous sparkles in the direction of Theophile, who with the maman and Louise was bravely trying not to look self-conscious. Manuela, tall and calm and proud-looking, in a cool, pale yellow gown was apparently enjoying herself without paying the slightest attention to her young host. "Have I the pleasure of this dance?" he asked her finally, in a lull of the music. She bowed assent, and as if moved by a common impulse they strolled out of the dancing-room into the cool, quaint garden, where jessamines gave out an overpowering perfume, and a caged mocking-bird complained melodiously to the full moon in the sky. It must have been an engrossing tete-a-tete, for the call to supper had sounded twice before they heard and hurried into the house. The march had formed with Louise radiantly leading on the arm of papa. Claralie tripped by with Leon. Of course, nothing remained for Theophile and Manuela to do but to bring up the rear, for which they received much good-natured chaffing. But when the party reached the dining-room, Theophile proudly led his partner to the head of the table, at the right hand of maman, and smiled benignly about at the delighted assemblage. Now you know, when a Creole young man places a girl at his mother's right hand at his own table, there is but one conclusion to be deduced therefrom. If you had asked Manuela, after the wedding was over, how it happened, she would have said nothing, but looked wise. If you had asked Claralie, she would have laughed and said she always preferred Leon. If you had asked Theophile, he would have wondered that you thought he had ever meant more than to tease Manuela. If you had asked the Wizened One, she would have offered you a charm. But St. Rocque knows, for he is a good saint, and if you believe in him and are true and good, and make your nouvenas with a clean heart, he will grant your wish. TONY'S WIFE "Gimme fi' cents worth o' candy, please." It was the little Jew girl who spoke, and Tony's wife roused herself from her knitting to rise and count out the multi-hued candy which should go in exchange for the dingy nickel grasped in warm, damp fingers. Three long sticks, carefully wrapped in crispest brown paper, and a half dozen or more of pink candy fish for lagniappe, and the little Jew girl sped away in blissful contentment. Tony's wife resumed her knitting with a stifled sigh until the next customer should come. A low growl caused her to look up apprehensively. Tony himself stood beetle-browed and huge in the small doorway. "Get up from there," he muttered, "and open two dozen oysters right away; the Eliots want 'em." His English was unaccented. It was long since he had seen Italy. She moved meekly behind the counter, and began work on the thick shells. Tony stretched his long neck up the street. "Mr. Tony, mama wants some charcoal." The very small voice at his feet must have pleased him, for his black brows relaxed into a smile, and he poked the little one's chin with a hard, dirty finger, as he emptied the ridiculously small bucket of charcoal into the child's bucket, and gave a banana for lagniappe. The crackling of shells went on behind, and a stifled sob arose as a bit of sharp edge cut into the thin, worn fingers that clasped the knife. "Hurry up there, will you?" growled the black brows; "the Eliots are sending for the oysters." She deftly strained and counted them, and, after wiping her fingers, resumed her seat, and took up the endless crochet work, with her usual stifled sigh. Tony and his wife had always been in this same little queer old shop on Prytania Street, at least to the memory of the oldest inhabitant in the neighbourhood. When or how they came, or how they stayed, no one knew; it was enough that they were there, like a sort of ancestral fixture to the street. The neighbourhood was fine enough to look down upon these two tumble-down shops at the corner, kept by Tony and Mrs. Murphy, the grocer. It was a semi-fashionable locality, far up-town, away from the old-time French quarter. It was the sort of neighbourhood where millionaires live before their fortunes are made and fashionable, high-priced private schools flourish, where the small cottages are occupied by aspiring school-teachers and choir-singers. Such was this locality, and you must admit that it was indeed a condescension to tolerate Tony and Mrs. Murphy. He was a great, black-bearded, hoarse-voiced, six-foot specimen of Italian humanity, who looked in his little shop and on the prosaic pavement of Prytania Street somewhat as Hercules might seem in a modern drawing-room. You instinctively thought of wild mountain-passes, and the gleaming dirks of bandit contadini in looking at him. What his last name was, no one knew. Someone had maintained once that he had been christened Antonio Malatesta, but that was unauthentic, and as little to be believed as that other wild theory that her name was Mary. She was meek, pale, little, ugly, and German. Altogether part of his arms and legs would have very decently made another larger than she. Her hair was pale and drawn in sleek, thin tightness away from a pinched, pitiful face, whose dull cold eyes hurt you, because you knew they were trying to mirror sorrow, and could not because of their expressionless quality. No matter what the weather or what her other toilet, she always wore a thin little shawl of dingy brick-dust hue about her shoulders. No matter what the occasion or what the day, she always carried her knitting with her, and seldom ceased the incessant twist, twist of the shining steel among the white cotton meshes. She might put down the needles and lace into the spool-box long enough to open oysters, or wrap up fruit and candy, or count out wood and coal into infinitesimal portions, or do her housework; but the knitting was snatched with avidity at the first spare moment, and the worn, white, blue-marked fingers, half enclosed in kid-glove stalls for protection, would writhe and twist in and out again. Little girls just learning to crochet borrowed their patterns from Tony's wife, and it was considered quite a mark of advancement to have her inspect a bit of lace done by eager, chubby fingers. The ladies in larger houses, whose husbands would be millionaires some day, bought her lace, and gave it to their servants for Christmas presents. As for Tony, when she was slow in opening his oysters or in cooking his red beans and spaghetti, he roared at her, and prefixed picturesque adjectives to her lace, which made her hide it under her apron with a fearsome look in her dull eyes. He hated her in a lusty, roaring fashion, as a healthy beefy boy hates a sick cat and torments it to madness. When she displeased him, he beat her, and knocked her frail form on the floor. The children could tell when this had happened. Her eyes would be red, and there would be blue marks on her face and neck. "Poor Mrs. Tony," they would say, and nestle close to her. Tony did not roar at her for petting them, perhaps, because they spent money on the multi-hued candy in glass jars on the shelves. Her mother appeared upon the scene once, and stayed a short time; but Tony got drunk one day and beat her because she ate too much, and she disappeared soon after. Whence she came and where she departed, no one could tell, not even Mrs. Murphy, the Pauline Pry and Gazette of the block. Tony had gout, and suffered for many days in roaring helplessness, the while his foot, bound and swathed in many folds of red flannel, lay on the chair before him. In proportion as his gout increased and he bawled from pure physical discomfort, she became light-hearted, and moved about the shop with real, brisk cheeriness. He could not hit her then without such pain that after one or two trials he gave up in disgust. So the dull years had passed, and life had gone on pretty much the same for Tony and the German wife and the shop. The children came on Sunday evenings to buy the stick candy, and on week-days for coal and wood. The servants came to buy oysters for the larger houses, and to gossip over the counter about their employers. The little dry woman knitted, and the big man moved lazily in and out in his red flannel shirt, exchanged politics with the tailor next door through the window, or lounged into Mrs. Murphy's bar and drank fiercely. Some of the children grew up and moved away, and other little girls came to buy candy and eat pink lagniappe fishes, and the shop still thrived. One day Tony was ill, more than the mummied foot of gout, or the wheeze of asthma; he must keep his bed and send for the doctor. She clutched his arm when he came, and pulled him into the tiny room. "Is it--is it anything much, doctor?" she gasped. AEsculapius shook his head as wisely as the occasion would permit. She followed him out of the room into the shop. "Do you--will he get well, doctor?" AEsculapius buttoned up his frock coat, smoothed his shining hat, cleared his throat, then replied oracularly, "Madam, he is completely burned out inside. Empty as a shell, madam, empty as a shell. He cannot live, for he has nothing to live on." As the cobblestones rattled under the doctor's equipage rolling leisurely up Prytania Street, Tony's wife sat in her chair and laughed,--laughed with a hearty joyousness that lifted the film from the dull eyes and disclosed a sparkle beneath. The drear days went by, and Tony lay like a veritable Samson shorn of his strength, for his voice was sunken to a hoarse, sibilant whisper, and his black eyes gazed fiercely from the shock of hair and beard about a white face. Life went on pretty much as before in the shop; the children paused to ask how Mr. Tony was, and even hushed the jingles on their bell hoops as they passed the door. Red-headed Jimmie, Mrs. Murphy's nephew, did the hard jobs, such as splitting wood and lifting coal from the bin; and in the intervals between tending the fallen giant and waiting on the customers, Tony's wife sat in her accustomed chair, knitting fiercely, with an inscrutable smile about her purple compressed mouth. Then John came, introducing himself, serpent-wise, into the Eden of her bosom. John was Tony's brother, huge and bluff too, but fair and blond, with the beauty of Northern Italy. With the same lack of race pride which Tony had displayed in selecting his German spouse, John had taken unto himself Betty, a daughter of Erin, aggressive, powerful, and cross-eyed. He turned up now, having heard of this illness, and assumed an air of remarkable authority at once. A hunted look stole into the dull eyes, and after John had departed with blustering directions as to Tony's welfare, she crept to his bedside timidly. "Tony," she said,--"Tony, you are very sick." An inarticulate growl was the only response. "Tony, you ought to see the priest; you mustn't go any longer without taking the sacrament." The growl deepened into words. "Don't want any priest; you 're always after some snivelling old woman's fuss. You and Mrs. Murphy go on with your church; it won't make YOU any better." She shivered under this parting shot, and crept back into the shop. Still the priest came next day. She followed him in to the bedside and knelt timidly. "Tony," she whispered, "here's Father Leblanc." Tony was too languid to curse out loud; he only expressed his hate in a toss of the black beard and shaggy mane. "Tony," she said nervously, "won't you do it now? It won't take long, and it will be better for you when you go--Oh, Tony, don't--don't laugh. Please, Tony, here's the priest." But the Titan roared aloud: "No; get out. Think I'm a-going to give you a chance to grab my money now? Let me die and go to hell in peace." Father Leblanc knelt meekly and prayed, and the woman's weak pleadings continued,-- "Tony, I've been true and good and faithful to you. Don't die and leave me no better than before. Tony, I do want to be a good woman once, a real-for-true married woman. Tony, here's the priest; say yes." And she wrung her ringless hands. "You want my money," said Tony, slowly, "and you sha'n't have it, not a cent; John shall have it." Father Leblanc shrank away like a fading spectre. He came next day and next day, only to see re-enacted the same piteous scene,--the woman pleading to be made a wife ere death hushed Tony's blasphemies, the man chuckling in pain-racked glee at the prospect of her bereaved misery. Not all the prayers of Father Leblanc nor the wailings of Mrs. Murphy could alter the determination of the will beneath the shock of hair; he gloated in his physical weakness at the tenacious grasp on his mentality. "Tony," she wailed on the last day, her voice rising to a shriek in its eagerness, "tell them I'm your wife; it'll be the same. Only say it, Tony, before you die!" He raised his head, and turned stiff eyes and gibbering mouth on her; then, with one chill finger pointing at John, fell back dully and heavily. They buried him with many honours by the Society of Italia's Sons. John took possession of the shop when they returned home, and found the money hidden in the chimney corner. As for Tony's wife, since she was not his wife after all, they sent her forth in the world penniless, her worn fingers clutching her bundle of clothes in nervous agitation, as though they regretted the time lost from knitting. THE FISHERMAN OF PASS CHRISTIAN The swift breezes on the beach at Pass Christian meet and conflict as though each strove for the mastery of the air. The land-breeze blows down through the pines, resinous, fragrant, cold, bringing breath-like memories of dim, dark woods shaded by myriad pine-needles. The breeze from the Gulf is warm and soft and languorous, blowing up from the south with its suggestion of tropical warmth and passion. It is strong and masterful, and tossed Annette's hair and whipped her skirts about her in bold disregard for the proprieties. Arm in arm with Philip, she was strolling slowly down the great pier which extends from the Mexican Gulf Hotel into the waters of the Sound. There was no moon to-night, but the sky glittered and scintillated with myriad stars, brighter than you can ever see farther North, and the great waves that the Gulf breeze tossed up in restless profusion gleamed with the white fire of phosphorescent flame. The wet sands on the beach glowed white fire; the posts of the pier where the waves had leapt and left a laughing kiss, the sides of the little boats and fish-cars tugging at their ropes, alike showed white and flaming, as though the sea and all it touched were afire. Annette and Philip paused midway the pier to watch two fishermen casting their nets. With heads bared to the breeze, they stood in clear silhouette against the white background of sea. "See how he uses his teeth," almost whispered Annette. Drawing himself up to his full height, with one end of the huge seine between his teeth, and the cord in his left hand, the taller fisherman of the two paused a half instant, his right arm extended, grasping the folds of the net. There was a swishing rush through the air, and it settled with a sort of sob as it cut the waters and struck a million sparkles of fire from the waves. Then, with backs bending under the strain, the two men swung on the cord, drawing in the net, laden with glittering restless fish, which were unceremoniously dumped on the boards to be put into the fish-car awaiting them. Philip laughingly picked up a soft, gleaming jelly-fish, and threatened to put it on Annette's neck. She screamed, ran, slipped on the wet boards, and in another instant would have fallen over into the water below. The tall fisherman caught her in his arms and set her on her feet. "Mademoiselle must be very careful," he said in the softest and most correct French. "The tide is in and the water very rough. It would be very difficult to swim out there to-night." Annette murmured confused thanks, which were supplemented by Philip's hearty tones. She was silent until they reached the pavilion at the end of the pier. The semi-darkness was unrelieved by lantern or light. The strong wind wafted the strains from a couple of mandolins, a guitar, and a tenor voice stationed in one corner to sundry engrossed couples in sundry other corners. Philip found an untenanted nook and they ensconced themselves therein. "Do you know there's something mysterious about that fisherman?" said Annette, during a lull in the wind. "Because he did not let you go over?" inquired Philip. "No; he spoke correctly, and with the accent that goes only with an excellent education." Philip shrugged his shoulders. "That's nothing remarkable. If you stay about Pass Christian for any length of time, you'll find more things than perfect French and courtly grace among fishermen to surprise you. These are a wonderful people who live across the Lake." Annette was lolling in the hammock under the big catalpa-tree some days later, when the gate opened, and Natalie's big sun-bonnet appeared. Natalie herself was discovered blushing in its dainty depths. She was only a little Creole seaside girl, you must know, and very shy of the city demoiselles. Natalie's patois was quite as different from Annette's French as it was from the postmaster's English. "Mees Annette," she began, peony-hued all over at her own boldness, "we will have one lil' hay-ride this night, and a fish-fry at the end. Will you come?" Annette sprang to her feet in delight. "Will I come? Certainly. How delightful! You are so good to ask me. What shall--what time--" But Natalie's pink bonnet had fled precipitately down the shaded walk. Annette laughed joyously as Philip lounged down the gallery. "I frightened the child away," she told him. You've never been for a hay-ride and fish-fry on the shores of the Mississippi Sound, have you? When the summer boarders and the Northern visitors undertake to give one, it is a comparatively staid affair, where due regard is had for one's wearing apparel, and where there are servants to do the hardest work. Then it isn't enjoyable at all. But when the natives, the boys and girls who live there, make up their minds to have fun, you may depend upon its being just the best kind. This time there were twenty boys and girls, a mamma or so, several papas, and a grizzled fisherman to restrain the ardor of the amateurs. The cart was vast and solid, and two comfortable, sleepy-looking mules constituted the drawing power. There were also tin horns, some guitars, an accordion, and a quartet of much praised voices. The hay in the bottom of the wagon was freely mixed with pine needles, whose prickiness through your hose was amply compensated for by its delicious fragrance. After a triumphantly noisy passage down the beach one comes to the stretch of heavy sand that lies between Pass Christian proper and Henderson's Point. This is a hard pull for the mules, and the more ambitious riders get out and walk. Then, after a final strain through the shifting sands, bravo! the shell road is reached, and one goes cheering through the pine-trees to Henderson's Point. If ever you go to Pass Christian, you must have a fish-fry at Henderson's Point. It is the pine-thicketed, white-beached peninsula jutting out from the land, with one side caressed by the waters of the Sound and the other purred over by the blue waves of the Bay of St. Louis. Here is the beginning of the great three-mile trestle bridge to the town of Bay St. Louis, and to-night from the beach could be seen the lights of the villas glittering across the Bay like myriads of unsleeping eyes. Here upon a firm stretch of white sand camped the merry-makers. Soon a great fire of driftwood and pine cones tossed its flames defiantly at a radiant moon in the sky, and the fishers were casting their nets in the sea. The more daring of the girls waded bare-legged in the water, holding pine-torches, spearing flounders and peering for soft-shell crabs. Annette had wandered farther in the shallow water than the rest. Suddenly she stumbled against a stone, the torch dropped and spluttered at her feet. With a little helpless cry she looked at the stretch of unfamiliar beach and water to find herself all alone. "Pardon me, mademoiselle," said a voice at her elbow; "you are in distress?" It was her fisherman, and with a scarce conscious sigh of relief, Annette put her hand into the outstretched one at her side. "I was looking for soft shells," she explained, "and lost the crowd, and now my torch is out." "Where is the crowd?" There was some amusement in the tone, and Annette glanced up quickly, prepared to be thoroughly indignant at this fisherman who dared make fun at her; but there was such a kindly look about his mouth that she was reassured and said meekly,-- "At Henderson's Point." "You have wandered a half-mile away," he mused, "and have nothing to show for your pains but very wet skirts. If mademoiselle will permit me, I will take her to her friends, but allow me to suggest that mademoiselle will leave the water and walk on the sands." "But I am barefoot," wailed Annette, "and I am afraid of the fiddlers." Fiddler crabs, you know, aren't pleasant things to be dangling around one's bare feet, and they are more numerous than sand fleas down at Henderson's Point. "True," assented the fisherman; "then we shall have to wade back." The fishing was over when they rounded the point and came in sight of the cheery bonfire with its Rembrandt-like group, and the air was savoury with the smell of frying fish and crabs. The fisherman was not to be tempted by appeals to stay, but smilingly disappeared down the sands, the red glare of his torch making a glowing track in the water. "Ah, Mees Annette," whispered Natalie, between mouthfuls of a rich croaker, "you have found a beau in the water." "And the fisherman of the Pass, too," laughed her cousin Ida. Annette tossed her head, for Philip had growled audibly. "Do you know, Philip," cried Annette a few days after, rudely shaking him from his siesta on the gallery,--"do you know that I have found my fisherman's hut?" "Hum," was the only response. "Yes, and it's the quaintest, most delightful spot imaginable. Philip, do come with me and see it." "Hum." "Oh, Philip, you are so lazy; do come with me." "Yes, but, my dear Annette," protested Philip, "this is a warm day, and I am tired." Still, his curiosity being aroused, he went grumbling. It was not a very long drive, back from the beach across the railroad and through the pine forest to the bank of a dark, slow-flowing bayou. The fisherman's hut was small, two-roomed, whitewashed, pine-boarded, with the traditional mud chimney acting as a sort of support to one of its uneven sides. Within was a weird assortment of curios from every uncivilized part of the globe. Also were there fishing-tackle and guns in reckless profusion. The fisherman, in the kitchen of the mud-chimney, was sardonically waging war with a basket of little bayou crabs. "Entrez, mademoiselle et monsieur," he said pleasantly, grabbing a vicious crab by its flippers, and smiling at its wild attempts to bite. "You see I am busy, but make yourself at home." "Well, how on earth--" began Philip. "Sh--sh--" whispered Annette. "I was driving out in the woods this morning, and stumbled on the hut. He asked me in, but I came right over after you." The fisherman, having succeeded in getting the last crab in the kettle of boiling water, came forward smiling and began to explain the curios. "Then you have not always lived at Pass Christian," said Philip. "Mais non, monsieur, I am spending a summer here." "And he spends his winters, doubtless, selling fish in the French market," spitefully soliloquised Philip. The fisherman was looking unutterable things into Annette's eyes, and, it seemed to Philip, taking an unconscionably long time explaining the use of an East Indian stiletto. "Oh, wouldn't it be delightful!" came from Annette at last. "What?" asked Philip. "Why, Monsieur LeConte says he'll take six of us out in his catboat tomorrow for a fishing-trip on the Gulf." "Hum," drily. "And I'll get Natalie and her cousins." "Yes," still more drily. Annette chattered on, entirely oblivious of the strainedness of the men's adieux, and still chattered as they drove through the pines. "I did not know that you were going to take fishermen and marchands into the bosom of your social set when you came here," growled Philip, at last. "But, Cousin Phil, can't you see he is a gentleman? The fact that he makes no excuses or protestations is a proof." "You are a fool," was the polite response. Still, at six o'clock next morning, there was a little crowd of seven upon the pier, laughing and chatting at the little "Virginie" dipping her bows in the water and flapping her sails in the brisk wind. Natalie's pink bonnet blushed in the early sunshine, and Natalie's mamma, comely and portly, did chaperonage duty. It was not long before the sails gave swell into the breeze and the little boat scurried to the Sound. Past the lighthouse on its gawky iron stalls, she flew, and now rounded the white sands of Cat Island. "Bravo, the Gulf!" sang a voice on the lookout. The little boat dipped, halted an instant, then rushed fast into the blue Gulf waters. "We will anchor here," said the host, "have luncheon, and fish." Philip could not exactly understand why the fisherman should sit so close to Annette and whisper so much into her ears. He chafed at her acting the part of hostess, and was possessed of a murderous desire to throw the pink sun-bonnet and its owner into the sea, when Natalie whispered audibly to one of her cousins that "Mees Annette act nice wit' her lovare." The sun was banking up flaming pillars of rose and gold in the west when the little "Virginie" rounded Cat Island on her way home, and the quick Southern twilight was fast dying into darkness when she was tied up to the pier and the merry-makers sprang off with baskets of fish. Annette had distinguished herself by catching one small shark, and had immediately ceased to fish and devoted her attention to her fisherman and his line. Philip had angled fiercely, landing trout, croakers, sheepshead, snappers in bewildering luck. He had broken each hopeless captive's neck savagely, as though they were personal enemies. He did not look happy as they landed, though paeans of praise were being sung in his honour. As the days passed on, "the fisherman of the Pass" began to dance attendance on Annette. What had seemed a joke became serious. Aunt Nina, urged by Philip, remonstrated, and even the mamma of the pink sunbonnet began to look grave. It was all very well for a city demoiselle to talk with a fisherman and accept favours at his hands, provided that the city demoiselle understood that a vast and bridgeless gulf stretched between her and the fisherman. But when the demoiselle forgot the gulf and the fisherman refused to recognise it, why, it was time to take matters in hand. To all of Aunt Nina's remonstrances, Philip's growlings, and the averted glances of her companions, Annette was deaf. "You are narrow-minded," she said laughingly. "I am interested in Monsieur LeConte simply as a study. He is entertaining; he talks well of his travels, and as for refusing to recognise the difference between us, why, he never dreamed of such a thing." Suddenly a peremptory summons home from Annette's father put an end to the fears of Philip. Annette pouted, but papa must be obeyed. She blamed Philip and Aunt Nina for telling tales, but Aunt Nina was uncommunicative, and Philip too obviously cheerful to derive much satisfaction from. That night she walked with the fisherman hand in hand on the sands. The wind from the pines bore the scarcely recognisable, subtle freshness of early autumn, and the waters had a hint of dying summer in their sob on the beach. "You will remember," said the fisherman, "that I have told you nothing about myself." "Yes," murmured Annette. "And you will keep your promises to me?" "Yes." "Let me hear you repeat them again." "I promise you that I will not forget you. I promise you that I will never speak of you to anyone until I see you again. I promise that I will then clasp your hand wherever you may be." "And mademoiselle will not be discouraged, but will continue her studies?" "Yes." It was all very romantic, by the waves of the Sound, under a harvest moon, that seemed all sympathy for these two, despite the fact that it was probably looking down upon hundreds of other equally romantic couples. Annette went to bed with glowing cheeks, and a heart whose pulsations would have caused a physician to prescribe unlimited digitalis. It was still hot in New Orleans when she returned home, and it seemed hard to go immediately to work. But if one is going to be an opera-singer some day and capture the world with one's voice, there is nothing to do but to study, study, sing, practise, even though one's throat be parched, one's head a great ache, and one's heart a nest of discouragement and sadness at what seems the uselessness of it all. Annette had now a new incentive to work; the fisherman had once praised her voice when she hummed a barcarole on the sands, and he had insisted that there was power in its rich notes. Though the fisherman had showed no cause why he should be accepted as a musical critic, Annette had somehow respected his judgment and been accordingly elated. It was the night of the opening of the opera. There was the usual crush, the glitter and confusing radiance of the brilliant audience. Annette, with papa, Aunt Nina, and Philip, was late reaching her box. The curtain was up, and "La Juive" was pouring forth defiance at her angry persecutors. Annette listened breathlessly. In fancy, she too was ringing her voice out to an applauding house. Her head unconsciously beat time to the music, and one hand half held her cloak from her bare shoulders. Then Eleazar appeared, and the house rose at the end of his song. Encores it gave, and bravos and cheers. He bowed calmly, swept his eyes over the tiers until they found Annette, where they rested in a half-smile of recognition. "Philip," gasped Annette, nervously raising her glasses, "my fisherman!" "Yes, an opera-singer is better than a marchand," drawled Philip. The curtain fell on the first act. The house was won by the new tenor; it called and recalled him before the curtain. Clearly he had sung his way into the hearts of his audience at once. "Papa, Aunt Nina," said Annette, "you must come behind the scenes with me. I want you to meet him. He is delightful. You must come." Philip was bending ostentatiously over the girl in the next box. Papa and Aunt Nina consented to be dragged behind the scenes. Annette was well known, for, in hopes of some day being an occupant of one of the dressing-rooms, she had made friends with everyone connected with the opera. Eleazar received them, still wearing his brown garb and patriarchal beard. "How you deceived me!" she laughed, when the greetings and introductions were over. "I came to America early," he smiled back at her, "and thought I'd try a little incognito at the Pass. I was not well, you see. It has been of great benefit to me." "I kept my promise," she said in a lower tone. "Thank you; that also has helped me." Annette's teacher began to note a wonderful improvement in his pupil's voice. Never did a girl study so hard or practise so faithfully. It was truly wonderful. Now and then Annette would say to papa as if to reassure herself,-- "And when Monsieur Cherbart says I am ready to go to Paris, I may go, papa?" And papa would say a "Certainly" that would send her back to the piano with renewed ardour. As for Monsieur LeConte, he was the idol of New Orleans. Seldom had there been a tenor who had sung himself so completely into the very hearts of a populace. When he was billed, the opera displayed "Standing Room" signs, no matter what the other attractions in the city might be. Sometimes Monsieur LeConte delighted small audiences in Annette's parlour, when the hostess was in a perfect flutter of happiness. Not often, you know, for the leading tenor was in great demand at the homes of society queens. "Do you know," said Annette, petulantly, one evening, "I wish for the old days at Pass Christian." "So do I," he answered tenderly; "will you repeat them with me next summer?" "If I only could!" she gasped. Still she might have been happy, had it not been for Madame Dubeau,--Madame Dubeau, the flute-voiced leading soprano, who wore the single dainty curl on her forehead, and thrilled her audiences oftentimes more completely than the fisherman. Madame Dubeau was La Juive to his Eleazar, Leonore to his Manfred, Elsa to his Lohengrin, Aida to his Rhadames, Marguerite to his Faust; in brief, Madame Dubeau was his opposite. She caressed him as Mignon, pleaded with him as Michaela, died for him in "Les Huguenots," broke her heart for love of him in "La Favorite." How could he help but love her, Annette asked herself, how could he? Madame Dubeau was beautiful and gifted and charming. Once she whispered her fears to him when there was the meagrest bit of an opportunity. He laughed. "You don't understand, little one," he said tenderly; "the relations of professional people to each other are peculiar. After you go to Paris, you will know." Still, New Orleans had built up its romance, and gossiped accordingly. "Have you heard the news?" whispered Lola to Annette, leaning from her box at the opera one night. The curtain had just gone up on "Herodias," and for some reason or other, the audience applauded with more warmth than usual. There was a noticeable number of good-humoured, benignant smiles on the faces of the applauders. "No," answered Annette, breathlessly,--"no, indeed, Lola; I am going to Paris next week. I am so delighted I can't stop to think." "Yes, that is excellent," said Lola, "but all New Orleans is smiling at the romance. Monsieur LeConte and Madame Dubeau were quietly married last night, but it leaked out this afternoon. See all the applause she's receiving!" Annette leaned back in her chair, very white and still. Her box was empty after the first act, and a quiet little tired voice that was almost too faint to be heard in the carriage on the way home, said-- "Papa, I don't think I care to go to Paris, after all." M'SIEU FORTIER'S VIOLIN Slowly, one by one, the lights in the French Opera go out, until there is but a single glimmer of pale yellow flickering in the great dark space, a few moments ago all a-glitter with jewels and the radiance of womanhood and a-clash with music. Darkness now, and silence, and a great haunted hush over all, save for the distant cheery voice of a stage hand humming a bar of the opera. The glimmer of gas makes a halo about the bowed white head of a little old man putting his violin carefully away in its case with aged, trembling, nervous fingers. Old M'sieu Fortier was the last one out every night. Outside the air was murky, foggy. Gas and electricity were but faint splotches of light on the thick curtain of fog and mist. Around the opera was a mighty bustle of carriages and drivers and footmen, with a car gaining headway in the street now and then, a howling of names and numbers, the laughter and small talk of cloaked society stepping slowly to its carriages, and the more bourgeoisie vocalisation of the foot passengers who streamed along and hummed little bits of music. The fog's denseness was confusing, too, and at one moment it seemed that the little narrow street would become inextricably choked and remain so until some mighty engine would blow the crowd into atoms. It had been a crowded night. From around Toulouse Street, where led the entrance to the troisiemes, from the grand stairway, from the entrance to the quatriemes, the human stream poured into the street, nearly all with a song on their lips. M'sieu Fortier stood at the corner, blinking at the beautiful ladies in their carriages. He exchanged a hearty salutation with the saloon-keeper at the corner, then, tenderly carrying his violin case, he trudged down Bourbon Street, a little old, bent, withered figure, with shoulders shrugged up to keep warm, as though the faded brown overcoat were not thick enough. Down on Bayou Road, not so far from Claiborne Street, was a house, little and old and queer, but quite large enough to hold M'sieu Fortier, a wrinkled dame, and a white cat. He was home but little, for on nearly every day there were rehearsals; then on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday nights, and twice Sundays there were performances, so Ma'am Jeanne and the white cat kept house almost always alone. Then, when M'sieu Fortier was at home, why, it was practice, practice all the day, and smoke, snore, sleep at night. Altogether it was not very exhilarating. M'sieu Fortier had played first violin in the orchestra ever since--well, no one remembered his not playing there. Sometimes there would come breaks in the seasons, and for a year the great building would be dark and silent. Then M'sieu Fortier would do jobs of playing here and there, one night for this ball, another night for that soiree dansante, and in the day, work at his trade,--that of a cigar-maker. But now for seven years there had been no break in the season, and the little old violinist was happy. There is nothing sweeter than a regular job and good music to play, music into which one can put some soul, some expression, and which one must study to understand. Dance music, of the frivolous, frothy kind deemed essential to soirees, is trivial, easy, uninteresting. So M'sieu Fortier, Ma'am Jeanne, and the white cat lived a peaceful, uneventful existence out on Bayou Road. When the opera season was over in February, M'sieu went back to cigar-making, and the white cat purred none the less contentedly. It had been a benefit to-night for the leading tenor, and he had chosen "Roland a Ronceveaux," a favourite this season, for his farewell. And, mon Dieu, mused the little M'sieu, but how his voice had rung out bell-like, piercing above the chorus of the first act! Encore after encore was given, and the bravos of the troisiemes were enough to stir the most sluggish of pulses. "Superbes Pyrenees Qui dressez dans le ciel, Vos cimes couronnees D'un hiver eternelle, Pour nous livrer passage Ouvrez vos larges flancs, Faites faire l'orage, Voici, venir les Francs!" M'sieu quickened his pace down Bourbon Street as he sang the chorus to himself in a thin old voice, and then, before he could see in the thick fog, he had run into two young men. "I--I--beg your pardon,--messieurs," he stammered. "Most certainly," was the careless response; then the speaker, taking a second glance at the object of the rencontre, cried joyfully: "Oh, M'sieu Fortier, is it you? Why, you are so happy, singing your love sonnet to your lady's eyebrow, that you didn't see a thing but the moon, did you? And who is the fair one who should clog your senses so?" There was a deprecating shrug from the little man. "Ma foi, but monsieur must know fo' sho', dat I am too old for love songs!" "I know nothing save that I want that violin of yours. When is it to be mine, M'sieu Fortier?" "Nevare, nevare!" exclaimed M'sieu, gripping on as tightly to the case as if he feared it might be wrenched from him. "Me a lovere, and to sell mon violon! Ah, so ver' foolish!" "Martel," said the first speaker to his companion as they moved on up town, "I wish you knew that little Frenchman. He's a unique specimen. He has the most exquisite violin I've seen in years; beautiful and mellow as a genuine Cremona, and he can make the music leap, sing, laugh, sob, skip, wail, anything you like from under his bow when he wishes. It's something wonderful. We are good friends. Picked him up in my French-town rambles. I've been trying to buy that instrument since--" "To throw it aside a week later?" lazily inquired Martel. "You are like the rest of these nineteenth-century vandals, you can see nothing picturesque that you do not wish to deface for a souvenir; you cannot even let simple happiness alone, but must needs destroy it in a vain attempt to make it your own or parade it as an advertisement." As for M'sieu Fortier, he went right on with his song and turned into Bayou Road, his shoulders still shrugged high as though he were cold, and into the quaint little house, where Ma'am Jeanne and the white cat, who always waited up for him at nights, were both nodding over the fire. It was not long after this that the opera closed, and M'sieu went back to his old out-of-season job. But somehow he did not do as well this spring and summer as always. There is a certain amount of cunning and finesse required to roll a cigar just so, that M'sieu seemed to be losing, whether from age or deterioration it was hard to tell. Nevertheless, there was just about half as much money coming in as formerly, and the quaint little pucker between M'sieu's eyebrows which served for a frown came oftener and stayed longer than ever before. "Minesse," he said one day to the white cat,--he told all his troubles to her; it was of no use to talk to Ma'am Jeanne, she was too deaf to understand,--"Minesse, we are gettin' po'. You' pere git h'old, an' hees han's dey go no mo' rapidement, an' dere be no mo' soirees dese day. Minesse, eef la saison don' hurry up, we shall eat ver' lil' meat." And Minesse curled her tail and purred. Before the summer had fairly begun, strange rumours began to float about in musical circles. M. Mauge would no longer manage the opera, but it would be turned into the hands of Americans, a syndicate. Bah! These English-speaking people could do nothing unless there was a trust, a syndicate, a company immense and dishonest. It was going to be a guarantee business, with a strictly financial basis. But worse than all this, the new manager, who was now in France, would not only procure the artists, but a new orchestra, a new leader. M'sieu Fortier grew apprehensive at this, for he knew what the loss of his place would mean to him. September and October came, and the papers were filled with accounts of the new artists from France and of the new orchestra leader too. He was described as a most talented, progressive, energetic young man. M'sieu Fortier's heart sank at the word "progressive." He was anything but that. The New Orleans Creole blood flowed too sluggishly in his old veins. November came; the opera reopened. M'sieu Fortier was not re-engaged. "Minesse," he said with a catch in his voice that strongly resembled a sob, "Minesse, we mus' go hongry sometime. Ah, mon pauvre violon! Ah, mon Dieu, dey put us h'out, an' dey will not have us. Nev' min', we will sing anyhow." And drawing his bow across the strings, he sang in his thin, quavering voice, "Salut demeure, chaste et pure." It is strange what a peculiar power of fascination former haunts have for the human mind. The criminal, after he has fled from justice, steals back and skulks about the scene of his crime; the employee thrown from work hangs about the place of his former industry; the schoolboy, truant or expelled, peeps in at the school-gate and taunts the good boys within. M'sieu Fortier was no exception. Night after night of the performances he climbed the stairs of the opera and sat, an attentive listener to the orchestra, with one ear inclined to the stage, and a quizzical expression on his wrinkled face. Then he would go home, and pat Minesse, and fondle the violin. "Ah, Minesse, dose new player! Not one bit can dey play. Such tones, Minesse, such tones! All the time portemento, oh, so ver' bad! Ah, mon chere violon, we can play." And he would play and sing a romance, and smile tenderly to himself. At first it used to be into the deuxiemes that M'sieu Fortier went, into the front seats. But soon they were too expensive, and after all, one could hear just as well in the fourth row as in the first. After a while even the rear row of the deuxiemes was too costly, and the little musician wended his way with the plebeians around on Toulouse Street, and climbed the long, tedious flight of stairs into the troisiemes. It makes no difference to be one row higher. It was more to the liking, after all. One felt more at home up here among the people. If one was thirsty, one could drink a glass of wine or beer being passed about by the libretto boys, and the music sounded just as well. But it happened one night that M'sieu could not even afford to climb the Toulouse Street stairs. To be sure, there was yet another gallery, the quatriemes, where the peanut boys went for a dime, but M'sieu could not get down to that yet. So he stayed outside until all the beautiful women in their warm wraps, a bright-hued chattering throng, came down the grand staircase to their carriages. It was on one of these nights that Courcey and Martel found him shivering at the corner. "Hello, M'sieu Fortier," cried Courcey, "are you ready to let me have that violin yet?" "For shame!" interrupted Martel. "Fifty dollars, you know," continued Courcey, taking no heed of his friend's interpolation. M'sieu Fortier made a courtly bow. "Eef Monsieur will call at my 'ouse on de morrow, he may have mon violon," he said huskily; then turned abruptly on his heel, and went down Bourbon Street, his shoulders drawn high as though he were cold. When Courcey and Martel entered the gate of the little house on Bayou Road the next day, there floated out to their ears a wordless song thrilling from the violin, a song that told more than speech or tears or gestures could have done of the utter sorrow and desolation of the little old man. They walked softly up the short red brick walk and tapped at the door. Within, M'sieu Fortier was caressing the violin, with silent tears streaming down his wrinkled gray face. There was not much said on either side. Courcey came away with the instrument, leaving the money behind, while Martel grumbled at the essentially sordid, mercenary spirit of the world. M'sieu Fortier turned back into the room, after bowing his visitors out with old-time French courtliness, and turning to the sleepy white cat, said with a dry sob: "Minesse, dere's only me an' you now." About six days later, Courcey's morning dreams were disturbed by the announcement of a visitor. Hastily doing a toilet, he descended the stairs to find M'sieu Fortier nervously pacing the hall floor. "I come fo' bring back you' money, yaas. I cannot sleep, I cannot eat, I only cry, and t'ink, and weesh fo' mon violon; and Minesse, an' de ol' woman too, dey mope an' look bad too, all for mon violon. I try fo' to use dat money, but eet burn an' sting lak blood money. I feel lak' I done sol' my child. I cannot go at l'opera no mo', I t'ink of mon violon. I starve befo' I live widout. My heart, he is broke, I die for mon violon." Courcey left the room and returned with the instrument. "M'sieu Fortier," he said, bowing low, as he handed the case to the little man, "take your violin; it was a whim with me, a passion with you. And as for the money, why, keep that too; it was worth a hundred dollars to have possessed such an instrument even for six days." BY THE BAYOU ST. JOHN The Bayou St. John slowly makes its dark-hued way through reeds and rushes, high banks and flat slopes, until it casts itself into the turbulent bosom of Lake Pontchartrain. It is dark, like the passionate women of Egypt; placid, like their broad brows; deep, silent, like their souls. Within its bosom are hidden romances and stories, such as were sung by minstrels of old. From the source to the mouth is not far distant, visibly speaking, but in the life of the bayou a hundred heart-miles could scarce measure it. Just where it winds about the northwest of the city are some of its most beautiful bits, orange groves on one side, and quaint old Spanish gardens on the other. Who cares that the bridges are modern, and that here and there pert boat-houses rear their prim heads? It is the bayou, even though it be invaded with the ruthless vandalism of the improving idea, and can a boat-house kill the beauty of a moss-grown centurion of an oak with a history as old as the city? Can an iron bridge with tarantula piers detract from the song of a mocking-bird in a fragrant orange grove? We know that farther out, past the Confederate Soldiers' Home,--that rose-embowered, rambling place of gray-coated, white-haired old men with broken hearts for a lost cause,--it flows, unimpeded by the faintest conception of man, and we love it all the more that, like the Priestess of Isis, it is calm-browed, even in indignity. To its banks at the end of Moss Street, one day there came a man and a maiden. They were both tall and lithe and slender, with the agility of youth and fire. He was the final concentration of the essence of Spanish passion filtered into an American frame; she, a repressed Southern exotic, trying to fit itself into the niches of a modern civilisation. Truly, a fitting couple to seek the bayou banks. They climbed the levee that stretched a feeble check to waters that seldom rise, and on the other side of the embankment, at the brink of the river, she sat on a log, and impatiently pulled off the little cap she wore. The skies were gray, heavy, overcast, with an occasional wind-rift in the clouds that only revealed new depths of grayness behind; the tideless waters murmured a faint ripple against the logs and jutting beams of the breakwater, and were answered by the crescendo wail of the dried reeds on the other bank,--reeds that rustled and moaned among themselves for the golden days of summer sunshine. He stood up, his dark form a slender silhouette against the sky; she looked upward from her log, and their eyes met with an exquisite shock of recognising understanding; dark eyes into dark eyes, Iberian fire into Iberian fire, soul unto soul: it was enough. He sat down and took her into his arms, and in the eerie murmur of the storm coming they talked of the future. "And then I hope to go to Italy or France. It is only there, beneath those far Southern skies, that I could ever hope to attain to anything that the soul within me says I can. I have wasted so much time in the mere struggle for bread, while the powers of a higher calling have clamoured for recognition and expression. I will go some day and redeem myself." She was silent a moment, watching with half-closed lids a dejected-looking hunter on the other bank, and a lean dog who trailed through the reeds behind him with drooping tail. Then she asked: "And I--what will become of me?" "You, Athanasia? There is a great future before you, little woman, and I and my love can only mar it. Try to forget me and go your way. I am only the epitome of unhappiness and ill-success." But she laughed and would have none of it. Will you ever forget that day, Athanasia? How the little gamins, Creole throughout, came half shyly near the log, fishing, and exchanging furtive whispers and half-concealed glances at the silent couple. Their angling was rewarded only by a little black water-moccasin that wriggled and forked its venomous red tongue in an attempt to exercise its death-dealing prerogative. This Athanasia insisted must go back into its native black waters, and paid the price the boys asked that it might enjoy its freedom. The gamins laughed and chattered in their soft patois; the Don smiled tenderly upon Athanasia, and she durst not look at the reeds as she talked, lest their crescendo sadness yield a foreboding. Just then a wee girl appeared, clad in a multi-hued garment, evidently a sister to the small fishermen. Her keen black eyes set in a dusky face glanced sharply and suspiciously at the group as she clambered over the wet embankment, and it seemed the drizzling mist grew colder, the sobbing wind more pronounced in its prophetic wail. Athanasia rose suddenly. "Let us go," she said; "the eternal feminine has spoiled it all." The bayou flows as calmly, as darkly, as full of hidden passions as ever. On a night years after, the moon was shining upon it with a silvery tenderness that seemed brighter, more caressingly lingering than anywhere within the old city. Behind, there rose the spires and towers; before, only the reeds, green now, and soft in their rustlings and whisperings for the future. False reeds! They tell themselves of their happiness to be, and it all ends in dry stalks and drizzling skies. The mocking-bird in the fragrant orange grove sends out his night song, and blends it with the cricket's chirp, as the blossoms of orange and magnolia mingle their perfume with the earthy smell of a summer rain just blown over. Perfect in its stillness, absolute in its beauty, tenderly healing in its suggestion of peace, the night in its clear-lighted, cloudless sweetness enfolds Athanasia, as she stands on the levee and gazes down at the old log, now almost hidden in the luxuriant grass. "It was the eternal feminine that spoiled our dream that day as it spoiled the after life, was it not?" But the Bayou St. John did not answer. It merely gathered into its silent bosom another broken-hearted romance, and flowed dispassionately on its way. WHEN THE BAYOU OVERFLOWS When the sun goes down behind the great oaks along the Bayou Teche near Franklin, it throws red needles of light into the dark woods, and leaves a great glow on the still bayou. Ma'am Mouton paused at her gate and cast a contemplative look at the red sky. "Hit will rain to-morrow, sho'. I mus' git in my t'ings." Ma'am Mouton's remark must have been addressed to herself or to the lean dog, for no one else was visible. She moved briskly about the yard, taking things from the line, when Louisette's voice called cheerily: "Ah, Ma'am Mouton, can I help?" Louisette was petite and plump and black-haired. Louisette's eyes danced, and her lips were red and tempting. Ma'am Mouton's face relaxed as the small brown hands relieved hers of their burden. "Sylves', has he come yet?" asked the red mouth. "Mais non, ma chere," said Ma'am Mouton, sadly, "I can' tell fo' w'y he no come home soon dese day. Ah me, I feel lak' somet'ing goin' happen. He so strange." Even as she spoke a quick nervous step was heard crunching up the brick walk. Sylves' paused an instant without the kitchen door, his face turned to the setting sun. He was tall and slim and agile; a true 'cajan. "Bon jour, Louisette," he laughed. "Eh, maman!" "Ah, my son, you are ver' late." Sylves' frowned, but said nothing. It was a silent supper that followed. Louisette was sad, Ma'am Mouton sighed now and then, Sylves' was constrained. "Maman," he said at length, "I am goin' away." Ma'am Mouton dropped her fork and stared at him with unseeing eyes; then, as she comprehended his remark, she put her hand out to him with a pitiful gesture. "Sylves'!" cried Louisette, springing to her feet. "Maman, don't, don't!" he said weakly; then gathering strength from the silence, he burst forth: "Yaas, I 'm goin' away to work. I 'm tired of dis, jus' dig, dig, work in de fiel', nothin' to see but de cloud, de tree, de bayou. I don't lak' New Orleans; it too near here, dere no mo' money dere. I go up fo' Mardi Gras, an' de same people, de same strit'. I'm goin' to Chicago!" "Sylves'!" screamed both women at once. Chicago! That vast, far-off city that seemed in another world. Chicago! A name to conjure with for wickedness. "W'y, yaas," continued Sylves', "lots of boys I know dere. Henri an' Joseph Lascaud an' Arthur, dey write me what money dey mek' in cigar. I can mek' a livin' too. I can mek' fine cigar. See how I do in New Orleans in de winter." "Oh, Sylves'," wailed Louisette, "den you'll forget me!" "Non, non, ma chere," he answered tenderly. "I will come back when the bayou overflows again, an' maman an' Louisette will have fine present." Ma'am Mouton had bowed her head on her hands, and was rocking to and fro in an agony of dry-eyed misery. Sylves' went to her side and knelt. "Maman," he said softly, "maman, you mus' not cry. All de boys go 'way, an' I will come back reech, an' you won't have fo' to work no mo'." But Ma'am Mouton was inconsolable. It was even as Sylves' had said. In the summer-time the boys of the Bayou Teche would work in the field or in the town of Franklin, hack-driving and doing odd jobs. When winter came, there was a general exodus to New Orleans, a hundred miles away, where work was to be had as cigar-makers. There is money, plenty of it, in cigar-making, if one can get in the right place. Of late, however, there had been a general slackness of the trade. Last winter oftentimes Sylves' had walked the streets out of work. Many were the Creole boys who had gone to Chicago to earn a living, for the cigar-making trade flourishes there wonderfully. Friends of Sylves' had gone, and written home glowing accounts of the money to be had almost for the asking. When one's blood leaps for new scenes, new adventures, and one needs money, what is the use of frittering away time alternately between the Bayou Teche and New Orleans? Sylves' had brooded all summer, and now that September had come, he was determined to go. Louisette, the orphan, the girl-lover, whom everyone in Franklin knew would some day be Ma'am Mouton's daughter-in-law, wept and pleaded in vain. Sylves' kissed her quivering lips. "Ma chere," he would say, "t'ink, I will bring you one fine diamon' ring, nex' spring, when de bayou overflows again." Louisette would fain be content with this promise. As for Ma'am Mouton, she seemed to have grown ages older. Her Sylves' was going from her; Sylves', whose trips to New Orleans had been a yearly source of heart-break, was going far away for months to that mistily wicked city, a thousand miles away. October came, and Sylves' had gone. Ma'am Mouton had kept up bravely until the last, when with one final cry she extended her arms to the pitiless train bearing him northward. Then she and Louisette went home drearily, the one leaning upon the other. Ah, that was a great day when the first letter came from Chicago! Louisette came running in breathlessly from the post-office, and together they read it again and again. Chicago was such a wonderful city, said Sylves'. Why, it was always like New Orleans at Mardi Gras with the people. He had seen Joseph Lascaud, and he had a place to work promised him. He was well, but he wanted, oh, so much, to see maman and Louisette. But then, he could wait. Was ever such a wonderful letter? Louisette sat for an hour afterwards building gorgeous air-castles, while Ma'am Mouton fingered the paper and murmured prayers to the Virgin for Sylves'. When the bayou overflowed again? That would be in April. Then Louisette caught herself looking critically at her slender brown fingers, and blushed furiously, though Ma'am Mouton could not see her in the gathering twilight. Next week there was another letter, even more wonderful than the first. Sylves' had found work. He was making cigars, and was earning two dollars a day. Such wages! Ma'am Mouton and Louisette began to plan pretty things for the brown cottage on the Teche. That was a pleasant winter, after all. True, there was no Sylves', but then he was always in New Orleans for a few months any way. There were his letters, full of wondrous tales of the great queer city, where cars went by ropes underground, and where there was no Mardi Gras and the people did not mind Lent. Now and then there would be a present, a keepsake for Louisette, and some money for maman. They would plan improvements for the cottage, and Louisette began to do sewing and dainty crochet, which she would hide with a blush if anyone hinted at a trousseau. It was March now, and Spring-time. The bayou began to sweep down between its banks less sluggishly than before; it was rising, and soon would spread over its tiny levees. The doors could be left open now, though the trees were not yet green; but then down here the trees do not swell and bud slowly and tease you for weeks with promises of greenness. Dear no, they simply look mysterious, and their twigs shake against each other and tell secrets of the leaves that will soon be born. Then one morning you awake, and lo, it is a green world! The boughs have suddenly clothed themselves all in a wondrous garment, and you feel the blood run riot in your veins out of pure sympathy. One day in March, it was warm and sweet. Underfoot were violets, and wee white star flowers peering through the baby-grass. The sky was blue, with flecks of white clouds reflecting themselves in the brown bayou. Louisette tripped up the red brick walk with the Chicago letter in her hand, and paused a minute at the door to look upon the leaping waters, her eyes dancing. "I know the bayou must be ready to overflow," went the letter in the carefully phrased French that the brothers taught at the parochial school, "and I am glad, for I want to see the dear maman and my Louisette. I am not so well, and Monsieur le docteur says it is well for me to go to the South again." Monsieur le docteur! Sylves' not well! The thought struck a chill to the hearts of Ma'am Mouton and Louisette, but not for long. Of course, Sylves' was not well, he needed some of maman's tisanes. Then he was homesick; it was to be expected. At last the great day came, Sylves' would be home. The brown waters of the bayou had spread until they were seemingly trying to rival the Mississippi in width. The little house was scrubbed and cleaned until it shone again. Louisette had looked her dainty little dress over and over to be sure that there was not a flaw to be found wherein Sylves' could compare her unfavourably to the stylish Chicago girls. The train rumbled in on the platform, and two pair of eyes opened wide for the first glimpse of Sylves'. The porter, all officiousness and brass buttons, bustled up to Ma'am Mouton. "This is Mrs. Mouton?" he inquired deferentially. Ma'am Mouton nodded, her heart sinking. "Where is Sylves'?" "He is here, madam." There appeared Joseph Lascaud, then some men bearing Something. Louisette put her hands up to her eyes to hide the sight, but Ma'am Mouton was rigid. "It was too cold for him," Joseph was saying to almost deaf ears, "and he took the consumption. He thought he could get well when he come home. He talk all the way down about the bayou, and about you and Louisette. Just three hours ago he had a bad hemorrhage, and he died from weakness. Just three hours ago. He said he wanted to get home and give Louisette her diamond ring, when the bayou overflowed." MR. BAPTISTE He might have had another name; we never knew. Some one had christened him Mr. Baptiste long ago in the dim past, and it sufficed. No one had ever been known who had the temerity to ask him for another cognomen, for though he was a mild-mannered little man, he had an uncomfortable way of shutting up oyster-wise and looking disagreeable when approached concerning his personal history. He was small: most Creole men are small when they are old. It is strange, but a fact. It must be that age withers them sooner and more effectually than those of un-Latinised extraction. Mr. Baptiste was, furthermore, very much wrinkled and lame. Like the Son of Man, he had nowhere to lay his head, save when some kindly family made room for him in a garret or a barn. He subsisted by doing odd jobs, white-washing, cleaning yards, doing errands, and the like. The little old man was a frequenter of the levee. Never a day passed that his quaint little figure was not seen moving up and down about the ships. Chiefly did he haunt the Texas and Pacific warehouses and the landing-place of the Morgan-line steamships. This seemed like madness, for these spots are almost the busiest on the levee, and the rough seamen and 'longshoremen have least time to be bothered with small weak folks. Still there was method in the madness of Mr. Baptiste. The Morgan steamships, as every one knows, ply between New Orleans and Central and South American ports, doing the major part of the fruit trade; and many were the baskets of forgotten fruit that Mr. Baptiste took away with him unmolested. Sometimes, you know, bananas and mangoes and oranges and citrons will half spoil, particularly if it has been a bad voyage over the stormy Gulf, and the officers of the ships will give away stacks of fruit, too good to go into the river, too bad to sell to the fruit-dealers. You could see Mr. Baptiste trudging up the street with his quaint one-sided walk, bearing his dilapidated basket on one shoulder, a nondescript head-cover pulled over his eyes, whistling cheerily. Then he would slip in at the back door of one of his clients with a brisk,-- "Ah, bonjour, madame. Now here ees jus' a lil' bit fruit, some bananas. Perhaps madame would cook some for Mr. Baptiste?" And madame, who understood and knew his ways, would fry him some of the bananas, and set it before him, a tempting dish, with a bit of madame's bread and meat and coffee thrown in for lagniappe; and Mr. Baptiste would depart, filled and contented, leaving the load of fruit behind as madame's pay. Thus did he eat, and his clients were many, and never too tired or too cross to cook his meals and get their pay in baskets of fruit. One day he slipped in at Madame Garcia's kitchen door with such a woe-begone air, and slid a small sack of nearly ripe plantains on the table with such a misery-laden sigh, that madame, who was fat and excitable, threw up both hands and cried out: "Mon Dieu, Mistare Baptiste, fo' w'y you look lak dat? What ees de mattare?" For answer, Mr. Baptiste shook his head gloomily and sighed again. Madame Garcia moved heavily about the kitchen, putting the plantains in a cool spot and punctuating her foot-steps with sundry "Mon Dieux" and "Miseres." "Dose cotton!" ejaculated Mr. Baptiste, at last. "Ah, mon Dieu!" groaned Madame Garcia, rolling her eyes heavenwards. "Hit will drive de fruit away!" he continued. "Misere!" said Madame Garcia "Hit will." "Oui, out," said Madame Garcia. She had carefully inspected the plantains, and seeing that they were good and wholesome, was inclined to agree with anything Mr. Baptiste said. He grew excited. "Yaas, dose cotton-yardmans, dose 'longsho'mans, dey go out on one strik'. Dey t'row down dey tool an' say dey work no mo' wid niggers. Les veseaux, dey lay in de river, no work, no cargo, yaas. Den de fruit ship, dey can' mak' lan', de mans, dey t'reaten an' say t'ings. Dey mak' big fight, yaas. Dere no mo' work on de levee, lak dat. Ever'body jus' walk roun' an' say cuss word, yaas!" "Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" groaned Madame Garcia, rocking her guinea-blue-clad self to and fro. Mr. Baptiste picked up his nondescript head-cover and walked out through the brick-reddened alley, talking excitedly to himself. Madame Garcia called after him to know if he did not want his luncheon, but he shook his head and passed on. Down on the levee it was even as Mr. Baptiste had said. The 'long-shoremen, the cotton-yardmen, and the stevedores had gone out on a strike. The levee lay hot and unsheltered under the glare of a noonday sun. The turgid Mississippi scarce seemed to flow, but gave forth a brazen gleam from its yellow bosom. Great vessels lay against the wharf, silent and unpopulated. Excited groups of men clustered here and there among bales of uncompressed cotton, lying about in disorderly profusion. Cargoes of molasses and sugar gave out a sticky sweet smell, and now and then the fierce rays of the sun would kindle tiny blazes in the cotton and splinter-mixed dust underfoot. Mr. Baptiste wandered in and out among the groups of men, exchanging a friendly salutation here and there. He looked the picture of woe-begone misery. "Hello, Mr. Baptiste," cried a big, brawny Irishman, "sure an' you look, as if you was about to be hanged." "Ah, mon Dieu," said Mr. Baptiste, "dose fruit ship be ruined fo' dees strik'." "Damn the fruit!" cheerily replied the Irishman, artistically disposing of a mouthful of tobacco juice. "It ain't the fruit we care about, it's the cotton." "Hear! hear!" cried a dozen lusty comrades. Mr. Baptiste shook his head and moved sorrowfully away. "Hey, by howly St. Patrick, here's that little fruit-eater!" called the centre of another group of strikers perched on cotton-bales. "Hello! Where--" began a second; but the leader suddenly held up his hand for silence, and the men listened eagerly. It might not have been a sound, for the levee lay quiet and the mules on the cotton-drays dozed languidly, their ears pitched at varying acute angles. But the practiced ears of the men heard a familiar sound stealing up over the heated stillness. "Oh--ho--ho--humph--humph--humph--ho--ho--ho--oh--o--o--humph!" Then the faint rattle of chains, and the steady thump of a machine pounding. If ever you go on the levee you'll know that sound, the rhythmic song of the stevedores heaving cotton-bales, and the steady thump, thump, of the machine compressing them within the hold of the ship. Finnegan, the leader, who had held up his hand for silence, uttered an oath. "Scabs! Men, come on!" There was no need for a further invitation. The men rose in sullen wrath and went down the levee, the crowd gathering in numbers as it passed along. Mr. Baptiste followed in its wake, now and then sighing a mournful protest which was lost in the roar of the men. "Scabs!" Finnegan had said; and the word was passed along, until it seemed that the half of the second District knew and had risen to investigate. "Oh--ho--ho--humph--humph--humph--oh--ho--ho--oh--o--o--humph!" The rhythmic chorus sounded nearer, and the cause manifested itself when the curve of the levee above the French Market was passed. There rose a White Star steamer, insolently settling itself to the water as each consignment of cotton bales was compressed into her hold. "Niggers!" roared Finnegan wrathily. "Niggers! niggers! Kill 'em, scabs!" chorused the crowd. With muscles standing out like cables through their blue cotton shirts, and sweat rolling from glossy black skins, the Negro stevedores were at work steadily labouring at the cotton, with the rhythmic song swinging its cadence in the hot air. The roar of the crowd caused the men to look up with momentary apprehension, but at the over-seer's reassuring word they bent back to work. Finnegan was a Titan. With livid face and bursting veins he ran into the street facing the French Market, and uprooted a huge block of paving stone. Staggering under its weight, he rushed back to the ship, and with one mighty effort hurled it into the hold. The delicate poles of the costly machine tottered in the air, then fell forward with a crash as the whole iron framework in the hold collapsed. "Damn ye," shouted Finnegan, "now yez can pack yer cotton!" The crowd's cheers at this changed to howls, as the Negroes, infuriated at their loss, for those costly machines belong to the labourers and not to the ship-owners, turned upon the mob and began to throw brickbats, pieces of iron, chunks of wood, anything that came to hand. It was pandemonium turned loose over a turgid stream, with a malarial sun to heat the passions to fever point. Mr. Baptiste had taken refuge behind a bread-stall on the outside of the market. He had taken off his cap, and was weakly cheering the Negroes on. "Bravo!" cheered Mr. Baptiste. "Will yez look at that damned fruit-eatin' Frinchman!" howled McMahon. "Cheerin' the niggers, are you?" and he let fly a brickbat in the direction of the bread-stall. "Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" wailed the bread-woman. Mr. Baptiste lay very still, with a great ugly gash in his wrinkled brown temple. Fishmen and vegetable marchands gathered around him in a quick, sympathetic mass. The individual, the concrete bit of helpless humanity, had more interest for them than the vast, vague fighting mob beyond. The noon-hour pealed from the brazen throats of many bells, and the numerous hoarse whistles of the steam-boats called the unheeded luncheon-time to the levee workers. The war waged furiously, and groans of the wounded mingled with curses and roars from the combatants. "Killed instantly," said the surgeon, carefully lifting Mr. Baptiste into the ambulance. Tramp, tramp, tramp, sounded the militia steadily marching down Decatur Street. "Whist! do yez hear!" shouted Finnegan; and the conflict had ceased ere the yellow river could reflect the sun from the polished bayonets. You remember, of course, how long the strike lasted, and how many battles were fought and lives lost before the final adjustment of affairs. It was a fearsome war, and many forgot afterwards whose was the first life lost in the struggle,--poor little Mr. Baptiste's, whose body lay at the Morgue unclaimed for days before it was finally dropped unnamed into Potter's Field. A CARNIVAL JANGLE There is a merry jangle of bells in the air, an all-pervading sense of jester's noise, and the flaunting vividness of royal colours. The streets swarm with humanity,--humanity in all shapes, manners, forms, laughing, pushing, jostling, crowding, a mass of men and women and children, as varied and assorted in their several individual peculiarities as ever a crowd that gathered in one locality since the days of Babel. It is Carnival in New Orleans; a brilliant Tuesday in February, when the very air gives forth an ozone intensely exhilarating, making one long to cut capers. The buildings are a blazing mass of royal purple and golden yellow, national flags, bunting, and decorations that laugh in the glint of the Midas sun. The streets are a crush of jesters and maskers, Jim Crows and clowns, ballet girls and Mephistos, Indians and monkeys; of wild and sudden flashes of music, of glittering pageants and comic ones, of befeathered and belled horses; a dream of colour and melody and fantasy gone wild in an effervescent bubble of beauty that shifts and changes and passes kaleidoscope-like before the bewildered eye. A bevy of bright-eyed girls and boys of that uncertain age that hovers between childhood and maturity, were moving down Canal Street when there was a sudden jostle with another crowd meeting them. For a minute there was a deafening clamour of shouts and laughter, cracking of the whips, which all maskers carry, a jingle and clatter of carnival bells, and the masked and unmasked extricated themselves and moved from each other's paths. But in the confusion a tall Prince of Darkness had whispered to one of the girls in the unmasked crowd: "You'd better come with us, Flo; you're wasting time in that tame gang. Slip off, they'll never miss you; we'll get you a rig, and show you what life is." And so it happened, when a half-hour passed, and the bright-eyed bevy missed Flo and couldn't find her, wisely giving up the search at last, she, the quietest and most bashful of the lot, was being initiated into the mysteries of "what life is." Down Bourbon Street and on Toulouse and St. Peter Streets there are quaint little old-world places where one may be disguised effectually for a tiny consideration. Thither, guided by the shapely Mephisto and guarded by the team of jockeys and ballet girls, tripped Flo. Into one of the lowest-ceiled, dingiest, and most ancient-looking of these shops they stepped. "A disguise for the demoiselle," announced Mephisto to the woman who met them. She was small and wizened and old, with yellow, flabby jaws, a neck like the throat of an alligator, and straight, white hair that stood from her head uncannily stiff. "But the demoiselle wishes to appear a boy, un petit garcon?" she inquired, gazing eagerly at Flo's long, slender frame. Her voice was old and thin, like the high quavering of an imperfect tuning-fork, and her eyes were sharp as talons in their grasping glance. "Mademoiselle does not wish such a costume," gruffly responded Mephisto. "Ma foi, there is no other," said the ancient, shrugging her shoulders. "But one is left now; mademoiselle would make a fine troubadour." "Flo," said Mephisto, "it's a dare-devil scheme, try it; no one will ever know it but us, and we'll die before we tell. Besides, we must; it's late, and you couldn't find your crowd." And that was why you might have seen a Mephisto and a slender troubadour of lovely form, with mandolin flung across his shoulder, followed by a bevy of jockeys and ballet girls, laughing and singing as they swept down Rampart Street. When the flash and glare and brilliancy of Canal Street have palled upon the tired eye, when it is yet too soon to go home to such a prosaic thing as dinner, and one still wishes for novelty, then it is wise to go into the lower districts. There is fantasy and fancy and grotesqueness run wild in the costuming and the behaviour of the maskers. Such dances and whoops and leaps as these hideous Indians and devils do indulge in; such wild curvetings and long walks! In the open squares, where whole groups do congregate, it is wonderfully amusing. Then, too, there is a ball in every available hall, a delirious ball, where one may dance all day for ten cents; dance and grow mad for joy, and never know who were your companions, and be yourself unknown. And in the exhilaration of the day, one walks miles and miles, and dances and skips, and the fatigue is never felt. In Washington Square, away down where Royal Street empties its stream of children great and small into the broad channel of Elysian Fields Avenue, there was a perfect Indian pow-wow. With a little imagination one might have willed away the vision of the surrounding houses, and fancied one's self again in the forest, where the natives were holding a sacred riot. The square was filled with spectators, masked and un-masked. It was amusing to watch these mimic Red-men, they seemed so fierce and earnest. Suddenly one chief touched another on the elbow. "See that Mephisto and troubadour over there?" he whispered huskily. "Yes; who are they?" "I don't know the devil," responded the other, quietly, "but I'd know that other form anywhere. It's Leon, see? I know those white hands like a woman's and that restless head. Ha!" "But there may be a mistake." "No. I'd know that one anywhere; I feel it is he. I'll pay him now. Ah, sweetheart, you've waited long, but you shall feast now!" He was caressing something long and lithe and glittering beneath his blanket. In a masked dance it is easy to give a death-blow between the shoulders. Two crowds meet and laugh and shout and mingle almost inextricably, and if a shriek of pain should arise, it is not noticed in the din, and when they part, if one should stagger and fall bleeding to the ground, can any one tell who has given the blow? There is nothing but an unknown stiletto on the ground, the crowd has dispersed, and masks tell no tales anyway. There is murder, but by whom? for what? Quien sabe? And that is how it happened on Carnival night, in the last mad moments of Rex's reign, a broken-hearted mother sat gazing wide-eyed and mute at a horrible something that lay across the bed. Outside the long sweet march music of many bands floated in as if in mockery, and the flash of rockets and Bengal lights illumined the dead, white face of the girl troubadour. LITTLE MISS SOPHIE When Miss Sophie knew consciousness again, the long, faint, swelling notes of the organ were dying away in distant echoes through the great arches of the silent church, and she was alone, crouching in a little, forsaken black heap at the altar of the Virgin. The twinkling tapers shone pityingly upon her, the beneficent smile of the white-robed Madonna seemed to whisper comfort. A long gust of chill air swept up the aisles, and Miss Sophie shivered not from cold, but from nervousness. But darkness was falling, and soon the lights would be lowered, and the great massive doors would be closed; so, gathering her thin little cape about her frail shoulders, Miss Sophie hurried out, and along the brilliant noisy streets home. It was a wretched, lonely little room, where the cracks let the boisterous wind whistle through, and the smoky, grimy walls looked cheerless and unhomelike. A miserable little room in a miserable little cottage in one of the squalid streets of the Third District that nature and the city fathers seemed to have forgotten. As bare and comfortless as the room was Miss Sophie's life. She rented these four walls from an unkempt little Creole woman, whose progeny seemed like the promised offspring of Abraham. She scarcely kept the flickering life in her pale little body by the unceasing toil of a pair of bony hands, stitching, stitching, ceaselessly, wearingly, on the bands and pockets of trousers. It was her bread, this monotonous, unending work; and though whole days and nights constant labour brought but the most meagre recompense, it was her only hope of life. She sat before the little charcoal brazier and warmed her transparent, needle-pricked fingers, thinking meanwhile of the strange events of the day. She had been up town to carry the great, black bundle of coarse pants and vests to the factory and to receive her small pittance, and on the way home stopped in at the Jesuit Church to say her little prayer at the altar of the calm white Virgin. There had been a wondrous burst of music from the great organ as she knelt there, an overpowering perfume of many flowers, the glittering dazzle of many lights, and the dainty frou-frou made by the silken skirts of wedding guests. So Miss Sophie stayed to the wedding; for what feminine heart, be it ever so old and seared, does not delight in one? And why should not a poor little Creole old maid be interested too? Then the wedding party had filed in solemnly, to the rolling, swelling tones of the organ. Important-looking groomsmen; dainty, fluffy, white-robed maids; stately, satin-robed, illusion-veiled bride, and happy groom. She leaned forward to catch a better glimpse of their faces. "Ah!"-- Those near the Virgin's altar who heard a faint sigh and rustle on the steps glanced curiously as they saw a slight black-robed figure clutch the railing and lean her head against it. Miss Sophie had fainted. "I must have been hungry," she mused over the charcoal fire in her little room, "I must have been hungry;" and she smiled a wan smile, and busied herself getting her evening meal of coffee and bread and ham. If one were given to pity, the first thought that would rush to one's lips at sight of Miss Sophie would have been, "Poor little woman!" She had come among the bareness and sordidness of this neighbourhood five years ago, robed in crape, and crying with great sobs that seemed to shake the vitality out of her. Perfectly silent, too, she was about her former life; but for all that, Michel, the quartee grocer at the corner, and Madame Laurent, who kept the rabbe shop opposite, had fixed it all up between them, of her sad history and past glories. Not that they knew; but then Michel must invent something when the neighbours came to him as their fountain-head of wisdom. One morning little Miss Sophie opened wide her dingy windows to catch the early freshness of the autumn wind as it whistled through the yellow-leafed trees. It was one of those calm, blue-misted, balmy, November days that New Orleans can have when all the rest of the country is fur-wrapped. Miss Sophie pulled her machine to the window, where the sweet, damp wind could whisk among her black locks. Whirr, whirr, went the machine, ticking fast and lightly over the belts of the rough jeans pants. Whirr, whirr, yes, and Miss Sophie was actually humming a tune! She felt strangely light to-day. "Ma foi," muttered Michel, strolling across the street to where Madame Laurent sat sewing behind the counter on blue and brown-checked aprons, "but the little ma'amselle sings. Perhaps she recollects." "Perhaps," muttered the rabbe woman. But little Miss Sophie felt restless. A strange impulse seemed drawing her up town, and the machine seemed to run slow, slow, before it would stitch all of the endless number of jeans belts. Her fingers trembled with nervous haste as she pinned up the unwieldy black bundle of finished work, and her feet fairly tripped over each other in their eagerness to get to Claiborne Street, where she could board the up-town car. There was a feverish desire to go somewhere, a sense of elation, a foolish happiness that brought a faint echo of colour into her pinched cheeks. She wondered why. No one noticed her in the car. Passengers on the Claiborne line are too much accustomed to frail little black-robed women with big, black bundles; it is one of the city's most pitiful sights. She leaned her head out of the window to catch a glimpse of the oleanders on Bayou Road, when her attention was caught by a conversation in the car. "Yes, it's too bad for Neale, and lately married too," said the elder man. "I can't see what he is to do." Neale! She pricked up her ears. That was the name of the groom in the Jesuit Church. "How did it happen?" languidly inquired the younger. He was a stranger, evidently; a stranger with a high regard for the faultlessness of male attire. "Well, the firm failed first; he didn't mind that much, he was so sure of his uncle's inheritance repairing his lost fortunes; but suddenly this difficulty of identification springs up, and he is literally on the verge of ruin." "Won't some of you fellows who've known him all your lives do to identify him?" "Gracious man, we've tried; but the absurd old will expressly stipulates that he shall be known only by a certain quaint Roman ring, and unless he has it, no identification, no fortune. He has given the ring away, and that settles it." "Well, you 're all chumps. Why doesn't he get the ring from the owner?" "Easily said; but--it seems that Neale had some little Creole love-affair some years ago, and gave this ring to his dusky-eyed fiancee. You know how Neale is with his love-affairs, went off and forgot the girl in a month. It seems, however, she took it to heart,--so much so that he's ashamed to try to find her or the ring." Miss Sophie heard no more as she gazed out into the dusty grass. There were tears in her eyes, hot blinding ones that wouldn't drop for pride, but stayed and scalded. She knew the story, with all its embellishment of heartaches. She knew the ring, too. She remembered the day she had kissed and wept and fondled it, until it seemed her heart must burst under its load of grief before she took it to the pawn-broker's that another might be eased before the end came,--that other her father. The little "Creole love affair" of Neale's had not always been poor and old and jaded-looking; but reverses must come, even Neale knew that, so the ring was at the Mont de Piete. Still he must have it, it was his; it would save him from disgrace and suffering and from bringing the white-gowned bride into sorrow. He must have it; but how? There it was still at the pawn-broker's; no one would have such an odd jewel, and the ticket was home in the bureau drawer. Well, he must have it; she might starve in the attempt. Such a thing as going to him and telling him that he might redeem it was an impossibility. That good, straight-backed, stiff-necked Creole blood would have risen in all its strength and choked her. No; as a present had the quaint Roman circlet been placed upon her finger, as a present should it be returned. The bumping car rode slowly, and the hot thoughts beat heavily in her poor little head. He must have the ring; but how--the ring--the Roman ring--the white-robed bride starving--she was going mad--ah yes--the church. There it was, right in the busiest, most bustling part of the town, its fresco and bronze and iron quaintly suggestive of mediaeval times. Within, all was cool and dim and restful, with the faintest whiff of lingering incense rising and pervading the gray arches. Yes, the Virgin would know and have pity; the sweet, white-robed Virgin at the pretty flower-decked altar, or the one away up in the niche, far above the golden dome where the Host was. Titiche, the busybody of the house, noticed that Miss Sophie's bundle was larger than usual that afternoon. "Ah, poor woman!" sighed Titiche's mother, "she would be rich for Christmas." The bundle grew larger each day, and Miss Sophie grew smaller. The damp, cold rain and mist closed the white-curtained window, but always there behind the sewing-machine drooped and bobbed the little black-robed figure. Whirr, whirr went the wheels, and the coarse jeans pants piled in great heaps at her side. The Claiborne Street car saw her oftener than before, and the sweet white Virgin in the flowered niche above the gold-domed altar smiled at the little supplicant almost every day. "Ma foi," said the slatternly landlady to Madame Laurent and Michel one day, "I no see how she live! Eat? Nothin', nothin', almos', and las' night when it was so cold and foggy, eh? I hav' to mek him build fire. She mos' freeze." Whereupon the rumour spread that Miss Sophie was starving herself to death to get some luckless relative out of jail for Christmas; a rumour which enveloped her scraggy little figure with a kind of halo to the neighbours when she appeared on the streets. November had merged into December, and the little pile of coins was yet far from the sum needed. Dear God! how the money did have to go! The rent and the groceries and the coal, though, to be sure, she used a precious bit of that. Would all the work and saving and skimping do good? Maybe, yes, maybe by Christmas. Christmas Eve on Royal Street is no place for a weakling, for the shouts and carousels of the roisterers will strike fear into the bravest ones. Yet amid the cries and yells, the deafening blow of horns and tin whistles, and the really dangerous fusillade of fireworks, a little figure hurried along, one hand clutching tightly the battered hat that the rude merry-makers had torn off, the other grasping under the thin black cape a worn little pocketbook. Into the Mont de Piete she ran breathless, eager. The ticket? Here, worn, crumpled. The ring? It was not gone? No, thank Heaven! It was a joy well worth her toil, she thought, to have it again. Had Titiche not been shooting crackers on the banquette instead of peering into the crack, as was his wont, his big, round black eyes would have grown saucer-wide to see little Miss Sophie kiss and fondle a ring, an ugly clumsy band of gold. "Ah, dear ring," she murmured, "once you were his, and you shall be his again. You shall be on his finger, and perhaps touch his heart. Dear ring, ma chere petite de ma coeur, cherie de ma coeur. Je t'aime, je t'aime, oui, oui. You are his; you were mine once too. To-night, just one night, I'll keep you--then--to-morrow, you shall go where you can save him." The loud whistles and horns of the little ones rose on the balmy air next morning. No one would doubt it was Christmas Day, even if doors and windows were open wide to let in cool air. Why, there was Christmas even in the very look of the mules on the poky cars; there was Christmas noise in the streets, and Christmas toys and Christmas odours, savoury ones that made the nose wrinkle approvingly, issuing from the kitchen. Michel and Madame Laurent smiled greetings across the street at each other, and the salutation from a passer-by recalled the many-progenied landlady to herself. "Miss Sophie, well, po' soul, not ver' much Chris'mas for her. Mais, I'll jus' call him in fo' to spen' the day with me. Eet'll cheer her a bit." It was so clean and orderly within the poor little room. Not a speck of dust or a litter of any kind on the quaint little old-time high bureau, unless you might except a sheet of paper lying loose with something written on it. Titiche had evidently inherited his prying propensities, for the landlady turned it over and read,-- LOUIS,--Here is the ring. I return it to you. I heard you needed it. I hope it comes not too late. SOPHIE. "The ring, where?" muttered the landlady. There it was, clasped between her fingers on her bosom,--a bosom white and cold, under a cold happy face. Christmas had indeed dawned for Miss Sophie. SISTER JOSEPHA Sister Josepha told her beads mechanically, her fingers numb with the accustomed exercise. The little organ creaked a dismal "O Salutaris," and she still knelt on the floor, her white-bonneted head nodding suspiciously. The Mother Superior gave a sharp glance at the tired figure; then, as a sudden lurch forward brought the little sister back to consciousness, Mother's eyes relaxed into a genuine smile. The bell tolled the end of vespers, and the sombre-robed nuns filed out of the chapel to go about their evening duties. Little Sister Josepha's work was to attend to the household lamps, but there must have been as much oil spilled upon the table to-night as was put in the vessels. The small brown hands trembled so that most of the wicks were trimmed with points at one corner which caused them to smoke that night. "Oh, cher Seigneur," she sighed, giving an impatient polish to a refractory chimney, "it is wicked and sinful, I know, but I am so tired. I can't be happy and sing any more. It doesn't seem right for le bon Dieu to have me all cooped up here with nothing to see but stray visitors, and always the same old work, teaching those mean little girls to sew, and washing and filling the same old lamps. Pah!" And she polished the chimney with a sudden vigorous jerk which threatened destruction. They were rebellious prayers that the red mouth murmured that night, and a restless figure that tossed on the hard dormitory bed. Sister Dominica called from her couch to know if Sister Josepha were ill. "No," was the somewhat short response; then a muttered, "Why can't they let me alone for a minute? That pale-eyed Sister Dominica never sleeps; that's why she is so ugly." About fifteen years before this night some one had brought to the orphan asylum connected with this convent, du Sacre Coeur, a round, dimpled bit of three-year-old humanity, who regarded the world from a pair of gravely twinkling black eyes, and only took a chubby thumb out of a rosy mouth long enough to answer in monosyllabic French. It was a child without an identity; there was but one name that any one seemed to know, and that, too, was vague,--Camille. She grew up with the rest of the waifs; scraps of French and American civilization thrown together to develop a seemingly inconsistent miniature world. Mademoiselle Camille was a queen among them, a pretty little tyrant who ruled the children and dominated the more timid sisters in charge. One day an awakening came. When she was fifteen, and almost fully ripened into a glorious tropical beauty of the type that matures early, some visitors to the convent were fascinated by her and asked the Mother Superior to give the girl into their keeping. Camille fled like a frightened fawn into the yard, and was only unearthed with some difficulty from behind a group of palms. Sulky and pouting, she was led into the parlour, picking at her blue pinafore like a spoiled infant. "The lady and gentleman wish you to go home with them, Camille," said the Mother Superior, in the language of the convent. Her voice was kind and gentle apparently; but the child, accustomed to its various inflections, detected a steely ring behind its softness, like the proverbial iron hand in the velvet glove. "You must understand, madame," continued Mother, in stilted English, "that we never force children from us. We are ever glad to place them in comfortable--how you say that?--quarters--maisons--homes--bien! But we will not make them go if they do not wish." Camille stole a glance at her would-be guardians, and decided instantly, impulsively, finally. The woman suited her; but the man! It was doubtless intuition of the quick, vivacious sort which belonged to her blood that served her. Untutored in worldly knowledge, she could not divine the meaning of the pronounced leers and admiration of her physical charms which gleamed in the man's face, but she knew it made her feel creepy, and stoutly refused to go. Next day Camille was summoned from a task to the Mother Superior's parlour. The other girls gazed with envy upon her as she dashed down the courtyard with impetuous movement. Camille, they decided crossly, received too much notice. It was Camille this, Camille that; she was pretty, it was to be expected. Even Father Ray lingered longer in his blessing when his hands pressed her silky black hair. As she entered the parlour, a strange chill swept over the girl. The room was not an unaccustomed one, for she had swept it many times, but to-day the stiff black chairs, the dismal crucifixes, the gleaming whiteness of the walls, even the cheap lithograph of the Madonna which Camille had always regarded as a perfect specimen of art, seemed cold and mean. "Camille, ma chere," said Mother, "I am extremely displeased with you. Why did you not wish to go with Monsieur and Madame Lafaye yesterday?" The girl uncrossed her hands from her bosom, and spread them out in a deprecating gesture. "Mais, ma mere, I was afraid." Mother's face grew stern. "No foolishness now," she exclaimed. "It is not foolishness, ma mere; I could not help it, but that man looked at me so funny, I felt all cold chills down my back. Oh, dear Mother, I love the convent and the sisters so, I just want to stay and be a sister too, may I?" And thus it was that Camille took the white veil at sixteen years. Now that the period of novitiate was over, it was just beginning to dawn upon her that she had made a mistake. "Maybe it would have been better had I gone with the funny-looking lady and gentleman," she mused bitterly one night. "Oh, Seigneur, I 'm so tired and impatient; it's so dull here, and, dear God, I'm so young." There was no help for it. One must arise in the morning, and help in the refectory with the stupid Sister Francesca, and go about one's duties with a prayerful mien, and not even let a sigh escape when one's head ached with the eternal telling of beads. A great fete day was coming, and an atmosphere of preparation and mild excitement pervaded the brown walls of the convent like a delicate aroma. The old Cathedral around the corner had stood a hundred years, and all the city was rising to do honour to its age and time-softened beauty. There would be a service, oh, but such a one! with two Cardinals, and Archbishops and Bishops, and all the accompanying glitter of soldiers and orchestras. The little sisters of the Convent du Sacre Coeur clasped their hands in anticipation of the holy joy. Sister Josepha curled her lip, she was so tired of churchly pleasures. The day came, a gold and blue spring day, when the air hung heavy with the scent of roses and magnolias, and the sunbeams fairly laughed as they kissed the houses. The old Cathedral stood gray and solemn, and the flowers in Jackson Square smiled cheery birthday greetings across the way. The crowd around the door surged and pressed and pushed in its eagerness to get within. Ribbons stretched across the banquette were of no avail to repress it, and important ushers with cardinal colours could do little more. The Sacred Heart sisters filed slowly in at the side door, creating a momentary flutter as they paced reverently to their seats, guarding the blue-bonneted orphans. Sister Josepha, determined to see as much of the world as she could, kept her big black eyes opened wide, as the church rapidly filled with the fashionably dressed, perfumed, rustling, and self-conscious throng. Her heart beat quickly. The rebellious thoughts that will arise in the most philosophical of us surged in her small heavily gowned bosom. For her were the gray things, the neutral tinted skies, the ugly garb, the coarse meats; for them the rainbow, the ethereal airiness of earthly joys, the bonbons and glaces of the world. Sister Josepha did not know that the rainbow is elusive, and its colours but the illumination of tears; she had never been told that earthly ethereality is necessarily ephemeral, nor that bonbons and glaces, whether of the palate or of the soul, nauseate and pall upon the taste. Dear God, forgive her, for she bent with contrite tears over her worn rosary, and glanced no more at the worldly glitter of femininity. The sunbeams streamed through the high windows in purple and crimson lights upon a veritable fugue of colour. Within the seats, crush upon crush of spring millinery; within the aisles erect lines of gold-braided, gold-buttoned military. Upon the altar, broad sweeps of golden robes, great dashes of crimson skirts, mitres and gleaming crosses, the soft neutral hue of rich lace vestments; the tender heads of childhood in picturesque attire; the proud, golden magnificence of the domed altar with its weighting mass of lilies and wide-eyed roses, and the long candles that sparkled their yellow star points above the reverent throng within the altar rails. The soft baritone of the Cardinal intoned a single phrase in the suspended silence. The censer took up the note in its delicate clink clink, as it swung to and fro in the hands of a fair-haired child. Then the organ, pausing an instant in a deep, mellow, long-drawn note, burst suddenly into a magnificent strain, and the choir sang forth, "Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison." One voice, flute-like, piercing, sweet, rang high over the rest. Sister Josepha heard and trembled, as she buried her face in her hands, and let her tears fall, like other beads, through her rosary. It was when the final word of the service had been intoned, the last peal of the exit march had died away, that she looked up meekly, to encounter a pair of youthful brown eyes gazing pityingly upon her. That was all she remembered for a moment, that the eyes were youthful and handsome and tender. Later, she saw that they were placed in a rather beautiful boyish face, surmounted by waves of brown hair, curling and soft, and that the head was set on a pair of shoulders decked in military uniform. Then the brown eyes marched away with the rest of the rear guard, and the white-bonneted sisters filed out the side door, through the narrow court, back into the brown convent. That night Sister Josepha tossed more than usual on her hard bed, and clasped her fingers often in prayer to quell the wickedness in her heart. Turn where she would, pray as she might, there was ever a pair of tender, pitying brown eyes, haunting her persistently. The squeaky organ at vespers intoned the clank of military accoutrements to her ears, the white bonnets of the sisters about her faded into mists of curling brown hair. Briefly, Sister Josepha was in love. The days went on pretty much as before, save for the one little heart that beat rebelliously now and then, though it tried so hard to be submissive. There was the morning work in the refectory, the stupid little girls to teach sewing, and the insatiable lamps that were so greedy for oil. And always the tender, boyish brown eyes, that looked so sorrowfully at the fragile, beautiful little sister, haunting, following, pleading. Perchance, had Sister Josepha been in the world, the eyes would have been an incident. But in this home of self-repression and retrospection, it was a life-story. The eyes had gone their way, doubtless forgetting the little sister they pitied; but the little sister? The days glided into weeks, the weeks into months. Thoughts of escape had come to Sister Josepha, to flee into the world, to merge in the great city where recognition was impossible, and, working her way like the rest of humanity, perchance encounter the eyes again. It was all planned and ready. She would wait until some morning when the little band of black-robed sisters wended their way to mass at the Cathedral. When it was time to file out the side-door into the courtway, she would linger at prayers, then slip out another door, and unseen glide up Chartres Street to Canal, and once there, mingle in the throng that filled the wide thoroughfare. Beyond this first plan she could think no further. Penniless, garbed, and shaven though she would be, other difficulties never presented themselves to her. She would rely on the mercies of the world to help her escape from this torturing life of inertia. It seemed easy now that the first step of decision had been taken. The Saturday night before the final day had come, and she lay feverishly nervous in her narrow little bed, wondering with wide-eyed fear at the morrow. Pale-eyed Sister Dominica and Sister Francesca were whispering together in the dark silence, and Sister Josepha's ears pricked up as she heard her name. "She is not well, poor child," said Francesca. "I fear the life is too confining." "It is best for her," was the reply. "You know, sister, how hard it would be for her in the world, with no name but Camille, no friends, and her beauty; and then--" Sister Josepha heard no more, for her heart beating tumultuously in her bosom drowned the rest. Like the rush of the bitter salt tide over a drowning man clinging to a spar, came the complete submerging of her hopes of another life. No name but Camille, that was true; no nationality, for she could never tell from whom or whence she came; no friends, and a beauty that not even an ungainly bonnet and shaven head could hide. In a flash she realised the deception of the life she would lead, and the cruel self-torture of wonder at her own identity. Already, as if in anticipation of the world's questionings, she was asking herself, "Who am I? What am I?" The next morning the sisters du Sacre Coeur filed into the Cathedral at High Mass, and bent devout knees at the general confession. "Confiteor Deo omnipotenti," murmured the priest; and tremblingly one little sister followed the words, "Je confesse a Dieu, tout puissant--que j'ai beaucoup peche par pensees--c'est ma faute--c'est ma faute--c'est ma tres grande faute." The organ pealed forth as mass ended, the throng slowly filed out, and the sisters paced through the courtway back into the brown convent walls. One paused at the entrance, and gazed with swift longing eyes in the direction of narrow, squalid Chartres Street, then, with a gulping sob, followed the rest, and vanished behind the heavy door. THE PRALINE WOMAN The praline woman sits by the side of the Archbishop's quaint little old chapel on Royal Street, and slowly waves her latanier fan over the pink and brown wares. "Pralines, pralines. Ah, ma'amzelle, you buy? S'il vous plait, ma'amzelle, ces pralines, dey be fine, ver' fresh. "Mais non, maman, you are not sure? "Sho', chile, ma bebe, ma petite, she put dese up hissef. He's hans' so small, ma'amzelle, lak you's, mais brune. She put dese up dis morn'. You tak' none? No husban' fo' you den! "Ah, ma petite, you tak'? Cinq sous, bebe, may le bon Dieu keep you good! "Mais oui, madame, I know you etranger. You don' look lak dese New Orleans peop'. You lak' dose Yankee dat come down 'fo' de war." Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong, chimes the Cathedral bell across Jackson Square, and the praline woman crosses herself. "Hail, Mary, full of grace-- "Pralines, madame? You buy lak' dat? Dix sous, madame, an' one lil' piece fo' lagniappe fo' madame's lil' bebe. Ah, c'est bon! "Pralines, pralines, so fresh, so fine! M'sieu would lak' some fo' he's lil' gal' at home? Mais non, what's dat you say? She's daid! Ah, m'sieu, 'tis my lil' gal what died long year ago. Misere, misere! "Here come dat lazy Indien squaw. What she good fo', anyhow? She jes' sit lak dat in de French Market an' sell her file, an' sleep, sleep, sleep, lak' so in he's blanket. Hey, dere, you, Tonita, how goes you' beezness? "Pralines, pralines! Holy Father, you give me dat blessin' sho'? Tak' one, I know you lak dat w'ite one. It tas' good, I know, bien. "Pralines, madame? I lak' you' face. What fo' you wear black? You' lil' boy daid? You tak' one, jes' see how it tas'. I had one lil' boy once, he jes' grow 'twell he's big lak' dis, den one day he tak' sick an' die. Oh, madame, it mos' brek my po' heart. I burn candle in St. Rocque, I say my beads, I sprinkle holy water roun' he's bed; he jes' lay so, he's eyes turn up, he say 'Maman, maman,' den he die! Madame, you tak' one. Non, non, no l'argent, you tak' one fo' my lil' boy's sake. "Pralines, pralines, m'sieu? Who mak' dese? My lil' gal, Didele, of co'se. Non, non, I don't mak' no mo'. Po' Tante Marie get too ol'. Didele? She's one lil' gal I 'dopt. I see her one day in de strit. He walk so; hit col' she shiver, an' I say, 'Where you gone, lil' gal?' and he can' tell. He jes' crip close to me, an' cry so! Den I tak' her home wid me, and she say he's name Didele. You see dey wa'nt nobody dere. My lil' gal, she's daid of de yellow fever; my lil' boy, he's daid, po' Tante Marie all alone. Didele, she grow fine, she keep house an' mek' pralines. Den, when night come, she sit wid he's guitar an' sing, "'Tu l'aime ces trois jours, Tu l'aime ces trois jours, Ma coeur a toi, Ma coeur a toi, Tu l'aime ces trois jours!' "Ah, he's fine gal, is Didele! "Pralines, pralines! Dat lil' cloud, h'it look lak' rain, I hope no. "Here come dat lazy I'ishman down de strit. I don't lak' I'ishman, me, non, dey so funny. One day one I'ishman, he say to me, 'Auntie, what fo' you talk so?' and I jes' say back, 'What fo' you say "Faith an' be jabers"?' Non, I don' lak I'ishman, me! "Here come de rain! Now I got fo' to go. Didele, she be wait fo' me. Down h'it come! H'it fall in de Meesseesip, an' fill up--up--so, clean to de levee, den we have big crivasse, an' po' Tante Marie float away. Bon jour, madame, you come again? Pralines! Pralines!" ODALIE Now and then Carnival time comes at the time of the good Saint Valentine, and then sometimes it comes as late as the warm days in March, when spring is indeed upon us, and the greenness of the grass outvies the green in the royal standards. Days and days before the Carnival proper, New Orleans begins to take on a festive appearance. Here and there the royal flags with their glowing greens and violets and yellows appear, and then, as if by magic, the streets and buildings flame and burst like poppies out of bud, into a glorious refulgence of colour that steeps the senses into a languorous acceptance of warmth and beauty. On Mardi Gras day, as you know, it is a town gone mad with folly. A huge masked ball emptied into the streets at daylight; a meeting of all nations on common ground, a pot-pourri of every conceivable human ingredient, but faintly describes it all. There are music and flowers, cries and laughter and song and joyousness, and never an aching heart to show its sorrow or dim the happiness of the streets. A wondrous thing, this Carnival! But the old cronies down in Frenchtown, who know everything, and can recite you many a story, tell of one sad heart on Mardi Gras years ago. It was a woman's, of course; for "Il est toujours les femmes qui sont malheureuses," says an old proverb, and perhaps it is right. This woman--a child, she would be called elsewhere, save in this land of tropical growth and precocity--lost her heart to one who never knew, a very common story, by the way, but one which would have been quite distasteful to the haughty judge, her father, had he known. Odalie was beautiful. Odalie was haughty too, but gracious enough to those who pleased her dainty fancy. In the old French house on Royal Street, with its quaint windows and Spanish courtyard green and cool, and made musical by the plashing of the fountain and the trill of caged birds, lived Odalie in convent-like seclusion. Monsieur le Juge was determined no hawk should break through the cage and steal his dove; and so, though there was no mother, a stern duenna aunt kept faithful watch. Alas for the precautions of la Tante! Bright eyes that search for other bright eyes in which lurks the spirit of youth and mischief are ever on the look-out, even in church. Dutifully was Odalie marched to the Cathedral every Sunday to mass, and Tante Louise, nodding devoutly over her beads, could not see the blushes and glances full of meaning, a whole code of signals as it were, that passed between Odalie and Pierre, the impecunious young clerk in the courtroom. Odalie loved, perhaps, because there was not much else to do. When one is shut up in a great French house with a grim sleepy tante and no companions of one's own age, life becomes a dull thing, and one is ready for any new sensation, particularly if in the veins there bounds the tempestuous Spanish-French blood that Monsieur le Juge boasted of. So Odalie hugged the image of her Pierre during the week days, and played tremulous little love-songs to it in the twilight when la Tante dozed over her devotion book, and on Sundays at mass there were glances and blushes, and mayhap, at some especially remembered time, the touch of finger-tips at the holy-water font, while la Tante dropped her last genuflexion. Then came the Carnival time, and one little heart beat faster, as the gray house on Royal Street hung out its many-hued flags, and draped its grim front with glowing colours. It was to be a time of joy and relaxation, when every one could go abroad, and in the crowds one could speak to whom one chose. Unconscious plans formulated, and the petite Odalie was quite happy as the time drew near. "Only think, Tante Louise," she would cry, "what a happy time it is to be!" But Tante Louise only grumbled, as was her wont. It was Mardi Gras day at last, and early through her window Odalie could hear the jingle of folly bells on the maskers' costumes, the tinkle of music, and the echoing strains of songs. Up to her ears there floated the laughter of the older maskers, and the screams of the little children frightened at their own images under the mask and domino. What a hurry to be out and in the motley merry throng, to be pacing Royal Street to Canal Street, where was life and the world! They were tired eyes with which Odalie looked at the gay pageant at last, tired with watching throng after throng of maskers, of the unmasked, of peering into the cartsful of singing minstrels, into carriages of revellers, hoping for a glimpse of Pierre the devout. The allegorical carts rumbling by with their important red-clothed horses were beginning to lose charm, the disguises showed tawdry, even the gay-hued flags fluttered sadly to Odalie. Mardi Gras was a tiresome day, after all, she sighed, and Tante Louise agreed with her for once. Six o'clock had come, the hour when all masks must be removed. The long red rays of the setting sun glinted athwart the many-hued costumes of the revellers trooping unmasked homeward to rest for the night's last mad frolic. Down Toulouse Street there came the merriest throng of all. Young men and women in dainty, fairy-like garb, dancers, and dresses of the picturesque Empire, a butterfly or two and a dame here and there with powdered hair and graces of olden time. Singing with unmasked faces, they danced toward Tante Louise and Odalie. She stood with eyes lustrous and tear-heavy, for there in the front was Pierre, Pierre the faithless, his arms about the slender waist of a butterfly, whose tinselled powdered hair floated across the lace ruffles of his Empire coat. "Pierre!" cried Odalie, softly. No one heard, for it was a mere faint breath and fell unheeded. Instead the laughing throng pelted her with flowers and candy and went their way, and even Pierre did not see. You see, when one is shut up in the grim walls of a Royal Street house, with no one but a Tante Louise and a grim judge, how is one to learn that in this world there are faithless ones who may glance tenderly into one's eyes at mass and pass the holy water on caressing fingers without being madly in love? There was no one to tell Odalie, so she sat at home in the dull first days of Lent, and nursed her dear dead love, and mourned as women have done from time immemorial over the faithlessness of man. And when one day she asked that she might go back to the Ursulines' convent where her childish days were spent, only to go this time as a nun, Monsieur le Juge and Tante Louise thought it quite the proper and convenient thing to do; for how were they to know the secret of that Mardi Gras day? LA JUANITA If you never lived in Mandeville, you cannot appreciate the thrill of wholesome, satisfied joy which sweeps over its inhabitants every evening at five o'clock. It is the hour for the arrival of the "New Camelia," the happening of the day. As early as four o'clock the trailing smoke across the horizon of the treacherous Lake Pontchartrain appears, and Mandeville knows then that the hour for its siesta has passed, and that it must array itself in its coolest and fluffiest garments, and go down to the pier to meet this sole connection between itself and the outside world; the little, puffy, side-wheel steamer that comes daily from New Orleans and brings the mail and the news. On this particular day there was an air of suppressed excitement about the little knot of people which gathered on the pier. To be sure, there were no outward signs to show that anything unusual had occurred. The small folks danced with the same glee over the worn boards, and peered down with daring excitement into the perilous depths of the water below. The sun, fast sinking in a gorgeous glow behind the pines of the Tchefuncta region far away, danced his mischievous rays in much the same manner that he did every other day. But there was a something in the air, a something not tangible, but mysterious, subtle. You could catch an indescribable whiff of it in your inner senses, by the half-eager, furtive glances that the small crowd cast at La Juanita. "Gar, gar, le bateau!" said one dark-tressed mother to the wide-eyed baby. "Et, oui," she added, in an undertone to her companion. "Voila, La Juanita!" La Juanita, you must know, was the pride of Mandeville, the adored, the admired of all, with her petite, half-Spanish, half-French beauty. Whether rocking in the shade of the Cherokee-rose-covered gallery of Grandpere Colomes' big house, her fair face bonnet-shaded, her dainty hands gloved to keep the sun from too close an acquaintance, or splashing the spray from the bow of her little pirogue, or fluffing her skirts about her tiny feet on the pier, she was the pet and ward of Mandeville, as it were, La Juanita Alvarez, since Madame Alvarez was a widow, and Grandpere Colomes was strict and stern. And now La Juanita had set her small foot down with a passionate stamp before Grandpere Colomes' very face, and tossed her black curls about her wilful head, and said she would go to the pier this evening to meet her Mercer. All Mandeville knew this, and cast its furtive glances alternately at La Juanita with two big pink spots in her cheeks, and at the entrance to the pier, expecting Grandpere Colomes and a scene. The sun cast red glows and violet shadows over the pier, and the pines murmured a soft little vesper hymn among themselves up on the beach, as the "New Camelia" swung herself in, crabby, sidewise, like a fat old gentleman going into a small door. There was the clang of an important bell, the scream of a hoarse little whistle, and Mandeville rushed to the gang-plank to welcome the outside world. Juanita put her hand through a waiting arm, and tripped away with her Mercer, big and blond and brawny. "Un Americain, pah!" said the little mother of the black eyes. And Mandeville sighed sadly, and shook its head, and was sorry for Grandpere Colomes. This was Saturday, and the big regatta would be Monday. Ah, that regatta, such a one as Mandeville had never seen! There were to be boats from Madisonville and Amite, from Lewisburg and Covington, and even far-away Nott's Point. There was to be a Class A and Class B and Class C, and the little French girls of the town flaunted their ribbons down the one oak-shaded, lake-kissed street, and dared anyone to say theirs were not the favourite colours. In Class A was entered, "La Juanita,' captain Mercer Grangeman, colours pink and gold." Her name, her colours; what impudence! Of course, not being a Mandevillian, you could not understand the shame of Grandpere Colomes at this. Was it not bad enough for his petite Juanita, his Spanish blossom, his hope of a family that had held itself proudly aloof from "dose Americain" from time immemorial, to have smiled upon this Mercer, this pale-eyed youth? Was it not bad enough for her to demean herself by walking upon the pier with him? But for a boat, his boat, "un bateau Americain," to be named La Juanita! Oh, the shame of it! Grandpere Colomes prayed a devout prayer to the Virgin that "La Juanita" should be capsized. Monday came, clear and blue and stifling. The waves of hot air danced on the sands and adown the one street merrily. Glassily calm lay the Pontchartrain, heavily still hung the atmosphere. Madame Alvarez cast an inquiring glance toward the sky. Grandpere Colomes chuckled. He had not lived on the shores of the treacherous Lake Pontchartrain for nothing. He knew its every mood, its petulances and passions; he knew this glassy warmth and what it meant. Chuckling again and again, he stepped to the gallery and looked out over the lake, and at the pier, where lay the boats rocking and idly tugging at their moorings. La Juanita in her rose-scented room tied the pink ribbons on her dainty frock, and fastened cloth of gold roses at her lithe waist. It was said that just before the crack of the pistol La Juanita's tiny hand lay in Mercer's, and that he bent his head, and whispered softly, so that the surrounding crowd could not hear,-- "Juanita mine, if I win, you will?" "Oui, mon Mercere, eef you win." In another instant the white wings were off scudding before the rising breeze, dipping their glossy boat-sides into the clear water, straining their cordage in their tense efforts to reach the stake boats. Mandeville indiscriminately distributed itself on piers, large and small, bath-house tops, trees, and craft of all kinds, from pirogue, dory, and pine-raft to pretentious cat-boat and shell-schooner. Mandeville cheered and strained its eyes after all the boats, but chiefly was its attention directed to "La Juanita." "Ah, voila, eet is ahead!" "Mais non, c'est un autre!" "La Juanita! La Juanita!" "Regardez Grandpere Colomes!" Old Colomes on the big pier with Madame Alvarez and his granddaughter was intently straining his weather-beaten face in the direction of Nott's Point, his back resolutely turned upon the scudding white wings. A sudden chuckle of grim satisfaction caused La Petite's head to toss petulantly. But only for a minute, for Grandpere Colomes' chuckle was followed by a shout of dismay from those whose glance had followed his. You must know that it is around Nott's Point that the storm king shows his wings first, for the little peninsula guards the entrance which leads into the southeast waters of the stormy Rigolets and the blustering Gulf. You would know, if you lived in Mandeville, that when the pines on Nott's Point darken and when the water shows white beyond like the teeth of a hungry wolf, it is time to steer your boat into the mouth of some one of the many calm bayous which flow silently throughout St. Tammany parish into the lake. Small wonder that the cry of dismay went up now, for Nott's Point was black, with a lurid light overhead, and the roar of the grim southeast wind came ominously over the water. La Juanita clasped her hands and strained her eyes for her namesake. The racers had rounded the second stake-boat, and the course of the triangle headed them directly for the lurid cloud. You should have seen Grandpere Colomes then. He danced up and down the pier in a perfect frenzy. The thin pale lips of Madame Alvarez moved in a silent prayer; La Juanita stood coldly silent. And now you could see that the advance guard of the southeast force had struck the little fleet. They dipped and scurried and rocked, and you could see the sails being reefed hurriedly, and almost hear the rigging creak and moan under the strain. Then the wind came up the lake, and struck the town with a tumultuous force. The waters rose and heaved in the long, sullen ground-swell, which betokened serious trouble. There was a rush of lake-craft to shelter. Heavy gray waves boomed against the breakwaters and piers, dashing their brackish spray upon the strained watchers; then with a shriek and a howl the storm burst full, with blinding sheets of rain, and a great hurricane of Gulf wind that threatened to blow the little town away. La Juanita was proud. When Grandpere and Madame led her away in the storm, though her face was white, and the rose mouth pressed close, not a word did she say, and her eyes were as bright as ever before. It was foolish to hope that the frail boats could survive such a storm. There was not even the merest excuse for shelter out in the waters, and when Lake Pontchartrain grows angry, it devours without pity. Your tropical storm is soon over, however, and in an hour the sun struggled through a gray and misty sky, over which the wind was sweeping great clouds. The rain-drops hung diamond-like on the thick foliage, but the long ground-swell still boomed against the breakwaters and showed white teeth, far to the south. As chickens creep from under shelter after a rain, so the people of Mandeville crept out again on the piers, on the bath-houses, on the breakwater edge, and watched eagerly for the boats. Slowly upon the horizon appeared white sails, and the little craft swung into sight. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, counted Mandeville. Every one coming in! Bravo! And a great cheer that swept the whole length of the town from the post-office to Black Bayou went up. Bravo! Every boat was coming in. But--was every man? This was a sobering thought, and in the hush which followed it you could hear the Q. and C. train thundering over the great lake-bridge, miles away. Well, they came into the pier at last, "La Juanita" in the lead; and as Captain Mercer landed, he was surrounded by a voluble, chattering, anxious throng that loaded him with questions in patois, in broken English, and in French. He was no longer "un Americain" now, he was a hero. When the other eight boats came in, and Mandeville saw that no one was lost, there was another ringing bravo, and more chattering of questions. We heard the truth finally. When the storm burst, Captain Mercer suddenly promoted himself to an admiralship and assumed command of his little fleet. He had led them through the teeth of the gale to a small inlet on the coast between Bayou Lacombe and Nott's Point, and there they had waited until the storm passed. Loud were the praises of the other captains for Admiral Mercer, profuse were the thanks of the sisters and sweethearts, as he was carried triumphantly on the shoulders of the sailors adown the wharf to the Maison Colomes. The crispness had gone from Juanita's pink frock, and the cloth of gold roses were wellnigh petalless, but the hand that she slipped into his was warm and soft, and the eyes that were upturned to Mercer's blue ones were shining with admiring tears. And even Grandpere Colomes, as he brewed on the Cherokee-rose-covered gallery, a fiery punch for the heroes, was heard to admit that "some time dose Americain can mos' be lak one Frenchman." And we danced at the betrothal supper the next week. TITEE It was cold that day. The great sharp north-wind swept out Elysian Fields Street in blasts that made men shiver, and bent everything in their track. The skies hung lowering and gloomy; the usually quiet street was more than deserted, it was dismal. Titee leaned against one of the brown freight cars for protection against the shrill norther, and warmed his little chapped hands at a blaze of chips and dry grass. "Maybe it'll snow," he muttered, casting a glance at the sky that would have done credit to a practised seaman. "Then won't I have fun! Ugh, but the wind blows!" It was Saturday, or Titee would have been in school, the big yellow school on Marigny Street, where he went every day when its bell boomed nine o'clock, went with a run and a joyous whoop, ostensibly to imbibe knowledge, really to make his teacher's life a burden. Idle, lazy, dirty, troublesome boy, she called him to herself, as day by day wore on, and Titee improved not, but let his whole class pass him on its way to a higher grade. A practical joke he relished infinitely more than a practical problem, and a good game at pin-sticking was far more entertaining than a language lesson. Moreover, he was always hungry, and would eat in school before the half-past ten recess, thereby losing much good playtime for his voracious appetite. But there was nothing in natural history that Titee did not know. He could dissect a butterfly or a mosquito hawk, and describe their parts as accurately as a spectacled student with a scalpel and microscope could talk about a cadaver. The entire Third District, with its swamps and canals and commons and railroad sections, and its wondrous, crooked, tortuous streets, was an open book to Titee. There was not a nook or corner that he did not know or could not tell of. There was not a bit of gossip among the gamins, little Creole and Spanish fellows, with dark skins and lovely eyes, like spaniels, that Titee could not tell of. He knew just exactly when it was time for crawfish to be plentiful down in the Claiborne and Marigny canals; just when a poor, breadless fellow might get a job in the big bone-yard and fertilising factory, out on the railroad track; and as for the levee, with its ships and schooners and sailors, how he could revel in them! The wondrous ships, the pretty little schooners, where the foreign-looking sailors lay on long moonlight nights, singing to their guitars and telling great stories,--all these things and more could Titee tell of. He had been down to the Gulf, and out on its treacherous waters through the Eads jetties on a fishing-smack with some jolly brown sailors, and could interest the whole school-room in the talk-lessons, if he chose. Titee shivered as the wind swept round the freight-cars. There isn't much warmth in a bit of a jersey coat. "Wish 'twas summer," he murmured, casting another sailor's glance at the sky. "Don't believe I like snow; it's too wet and cold." And with a last parting caress at the little fire he had builded for a minute's warmth, he plunged his hands in his pockets, shut his teeth, and started manfully on his mission out the railroad track toward the swamps. It was late when Titee came home, to such a home as it was, and he had but illy performed his errand; so his mother beat him and sent him to bed supperless. A sharp strap stings in cold weather, and a long walk in the teeth of a biting wind creates a keen appetite. But if Titee cried himself to sleep that night, he was up bright and early next morning, had been to mass, devoutly kneeling on the cold floor, blowing his fingers to keep them warm, and was home almost before the rest of the family were awake. There was evidently some great matter of business on the young man's mind, for he scarcely ate his breakfast, and left the table soon, eagerly cramming the remainder of his meal in his pockets. "Ma foi, but what now?" mused his mother, as she watched his little form sturdily trudging the track in the face of the wind; his head, with the rimless cap thrust close on the shock of black hair, bent low; his hands thrust deep in the bulging pockets. "A new live play-toy h'it may be," ventured the father; "he is one funny chil." The next day Titee was late for school. It was something unusual, for he was always the first on hand to fix some plan of mechanism to make the teacher miserable. She looked reprovingly at him this morning, when he came in during arithmetic class, his hair all wind-blown, his cheeks rosy from a hard fight with the sharp blasts. But he made up for his tardiness by his extreme goodness all day; just think, Titee did not even eat once before noon, a something unparalleled in the entire previous history of his school life. When the lunch-hour came, and all the yard was a scene of feast and fun, one of the boys found him standing by a post, disconsolately watching a ham sandwich as it rapidly disappeared down the throat of a sturdy, square-headed little fellow. "Hello, Edgar," he said, "what you got fer lunch?" "Nothin'," was the mournful reply. "Ah, why don't you stop eatin' in school, fer a change? You don't ever have nothin' to eat." "I didn't eat to-day," said Titee, blazing up. "You did!" "I tell you I didn't!" and Titee's hard little fist planted a punctuation mark on his comrade's eye. A fight in the schoolyard! Poor Titee was in disgrace again. Still, in spite of his battered appearance, a severe scolding from the principal, lines to write, and a further punishment from his mother, Titee scarcely remained for his dinner, but was off down the railroad track with his pockets partly stuffed with the remnants of the scanty meal. And the next day Titee was tardy again, and lunchless too, and the next, until the teacher, in despair, sent a nicely printed note to his mother about him, which might have done some good, had not Titee taken great pains to tear it up on the way home. One day it rained, whole bucketsful of water, that poured in torrents from a miserable, angry sky. Too wet a day for bits of boys to be trudging to school, so Titee's mother thought; so she kept him at home to watch the weather through the window, fretting and fuming like a regular storm in miniature. As the day wore on, and the rain did not abate, his mother kept a strong watch upon him, for he tried many times to slip away. Dinner came and went, and the gray soddenness of the skies deepened into the blackness of coming night. Someone called Titee to go to bed, and Titee was nowhere to be found. Under the beds, in closets and corners, in such impossible places as the soap-dish and water-pitcher even, they searched, but he had gone as completely as if he had been spirited away. It was of no use to call up the neighbors, he had never been near their houses, they affirmed, so there was nothing to do but to go to the railroad track where Titee had been seen so often trudging in the shrill north-wind. With lanterns and sticks, and his little yellow dog, the rescuing party started down the track. The rain had ceased falling, but the wind blew a gale, scurrying great gray clouds over a fierce sky. It was not exactly dark, though in this part of the city there is neither gas nor electricity, and on such a night as this neither moon nor stars dared show their faces in so gray a sky; but a sort of all-diffused luminosity was in the air, as though the sea of atmosphere was charged with an ethereal phosphorescence. Search as they did, there were no signs of Titee. The soft earth between the railroad ties crumbled between their feet without showing any small tracks or footprints. "Mais, we may as well return," said the big brother; "he is not here." "Oh, mon Dieu," urged the mother, "he is, he is; I know it." So on they went, slipping on the wet earth, stumbling over the loose rocks, until a sudden wild yelp from Tiger brought them to a standstill. He had rushed ahead of them, and his voice could be heard in the distance, howling piteously. With a fresh impetus the little muddy party hurried forward. Tiger's yelps could be heard plainer and plainer, mingled now with a muffled, plaintive little wail. After a while they found a pitiful little heap of sodden rags, lying at the foot of a mound of earth and stones thrown upon the side of the track. It was Titee with a broken leg, all wet and miserable and moaning. They picked him up tenderly, and started to carry him home. But he cried and clung to the mother, and begged not to go. "Ah, mon pauvre enfant, he has the fever!" wailed the mother. "No, no, it's my old man. He's hungry," sobbed Titee, holding out a little package. It was the remnants of his dinner, all wet and rain-washed. "What old man?" asked the big brother. "My old man. Oh, please, please don't go home till I see him. I'm not hurting much, I can go." So, yielding to his whim, they carried him farther away, down the sides of the track up to an embankment or levee by the sides of the Marigny Canal. Then the big brother, suddenly stopping, exclaimed: "Why, here's a cave. Is it Robinson Crusoe?" "It's my old man's cave," cried Titee. "Oh, please go in; maybe he's dead." There cannot be much ceremony in entering a cave. There is but one thing to do,--walk in. This they did, and holding up the lantern, beheld a weird sight. On a bed of straw and paper in one corner lay a withered, wizened, white-bearded old man with wide eyes staring at the unaccustomed light. In the other corner was an equally dilapidated cow. "It's my old man!" cried Titee, joyfully. "Oh, please, grandpa, I couldn't get here to-day, it rained all mornin' an' when I ran away, I fell down an' broke something, an', oh, grandpa, I'm all tired an' hurty, an' I'm so 'fraid you're hungry." So the secret of Titee's jaunts down the railroad was out. In one of his trips around the swamp-land, he had discovered the old man exhausted from cold and hunger in the fields. Together they had found this cave, and Titee had gathered the straw and paper that made the bed. Then a tramp cow, old and turned adrift, too, had crept in and shared the damp dwelling. And thither Titee had trudged twice a day, carrying his luncheon in the morning and his dinner in the afternoon. "There's a crown in heaven for that child," said the officer of charity to whom the case was referred. But as for Titee, when the leg was well, he went his way as before. [Transcriber's Note: I have closed contractions, e.g. "was n't" has become "wasn't". I have also made the following changes to the text: PAGE LINE ORIGINAL CHANGED TO 43 13 accordeon accordion 56 22 work But work. But 78 14 chere chere 122 12 "Bravo! "Bravo!" 170 17 tumultously tumultuously 216 5 be,' be,"] 
46958	----	of the Digital Library@Villanova University (http://digital.library.villanova.edu/)) LITTLE NOBODY BY MRS. ALEX. MCVEIGH MILLER HART SERIES No. 53 COPYRIGHT 1886 BY GEORGE MUNRO. PUBLISHED BY THE ARTHUR WESTBROOK COMPANY CLEVELAND, O., U. S. A. LITTLE NOBODY. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. CHAPTER II. CHAPTER III. CHAPTER IV. CHAPTER V. CHAPTER VI. CHAPTER VII. CHAPTER VIII. CHAPTER IX. CHAPTER X. CHAPTER XI. CHAPTER XII. CHAPTER XIII. CHAPTER XIV. CHAPTER XV. CHAPTER XVI. CHAPTER XVII. CHAPTER XVIII. CHAPTER XIX. CHAPTER XX. CHAPTER XXI. CHAPTER XXII. CHAPTER XXIII. CHAPTER XXIV. CHAPTER XXV. CHAPTER XXVI. CHAPTER XXVII. CHAPTER XXVIII. CHAPTER XXIX. CHAPTER XXX. CHAPTER XXXI. CHAPTER XXXII. CHAPTER XXXIII. CHAPTER XXXIV. CHAPTER XXXV. CHAPTER XXXVI. CHAPTER XXXVII. CHAPTER XXXVIII. CHAPTER XXXIX. CHAPTER XL. CHAPTER XLI. CHAPTER XLII. CHAPTER XLIII. CHAPTER XLIV. CHAPTER XLV. CHAPTER XLVI. CHAPTER XLVII. CHAPTER XLVIII. CHAPTER I. He was a Northern journalist, and it was in the interest of his paper that he found himself, one bright March morning, in New Orleans, almost dazed by the rapidity with which he had been whirled from the ice and snow of the frozen North to the sunshine and flowers of the sunny South. He was charmed with the quaint and unique Crescent City. It was a totally different world from that in which he had been reared--a summer land, warm, indolent, luxurious, where one plucked the golden oranges from the dark-green boughs, laden at once with flowers and fruit, and where the senses were taken captive by the sensuous perfume of rare flowers that, in his Northern land, grew only within the confines of the close conservatory. Then, too, the dark, handsome faces of the people, and their mixture of foreign tongues, had their own peculiar charm. Nothing amused him so much as a stroll through the antique French Market, with its lavish abundance of tropic vegetables, fruits, and flowers, vended by hucksters of different nationalities in the Babel of languages that charmed his ear with the languorous softness of the Southern accent. He had a letter of introduction to a member of the Jockey Club, and this famous organization at once adopted him, and, as he phrased it, "put him through." The theaters, the carnival, the races, all whirled past in a blaze of splendor never to be forgotten; for it was at the famous Metairie Race-course that he first met Mme. Lorraine. But you must not think, reader, because I forgot to tell you his name at first, that he is the Little Nobody of my story. He was not little at all, but tall and exceedingly well-favored, and signed his name Eliot Van Zandt. Mme. Lorraine was a retired actress--ballet-dancer, some said. She was a French woman, airy and charming, like the majority of her race. The Jockey Club petted her, although they freely owned that she was a trifle fast, and did not have the _entrée_ of some of the best houses in the city. However, there were some nice, fashionable people not so strait-laced who sent her cards to their fêtes, and now and then accepted return invitations, so that it could not be said that she was outside the pale of society. Mme. Lorraine took a fancy to the good-looking Yankee, as she dubbed him, and gave him _carte blanche_ to call at her _bijou_ house in Esplanade Street. He accepted with outward eagerness and inward indifference. He was too familiar with women of her type at the North--fast, frivolous, and avaricious--to be flattered by her notice or her invitation. "She may do for the rich Jockey Club, but her acquaintance is too expensive a luxury for a poor devil of a newspaper correspondent," he told the Club. "She has card-parties, of course, and I am too poor to gamble." Pierre Carmontelle laughed, and told him to call in the afternoon, when there was no gambling in the _recherché_ saloon. "To see madame at home, informally, with her little savage, would be rich, _mon ami_. You would get a spicy paragraph for your newspaper," he said. "Her little savage?" "Do not ask me any questions, for I shall not answer," said Carmontelle, still laughing. "Perhaps Remond there will gratify your curiosity. The little vixen flung her tiny slipper into his face once when he tried to kiss her, under the influence of a _soupçon_ too much of madame's foamy champagne." "Madame's daughter, perhaps?" said Van Zandt, looking at Remond; but the latter only scowled and muttered, under his breath: "The little demon!" He thought they were guying him, and decided not to call in Esplanade Street. But it was only one week later that he saw Mme. Lorraine again at Metairie. Her carriage was surrounded by admirers, and she was betting furiously on the racing, but she found time to see the Yankee and beckon him importunately with her dainty, tan-kidded hand. They made way for him to come to her where she sat among her silken cushions, resplendent in old-gold satin, black lace, and Maréchal Niel roses, her beautiful, brilliant face wreathed in smiles, her toilet so perfectly appointed that she looked barely twenty-five, although the Club admitted that she must be past forty. "It is fifteen years since Lorraine married her off the stage, and she had been starring it ten years before he ever saw her," said Carmontelle, confidentially. The big, almond-shaped dark eyes flashed reproachfully, as she said, with her prettiest _moue_: "You naughty Yankee, you have not called!" "I have been too busy," he fibbed; "but I am coming this evening." "_Quel plaisir_!" she exclaimed, and then the racing distracted their attention again. The blaze of sunshine fell on one of the gayest scenes ever witnessed. The old race-course was surrounded by thousands upon thousands of people in carriages, on horseback, and afoot. The grand stand was packed with a living mass. The tropical beauty and rich costumes of the Louisiana ladies lent glow and brilliancy to the exciting scene. The racing was superb, and men and women were betting freely on their favorites. Gloves and jewels and thousands of dollars were won and lost that day. The most interesting event of the day was on. A purse of gold had been offered for the most skillful and daring equestrienne, and the fair contestants were ranged before the judge's stand, magnificently mounted on blooded steeds curveting with impatient ardor, their silver-mounted trappings glistening in the sunlight, and their handsome riders clothed faultlessly in habits of dark rich cloth fitting like a glove. It was truly a splendid sight, and the Jockey Club immediately went wild, and cheered as if they would split their throats. Even Mme. Lorraine brought her gloved hands impetuously together as the five beauties rode dauntlessly forward. "Jove! how magnificent!" Carmontelle burst forth. "But, madame, look!" excitedly. "Who is that little tot on the Arab so like your own? Heavens! it is--it is--" Without completing the sentence, he fell back convulsed with laughter. Every one was looking eagerly at the slip of a girl on the back of the beautiful, shiny-coated Arab. She rode skillfully, with daring grace, yet reckless _abandon_--a girl, a child almost, the lissom, budding figure sitting erect and motionless in the saddle, a stream of ruddy golden hair flying behind her on the breeze, the small, white face staring straight before her as she swept on impetuously to the victory that every one was proclaiming would perch upon her banner. Mme. Lorraine's face paled with blended dismay and anger. She muttered, loud enough for the Yankee to overhear: "_Mon Dieu_! the daring little hussy! She shall pay for this escapade!" But to her admirers she exclaimed, a moment later, with a careless, significant shrug of the shoulders: "She has stolen a march upon me. But, pshaw! it is nothing for her, the little savage! You should have seen her mother, the bare-back rider, galloping at her highest speed and jumping through the hoops in the ring!" "_Vive_ the little savage!" cried Remond, his dark face relaxing into enthusiasm. "She has stolen a march upon you, indeed, madame, has she not?" Madame frowned and retorted, sharply: "Yes, monsieur; but I will make her pay for this! The idea of her racing my Arab, my splendid Arab, that I care for so guardedly! Why, one of his slender hoofs is worth more to me than the girl's whole body! Oh, yes, I will make her pay!" The journalist's dancing gray eyes turned on her face curiously. "She belongs to you?" "In a way, yes," madame answered, with a sharp, unpleasant laugh. "Her mother, my maid, had the bad taste to die in my employ and leave the baggage on my hands. She has grown up in my house like an unchecked weed, and has furnished some amusement for the Jockey Club." "As a sort of Daughter of the Regiment," said one, laughing; but madame frowned the more darkly. "Nonsense, Markham," she said, shortly. "Do not put such notions into Monsieur Van Zandt's head. Let him understand, once for all, she is a cipher, a little nobody." She did not quite understand the gleam in the dark-gray eyes, but he smiled carelessly enough, and replied: "At least she is very brave." "A madcap," madame answered, shortly; and just then a shriek of triumph from a thousand throats rent the air. The meteor-like figure of the golden-haired girl on the flying Arab had distanced every competitor, and the applause was tremendous. In the midst of it all she reined in her gallant steed a moment before the judges' stand, then, before the dust cleared away, she was galloping rapidly off the grounds, followed by every eye among them all; while Mme. Lorraine, beneath an indifferent air, concealed a hidden volcano of wrath and passion. She stayed for the rest of the races, but her mind was only half upon them now, and she made some wild bets, and lost every stake. She could think of nothing but the daring girl who had taken her own Selim, her costly, petted Arab, and ridden him before her eyes in that wild race in which she had won such a signal victory. CHAPTER II. Van Zandt determined to keep his promise to call in Esplanade Street that evening. He felt a languid curiosity over Mme. Lorraine's charge, the daring girl whose whole young body was worth less to madame than one of the slender hoofs of her favorite Selim. He arrived early, and was ushered into an exquisite little salon all in olive and gold--fit setting for madame's ripe, dusky beauty. She was alone, looking magnificent in ruby velvet with cream lace garnishing and ruby jewelry, and the smile with which she received him was welcome itself. "Ah, _mon ami_! I was wondering if you would really come," she said, archly. "Sit here beside me, and tell me how you enjoyed the day?" She swept aside her glowing draperies, and gave him a seat by her side on the olive satin sofa. He accepted it with an odd sensation of disappointment, despite her luring beauty and the sensuous comfort and luxury of the room, whose air was heavy with the perfume of flowers in vases and pots all about them. He thought, disappointedly: "Am I not to see her Little Nobody?" Apparently not, for no one entered, and madame sat contentedly by his side, talking arch nothings to him, fluttering her fan coquettishly, and laughing at his careless repartee. Not a word all the while of her whom madame had sworn should pay for her madcap freak of to-day. By and by came Carmontelle, Remond, and Markham. They laughed at finding Van Zandt before them. "But, madame, where is your Little Nobody?" queried the gay Carmontelle. "We are come to lay our hearts at her feet. Know that she has supplanted you in the adoration of the Jockey Club. Her victory to-day makes us all her slaves." Madame gave utterance to a light, mocking laugh as she touched the gilded bell-cord close to her hand, and all eyes turned to the door. Five, almost ten, minutes passed, then it was softly opened, and a girl came in with a silver salver heaped high with luscious tropical fruit. Van Zandt recognized her as the winner of the race by the wealth of tawny golden hair that flowed down her back below her slim, girlish waist. He waited, with his eyes on the strange young face, for madame to speak some words of introduction, but none came. Just as any other servant might have entered, so was this girl permitted to enter. The fellows from the Jockey Club nodded familiarly at her, and received a sulky stare in return as she dispensed her fruit among them with impatient courtesy. When she paused, last of all, before Mme. Lorraine, with her salver of fruit, she seemed first to observe the tall, fair man by her side. She started and fixed her big, solemn, dark eyes half wonderingly upon him, and for a second they gazed silently and curiously at each other. He saw a girl of fifteen or so, very _petite_ for her age, and made to look more so by the fashion of her dress, which consisted mainly of a loosely fashioned white embroidered slip, low in the neck, short in the sleeves, and so short in the skirt that it reached the verge of immodesty by betraying much more than the conventional limit of the tapering ankles and rounded limbs. Madame had evidently aimed more at picturesqueness than propriety in choosing her dress, and she had certainly attained her point. Anything more full of unstudied grace and unconscious beauty than the little serving-maid it would be hard to imagine. The contrast of tawny golden hair with dark eyes and slender, jetty brows, with features molded in the most bewitching lines, and form as perfect as a sculptor's model, made up a _tout ensemble_ very pleasing to the journalist's observant eyes. There was but one defect, and that was a certain sullenness of eyes and expression that bespoke a fiery spirit at bay, a nature full of repressed fire and passion ready to burst into lava-flame at a touch, a word. For her she saw a man of twenty-five or six, tall, manly, and handsome in a splendid intellectual fashion, with fair hair clustered above a grand white brow, blue-gray eyes bright and laughing, a fair mustache ornamenting lips at once firm and sweet, a chin that was grave and full of power in spite of the womanish dimple that cleft it--altogether a most attractive face, and one that influenced her subtly, for some of the sullenness faded from her face, and with brightening eyes she exclaimed, with all the freedom of a child: "Oh, I know you at sight! You are madame's handsome Yankee, _n'est ce pas_?" He rose, laughing, and with his most elaborate bow. "Eliot Van Zandt, at your service," he said. "Yes, I am the Yankee. And you?" He saw the sullen gleam come back into her eyes, as she answered curtly, and, as it seemed, with repressed wrath: "Oh. I am Little Nobody, madame says. I have always been too poor to have even a name. Have some fruit, please." Madame tittered behind her elaborate fan, and the members of the Jockey Club exchanged glances. Eliot took an orange mechanically, and then the girl put the salver down and turned to go. But Mme. Lorraine's dark eyes looked over the top of her fan with sarcastic amusement. "Remain," she said, with cold brevity; and the girl flung herself angrily down into a chair, with her hands crossed and her tiny slippers dangling. With uplifted eyes she studied intently the face of the stranger. "Handsome, is he, madcap?" at length queried Carmontelle, full of amusement. The large eyes turned on his face scornfully. "Handsomer than any of the ugly old Jockey Club!" she replied, with decision. "We shall all be very jealous of this Yankee," said Markham. "Here we have been adoring you ever since you were a baby, ma'amselle, and you throw us over in a bunch for the sake of this charming stranger. You are cruel, unjust." He began to hum, softly, meaningly: "'Do not trust him, gentle lady, Though his words be low and sweet; Heed not him that kneels before thee, Gently pleading at thy feet.'" The song went no further, for the girl looked at him with large eyes of sarcastic amusement and said, curtly: "If I had such an atrocious voice as yours, I should not try to sing." A sally of laughter greeted the words, and the sulky countenance relaxed into a smile. Van Zandt studied the young face closely, his artistic taste charmed by its bright, warm beauty, full of Southern fire and passion. "How came she, the nameless child of a circus-rider, by her dower of high-bred, faultless beauty?" he thought, in wonder, noticing the dainty white hands, the "Delicate Arab arch of her feet, And the grace that, light and bright as the crest Of a peacock, sits on her shining head; And she knows it not. Oh, if she knew it! To know her beauty might half undo it." Mme. Lorraine, at his side, watched him with lowered lids and compressed lips. At last, tapping his arm with her fan, and smiling archly, she said, in an under-tone: "Beautiful, is she not, _mon ami_? But--that is all. Her mind is a void, a blank--capable of nothing but the emotions of anger or hatred, the same as the brute creation. I have tried to educate her into a companion, but in vain; so she can never be more than a pretty toy to me--no more nor less than my Maltese kitten or my Spitz puppy, although I like to see her about me, the same as I love all beautiful things." He heard her in amazement. Soulless--that beautiful, spirited-looking creature! Could it be? He saw the dark eyes lighten as the men began to praise her dauntless riding that day. They were very expressive, those large, almond-shaped eyes. Surely a soul dwelt behind those dark-fringed lids. Some one proposed cards, and madame assented with alacrity, without seeing Eliot Van Zandt's gesture of disgust. He refused point-blank to take a hand in the game, and said, with reckless audacity: "Do not mind me; I am always unlucky at play; so I will amuse myself instead with Little Nobody." Her eyes flashed, but when Mme. Lorraine vacated the seat upon the sofa, she came over and took it, not with any appearance of forwardness, but as a simple matter of course. Then, looking up at him, she said, with child-like directness: "And so you are a Yankee? I am surprised. I have always hated the Yankees, you know. My father was a Confederate soldier, madame says. He was killed the last year of the war, just a month before I was born." Mme. Lorraine looked around with a dark frown, but Van Zandt pretended not to see it as he answered: "Do you mean that you will not have me for your friend, ma'amselle, because I was born in Boston, and because my father fell fighting for the Stars and Stripes?" "A friend? What is that, monsieur?" she queried, naïvely; and Markham, to whom the conversation was perfectly audible from his corner of the card-table, looked around, and said, teasingly: "It is something that you will never be able to keep, ma'amselle, by reason of your pretty face. All your friends will become your lovers." "Hold your tongue, Colonel Markham; I was not talking to you, and it's ill manners to break into a conversation," said the girl, shortly. She broke off a white camellia from a vase near her, and held it lightly between her taper fingers as she again addressed herself to the journalist: "I like your word 'friend.' It has a nice sound. But I don't quite understand." "I must try to explain it to you," he replied, smiling. "I may tell you, since Markham has broached the subject, that the poets have said that friendship is love in disguise, but the dictionary gives it a more prosaic meaning. Let us find it as it is in Webster." "Webster?" stammeringly, and Mme. Lorraine looked around with her disagreeably sarcastic laugh. "Monsieur Van Zandt, you bewilder my little savage. She can not read." But a light of comprehension flashed instantly into the puzzled eyes. She pulled Eliot's sleeve. "You mean books. Come, you will find plenty in the library." He followed her into the pretty room beyond the olive satin _portière_, where they found plenty of books indeed. She pointed to them, and looked at him helplessly. He found Webster on the top shelf of a rich inlaid book-case, and was half-stifled with dust as he drew it down from the spot where it had rested undisturbed for years. He sneezed vigorously, and his companion hastened to dust it off with her tiny handkerchief. "Now!" she said, anxiously, spreading the big book open on a table before him. CHAPTER III. The leaves fluttered with her hasty movement, and a folded sheet of parchment fell out upon the floor. As he turned the pages to the F's she picked up the paper and held it in her hands, looking curiously at the bold, clear superscription on the back, and the big red seal; but it told nothing to her uneducated eyes, and with an unconscious sigh, she pushed it back into the dictionary, her hand touching his in the movement and sending an odd thrill of pleasure along his nerves. He read aloud, in his clear, full tones: "'FRIEND.--One who, entertaining for another sentiments of esteem, respect, and affection, from personal predilection, seeks his society and welfare; a well-wisher, an intimate associate.'" She stood by him, her hands resting on the table, trembling with pleasure, her face glowing. "It is beautiful," she exclaimed. "I thought the word sounded very sweet. And--you--you want to be my friend?" The most finished coquette might have envied the artless naïveté of her look and tone, yet she was "Too innocent for coquetry, Too fond for idle scorning." Touched by this new side of her character, he put his hand impulsively on the little one resting close by his on the table with a gentle pressure. "Child, I will be your friend if you will let me," he said, in a gentle tone, and not dreaming of all to which that promise was swiftly leading. "I shall be so glad," she said, in a voice so humble, and with so tender a face, that the people in the other room would scarce have recognized her as the little savage and vixen they called her. But Pierre Carmontelle, always full of mischief and banter, had deliberately sauntered in, and heard the compact of friendship between the two who, until to-night, had been utter strangers. He gave his friend a quizzical smile. "Ever heard of Moore's 'Temple to Friendship,' Van Zandt?" he inquired, dryly. "Let me recall it to your mind." He brought a book from a stand near by, opened it, and read aloud, with dry significance, in his clear voice: "'A Temple to Friendship,' said Laura, enchanted, 'I'll build in this garden--the thought is divine!' Her temple was built, and she now only wanted An image of Friendship to place on the shrine. She flew to a sculptor who sat down before her A Friendship the fairest his art could invent; But so cold and so dull that the youthful adorer Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant. "'Oh, never!' she cried, 'could I think of enshrining An image whose looks are so joyless and dim; But you, little god, upon roses reclining, We'll make, if you please sir, a Friendship of him.' So the bargain was struck; with the little god laden, She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove; 'Farewell,' said the sculptor, 'you're not the first maiden Who came but for Friendship and took away Love!'" He shut the book and laughed, for he had the satisfaction of seeing a warm flush mount to the temples of the young journalist, but the girl, so young, so ignorant, so strangely beautiful, looked at him unabashed. Evidently she knew no more of love than she did of friendship. They were alike meaningless terms to her uncultured mind. Frowning impatiently, she said: "Carmontelle, why did you intrude upon us here? I wanted to talk to Monsieur Van Zandt." "And I, ma'amselle, wanted to talk to you. Madame Lorraine was very angry with you for racing Selim to-day. What did she do to you?" The large eyes brightened angrily, and a hot rose-flush broke through the creamy pallor of her oval cheek. "Beat me!" she said, bitterly. "No!" from both men in a shocked tone. "But yes," she replied, with a sudden return of sullenness. With a swift movement she drew the mass of hair from her white shoulders, which she pushed up out of her low dress with a childish movement. "Look at the marks on my back," she said. They did look, and shuddered at the sight. The thick tresses of hair had hidden the long, livid marks of a cruel lash on the white flesh. There were a dozen or so of stripes, and the flesh was cut in some places till the blood had oozed through. The girl's eyes flashed, and she clinched her little hands tightly. "I hate that woman!" she muttered, fiercely. "Oh, it is cruel, cruel, to be nobody, to have no one but her, to be nothing but a pretty plaything, as she calls me, like her Spitz and her cat, her parrot and monkey! I mean to run away. It was for that I rode to-day--to win the gold--but--" "But--what?" said Van Zandt, huskily. She answered with passionate pride: "When she beat me--when she flung my poverty in my face--when she said I should be starving but for her bread--I flung the purse of gold down at her feet--to--to--pay!" The hard glitter of the dark eyes dissolved in quick tears. She dropped the golden tresses back on her lacerated shoulders, flung her arms before her face, and hard, choking sobs shook the slight, young form. The two men gazed on her, pale, moved, speechless. Eliot Van Zandt thought of his fair, young sisters, scarcely older than this girl, on whose lovely frames the winds of heaven were scarce permitted to blow roughly. Why, if any one had struck Maud or Edith such a blow, he should have sent a bullet through his heart, so fierce would be his anger. He looked at Carmontelle. "Monsieur Lorraine--does he permit this?" he asked, indignantly. "Lorraine had been in a mad-house fourteen years--sent there by the madness of jealousy," was the unexpected reply. Madame's gay, shrill laugh rang out from the salon where she was winning golden eagles from her friends. The journalist shuddered and wondered if the brilliant woman ever remembered the man gone insane for her sake. Ma'amselle's hard, bitter sobs ceased suddenly as they had begun. She dashed the tears from her eyes, and said, with bitter resignation: "_N'importe_! It is not the first time--perhaps it may not be the last. But, _mon Dieu_, it is better to be only her plaything, petted one moment, whipped the next, as she does her mischievous monkey and snarling puppy. She says she should make me live in the kitchen if I were ugly instead of being so pretty. She wants everything about her to be pretty. But, say nothing of all this, you two," lifting a warning taper finger. "It could do no good--she would only beat me more." "Too true!" assented Pierre Carmontelle, sadly. CHAPTER IV. They returned to the salon, and Mme. Lorraine flung down her cards and arose. "Messieurs, I will give you your revenge another time. Now I must give some attention to my Northern friend. Come, Monsieur Van Zandt, let me show you my garden by moonlight." She slipped her hand through his arm and led him through a side-door and out into a tropical garden bathed in a full flood of summer moonlight. Carmontelle drew Little Nobody out by the hand. Markham and Remond followed. To Van Zandt's unaccustomed eyes the scene was full of weird, delicious splendor. Fountains sparkled in the moonlight, watering the stems of tall, graceful palm-trees and massive live-oaks, whose gigantic branches were draped in wide, trailing banners of funereal-gray moss. Immense green ferns bordered the basins of the fountains, white lilies nodded on tall, leafy stems, roses vied with orange-blossoms in filling the air with fragrance, and passion-flowers climbed tall trellies and flung their large flowers lavishly to the breeze. Madame, with her jeweled hand clinging to Van Zandt's arm, her jewels gleaming, walked along the graveled paths in advance of the rest, talking to him in her gay fashion that was odd and enchanting from its pretty mixture of broken French and English, interlarded here and there with a Spanish phrase. She was bent on subduing the heart of the young journalist, his coldness and indifference having roused her to a fatal pique and interest--fatal because her love was like the poisonous upas-tree, blighting all that it touched. She had brought him out here for a purpose. In the soft, delusive moonlight she looked fair and young as a woman of twenty, and here she could weave her Circean spells the best. She became soft and sentimental with her light badinage. Bits of poetry flowed over the crimson lips, the dark eyes were raised to his often, coyly and sweetly, the jeweled hand slipped until her throbbing wrist rested lightly on his. Every gracious, cunning art of coquetry was employed, and the victim seemed very willing indeed to be won. But when they bantered him next day he laughed with the rest. "_Ad nauseam_!" he replied, boldly. * * * * * But he went again that night to Esplanade Street, drawn by an indefinable power to the presence of the cruel, beautiful woman and her fawn-like, lovely dependent. "Madame Lorraine was engaged, but she would come to him soon," said the sleek page who admitted him to the salon, which a quick glance showed him was quite deserted. He waited awhile, then grew weary of the stillness and silence, and went out through the open side-door into the charming garden. The quiet walks gave back no echo of his firm tread as he paused and threw himself upon a rustic bench beside a tinkling fountain, but presently from beyond the great live-oak with its gray moss drapery there came to him the sound of a clear, sweet voice. "The little ma'amselle," he thought, at first, and deemed it no harm to listen. "It is a bargain, then, monsieur. You take the girl, and I am a thousand dollars richer. _Ciel_! but what a rare revenge I shall have for yesterday;" and Mme. Lorraine's low laugh, not sweet and coquettish now, but full of cruel venom, rang out on the evening air. The night was warm, but Eliot Van Zandt shuddered through all his strong, proud frame, as the voice of Remond answered: "Revenge--ha! ha! Mine shall be gained, too. How I hate and love the little savage in one breath, and I have sworn she shall pay for that slipper flung in my face. It is a costly price, but to gratify love and hate alike I will not stop at the cost." "You are right. Once I refused when you asked for her because I prized my pretty, innocent, ignorant toy. But yesterday the fires of hell were kindled in my breast. She is no longer a child. When she rode Selim there amid the plaudits of thousands, she became my rival, hated and dreaded, and I swore she should pay for her triumph at bitter cost. Last night did you see her with Van Zandt, her sly coquetry, her open preference? In her sleep, as she lay coiled on her cot, she murmured his name and smiled. It was enough. I swore I would hesitate no longer. I would give you your will." Rooted to his seat with horror, Van Zandt sat speechless, his blood curdling at Remond's demoniac laugh. "You have a _penchant_ for the quill-driver?" scoffingly said the Frenchman. "He is a new sensation. His indifference piques me to conquer him"--carelessly; "but to the point. I will drug her to sleep to-night, and you shall carry her off. Bring a carriage at midnight--all shall be ready." "Done! But when they ask for her--for the Jockey Club has gone wild with admiration over the little vixen--what can you say?" "I overheard her last night threatening to run away. She was in the library with Carmontelle and the Yankee. What more easy than to say she has carried out her threat?" Their low, jubilant laughter echoed in the young journalist's ear like the mirth of fiends. There was a promise of money that night, injunctions of caution and secrecy; then the conspirators swept away toward the house, and Van Zandt remained there, in the shadowy night, unseen, unsuspected, brooding over what he had heard uttered behind the drooping veil of long, gray moss. Carmontelle had said, laughingly, that a visit to madame and her little savage would furnish a spicy paragraph for his paper. He thought, grimly, that here was the item with a vengeance. Oh! to think of that heartless woman and man, and of the simple, ignorant, lovely child bartered to shame for the sake of a fiendish revenge! The blood in his veins ran hotly, as if turned to fire. "My God! I must do something," he muttered, and then started with a stifled cry of alarm. From among the shrubberies close by something had started up with a sobbing cry. It ran toward him, and fell down at his feet; it was poor Little Nobody. "You have heard? I saw you when you came!" she gasped, wildly. "Yes, poor child!" he answered. "Sold! sold, like a slave, to the man I hate!" she cried, fearfully, her dark eyes distended in terror. "Oh, monsieur, he kissed me once, and I hated his kiss worse than madame's blow. I flung my slipper in his face, and he swore revenge. Once in his power, he would murder me. Oh, you promised to be my friend"--wildly--"save me! save me now!" CHAPTER V. It was a strange, picturesque scene there in the starlit garden, with its stately palms, its immense rough cactuses, its fountains, and flowers. The man sat there with doubt, trouble, and sympathy looking out of his frank eyes at the girl who knelt before him, her delicate, tapering hands pressed together, her white face looking up piteously, the tears raining from her splendid eyes, and the long veil of golden hair sweeping loosely about her slender form, that passionate appeal thrilling over her crimson lips: "Save me! save me!" "Poor child, what can I do?" he uttered, almost unconsciously, and she answered, wildly: "Only tell me where to fly for refuge! I am dazed and frightened. I know not where to go unless to the deep, dark river, and fling myself in. But I do not want to die. I only want to get away from this terrible place to some happier spot! Ah! _certainement, le bon Dieu_ sent you here, monsieur, to help me, to save me!" All her trust was in him, all her confidence. He had promised to be her friend, and in a simplicity and innocence as complete as a child's, she claimed his promise. Nay, more, she claimed that God had sent him to her aid in this dark hour of distress. His mind was a chaos of contending emotions. That he must help her he had decided already in his mind. But how? No answer presented itself to the vexing question. His thoughts were in such a tumult that clear, coherent thinking was an impossibility. A moment, and he said, gently: "Yes, I will help you, my child. I were less than man could I let this thing go on and make no attempt to rescue you from so dark a fate. But--" He paused, and she waited anxiously with her straining gaze fixed on his troubled face. "But," he went on slowly, "I can not see my way clear yet; I must think, must decide. And it is not safe to remain out here longer. They may come out here and find me at any moment. Little one, can you trust me to go away and think it all over, and then come back to you?" A moment of silence, then she rose and stood before him. "Yes, yes, I will trust you," she said, gently; then, with sudden desperation, "Should--should you not come back I will never be taken by him. There--is--still--the--river!" "Do not think of that," he said, quickly; "I will soon return. Trust me wholly. Have I not promised to be your friend?" "Yes, yes," eagerly. She put out her hands as if to clasp his arm, then suddenly withdrew them. Frank and child-like as she was, she was coy and shy as a fawn. She clasped her delicate hands before her, and stood waiting. "Now, tell me, is there not some way by which I can gain the street without returning to the house?" said Van Zandt. "Yes, monsieur. Follow me," said the girl, turning swiftly and going across the garden to a small gate in the wall that opened on the street. She turned a key in the lock and opened it wide as he came up, thrusting shyly into his hand some dewy rosebuds she had plucked from a vine that clambered to the top of the wall. "Do not fail me, _mon ami_," she breathed, softly. "You can trust me," he said, again. "Now go back to the garden or the house. Be as natural as you can. Do not let them suspect your dangerous knowledge." She nodded her bright head wisely, and the next moment he was out in the street, the gate shut against him, alone with the thronging thoughts awakened by the occurrences of the last hour. He pulled a cigar from his breast-pocket, lighted it, and walked slowly along the wide and almost deserted street, under the shade of the tall trees that bordered the walk, his calmness gradually returning under the influence of the narcotic weed. Within the flowery garden the little ma'amselle, so strangely lovely, so ignorant and innocent, with that deadly peril menacing her young life, flung herself down upon a garden-seat and gave herself up to impatient waiting for the return of her knight, her brave Sir Galahad. "How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favors fall; For them I battle to the end To save from shame and thrall." CHAPTER VI. Van Zandt had gone but a few squares, with his eyes cast down and his mind very busy, before he stumbled up against a man coming from an opposite direction. Both being tall and strong, they recoiled with some force from the shock, each muttering confused apologies. But the next moment there was an exclamation: "Van Zandt, upon my word!" cried the musical voice of Pierre Carmontelle. "Why, man, what the deuce ails you, to go butting up against a fellow in that striking fashion?" "Carmontelle!" "Yes--or, at least, what is left of him after your villainous assault. Where were your eyes, _mon ami_, that you run up against a fellow so recklessly? And where have you been, anyway--to madame's?" Eliot Van Zandt laughed at his friend's droll raillery. "Yes, I have just come from Madame Lorraine's," he said. "And I came away in a brown study, which accounts for my not seeing you. And you--you were on your way there?" "Yes." The word was spoken in a strange voice, and an odd little laugh followed it. Then the big, handsome Louisianian suddenly took hold of Van Zandt's arm, and said: "Come, I have a great mind to make a confidant of you. Let us go and sit down yonder in the square, and smoke." When they were seated, and puffing away at their cigars, he began: "The fact is, I was in a brown study, too, Van Zandt, or I should not have run against you. I was going to Madame Lorraine's, and I found myself thinking soberly, seriously about the beautiful madame's wretched little slave and foot-ball, the Little Nobody you saw there last night." "Yes," Van Zandt answered, with a quick start. "By Heaven! it is a shame that the poor, pretty little vixen has no friends to rescue her from her tormentor!" exclaimed Carmontelle, vehemently. "For years this cruelty has been going on, and the girl, with her immortal soul, has been made a puppet by that charming, heartless woman. Would you believe it, the girl has never been given even the rudiments of an education? She is ignorant as a little savage, with not even a name. Yet I have seen this go on for years, in my careless fashion, without an effort to help the child. I can not understand what has roused me from my apathy, what has made me think of her at last--ah, _mon Dieu_!" This exclamation was called forth by some sudden inward light. He went on, with a half-shamed laugh: "What a speech I have made you, although I do not usually preach. Van Zandt, am I getting good, do you think, or--have I fallen in love with that Little Nobody?" There was a minute's pause, and Eliot Van Zandt took the cigar from between his lips, and answered, quietly: "In love, decidedly." "_Parbleu_!" After that hurried exclamation there was a moment's silence. Carmontelle broke it with an uneasy laugh. "I am forty years old, but I suppose a man is never too old to make a fool of himself," he said. "I believe you are right, _mon ami_. I could not get the child out of my head last night. I never noticed how pretty she was before; and those lashes on her sweet, white shoulders. I longed to kiss them, as children say, to make them well." "Poor child!" said Van Zandt; and then, without preamble, he blurted out the story of what had just happened. Carmontelle listened with clinched hands and flashing eyes, the veins standing out on his forehead like whip-cords. "The fiend!" he muttered. "_Peste_! he was always a sneak, always a villain at heart. More than once we have wished him well out of the club. Now he shall be lashed from the door, the double-dyed scoundrel! And she, the deceitful madame, she could plan this horrid deed! She is less than woman. She shall suffer, mark you, for her sin." "But the little ma'amselle, Carmontelle? What shall we do to deliver her from her peril? Every passing moment brings her doom nearer, yet I can think of nothing. My brain seems dull and dazed." "Do? Why, we shall take a carriage and bring her away 'over the garden wall,'" replied Carmontelle, lightly but emphatically. "Very well; but--next?" Carmontelle stared and repeated, in some bewilderment: "Next?" Eliot Van Zandt explained: "I mean, what shall we do when we have brought her away? Where shall we find her a refuge and hiding-place from her treacherous enemies?" anxiously. "You cold-blooded, long-headed Yankee! I never thought of that. I should have brought her away without thinking of the future. But you are right. It is a question that should be decided first. What, indeed, shall we do with the girl?" And for a moment they looked at each other, in the starlight, almost helplessly. Then Van Zandt said, questioningly: "Perhaps you have relatives or friends with whom you could place her? I am not rich, but I could spare enough to educate this wronged child." "I have not a relative in the world--not a friend I could trust; nothing but oceans of money, so you may keep yours. I'll spend some of mine in turning this little savage into a Christian." "You will take her to school, then, right away?" Van Zandt went on, in his quiet, pertinacious way. "Yes; and, by Jove, when she comes out, finished, I'll marry her, Van Zandt! I will, upon my word!" "If she will have you," laconically. "_Peste_! what a fellow you are, to throw cold water upon one. Perhaps you have designs upon her yourself?" "Not in the face of your munificent intentions," carelessly. "Very well; I shall consider her won, then, since you are too generous to enter the lists against me. What a magnificent beauty she will make when she has learned her three R's!" laughingly. "But, come; shall we not go at once to deliver our little friend from Castle Dangerous?" They rose. "I am glad I ran against you, Carmontelle. You have straightened out the snarl that tangled my mind. Now for our little stratagem. You will bring the carriage to the end of the square, while I go back to the garden and steal the bird away." "Excellent!" said Carmontelle. "Oh, how they will rage when they find the bird has flown! To-morrow the club shall settle with Remond; for madame, she shall be ostracised. We shall desert her in a body. Who would have believed she would be so base?" Van Zandt made no comment. He only said, as if struck by a sudden thought: "The poor child will have no clothes fit to wear away. Can you find time, while getting a carriage, to buy a gray dress, a long ulster, and a hat and veil?" "Of course. What a fellow you are to think of things! I should not have thought of such a thing; yet what school would have received her in that white slip--picturesque, but not much better than a ballet-dancer's skirts!" exclaimed the lively Southerner. "You are a trump, Van Zandt. Can you think of anything else as sensible?" "Some fruit and bonbons to soothe her at school--that is all," lightly, as they parted, one to return to Mme. Lorraine's, the other to perfect the arrangements for checkmating Remond's nefarious design. Carmontelle was full of enthusiasm over the romantic idea that had occurred so suddenly to his mind. A smile curled his lips, as he walked away, thinking of dark-eyed Little Nobody, and running over in his mind a score of feminine cognomens, with one of which he meant to endow the nameless girl. "Constance, Marie, Helene, Angela, Therese, Maude, Norine, Eugenie, etc.," ran his thoughts; but Eliot Van Zandt's took a graver turn as he went back to the starlit garden and the girl who believed him her Heaven-sent deliverer from peril and danger. "There is but little I can do; Carmontelle takes it all out of my hands," he mused. "Perhaps it is better so; he is rich, free." A sigh that surprised himself, and he walked on a little faster until he reached the gate by which he had left the garden. Here he stopped, tapped softly, and waited. But there was no reply to his knock, although he rapped again. Evidently she had gone into the house. "I shall have to go in," he thought, shrinking from the encounter with the wicked madame and her partner in villainy, M. Remond. Madame was at the piano, Remond turning the leaves of her music while she rendered a brilliant _morceau_. His hasty glance around the room did not find the little ma'amselle. "She will be here presently," he decided, as he returned with what grace he could Mme. Lorraine's effusive greeting. She was looking even lovelier than last night, in a costume of silvery silk that looked like the shimmer of moonlight on a lake. Her white throat rose from a mist of lace clasped by a diamond star. In her rich puffs of dark hair nestled white Niphetos roses shedding their delicate perfume about her as she moved with languid grace. The costume had been chosen for him. She had a fancy that it would appeal to his sense of beauty and purity more than her glowing robes of last night. She was right. He started with surprise and pleasure at the dazzling sight, but the admiration was quickly succeeded by disgust. "So beautiful, yet so wicked!" he said, to himself. "You were singing. Pray go on," he said, forcing her back to the piano. It would be easier to sit and listen than to take part in the conversation with his mind on the _qui vive_ for the entrance of her he had come to save. He listened mechanically to the sentimental Italian _chanson_ madame chose, but kept his eyes on the door, expecting every minute to see a _petite_ white form enter the silken portals. Remond saw the watchfulness, and scowled with quick malignity. "Other eyes than mine watch for her coming," he thought. The song went on. The minutes waned. Van Zandt furtively consulted his watch. "Past ten. What if that wicked woman has already forced her to retire?" he thought, in alarm, and the minutes dragged like leaden weights. "Oh, if I could but slip into the garden. Perhaps she is there still, fallen asleep like a child on the garden-seat." Mme. Lorraine's high, sweet voice broke suddenly in upon his thoughts. "Monsieur, you sing, I am sure. With those eyes it were useless to deny it. You will favor us?" He was about to refuse brusquely, when a thought came to him. She would hear his voice, she would hasten to him, and the message of hope must be whispered quickly ere it was too late. He saw Remond watching him with sarcastic eyes, and said, indifferently: "I can sing a little from a habit of helping my sisters at home. And I belong to a glee club. If these scant recommendations please you, I will make an effort to alarm New Orleans with my voice." "You need not decry your talents. I am sure you will charm us," she said; and Van Zandt dropped indolently upon the music-stool. His long, white fingers moved softly among the keys, evoking a tender accompaniment to one of Tennyson's sweetest love songs: "'Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Come hither, the dances are done. In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Queen lily and rose in one; Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, To the flowers, and be their sun. "'There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate; The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near," And the white rose weeps, "She is late;" The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear," And the lily whispers, "_I wait_."'" The man and the woman looked at each other behind his back. Remond wore a significant scowl; madame a jealous sneer. It faded into a smile as he whirled around on the music-stool and faced her with a look of feigned adoration. "Last night was so heavenly in the garden--let us go out again," he said, almost consumed by impatience. Time was going fast, and it lacked little more than an hour to midnight. He chafed at the thought that Carmontelle was waiting with the carriage, impatient, and wondering at the strange delay. "We will go into the garden," assented Mme. Lorraine. "Ah, you cold-looking Yankee, you can be as sentimental as a Southerner. Monsieur Remond, will you accompany us?" "Pardon; I will go home. I have no fancy for love among the roses," with a covert sneer. "Madame, monsieur, _bon soir_." He bowed and was gone. Van Zandt drew a long breath of dismay. What if he should stumble upon Carmontelle and the carriage waiting at the end of the square under cover of the night? It was impossible to follow. Mme. Lorraine's white hand clasping his arm, drew him out into the garden, with its sweet odors, its silence, and dew. His heart leaped with expectancy. "I shall find her here asleep among the flowers, forgetful of the dangers that encompass her young life." He declared to Mme. Lorraine that he did not want to miss a single beauty of the romantic old garden, and dragged her remorselessly all over its length and breadth. Perhaps she guessed his intent, but she made no sign. She was bright, amiable, animated, all that a woman can be who hopes to charm a man. He scarcely heeded her, so frantically was he looking everywhere for a crouching white form that he could not find. There came to him suddenly a horrified remembrance of her pathetic words: "There is still the river!" A bell somewhere in the distance chimed the half hour in silvery tones. Only thirty minutes more to midnight! With some incoherent excuse he tore himself away from her, and dashing wildly out into the street, ran against Pierre Carmontelle for the second time that night. "I have waited for hours, and was just coming to seek you. What does this mean?" he exclaimed, hoarsely. A whispered explanation forced a smothered oath from his lips. "Be calm. There is but one way left us. We will conceal ourselves near the door and wrest her from them when they bring her out," said Eliot Van Zandt. CHAPTER VII. But no place of concealment presented itself. The broad pavement showed a long, unbroken space of moonlit stone, save where one tall tree reared its stately height outside the curb-stone, and flung long, weird shadows across the front of madame's house. Carmontelle looked up and down the street, and shook his head. "I can see no hiding-place but the tree," he said. "We need none better, unless you are too stout to scale it," Van Zandt answered, coolly, turning a questioning glance upon the rather corpulent form of his good-looking companion. "You will see," laughed the Southerner, softly. He glanced up and down the street, and seeing no one in sight, made a bound toward the tree, flung out his arms, and scaled it with admirable agility, finding a very comfortable seat among its low-growing branches. Van Zandt followed his example with boyish ease, and they were soon seated close to each other on the boughs of the big tree, almost as comfortable as if they had been lounging on the satin couches of madame's _recherché_ salon. It was delightful up there among the cool green leaves, with the fresh wind blowing the perfume of madame's flowers into their faces. "I feel like a boy again," said the journalist, gayly. "Softly; we are opposite the windows of madame's chamber, I think," cautioned Carmontelle. "She will not come up yet; she will wait in the salon for Remond. It is but a few minutes to midnight." A step approached, and they held their breath in excessive caution. It passed on--only a guardian of the peace pacing his beat serenely, his brass buttons shining in the moonlight. Van Zandt whispered: "I am not sure but we should have invoked the aid of the law in our trouble." But Pierre Carmontelle shook his head. "The law is too slow sometimes," he said. "We will place the little girl in some safe refuge first, then, if Madame Lorraine attempts to make trouble, we will resort to legal measures. I am not apprehensive of trouble on that score, however, for madame really has no legal right to the girl. Has she not declared scores of times that her maid died, and left the child upon her hands, and that, only for pity's sake, she would have sent her off to an orphan asylum?" Steps and voices came along the pavement--two roystering lads, fresh from some festal scene, their steps unsteady with wine. They passed out of sight noisily recounting their triumph to each other. Then the echo of wheels in the distance, "low on the sand, loud on the stone." "Are you armed?" whispered the Louisianian, nervously. "No." The cold steel of a pistol pressed his hand. "Take that; I brought two," whispered Carmontelle. "We may need them. One of us must stand at bay, while the other seizes and bears away the girl." "It shall be I. I will cover your flight," Van Zandt said, quietly. Under his calm exterior was seething a tempest of wrath and indignation that made him clutch the weapon in a resolute grasp. He had pure and fair young sisters at home. The thought of them made him feel more strongly for madame's forlorn victim. Their hearts leaped into their throats as Remond's close carriage dashed into sight, whirled up to madame's door, and stopped. The door swung open, and Remond, muffled up to the ears, sprung out and went up to the house. Its portals opened as if by magic, with a swish of silken robes in the hall. Madame herself had silently admitted her co-conspirator. Most fortunately the back of the carriage was toward the tree, and the driver's attention was concentrated upon his restive horses. Silently as shadows the two men slid down from their novel hiding-place, tiptoed across the pavement, and took up their grim station on either side the closed door. Not a moment too soon! At that very instant the door unclosed, and Remond appeared upon the threshold bearing in his arms a slight, inert figure wrapped in a long, dark cloak. Madame, still in her diamonds, roses, and silvery drapery, appeared behind him just in time to see a powerful form swoop down upon Remond, wrest his prize from him, and make off with wonderful celerity, considering the weight of the girlish form in his arms. She fell back with a cry of dismay. "_Diable_! _Spies_!" Remond had recoiled on the instant with a fierce oath hissed in his beard--only an instant; then he dashed forward in mad pursuit, only to be tripped by an outstretched foot that flung him face downward on the hard pavement. Scrambling up in hot haste, with the blood gushing from his nostrils, he found his way barred by Eliot Van Zandt. "Back, villain! Your prey has escaped you!" the young man cried, sternly. A black and bitter oath escaped Remond, and his trembling hand sought his belt. He hissed savagely: "Accursed spy! Your life shall answer for this!" Then the long keen blade of a deadly knife flashed in the moonlight. Simultaneously there was the flash and report of a pistol. Both men fell at once to the ground, and at the same moment there was a swish and rustle of silvery silk, as beautiful Mme. Lorraine retreated from her threshold, slamming and locking her door upon the sight of the bloodshed of which she had been the cause. "Let them kill each other, the fools, if they have no more sense," she muttered, scornfully, heartlessly, as she retired to her salon. Remond's horses had been so frightened by the pistol-shot that they had run off with their alarmed driver, who had dropped the reins in the first moment of terror. There now remained only two of the six souls present a moment ago, Van Zandt and Remond lying silent where they had fallen under the cold, white light of the moonlight. But presently the Frenchman struggled slowly up to his feet, and put his hand to his shoulder with a stifled curse. "The dog has put a bullet through my shoulder. Never mind, we are quits, for I ran my knife through his heart," he muttered, hastening away from the scene of bloodshed. But Eliot Van Zandt lay still where he had fallen, with his ghastly white face upturned to the sky, and the red blood pouring in a torrent from the gaping wound in his breast. CHAPTER VIII. Carmontelle made his way with what speed he could, hampered as he was by the heavy, unconscious form of the girl, to the carriage which he had in waiting at the end of the square. His speed was not great enough, however, to hinder him from hearing the sharp report of the pistol as it went off in Van Zandt's hand, and a slight tremor ran along his firm nerves. "Somebody killed or wounded--and I pray it may be Remond, the dastardly villain," he thought. "I should not like for any harm to come to that noble young Van Zandt." Then he paused while the driver sprung down from the box and opened the door for him. He laid his burden down upon a seat, sprung in, and then the door was closed. "To the Convent of Le Bon Berger," he said. "_Oui_, monsieur." The man whipped up his horses, and they were off at a spanking pace. A happy thought had occurred to Carmontelle. He had a friend who was the Mother Superior of the Convent of the Good Shepherd. To her pious care he would confide the poor, helpless lamb just rescued from the jaws of the hungry wolf. When the carriage had started off, he drew the thick wrappings from the head of the unconscious girl and looked at her face. It was deathly white, and the long, thick fringe of her dark lashes lay heavily against her cheeks. Her young bosom heaved with slow, faint respiration, but he tried in vain to arouse her from the heavy stupor that held her in its chains. Mme. Lorraine had been more clever than any one suspected. She had given the drug to her victim in a cup of tea, before she went out to the garden. Consequently the narcotic was already working in her veins when she flung herself at Van Zandt's feet, imploring his aid, and in a very few minutes after he had left her she fell into a heavy sleep upon the garden-seat, her last coherent thought being of him who had promised to save her from the perils that threatened her young life. Carmontelle gazed with deep pity and strong emotion on the piquant and exquisitely lovely face, realizing that that beauty had well-nigh proved a fatal dower to the forlorn girl. Deep, strong emotion stirred the man's heart as he gazed, and he vowed to himself that however friendless, nameless, and lowly born was the girl, she should never want a friend and protector again. "I am rich and well-born, and she shall share all I have. When she leaves the Convent of Le Bon Berger, it shall be as Madame Carmontelle, my loved and honored wife, not the Little Nobody of to-night," he mused. "I will teach her to love me in the years while she remains a pupil at the convent." In such thoughts as these the time passed quickly, although the convent was several miles from Esplanade Street, and in the suburbs of the city. At length the carriage paused before the dark conventual walls and towers, the driver sprung down from his seat and came to the door with the announcement: "Le Bon Berger." "_Très bien_. Wait." He drew a memorandum-book from an inner pocket, and hastily penciled some lines upon a sheet of paper. "MADAME LA SUPERIEURE,--Pardon this late intrusion, and for God's dear sake admit me to a brief interview. I have brought a poor, little helpless lamb to the Good Shepherd. PIERRE CARMONTELLE." "Take that," he said, hastily folding it across. "Ring the bell, and present it to the janitor. Tell him Madame la Superieure must have it at once. Say I am waiting in distress and impatience." The man crossed the wide pave and rang the gate bell. There was some little delay, then a stone slide slipped from its place in the high gate, and the janitor's cross, sleepy face appeared in the aperture. He was decidedly averse to receiving Carmontelle's orders. It was against the rules admitting visitors at this hour. The superior had retired. Carmontelle sprung hastily from the carriage and approached him with a potent argument--perhaps a golden one--for he took the note and disappeared, while the Louisianian went back to his carriage to wait what seemed an inconceivably long space of time, restless and uneasy in the doubts that began to assail his mind. "If she refuses," he thought, in terror, and his senses quailed at the thought. In all the wide city he could think of no home that would receive his charge if the convent turned her from its doors. "_Mon Dieu_!" he began to mutter to himself, in fierce disquietude, when suddenly he heard the grating of a heavy key in a huge lock, the falling of bolts and bars, and the immense gate opened gingerly, affording a glimpse of the janitor's face and form against the background of a garden in riotous bloom, while beyond towered the massive convent walls. "_Entrez_," the man said, civilly; and Carmontelle seized his still unconscious burden joyfully, and made haste to obey. The janitor uttered an exclamation of surprise when he saw that strange burden, then he led the way, Carmontelle eagerly following, until they reached the convent door. It opened as if by an unseen power, and they went along a cold, dimly lighted hall to a little reception-room where two gentle, pale-faced nuns were waiting with the mother superior to receive the midnight visitor. She was a tall, graceful, sweet-faced woman as she stood between the two, her slender white hands moving restlessly along the beads of her rosary. "My son," she uttered, in surprise, as he advanced and laid the still form of Little Nobody down upon a low sofa, drawing back the heavy cloak and showing what it hid--the fair young girl in the loose, white slip, and the wealth of ruddy, golden curls. He looked up at her with a face strangely broken up from its usual calm. "Madame, holy mother, I have brought you a pupil," he said, "and I have to confide a strange story to your keeping." He glanced at the sweet-faced, quiet nuns. "Perhaps it were better to speak to you alone?" he said, questioningly. "No, you need not fear the presence of these gentle sisters of the Good Shepherd. No secrets ever pass beyond these walls," the mother superior answered, with grave, calm dignity. CHAPTER IX. Carmontelle saw the three nuns looking apprehensively at the pale, still face of his charge, and said, reassuringly: "Do not be alarmed. It is not death, although it looks so much like it. The girl is only in a drugged sleep." "But, monsieur--" began the mother superior, indignantly, when she was interrupted by his equally indignant disclaimer: "It is none of my work. Wait until I tell you my story." And he immediately related it without reserve. All three listened with eager interest. "Now you know all," he said, at last, "and I will be perfectly frank with you regarding my intentions. I am rich, and have none to oppose my will. I wish to educate this unfortunate girl and make her my wife." The superioress was gracious enough to say that it was a most laudable intention. "You will aid me, then? You will receive her as a pupil, train and educate her in a manner befitting the position she will fill as my wife?" eagerly. "_Oui_, monsieur," she replied, instantly; and he nearly overwhelmed her with thanks. "I leave her in your care, then," he said, finally, as he pressed a check for a large amount into her hand. "Now I will not intrude upon you longer at this unseemly hour, but to-morrow I will call to see how she fares, and to make arrangements." He paused a minute to anxiously scan the pale, sweet, sleeping face, and then hurried away, eager to learn how Van Zandt had fared in his valiant effort at holding his pursuer at bay. Springing into the carriage again, he gave the order: "Back to Esplanade Street." The mettlesome horses trotted off at a lively pace through the quiet, almost deserted streets, and in a short space of time they drew up in front of Mme. Lorraine's residence. All was still and silent there. The front windows were closed and dark, and the clear moonlight shone upon the bare pavement--bare, where but a little while ago had lain the forms of the two vanquished contestants. Carmontelle looked at the dark, silent front of the house for a moment in doubt and indecision. He felt intuitively that behind its dark portals was the knowledge he desired, that Mme. Lorraine could tell him how the contest had fared after his departure. Anxiety conquered his reluctance to arouse the household at that late hour. He again left the carriage, and in crossing the pavement to the door, slipped and fell in a pool of blood yet wet and warm. Horrified, he held up his hands with the dark fluid dripping from them. "So, then, blood has been shed!" he exclaimed, and rang a furious peal on madame's door-bell. "Whew! that was loud enough to wake the dead!" ejaculated the attentive driver from his box; but apparently Mme. Lorraine was a very sound sleeper indeed, for repeated ringings of the bell elicited no response. In despair, Carmontelle was forced to go away, although quite satisfied in his own mind that Mme. Lorraine had heard, but refused to respond through malice prepense. He drove next to Eliot Van Zandt's hotel, and met the startling information that the young man had not been in that night. "_Mon Dieu_! what has become of the brave lad?" he ejaculated, in alarm; then, fiercely: "I will seek out Remond, and force the truth from him at the point of my sword!" Fortunately for the now wearied horses, Remond's hotel was but a few squares further; but here he met the puzzling information that Remond had left an hour before, having given up his rooms, and declared his intention of not returning. In the dim, strange light of the waning moon, Carmontelle grew strangely pale. "There is some mystery at the bottom of all this!" he asserted. But, baffled on every side in his efforts after information, he concluded to give up the quest until day; so was driven to his own lodgings in the pale glimmer of the dawn-light that now began to break over the quaint old city. Weary and dispirited, with a vague presentiment of evil, he flung himself on his bed, and a heavy stupor stole over him, binding his faculties in a lethargic slumber from which he did not arouse until the new day began to wax toward its meridian. CHAPTER X. He had given his valet no instructions to arouse him; therefore the man let him sleep on uninterruptedly, thinking that his master had been "making a night of it," in the slang phrase that prevails among gay fellows. So, when he awakened and rang his bell, the midday sunshine followed François into the quiet chamber and elicited an exclamation of dismay. "_Diable_! François, why did you not call me?" "Monsieur gave me no instructions," smoothly. "True; but you should have aroused me anyhow, you rascal!" irascibly. "Now, hurry up, and get me out of this as quick as possible!" His toilet completed, he swallowed a cup of coffee, munched a few morsels of a roll, and was off--appetite failing in his eagerness to get at Van Zandt. On his way to the hotel he dropped in at the club. No information was found there. Neither Van Zandt nor Remond had been in the rooms since yesterday. He hastened on to the journalist's modest hotel, only to be confronted with the news that Eliot had not yet returned. Since he had dined, at eight o'clock last evening, he had not been seen by any one in the house. His room had remained unoccupied since yesterday. Carmontelle sickened and shuddered at thought of the blood before madame's door last night. "It is plain that Van Zandt was the one who was wounded, since Remond was seen at his hotel last night after the accident. Great heavens! what mystery is here? Is he dead, the brave lad? and have they hidden his body to conceal the crime? I must find out the truth and avenge his death, poor boy!" He flung himself again into his carriage and was driven to that beautiful fiend's--to the home of the woman who had so heartlessly plotted the ruin of the helpless, innocent girl. She was at home, looking cool, fair, and graceful in a _recherché_ morning-robe garnished with yards on yards of creamy laces and lavender ribbons. She was twirling some cards in her jeweled fingers. "Ah, monsieur, I have cards to the reception at Trevor's next week. Are you going? Perhaps you have come to say that you will attend me there?" The coquettish smile faded at the scowl he turned upon her face. "Madame, where is Van Zandt?" he blurted out, brusquely. It was no wonder she had been such a star upon the dramatic stage. Her puzzled air, the wondering glance of her bright, dark eyes, were perfect. "Monsieur--Van Zandt!" she repeated, in gentle wonder. "How should I know? I assure you he has not been here since last night." "Yes, I know," impatiently. "But what happened to him last night? Did Remond kill him here, at your door, where I found the pool of blood when I came back to look for him?" Her eyes flashed. "Ah, then it was you, monsieur, that carried off poor Remond's bride?" with a low laugh of amusement. "Answer my question, if you please, Madame Lorraine," sternly. "Tell me--did Remond kill our young Yankee friend last night?" Madame threw back her handsome head, and laughed heartlessly. "_Ma foi_, how can I tell? When I saw the two fools were fighting desperately, I ran in, locked my door, and went to bed. _Mon Dieu_, I did not want to be a witness in a murder trial!" "And you did not peep out of the window?" cynically. "_Ma foi_, no! I was too frightened. I did not want to see or hear! I put my head under the bed-clothes, and went to sleep." "Heartless woman! After you had caused all the mischief!" indignantly. "I deny it!" cried Mme. Lorraine, artlessly, fixing her big, reproachful eyes on his face. "I can not understand what all this fuss is about. I did but arrange a marriage for my pretty ward, French-fashion, with Remond, rich, in love with her, and a splendid _parti_. But the little rebel pouted, flirted, and held him at bay till he was wild with love and jealousy. She was romantic. I proposed that he run off with her and win her heart by a _coup d'état_. The priest was ready. All would have gone well but for the cursed intermeddling of that sneaking Yankee. I hate him! What did he have to do with her that he should break off the match? Do you say Remond has killed him?" She had poured it all out in voluble French, protestingly, and with an air of the completest innocence, but she met only a furious frown. "Madame, your airs of innocence are quite thrown away," he replied. "Your treachery is known. You would have sold that poor girl to a life that was worse than death. Your bargain in the garden was overheard," sternly. "Do you know what you have brought upon your head, traitress? Social ostracism and complete disgrace! The Jockey Club that has upheld you by its notice so many years, will desert you in a body. We can not horsewhip you as we shall Remond, but we shall hold you up to the scorn of the world." "Mercy, monsieur!" she gasped, faintly, dropped her face in her hands, and dissolved in tears. He had expected that she would scorn him, defy him, but this softer mood confounded him. He could not bear a woman's tears. He sat and watched her in silence a few minutes, fidgeting restlessly, then said, curtly: "Come, come, it is too late for tears unless they are tears of repentance for your sin." Madame flung up her hands with a tragic gesture. "_Mon Dieu_, how cruelly I have been misunderstood! I do not deny the plot in the garden, but the listener surely did not hear all. Remond was to marry the girl, I swear it! Poor little motherless lamb! do you think I would have allowed any one to harm a hair of her head? Oh, you wrong me bitterly! You have been deceived, misled." She flung herself with sudden, inimitable grace on her knees at his feet. "Carmontelle, you should know me better than this!" she cried. "I swear to you it was only a harmless plot to make her Remond's wife. It would have been better for her to have a home and protector, I--I am so poor," weeping, "I have lost so heavily at play that there is a mortgage on my home, and I could not keep the girl much longer; I must retrench my expenses. Yet only for this I am to be ostracised, disgraced, held up to the scorn of my friends. Ah, you are cruel, unjust to me. Oh, spare me, spare me! Say nothing until you can prove these charges true." What a consummate actress! what a clever liar she was! Doubt began to invade his mind. Had Van Zandt misunderstood her words? "Madame Lorraine," he said, sternly, "get up from the floor and listen to me. I will give you the benefit of a doubt. I will try to believe that your infamous plot went no further than the trying to force that helpless child into a hated union. Even that was infamy enough. Talk not to me of your French marriages. I despise them. But I will say nothing to the world--yet. I will not wrong you until I make sure." "Bless you, noble Carmontelle!" she cried, seizing his hand and pressing passionate kisses upon it. He drew it coldly away, and said, dryly: "If you really feel grateful for my clemency, tell me what you know about Van Zandt and Remond. I can not find either one, and I fear that something terrible has happened to the noble young Bostonian." She swore by all the saints that she knew nothing, had heard nothing since the pistol-shot last night. "I was so frightened I did not wait to see who was shot. I just ran in and went to bed. I did not want to be a witness of anything so terrible!" she shuddered. "You swear you are not deceiving me, madame?" sternly. "I swear by all the saints," fervently. "Then I must search farther for my missing friend," he said, sadly, as he turned to go. She caught his arm eagerly. "Now tell me what you have done with the little baggage who has caused all this trouble? By Heaven, Carmontelle, if harm come to my little daughter through you, I will hold you to account!" "Daughter!" he echoed, bewilderly, and she answered, dauntlessly: "Yes, my daughter. The secret is out at last, the secret of my shame! She was born before I met Lorraine. Her father was--well, no matter who, since he was a villain. Well, I put the child out to nurse, and made an honest marriage. Then the woman followed me with the child, and I had to invent a story to account for her to Lorraine. Now I am free to claim her, and you see that the law will support me in demanding her restoration to my care!" They stood looking at each other silently a moment, then Carmontelle answered, angrily: "Madame, I do not believe you. This is only one of a dozen different stories you have told to account for the possession of that child. Your last claim is made in order to support a claim for her return to you. The pretext will not avail you. The little ma'amselle is in safe hands, where she shall remain until she is trained and educated up to the standard necessary for my wife." "Your wife?" she gasped, white with jealous fury. "I have said it," he answered, coldly, and strode abruptly from the house. Mme. Lorraine fell down for a moment on the sofa in furious hysterics. Carmontelle, her princely adorer, had scorned, defied her; Van Zandt knew her guilt and despised her; worst of all, the little scapegoat of her tempers, her beautiful slave, the hated Little Nobody, had escaped her clutches. Furies! But suddenly she sprung up like a wild creature, tore open the door that Carmontelle had slammed together, and rushed after him. He was just entering his carriage when her frantic hand arrested him and drew him forcibly back. "Come into the house; I must speak with you further. Do not shake your head," wildly. "It is a matter of life and death!" He suffered her to drag him back into the salon. She turned her shining eyes upon his face with a half-maniacal gleam in them. "The girl--had she awakened when you saw her last?" hoarsely. "No," he replied. She smote her forehead fiercely with one ringed white hand. "My soul! I do not want to have murder on my hands. You must find Remond. I gave him the little vial with the antidote." "The antidote?" he stammered, almost stupidly. "Yes, the antidote. She is under the influence of a strange drug. I bought the two vials long ago from an old hag in the East as a curiosity, you see. One drug was to bring sleep, the other to wake at will. Without--" she paused, and her voice broke. "Without--" he echoed, hoarsely; and in a frightened, guilty voice, she muttered: "The one, without the other means--death!" "Fiend!" he hissed, fiercely. "No, no; do not blame me. I meant no ill. I gave Remond the antidote, to be used when they reached the end of their journey. How could I know you would take the girl from him and hide her? How could I know he would disappear? Find Remond quickly, or her death will lie at your door." "You speak the truth?" he cried, wildly. "Before God and the angels, monsieur!" With a smothered oath he thrust her from him and rushed out again, leaped into the carriage, and gave his orders: "Like the wind, to the detective agency." It was two miles distant, and the panting horses were covered with foam when they set him down at his destination. Fortunately the familiar face of the most skillful detective in New Orleans looked at him in surprise from the pavement. He beckoned him into the vehicle. In words as brief and comprehensive as possible he explained what he wanted done. He must find Remond at once--find him and bring him to the Convent of Le Bon Berger. "A life hangs on his hands," he said, feverishly. "Tell him not to fail to bring with him the antidote he received last night." "I will find him if he is in the city," the detective promised, ardently; and full of zeal, inspired not only by love for his profession, but genuine anxiety and grief over the startling case just confided to him, he sprung from the carriage to set about his task. And Carmontelle, with his mind full of Little Nobody, gave the order again: "To the convent!" He was possessed by the most torturing anxiety over his little charge, and doubt over madame's startling assertion. "Horrible! horrible! What possessed her to use a drug so deadly?" he thought, wildly. "Oh, it can not be true! I shall find her awake and waiting for me, the poor lamb! Madame Lorraine only invented that story to torture me." He spoke feverishly to the driver: "Faster, faster!" The man replied, in a conciliatory tone: "Monsieur, I dare not. I should be arrested for fast driving, and your speed would be hindered, not helped, by such a course." He knew that it was true, and with a groan sunk back in his seat and resigned himself with what patience he could to the moderate pace of the horses. It seemed hours, although it was but thirty minutes, before they drew up again before the dark, grim building where he had left his charge the night before. The janitor admitted him without any parley this time; but Carmontelle was so eager that he did not notice the solemn, sympathetic look with which the man regarded him. He rushed without delay to the presence of the mother superior. When she saw him, her countenance expressed the greatest dismay. She crossed herself piously and ejaculated, sorrowfully: "Oh, monsieur, monsieur, you have come at last!" "Madame, holy mother!" he cried, agitatedly, and paused, unable to proceed further. Something in her face and voice filled him with dread. "Oh, my son!" she uttered, sorrowfully, and speech, too, seemed to fail her. She regarded him in a pathetic silence mixed with deep pity. He made a great effort to speak, to overcome the horror that bound him hand and foot. A terrible fear was upon him. What if she had not wakened yet? With that awful thought, he gasped and spoke: "Where is she?" "Oh, _mon Dieu_! oh, holy Mother of Jesus, comfort him!" cried the good nun, piously. She advanced and touched him compassionately. "God help you, my poor son. She--she--has not awakened--yet." He turned his pale, frightened face toward her. "She sleeps?" he questioned, eagerly; and with a holy compassion in her trembling voice, she replied: "Yes, my son, she sleeps--in Jesus." "Dead?" he almost shrieked, and she answered, solemnly: "Yes." She thought he was about to faint, his face grew so pale and his form reeled so unsteadily; but he threw out one hand and caught the back of a chair to sustain himself, while a hollow groan came from his lips: "Too late!" With tears in her eyes, the good nun continued: "The little girl never awakened from the deep sleep in which you brought her here. We made every effort to arouse her, but all in vain. She sunk deeper and deeper into lethargy, her breathing growing fainter and fainter, and at last it ceased altogether." "When?" he questioned, huskily. "Three hours ago," she replied. If it had not been for her sacred presence, Carmontelle would have broken into passionate execrations of the wicked woman who had caused the death of that sweet young girl. As it was, he stood before her dazed and silent, almost stunned by the calamities that had befallen him since last night. Van Zandt had mysteriously disappeared, and Little Nobody was dead. The one, he feared and dreaded, had been murdered by Remond in his fury; the other lay dead, the victim of Mme. Lorraine's cruel vengeance. "Come," said the nun, breaking in on his bitter thoughts; "she lies in the chapel. You will like to look at her, monsieur." He followed her silently, and the low, monotonous sound of the chant for the dead came to his ears like a knell as they went on along the narrow hall to the darkened chapel, where the weeping nuns lay prostrate before the altar, mumbling over the prayers for the dead, and an old, white-haired priest in flowing robes bent over his book. Carmontelle saw none of these. He had eyes for nothing but that black-draped coffin before the altar, with wax-candles burning at head and foot, shedding a pale, sepulchral light on that fair young face and form that such a little while ago had been full of life, and health, and vigor. He stood like one turned to stone--speechless, breathless--gazing at that exquisitely lovely face, so faultlessly molded, and so beautiful even in the strange pallor of death, with the dark lashes lying so heavily against the cheeks and the lips closed in such a strange, sweet calm. His heart swelled with love, and grief, and pity. Poor child! she had had such a strange, desolate life, and she had died without a name and without a friend, save for him who stood beside her now, his face pale and moved, as he looked upon her lying like a broken lily in her coffin, with the strange, weird light sifting through the stained-glass windows on her calm face, and the monotonous chants and prayers making a solemn murmur through the vaulted chapel. "Is it death or heavy sleep?" he asked himself, with a sudden throb of hope; and he touched reverently the little hands that were crossed over a white lily the nuns had lovingly placed there. Alas! they were icy cold! His hope fled. "Too late! too late! If they find Remond, it will be all in vain," he muttered, and the mother superior looked at him inquiringly. Impulsively he told her all, and the nuns, at their prayers, murmured aves and paters more softly, that they might listen; the old priest, with his head bent over his book, lost not a word. It was a romance from that wicked outer world from which the convent walls shut them in, a breath of life and passion from the "bewildering masquerade" of existence, where "Strangers walk as friends, And friends as strangers; Where whispers overheard betray false hearts, And through the mazes of the crowd we chase Some form of loveliness that smiles and beckons, And cheats us with fair words, only to leave us A mockery and a jest; maddened--confused-- Not knowing friend from foe!" The mother superior gazed with dilated eyes as he poured out the moving story, clasped her long, white hands excitedly, and shuddered with horror. "Ah, _mon Dieu_! the wicked man! the cruel, heartless woman!" she exclaimed. "Shall they not answer for this crime?" "Ay, before Heaven, they shall!" Pierre Carmontelle vowed passionately, with his warm, living hand pressed upon the chill, pulseless one of the nameless dead girl; and in the years to come he kept that impulsive vow made there in the presence of the living and the dead. CHAPTER XI. To return to Mme. Lorraine the night when Eliot Van Zandt lay like one dead before her door in a pool of his own blood, deserted by the brutal Remond, who had left him for dead upon the pavement. She had peeped from the window as Carmontelle had charged her with doing, although she had denied the accusation, and she had beheld all that passed. If she had not conceived a passion for Van Zandt, he might have perished, for all she would have cared; but something of womanly softness stole into her heart as she gazed, and she murmured: "Can he be dead, or only in a deadly swoon? What if I go and find out?" Glancing up and down the street to make sure that no one was in sight, she slipped out and knelt down by the prostrate form. Pushing back his coat and vest, she laid her hand over his heart. "There is some faint pulse. He lives, he lives!" she murmured, joyfully. "Now, now is my chance to act the good Samaritan. I will take him into my house, nurse him, tend him, and gratitude may win for me that which beauty and fascination failed to conquer." She hastily summoned a confidential servant, a woman who had been in her employ many years, and the repository of many strange secrets. Together they managed to convey the wounded, unconscious man into the house, although the domestic expostulated with every breath. "Hold your tongue, Mima. It is none of your business. You have only to obey my orders," madame returned, coolly. "The underground chamber, please. His presence is to be kept a secret. You and I will have the care of him--you are quite skillful enough, after your experience as a hospital nurse during the war, to attend his wound. He will be hidden here, while to the world he will have mysteriously disappeared." They laid him down on a couch in the wide hall, and Mima took a lamp and went out. Soon she returned, and stood before her mistress, huge, and tall, and dark, with a malignant scowl on her homely foreign face. "Madame, your strange guest-chamber is ready," she said, with curt sarcasm. "But this heavy body--how shall we convey it down the stairs?" "You are big and strong enough," Mme. Lorraine replied, coolly. "You may go in front and carry his body; I will follow with his pretty head in my arms." And so, as if the fate that had stricken him down into seeming death had not been dark enough, he was borne, an unconscious prisoner, into an underground chamber beneath Mme. Lorraine's house--a luxurious chamber, richly furnished, but of whose presence no one was aware save herself and this servant, for it was entered by a door cleverly concealed among the oak panelings of the hall. The light of day never entered this secret chamber. It was illumined by a swinging-lamp, and the odor of dried rose leaves from a jar of _pot-pourri_ in one corner pleasantly pervaded the air, dispelling some of the mustiness and closeness inseparable from its underground situation. They laid Van Zandt down upon a soft white bed, and Mme. Lorraine said, coolly: "Now, Mima, you may examine into the extent of his wound." The large, masculine-looking woman went to work in quite a professional way on her unconscious patient, and in a short time she looked around and said, to the great relief of her mistress: "It is an ugly wound, very near his heart, but not necessarily a dangerous one, unless a fever sets in. He has fainted from loss of blood, and I will dress the wound before I attempt to revive him. You may go upstairs, for I see you growing pale already at the sight of blood, and I don't want you here fainting on my hands." "Thank you, Mima," said Mme. Lorraine, almost meekly; for one of her weaknesses, which she shared in common with most women, was that the sight of blood always made her very sick and faint. She staggered out of the close room, toiled feebly up the stairs, and drank two glasses of wine to steady her trembling nerves; then she extinguished the lights in the house, and retired to her bed. She was still awake when Carmontelle returned in quest of Eliot Van Zandt, and she laughed in her sleeve at his furious, ineffectual peals at the bell. Stealing to the window, she drew back a fold of the curtain and peered down at him, chuckling softly when she saw him take his angry departure. Then she returned to her silken couch, and slept soundly for hours. The sun was high in the heavens when Mima's rough, impatient hand shook her broad awake without ceremony. "Are you going to sleep all day?" she demanded. "You wouldn't if you knew what had happened. The little one's gone. I can't find her in the house or the grounds, and her bed ain't been slept in all night." She gazed suspiciously into madame's startled face, which was not so handsome now with the cosmetics washed from it, and that frown wrinkling her brow. She repeated Mima's word in apparently stupid amaze: "Gone!" "Yes, gone! Don't you know anything about it? Ain't you had a hand in it?" Mme. Lorraine, sitting up in bed in her night-robe of soft white linen, burst out, indignantly: "Look here, Mima, don't make a fool of yourself. If the girl's gone, it's none of my work. She threatened, the last time I beat her, that she would run away, and I suppose she's kept her word. I've noticed that some of the men that come here were sweet on her, and she's gone with one of them, no doubt." Mima stood like one petrified, looking at her, when she suddenly burst out again: "Oh, dear! perhaps she has taken Selim! Run, Mima, to the stables. Oh, the little wretch!--if she dared--" Mima interrupted, harshly: "She has not taken your idol. I knew she was in the habit of stealing him out for a wild canter sometimes, and I ran to the stables when I missed her. Selim was there all right, and the ponies, too." "Then she has gone off with some of the men; she has eloped, the little vixen, and may joy go with her! It is a good riddance of bad rubbish," madame cried, in such violent indignation that the servant's suspicions were disarmed. Seeing the impression she had made, the wily ex-actress went on: "I dare say that was the cause of the shooting last night. I was awakened by the report of a pistol, and jumped out of bed and ran to the window. I saw a carriage in front of my door, and two men scuffling on the pavement. Suddenly one fell to the ground; the other jumped into the carriage and drove rapidly away. No doubt the wicked little baggage was in the vehicle, and the fight was over her. Let her go, the little nobody. I shall make no effort to find her. But aren't you going to give me my chocolate, when I'm so weak I can scarcely speak?" pausing in her voluble tirade, and fixing a glance of reproach on the servant's dark, stolid face. Mima shrugged her broad shoulders sarcastically and retired, and madame sprung out of bed, thrust her feet into satin slippers, and huddled on an elaborate _robe de chambre_. "I suppose I shall have to dress myself now, having deprived myself of my little maid's services to gratify my desire for revenge," she muttered, half regretfully. "_Ciel_! but she had deft fingers and a correct taste. I can not replace her services by another, for the secrets of this old house are not to be trusted to a stranger. Well, I am a thousand dollars the richer, although Remond let the prize slip through his fingers after he had paid the price. And what a fortune it was that cast Van Zandt into my hands! I have fallen in love with the beautiful boy. It is really love, not the _penchant_ I have entertained for a score of others. Ah!" She paused in her soliloquy, for Mima entered with a tray on which glistened the gold and silver of a costly breakfast service, spread with delicate edibles. "Your patient, Mima, how is he?" she queried, anxiously. "He is doing well, and thinks he is in a hospital," said the woman. "It is best to humor him in that delusion for several days; for if he were to find out the truth now, he would fret and chafe, and perhaps bring on the fever I am anxious to avoid. So, madame, you would do well to stay out of the sick-room until he is well enough to bear the news that he is a prisoner of love," sarcastically. CHAPTER XII. Carmontelle stood for many minutes gazing like one dazed at the still and lovely features of the nameless dead girl. He was stunned, as it were, by the magnitude of this misfortune, and could only murmur over and over in accents of pity and despair combined: "Too late, too late, too late!" At length he too flung himself down before the altar with bowed head, although no prayers escaped his lips, for the stupor of despair was upon him. She was dead, poor unfortunate Little Nobody, and there was naught to pray for now. There the detective found him, two hours later, when he came with news--news at once good and bad. "I found Remond," he said. "He was about leaving the city by the steamer 'Ellen Bayne.' As he was about crossing the plank, I collared him and demanded the antidote. He was startled at first, and glared at me fiercely, then suddenly assumed a calmness that looked so much like acquiescence that I was completely deceived. He put his hand into his breast-pocket, and drew out a small vial of colorless liquid. I thought he was going to give it to me, and, thrown off my guard by his apparent coolness, released him and stretched out my hand. The cunning villain took instant advantage of my belief; he sprung away from me across the gang-plank, which was instantly drawn in, as the steamer was leaving the wharf. Standing on the deck, he looked at me with the leer of a fiend and immediately flung the vial into the river." "The fiend!" Carmontelle said, hoarsely. "But it matters not. She is already dead." And he led the dismayed and disappointed detective to the chapel, and showed him the silent sleeper there, with the cool white lilies on her breast. "How beautiful, how unfortunate!" murmured the kind-hearted detective, in reverential awe. His profession had made him familiar with all sorts of tragedies and sorrows, but this one seemed to him as sad and pathetic as any he had ever encountered. He looked with deep sympathy upon the man beside him to whom the girl's death was such a crushing blow, but words failed him. He could only look his silent and sincere sympathy. Suddenly there recurred to Carmontelle the remembrance of Eliot Van Zandt, whose fate was still wrapped in mystery. "Come, we can do no good here now," he said, mournfully. "The fiends have done their work too well. We must try to get at the bottom of the mystery that enshrouds the fate of my poor friend." After promising the mother superior to return and attend to the funeral obsequies of the dead girl, he went away, taking the detective with him to assist in the inquiry for the young journalist. It did not seem possible that they could fail in this search, but though the anxious quest was kept up for many days and nights, not a single clew rewarded their efforts. Eliot Van Zandt had disappeared as completely as though an earthquake had opened and swallowed him into the bosom of old mother earth. The detective could form but one conclusion, which he reluctantly imparted to his employer. "The young man was most probably murdered that night, and his corpse flung into the river, but no proofs will ever be found implicating Remond as the murderer. Nor is it likely that the Frenchman will ever turn up again in New Orleans. Fearful of detection, he will go abroad and plunge into new crimes befitting his evil nature, and the disappearance of poor Van Zandt will most likely remain forever upon the terrible list of unexplained disappearance of human beings." Days came and went, and it seemed as if he had uttered a true prophecy. In the meantime, a tomb in the convent cemetery had received to its cold embrace the shrouded form of Mme. Lorraine's beautiful victim, and the madame herself had been apprised of the fact by a brief and bitter note from Pierre Carmontelle. "The victim of your malice is dead and in her untimely grave," he wrote. "Remond has fled the city, and the Jockey Club has been told the secret of your guilt and his. They are wild with rage, but they spare you yet until they can make sure of your guilt, and bring your crime home to you. In the meantime, I tell you frankly that you are under constant espionage, and the task of my life is to avenge the death of poor little ma'amselle upon you and that cowardly Frenchman. Look well to yourself, for enemies encompass you and punishment awaits you." Madame grew pale beneath her rouge, and twisted the angry note nervously in her jeweled fingers. "A frank enemy!" she muttered. "He gives me fair warning. Like the deadly serpent, he gives forth his venomous hiss before he stings. He is very kind. Forewarned is forearmed, they say." She reread it with a nervous contraction of her brows. "So the little one is dead! I did not intend it, but--it is better so. Fate has removed an incumbrance from my path. Now for a call upon my guest, to electrify him with my news. Mima says he is fast recovering, and that I may venture upon a visit." She went to her dressing-room and donned a street costume of olive cashmere and silk, with bonnet and gloves and all the paraphernalia of walking costume. Then, with a choice bunch of flowers culled from her garden, she let herself through the secret entrance to the cellar chamber, and preceded by the frowning servant, was ushered into the presence of Eliot Van Zandt. He lay, pale and handsome and restless, among the white pillows in the luxurious room. The lamp that burned night and day shed a soft, roseate glow over everything, and brightened somewhat the pallid cast of his countenance. "Ah, Monsieur Van Zandt, my poor, dear Yankee friend, the cruel doctors and nurses have permitted me to call on you at last! And how do you find yourself this evening, _mon ami_?" she cried, fluttering up to his bedside, all smiles and sweet solicitude. His dark-gray eyes opened wide with surprise and displeasure. "Madame Lorraine!" he ejaculated, angrily, but she pretended not to understand the surprise and anger. "Yes, it is I," she said, sweetly. "Did you think you were deserted by all your friends? But it was the cruel doctors in the hospital; they would admit no one until you were out of danger. I came every day and begged until they gave me leave to see you. Ah, _mon ami_, I have suffered such anxiety for your sake!" with uplifted eyes and pensive air. "But, thank the good God, you are restored to me." The dark-gray eyes flashed with resentment, and a warm flush crept up to the young man's pale brow. He waved her away indignantly. "Madame Lorraine, your hypocrisy is intolerable!" he exclaimed, hotly. "Leave me. Your call is in the worst of taste, and most undesirable." With impetuous grace, she flung herself down on her knees beside him, surprise, dismay, and wounded love expressed eloquently on her mobile face. "Ah, _mon ami_, what have I done to receive this repulse? I come to you in friendship and regard, and you order me away! Good nurse"--turning her head around for a moment to scornful Mima--"is it that your patient is delirious yet, that he thus upbraids his truest friend?" "Get up from your knees, Madame Lorraine; you can not deceive me by your artful professions," Van Zandt cried, sternly; and looking wondrously grand and handsome in his anger, although he could scarcely lift his blonde head from the pillow. "I am not delirious; my mind is perfectly clear, and, in proof of it, listen: I was in your garden that night, and heard your nefarious plotting with Remond for the ruin of that poor young girl. She heard, too, and, distracted with terror, begged me to save her. It was I who brought Carmontelle to the rescue, while I held at bay the villain Remond. Now you understand why I loathe the sight of you--why I wish you to go out from my presence, never to enter it again." She wept and protested, as she had done with Carmontelle, that it was all a cruel mistake. She had but made a match, French-fashion, for her ward. Remond was pledged to marry her that night. She did not find him credulous, as she had hoped. He smiled in scorn, and reiterated his wish that she should leave the room. "Very well," she said, bitterly, "I am going, but not before I tell the news I brought; your officious intermeddling was fatal to the girl you pretended to save--it was the cause of her death." "Death!" he echoed; and the fair, stately head fell back among the pillows, the lids drooped over his eyes. Mima believed he was about to swoon, and hastily brought restoratives. "You should have held your cursed tongue!" she muttered, in an audible aside to her mistress; but Mme. Lorraine did not reply. She was watching that deathly pale face that looked up at her so eagerly as Van Zandt whispered, faintly: "Dead! Oh, you do but jest! It can not be!" "It is no jest. It is the truth. Do you want to hear how it came about? Remond had two subtle Eastern drugs, the one to induce heavy sleep, the other to awaken her at his will. Well, you and Carmontelle interfered, and so Remond ran away with the second drug, and--she died in her sleep." "No, no!" he cried, almost imploringly. "Ah, you regret your work when too late!" madame cried, triumphantly. "It is sad, is it not? But it is true as Heaven. Barely an hour ago I received a note from him, to say that she was dead and buried, the poor little wretch!" "It is your fiendish work!" he said, bitterly. "May Heaven punish you! Ah, the poor innocent little ma'amselle, it was hard for her to go like that. But--better death than dishonor!" He put his white hand up before his face, and a long, deep, shuddering sigh shook him from head to foot. Mima shook her mistress roughly by the shoulder and pointed to the door that led up the stairs to the hidden entrance. "Go!" she whispered, harshly. "I don't know what prompted you to this devil's work. You must have wanted to kill him. I don't know how this will result now. Go, and take your hateful face out of his sight!" Madame flung down her roses with a whimper, and trailed her rich robes from the room in a passion of disappointed love and hope. "He loved her--like the rest!" she muttered, fiercely. "I wish she had died before he ever saw her. But I swear I will win him yet, or--he shall never see the light of day again!" CHAPTER XIII. Van Zandt lay for a long time with his face hidden in his hands, long, labored sighs shaking his manly form, feeling as if a nightmare of horror had fastened itself upon him. It had been bad enough to lie here, bound hand and foot by the pain of his severe wound, and chafing fiercely against his misfortune, but with the inward comfort of the knowledge that by his bravery he had saved a girl, Little Nobody though she was, from a cruel fate; but--now! Now, at the sudden and cruel news Mme. Lorraine had maliciously brought, his heart almost ceased its beating, so awful was the shock. Dead, gone out of life in her maiden bloom, so beautiful, so innocent and ignorant, wronged irretrievably by a woman without a heart--a handsome creature, wicked enough to sell a young, immortal soul to ruin for a handful of sordid gold! Bitter, sorrowful, indignant were his meditations while he lay there, with his hand before his face, watched furtively by the big, ugly Mima, who, with all her rough ways, was a skillful and tender nurse, having spent four years of her life caring for wounded soldiers in an army hospital. She moved nearer to him at last, and said, uneasily: "Best not to take it so hard, sir. The girl's gone to a better place than this wicked world, where she never saw one happy day. You'll make yourself worse, taking on like this, and it can't do any good to the dead, so cheer up and think of getting well as fast as you can, and out of this lonesome place." He looked curiously at the hard, homely face as she spoke, for she had been shy and taciturn heretofore, wasting few words upon her patient. She had told him that he was in a private hospital, and he had not doubted the assertion, although, as days passed by, it seemed strange to him that he saw no face but hers about him. Another thing that puzzled him was, that it seemed always night in his room--the curtains drawn and the lamp burning. When he spoke of this to Mima, she answered abruptly that he slept all day and lay awake all night. "And I never see the doctor when he comes to visit me," he added. "You are always asleep when he pays his midday visit," she replied. In the languor and pain of his illness he accepted all her statements in good faith, although chafing against his forced detention, and wondering what his publishers and his home folks would think of his strange silence. He had resolved only this morning that he would ask Carmontelle to write to them for him to say that he was sick--not wounded--only sick. Now he looked fixedly at his strange, grim nurse, and said, sternly: "Never admit that woman, that fiend rather, into my presence again. Do you understand me?" "Yes, sir," Mima replied, soothingly; and he continued, anxiously: "Now, tell me, has any one called to see me since I was brought to this hospital? I mean, except that woman, Madame Lorraine?" "Lord, yes, sir; several gentlemen that said they was from the Jockey Club, and friends of yours. But the doctor's orders was strict not to admit anybody." "How came Madame Lorraine to get admittance, then?" with a very black frown. "Lord, sir, she wheedled the doctor with her pretty face!" He frowned again, and said, peremptorily: "When the doctor comes in again, you must awaken me if I am asleep. I must speak to him." "Yes, sir," meekly. "And if the gentlemen from the club come again, say to the doctor that they must be admitted. I am quite well enough to receive my friends, and I must get some one to write home for me. Will you do as I tell you?" looking at her with contracted brows, and a dark-red flush mounting into his cheek that alarmed her, experienced nurse that she was. "Yes, yes, my dear sir, I will do just as you say," she replied, eager to pacify him, for she saw that what she had been dreading all the time had come to pass, through the imprudence of Mme. Lorraine--her patient had been driven by excitement into a high fever. CHAPTER XIV. In the meantime, a strange event had taken place at the Convent of Le Bon Berger, through the curiosity of the old priest, who, while bending over his book in the chapel, had overheard Carmontelle's story of the mysterious drug and its strange antidote. Although outwardly absorbed in his devotions, he had listened with an excited gleam in his dim old eyes, and once had half started forward to speak, but checked himself quickly, and remained quiescent during the time that elapsed before Carmontelle and the praying nuns took their departure from the chapel. When all were gone, and there remained only himself and that still form in the black-draped coffin, he started eagerly forward and stood in excited silence gazing at the beautiful face of the dead girl. Once he lifted his old, wrinkled hand and pressed hers tenderly, then withdrew it, shuddering at that mortal coldness. It was no wonder that the old priest had been excited by the story of Carmontelle, for years ago he had been an enthusiastic traveler in Eastern lands, and an old witch--or sorceress, as she was called there--had given him two drugs to which she ascribed the mysterious properties possessed by those of which Carmontelle had spoken. He had kept them always, certainly with no intention of ever testing the strange power claimed for them, but only because they were part and parcel of the box of curiosities he had brought with him from that fascinating tour. To-day the two vials lay safely in the box, wrapped in a bit of yellow parchment on which, in a strange tongue, were inscribed the directions for their use. It flashed over him that the hour had come when the gift of the old hag, at whose strange leer he had shrunk and shuddered, was to be instrumental in saving a human life. But he was old and wise, and he knew that life is not always a blessing; that often and often it is but the bearing of a heavy cross, with lagging steps and weary heart, to a far Golgotha. In the dim confessional men and women, and even the young and tender, had poured their griefs and their sins into his compassionate hearing, and many had waited for death with infinite yearning, while some--and he trembled and crossed himself at the sad remembrance--had gone mad over wrong and ruth, and in despair had cut the Gordian knot of life. It was of all this he had thought when he had restrained his impulse to speak to Carmontelle; it was of this he was thinking now, as he stood there, old and gray and holy, by the side of that beautiful bud of life in the coffin. He was, as it were, weighing entity and non-entity in careful, metaphorical scales. He was solemnly asking himself, "Which is better--life or death?" From the saints and angels in that bright world beyond, where his pious thoughts continually rested, seemed to come a low, eager answer: "Death!" He looked again, with agonized doubt, at that fair, lovely face, so innocent in its deep repose. The mother superior had told him that the girl, had she lived, was destined to be the bride of Carmontelle. "I know the man--rich, generous, and worldly. As his wife, she will be a society queen. Her idols will be wealth and pleasure. She will be gay and heartless, forgetful of all holy things, living only for this world. Better, far better, the bride of Heaven." And crossing himself again, with a muttered prayer he went out of the little chapel, where presently the pale-faced nuns came again, muttering their pious aves for the dead. That night in his cell, impelled by some irresistible force within himself, he took out the small vial from the curiosity-box, and read the strangely lettered parchment, for he was an earnest student, and versed in Oriental lore. Great drops of dew beaded his temples as he spelled out the meaning of the parchment; and no wonder, for he read there that, although one lay as dead for three days, a few drops of the antidote poured between the lips would break that deathly sleep and restore life; but after those wondrous three days the drug could be of no avail--death must surely ensue. In the cold and cheerless cell the old priest shivered as with a chill. "What an awful responsibility lies upon me!" he muttered. "It is for me to decide whether to give her back to Carmontelle and the world, to be spoiled by its vanities, or leave her soul, now pure and unspotted, free to enter heaven." After an hour of painful meditation he put away the mysterious drug and spent the night upon his knees on the cold stone floor of the cell, calling on all the saints to uphold him in his pious resolve to save the soul of the lovely girl by the sacrifice of her life. And the next afternoon, in a shaken voice and a holy resolve written on his ashen features, he read the long Latin prayers for the dead to the assembled nuns and to Carmontelle among them, and saw the form of poor Little Nobody consigned to the grim vault in the convent cemetery. Two days and a night had thus passed while the girl lay in that death-like trance. A few hours more and the prisoned soul would be separated from the body, and the story of her brief life be ended. But when the shades of night again fell on the convent walls, a revulsion of feeling brought remorse to the soul of the old priest. He was haunted by the thought of the living girl prisoned in the vault among the dead. In the solitude of his cell that night a strange unrest grew upon him, and evil spirits seemed to people the gloom. He started up in terror from his knees, the great drops of sweat pouring over his face. "Yes, yes, it is murder!" he uttered, fearfully. "Heaven put the means of saving her in my hands, and I was too blind to understand. But I will atone, I will atone!" A sudden thought came to him, and he hurriedly sought a brother priest and the mother superior. To them, in deep humility, he confessed his error. "I was deceived by tempting devils, but I see my mistake in time to correct it," he said, humbly. "Several hours yet remain of the time, and I will restore her to life, by the aid of Heaven and this mysterious drug, and her return to life must be a secret." They went with him secretly to the dark vault. They took from the coffin that unconscious form and bore it in their arms to a secluded chamber. There they poured between the pale, sealed lips a few drops of the mysterious drug, and kept anxious vigil all night over her bedside. In a few hours they began to reap the reward of their solicitude. The appearance of the girl's face grew less death-like, a delicate moisture appeared on her skin, a faint color in her lips, and gradually a barely perceptible respiration became apparent. The drug had done its restorative work perfectly. Down on his knees went the anxious old priest, and he thanked Heaven for the life he had saved. When the morning light began to gild the convent spire, the dark eyes opened slowly upon the face of the mother superior, who was watching intently for this sign of life. The priests had retired, and they were quite alone. Tears of relief sparkled into the eyes of the good nun. "Dear child, you are awake at last!" she exclaimed, gladly; but the girl made no reply. Her lids had closed again, and she had fallen into a quiet, natural sleep that lasted until the chiming of the vesper bells. She awoke to find her slumber guarded by another nun, who had taken the place of the good mother. When the dark, puzzled eyes wandered around the room, she chirped sweetly: "Oh, my dear, you have slept so long, you must be very, very hungry. I will bring you some food." She came back presently with some light, nutritious broth in a bowl, and fed the girl gently from a tea-spoon. She swallowed languidly, and a few mouthfuls sufficed her appetite. Then she looked at the pleasant-faced nun, and said, languidly: "Good sister, I do not understand. Just now I was with Monsieur Van Zandt. He was wounded. Oh, how pale he was!" shivering. "Another minute, and I am here. How is it, and where is he?" The old priest had entered noiselessly, and the low voice was distinctly audible to his ears. He shuddered. He had just read in a paper of the mysterious disappearance of Eliot Van Zandt, who was supposed to have been murdered, and his body flung into the lake or the river. Hence the girl's strange words struck coldly on his senses. He thought: "Her soul has been parted from the body in that strange trance, and has taken cognizance of the man vainly sought for by friends and detectives. What if she could tell where he is hidden!" Muttering a prayer for the girl, he came up to the bedside. "Bless you, my daughter," he said, soothingly. "And so you have seen Eliot Van Zandt? Does he yet live?" She looked at him gently and with surprise. Perhaps, in the strange experiences of her trance, she was inured to surprises. "Holy father," she murmured, reverentially, then, gently. "I have seen him. He is not dead. He is not going to die. But he is very ill; he is dangerously wounded." The little nun chirped an "oh!" of vivacious wonder, but the priest silenced her by a warning glance. "Where is he? Where is Monsieur Van Zandt, my daughter?" he questioned, eagerly. "Where?" echoed Little Nobody. "Why, in the next room, doubtless, good father, for a minute ago I was with him, and then I found myself here so suddenly that it seemed a little strange to me." "Yes, it is strange," said the old priest, growing pale and hurriedly crossing himself. "But you are mistaken. He is not in this house. If you know where he is, tell me, daughter." She shut her eyes reflectively, opened them again, and answered, dreamily: "He was lying on a bed in a pretty room, where a lamp was burning all day. There was a red wound on his breast, and he was pale and ill. I do not know the house, but Madame Lorraine can tell you, for it was her servant, Mima, that I saw giving him a glass of water." CHAPTER XV. The nun looked at the old priest with round eyes of wonder. "Father Quentin, what strange thing is this?" she uttered, fearfully. "Ask me not to explain it, my good daughter; it is a manifestation of psychic power beyond human explanation," he replied, hastily quitting the room to seek the mother superior. As a result of his interview with her, he was soon on his way toward Esplanade Street and Mme. Lorraine. Seldom had the footsteps of such a holy man crossed the threshold of the gay and volatile French woman. She grew pale through her rouge and her powder when she read the name upon his card, and sent word that she was not at home. He told the little page that he would wait until madame returned, and took a seat in the quiet salon. Angry and baffled, Mme. Lorraine came down to him. _"Bénedicité_, daughter," said Father Quentin; but she looked at him inquiringly, without bending her lovely head. "I have come to see Eliot Van Zandt, who lies wounded in your house," he said, boldly. She gave a quick, nervous start, perfectly perceptible to his eyes, and her glance sought his, full of frightened inquiry. "The girl was right; he is hidden here," he thought, with fluttering pulses; but aloud he said, with pretended authority and outward calmness: "Lead me to his presence; I must see the young man at once." She had recovered her calmness as quickly as she had lost it. "Holy father, you amaze me!" she exclaimed, haughtily. "The man is not here. I read in my paper only this morning that he had most mysteriously disappeared. But come, I see you do not believe me. You shall search my house." He was a little staggered by her assurance. "I do not wish to seem intrusive," he said; "but my informant was very positive." Then he mentally shook himself. After all, he had no authority for his assertion, except the strange words of a girl who had just come out of a trance-like sleep--a girl who might simply have dreamed it all. But he followed her all over the pretty, elegantly appointed house, the little page carrying the keys and unlocking door after door until he was sure that not an apartment in the house remained unvisited. "You have a servant-woman, Mima," he said to her, as they descended the stairs. "Yes," she replied; "Mima is in the kitchen, preparing luncheon. You shall see her, too, holy father." Mima, at work over a dainty luncheon, bowed her head grimly to receive his blessing. "You have been nursing a sick, a wounded man, Monsieur Van Zandt," he said, trying to take her by surprise; but she did not betray as much self-consciousness as her mistress. "The holy father mistakes; I am a cook, not a nurse," she replied, coolly. And so he came away baffled, after all. Mme. Lorraine pressed a gold piece excitedly into the hand of the little page. "Follow the good priest, and come back and tell me where he lives," she exclaimed. * * * * * Father Quentin went his way immediately back to the convent, with the story of his disappointment, and concluded that Little Nobody's dream had been simply a dream, with nothing supernatural about it. The light that had seemed to shine momentarily on the mystery of Eliot Van Zandt's fate went out in rayless darkness. For the girl, she grew better and stronger daily, and submitted, with child-like patience, to the innumerable questions the good sisters asked her of her past life. They were shocked when she told them the story of her life with Mme. Lorraine, the life that she had counted of so little value that she had never even given her little white slave a name. They went to Father Quentin with the shocking story--that the girl had no name, and that that heartless woman had called her Vixen, Savage, Baggage, Nobody, by turns. She must be baptized immediately. The good priest was as heartily scandalized as one could wish. He chose a name at once for their charge. It was the sweet, simple one, Marie. And that same day, in the little chapel, surrounded by the tearful nuns, Little Nobody stood before the altar and received the baptismal name, Marie. The next day she was formally introduced into the convent school, which consisted of twenty young ladies, all boarders. She was cautioned to say nothing of her past life to her schoolmates. The priest said that she was a ward of his, and he wished the pupils to be very kind to Mlle. Marie, who, through the peculiar circumstances of her life, had not received necessary mental culture, and must now begin the rudiments of her education. For downright, honest, uncompromising curiosity and rudeness, no class of human beings transcends the modern school-girl. The pupils of Le Bon Berger immediately set themselves to work to torture the new scholar--the little ignoramus, as they dubbed her. Such ignorance as this they had never encountered before. They teased and chaffed her in their audacious fashion, and speedily made her understand her humiliation--a great girl of fifteen or sixteen beginning to learn her alphabet like a child of five years! She was used to being chaffed and despised, poor Little Nobody! It was the life at Mme. Loraine's over again, and the great dark eyes flashed in sullen scorn as they did then, and the small hands clinched themselves at her sides in impotent pain. "I shall run away from here!" she thought, bitterly. They had one habit with which they daily demonstrated to her their superior wisdom. At recess they would assemble in a great group and read aloud from the daily newspaper. Sitting apart under the great trees of the convent garden, the new pupil listened, against her will, to every word, and so there came to her one day, through this strange means, the news of Eliot Van Zandt's strange disappearance from the ranks of the living. With dilated eyes, parted lips and wildly throbbing heart she listened, and when the reader's voice came to an end, the group was electrified by a spring and a rush and a vision of golden hair flying on the wind, as the new pupil flew, with the speed of an Atalanta, into the presence of the mother superior. "What is the matter with Mademoiselle Marie? has she got a fit?" exclaimed the merry, mischievous school-girls. CHAPTER XVI. Little Nobody had flung down the spelling-book that had become her constant companion, and rushed impetuously to the presence of the good mother superior. In a few minutes more she had wrested from the gentle nun her whole story, from the hour when Carmontelle had brought her to the convent until now, when, through the fanaticism of Father Quentin, she was as one dead to the world outside, her young life solemnly devoted to Heaven. The dark eyes flashed indignantly, the pale cheeks crimsoned with anger. "How dared he?" she exclaimed. "Daughter!" The gently remonstrating tone had no effect on the excited girl. She continued, angrily: "Do you not see that it was wicked to shut me up for life? I do not want to be a nun. I will not be a nun! I tell you frankly their pale faces and black dresses give me the horrors! I shall leave here at once to find the poor Yankee that was wounded in defending me. He is in the power of Madame Lorraine, I am sure. I dreamed of him, and he was wounded, and in the care of Mima, her servant." The nun assured her that Father Quentin had been already to Esplanade Street, and that Mme. Lorraine and her servant had declared their ignorance of the journalist's whereabouts. Mlle. Marie's lip curled in unmitigated scorn. "As if their words could be taken for truth," she uttered, bitterly. "Ah, I know her falsehoods too well." The nun knew not what to do. The demand of the girl to leave the convent frightened her. She was compelled to falter a refusal. Then Marie flatly rebelled. Some of the spirit that had made Remond call her a little savage flashed into her eyes, and she vowed that she would not be detained. The mother went hastily to call Father Quentin. He firmly refused to grant the girl's wish. He was persuaded that to do so would be to insure her own eternal ruin. The passionate heart, the undisciplined temper, took fire at his flat refusal. To the poor girl it seemed that the whole world was arrayed against her. Why had the old priest saved her from death if she was to be immured forever, as in a living tomb, in this grim old convent? The sanguine youth and hope within her rose up in passionate protest. She pleaded, and when entreaty failed, she flung down a passionate defiance. Go she would! Eliot Van Zandt needed her to deliver him from Mme. Lorraine's baneful power. Should she torture him, destroy him, while she who owed him so much forsook him? Ah, no, no! The result was that the defiant, contumacious pupil was consigned to solitary confinement in a cell for the remainder of the day, until she should come to her senses and ask pardon of the priest and the good mother superior. She flung herself down, sobbing, on the cold stone floor, too angry to repeat the prayers Father Quentin had recommended her to address to the saints. Her thoughts centered around Eliot Van Zandt in agonizing solicitude. "He was my friend; he fought Remond to save me," she murmured; "and shall I desert him in the danger he incurred for my sake? Never, never! not if to find him I have to venture back into the spider's den, into madame's presence again." Day waned and faded, and the soft chiming of the vesper bells rang out the hour of her release. Pale and watchful, she knelt among the nuns and the pupils in the chapel, but ere the Aves and the Pater Nosters were over, she had flitted like a shadow from the cloister, and in "the dim, religious light" made her way into the garden, having first secured her hat and cloak from a convenient rack. Breathless she made her hurried way through the thick, dark shrubberies, praying now that Heaven would aid her to escape from the half-insane old priest. "Where there's a will there's a way." Desperation had made her bold and reckless. But one means of escape presented itself, and that was to scale the high stone wall with the bristling spikes on top. By the aid of convenient shrubberies she accomplished the feat, and, with bleeding hands and torn garments, dropped down upon the other side into the street. Fortunately, no one was passing, so her escape remained unnoticed. Panting for breath, in her eagerness she ran the length of a square and turned down a corner, losing herself in a labyrinth of streets. She knew not where she was; but that did not matter yet. She was only intent on putting the greatest possible distance between herself and the convent where she had been so nearly immured for life. After an hour's rapid walking through a locality of which she was totally ignorant, she came suddenly into a street with which she was familiar. From this she knew that she could make her way without difficulty to Mme. Lorraine's house. A sudden terror and reluctance seized upon her at thought of entering that house of danger, and unconsciously her footsteps slackened their headlong speed. "To go back into the lion's den--it is hard!" she thought; then, bravely, "But my friend risked his life for me. I can not do less for him." CHAPTER XVII. Weary and footsore, she toiled on toward Esplanade Street, that was still far away. She was but little used to walking, for Mme. Lorraine had never permitted her to leave the house, and her only excursions had been her stolen rides on the back of Selim, Mme. Lorraine's petted Arab. Her headlong pace at first began to tell on her now, and her steps grew slower and slower, while her slight figure and fair face attracted much attention from passers-by on the brightly lighted street, although her shy, frightened air protected her from insult from even the evil disposed. Her purity, so sweetly imaged on her young face, was a potent shield. At length she emerged into Esplanade Street. She had been several hours making her way from the convent to this point. It was nearing midnight, and the girl was vaguely frightened, although, in her almost infantile innocence and ignorance, she knew nothing of the "danger that walks forth with the night" in the streets of a great city. She had been more fortunate than she knew in escaping molestation and pursuit. Her chief fear had been of pursuit by the fanatical old priest, but her hurried glances behind her, from time to time, failed to discover any pursuer; and in a short while more she stood trembling before the dark, silent front of the house where her young life had been spent in semi-slavery as the plaything of giddy Mme. Lorraine. A strange impulse seized her to turn and fly away; a stronger instinct rooted her to the ground. "He is here! he must be here!" she murmured; "and I can not desert him, my good friend." She stood there a few moments gazing at the closed door, then walked rapidly to the garden gate by which she had let Van Zandt through that memorable night. By a strange chance of fortune she had the key in her pocket. Unlocking it softly, she let herself into the garden, and sunk down wearily on the rustic seat where she had fallen into such heavy sleep the night of her attempted abduction. Against her will her eyelids drooped, and slumber stole over her weary senses. The soft air coolly fanned her hot face, and the April dew fell heavily on her floating hair and thin summer dress; but, unconscious of the chill and dampness, she dreamed on until the first faint gray streak of dawn appeared in the east. Then she woke suddenly, lifted her crouching figure, and looked about her. Memory rushed over her in a bewildering flood. "I have been asleep when I ought to have been planning how to get into that house unperceived to search for him!" she thought, self-reproachfully. She knew that there would be no great difficulty about the matter, because Mima was always very careless about fastening up the back part of the house. Being slight and agile, she made an easy entrance into the house by the united opportunities of a step-ladder and an unbolted back window. With a throbbing heart and shining eyes, she found herself inside the house, and, as she believed, near to the kind Yankee friend in whom she took such an earnest interest. Every one was asleep at this uncanny hour of the dawn, she knew. Lightly and fearlessly she went from room to room until she had explored the whole house in a fruitless quest for Eliot Van Zandt. To her dismay and disappointment, her careful search was utterly unavailing, although from her knowledge of the house she was certain that she had left not a room unvisited. She had even peeped, by the aid of a hall-chair, into the transom over madame's door, and then into Mima's, too; but the sight of the latter placidly snoring among her pillows, and of madame slumbering sweetly, as if no unrepented sins lay heavy on her conscience, was all that rewarded her for her pains. Disappointed and dismayed, she crept into an unused closet in the hall, and crouching in the cobwebby corner, gave herself up to such intense cogitation that the tired young brain succumbed again to weariness, and she drooped forward upon the hard floor fast asleep. Day was far advanced when she roused herself, with a start, and again realized her situation. She heard steps and voices, and knew that the small family was awake and astir. Presently the hall clock chimed the hour of noon. "I have been very lazy," she said to herself, "and--oh, dear, I am very hungry!" She remembered then that the nuns had not given her any supper, because she had flatly refused to beg Father Quentin's pardon for her wilfulness. "Never mind," she said valiantly to herself, "I must not remember that I am tired and hungry until I find my friend." But hot tears came into the dark eyes, all the same. It was not pleasant to be tired and hungry and disappointed, and even in hiding like a dreadful criminal fearing to be captured. Suddenly the swish of a silken robe trailed through the hall met her ears--Mme. Lorraine! The fugitive could not resist the temptation to push the door ajar ever so little, and peep through the tiny aperture at her fair enemy. And then something very strange happened. Little Nobody, or Marie, as the nuns had called her, saw Mme. Lorraine stop abruptly at the end of the hall and press her white and jeweled hand upon a curious little ornate knob that appeared to form the center-piece of the carvings and panelings of the wainscoted wall. Instantly a section of the broad paneling glided backward through the solid wall, like a narrow door. Mme. Lorraine stepped lightly through the opening, and disappeared as the concealed door sprung quickly back into its place. Like one stunned, the girl fell back into her place of hiding. She had spent all her life in this strange house without a suspicion of the hidden room and the secret door, and its sudden discovery almost paralyzed her in the first moment. But presently her reason returned to her, and she murmured with instant conviction: "He is down there." Following a sudden reckless impulse, and thinking nothing of consequences, she bounded from the closet and pressed her little hand upon the knob in the wall. At first it remained stationary, but when she pushed harder it yielded so suddenly as almost to precipitate her down a short flight of steps on which it opened. Recovering her balance, she stepped softly downward, and the narrow door slipped soundlessly into its place again, and as if impelled by a ghostly hand. But the fact was, that by some clever arrangement of springs beneath the first step, the slight pressure of her foot on the boards was sufficient to close it. She found herself now on the narrow flight of steps, in thick darkness; but the momentary light that had glimmered through the open door had shown her a narrow passage and another door at the foot of the stairs. Thrilling with curiosity, and without fear, the girl groped her way softly downward to the passage, starting as the murmur of voices came to her from the other side of the door. "I was right. He is here!" she thought, and flung herself down on the floor in the darkness and listened with her ear against the door. It was Mme. Lorraine's clear, bell-like voice that was speaking. It ceased its impassioned utterances at last, and a deep, rich, manly voice replied to her--a familiar voice that made Marie's heart beat tumultuously and a sweet, warm color glow in her cheeks. "It is he," she whispered, forgetting hunger, weariness, everything unpleasant in exquisite relief and joy. CHAPTER XVIII. Almost a week had elapsed since the last visit of Mme. Lorraine to Eliot Van Zandt. During that time he had been very ill from the fever brought on by his agitation at her indiscreet announcement of the death of the girl in whom he had been so warmly interested. All Mima's skill and care had been required to ward off a fatal consequence to this relapse, and the woman had sternly forbidden any more calls from her mistress during this critical state. Mme. Lorraine was so frightened that she was very obedient to the mandate; but now the embargo had been removed, and she was free to visit the fascinating patient. He was better. Indeed, he was rapidly convalescing, owing to Mima's good nursing, aided by his youth and a strong constitution. So, on this lovely April morning, madame had made herself beautiful by every device of art at her command, and hurried through the secret door to visit the wounded captive whom she held in durance vile. Pale and wan, but exceedingly handsome still, Eliot Van Zandt lay upon a velvet lounge, his fair Saxon beauty thrown into strong relief by the dressing-gown of dark-blue silk that madame's care had supplied. At the entrance of the superbly dressed and handsome woman, his dark brows met with a heavy frown. "I gave orders, Madame Lorraine, that you should not be admitted again!" he exclaimed, with the frank petulance of convalescence. Madame gave her graceful head an airy toss. "No one can debar me from the privilege of entering any room in my own house," she replied, coolly. "Your own house?" starting. "Precisely," with a maddening smile; and for at least two minutes a dead silence reigned in the room that, with its swinging-lamp burning brightly, presented the appearance of night, although it was midday outside. Then he exclaimed, angrily: "I had already become convinced that there was something mysterious in my sojourn here. I have found out that I am in an underground apartment from which there is no apparent egress. I know that no living soul but yourself and your servant has been near me since I was ill. Am I, then, your prisoner?" Smilingly, she replied: "Do not call it by so harsh a word. It is true that you are in my house, hidden in an underground apartment; but it was for your own good that I brought you here. You had fatally wounded Remond, and the authorities were after you. I--I love you," falteringly. "I could not give you up to justice. So you are here--a prisoner, if you will, but a beloved and well cared-for one." "Yes, I have received skillful care and attention from your servant. I thank you," very stiffly; "but now I am well, I desire to go." "I am suspected of harboring you. My house is watched by officers of the law. Should you go out, you would be instantly arrested. _Mon Dieu_! that must not be!" She looked at him with tender, pleading eyes. He answered, curtly: "If I have hurt Remond, I am willing to answer to the law for my crime committed in the defense of the weak and the helpless. I have no wish to shirk my punishment. You understand me now, and you will let me go. I demand my release!" Clasping her jeweled hands together in pretended despair, she exclaimed: "But, good Heaven! _mon ami_, I can not let you be so reckless. Think a moment what will happen if they take you into custody. If the man dies, you may be--hung!" "I take all the risk; only show me the way out of my hated prison!" he exclaimed, impatiently; and, with sudden passion, Mme. Lorraine answered, boldly: "Then, by Heaven, I will not! There is but one way by which you can ever leave this room, whose existence is known to no human being but Mima, myself, and you." She saw him grow deathly pale to the roots of his hair, as he asked, with pretended coolness: "And that way, my darling jailer?" With something like a blush struggling through the cosmetics that covered her face, she replied firmly, although in a low voice: "As my husband." There was an awkward silence; the man was blushing for her; the dark-red flush went up to the roots of his hair; she saw it, and bit her lips. At last he said, with cool disdain: "You have already a husband in an insane asylum." She interrupted, eagerly: "No, no--not my husband. I am free--that is, I was divorced by law from him years ago." She came nearer; she flung herself, with a rustle of silk and heavy waft of patchouli, down by his side on the sofa. Looking up into his face with burning eyes, she exclaimed, wildly: "Do not look so coldly and scornfully upon me! Since you came to New Orleans, you have changed all my life. I never loved before. I married Monsieur Lorraine for wealth and position, without a single heart-throb for the man. But you I love, you I have sworn to win. What is there unreasonable about it, that your eyes flash so proudly? You are handsome, it is true, but I also am beautiful. You are gifted, but you are poor, while I am rolling in wealth. I can take you from your drudging life and make your existence a dream of luxury and ease. That is generous, is it not? But you have bewitched me; you have changed all my nature; you have taught me to love." "I never tried to do so," he replied, with unmoved coldness. "Cold-hearted Yankee! have you no feeling, no pity?" she demanded, reproachfully. "Look at me fairly," plucking impatiently at his sleeve. "Am I not fair enough to teach you to love me?" "No," he answered, curtly, shrinking from her touch, but looking straight into her impassioned eyes with cold, unmoved gray orbs. "Perhaps you already love some one else?" she burst forth, jealously. "No," in a cold, incisive voice. A low laugh of triumph broke from her, and she exclaimed: "Then I will not give you up. You shall be my husband." He gave her an angry stare, but she continued, unheeding: "To-night I leave New Orleans with my servant Mima. I have my reasons for this step. _N'importe_; they concern not you. I have made up my mind to be your wife, to bear your name, to go home with you to Boston. If you say the word, a priest shall be brought within the hour to make us one. Then we can escape together to-night and fly this fatal city which now holds imminent danger for you. Do you consent?" He looked with his cold, disconcerting gaze full into her eyes. "What if I refuse?" he queried. "You are a Yankee all over--you answer one question with another," she said, with a faint, mirthless laugh. "But my alternative is so bitter I shrink from naming it. Tell me, are you going to make me your loving wife?" "I would die first!" he responded, with passionate emphasis. She looked up at him, pale with wrath and mortification, and hissed, angrily: "You have chosen well, for it will come to that--to--to death!" "You would murder me?" he exclaimed, with a start; and she answered, defiantly: "If you can not be mine, no one else shall ever have your love or your name. If you persist in refusing my generous offer, I shall go away from here with Mima to-night; but I shall leave you in this cellar to starve and to die, and to molder into dust until the story of your mysterious disappearance that night has been forgotten of men." "You could not be so inhuman!" he uttered, with paling lips. "I can, and I will," laughing mockingly. "Take your choice now, monsieur--my time is limited. Shall it be love--or--death?" With ineffable scorn, although his handsome features had waned to a marble pallor, he replied, in a voice of proud disdain: "Such love--the love of a guilty, wicked woman like you, Madame Lorraine--leaves one no choice but death!" CHAPTER XIX. He never forgot the glare of rage the angry woman fixed upon him for a moment. Her eyes fairly blazed as she hissed, vindictively: "You have made your choice, and mine is the last human face you will look upon. A few days of isolation in this dreary chamber, without food or drink, and you will go mad with horror and die of starvation. Adieu, monsieur. I wish you _bon voyage_ to Hades!" She made him a mocking courtesy, and swept to the door, tearing it open with such impetuous haste that the listener outside had no time to step aside, only to spring up wildly and confront the angry woman, who immediately uttered a shriek of horror and fled up the narrow stair-way, disappearing through the secret door in an incredibly short space of time. In the darkness of the narrow passage she had taken the pale-faced, wild-eyed girl for a visitant from the other world, and had fled in fear and terror from the supposed ghostly presence. In her terror she had forgotten to shut the door upon Van Zandt, and with starting eyes he witnessed the strange scene. For an instant he fancied, like Mme. Lorraine, that it was a spirit standing there in the gloom of the narrow passage, with face and form like that of the dead little Mlle. Nobody. Then reason came to his aid. He sprung from the sofa, and just as the secret door shut behind the frightened madame, he caught the girl's cold hand and drew her into the room. "Oh, my little ma'amselle! So that wicked woman lied when she told me that you were dead!" he exclaimed. She answered, vivaciously: "No; for I have been dead and buried since I saw you, Monsieur Van Zandt. Don't you see that Madame Lorraine took me for a ghost? It was very fortunate for me, was it not?" and soft, sweet trills of laughter bubbled over her lips. In her joy at finding him again, she forgot hunger, fear, and weariness. And in her excitement and exhilaration she rapidly poured out all that had happened to her since that night, nearly two weeks ago, when he and Carmontelle had so ably prevented her abduction by Remond. He listened in deepest interest; and if Mme. Lorraine could have seen the joy that sparkled in his expressive eyes, she would have felt like plunging a dagger into the white breast of the girl who had brought that joy there by her return, as it were, from the dead. He laughed with her at the idea of Mme. Lorraine having fooled herself so cleverly in imagining Little Nobody a ghost. "But you must not call me Little Nobody any longer. I am Marie now," she said, brightly. "It is a sweet, pretty name," he replied; "but I wish I had been permitted to choose your name. It should have been something else--something unique, like yourself." She did not know what the word unique meant. She looked at him curiously. "What would you have called me?" she queried. "Perhaps I will tell you some day," he replied, with an odd little sigh; and then he changed the subject by telling her how glad he was that she had been saved from death, and how thankful that she had come to save him from the tortures of death by starvation. The dark eyes sparkled with eager joy. "Ah, how pleasant it is to have a friend!" she said, naïvely. "First you saved me, now I am going to save you. I heard everything she said to you. Oh, how cruel and wicked she is! And it must be dreadful," shuddering, "to starve! I can fancy some of its horrors, for, do you know, Monsieur Van Zandt, I am very hungry now? I have had no supper nor breakfast." "Poor child!" he exclaimed, and glanced at a covered waiter on a stand that contained the remains of his late breakfast. He drew off the dainty napkin, and she saw delicate rolls, broiled chicken, cold ham, preserves, fresh strawberries, chocolate and coffee, the whole flanked by a bottle of sherry. "I had no appetite for my breakfast, and Mima did not come back to remove the tray," he said. "Dare I offer you the remains of the repast? The chocolate is cold, but I drank none of it; I preferred coffee. Likewise, the broiled chicken is untouched--in fact, I eat nothing but a roll." "You shall see that I will do more justice to the fare than that," she laughed; and sitting down by the tray, she made a substantial meal, after which she declared herself much strengthened. It was very pleasant to have this bright, hopeful young creature with him, in lieu of the loneliness and the cruel fate to which Mme. Lorraine had doomed him. He listened with interest to her pretty plans for his release. She told him how, in her drugged sleep, she had beheld him in this very room, attended by the big, ugly, but skillful Mima. "Heaven must have sent you that vision," he said, with fervent gratitude. "Oh, how glad I am that I shall go free again into the world! I have sweet, young sisters little older than you, my child, who would grieve for me were I to die like this. Are you sure, quite sure, that you possess the secret of the opening of the hidden door?" Marie started. "It must be the same as that of the outside--must it not, monsieur?" she queried, with a confident air. "I am not sure, but I hope it is," he replied, with a sudden dawning anxiety. "I will go and see at once," she exclaimed, starting toward the door. "No, no," he said, and held her back. "But why?" she asked, turning on him her pretty, puzzled face. With a smile, he answered: "Do you not see that it would not be safe to venture to open the door while our enemies remain in the house? We must wait patiently here until night--until they are gone away. Then we shall be able to effect our escape unmolested." He spoke more cheerfully than he felt. A strange dread was upon him. What if they should not be able to open the door at the head of the cellar stair-way? What if he were indeed hopelessly immured within this prison, the life of the girl forfeited to the bravery and daring that had led her to seek and save him? "Oh, I could bear it like a man, alone, but for her to perish under the slow agony of starvation--Heaven forbid it!" he groaned, but breathed not a word of his fears to the girl who was full of hope and eager expectancy, looking eagerly forward to the hour of their release. In spite of his anxiety, he spent a not unpleasant day in the society of Marie. She was so lovely and so unique, in her total ignorance of the world, that she had a subtle charm for the man inured to the conventionalities of society. Then, too, she was constantly exciting his wonder by the general correctness of her language, although he knew that she was totally uneducated. But he easily accounted for this by recalling the fact that she had been brought up in constant contact with Mme. Lorraine and her visitors, and so unconsciously acquired the habit of correct speaking. "What a contrast she is to that wicked woman!" he thought, looking admiringly at the eager, earnest, mobile face, so innocently frank, all the feelings of her pure soul mirrored in her limpid eyes. Recalling madame's story that the girl was low-born, he frowned, and said angrily to himself: "I do not believe it. She has nothing low about her. There is some mystery about her origin, and Madame Lorraine does not choose to reveal it, that is all." Certainly, no girl born with the blood of a hundred earls in her veins could have had better instincts or more innate refinement than this Little Nobody. She was innocently frank, but she was also charmingly shy and modest. She was child and woman exquisitely blended: "Standing with reluctant feet Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood flee." Although she had been overjoyed at finding the reported dead man alive, she had been very undemonstrative in her joy. She had not offered him a single caress, such as one so young might have done; she had not even seated herself near him. She contented herself with looking at him across the breadth of the room, not as one afraid, but with a perfectly natural reserve, and she preserved this frank, unembarrassed demeanor throughout the whole day, which did not seem long to either, although dinner and supper were among the things that were not. Neither one remembered it, neither one was conscious of any sensation of hunger. "But how are we to know when night comes? It is always night down here," he said. "It was about midday when I followed Madame Lorraine down here. Have you a watch?" she asked. "Yes; and I have never permitted it to run down since I came here. It is now twenty minutes to four o'clock," he said. "Then it is now afternoon. By and by, when the watch tells us it is nightfall, I will creep up the steps and listen for sounds in the hall. When I hear them go away, it will be the signal for us to open the secret door and escape," she said. At eight o'clock, with her ear pressed against the secret paneled door, she heard mistress and maid going through the hall to the front door. It opened and shut. Marie heard distinctly the loud click of the key in the lock outside. They had gone, leaving their victim to perish, as they thought, by the slow pangs of starvation. Van Zandt was close by her side; she turned to him eagerly. "I have been feeling the door in the dark for a knob like that on the outside, but I can not find it," she said. "The surface seems perfectly smooth, not carved as on the outside. Will you bring the lamp, monsieur, and let us search for it?" With a sinking heart, he obeyed her request, detaching the swinging-lamp from its bronze frame and taking it up the dark stair-way in his hand. Even then, in his eager anxiety, his artistic eye took note of the gleam of the light on the girl's picturesque masses of red-gold hair, as it waved in silken luxuriance over her shoulders. CHAPTER XX. Marie did not see Van Zandt's eyes looking admiringly at her beautiful hair. She was gazing with eager eyes at the narrow door that had shut her in with him whom she had dared so much to find and save. She saw with some dismay that its inner surface was just what it had appeared when she had moved her fingers over it in the dark--perfectly smooth, without seam, knob, or lock, and no apparent way of moving it from its place. Van Zandt gave her the lamp to hold, and put his shoulder to the immovable door, but his whole strength availed nothing against its grim solidity. Then he spent an anxious hour trying the steps and the sides of the door in an effort to find its mysterious open sesame. Not an iota of success rewarded his frantic efforts. But he would not give way to despair. "I shall have to cut our way out," he said. "But, as I have no hatchet, it will be slow work with my jack-knife. You may have to hold that lamp for hours, ma'amselle, while I whittle a hole in the door big enough for you to creep through." "That is nothing. I shall not be tired," she replied, bravely. But she was not called upon for this exhibition of patience. The first few strokes of the knife revealed to him the appalling fact that the inside of the door was not of wood, but iron--iron so heavily coated with thick paint that it had cleverly deceived the superficial touch. Then indeed she caught a gleam of trouble in his eyes--trouble that was almost despair. Her own face paled, and a sigh of dismay escaped her lips. When he heard it, he forced a smile. "Do not be frightened; we will find some other way," he said. And they went back to the room and searched the walls carefully to see if there was any weak spot by which they might effect an escape. Windows there were none, and the ventilation of the room had been cleverly effected by pipes that were let into the ceiling above. The walls around were damp and cool, showing that they were built into the earth; but they were thick and heavy, and Van Zandt's jack-knife made no impression on the heavy oaken planks beneath the handsome wall-papering. Two hours were spent in this vain quest for means of egress from their prison, and drops of dew beaded the young man's face. He was weak from his illness and from the fast that had lasted all day, and sat down at last to rest and to think what he should do next. "Oh, how tired and weak you must be! I am so sorry I eat your breakfast! I shouldn't have done so, but I thought we should get out of here directly!" exclaimed the girl, regretfully. She brought him the wine and poured out a glass, which she forced him to taste. It ran warmly through his veins, and courage returned to him again. "Now, no more for me," he said, pressing back the little hand that offered the second glass. "Drink that yourself ma'amselle, and we must keep the rest for you, for we can not tell how long it may be before we get out of this." "I do not need it; I am strong enough without it," she replied, and replaced the untouched glass on the stand. Then she saw him looking at her with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. "I have a new thought," he said. "Perhaps if we could make ourselves heard from down here, some one might come to our relief. Let us halloo, ma'amselle, with all our might." It would have been ludicrous if it had not been so pitiful to hear them shouting in concert at the top of their voices. Indeed, they paused now and then to look at each other with laughing eyes, and to pant with exhaustion from their efforts, but the shouting was kept up at intervals until Van Zandt's watch recorded the hour of midnight. Then he said, wearily: "There is no help for it. We shall have to pass the night here, I suppose." He opened the door and began to push his sofa out into the narrow little passage. "What are you going to do?" Marie asked him, with large eyes of wonder. "I am simply converting this passage into a temporary bedroom for myself," he answered. "Good-night, Ma'amselle Marie; I leave you my room and bed. Lie down and rest, and in the morning we will try to devise some new plan for our escape." He opened and shut the door, and Marie was alone. She threw herself wearily on the luxurious bed, and in spite of hunger and thirst and terror, slept heavily for hours. When she awakened, she felt sure that day must be far advanced. She found a large pitcher of water and poured out some into a basin and bathed her face and hands. Then she peeped out into the dark passage for Van Zandt. He was sitting up composedly on his sofa, as if he had been awake for hours. "Oh, dear, monsieur, I have kept you out in the dark for hours! Come in," she exclaimed; and he accepted the invitation with alacrity, pushing in his convenient sofa before him. Laughingly, he said: "I began to think you were a second Rip Van Winkle, Ma'amselle Marie;" and, holding out his watch to her, she saw that it was near the middle of the day. "Oh, how lazy I have been! Forgive me!" she cried, vexed with herself. "You must have been very tired waiting out there in the dark?" "No, for I was at work trying to find the secret spring of the iron door, but I only wasted my time and strength," he replied, sadly. "Oh, what are we going to do?" she burst out, in sudden terror. "That is what I was asking myself at intervals all through the night," said Eliot Van Zandt. "Oh, my child--my brave little girl! what would I not give if only you had not followed Madame Lorraine into this fatal prison! I could suffer alone with a man's fortitude, but for you to share my fate is too dreadful!" His voice broke and his eyes grew strangely dim. She answered, with pretty gravity: "It was through your goodness to me that you were first betrayed into her power; and if you have to suffer for it, I want to suffer, too. We are friends, you know. But we must not give up hope yet. I am more sorry than ever that I eat your breakfast; but take a little of the wine, and it will strengthen you." "After you," he replied, seeing that she would not be satisfied without seeing him take some. He held the glass to her lips, and she swallowed a few drops under protest. He went through the same form, saying to himself that he must save it all for her, for there was nothing else between her and utter starvation. "What shall we do next? Halloo again?" she asked, with a smile. "I do not believe my lungs are strong enough to go over that ordeal again. The wound in my breast is not quite healed over yet," he said. "But suppose we sing instead?" "I do not know how to sing," she answered. "Very well; I shall have to do all the singing," he replied, good-humoredly. "And, do you know, I think it is a rather good idea to sing, for who knows but it may penetrate to the street, and if it be known that Madame Lorraine be gone away, curiosity may lead some one to investigate into the cause of the mysterious noise, and then we may be found." "Oh, how clever you are! Do begin at once!" she exclaimed, with a hopeful light in her dark eyes. "I will," he replied; and somehow the first song that came to his mind was a sweet, sad love song he had been used to sing with his fair young sisters in the far-off Northern home he loved so well: "In days of old, when knights were bold, And barons held their sway, A warrior bold, with spurs of gold, Sung merrily his lay: 'My love is young and fair, My love hath golden hair, And eyes so bright and heart so true That none with her compare; So what care I, tho' death be nigh, I'll live for love or die!' "So this brave knight, in armor bright, Went gayly to the fray; He fought the fight, but ere the night His soul had passed away. The plighted ring he wore Was crushed and wet with gore; Yet ere he died he bravely cried: 'I've kept the vow I swore; So what care I, tho' death be nigh, I've fought for love, and die-- For love I die!'" The girl's beautiful eyes looked at the singer, dark and grave with the strange emotions swelling at her heart. She had heard Mme. Lorraine and the men from the Jockey Club sing their best, but it had not affected her like this. A strange, sweet awe stole over her, mixed with a buoyancy and lightness that was thrilling and yet solemn. With the strange, new sensation there came to her a sudden memory of the chapel at Le Bon Berger, and the soft, murmuring voices of the nuns at prayer. She felt like praying. He looked at her curiously, and she said, with child-like directness: "I can not sing, but the nuns at the convent taught me how to pray. I will pray to the good God, and perhaps He will hear me and save us." The next minute she had thrown herself down by a chair, bowed her golden head on her hands, and a low, soft murmur of prayer filled the room. He hesitated a moment, then went and knelt down by her side, and his deeper, stronger voice filled the room with a strong, manly petition for help and pity. Then he did not feel like singing again for awhile, so sweet and deep an awe pervaded his mind. Marie sat opposite, her tiny hands folded in her lap, a lovely seriousness on her piquant face. By and by he sung again, but this time it was one of the solemn chants, such as might be heard in the choirs of the old cathedrals. The day wore on like this, and the night fell again, with no sign that the persistent singing had attracted any attention from the outer world. Sadly enough, and with many grim forebodings, Van Zandt wheeled his sofa again into the narrow passage for his night's rest. As he bid her good-night, Marie said, sadly: "The oil is getting low in the lamp. I will extinguish it to-night if you have a match to light it in the morning." He was fortunate enough to find a little match-case in his pocket filled with matches that he carried for lighting his cigars; so Marie extinguished the lamp until morning, and they turned on a very dim light that day, for they feared that they should soon be left in total darkness. To-day, also, the last of the wine was used, Marie insisting that they should share alike, for both began to feel the deathly weakness of hunger paralyzing their energies. The singing at intervals was still persevered in, although Van Zandt's voice began to fail strangely from the weakness of hunger and illness. Hope failed him, too, as this, the third day of their mutual imprisonment waned to a close, and he regretted bitterly that he had allowed Marie to force him to take a share of the precious sherry. Faint and fainter waxed the light, and the two victims of Mme. Lorraine's malignity began to realize that the horrors of Cimmerian darkness were about to be added to those of starvation and isolation. "Sing something," said Marie, from the depths of the arm-chair where she was resting. He fancied that her voice sounded strange and faint, and his heart sunk heavily. He wished again that the poor child had never ventured into this horrible trap from which there seemed to be no release but death. But he had already wished it a hundred times before--alas, to no avail! "Sing," she murmured again, sadly. "See, the light is almost gone, but it will not seem so dreary when you sing." He said to himself that he would be willing to sing until the last breath left his lips, could he but lighten one pang of the suffering girl whose devotion to him had brought down such a cruel fate upon her head. So, although his throat was sore, his head dizzy, and his heart like lead in his breast, he sung feebly, but bravely, a song that yesterday she had said she liked. It was sweet; but sad. He had no heart for gay ones now: "Out in the country, close to the road-side, One little daisy there chanced to grow; It was so happy there in the sunshine-- No one the daisy's joy could know; Watching the white clouds, hearing a song there, List'ning in wonder all day long. 'Oh,' said the daisy, 'had I a song-voice, Yonder forever I'd send my song.' "It was a lark that sung in the heaven, While all the world stood still to hear, Many a maiden looked from her knitting, And in her heart there crept a tear. Down came the lark and sung to the daisy, Sung to it only songs of love; Till in the twilight slumbered the daisy, Turning its sweet face to heaven above. "Ah! for the morrow bringeth such sorrow, Captured the lark, and life grew dim, There, too, the daisy, torn from the way-side, Prisoned and dying, wept for him. Once more the lark sung; fainter his voice grew; Her little song was hushed and o'er; Two little lives gone out of the sunshine, Out of this bright world for evermore." He paused and looked at her in the dim light. The young face was very pale, the dark eyes hollow with purple rings around them. "I would give the world, were it mine, for food for this dying child!" he thought, in bitter anguish. With a languid smile and in childish innocence, she said: "I like your little song, Monsieur Van Zandt. Do you know, I think it suits us two? You are the lark, and I the little daisy. And--and--we need not hope any longer, I am afraid. We will soon be gone out of life, like the lark and the little daisy." The last words were so faint as to be scarcely audible. Her eyes had closed while she uttered them, and now the golden head fell languidly against the back of her chair. With a cry of alarm, Eliot Van Zandt sprung to her side, and discovered, to his dismay, that she was quite unconscious. CHAPTER XXI. "Unconscious, and not a drop of wine or water with which to revive her--not even a breath of fresh air, though the whole world is so full of it!" he murmured, in despair. He flew to the water-pitcher in a wild hope, and found there a few spoonfuls which he had begged her to drink in the morning. She had pretended to do so, but here it was untouched. So terrible was his own thirst that his heart leaped at sight of it, but not for worlds would he have appropriated even one small drop from his companion in misery. Hastily pouring it into a glass, he pressed it against her lips, moistening them gently until they parted, and a few drops of the precious fluid passed between them and down her parched throat. A sigh heaved her breast, and her eyes unclosed. Eliot Van Zandt cried out in joy and relief, and laying her head back against his arm, he gently forced her to swallow the remainder of the water. It acted like a charm, for withdrawing her head from his arm, she sat upright, and said, in a weak voice: "I kept the water for you; I did not want to drink it." "Nonsense, child; I am strong, and did not need it," lightly. "But do you feel better now?" "Much better; but I think I will lie down, monsieur, I feel so tired. Is it bed-time yet?" trying to smile. He looked at his watch by the light that was so feeble now that he could scarcely see the hands moving across its face. "Yes, it is bed-time. It is past ten o'clock," he said; then, with hesitation: "Are you not too sick for me to leave you, child? I can sit here and watch you while you sleep." Within himself he thought sadly that the conventionalities of the world were out of place now, when both were hovering on the border of the Unknown Land. Why not sit beside the dying girl and soothe her last sad hours? But with a pensive smile she answered: "No; go to your rest, dear friend. I shall do very well alone, but if I feel ill again I will call you." Thus dismissed, he wheeled his sofa, as usual, into the dark and gloomy little passage outside the door. Then, lingering to press the little hand and say good-night more tenderly than ever in the presentiment that weighed upon him, she startled him by a shrill, frightened cry: "Oh!" The light had given one expiring flare and gone out, leaving them in darkness. "Are you afraid? Shall I leave my door ajar?" he asked, gently. "No, no," she answered, quickly. "Very well, then; but I shall not go to sleep. I shall lie awake to guard you from any fancied danger," he said; and sighed, knowing that there was nothing to fear save the grim, gaunt hunger-wolf. He struck a match that he might smile once more, sadly but tenderly, into the pale, patient face. She smiled bravely in return. "My good friend, good-night," she said gently; and with a sigh he left her to hold a patient, wakeful vigil outside her door. Hours passed without a sound from the dark, inner chamber, where Marie lay huddled among the pillows in feverish sleep. At last, dizziness and weariness fairly conquered him; his head drooped to the arm of the sofa, and he, too, slept. It seemed scarce a minute since his heavy eyes had shut before he started up with a confused cry. Had some one called his name? Some sort of a sound certainly echoed in his ears; it resolved itself into _her_ voice. Marie's voice calling out loud and strange and incessant, with incoherent words. He tore open the door wildly and struck one of his precious matches. She lay there among the pillows, with vacant, wide-open eyes fixed on the ceiling, babbling in wild delirium of cool springs and fountains, of summer showers, of falling dew, her parched lips panting with fever. "Oh, my God! if the world were mine, I would give it for one draught of water for my suffering little darling!" he cried aloud, with the agony of a man's heart driven to bay. The dim flame of the match died into darkness again, and he stood by the bed, holding her hot little hand in his, listening in agony to her delirious ravings. "This is the cruelest hour of my life!" he muttered. "Death, when it comes, will not be half so bitter." By the aid of another match he looked at his watch. It was five o'clock, and outside he knew that the day was near its dawn; but within the chamber where he watched by the side of the dying girl all was thick darkness and gloom, and his stock of matches was running so low that he dared not light one as often as he wished. Agonized thoughts kept him grim company while he stood listening to her ravings for water to cool her poor parched tongue and lips. Soon she would be dead, and her harrowing sufferings all over. Then he would be alone with the dead girl until death mercifully came to his release. Here they would lie, uncoffined and unburied for years, moldering into dust, their cruel fate forever hidden from men. In his far-off home his sisters would grieve for him awhile, then he would be forgotten. The tiny flame of another match flared into the air at six o'clock. Her ravings had ceased, the hot flush had left her face, the little palms were cool again. She lay with wide-open eyes upon the pillow, breathing faintly--so faintly that he looked for every breath to be her last. In the anguish of that thought, a wild temptation came to him. Somewhere he had read that debilitated invalids were strengthened and restored to health by drinking the fresh, warm blood of newly slaughtered beeves. He tore open the blade of his knife and desperately punctured a vein in his arm. The hot, red blood spurted like a fountain, and he caught it in the wine-glass until it was full. A handkerchief bound tightly about his arm stopped the bleeding of the wound, and, with some difficulty in the darkness, and shuddering with weakness and emotion, he lifted Marie's head on his arm and pressed the glass to her lips. CHAPTER XXII. He scarcely dared hope that she would have enough strength to swallow his strange medicine, but, to his joy, the dry lips parted and clung to the glass until every drop of the liquid had been drained, then, with a long sigh of relief, her head fell back, and he laid it gently on the pillow. "Have I revived her, or--killed her?" he muttered, in a fright. Another match. If it had been the last one, he must have one glimpse of her face now. It lay pale, with shut eyes, and apparently lifeless, on the white pillow. He felt her pulse hurriedly. A feeble, thread-like pulsation assured him that life still lingered. He sat down sorrowfully in a chair by the bed, holding the pulse beneath his finger, waiting sadly for the last. Seven o'clock by the light of the last match, and the pulse still throbbed softly, and, he almost dared to hope, more strongly. "What does it mean? Has my experiment indeed given her a few more hours of life?" he wondered, gladly. It seemed so, for the thread-like pulse gradually grew stronger, and bending down his head, he caught a faint but regular breathing. "Marie," he said, softly, and a quickened breath that was almost a gasp assured him that she heard. "I am here by your side," he went on. "It is dark, and I have used all the matches, so I can not watch your face to see if you are better. Can you speak to me, dear?" "Monsieur," she uttered, faintly, and his heart leaped with joy at the sound. "You are better," he exclaimed, and she murmured a faint: "Yes." Then she seemed to fall asleep. He fought bravely against the deathly weakness that was stealing over him. A passionate prayer was in his heart: "Lord, send us help before it is too late!" Hours seemed to pass while he sat there in a strange half-stupor that most likely would merge into delirium, as hers had done. Oh, the gnawings of hunger, the pangs of thirst, how terrible they were! "Yet, thank Heaven, I have lightened hers for a little while by the life-fluid I freely gave!" he muttered. Suddenly, in the darkness, a little groping hand fell on his face. "Are you there still?" asked Marie's voice, weak but clear. "I am here still," he answered, taking the hand again in his own. The pulse was much better now. She continued, softly: "I feel stronger, but I was surely dying when you gave me the sweet, warm milk to drink. It put new life in my veins, but--" she paused as if a new thought had struck her mind. "Well?" he said, gently, and she answered: "I can not imagine where you found the milk. I hope you had some, too. It is so reviving. Did you?" "Yes, plenty," he replied, with a shudder, and she said: "I am so glad. But how dreary it is all in the dark! Sing again, please." It had seemed to him a minute ago that he was almost too weak to speak, but he made a great effort to please her, although he knew that it would exhaust his strength all the sooner. He sung with all the power that remained in his weak lungs. In the darkness and the gloom, the dear old hymn, learned at his mother's knee in childhood, sounded sweetly solemn: "Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide, The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide; When other helpers fail and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me! "Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes, Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies; Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain--" There was a sudden, swift break in the voice that soared upward to the pitying heavens--his strength had not given out, but something wonderful had happened. From over their heads, and seeming to come through the small pipe provided to ventilate their darksome prison, had come the distinct sound of a human voice. "Halloo!" CHAPTER XXIII. In almost the last hour, when hope had deserted them, and they hourly expected death, succor had arrived. Van Zandt's singing had attracted attention at last, and now help was at hand. When that ringing halloo came down the ventilating pipe, he almost swooned with the suddenness of his joy and relief; and it was Marie, who, with a sudden accession of frantic joy, screamed shrilly back: "Halloo!" A voice came quickly back--a familiar voice: "Who is down there?" This time Van Zandt answered: "Two prisoners--Eliot Van Zandt and a lady. We are starving, dying! For God's sake, cut a hole quickly through the floor, and come to our aid!" "Ay, ay!" said a hearty voice that belonged to none other than Pierre Carmontelle; and then the iron will that had sustained Van Zandt through those four dreadful days gave way, and he fell in a heavy swoon to the floor. Marie could only moan helplessly: "Hurry, hurry! he has fallen down. I fear he is dead!" With all the haste that several eager men could make, it was almost half an hour before a square opening appeared in the ceiling large enough to admit a man's body. Then a faint light streamed into the dark underground chamber, fairly dazzling Marie's weak eyes. Several eager pairs of eyes looked down, but they could detect nothing yet, so intense was the gloom below. "It is dark as Erebus," said a voice--Markham's, Marie thought. "Van Zandt, where are you?" Marie answered, with a sob: "He is down on the floor, but he is very still, and I fear he is dead from starvation." A lantern at the end of a rope came quickly down the aperture. A man's body followed it quickly--Carmontelle! He came up to the bedside and looked with amazement into the wan, sweet face of the girl. "_Mon Dieu_, it is Little Nobody! But what does it mean? I thought you dead. I saw you entombed!" But he had to wait for his answer, for Marie very provokingly fainted dead away, and he had to halloo to Markham above for water and wine. "I think fresh air would do better than either just now," was the reply. "_Peste_! what a hot, musty smell comes up that hole! Take her in your arms, Carmontelle, stand on a chair, and hand her up to me." As the ceiling was low, this plan was effected without much difficulty; and Markham took the slight figure in his arms and carried her out to the cool, green garden, where the last beams of sunset were glinting on the shining leaves of the orange-trees and the tinkling waters of the fountains. The cool air and the refreshing water soon brought her back to life and hope again. But Van Zandt was longer in recovering. He had kept up the longer, but his collapse, when it came, had been more complete. They found that the wound on his breast was still unhealed, and that there was a mysterious fresh wound upon his arm. The bandage had been knocked off in his fall, and the blood was pouring out in a crimson tide. They stanched the wound, and at last brought him around so that, with the aid of three men, he could be hoisted through the hole in the wall. He was too weak to answer questions at first, and it was not until the next day that they learned the particulars of his imprisonment by Mme. Lorraine. They were inclined to chaff him considerably over the madame's fatal _penchant_ for his handsome face, and he bore it with all the equanimity he could. Indeed, their mirth seemed pleasant, although directed against himself, after those four solemn days in that dark, underground prison. But interesting as they found his romantic story, it was tame beside that of Little Nobody, who, having had a good night's sleep, nourishing food, and a good woman to watch and soothe her restless slumbers, was so much refreshed by the next morning that she could tell her strange story with far more vivacity than could Van Zandt, whose lungs, from his constant singing and hallooing without food for four days, had terribly taxed his strength and endurance. "If you had come even one hour later, I fear it would have been too late for me," he said, with a somber look in his gray eyes. But it was owing to his persistent singing that he had been rescued at last, for, although Carmontelle had never given up the search for him, he had not dreamed that the wounded man was concealed in madame's house, although it was believed that she was cognizant of his fate. "And this is how we chanced to find you," he said. "It was determined to arrest Madame Lorraine upon suspicion of complicity with Remond in making away with you. Markham and I volunteered to come with the officers to serve the warrant. As repeated ringings elicited no response, we thought something was wrong, and forced an entrance." "And then?" Van Zandt queried, curiously. "Oh, then we found not a living soul in the house, and were in a little, stuffy back room, like a servants' bedroom, debating what to do next, when the sound of your unearthly singing made the hair rise upon our heads in terror. We thought at first that it was something supernatural, it sounded so sweet and strange, coming, as it seemed, from the bowels of the earth, but presently Markham said that Van Zandt was a fine singer, and a wild suspicion came to me. I looked about and found a pipe fixed cleverly into the wall to secure ventilation, as it seemed to me, to some cellar-like apartment. I put my mouth to the hole and hallooed down it as loud as I could." "And thereby saved two lives that were almost ended. How can I ever thank you and bless you enough, Carmontelle!" Van Zandt exclaimed, with emotion. CHAPTER XXIV. Mme. Lorraine would have been chagrined indeed could she but have known what was transpiring in the house she had quitted so precipitately upon finding out that she was in danger of arrest upon suspicion of knowing the whereabouts of Eliot Van Zandt. The despised Little Nobody was installed in madame's own luxurious chamber, with a capable elderly woman in attendance. Eliot Van Zandt occupied another room, equally elegant, and Carmontelle and Markham had also installed themselves temporarily in a guest-chamber. In the kitchen a temporary cook held sway until such time as the young journalist could be moved to his hotel. Just now he was prostrated on a bed of sickness, having suffered a relapse from the reopening of his wound through his exertions in hallooing and singing. The cause of the slight wound upon his arm, which they had found freshly bleeding, he steadily declined to explain. "It is a mere nothing--the scratch of a pen," he said, carelessly, and indeed it very soon healed. The wound on his breast was doing nicely, too, and he began to talk of leaving for home very soon--as soon as he was able to travel. Carmontelle had written to his anxious sisters to calm their uneasy minds, and one day--it was a week after that tragic evening when he had rescued the prisoners--he held a very serious conversation with his friend over the subject of Little Nobody's future. Van Zandt had sat up in an easy-chair that day for the first time, and Marie had come in to see him. She looked bright and well again, and the young man shuddered as he thought how near she had been to death that night in the underground prison. "But for my timely thought, my terrible experiment, she must have been dead ere rescue came," he said to himself. "But she must never know. Perhaps she would shrink from me in horror did she but know the truth." Carmontelle had been very quiet while she remained in the room. He had watched both narrowly. When she had gone, he said, gravely: "Van Zandt, let us speak together as good men and true. Have you taken any thought for the little ma'amselle's future?" Van Zandt started and grew a shade paler. He scarcely understood this abruptness, this seriousness. "Her future?" he echoed, a little blankly. "I thought--I understood--that it was all planned out that night when we saved her. You were to educate her--afterward to make her your wife." Carmontelle frowned, and said, sternly: "Yes--but of course you understand that the plan is untenable now?" He looked straight into Van Zandt's beautiful blue-gray eyes with such a meaning expression that in a moment there rushed over the young man's mind a comprehension of the truth. Flushing darkly, he exclaimed: "Say no more. I understand you now," hoarsely; "you mean that--that noble child is--is compromised by her imprisonment with me those four long days?" Carmontelle, with a fierce throb of jealousy at his heart, answered: "Yes." Then, after a moment's blank silence on both sides, he added, sighing heavily: "Such is the cruel way of the world. For myself, Van Zandt, I know you are the soul of honor, chivalrous as the men of the South; and I can pay you no higher compliment than this. For her, I know she is pure as an angel. But--there is the cruel, carping world ready to point the finger of scorn always, and I--warmly as I love the girl--I could not have a bride of whom gossip could whisper even one blighting suspicion. The Carmontelles are very proud of their unblemished honor. I must not be the first to smirch it. I could have passed over her birth, her namelessness, for I could have given her my own proud name, and lifted her to my own station; but--this shadow from her misfortune in having shared your imprisonment is too dark for me to bear. My hopes are in ashes. Instead of being her husband, I must now claim the place of a father or a brother." It was a long speech for Carmontelle, who did not ordinarily deal in long sentences. When it was finished he wiped the great drops of moisture from his brow and waited for Van Zandt to speak. He did not have to wait long. "I understand you," the young man said, with apparent quietude. "The generous child, by her nobility in coming to seek and to save me, sacrificed her own future. I must--marry her--to appease the proprieties." With a quiver of pain and regret in his voice, Carmontelle said, gravely: "Yes." "I am ready to make her that poor reparation for all that she sacrificed for me," Van Zandt answered, instantly, and for a moment their hands met in a firm, close grip. Then the Southerner said sadly: "My God, there is no other way, or I could not give up the sweet hopes that for a few hours delighted my soul. But we have talked it over at the club--my friends and hers--and have all agreed that since the whole affair was so widely known, there could be no other way out of it in honor for that poor child than by marriage with you. Van Zandt, you look strange! Do you take it so hard, then? Great Heaven! can it be that you have some prior engagement?" "I am free--except from the claims of two young sisters, and the trammels of poverty," Van Zandt answered, quietly. "Poverty, yes, I had thought of that; but she shall not be a burden to you. I am rich, very rich. I will pay the poor child's dowry. I will make it forty thousand dollars, and when I die she shall be my heiress." "Stop!" Eliot Van Zandt said, with the first sternness he had shown. "You mistake me, Carmontelle; I will take no dowry with my young bride, save her own innocence and beauty." "But I claim the right--" "And I refuse to admit it." And they looked stubbornly into each other's eyes. CHAPTER XXV. Then Van Zandt said, sternly: "I will have no one say that I was paid to take the girl of my choice. I am not rich, as you know, but I will toil harder now that I have such an object in life. She shall not go shabby or hungry, I promise you." His voice was so full of feeling, despite its sternness, that Carmontelle was puzzled. He exclaimed: "Your pride does you honor, Van Zandt. But--you said--the girl of your choice. I do not understand!" Van Zandt hesitated, then said reluctantly: "Believe me, I do not want to make you feel your loss more keenly by what I must now admit; but, Carmontelle, the reparation I must make to Ma'amselle Marie is not such that I need money to condone the sacrifice. I--I love her, although I have never dared own the truth to my own heart until this hour." Through the breast of the elder man there went a pang of jealous pain, as he repeated, hoarsely: "You love her?" "Yes, since the first night I met her. But I scarcely dared own the truth to my own heart. What had I, the poor journalist, to do with that fair creature, whose beauty in itself was a rich dower? But now, when fate itself has given her to me, I can only rejoice." "Rejoice, yes, that is best--much best," Carmontelle said, after a long, constrained pause. "It is best," he repeated again, more firmly. "It was fate itself that gave her to me," Van Zandt said, solemnly; and in a burst of emotion he made clear the mystery of the wounded arm that had so puzzled his friend. "She was dying, and I gave my own blood to save her life. It is my own life that leaps through her veins, that sends the light to her eyes, the color to her cheek. But it is my secret. She must never know." "No, never; but by that noble sacrifice her life belongs to you, and I can be unselfish enough, Van Zandt, in my own disappointment, to wish that you may win her whole young heart!" Carmontelle exclaimed, lifted out of all selfish regrets by this strange revelation. And then they planned it all out before Van Zandt lay down to rest, taking Marie's consent for granted--Marie, the simple, ignorant girl who could not have told you to save her life what those two words, love and marriage, meant. She was as innocent as a babe over many things, poor Little Nobody! And, to do Van Zandt justice, he revolted at the thought of taking her, as it seemed, willy-nilly; but the world, the great wicked world, left him, as Carmontelle said, no other way. "I should have liked to woo and win my bride in the sweet old fashion," he thought, regretfully; then, with a new idea: "And what is there to hinder? The words of the marriage service will be almost meaningless terms to her untutored mind. I will take no advantage of the claims it will give me. I will hold her as sacred as an angel until I shall win her heart as well as her hand. At home I will place her in the school-room with my sisters. She shall have culture equal to her beauty, and I will work for her and worship her in silence until the child becomes a woman and her heart awakes from sleep." The very next day he said to her gently: "Ma'amselle Marie, I shall be going home to Boston in two more days." She cried out regretfully: "Oh, I am sorry; I am afraid I shall never see you any more!" "Will you go with me, dear, and be my little wife?" "I will go with you, yes; but--your wife--I do not understand," she said, in a puzzled tone, just as he had expected she would. "You would live with me always," he began. "You would belong to me, you would bear my name, you would do as I wished you, perhaps, and--" "Ah, your slave?" she interrupted, intelligently. Serious as he felt, he could not forbear a laugh; but he said, gently: "Not my slave, but my love, my darling, my treasure. I would never beat you, nor scold you, nor make your life sad, as Madame Lorraine did. I would be very kind to you always. Now, will you be my wife?" She replied, with childish frankness: "Yes, I will be your wife and go with you to your home. Then, perhaps, I will understand better your word, 'wife.'" He smiled and stooped to kiss her, but she drew back quickly, her innate shyness taking alarm. He did not press her, only said to himself: "My shy little wild bird, her heart is yet to win." It seemed to him the strangest thing he had ever heard of, this taking for a wife a young, untutored creature who actually did not understand what the words love, marriage, and wife meant. He told Carmontelle later of his thought. The Southerner was amused at the ignorance of the lovely girl--amused and sorry in one breath, and with a sigh of regret, he said: "Happy is he who shall have the pleasure of teaching her the meaning of those tender words." It was arranged that the marriage should take place just prior to Van Zandt's departure from New Orleans. Van Zandt himself undertook to make Marie understand the necessity for the marriage service that would make her his wife. She acquiesced readily, and asked that Father Quentin, the old priest at Le Bon Berger, be permitted to perform the ceremony. Her romantic fancy immediately invested the affair with a halo of romance. "I shall be a bride," she said, naïvely. "In madame's fashion books there are brides all in white, with veils on their heads. I shall be dressed like that, and the marriage shall be out in madame's garden by moonlight. All the Jockey Club shall come to see, and the nuns from the convent, too, if they choose." Van Zandt said it should be just as she liked. He employed Marie's good nurse to buy the simple white India muslin dress and tulle veil. Also a pretty gray serge dress and straw hat for traveling. Carmontelle presented her with a full set of large, lustrous pearls to be worn at the ceremony, and the rest of the Jockey Club, who had, since the day of Marie's splendid riding, felt almost a proud proprietorship in her, contributed a great box full of costly wedding-gifts--jewels, costly dressing-cases, perfume sets, glove-boxes full of tiny kid gloves--everything, in short, that they could think of on the spur of the moment, even adding a big photograph-album in ivory and silver containing fac-similes of their familiar faces. Father Quentin, only too glad to be forgiven for his treachery to Carmontelle, came to perform the ceremony and bless the wedded pair. But before this auspicious event a difficulty had arisen. A marriage license must be procured; but what name should be written in it for the nameless girl, Mme. Lorraine's Little Nobody? Pierre Carmontelle came quickly to the rescue. "I adopt Marie as my daughter. I am quite old enough to be her father. Let the name be written Marie Carmontelle," he said. And so as Marie Carmontelle she was given into the keeping of her handsome young husband. Everything was arranged as she wished. The priest grumbled at the oddity of the whole thing, but she was married, all the same, out in the beautiful garden, by moonlight, with the sweet scent of flowers all about her, and her young face pale with excitement and strange emotion. The Jockey Club came in a body to witness the wedding, and some brought sisters and friends, who were all agog over the romance of the affair, and said that the bride was as lovely as a dream, and that that wicked Mme. Lorraine ought to have been ashamed of herself for her cruel treatment of one so beautiful and innocent. The girl who but a little while ago had been friendless and nameless had suddenly come into a heritage of hosts of friends and one of the proudest names of New England. There was no wedding banquet. When the bride had been congratulated by everybody, and even kissed by some of the beautiful, warm-hearted ladies who had come to witness her strange marriage, her female attendant whisked her off upstairs to change her white dress for a traveling one; then, in a few more minutes, and with the sound of kind adieus in her ears, she was in a carriage riding away from all that her old life had ever known, except Eliot Van Zandt, who sat by her side, her shy little hand in his, and called her his wife. Soon they were on board the steamer that rocked at the wharf, soon they were sailing away on the breast of the broad Mississippi, leaving behind the glimmering lights and busy life of the quaint Crescent City, homeward bound, and Eliot Van Zandt, who little more than two months since had entered the harbor of New Orleans, careless, gay, and fancy-free, was taking home a bride to his ancestral home. He had asked himself rather nervously several times what his brother and sisters would say. CHAPTER XXVI. He thought more and more on this subject, for Marie, her first timidity got over, began to ask him artless questions about his home. He told her that his family consisted of five members. He had a brother older than himself, who was a lawyer in Boston. He was married, but had no children, and he lived in the old family mansion on Beacon Hill, with his two sisters, Maud and Edith, who were respectively nineteen and seventeen, and had not quit the school-room yet. The fifth person was Mrs. Wilson, their governess. "Maud is the elder. She is quite talented, and is writing a novel," he said. "Edith is an embryo artist. My brother's wife is very pretty and fashionable. I hope you will like them all." But a shudder crept over him at the thought of taking home a bride into that refined and cultured circle to place her in the school-room, to begin at the bottom of the ladder of learning. How shocked they would be, how his brother's wife would lift her pale brows in wonder! He dreaded her more than all the rest, for two reasons. One was that she had brought a little money into the once rich, but now impoverished Van Zandt family, and took airs on that account, and the other was that she had a pretty sister with a _dot_, and wanted to make a match between her and her brother-in-law. So Eliot fancied, and with some reason, that she would not take kindly to the new-comer. The further he got away from New Orleans, the more he was tormented by his dread of his home-folks. At last he made up his mind to give Marie some sight-seeing in New York, and to write to his brother, and, to some extent, prepare them for the shock they were to receive. When the letter was written and posted, he felt better. He had explained matters and invoked their good-will for his simple child-wife. However much they were disappointed, they would respect his wishes, they would not be unkind to Marie. So he gave himself up with a light heart to the pleasure of showing her the wonders of New York City. Several days were spent there, and then he took her to Niagara Falls for a few days more. He judged by that time that they would have got over the shock in Boston, and be ready, perhaps, to receive Marie with equanimity. In this hope, he took the train for Boston with his little bride. Throughout their long journey Van Zandt had adhered to his manly resolve of treating his little bride simply as a dear friend or young sister until she should have awakened from a child into a woman and given her heart unreservedly with a wifely love. On the steamer she had her separate state-room, at hotels her solitary suite of rooms, on the trains her comfortable Pullman sleeping-car, while the chivalrous young husband lounged away the long hours in a smoking-car with his favorite cigar. The young bride, in her ignorance and innocence, had not an idea but that this was the usual mode of procedure with husband and wife, and thoroughly enjoyed the long journey and the varied scenery through which she was being whirled. Its newness and the strong contrast to her Southern home made it all the more delightful. Eliot Van Zandt enjoyed her delight, her naïve questions, and even her utter ignorance of everything, although he sometimes caught himself wondering at the fact. But the truth was, that the girl's invariably well-chosen sentences, acquired from companionship with refined and well-bred people, made him often forget that she was totally uneducated, and that years of school-room drudgery yet lay before her ere she could take her place in the cultured world of Boston society. "There is one comfort. She is exceedingly intelligent, quick, and receptive. She will learn very fast," he told himself. One evening, at Niagara, when they sat together admiring the glorious falls by moonlight, she said to him, curiously: "You said once that if you could have chosen my name, it would not have been Marie. Tell me what you would have called me?" Turning to her with a smile, he replied: "The name that I always fancied I should like for my wife to bear was the sweet one of Una--no sweeter, I know, than Marie, but I grew to love the name from reading Spenser's 'Faëry Queen.'" Then he told her the pretty story, as well as he could, of the beautiful Una who personified Truth in the "Faëry Queen." She listened with sparkling eyes and eager interest. "From this hour I shall be called Una," she exclaimed. "But you have been baptized Marie," he said. "It shall be Una Marie, then," she replied, in her pretty, positive fashion, and he was pleased to assent. "From this hour, then, I shall call you Una, and you shall call me Eliot." "But, monsieur--" deprecatingly. "No more monsieurs," he replied, playfully. "They remind me too much of Madame Lorraine." "It shall be Eliot, then, always," answered the little bride. CHAPTER XXVII. Bryant Van Zandt was as much surprised and displeased as his brother had expected on the reception of the letter announcing his marriage. "Eliot had no right to do it. He promised our mother, before she died, to stay single and care for the girls until they had homes of their own!" he exclaimed, vexedly, to his wife, to whom he imparted the shocking news before breaking it to his sisters. Mrs. Van Zandt was a blonde of the very palest type. "Her skin it was milk-white, Her hair it was lint-white, Bright was the blue of her soft rolling eye." She was about twenty-eight, but looked younger through her fairness. She was rather pretty and petite, and, in her tasteful garb of blue and white, looked like an animated bisque doll. But her color took a warmer tint than usual just now, and frowning darkly, she exclaimed: "It was a shame for Eliot to go and make such a goose of himself. It would not have been so bad if he had married a girl with money, as you did, but to go and add another burden to the family is outrageous, I declare! What ever will the girls say?" "They will be very angry, I am sure," said the lawyer; but when it was told to them, they did not make as much ado as their sister-in-law. They looked grave and sorry, indeed, but Maud, the elder, said, sensibly: "It is very bad, but indeed, Bryant, I do not see how Eliot could have acted otherwise. _Noblesse oblige_, you know." It was the motto that had ruled the lives of the Van Zandts for generations, and Bryant could not say one word; but his wife made a little _moue_ of disdain. "_Noblesse oblige_ has nothing to do with it," she said; "or, if it had, it was the other way. He was bound to stay free for your and Edith's sake." Pretty Edith answered quickly: "No, no, for we shall not want him to help pay for our dresses much longer. Maud's book and my picture are almost done, and if we sell them, we shall have money of our own." "_Châteaux en Espagne_!" Mrs. Van Zandt muttered softly, with a covert sneer. She had no talent only for looking pretty and dressing well, and envied that of her more gifted sisters-in-law. They were used to her sneers, and they winced, but seldom retorted. The dreamy, dignified Maud looked out of the window with a little sigh, and the more self-assertive Edith exclaimed: "There's no use crying over spilled milk, anyhow, and Eliot's married for good and all. He has as much right to bring his bride home as you had, Bryant, so we may as well all make the best of it--there!" "No one disputes his right, Edith, we only deplore his imprudence," Bryant answered, flushing. "As for me, I married a woman who would be no burden upon me, but Eliot candidly owns that he has made a _mésalliance_." "Married a pauper and a nobody!" flashed his wife. "It is no such thing. Let me see his letter. He did not say that!" cried Edith, angrily. "Not exactly in those words, but it amounts to the same thing," Bryant Van Zandt answered. He threw her the letter, and said impatiently: "Well, you may fight it out among yourselves. I am going down-town." He put on his hat and went out. Edith and Maud read their brother's letter together. Its deprecatory, almost pleading tone, touched their loyal young hearts. "Poor Eliot, he could not help it. We must not scold," said Edith. "This old house is big enough for us all, isn't it, Maud?" "Yes," she answered; but the sweet eyes were grave with trouble as she fixed them on Mrs. Van Zandt. She burst out suddenly: "Oh, Sylvie, do not look so glum, please. Of course, we do not like it, and neither did Eliot, I fancy; but you must see there was no other way for a Van Zandt, so we must make the best of it." "Fancy a Van Zandt--one of the Van Zandts, of Boston--bringing home an A B C school-girl as a bride!" was the disdainful answer she received. Vivacious Edith cried out tartly: "You need not take on such airs, Sylvie. You are not so learned yourself. New York girls never know anything but dressing and flirting." "We marry into poor, learned families, and so adjust the difference," Mrs. Van Zandt replied, sarcastically. Both the sisters flushed hotly at this coarse rejoinder. Mrs. Van Zandt had been generous with her money, flinging it about her with the lavish hand of a spoiled darling of Fortune; but she was always conscious of its importance, never more so than when twitted with her execrable French, her questionable time in music, and her outrageous flirting, that sometimes drove poor Bryant wild with jealousy. And so to this household, with its discordant elements, its supercilious mistress, its dreamy student, Maud, its enthusiastic, artistic Edith, came Una with her impassioned soul, her shy sensitiveness, her innocence and ignorance, and her heritage of beauty, yet branded already "pauper and nobody." When she saw all those fair young faces grouped in the handsome drawing-room to meet her, her heart thrilled with timid delight. She had had so little to do all her life with the young and gay. All at once, as it were, she was thrown into a house full of young and handsome people, and it was most pleasant. With pretty confidence, quite untouched with self-assertion, she received their greetings, kind on the part of the girls, patronizing on that of Mrs. Van Zandt, and reserved as regarded Bryant. It was twilight when they arrived, and a cup of tea awaited them before the late dinner. Una sipped hers shyly under the fire of the strange eyes that were steadily taking in her _tout ensemble_, the simple, tasteful gray dress, the hat with gray feathers that seemed such a Quakerish setting for the lovely unique face, with its somber, dark eyes and slender, dark brows, its perfect chiseling, and its aureole of rich golden hair. "I shall paint her portrait," Edith whispered, in a stage aside. CHAPTER XXVIII. Bryant's wife was quite displeased when Eliot came frankly to her to ask that a separate suite of rooms be provided for his girlish bride. "Do you hate her so much, then?" she queried, arching her pale brows disagreeably. He started and looked annoyed. "Who said I hated her? You are very much mistaken in the idea, Sylvie," he said, curtly. "I love Una quite as well, I have no doubt, as Bryant loves you." "Why, then--" she began, but he interrupted quickly: "Simply because the love is all on one side yet. My wife is wedded, yet not won. Her heart is that of a child still, and although she bears my name, I will claim no rights save a lover's until I win her woman's love." Mrs. Bryant had only been acquainted with Una an hour, but she could have told Eliot a different story from that. Her quick eyes had seen the wealth of tenderness in the dark orbs of Una as they rested now and then on her husband's face, but Sylvie was more angry than any one supposed over this unexpected marriage. She was not unselfish enough to open the eyes of the blind young husband. "Oh, very well, if you choose to make a chivalrous goose of yourself, Eliot," she answered, tartly, "I suppose she can have the best suite of guest-rooms--the ones I have been fixing up for my sister. But I can write a word to Ida not to come." "Of course you will not. There are other rooms," he said, impatiently. Sylvie shrugged her shoulders. "Ida's used only to the best," she said, insolently. He regarded her for a moment in stern silence. Underneath his usual gentle, nonchalant manner slept a will that was iron when needful. After a moment he said firmly: "See here, Sylvie, my wife has the same right in my father's old house that Bryant's wife has. You have the best suite of rooms in the house, she must have the next best. If you have put anything from your own purse into the rooms, it can be removed into another room for Ida's use when she comes. Una knows, for I have told her, that the Van Zandts are poor--that we have nothing but this big, old-fashioned house, and such a small income that barely buys our sisters' dresses, and I have to eke out the rest by hard work. She does not expect anything luxurious, but I shall see that she has the best I can afford." So the gage was thrown down, and Sylvie picked it up at once. She had the petty meanness to strip Una's rooms of all the pretty things she had placed in them for Ida, and they looked rather bare when she finished her task of despoliation. But Maud and Edith brought the prettiest things from their own rooms to fill up the void, indignant at her petty spite. "I know what is the matter. She is mad because she can not marry Eliot to Ida now. It's what she's been fishing for all the time," Edith said, indignantly; and the sisters made a generous compact to fight the battles for the new-comer that their clear young eyes already saw were inevitable. There was one person who took kindly at once to Una, and that was the middle-aged governess, Mrs. Wilson. When she had come first to teach the little Van Zandts, she had been a forlorn young widow, having lately buried her husband and her only child. She had taught Eliot when a little lad, and she had taught his sisters, growing gray in patient service of her well-beloved pupils. Now, in the fair, innocent face and great, dark eyes of Eliot's wife, she fancied a resemblance to the little daughter that had been in Heaven so long. "I shall love to teach her all that I can," she said, with a dimness in her gentle brown eyes. "I love to look at her beautiful face with those solemn eyes so much like my dead Elsie's eyes." And loving her first for Elsie's sake, she soon grew to love her for her own. Never was there pupil so eager to learn, so thirsty for knowledge, so untiring in application as was the neglected Little Nobody, as Mrs. Van Zandt still called her contemptuously in her thoughts. CHAPTER XXIX The first few months of Una's stay in her husband's home passed quietly and uneventfully. Fortunately for all concerned, Bryant's wife went off to spend the summer at Long Branch with her mother and sister. In the generosity of her heart, she took Bryant with her, so the household that was left was very quiet and peaceable. The girls took their summer vacation from study, and Maud worked on her novel, Edith at her picture. In the school-room Mrs. Wilson and Una diligently climbed the ladder of knowledge through the long summer mornings. In the afternoons the four ladies took long country rides, and in the short evenings there were dinner and Eliot. They had music always to enliven them, and very often neighbors and friends dropped in and made the time pass agreeably. Often Eliot, who, as a newspaper man, had tickets to concerts, lectures, readings, and plays, took them out to pleasant entertainments. He managed, too, to buy Una a little brown pony to ride, and she had some charming morning canters by the side of her husband, who made the carriage-horse do service on his own behalf. Sylvie Van Zandt would have said it was a humdrum life, but Eliot and Una thoroughly enjoyed it. Nay, to her it seemed an elysium, this bright home, with its kind, friendly faces and gentle words, so unlike her life with Mme. Lorraine. Una had learned to read and write with perfect facility and surprising ease, and passed on to higher studies. Of French she already had some knowledge--indeed, as much as she had of English, having spoken either at will in her New Orleans home--so this language was very easy to acquire now. For music she developed a talent equal to that of her husband, and he was delighted to find that she had a sweet, low alto voice that blended in perfect harmony with his own. She began to read poetry and novels now, and their strange sweetness thrilled her very soul. She learned that wonderful word, Love, and some of its subtler meanings. It grew to be the theme of her thoughts and dreams, although in the exquisite shyness that offset her child-like frankness she never even named the word to Eliot. But, for all that, she began to comprehend its mystic meaning, and to say to herself, with deep tenderness: "It is what Eliot feels for me and I for him." Yet this blind young lover-husband said to himself sometimes, discontentedly: "She is very bright over other lessons, but very slow learning the one I am trying to teach her so patiently every day." Every day she grew more beautiful and graceful under the clever tuition of Mrs. Wilson, who delighted in her task of forming the unformed girl. They spent happy hours over the piano together, patient ones over books and blackboards. For several months she never even heard the words "A Little Nobody," under which she had chafed so often at Mme. Lorraine's. Life began to have a new, sweet meaning, whose key-note was love. She was so sorry when Eliot went away with his friendly hand-clasp in the morning, so glad when he returned in the evening. Sometimes she said to herself that she would not have minded kissing him now, as Maud and Edith did every morning; but, since the day when she promised to marry him, and then rejected his kiss, he had never offered another. "I should not care for a cold, duty kiss," he thought. "I will wait for her love and her kisses together." In the meantime, he worked very hard at his literary duties, trying to double the moderate salary he had enjoyed before his marriage, that his sisters might not feel the change. The pony had been quite an extravagance, but he had heard her express a timid wish for one, and by some severe self-denial in the matter of coats and cigars, had managed to gratify her wish. But he did not chafe against the silent sacrifices he made for her sake. Each one only made the dark-eyed girl dearer to his heart, and the memory of that last day in madame's prison always made him shudder and long to clasp her passionately to his heart. On his strong white arm there was a slight scar made by the wound of a pocket-knife. He often looked at it when alone, and said to himself: "To that little scar my darling owes her life." But Una, all unconscious of the debt, still sweetly ignorant of his blindness, went on with her studies, and her music, and her poetry reading, making him the hero of all in her silent, adoring fashion. There was one thing that touched and pleased him. She had not forgotten one of the many songs with which he had beguiled the dreariness of their imprisonment, and she had insisted on learning each one. The two that she liked best were "The Warrior Bold" and "Two Little Lives." Mrs. Wilson and the girls noticed that she had a fashion of humming over one little verse very often to herself: "It was a lark that sung in the heaven, While all the world stood still to hear, Many a maiden looked from her knitting, And in her heart there crept a tear. Down came the lark and sung to the daisy, Sung to it only songs of love, Till in the twilight slumbered the daisy, Turning its sweet face to heaven above." She never said to her young husband now, as she had said that time in their prison, "You are the lark and I the little daisy," but she thought it all the more, and the fanciful thought pleased her well. Maud and Edith, who had first taken Una's part out of generous loyalty to their brother, now began to like their sister-in-law more for her own sake. At first they said: "It is not so bad as we feared at first. She is learning very fast, and she is really very good and very pretty. And even although she is of obscure origin, she is a Van Zandt now, and that is enough." Maud used to read her whole chapters of the wonderful novel, and when Una's color rose and her eyes sparkled with mirth or feeling, the young authoress was delighted. She took it as a tribute to her genius, and was cheered and encouraged in her delightful work. Edith, on her part, appropriated the girl for a model, and made her pose for her benefit every day in the little studio at the top of the house. At last the two girls unanimously voted her a decided acquisition. "It is very fortunate Eliot had to marry her. She is a darling, and I can see that they are beginning to fall in love with each other," said Edith. "I am so glad that it will turn out a love-match after all," Maud replied, with enthusiasm. The days came and went, and brought the early, bleak New England autumn. It was time for Sylvie to come home, but Bryant came alone. His wife had gone to New York with her family to stay for the beginning of the social season. Every one but her husband was secretly pleased when she stayed until after the New-Year festivities. Maud and Edith were quite sure that they had got along more happily without her, although they were too polite to hint such a thing to Bryant. At last she came in the middle of January. Ida Hayes, her sister, a younger edition of herself, came with her, and straightway the halcyon days of Una came to an end. Sylvie came to her room that evening, when she was putting on her simple blue silk dress for dinner, with an air of importance and anxiety. "Have you come to your senses yet--you two?" she demanded, brusquely. "If you have, I shall be glad, for I do so want these rooms for Ida." Una, with her laces all awry, looked up blankly. "I--don't--think--I understand," she answered. "Pshaw! I mean, do you use the same suite of rooms as your husband?" The pretty, wondering face did not change its color, the dark eyes only looked amazed. "Of course not," Una said, and Sylvie's red lips curled. "Of course not!" she mimicked, sneeringly. "Why, you silly child, you talk very strangely. Bryant and I share the same suite of rooms, do we not? All husbands and wives do who love each other." CHAPTER XXX. Una commenced to fasten her laces with strangely trembling fingers. "Eliot and I love each other!" she said, slowly. "Oh, indeed?" said Sylvie, with a very incredulous giggle. "You did not when I went away. Have you done your courting since, as you had no time for it before you were married?" The wonder, the half-dazed comprehension in the girl's pale face ought to have made her less pitiless, but it had been her dream and Bryant's to marry Ida to Eliot. She had said to herself many times that she could never forgive the Little Nobody that had thwarted her plans. So with an angry heart and pitiless eyes she had thrust the point of a dagger into Una's heart. But with proud, somber eyes the girl-wife said, gravely: "You said you wanted these rooms for Miss Hayes. Very well, you can have them. I dare say Maud will give me another room." "Oh, dear no, I would not turn you out of your room for the world, child!" suavely. She knew that Eliot would not permit it. "I only thought that if you had given them up and gone to Eliot's these would suit Ida. She always had them when she came before, and it does seem foolish, does it not, for man and wife to occupy six rooms when three would be enough? I hoped you and Eliot had become reconciled to your forced marriage ere this." Driven to bay, Una cried out, angrily: "Mrs. Van Zandt, you are talking the wildest nonsense. There was no forced marriage." "Then why did Eliot write such a letter to my husband? Come to my room, I will show it to you since you dispute my word." She caught Una's cold hand and half dragged her with her to her own room, where behind locked doors she gave the ignorant wife that fatal letter to read--fatal, because in Eliot's haste and worry he had stated only the bare facts of the case, and Una could not read between the lines the love that had filled his heart. She read it--the lovely, trusting girl--every word. She comprehended it in part. What she could not fathom Sylvie pointed out in clearest language, and when she had made her cruel meaning clear as day, she said, maliciously: "_Noblesse oblige_!" A gasp, and the girl's heavy eyes turned dumbly on her face--dumb with a bitter, humble humiliation. Sylvie said, half deprecatingly: "He did not love you at first, of course. How could he? When he came he asked me to give you a separate suite. I remonstrated, but he insisted. Of course I thought you would win him while I was away, and he would get over his foolishness." Una had folded her white arms on the dressing-table, and was looking into her face with dazed, heavy eyes. She muttered, hoarsely: "Oh, this is too dreadful! What must he, what must you all think of me?" Sylvie replied, with cruel frankness: "Of course we all felt angry with you at first. We were disappointed, too, for we had all expected that he would marry sister Ida. There had been no engagement, but it was understood. But there, no one blames you or him, child. As I said before, Eliot could not have acted any other way. _Noblesse oblige_!" As if forgetful of her presence, Una murmured, sadly: "_Mon Dieu_! what shall I do?" Sylvie answered, with more sense than she had displayed in making these cruel revelations: "Do? Why, nothing but make the best of it, as Eliot and the rest of us have done. What has happened can not be altered now, so you must try to make him fond of you, so that he shall no longer regret taking you and losing Ida; and, for one thing, you ought not to be so extravagant. There is that pony he bought you. I know he could not afford it, really, for he is poor. And to-night I saw him bring you hot-house flowers. I am afraid he is running into debt just to pamper your whims. Now, if he had married Ida, it would have been different. She would have brought him a fortune, and could have paid her own bills." Pale as she would ever be in her coffin, Una stood listening, her heart beating wildly. "I am in his way. Oh, I wish I could die now!" she was thinking wildly. Sylvie, who had done all this out of sheer malice, gloated over the sight of her misery. To herself she said spitefully: "I am paying her back, the little pauper and nobody, for Ida's disappointment." Then suddenly she remembered that it was almost dinner-time. She said carelessly: "You had better go back to your room and finish dressing, Una; and remember, I would not have told you what I have, only that you disputed my word. I hope you will not run to Edith with it. It will only make matters worse. I dare say he will learn to love you in time." "I shall run to no one with it," Una answered, in a strange voice. She moved to the door as she spoke, and passed out. Sylvie laughed mockingly. "I have paid Eliot now for his insolence. I know he loves her to madness. I saw it in his eyes when she met him so coolly this evening. Well, this will put a stumbling-block between them that he will not easily pass." And humming an opera air with heartless indifference, she made some slight addition to her already elaborate toilet, and went down-stairs. Una's toilet, the light-blue surah silk with square neck and elbow-sleeves, was complete but for the handsome corsage bouquet Eliot had brought her an hour ago. She did not pin it on her breast; she took it in her hand and ran along the hall, then tapped softly at the door of the apartment that she knew had been designed for Miss Hayes's use. Ida opened it, dazzling Una's eyes with the glitter of her satin and jewels. She frowned slightly at the intruder. "I have brought you these flowers to wear," Una said, rapidly, thrusting them into Ida's white hand. Then she turned away and went along the hall with slow, lagging footsteps, down the broad, shallow staircase, and so to the drawing-room, her young face pale with emotion, and a strange, excited glitter in her dark eyes. CHAPTER XXXI. Eliot was sitting on a low _tête-à-tête_. He moved aside slightly to allow her room at his side. But Una did not seem to see her husband's involuntary movement. She went to the opposite side of the room and sat down by Edith, who, with her brown hair and brown eyes, looked very pretty in garnet velvet and cashmere daintily combined into a graceful dinner-dress. Maud was buried in a book on the other side of her, but she had taken time to honor the new arrivals by putting on her best black silk with a white lace fichu to relieve its somber tone. Vivacious Edith exclaimed instantly: "Oh, Una, the pretty flowers that Eliot brought you--you have forgotten to wear them. Shall I run and get them for you?" "Thank you--but no," as Edith rose. "I don't care for them. I--I have given them away." Eliot had heard distinctly the question and answer; but there was no time for comment. Ida Hayes sailed in--a bisque doll in Nile-green silk and velvet, with Eliot's roses pinned among the laces of her V-shaped corsage. "And to think that I went without cigars two days to buy Ida Hayes a corsage bouquet!" he said, ruefully, to himself. But the loss of the cigars was the least part of his mortification. He had fancied he was winning his way to his girl-bride's heart. This little incident showed him clearly his mistake. "She is not learning to love me. Perhaps she never will," he thought, gloomily. Ida Hayes, with the best grace in the world, sat down on the _tête-à-tête_ beside him. She was a belle and a beauty--had been for seven years, ever since she left the school-room at eighteen--and she could have been married well long ago, but she had seen no one she fancied until she met Eliot Van Zandt at her sister's wedding three years ago. Since then her heart, as well as Sylvie's, had been set on an alliance with him, and his marriage had been a bitter blow to her self-love. But she was a society woman. She did not wear her heart on her sleeve, and in the clear, pale-blue eyes upraised to his Eliot Van Zandt read no sign of her disappointed hopes. "I see you looking at my flowers. That dear little thing, your wife, gave them to me," she said, carelessly. He answered as carelessly: "Yes, and they harmonize well with your dress." But in his heart he longed to tear them from her breast and trample them beneath his feet. They had taught him a bitter lesson--one he would not soon forget. Dinner was announced, and he took Ida into the dining-room. Bryant gave Sylvie his arm, and Una followed with her sisters-in-law, hiding with a smile her pain at the preference Eliot had shown Miss Hayes. "How he must hate me, for he can not help thinking that but for me he would not have lost her. It was right to give her the flowers. She had really the best right to them," she said miserably to herself. The flowers, the lights, the china and silver of the well-appointed table flashed confusedly before her eyes. She could see nothing clearly but the pretty wax-doll face of Miss Hayes as she sat opposite to Eliot and talked to him incessantly. Glancing up and down the long table at the fair faces of the five ladies, she said, gayly: "Two gentlemen and five ladies! Only two have cavaliers. There are three of us too many." Una thought, with keen shame and inexpressible bitterness: "Only one too many, and that one is poor little me!" She made a great effort to eat, and swallowed some food, although it half choked her; but as soon as they rose from the table she slipped away and went up to the school-room, where Mrs. Wilson, whose impaired digestion abhorred late dinners, was placidly taking some milk and oatmeal by way of supper. "Oh, my dear, have you got a fever? Your eyes shine so brightly, and your cheeks are quite flushed!" exclaimed the good governess, anxiously. "I am not sick; I dare say I am excited. There is company, you know, and I thought I should not be missed if I stole away up here with you," Una answered, with affected carelessness. Mrs. Wilson smiled on her pupil, and answered, kindly: "I'm glad you came, dear; but, of course, you will be missed. Your husband would miss you, if there was a room full of company." Una answered in a strange tone: "No, not to-night; for Miss Ida Hayes is there." Mrs. Wilson put down her glass of milk and looked curiously at the speaker. She began to comprehend the cause of her strange looks and words. She said to herself: "This pretty little girl-bride has grown jealous of some meaningless attention of Eliot to Miss Hayes. She loves her husband, and the boy is somehow too stupid to see it, or, perhaps, he does not care. I would speak to him, but I do not like to meddle in so delicate an affair." Aloud, she said gently: "I like to have you up here with me, but your husband and friends will think I am selfish, dear; so you had better go back to the drawing-room. Miss Ida Hayes is not charming enough to make up to Eliot for your absence." Una turned around suddenly and looked at her gravely. "Very well, then; I will go, since you don't want me; but I shall go to my own room," she said. And she did, and there Edith found her, pretending to read, when she came to seek her half an hour later. "You selfish child! put down your book. We are going to have some music, and we want your alto," she said. "I can not sing to-night; my head aches," Una answered; and none of Edith's arguments could alter her refusal. She was obliged to go down alone and make excuses for her sister-in-law. "She has a headache, and can not come down," she said; and Sylvie laughed in her sleeve. "She is jealous of Ida," she thought, maliciously. CHAPTER XXXII. The rest of the family were already assembled at breakfast when Una entered the dining room the next morning, pale and grave-looking, after a wretched, sleepless night. Her place by Eliot was waiting for her, although she had half expected it would be filled by Ida Hayes. Eliot had been watching for her anxiously, and his glance was very tender, despite the episode of last night. "I hope your head is better," he said, kindly; and looking at him with a smile of wonderful sweetness, she answered: "It is well, thank you." In the long vigil of last night she had formed a noble resolve to win her husband's heart, and to make up to him by her womanly sweetness for all he had sacrificed in marrying her, a nameless girl of obscure birth. Sylvie's hints had not been lost upon her. She determined that she would not allow Eliot to be so extravagant for her sake again. The brown pony must be sold, the hot-house flowers must not be bought. She would have no more new dresses. She would not be a burden on him she loved. "Chocolate, Una?" asked Mrs. Van Zandt, who was presiding at the silver urn with graceful ease. She filled the china cup for the girl, laughing the while in secret at her pale, wistful face. "It was a hard blow to her pride," she said to herself, exultantly; then she turned her attention again to her husband, who had been reading from the morning paper when Una's entrance interrupted him. "Our old favorite on the boards again. It will be a treat," said Sylvie. "On what night did you say, Bryant?" "The sixteenth; that will be three nights off," he answered. "Exactly. We will all go. We will make up a theater-party. What do you say, girls?" "Splendid!" said Edith. "All right!" exclaimed Ida, and Maud added a more sedate affirmative. "And you, dear?" Eliot said, gently, to the silent girl by his side. She lifted her dark, mournful eyes to his face with a gentle smile, and said, wistfully, almost humbly: "Whatever you wish, Eliot." The sweetness of her smile and voice disarmed his resentment for her slight of last night, and leaning toward her, he said, in a tender whisper: "We will go, then, and I will bring you another bouquet; but mind, no giving it away this time." "Did you care?" she murmured back, with sudden radiance. They were rising from the table just then, and Una slipped her white fingers daringly through his arm, as she murmured the coquettish words. He looked down, saw the sudden radiance on her face, and a half-light broke upon his mind. "So you did it to make me jealous, madame?" he said, gayly. "Very well; you attained your desire. But I must be off now. Come to the library one minute. I want you." Inside the cozy little room, he said, kindly: "You will want a new dress for the theater-party. How much?" She drew back from him, scarlet with shame. "Oh, no; I have plenty of dresses--more than I need." "Very well, but you shall have a new dress if you wish it." "But I do not wish it," hurriedly. "And--and--oh, Eliot, I'm afraid I cost you too much money! Sell the brown pony. I do not care for riding any more, and it is a useless expense to keep it." His fair, handsome face grew suddenly stern. "Who has been putting such nonsense in your head?" he demanded. "It is not nonsense," Una said, shyly but firmly. "You are poor. You told me so long ago. So I know you can not afford the expense." "Nonsense--" he began; but the door opened, and Maud entered, followed by Edith. "Oh, excuse us, Una. We did not know you were here with Eliot. We just came in to say good-morning to him before we go in the drawing-room with Ida." He kissed them both, and they went out. He held out his hand to his wife. "By-by, Una. I suppose I must really tear myself away," he said. CHAPTER XXXIII. She put her small hand in his, and he felt the fingers curl around his own, gently detaining him. "Well, dear?" he asked, thinking that she was about to change her mind and say she would have the new dress. Her face dropped a little to hide the warm flush that rose over it as she stammered in desperate confusion: "Before you--go--I must make a confession. Last night I--I--told an untruth when I said I had a headache and could not sing. You--you will not call me your little Una, your lady of truth any more now, will you, Eliot?" She was so close to him, the supple, girlish figure leaned so near that he daringly slipped his arm around the small waist. A thrill of rapture ran through him as he felt her nestle shyly in his clasp. "So it was not a headache, my little Truth?" he whispered, lovingly. "What was the reason then that made you desert us all so unkindly?" "It was--was--a fit of ill-temper," Una exclaimed, remorsefully; then she turned round, so quickly, so lightly, he did not realize it until it was over, and slipping her arm around his neck drew his face down to hers, pressed a light, bashful kiss upon his lips, then tore herself from his clasp and fled the room. Strong man as he was, Eliot Van Zandt reeled backward into a chair, dizzy with delicious rapture at that light, shy but ardent pressure of Una's lips upon his own. It had come so unexpectedly, that moment of bliss after the bitterness and hopelessness of last night, it was like the dawning of a new day after a night of storm and darkness. Hope plumed her wings again in his heart. "She is going to learn to love me," he thought, happily, too blind still to understand the full meaning of that caress that had sent such a shock of rapturous delight through his whole being. He sat still a few blissful moments, going gladly over her looks and words. "Not a headache--a fit of ill-temper. Ill-temper over what?" he wondered, then suddenly: "Oh, my little love, my darling, you were vexed because Ida Hayes sat down by my side, because I took her in to dinner. Well, I shall bless the coming of Ida if through her coquetry my Una learns she has a heart." Meanwhile, frightened at her own boldness, her heart beating furiously, Una rushed upstairs, seeking solitude in which to hide herself from all. "What must he think of me?" she murmured, with crimson blushes. "I did not mean to do it. I do not know how I dared so much. Was he angry, I wonder? I could not look at him. I was so amazed at what I had done!" Her lips burned with the touch of his, her heart throbbed with pain and pleasure commingled. Walking restlessly up and down the floor, she murmured: "I love him so dearly that I must--I must win his heart! Then, and not till then, will he forgive me for the loss of Ida and her fortune. How shamed I felt over the proffer of the new dress! He will give me new dresses, but he will not give me his heart. He puts me away from him like a stranger. Shall I resent it? Ah, no, no; since he has sacrificed so much for me, I must sacrifice my pride for him. For his own sake, for his future happiness; I, the Little Nobody, obscure, unloved, penniless, uncultured, must make myself beloved by him until he shall bless the wayward fate that made him mine." The dark eyes glowed, the cheeks crimsoned with emotion, as Una thought, passionately: "I would that I could do some brave, noble, heroic deed that would challenge the world's admiration, so that he would forget my obscure origin and my misfortune that drove him to the sacrifice that saved me from the world's scorn, in sudden pride and love for me!" There was a light tap at the door. Mrs. Wilson had sent Edith to bring her tardy pupil to the school-room. "If you are sick, or otherwise engaged, she will readily excuse you," Edith said. "I do not want to be excused," said Una, as she hurried to the presence of the gentle governess. But that day she found books and lessons irksome in the extreme. Her heart and mind were full of the strange facts she had heard last night from the lips of Sylvie. She who had been wedded, yet no wife, for almost a year had only now found out that she was unloved, and the humiliation weighed her almost to the earth, in spite of her brave, sensible resolve to win Eliot yet, and make him forget that once he had sighed for Ida Hayes. She longed to throw down the irksome books and cry out to the gentle, placid Mrs. Wilson: "Away with books! Teach me the only lesson that interests me now--how to win my husband's heart!" She beat back the yearning impulse to claim this gentle woman's sympathy with bitter pride. "Shall I complain of him to her, to any one?" she thought. "Ah, no; it lies between us two and God! The bitter secret shall never pass my lips! Secret, did I say? Alas! it is known to them all, has been known all along. How they must pity me, the unloved wife, the perhaps unwelcome intruder in the home to which they had hoped he would bring Ida Hayes a loved and loving bride!" It did not look as if she was unwelcome when at the close of study hours Maud and Edith burst into the room. "Una, we are just dying to get hold of you!" Edith cried. "We want to talk about the theater-party. What are we going to wear, for I'm sure we can not afford new dresses." "And we want to look as nice as possible, for Ida and Sylvie will do all they can to outshine us," added Maud. "Of course they have lots of new things, so Edith and I have just made up our minds to have some of the pretty things in mamma's trunks upstairs. She gave them to us long before she died. So if you won't be offended, Una, dear, come with us, and we'll find something that we can fix over for the theater-party." "What is it all about?" queried gentle Mrs. Wilson, and Edith returned: "A popular actress who left the stage almost sixteen years ago has returned to it again, and they say she is as young, lovely, and spirited as when she retired to marry a rich aristocrat. All paint, of course, but Sylvie is just wild to have us go and see her play on Thursday night." CHAPTER XXXIV. Una went with the girls to ransack the trunks, but she steadily declined to accept any of the finery they spread out on the bed and chairs. "Eliot offered to give me a new dress this morning, and I told him I had plenty," she said, "so if I took any of these, he would think I had deceived him." "You dear little conscientious thing, you are well named Una," cried Edith, gayly. "But Eliot would never know, and, my dear, this rose-colored satin with lace flounces would make up lovely for you, and be so becoming." "It is too fine for me," Una answered, shrinkingly. "Not a bit. A gold dress would not be too fine for Eliot's wife," vivaciously. "And you know, dear, at a theater-party one dresses as if for a ball. We shall have private boxes, you know, and every one will want to look nice. Now, you really have nothing fit to wear." Una flushed sensitively, but she knew that it was true. She had nothing fine but the blue silk dinner-dress, except--and her heart throbbed painfully--the sweet, white dress with its filmy laces that she had worn for her strange marriage that starlit night in New Orleans beneath the green trees in the quaint semi-tropical garden. The dress, with the necklace of pearls, lay folded away in the bottom of her trunk. "I have the white dress I wore when I was--married," she said, dubiously. "Perhaps it will do." They went with her to look at it, and they were charmed with the quaint, pretty robe and the moon-white pearls. "You will look lovely in this. Why did you not show it to us before? And you never told us you had such splendid jewels." "Are they splendid? I did not know it. Monsieur Carmontelle gave them to me for a wedding-gift. I have more of them in a box given me by the Jockey Club." They exclaimed with delight when they saw the lovely things in the jewel-casket. There were diamonds, rubies, emeralds, all in the most tasteful and elegant settings. Una gave them _carte blanche_ to wear what they pleased, and accepting the offer in sisterly sincerity, the girls selected each a set appropriate to the costume selected for the occasion. "You will wear the pearls with the white dress, Una, I will take the diamonds to suit the rose-colored satin, and Maud can wear the rubies with the gold brocade!" exclaimed Edith, gayly. "Oh, how surprised Sylvie and Ida will be! They will expect us to look like dowdies, knowing we can not afford new dresses. But we will keep all a secret, and burst upon them Thursday evening in a blaze of glory!" "Agreed!" cried Maud, merrily, and Una's gentle, pensive smile added assent, although to herself she sighed apprehensively: "Perhaps Eliot will not like for me to appear in my wedding-dress. It will remind him of his sacrifice. But I have nothing else to wear." And when Eliot asked her that evening what kind of a dress she would wear, so that he might select her flowers in keeping, she answered, in a half-frightened tone. "White!" "It will suit you," he answered, kindly, but Una thought, sadly: "He would not say so if he knew it was my wedding-dress!" He lingered by her side, thrilled with the memory of the morning's kiss, and waiting to see if she would show him any more kindness. Una was very glad to keep him near her, but she was full of a blushing consciousness that made her even more shy than usual. Oh, that kiss this morning!--how had she dared to be so bold?--and yet she had a passionate longing to repeat the caress. Ida Hayes saw him lingering by his wife, and called him away to sing with her. "That duet we used to sing, you know," she said; and her familiar tone and coquettish smile half maddened Una with pain. She drew back without a word, and let Eliot pass her, and between Sylvie and her sister he had no more chance to speak to her in the drawing-room that evening. When the music was done he was drawn into a game of chess, and as Una was ignorant of the game she was perforce left out. She sat apart and talked to some callers who had dropped in, and when they left she was only too glad to find that the evening was over and the family were separated for the night. She went upstairs very slowly, and along the carpeted hall to her room, with a bitter sense of loneliness and disappointment, vaguely comprehending the malice of the two women who had so cleverly kept Eliot from her side all the evening. "They hate me for my unconscious fault," she thought, miserably. "Good-night, Una," a voice said, suddenly, almost at her side. It was Eliot who had followed her upstairs. As she turned round her white, startled face, he drew her hand in his arm and walked with her toward her door. "You forgot to tell me good-night," he said, smiling. "Or--did you deliberately snub me again because of--a fit of ill-temper?" Too truthful to deny the imputation, she said, bashfully: "I'm afraid so. I thought Miss Hayes wasn't going to let you off long enough to say good-night, so I came away." Pressing her little hand very close against his side, he replied, ardently: "I should like to see the Miss Hayes that could keep me from saying good-night to my darling little wife." They had reached her door. She paused, trembling with delight, but in the dim light he could not see the gladness in the beautiful dark eyes. He only felt the trembling of the form beside him, and thought that she was nervous and frightened. "Do not be afraid of me, Una," he said, hurriedly, and with sharp disappointment. Then he drew the little figure close to his heart, and held her there a moment, while he pressed on her warm lips the ardent kiss of a lover. A moment more he turned away and left her to enter her room alone, with some sweet, passionate words ringing in her ears: "Good-night, my darling, my little wife! Sleep well, and dream of your own Eliot." "Did he mean it? Is he learning to love me at last?" she whispered to herself, sobbing wildly with hysterical delight, and trembling with bashful pleasure. She unrobed and lay down on her dainty white bed, not to sleep, but to live over and over again, in fancy, his tender looks and words and his warm caress. But Eliot, in whom a passionate hope and longing had been stirring all day, went to his solitary room vaguely disappointed. "Poor darling! I frightened her by my vehemence," he said, remorsefully, to himself. "Her beauty and her gentleness tempted me almost beyond my strength. Ah, she little dreamed what a struggle it cost to leave her there and to wait, still wait, although half maddened with love and longing." For him, too, the drowsy god tarried to-night, and he tossed sleeplessly on his pillow, dreaming of Una just as Una was dreaming of him, with infinite love and yearning. Weary with the night's restlessness, Una slept too soundly next morning for the breakfast-bell to rouse her from her slumbers. Eliot, who had to be at the office by a certain hour, fidgeted uneasily, and at last sent Edith to see if she was awake. In a minute she came out on tiptoe. "She is sleeping so sweetly, I had not the heart to wake her," she said. "But, Eliot, you might just slip in and kiss her good-bye in her sleep." Her keen young eyes saw the sensitive color mount to his temples. "Una would not like it," he replied, gravely. Candid Edith shut the door softly behind her, and gave her brother a playful little shake as she went with him along the hall. "Eliot, you are a great goose, that's what you are!" she cried. "Una is your wife. You have a right to go in her room and kiss her if you like, and I don't believe she would object, either!" With a sigh, he replied: "You must remember how sudden our marriage was, Edith. My little girl had no time to learn to love me, or get used to me. Is it not right that I should leave her in peace until I shall have won her heart as well as her hand?" Edith stared at him in wonder. "Eliot Van Zandt, you are as blind as a bat!" she exclaimed, and darted away without another word. But although she would not say another word to Eliot, she made up her mind to lecture Una. So the first thing when Una opened her heavy eyes, she saw Edith sitting demurely in the big willow rocker by the bedside. She burst out unceremoniously: "You lazy girl, you have slept until breakfast was over, and your husband gone down-town. Poor boy! he waited and waited outside your door for you to wake, but you just dreamed on until he had to go. I told him to slip in and kiss you good-bye in your sleep, but he was afraid you would be angry. I do say, Una Van Zandt, you ought to be ashamed of yourself." Una was sitting up in bed very wide awake indeed now, a lovely picture of amazement and distress, with her loose, golden hair falling on her half-bare, white shoulders, her eyes dilated with wonder, her cheeks flushed from sleep. "Oh, Edith, what have I done now? I don't know what you're talking about," she faltered. "Don't you, Mistress Van Zandt? Listen, then: I'm talking about what a tyrant you are to my brother. Here you have been married to him almost a year and I don't believe you've ever given the poor boy as much as a kiss or one fond word. Do you think he is a stick or a stone, without any feeling, that you behave so heartlessly? I tell you it made me angry to see him this morning afraid to come inside this room to tell you good-bye. Don't you know he has a right to be in this room with you if he choose, only he is too afraid of you to assert himself? There is no other man on earth half so good and chivalrous as Eliot. Fancy Bryant being afraid to put his foot inside Sylvie's door. Why, they both would tell you it was all nonsense. You treat Eliot--" Una held out her hands entreatingly. "Hush, Edith, don't scold me so," she begged, with quivering lips; but she did not utter a word in her own defense. She was too wretched and heart-sick, feeling that Eliot's fault, his persistent avoidance of his wife, need not be held up to his sister's condemnation. "Far rather would I shield him by letting the blame rest wholly upon myself," she resolved, firmly. CHAPTER XXXV. Sylvie pretended to be very anxious that day over the appearance her sisters-in-law would make at the theater-party. "Have you anything new?" she inquired. "Because I have invited several young ladies and gentlemen, and ordered a supper here after the performance at the theater. Of course, I want you all to do credit to Bryant." "We haven't a new thing," declared Edith, lugubriously. "You and Ida will have to uphold the honor of the family by your elegant dressing, for Maud and I will be sure to look like dowdies." Mme. Sylvie did not seem to take the information much to heart. She said carelessly: "And Eliot's wife?" "Oh, she will be a dowdy, too," replied roguish Edith. So Sylvie and Ida could scarcely believe their eyes that evening when Maud and Edith sallied in, the dark-haired Maud in gold-colored satin, red roses, and rubies, and Edith in lustrous rose-color with white lace flounces, while diamonds flashed from her throat and ears. Both girls looked as handsome in their way as the bisque dolls who were splendid in Parisian toilets and a profusion of gleaming jewels. Sylvie stared in amaze and jealous displeasure. "You told me you had nothing fit to wear!" she exclaimed, acrimoniously. "I beg your pardon--nothing new," Edith replied, dimpling with mischief. "These are our mother's old dresses made over." "But diamonds and rubies--I am sure Bryant told me that all your mother's jewels were sold to help pay your father's debts when he failed!" Sylvie exclaimed, in wonderment and displeasure. "So they were," Maud answered. "But, Sylvie, these do not belong to us. We borrowed them from Una." Ida Hayes broke in with inexpressible anger and spite: "I thought Eliot was too poor to give such jewels to his wife." Edith flashed her a glance of scorn. "Fortunately poverty is no disgrace, Ida," she said. "But Eliot did not give them to Una. They were bridal presents from her Southern friends." "Dear me, Sylvie! and you said she was poor and a nobody!" Ida exclaimed, insolently, turning around to her sister. "Eliot said so," Sylvie answered; and forthwith there began a war of words that was fortunately stopped by Bryant's entrance, and his instant laying on the table of the heated subject of debate. On his part he was glad to see his young sisters so charmingly dressed and looking so lovely. He took the exciting fact of Una's jewels with manly equanimity. "There is no reason why Una should not have them," he said. "Her adopted father, Pierre Carmontelle, is one of the richest men in the South. If he and his friends gave her costly bridal presents, it was no more than she had a right to expect." Sylvie and Ida dared say no more, but their thoughts were full of rancor, and the former muttered, _sotto voce_: "I suppose she will come down presently covered with diamonds!" Meanwhile, quite a different scene was transpiring in Una's room upstairs. Fifteen minutes ago, as she had stood before her mirror, putting the last touches to her sweet, simple toilet, there had come a light, quick rap at her door. "Maud or Edith," she thought, and called out, carelessly: "Come in!" The door opened softly, and Eliot, her husband, appeared on the threshold, looking marvelously handsome in full evening-dress, a bouquet of pure white flowers in one hand, a long, white box in the other. When he saw lovely Una standing there in the soft, white robe, with the pearls around her bare, white throat, and her round arms uncovered, save by the dainty white gloves, her dark eyes shining with innocent joy at her own fairness, he uttered a cry of delight: "Oh, Una, how angelic you look! But," dubiously, "do I intrude?" "No," she answered, with a blush and tremor; so Eliot shut the door and came to her side. "I have brought you some flowers and an opera-cloak," he said, pulling it out of the box and dropping it on her shoulders. It was a dainty white cashmere affair, not costly but very pretty, with a shining fringe of pearl and silver beads. With the white dress and flowers, it made Una look bride-like and lovely as a dream. "Does it suit you? Will it be warm enough?" he asked, with shining eyes; and Una held out her hands to him with sudden tears on her lashes. "Oh, how good you are to me, who should expect so little from you! How can I ever requite your kindness?" she murmured, tremulously. He caught the white hands in his, and drew the dainty white figure into the clasp of his yearning arms. "Only love me, my darling!" he whispered, passionately, against her crimson cheek. "That will pay all." She lay still, trembling with rapture in the close pressure of his fond arms. She felt his kisses falling softly, warmly on her face, her lips, her hair. At last she drew herself from him, saying, with rapturous wonder: "You really want me to love you, Eliot?" Half smiling at her wondering tone, he exclaimed: "What a strange question, Una! Have I not been waiting almost a year for your heart to wake from its childish sleep and respond to mine? And how else could you requite aught I have done for you? Do you not know, my darling, that love must be paid in its own coin?" Doubting, wondering, she looked up into those glorious blue-gray orbs now full of a radiant fire impossible to describe. Something of the truth dawned on her bewildered soul. She cried out impulsively: "Oh, Eliot, then you do love me? And I have been so wretched, so afraid, so--" No more, for he had caught her in his arms, crushing her passionately to his breast, whispering that he had loved her always, always, and had grown so weary, so impatient waiting to win her heart. "There was no need to wait if you had not been so blind," answered truthful Una. "For I loved you, Eliot, from the very first!" CHAPTER XXXVI. If Edith had not come upstairs to see what kept Una dressing so long, they would have forgotten all about the theater-party in their absorption of each other. As it was, they started apart in surprise when she came softly in. "Oh, Eliot, I did not know you were here," she said, drawing back. "Come in, Edith, and congratulate us," he said, drawing Una to his side again. "We have just found out that we are in love with each other." "Every one else knew that ages ago," replied the saucy girl, laughing. But she kissed both with a great amount of girlish fervor, and to hide her emotion, exclaimed: "The carriages are waiting, and Sylvie is fuming with impatience, so you had better bring your bride down-stairs, Eliot." They went down together, and when the spiteful Sylvie saw the two handsome, happy faces, she was more vexed than if Una had indeed been covered with diamonds, as she had spitefully said. She could not help seeing that a reconciliation had taken place between the two, and felt instinctively that her cruel revelation to Una had precipitated the understanding it was intended to avert. But she could not avoid one poisoned shaft of malice at the happy girl, and so, with a sneer, she exclaimed: "Dear me! Una still posing as a bride at this late day? Your wedding-day must have been a very happy one, since you love to recall it so well." No one replied to the impertinent speech, for all, even Bryant, understood its spleen. Una only shrunk closer to her husband, and they went out to the carriages that were waiting to convey them to the theater. Two boxes had been taken for the evening, and there were twelve in the party, including the two ladies and three gentlemen that Sylvie had invited. Una was very glad that Sylvie and Ida did not come into the same box with herself and Eliot. Their cold, sneering looks made her shiver and feel unhappy, so she was glad when she found Maud and Edith with one other young lady and one gentleman as the evening's companions. The house was full, and the curtain had risen on the first act--a brilliant scene with a fine setting. Mme. Leonie had not made her appearance yet, and the audience felt at liberty to turn a good many curious lorgnettes upon the handsome theater-party. Una, all in white, with her waving golden hair, red lips, and large dark eyes, immediately fixed attention. The murmur ran from lip to lip: "A bride--a bride!" Eliot saw what a sensation her beauty was creating, and smiled in pride; but Una was too innocent to comprehend the truth. In fact, she scarcely looked at the audience. Her eager eyes intently watched the stage. She was anxious to see the great actress of whom the newspapers spoke in such lavish praise. So, while the adoring young husband by her side kept his fond eyes on her face, Una watched the stage, and her eagerness was soon rewarded by a sight of Mme. Leonie. Mme. Leonie was tall, beautiful, stately, and the black velvet robe, starred with diamonds, in which she was assaying a queenly rôle, became her well. Una gave a little gasp of honest admiration. Mme. Leonie's voice rose on the air clear, sweet, shrill, and Eliot Van Zandt turned with a quick start toward the stage. At the same moment, he became aware that Una's little hand had clutched tightly, spasmodically around his arm. He looked into her face. Its usual pure, creamy pallor had deepened to ashy whiteness, her dark eyes were wild and frightened. "Una!" "Oh, Eliot, look!" she whispered, tremblingly. "It is she--Madame Lorraine!" He turned his eyes to the stage, from which, a moment ago, that voice had given him such a start. Yes, Una was right. There she stood--the beautiful, cruel woman who had doomed him to such an awful fate; who had made Una's life so bitter, whose malice and spite had been so supremely fiendish--Mme. Lorraine! CHAPTER XXXVII. Every eye was turned to the stage, and tumultuous applause greeted the appearance of the favorite, so no one noticed the agitation of the young husband and wife who, tightly clasping each other's hands, stared with loathing eyes at the beautiful actress. It seemed to both an evil omen--this meeting with cruel, heartless Mme. Lorraine in the first hour of their supreme happiness after the months of doubt and reserve that had held them apart. All unconscious of the eyes that watched her--the eyes she believed closed forever in the sleep of death, the clever actress went on with her part, and, shrinking closer to Eliot's side, Una whispered with a strange, foreboding fear: "Let us go home before she sees us. Do not let her find out that we are still living." Man-like, he smiled at her terror, and whispered back: "My darling, we have nothing to fear from Madame Lorraine's hatred now. Can you not trust to your husband to protect you?" "Yes--oh, yes," the girl-wife murmured; but the chill foreboding of evil did not leave her mind, and she shrunk back into the shadow of the heavy box-curtain, praying in her heart that Mme. Lorraine's hateful glance might not find her out. Perhaps it might not have done so, for, to madame's credit be it said, she did not ogle the boxes after the manner of some actresses. She was intent on her part, and, beyond the knowledge that she had a large and fashionable audience, she took no particular interest in the throng of people. But a perverse spirit had entered into Eliot Van Zandt, and seeing the woman so cool, calm, and heartless, he longed to let her know that her vengeance failed of its aim and her victims escaped her. He pictured to himself her jealous, impotent fury when she should know that both he and her Little Nobody lived, and that they were happily married and beyond the reach of her venom. And in that last belief he made his great mistake. He whispered his thoughts to Una. In truth, he was longing to take his exquisite vengeance on his enemy. Una forced a smile of meek acquiescence. She said to herself that she could not let her splendid young husband know what a little coward she was, and how she feared her old tyrant and enemy. At the close of the third act Eliot said, eagerly: "Will you let me have your bouquet, Una? To-morrow I will bring you a sweeter one." With secret reluctance she let him have it. He wrote hurriedly a few words on a card and attached it to the flowers. Una looked over his shoulder. She read: "Compliments of Eliot Van Zandt and his bride, the 'Little Nobody.'" "Oh!" the girl cried, with a shiver; but Eliot had already thrown it upon the stage at the feet of the tragedy queen, who was bowing and smiling in response to an enthusiastic recall. Among a dozen floral tributes she saw that pure, white, bride-like one flung from the opera-box. She took it up, lifted it to her lips, and bowed, then scanned the name written on the card, while Eliot watched her with a triumphant smile, Una with nameless fear. Eliot was quite curious to note what effect that startling card would have upon the wicked actress. It seemed to him that she would be stunned, that she would fall to the floor in abject terror, crying out for mercy from him she had wronged. Una, too, expected every instant that she would fall down unconscious, overcome by fear and anger. Neither one comprehended the stoicism, the incomparable will-power of the gifted, wicked French woman. Terrible and overwhelming as was the knowledge thus suddenly acquired, Mme. Lorraine neither by word nor sign gave any evidence that she had received a shock. She merely stood still--very still--for a minute or so with her eyes riveted upon the card, and the audience, suspecting nothing of this strange by-play, received the impression that the writing on the card was rather illegible, hence the slowness of the actress in deciphering the name. At last, with an inward shudder, madame lifted her eyes from the bit of pasteboard upon which she had been gazing as one looks at a serpent hidden among flowers. Her glance went straight to the box where Eliot and Una, so beautiful, so happy, in their youth and love, sat with bated breath watching her face. She recognized them instantly; a subtle smile dawned on her face, she bowed profoundly. The audience, still unconscious of the truth, applauded madame's graceful courtesy to the echo, and kissing the tips of her fingers, smiling right and left, she retired. Una drew a long, sobbing breath of relief as the beautiful woman vanished from sight. Eliot smiled and whispered: "She accepts her defeat with equanimity. Her self-command is admirable, enviable." "I am so glad she took it so coolly; I dare say she does not care," Una murmured, gladly, and some of the stifling fear and dread left her heart. If she could have looked behind the scenes into madame's dressing-room, she would not have felt so confident. Mima had to exert all her skill to bring her mistress up to the mark to enable her to go on with the fourth and last act in the play. Her agitation upon reaching the dressing-room had been great, and Mima for a moment had been scarcely less shaken; but her nerves were very strong, and she soon began to reassure Mme. Lorraine. "It is nothing--pshaw! Do not let your mind be upset, madame. Be glad that the fair-faced lad lives. Your conscience is that much lighter, and for the rest, he was never worthy the passion of so magnificent a woman!" "He was the only man I ever loved!" madame cried, obstinately. "He was splendid, whatever you say, Mima, and to think that she, the Little Nobody, has come back from the very grave to part us, to win him from me! Oh, it is bitter! I will not endure it. He was mad to fling that defiance in my face. I will make him pay dearly, dearly for that insolence!" "Nonsense! You shall not get yourself into any more scrapes over that boy!" Mima cried, angrily. Mme. Lorraine laughed hysterically. "You shall see," she said. "I will come between them; I will part them. I swear it!" "Nonsense!" Mima said again. "You do not even know where they live." "I shall find out!" the actress cried, obstinately; and then she gave vent to a sudden cry of shrill delight. "Oh! oh!" "What is it, then?" curtly. "Fortune favors me. You know I am invited to a little _petit souper_ to-night after the theater. It is at the house of one of the Boston _bon ton_, and the name on the card is 'Mrs. Bryant Van Zandt.'" Even the imperturbable Mima started with surprise. "Well?" Madame laughed, and the laugh was not good to hear. "I have no doubt they are relatives of my Yankee friend," she said. "Perhaps, even they live in the same house. I shall be sure to go, and then--_che sarâ, sarâ_!" Her voice had a fiendish threat in its angry cadence. She went back on the stage, smiling, insolent. She looked once or twice into the box from whence the white flowers had been thrown to her, and smiled whenever she looked. And Una's blood ran cold whenever she met that smile. She instinctively felt that it was one of menace. She was very, very glad when it was all over, and she could nestle by Eliot's side in the carriage with her cold little hand in his. Maud and Edith rode with them, but they did not utter one word to even hint to them that Mme. Leonie, the actress, was Mme. Lorraine, the wicked woman who had been so cruel to them in New Orleans. Both said to themselves that it did not matter now. Let her enjoy her fame, if she could, since out of her cruel plans had come their wedded happiness. She would leave Boston to-morrow for Philadelphia, where she was to play next, and in all likelihood her path would never cross theirs again. So, dismissing the wicked woman from their minds, Eliot and Una waited with the girls in the drawing-room for the coming of the rest of the party who were a little late. At last there was a bustle, a murmur of voices and laughter in the hall--then entered Sylvie, Ida, and their guests--lastly Bryant Van Zandt, on his arm--Mme. Leonie! "Ah, girls! ah, Eliot!" Sylvie cried out, in pretty triumph. "See what a charming surprise I have brought you. Madame Leonie will honor us by taking supper under our roof." Not a tremor on the part of the actress betrayed the fact that she had ever seen before the two to whom she bowed with stately grace. For them, they were too amazed by her matchless impudence to even remind her of the past, and bowed coldly in acknowledgment of the introduction. Turning away with Sylvie, they heard her say, in clear, full tones: "Ah, Madame Van Zandt, what an aristocratic-looking young beauty is Mrs. Eliot Van Zandt! She is no doubt of one of the finest old families of Boston." Sylvie's cruel voice answered maliciously: "On the contrary, a little nobody that Eliot picked up somewhere on a Southern tour." The eyes of the young husband and wife met, his indignant, hers wet with tears. "After all, it is true, I am a little nobody," she said, faintly. "Oh, Eliot," with sudden animation, "what if we should force Madame Lorraine to tell us the truth to-night--to own frankly who and what I am?" "You are Una Marie Van Zandt, and my wife. The past need not matter, my darling," he replied, tenderly. But the idea had taken complete possession of Una. "Eliot, it maddens me to hear your brother's wife always flinging that slur upon me--a little nobody! Let us force Madame Lorraine to tell the truth to-night. She is in your power, for although her conspiracy against your life failed, she is amenable to the law for the wicked attempt. Let us seek a private interview with her, Eliot. Let us threaten her, frighten her into the confession of my origin, however humble," pleaded Una, with impassioned fervor. CHAPTER XXXVIII. Mme. Lorraine wormed Una's story out of Mrs. Van Zandt with the greatest ease, Sylvie's spite making it an actual labor of love to place her sister-in-law in the worst possible light before the great actress who had deigned to express admiration for her beauty. In a little while the wicked woman knew that which thrilled her with cruel joy--that beautiful Una, living in the same house with Eliot and bearing his name, had never been aught to him but his wife in name only. "He never loved her, and would be glad if he had never seen her," Sylvie said, lying unblushingly in her hatred of Una. Mme. Lorraine condoled with her in politest phrases, hiding her exultation under an appearance of calmness. She said to herself: "His wife in name only! It is not so bad as I thought. It will be easy to part them now." Her opportunity soon came without an effort of her own, through Una's eagerness to find out the secret of her origin. Eliot had consented to Una's wish, and immediately after the elegant supper, which had been provided by the best caterer in Boston at Sylvie's expense, he sought an opportunity to speak to her alone. "Will Madame Leonie permit me the pleasure of showing her through our little conservatory? We have a rare plant in bloom there--a night-blooming cereus," he said. Madame protested she would be delighted; slipped her jeweled hand through his arm, and glided from the drawing-room by his side. The night-blooming cereus was not a feint. It was really there, but so also was Una standing by its side, pale and agitated, yet withal so lovely, that madame said to herself, with something like contempt for her companion: "He must be cold-hearted, indeed, to withhold love from one so beautiful." Eliot began abruptly: "Madame Lorraine, of course you know we recognized you immediately to-night?" The beautiful actress bowed mockingly. "Of course." He continued gravely: "Then, perhaps you can guess why I have brought you here?" Glancing maliciously from the pale, grave face of Eliot to the agitated one of his wife, madame said, scoffingly: "To congratulate you and your bride on your happiness, no doubt, monsieur!" "No; nor to reproach you with your wickedness," Eliot answered, sternly, his handsome face pale and set, his splendid eyes full of scorn. "I brought you here, madame, to say that in return for my leniency in not denouncing you to the law for your attempt upon my life, I demand at your hands one simple act of justice." "Justice!" she echoed, vaguely. "Yes, to me," said Una, drawing nearer. "Oh, Madame Lorraine, the time is come at last when you must tell me who and what I am. You have denied to me even a name, but however poor and obscure my origin, I surely have a right to some name, and I can no longer bear Mrs. Van Zandt's sneers at the mystery that infolds me. Speak, madame, and dissipate the cloud that veils the past." "Speak!" Eliot echoed, sternly. Then there was a moment of terrible suspense and silence. Madame had drawn back hurriedly from the two with an expression of alarm and trouble on her mobile white face. At last: "Oh, you know not what you ask!" she faltered, with emotion. Growing ashen pale, Una cried out hoarsely: "I am ready to hear--even the worst." Eliot came to her side and drew her cold hand gently through his arm. "Do not look so frightened, Una, my love," he said, gently. "If madame speaks the truth, she will say you are well-born and of noble parentage." Madame gave him a look of fierce wrath and scorn. "Are you so sure?" she sneered. "Better let me go, then, with your fatal question unanswered, and hug that vain delusion to your breast." Eliot answered dauntlessly: "Most willingly, only for Una's sake. She has some natural curiosity on the subject, and I have promised her it shall be gratified." The beautiful face of Mme. Lorraine grew positively fiendish with the evil smile that flashed across it. "A true daughter of Eve," she said; "but your Una, as you call her, if she persists in her curiosity, may purchase her knowledge at as bitter cost as did the adventurous lady of Eden." "I am not afraid of the truth, if you will only speak it and have done, madame," Una cried out, impatiently; and Eliot felt her tremble violently as she leaned against him. Then both looked at the clever actress in surprise. Her face had changed its expression, as if by magic, from hate and scorn to softness, gentleness, and poignant regret. Her splendid orbs were dim as with a mist of tears. Clasping her jeweled hands together in strong agitation, she faltered, pleadingly: "Do not press me so hard, for--oh, how can I tell you what you ask?" "Do you mean that there is shame, disgrace, linked with--my birth--my parentage?" Una demanded, almost wildly. Mme. Lorraine gave her a cunning upward glance full of a sort of contemptuous pity. "Listen to me, both of you," she said; "I have wronged you both, but Heaven knows how I repent of my evil deeds. I do not want to cause any more sorrow to either of you, as I must do if I tell Una what she asks. Therefore, let me go away, in silence, and be sure that in her case ignorance is bliss." "I will not believe you, Madame Lorraine, if you assert that aught of shame belongs to the parentage of my wife," Eliot said, hotly, and she uttered a long, long sigh. "Whatever it is, I have a right to some name, however humble," Una said; but Mme. Lorraine preserved a silence that was significant. Eliot drew his arm tenderly about Una's waist, as he said: "Dearest, you have a right to one of the proudest names in Boston. Why trouble your little head about the past?" But Una was obstinate. Sylvie's sneers had made her bitter and determined. She looked with dark, impatient eyes into the face of the woman who hated her with relentless hate. "Speak, madame," she said, icily. "Do you not see that you must reveal the secret now, whatever it be, that has thrown its stigma over my life?" "I am in your power, monsieur; you can denounce me for my attempted crime, if I refuse to answer you," madame said, looking at Eliot. "Do you still insist?" He looked at Una; she murmured "Yes" through pale, determined lips, but she did not see the covert triumph in the eyes of her foe. "Very well, then," said the actress, with a heavy sigh. She looked at Eliot with grave eyes. "Monsieur Van Zandt, I must make at least one condition," she exclaimed. "Yes?" he said, inquiringly. "It is this: you will leave me alone with your wife while I reveal to her her name and true identity. It will be best thus. The secret will then be her own, and it will be optional with her whether she should reveal it to you or not." He bowed affirmatively. "I have no objection to your plan, madame, and small curiosity over your secret. Whatever you may reveal to Una, it will in nowise lessen my regard for my wife." He went out and left them together. Mme. Lorraine turned her vindictive eyes upon Una hissing fiercely: "Do you not know that you are very foolish in this matter? Would I have treated you as I did for fifteen years, if you had not been--" "What?" asked Una, impatiently, as she paused significantly, and regarded her with angry, scornful eyes. Bending forward until her writhing lips almost touched the small, pink ear of the girl, Mme. Lorraine finished her broken sentence in a hissing voice like that of a serpent. It was as if Mme. Lorraine had struck the girl upon the face. She reeled backward with a low, gasping, terrified cry, and sunk to the floor. * * * * * Eliot waited almost an hour in the drawing-room for madame to return, and Mrs. Van Zandt grew angry and impatient at the detention of her guest by that Little Nobody. Eliot made all the excuses he could. They were talking about the flowers; Mme. Leonie loved them so dearly, etc. At last he went in search of the two. Madame was just emerging from the conservatory with a smile of triumph on her handsome face. As he would have passed her, she detained him with a hand laid heavily on his arm. "Do not go to her yet. She desired me to keep you away from her a little while until she can collect her thoughts and decide whether it is best to share her terrible secret with you or not." "But surely she needs me now," he said, quailing at the words. "Her terrible secret!" "She prefers to be alone, she said," madame returned, so positively that he decided, against his sense of duty, to humor Una's whim. He guessed it was not a pleasant revelation madame had made among the warm, sweet odors of the dim conservatory. The actress returned to the drawing-room, made her adieus, and departed. Then the rest of the party broke up, and the family retired to their several apartments. Eliot went to the conservatory for Una. "I can not leave her alone any longer in her trouble, poor child!" he thought, with a heart full of tenderness. To his surprise, the flowery retreat was quite deserted. "She has stepped out unperceived in the confusion of the leave-takings, and gone to her room," he decided, and a yearning impulse led him to seek her there. He knocked at first softly on the door, and receiving no reply, entered quietly, feeling that she needed him in the distress she was enduring over madame's revelation. But the room, like the conservatory, was deserted. Over the dressing-table the gas was burning brightly. Eliot's eyes quickly detected an envelope lying just beneath the light that bore in large characters his own name. CHAPTER XXXIX. He stood staring with frightened eyes at the white envelope, with its large black letters formed in Una's crude handwriting, dreading to touch it, for a swift instinct told him the truth. She had left him, he felt quite sure--left him almost in the very hour when the discovery of their mutual love for each other had paved the way to their wedded happiness. Mme. Lorraine, like the serpent crawling into Eden, had brought woe and pain where love and joy had reigned. All this flashed over him instinctively as he took the letter in his hand and tore it open, devouring in fierce haste the brief, sad note Una had written such a little while ago that the ink was scarcely dry upon the page. "This is my farewell to you, Eliot," it said. "I have learned the secret of my identity. Forgive me that I shrink from revealing it to you. I can only say that it comes between us, and divides us as effectually as the grave itself. I have left you forever. Do not seek to trace me, for nothing can ever induce me to live with you again. Give up the thought of me and obtain a divorce (it will be easy, for, thank Heaven, I have never been your wife, save in name only), then you can marry Ida Hayes, whom you loved before you ever saw me. God bless you for all your goodness to me. If you had known who I was that time in New Orleans, you need not have sacrificed yourself for my sake. God bless my--yes, I will presume to call them sisters this once--Maud and Edith! I have left them the jewels they wore to-night in memory of Una, to whom they were so kind. Forget me, Eliot, as soon as you can, for I am all unworthy of your name and your love. "LITTLE NOBODY." She had deliberately signed the name she hated so much, and he knew that her humility must have been great to drive her to such an act. With a groan he sunk into a chair and buried his face in his hands. "How could she, with her beauty and innocence, her high-bred air and noble soul, be lowly, even shamefully born, as this letter would have me believe?" he exclaimed. "No, no; it is only another of that wicked woman's falsehoods. She has taken Una with her, out of hatred for my darling and envy of our happiness. There can be nothing strong enough to come between us, my little love and I. Oh, why did I leave them alone together? I might have known that serpent's wiles. But I will follow and bring them back! Fortunately it is not too late." But he was mistaken, for when he reached madame's hotel, half an hour later, he was told that she had left Boston by the 1:30 train. "Just thirty minutes too late!" he muttered, wildly, and the sleepy night-clerk of the hotel looked at him in contemptuous amazement. He thought he must be some demented admirer of Mme. Leonie. Eliot knew that madame's next engagement was in Philadelphia, and he determined that he would follow by the next train. "Will she have the temerity to take Una with her, or will she try to hide her from me? The latter, most likely," he thought, sadly, and a presentiment grew upon him that his lovely girl-wife was lost to him forever. But he followed the actress by the next train to Philadelphia, only to learn that she had never arrived there. At a heavy cost, she had made her manager cancel her engagement, and neither herself nor the manager could be found there, nor a clew obtained to their whereabouts. Just as suddenly as she had returned to the stage, she disappeared from it, and the mystery of her disappearance was the topic of newspaper paragraphs for some days. Only one of the journalistic fraternity had any idea of the cause of her flight, and he was too proud and bitter to give it to the world. To his own family, under strict bonds of secrecy, he confided the truth, and Maud and Edith were indignant at the thought that wicked Mme. Lorraine had dared come beneath their roof, and loud in their protestations of disbelief in the story that there was a stain on Una's birth. But Bryant, Sylvie, and Ida preserved a significant silence that told more plainly than words their belief that all had happened for the best. They hoped secretly that Eliot would get a divorce, as Una had told him to do. CHAPTER XL. After the space of five years, let us look in again upon the Van Zandts. Eliot Van Zandt has a guest. Pierre Carmontelle! For five years the noble Louisianian has been a wanderer in foreign lands. He has returned at last cured of his passion for the girl he had loved, strong enough now to witness her happiness with another. Not since the day when he bid farewell to Eliot and his bride has he heard aught of their fate until now, when, strong in the consciousness of his conquered love, he goes to Boston, determined to visit the happy pair before his return South. "I shall see Van Zandt grown portly and important, the Little Nobody of old matronly and magnificent," he said to himself, with a smile. Fancy the shock of the reality when he found Eliot a grave, sad man, old beyond his years through the influence of sorrow for the young wife lost so strangely out of his life. It was several minutes after Eliot had told him his story before he could utter a word, so greatly was he affected by what had been told him. Then he called down the vengeance of Heaven on the head of the wicked woman. Eliot's grave, sad face, with its lines of suffering, told plainer than words all that he had endured. "Surely you pursued them?" cried Carmontelle. "As long as my means lasted--yes," said Van Zandt. "But that was such a little while. You know I had so little beyond my salary, and--there were my two sisters." "You should have written to me." "I did--your letter was returned to me--you had sailed for Europe." "And not a clew in all these years?" "None." "I need not ask if you have taken Una's advice and procured a divorce?" Carmontelle said, with quiet comprehension of the other's pale, grave face that flushed slightly, as he answered: "I am bound to Una while I live, although I have given up all hope of ever seeing her again." Carmontelle's steady eyes went over the worn sheet of paper on which Una had traced her pathetic farewell to her husband. "And Miss Hayes, whom she says here you loved before your marriage?" he said, abruptly. "I can not tell how she fell into such an error. Miss Hayes is my brother's sister-in-law. She visited here often, but we were never more than friends," Eliot answered, quietly, all unsuspicious of Sylvie's treachery. Then the ladies of the house came in, and the conversation drifted to other subjects. Sylvie was the same exquisitely dressed doll; but five years had changed Maud and Edith from pretty, vivacious girls to quiet, dignified young ladies. In Maud there was a greater change than in Edith, and the secret lay in the failure of her beloved novel. Three years ago the cherished book had been given to the world, and the cruel critics had ridiculed the immature work of the girl, saying that the wild flights of fancy, so fresh, so buoyant, could have emanated from none but a young, inexperienced brain knowing nothing of the hard, cruel world. Pretty, tender Maud did not have the spirit of a Byron to retort on her critics and write, despite their sneers, so she laid down her pen, as she said, forever, and nearly broke her heart in bitter humiliation over her cruel failure. So there lay the secret of the beauty so ethereally frail that one fancied, in looking at her, that the spirit would soon plume its wings for another world. Edith was made of different metal. When the picture on which she had spent so much time was voted as great a failure as Maud's book, she shed a few bitter tears, brushed them away, and began again. On her easel had stood, for some time, an unfinished portrait of Una. Turning to this now, she made a fancy picture of it, and boldly called it Una. Upon this portrait rested Edith's fame. When exhibited, it created a great sensation. She had many offers for it, but she rejected all to present the portrait to her brother. He was deeply moved, and declared that the gift of a fortune would not have pleased him so much. So Edith's fame was established. A few copies of the beautiful "Una" found ready sale. Then there came in orders for portraits. She had her own beautiful studio now, and made money enough to buy her own dresses, and Maud's, too; so Eliot was free now, but he had never begrudged the manly aid he lent to his sisters. Even now he spent very little for himself, but went on laying up his small savings carefully for Una, if she should ever come back. Pierre Carmontelle, who had traveled five years to get cured of an attack of the _grande passion_, fell straight into Cupid's net again when he encountered Maud's pensive beauty. She, on her part, was attracted to this noble man of forty-odd years as she had never been to younger ones who had bowed at her shrine. Never did anything come about more suddenly; for the Southerner, who had expected to remain in Boston only a day, stayed a month, and at the expiration of that time Maud was his promised wife. Of course they had talked to each other about Una, and when Maud wanted to defer the bridal-day six months, Carmontelle said, artfully: "Do not make it so long as that, my darling, because you and I want to go in search of Una just as soon as we are married, do we not?" "Yes," she answered eagerly; and thereupon agreed to get ready to be married in two months. Sylvie said that it was all hurried up in the worst of taste. She had not believed Maud would be so ready to snap up a rich man; but--ah! well, your romantic, novel-writing folks had an eye to the main chance, like everybody else. Edith answered daringly: "Why not say at once, Sylvie, that you're envious because Maud is going to be as rich as you are? Goodness knows, I'm glad one of the Van Zandts will be rich at last, so that you will not be able always to fling our poverty in our faces!" CHAPTER XLI. Maud declared that the trousseau must be a very simple and quiet one, since almost everything must come from the pockets of Eliot and Edith. But the brother and sister overruled her objections. "As if we had any other use for our savings!" cried Edith. "We are going to spend every penny. Do you think we are going to let our sister go to her rich husband plain and shabby?" So the order was given for several very handsome dresses, among them an ivory white satin, veiled in lace, for the bridal-dress. But before the bills came in from milliners and modistes the young authoress was able to pay them out of her own purse. And it came about in this wise. About four weeks after her engagement to the rich Southerner she received a visit from her Boston publisher. He put into her hand a check for several hundred dollars, the receipts from her novel which until now had not paid for the first costs of its publication. "I congratulate you, Miss Van Zandt," he said. "Your novel is suddenly becoming popular. The book-sellers report numerous calls for it, and in consequence I have large orders." Maud's lip quivered, and her blue-gray eyes, so like Eliot's, dimmed with happy tears. "At last!" she exclaimed, joyously. "Oh, I had ceased to hope or expect anything!" "I have taken pains to inquire into the cause of your success after the unfriendliness of the critics had so long injured its sale," he said; "and I have found out that the real merits of your novel have at last been discovered and revealed by a friendly critic." "I thought they were all my mortal foes!" she exclaimed. He smiled, and answered: "Not this one, at least, for he or she has been very frank, as well as very just. While the defects of your book are plainly acknowledged, its many beauties and merits are enthusiastically dwelt upon, and the fact of the author's tender youth is eloquently dilated on in excusing its faults." The girl's sweet eyes dilated wildly. "Who could have known that?" she asked him. "I can not tell. I understood that the writer is a reviewer of books for a noted New York magazine. I have not learned the name, but I will find it out for you, Miss Van Zandt," promised the genial publisher. "Pray, do so, if possible; and also please get the magazine containing the friendly review of my poor book. It will make me so happy to read it, and to write a letter of thanks to my good angel!" she exclaimed, fervently. Smiling at her enthusiasm, and promising to gratify her desire, the publisher took leave, and the very next day sent her the magazine. How gladly, how happily the young heart beat as her eager eyes devoured the column of reviews, and at last fell on "The Fatal Roses," her own romantic and high-flown novel, over whose non-success she had shed such bitter, burning tears. But they were tears of joy that glittered on her lashes now, as she went eagerly over the two full columns that had been given to "The Fatal Roses" by one who signed the, to Maud, startling name of "Una." "Una!" she cried out, wildly, and ran to seek Eliot, who was in the library with her intended husband. "Eliot! oh, Eliot, look! Our own darling Una!" she exclaimed, wildly, pointing with her taper finger at the startling name. Scarcely less agitated than herself, he took the review and read it hurriedly, then passed it to Carmontelle. "Can it be my Una?" he exclaimed, pale and agitated, his heart beating wildly. But the face of Pierre Carmontelle looked calm and grave. "Dear Eliot, dear Maud, do not give yourself up too ardently to hope," he said. "This may prove but a coincidence. The name may have been chosen as a _nom de plume_ by the writer." "My publisher promised to find out the name of the critic, if possible," Maud said; and to him Eliot went at once in a fever of anxiety. Mr. Dudley could not give him any satisfaction. He had written to the New York publisher, asking for information, but had not yet received his reply. As soon as it came, he would be happy to lay his letter before Miss Van Zandt and her brother. It was almost a week before the reply came, and Mr. Dudley forwarded it at once to Maud. The New York publisher wrote that he was unacquainted with his able critic, save by the name of Una. All his business with her was transacted through a Boston banker, whose name he gave, and whom the Van Zandts knew as the head of one of the most influential banks in the city. "She is here, then, in this very city, my lost Una--so near and 'yet so far!'" groaned Eliot. "But I shall go at once to Mr. Chesterton, with whom I have long had a friendly acquaintance." He went and elicited simply nothing. The great banker would give him no information. "I am not at liberty to speak one word on the subject, although I would gladly oblige you, Van Zandt, were it in my power!" he cried, affably. "At least tell me if Una is young, and if it is a real name, or a _nom de plume_," pleaded Eliot. "I regret that I am not at liberty to answer your questions," repeated courteous Mr. Chesterton. Baffled, but almost convinced by all this mystery that Maud's friendly critic was none other than his lovely, lost Una, Eliot went away in despair, and found a comforter in Carmontelle. "Leave it to me, Eliot, and I will find out all about the little runaway," he said, confidently. He went to a directory and found out the residence of Mr. Chesterton, a stately brown-stone residence in a fashionable and aristocratic street. A day or two later he said to Van Zandt: "I have found out all about the members of Mr. Chesterton's family. He has a handsome young wife, three small children, and a beautiful young governess." "Una!" Eliot cried, with a start. "Perhaps so; but we must not be too sure. I have not seen her yet," said Carmontelle. "But you will do so soon?" anxiously. A week later he came to Eliot where he sat with his sisters in the library, their favorite room, for here Sylvie seldom obtruded her presence. Maud, so lovely and happy now that she did not look like the pensive girl of a month ago, sprung up impetuously and caught his arm. "Oh, you look so happy, you surely found our darling girl!" Taking Eliot's and Edith's indulgence for granted, he pressed a light kiss on her pure brow. "You have guessed aright," he answered, "I have seen Mr. Chesterton's governess. She calls herself Mademoiselle Lorraine, and teaches French to the little Chestertons, but she is indeed no other than our Una." "Thank Heaven!" Eliot cried, springing up, "I will go to her at once." "Nonsense! She will not receive you," said his friend, and Eliot flung himself down again with a groan. "Listen," said Pierre Carmontelle, "Mademoiselle Lorraine goes out every afternoon to walk with her little charges. She is always closely veiled, and sometimes she walks past this very house, and looks up at the windows with eyes full of sadness. I saw her myself to-day, and recognized her in spite of her thick veil. I followed her, and when near the gate, I spoke to her; but afterward I was almost sorry I had done so, she was so terribly frightened." "Frightened!--but why?" cried Maud. And Eliot echoed bitterly: "Why?" "I can not tell you, I only know that she did not accord me any welcome. She only looked sorry and frightened and cried out sharply: 'Oh, you have hunted me down! This is cruel, cruel; but, oh, Monsieur Carmontelle, for God's sake, do not betray me to Eliot--to Mr. Van Zandt.'" "And then?" cried Edith, breathlessly. "Then her little pupils came around her and hurried her inside the gate. She looked back at me, waved her little gloved hand imploringly, and cried out again, 'Do not betray me to Eliot, or any one.' Then she vanished inside the banker's door." They sat looking sadly, and yet gladly, at one another. At least she lived, poor darling, and was out of the power of the wicked woman whose malice had lured her from home and love. "If I could only see her, only speak to her, my poor little Una, I am sure I could win her confidence!" Eliot exclaimed, passionately. "You are right; and indeed you must see her now," answered his friend. "Una must give you her confidence, must come home to you. It is not right that she, your wife, and my adopted child, should be slaving her young life away like this through some fancied duty." "I must see her. I will go to Mr. Chesterton since she denies me a sight of her. I will tell him my story, I will ask him to plead my cause with Una," Eliot exclaimed, in strong agitation; and just a little later he stood before the banker's mansion ringing the bell, and looking up in the darkness at the front of the great house, thrilling with the thought that his loved, lost bride was so near to him at this moment, that it seemed almost impossible but that they must soon come face to face. "And if she loves me still, as she said she did that happy night before she left me, I swear that no earthly power shall ever tear her again from my arms!" he vowed to himself. Mr. Chesterton was at home, and received his guest in the library with courteous surprise; but when the young man poured forth his agitated story, the banker became greatly interested and excited. "You are right. She is, she must be your wife. She came to us two years ago from the Convent of Le Bon Berger in New Orleans. My wife was once a pupil there, and wrote to the mother superior for a French teacher for our little ones. She sent us Mademoiselle Lorraine, who is as gifted and clever as she is lovely and winning. But I have always seen that she lay beneath the shadow of some sorrow. Wait, my young friend, and I will go upstairs and beg this proud young wife to give you an immediate interview," concluded the good man. CHAPTER XLII. Eliot waited in the large, elegant library with eager impatience, never doubting that Mr. Chesterton would succeed in his kindly mission. Una could not be so cruel as to refuse him an interview. "And once in her presence I will combat every objection she can raise until I persuade her to go home with me," he said to himself, firmly, and his heart began to beat lightly, happily, with the thought that soon Una would be with him, never to be torn from him again. "It is five years since I saw her. She was scarcely more than a child then. Now she is a woman, beautiful, gifted, intelligent. Oh, how I long to be wealthy, for the sake of my fair young wife!" he thought. Then it dawned upon him that the banker was staying a long time. The bronze clock on the mantel had chimed the quarters of an hour twice while he had sat there all alone. "He finds her hard to persuade," he exclaimed, rising from his chair and beginning to pace restlessly up and down the floor. Five, ten minutes elapsed. Then there came a step at the door. The handle turned. Mr. Chesterton entered--alone. Eliot turned to him in unutterable dismay. "Una!" he exclaimed, hoarsely, then paused, speechless. He saw a folded slip of paper in the banker's hand, and on his genial face disappointment and regret. "Van Zandt, I am sorry for you, upon my word!" he said, feelingly. "I used all my eloquence, but I have failed. She gave me this note for you," he added, thrusting the slip of paper into Eliot's hand. He took it in a dazed, lifeless way, opened it slowly, and read the words written in an elegant flowing hand, very different from the cramped, childish one in which Una had penned her farewell to him five years ago. "Oh, forgive me," it ran, "but I can not see you now, or ever again in this world. What I wrote you when I left you five years ago remains unchanged. There is a barrier between us cruel as the grave. You must seek freedom from the nominal tie that binds you to me. Then you will forget me and find happiness with some woman more blessed by fate than I have been. For me, I shall convince you that our separation is irrevocable by returning at once to New Orleans, there to enter a convent and take the veil for life. UNA." The cruel letter fell from his hand, and staggering heavily forward, Eliot dropped into a chair and bowed his face on the table. "Van Zandt!" exclaimed the banker. There was no reply. Rushing to Eliot's side, he lifted his head from the table, and it fell again heavily. The young man's overwrought feelings had culminated in momentary unconsciousness. A sharp peal of the bell brought the servants rushing to the scene, but not so soon but that Mr. Chesterton heard a gasp of terror from behind the curtains that divided the library from a pretty little parlor. Poor Una had crept in there for one stolen glimpse of the face of her beloved. The banker saw the lovely, frightened face peering around the curtain, and said, sharply: "Mrs. Van Zandt, I fear you have killed your husband!" With a stifled wail, she rushed forward and flung herself on her knees beside Eliot's unconscious form, catching his limp hands in both her warm, trembling white ones. "Dead! Oh, no, no, Mr. Chesterton, do not charge me with such cruelty!" she cried, gazing with straining eyes into that pale, handsome face. Her touch, her voice, her gaze, seemed to recall him to life, for suddenly his eyes opened wide on that lovely face. A cry of dismay broke from her lips, and dropping his hands, she rushed through the curtains and disappeared just as two servants entered at the other door. "Bring water and wine," said the banker. "This gentleman is ill." Both disappeared at once, and Eliot Van Zandt struggled up to a sitting posture, gazing wildly around the room. "Una--she was here!" he murmured, faintly. "She has gone," Mr. Chesterton answered, gravely. "Drink this wine, Van Zandt, it will revive you." "No; the water, please." He swallowed a few drops, and rose to go in spite of Mr. Chesterton's entreaties that he would stay until he was better. "I am all right. It was but a temporary faintness. Heaven bless you for your kindness to a miserable man, Mr. Chesterton," said Eliot, wringing his friend's hand fervently. Then he repossessed himself of Una's note that he had dropped on the floor, and went out of the room with a ghastly face. Mr. Chesterton, alarmed at his looks, followed him at a discreet distance until he saw him enter a car that would take him straight to Beacon Hill, then bethinking himself of an engagement he had for that evening, he hurried back home to don evening-dress and escort his beautiful wife to a soirée. Returning home in the small hours, he concluded to make a confidante of his wife and enlist her sympathies in Eliot Van Zandt's case. "What a romantic story!" exclaimed Mrs. Chesterton. "But I always thought there was something very interesting hidden in the past of our gifted governess. So she is a Van Zandt--one of the oldest, proudest names in Boston. My dear, I will speak to her in the morning, and see if I can not untangle the strange web of fate that has been woven around her life by that wicked Madame Lorraine." "I knew your sympathies would be drawn to this unhappy pair, Constance!" exclaimed the banker, fondly. But, alas! his story had been told too late. Morning found the young governess gone. She had left the house during their absence, and taken her trunks with her, flying like a thief in the night, not from pursuit, not from shame, but from a husband's love, the deepest, fondest, most passionate that ever thrilled a manly breast. "I must take the veil, then he will understand that all hope is indeed ended," she said, resolutely to herself. "I had no business returning here. Father Quentin told me it was wrong, but in my mad yearning to see his face, I would not listen. Now I must go back and stay there forever. Eliot will soon forget me, for it was more pity than love that he felt for me. When he realizes that all is irrevocably at an end between us, he will seek his freedom that he may return to his old love, his first love, Ida Hayes." With the thought of her rival, all the old-time bitter jealousy rushed over Una's heart, and she told herself that Eliot had never really loved any one but Ida, and that he could not but rejoice some day that fate had freed him from the incubus of Little Nobody. "I have spoiled his life for years, but at last he will be happy," she said, thinking bitterly of that year in which she had lived with Eliot, less to him, as she thought, than his sisters, or the governess even, wearing his name because it had been given not in love, but through an instinct of tender pity. She was older, wiser, now than she had been before Sylvie made that cruel revelation to her that winter night, and she chafed with shame at remembering the position she had filled in Eliot's home--that of a wife in name only, unloved and barely endured. "How they must have pitied and despised me!" she thought, with hot tears in her dark eyes as the express train rushed along through the night. "Ah, it is better, better for us both that things fell out as they did. I have a very jealous mind. I should never have forgotten that he loved Ida Hayes first, that he married me for pity's sake, so I never should have been quite sure of his heart. Ah, I wish--wish," with a choking sob, "that we had died together in madame's underground prison!" And in this wretched frame of mind, bitter and despairing, Una went away from Boston and her husband, back to the South and the Convent of Le Bon Berger. CHAPTER XLIII. Before the wedding-day rolled around Maud and her betrothed had persuaded Edith and Eliot to accompany them on their wedding-journey South. In fact, they were not hard to persuade, for Eliot, in a mood of desperation, felt almost ready to storm the convent walls and carry away his beloved, obdurate Una, while Edith was charmed at the idea of rushing so precipitately from the icy streets and freezing wind of Boston to the sunshine and flowers of a warmer clime. So, one bright March morning, about six years from the time of Eliot's former visit to New Orleans, the party found themselves driving through the streets of the Crescent City to the palatial home of Pierre Carmontelle, which, during the two months of his betrothal to Maud, had been elegantly refitted for his bride. New Orleans was in a great stir and bustle then, for it was the first year of the Southern Exposition. The city was crowded with visitors from all parts of the United States. Maud and Edith were charmed with the quaint old city, and the warm, sweet air, and took the greatest pleasure in threading the Exposition grounds, exclaiming with delight when now and then they encountered the familiar faces of Northern friends, sight-seeing like themselves. They were so busy daily "doing" the Exposition, that Eliot and Carmontelle did not get time to go down to the club, or they would have heard news that would have surprised them. It came upon them suddenly one day, when, on leaving the Exposition grounds, the four came face to face with an entering couple--M. Remond, the wicked Frenchman, and the no less wicked Mme. Lorraine. Madame was clinging to the arm of the dark-faced, elegant-looking Remond. She was in a tasteful Parisian costume, smiling and insolent, and looking not a day older than she did six years ago. When she met the startled regard of those four pairs of eyes, she uttered an exclamation of amazement, and her cheek momentarily whitened through its rouge. The next instant her insolent courage returned. She smiled a bright, cold, conventional smile, bowed, and passed quickly on with her companion. The others looked at each other with startled eyes. "What does it mean?" queried Eliot Van Zandt, hoarsely. "Let us call at the club to-night, and perhaps we can find out something," answered his brother-in-law. They went accordingly, and great was the sensation created among their old friends by their reappearance after the lapse of years. Markham, the bachelor, was there, with some crow's-feet about the eyes and gray hairs in his brown locks to attest the flight of time. When questioned about Remond and Mme. Lorraine, he replied, laughing: "Fancy their hardihood in coming here for their wedding-tour. They are married, you know." "No!" "Fact! It was announced in our papers two months ago. Married in Paris, and came here a week ago. I am told that they are staying at madame's house on Esplanade Street, but none of the Jockey Club has called on the wretches." "One there is who will call," Carmontelle said, boldly. "What say you, Van Zandt? Shall we go to Esplanade Street and have it out with that fiendish woman?" Eliot looked rather mystified, but he signified his assent. "I will go, but--when?" he asked, and his friend answered: "Now." "Oh, I say, lads, put it off till to-morrow," cried the gay Markham. "I should like to go and back you up in the row, but I have an engagement for this evening." "Sorry, but can't wait," Carmontelle answered. "Come, Eliot. Markham, adieu. You and the club will call at the Magnolias? Introduce you to my bride and her sister. Handsomest girls in Boston, and both geniuses." "Thank you--only too happy to accept your kind invitation," Mr. Markham said, genially; and then they were out in the street, bound for the presence of the woman who had wrought such woe to Eliot Van Zandt and his lovely bride. "Your object?" Eliot asked his friend, dubiously. "Can you not guess? She shall tell us the tale she told Una that night in Boston, and we shall be the judges as to whether the barrier is great enough to separate you and your wife forever. Who knows but that Una, in her strange commingling of pride and humility, may have exaggerated the trouble?" "I have always thought so--always believed that I could overthrow all her objections, and win her back if only I could have an interview with her again," Eliot said; then, sighing, "But I shall never have the chance. She will never come out of that grim convent again." "Who knows? We will hope so, anyhow;" and then they were silent until their carriage drew up before the front of madame's well-remembered house, once so familiar to the club in the days when she was such a fascinating siren and kept all her wickedness carefully hidden in the background. Lights glimmered brightly in the front of the house. The prim, ugly Mima opened the door to them and frowned darkly. Was Mme. Lorraine at home? She took their cards and said, curtly, that she would see if Mme. Remond was in. In another moment she came back and ushered them into the pretty salon. Remond was present, but retreated with a scowl upon their entrance. The bride, all in silvery white silk cut _décolleté_, with diamonds shimmering on arms and breast, rose smilingly and bowed. "This is an unexpected honor!" she said, with insolent _empressement_. "You know to what cause to attribute the honor," Pierre Carmontelle said, icily. "No," with a puzzled, inquiring tone; then, with a roguish ripple of laughter, "Ah, to congratulate me on my marriage, I suppose?" CHAPTER XLIV. "Scarcely," answered Carmontelle, dryly, for Eliot Van Zandt seemed to have no words at his command. He could only gaze in horror at the vindictive woman. The former went on curtly, and in tones of calm authority: "We are here, madame, to hear from your own lips the strange story with which you sundered two loving hearts five years ago." A sneer curled the lips of the handsome, heartless woman. "You use romantic phrases, monsieur," she said. "But true ones," he replied. "Well?" "We are waiting to hear the story you told Mr. Van Zandt's wife--the story that parted them," he answered again. She shot a quick, inquiring glance at Eliot's agitated face. "But you--you are divorced and married again, monsieur, are you not?" "No," he answered; "I shall never have any other wife but her whom you drove from me by your treachery that night." Madame was genuinely puzzled this time, for she exclaimed: "But Mrs. Bryant Van Zandt told me you hated Little Nobody, and would have married her sister Ida, only for the circumstances that forced you into a hated marriage." "It is false! I never loved Ida, nor one but the girl I made my wife!" exclaimed Eliot, indignantly; and his brother-in-law added: "He loved Una from the first time he met her here, and when she was imprisoned with him in your secret cellar, she must have died of starvation but that he opened a vein in his arm and fed the dying girl with his own blood. Does not that prove the love he had for his wife?" A bitter, ghastly change came over madame's rouged face, with a gasp, she reeled backward into a chair, and lifted her heavy eyes to Eliot's face. "You loved her like that?" she cried; "and I--oh, I believed that you hated her! I was so glad, so glad! But--yes, it is better so; my revenge is more complete, for I have made you both suffer where I believed that it was only her heart I broke!" "Fiend!" exclaimed Eliot. And Carmontelle echoed: "Fiend!" The angry woman only laughed mockingly, as she said: "Revenge is sweet! You scorned me, Eliot Van Zandt, for that slip of a girl, and now I have my pay!" And throwing back her handsome head against the silken back of her chair, she laughed low and exultantly. "We did not come here for recriminations, Madame Remond. We came, as I explained just now, to hear the story you told Una." "_Oui_, monsieur; but your friend there will be sorry when he hears it. In fact, his Una wished him never to know it," madame said, maliciously. "I have no doubt it was something very horrible, but doubtless it was an untruth. We wish to hear and judge for ourselves," was her opponent's undaunted reply. She glared at him, and muttered something uncomplimentary beneath her breath, but he continued, coolly: "Go on and tell us, please. We do not wish to detain your _estimable_ husband much longer from his amiable bride!" "Very well, then, since you will have it, here is Una's history in a nutshell: She is a child of shame." "You told me that once before; also, that she was your child, but I did not believe you," answered Carmontelle. She glared at him angrily, and said: "Well, part of it was untrue, but so much the worse for the girl. She might better be my child than the offspring of a slave with a taint of African blood in her veins!" "Woman!" Eliot had sprung at her fiercely and clutched her white shoulder in a grasp like steel. He shook her wildly in a tempest of rage. "Unsay that lie!" he hissed, fiercely, with blazing eyes. Madame turned, shrieking, to Carmontelle. "Make him take his hands off me!" she panted, in terror. "Do not let him kill me for telling the truth!" It looked indeed as if her life was in danger, for Eliot's face worked with fury, and sparks of fire seemed to flash from his angry eyes. It was with the greatest difficulty that Carmontelle dragged him away from the frightened woman and forced him into a seat. "Be calm," he said. "Do not let her lies put you into a passion." "Prove them lies if you can!" she screamed, losing her self-possession in anger at his incredulity. "I shall certainly endeavor to do so," he replied, calmly. "But go on; finish the details of your story. So our Una was a slave's child, you say? Who, then, was her father?" "You force me to disgrace the dead!" she flashed. "Very well, then, it was Monsieur Lorraine." "Lorraine dead?" he exclaimed. "Yes," sullenly. "I remember Lorraine well. He was an exceedingly homely man. Una does not resemble him in the least," said aggravating Carmontelle. Flashing him a fiery glance, she retorted: "No, but she resembles her mother, the beautiful quadroon whom he gave me for a maid when I came to this house a bride the last year of the war. Una was a pretty little infant then, and the young quadroon, in a fit of jealous fury, told me all. Lorraine whipped her cruelly, and in her rage she stabbed herself to death. The world says that I made him jealous and drove him mad, but it is untrue. Remorse over the quadroon's death drove him inside the walls of a lunatic asylum." She paused a moment, then added: "I have told you now the simple truth, the same that I told the girl in Boston. She is the daughter of Monsieur Lorraine and his beautiful slave, and was in infancy a slave herself, until the failure of the Southern Confederacy freed her in common with all the other slaves." She laughed aloud at the white horror of Eliot Van Zandt's face as he crouched upon a sofa at the further end of the room. "A slave's child the bride of one of the proud, highly born Van Zandts! I am well avenged!" she exclaimed, fiendishly. CHAPTER XLV. Carmontelle turned to his friend. "Poor Una!" he said; "it is no wonder she fled in dismay, after hearing such a tale of horror. Come, let us go. We have heard all that madame's malignity can invent to torture two loving hearts, and the only task that remains to us is to prove it false." "Which you will never do!" she exclaimed, with triumphant malice. "Time will prove," he retorted, as he led the agitated Van Zandt out of the house, ignoring the ceremony of adieus to its mistress. But his face grew very grave once they gained the darkness of the street. To himself he said, in alarm: "Can her tale be true? It sounded very plausible." To Eliot he said: "I shall put this affair in the hands of one who will sift it to the bottom. Then, if Madame Remond has lied to us, she shall suffer for her sin." "Poor Una! my poor little Una! How she must have suffered, bearing this bitter knowledge alone!" Eliot said, and a bursting sigh heaved his tortured breast. "She was a wise little girl, at all events," Carmontelle answered, gravely. "Of course, if madame's tale be true, there was no other way proper for either, cruel as it seems to say it." Eliot had no answer ready, but in his heart he knew that his friend spoke truly. Better, far better, that he and Una should suffer than to throw the blighting disgrace of his wife's parentage upon unborn descendants of the proud name of Van Zandt. He could hardly share the incredulity of Carmontelle. Madame's story had been so plausible it had shaken his doubts. Now, indeed, it seemed to him that all hope was over. He and Una were indeed parted forever. He went back to the Magnolias with his friend, and excusing himself from all society, went up to his room alone. He spent some time leaning from the window, his sad gaze roving over the moonlit city, thinking of Una, his lost bride, so near him that an hour's rapid walking would have borne him to her side, but sundered so widely apart from him by sorrow. There came to him in the stillness a memory of the song he had sung to her so often, and which she had loved so well, "The Two Little Lives." How well it fitted now! "Ah! for the morrow bringeth such sorrow, Captured the lark was, and life grew dim; There, too, the daisy torn from the way-side, Prisoned and dying wept for him Once more the lark sung; fainter his voice grew; Her little song was hushed and o'er; Two little lives gone out of the sunshine, Out of this bright world for evermore." "Poor little daisy!" Eliot sighed; then, bitterly, "Ah, if we had but died in prison that time, how blessed we should have been--never having this cruel knowledge to break our hearts!" He flung himself down on the bed and tried to sleep. A disturbed slumber, mixed with frightful dreams, came to him. His head was hot, and his thirst was excessive. He rose several times and groped his way to the ice-pitcher, drinking greedily, until at last he had drained it all. In the morning they found him there delirious. The old doctor shook his head. "Brain fever!" he said. "He has had some terrible shock, I think, from the symptoms. I shall send you a trained hospital nurse, Carmontelle, for there must be careful nursing here if we bring the poor fellow out alive." The nurse came, and was duly installed in his position, aided and abetted by Maud and Edith. Carmontelle, after a day or two, stole away from the house long enough to consult his family lawyer on the subject of ferreting to the bottom the story the wicked Mme. Remond had told him of Una's birth. At an early period of the narration of his story the lawyer became visibly excited. "Go on. Tell me everything," he said, nervously, and Carmontelle obeyed. When he had finished, Mr. Frayser cried out, eagerly: "Upon my soul, Carmontelle, I believe the good Lord himself has sent you to me. You know I was Lorraine's lawyer?" "I did not know it," was the answer. "Yes," said Mr. Frayser; "and my client died a few months ago, in an insane asylum." "So I was told by Madame Lorraine--or, as I should perhaps say, Remond." "Yes, she married that wretch some time ago, and they came on here after Lorraine's death, to look after his property." "Yes," said Carmontelle, rather indifferently. He was not much interested in the dead man's property. "Lorraine was immensely rich, you know," continued Frayser. "Madame thought she would step into the money without let or hinderance. She wanted to sell all the property in New Orleans and get away with the spoils." "Yes," absently. The little lawyer smiled. "Monsieur, you don't look much interested," he said; "but listen: Monsieur Lorraine left a box of private papers in my safe when he first employed me as his lawyer, at the time of his marriage to the actress. When I examined these papers, after his death, I found that the greater part of his wealth did not belong to him, but was held in trust for another person." "Another person!" Carmontelle echoed, brightening up with sudden curiosity. "A little child," continued Frayser, his little black eyes twinkling with fun at Carmontelle's eagerness. "Go on, go on." "It seems that Lorraine had an only sister who was married during the war to a very wealthy man, a colonel--_mon Dieu_! Carmontelle, what a coincidence! it was your own name--he was a Colonel Carmontelle!" "And lived in Alabama--and was killed in battle just before the close of the war. He was my cousin!" exclaimed Carmontelle, excitedly. "The same," replied the lawyer. "Well, his death was such a shock to his young wife that, when her little one was born, a month later, she died--of heart-break, or, at least, so say the letters of her friends, that were written from Alabama to summon him to come for the little orphan heiress." "Una!" exclaimed Carmontelle, radiantly. "Most likely," said the lawyer, smiling. "But permit me to go on with my prosaic story. According to these private papers, some of which are in the form of memorandums, Lorraine brought the babe to New Orleans with its negro nurse, and very soon afterward married, more for the child's sake than his own, and went to housekeeping on Esplanade Street." "All is clear as day. Thank the good God, Una's stainless parentage is established, and I will go this day and bring her to the side of her suffering husband," Carmontelle exclaimed, joyously. "I think you may safely do so," smiled the delighted lawyer. "But I have still more to tell you. The physician in charge at the asylum where Lorraine died wrote to me to come and make preparations for his burial. I went and heard a strange story. Lorraine, in his last illness, had recovered his reason and memory. He had dictated and signed a paper to be given to me. You shall read it yourself." He brought out from his desk the paper, and Carmontelle eagerly ran over the contents. Briefly, it was to the effect that Lorraine, just previous to the insanity that had overtaken him, had found out that his wife was false to him, and that she had married him only for the money which she believed to be his own. Realizing suddenly that he had made no arrangements by which his little niece would receive her inheritance, should he be suddenly stricken by death, and fearful of Mme. Lorraine's treachery in the matter, he had executed a will in which he left to the little Mary Carmontelle the whole of his own small patrimony, together with the wealth of her dead father. He had hidden the will in the library, intending to place it in Frayser's care, but his mind had suddenly gone wrong with the stress of trouble, and his removal by his wife to an insane asylum had put a sudden end to everything. "Madame knows all this?" Carmontelle queried, looking up from the paper. "Yes; for I confronted her with it when she came to me to settle up the property. She was as bold as brass, and declared that the child had died in infancy. I made a search in the library, all the same, for the missing will, but it could not be found. Doubtless that wicked woman has destroyed it. I would not take her word that the little heiress was dead, as she could offer no proof at all except the word of that grim maid-servant of hers, so I have been advertising in a number of papers for the child or young lady, as she is now, if living. You will see from that paper that I am appointed her guardian until her marriage." "She has been married nearly six years. Dear little Una! she is my cousin, and the name I gave her when I adopted her as my daughter was really her own. It is the oddest thing, too, that the nuns at the convent baptized her Marie, her own name, but in the French form. Fact is certainly stranger than fiction!" exclaimed Maud's husband, in wonder and delight. "It is wonderful, certainly," agreed Frayser, "and your visit to me to-day is one of the most wonderful things about it. I was beginning to give up all hope of finding the missing heiress, and Mme. Remond and her rascally husband were pressing me so furiously that I was beginning to fear I must make some concessions to them. But now all is made plain, and I can lay my hand on Lorraine's niece and heiress and oust her enemy from the place she has usurped so long. But I must tell you one thing, unless that missing will can be found, the ex-actress will make us trouble yet over Mrs. Van Zandt's inheritance." "Never mind about the will now. What is money when it lies in our power to reunite the crushed hearts of that long-parted husband and wife. Let us get into my carriage and go and fetch Una away from her convent to the side of her sick husband!" cried Carmontelle. "Agreed with all my heart!" answered Frayser. CHAPTER XLVI. Carmontelle found, as once before, his old acquaintance with the mother superior at the convent of good avail in securing admittance. The good woman met him in some wonder, and bowed stiffly to the little lawyer, who was looking about him in a good deal of curiosity. "What is the meaning of this visit?" she inquired, with calm dignity, although perfectly certain that it related to Una. She was not mistaken, for he immediately asked for her, and was told that Una would receive no one. "She is constantly engaged in devotion, fitting herself to retire forever from the world." "She will have to let the devotions go, and return to the world," Carmontelle answered, bluntly. "Monsieur!" reproachfully. "I mean what I say," he replied, earnestly. "I have to-day made discoveries that prove her the daughter of honorable parents--also heiress to a large fortune. There is nothing now to prevent her return to the world and to her husband, who has suffered so much from their separation." Madame, the superior, was unaffectedly happy at hearing this news. "Thank _le bon Dieu_ that it is so!" she exclaimed. "Oh, how the poor little one has suffered, believing the falsehood of wicked Madame Lorraine." She went hurriedly to seek Una with the joyful tidings, but it was some time before she returned. In truth, Una had been almost overcome by the shock of joy after the long night of sorrow and despair. "I am not the child of infamy! The blood that flows through my veins is noble and untainted! Heaven, I thank Thee!" cried the tortured girl, falling down upon her knees and hiding her face in her hands as she leaned forward upon her low cot bed. To the good nun's announcement that she was an heiress, she had paid no attention, everything else being swallowed up in the glad news that her birth was honorable. After the sorrow and despair she had experienced such a revulsion of feeling, such intense happiness rushed over her that her senses for a moment succumbed to the shock, and the nun, bending forward to look at her, presently found she had quietly fainted. The application of a little cold water soon revived her, and the mother superior exclaimed, cheerfully: "Oh, fy! my dear, I did not know that you would take my good news so ill, or I would have broken it to you more carefully." "Tell me more. What is my name? Who are my kinspeople, and why was I left so long to the cruel mercy of Madame Lorraine?" exclaimed Una, eagerly. "Come with me. Our old friend, Pierre Carmontelle, is down-stairs. He will tell you all." "Monsieur Carmontelle! He has always been my friend," cried the girl, thinking remorsefully of the way she had snubbed him that day in Boston when he had followed her to the banker's gate, frightened because she feared he would betray her to Eliot. Now she ran joyfully to his presence, and he started in surprise at her wondrous beauty that shone star-like from its setting of simple convent black. "Heavens, Una! how lovely you have grown!" he exclaimed, gayly. "I may take the privilege of praising you, although you are a married woman, since you are my kinswoman by two distinct ties." "Your kinswoman!" the girl echoed, amazedly, and he explained, laughingly: "You are my cousin's daughter for one thing, and for the other you are my sister-in-law." "What can you mean?" "I married Maud Van Zandt two weeks ago," he replied. The warm color came rushing into Una's pale cheeks. "Oh!" she cried, "how happy you make me. And dear Maud--is she here?" "She is at my home, the Magnolias. Have you any one else to ask about, _belle cousine_?" chaffingly. "E--dith?" falteringly, and blushing up to her eyes. "Edith is at the Magnolias, too. Ah, I see your eyes asking me about some one else. No wonder you are ashamed to speak his name after the shameful way you have treated him. Well, I will be generous, Mrs. Van Zandt. Eliot--ah! now I see how you can blush--is also at my home, and presently I am going to take another guest to the Magnolias--even yourself." "Not--not until you tell me all!" the girl faltered, trembling with such happiness that she could scarcely speak. So, then and there he told her all the story of Mme. Lorraine's treachery and cupidity--told her everything, except the story of Eliot's illness that might possibly terminate fatally, and so wreck the happy ending of their checkered love story. When he had finished the story, with the aid of the little lawyer, who was charmed with the beauty of the young heiress, he said, kindly: "Will you come with me to the Magnolias, now, Una?" She looked radiantly at the nun, who answered, with genuine happiness: "Of course she will, monsieur, as soon as she retires to her room and assumes her worldly garb. I am sorry to lose our sweet Una, but not selfish enough to regret her good fortune that has made it possible for her to be happy once more in the world. I see plainly that Heaven did not intend for her to be a nun." Father Quentin began to believe this, too, when she withdrew to acquaint him with the startling news, and when Una came down, after laying off her convent dress forever, in hat and cloak, to depart from Le Bon Berger, the old priest's aged hands were laid solemnly on her golden head a moment, and his quavering old voice tenderly blessed her and commended her to the care of Heaven. All the nuns and convent pupils were assembled to bid her adieu, and followed by their tears and blessings, Una went away with Carmontelle, her new-found kinsman, to the Magnolias. CHAPTER XLVII. No one met them in the library, to which he conducted Una. Maud and Edith were upstairs in close attendance upon Eliot. Carmontelle saw that the girl was trembling with nervous excitement, and brought her a sedative to drink. "No one knows anything yet?" she asked him. "No; and I am going to let you rest and recover yourself first, before I bring Maud and Edith to you; and Eliot you shall see last of all." He left her waiting there, and went upstairs to break the news to his young wife and Edith. Eliot was still delirious, and carefully watched by his attentive nurse. He beckoned the girls into another room, and told them everything, then stood smiling at their tears of joy. "Eliot will get well now with his wife come home to him," he said. "So run down to the library like good girls now, and kiss your sister Una, and break the news of Eliot's illness to her as gently as you can." They needed no second bidding, but flew softly to the library, and Una soon found herself in danger of being smothered in the energetic clasp of four round white arms, while dual tears and kisses fell on her golden head and lovely face. Una was glad, more glad than words could tell, at this happy meeting, but when the first joy was past, her dark eyes wandered eagerly toward the door. The two sisters understood. "You are looking for Eliot, dear," said Maud. "He can not come to you now, dear. You see, the poor boy is sick--he has had such trouble over losing you, Una--but now he will get well. You shall help us to nurse him back to health." And so, in gentle tones, they broke to her the news of Eliot's illness, and presently carried her off with them to look at him where he lay, with burning eyes and crimson face, among his pillows. But he did not recognize the fair young wife who looked at him with eyes full of love and grief, and pressed passionate lips on his hot brow. He only smiled vacantly, and turning from her, began to talk in his restless delirium, strange, disconnected, meaningless phrases that struck dismay to Una's heart, and chilled the blood in her young veins. "He will never get well; he will die, my love, my darling, my husband!" she cried out, shrilly, in sudden terror and despair. And Eliot turned his heavy head toward her, as if some chord of memory had been struck by her voice, and began to babble of other things--of the dark days of imprisonment in the cellar-room of the house on Esplanade Street, of the beloved little companion who had shared those horrors, and whose life he had saved by that desperate deed of self-sacrifice. She stood listening with dark, dilated eyes, hearing for the first time how her life had been saved that night. Carmontelle was standing close by her side. She turned her dark, amazed, tear-wet eyes on his face, and murmured hoarsely: "Is it truth, or the ravings of fever and delirium?" "It is truth," he answered; and, with a wild, remorseful cry, Una ran out of the room. He followed her into the next apartment. She had thrown herself into a chair, and was sobbing wildly. "Una, why do you take it so hard?" he expostulated. "Surely, no wife could object to such devoted love!" She looked up at him with agonized entreaty in her eyes. "Was it love, or--pity?" she cried. "I--I thought--Sylvie Van Zandt told me so--that he loved Ida Hayes before he ever met me, and would have married her but for that--trouble--that forced him to make me his wife." "It was a fiendish falsehood!" declared Carmontelle, emphatically. "Eliot never thought of Ida Hayes. He loved you from the first moment he saw you." "Ignorant Little Nobody as I was?" she exclaimed, in wonder. "Yes; ignorant Little Nobody that you were!" he replied, smiling. "He told me before he married you how glad he was that a strange fate had given you to his keeping. You were destined for my bride, you know, and Van Zandt, being poor, would not tell his love until that happy accident gave you to his arms." She exclaimed remorsefully: "Oh, what a wretch I was to believe Sylvie and doubt my noble husband! I thought, when I ran away, that he would get a divorce and marry Ida. But he loved me all the time, my noble darling! Oh, if I had known before that it was his precious life-current he gave me to drink, that time when we both believed I was dying, all would have been so different. I could not then have doubted his fidelity. No wonder I could not keep from loving him all the time, when it was his own life flowing in my veins and keeping me faithful to my husband." "Do not blame yourself for doubting him; it was but natural, my dear," said her cousin. "Mrs. Bryant Van Zandt is the only one to blame. She hated you because you spoiled her match-making. But now you will have your revenge on that treacherous doll. You will be much richer than she is, and can queen it over Sylvie and Ida in royal fashion." She smiled through her tears, but answered: "I do not care for the money, only to make dear Eliot rich. Oh, cousin, do you think he will get well? Heaven would not be so cruel as to take him from me now!" "I trust, indeed, that he will be spared to us," Carmontelle answered, evasively, for he was secretly alarmed at Eliot's condition. But he would not communicate his fears to the alarmed wife and sisters, only enjoined them to be careful and watchful over Eliot. Indeed, he himself often shared the vigils of the nurse, who was a rather old-looking man, and inclined to resent the aid he received from the family, declaring that he could care for his patient better alone. Una had taken a distaste to the nurse from the first, and her unaccountable aversion increased as Eliot grew no better with the lapse of days, and showed no sign of recognition of the dear ones who surrounded him. Carmontelle spoke to the doctor about the cross nurse, but he only laughed, and said that nurses were always jealous of interference with their patients, and that the man was splendid in his vocation; so Una tried to dismiss her antipathy to him as unjust and unfounded. But one night the physician declared that he saw a change in his patient--a crisis was approaching, and he hoped the change would be for the better. He left, promising to return at midnight, and enjoining the utmost quiet and care in the sick-room, so that Eliot might not be aroused from the deep slumber into which he had fallen. When he had gone, Johnson, the nurse, declared that he must have the sick-room alone with his patient. "The crisis is all-important," he said. "When he awakens it will be to life or death, and in spite of Doctor Pomeroy's flattering words, I fear it will be death. When he wakes, I must be alone with him that he may not be excited and frightened by your anxious faces. I hope you will all go to your rooms and rest. I will call each one immediately upon the slightest change in the patient." They all promised, but Una's pledge was most reluctant. She looked pleadingly at Johnson, and he returned her gaze sullenly, as it seemed to her, through the goggle glasses he wore. She went to her own room, just a little lower down the hall, and sat down at the window, consumed with suspense and restlessness. The hours passed slowly, drearily, and at last she could bear the torture of her thoughts no longer. "I will go to the room next to Eliot's and wait. No one will see or hear me, and it can do no harm," she thought. Wrapping a dark shawl about her shoulders, for the midnight hour was chilly, Una glided like a spirit along the dark corridor until she gained the little ante-chamber next to the sick-room. The outer door was ajar, and also the one that opened into Eliot's room. The anxious young wife moved softly across the soundless carpet and peered around the door. Then her shriek of terror, fear, and agony rang shrilly through the house. CHAPTER XLVIII. That agonized shriek brought Pierre Carmontelle rushing from his room, followed by Maud, while Edith came from another direction, and men-servants and maid-servants came flying up the stairs, all with one thought in their minds. The sufferer was dead, and that bitter cry had come from the lips of the bereaved young wife. But when they rushed into the room, a tragic scene greeted their eyes. Una, in the center of the floor, was struggling heroically with a man, who was holding a pillow over her face and head, and on the floor lay a gray wig and beard and goggle glasses. Una's assailant was Louis Remond. One fierce blow from Carmontelle's fist knocked the villain down, and before he could rise, an emphatic kick temporarily relieved him of consciousness. Two men-servants, comprehending the scene with uncommon rapidity, dragged the wretch out into the corridor and speedily bound him hand and foot. In the meantime, Una, from the bedside to which she had instantly flown, was explaining, through hushed sobs: "I peeped in at the door, and Johnson was holding a pillow down over Eliot's face. I screamed, and he rushed at me with the pillow, and would have smothered me in another instant but for your entrance." "The hound!" Carmontelle said, fiercely; then, kicking the disguises into view, he said: "These must have been knocked off in the scuffle. Johnson was Louis Remond in disguise." Una shuddered, then turned toward the bed. She stifled a cry of unutterable joy. Eliot was unharmed, for at that instant he opened his eyes naturally, like one awaking from a long sleep, and their calm, steady gaze rested on that lovely, agitated face with its dark, loving eyes and the golden hair shadowing the wan temples. "Una, darling!" he said, not as one surprised or excited, but gently and quietly, as one who has been very sick always accepts even the strangest things as a matter of course. The crisis had passed, and Eliot and Una had escaped the malignancy of the two enemies who sought their lives, for a plot was unearthed that night that led to the conviction of Mme. Remond as well as her husband. She was found in the house, in the guise of a female servant, and had arranged to take Una's life that night, by means of poison in her drinking-water, while Remond, who had bribed the hospital nurse, and so usurped his place, was to smother Eliot with a pillow. Fortunately, the cruel conspiracy was discovered and averted, and the two conspirators were soon tried, convicted, and sentenced to a long term in the penitentiary. Madame died before her term expired, but Remond escaped from prison and made his way out of the country, never returning to it, through fear of apprehension. At Mme. Remond's trial, when she found that everything was going against her, she sullenly confessed that she lied when she tried to palm off upon Una the story that she was of shameful parentage. "I thought, when I married Lorraine, that all the money was his, and I hated him and the heiress, too, when I found out the real truth. I only wish I had killed her when she was a baby, then all this trouble had been avoided," she said, with vindictive frankness. Eliot convalesced very fast, to the great delight of Una and the family, and one day, when the little lawyer had fretted over the missing will of M. Lorraine, she said to her husband: "Tell me what a legal document looks like?" He described it to her, and her eyes grew bright with excitement. "Eliot, you remember the great dictionary in which you showed me the definition of Friend, that first night we met? Well, there was just such a paper in that book, and if it has escaped madame's search, is there yet, and may prove to be the missing will." Her surmise was correct, and the lawyer was very happy when he got the legal document into his hands. It proved Una, beyond a doubt, Colonel Carmontelle's daughter, and the richest heiress in New Orleans. "But you loved me, Eliot, when I was only Little Nobody. I shall always be prouder of that, darling, than of my wealth," said happy Una. THE END. THE HART SERIES Laura Jean Libbey Charlotte M. Braeme Miss Caroline Hart Barbara Howard Lucy Randall Comfort Mrs. E. Burke Collins Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller Mary E. Bryan Marie Corelli Was there ever a galaxy of names representing such authors offered to the public before? Masters all of writing stories that arouse the emotions, in sentiment, passion and love, their books excel any that have ever been written. NOW READY 1--Kidnapped at the Altar, Laura Jean Libbey. 2--Gladiola's Two Lovers, Laura Jean Libbey. 3--Lil, the Dancing Girl, Caroline Hart. 5--The Woman Who Came Between, Caroline Hart. 6--Aleta's Terrible Secret, Laura Jean Libbey. 7--For Love or Honor, Caroline Hart. 8--The Romance of Enola, Laura Jean Libbey. 9--A Handsome Engineer's Flirtation, Laura J. Libbey. 10--A Little Princess, Caroline Hart. 11--Was She Sweetheart or Wife, Laura Jean Libbey. 12--Nameless Bess, Caroline Hart. 13--Della's Handsome Lover, Laura Jean Libbey. 14--That Awful Scar, Caroline Hart. 15--Flora Garland's Courtship, Laura Jean Libbey. 16--Love's Rugged Path, Caroline Hart. 17--My Sweetheart Idabell, Laura Jean Libbey. 18--Married at Sight, Caroline Hart. 19--Pretty Madcap Dorothy, Laura Jean Libbey. 20--Her Right to Love, Caroline Hart. 21--The Loan of a Lover, Laura Jean Libbey. 22--The Game of Love, Caroline Hart. 23--A Fatal Elopement, Laura Jean Libbey. 24--Vendetta, Marie Corelli. 25--The Girl He Forsook, Laura Jean Libbey. 26--Redeemed by Love, Caroline Hart. 28--A Wasted Love, Caroline Hart. 29--A Dangerous Flirtation, Laura Jean Libbey. 30--A Haunted Life, Caroline Hart. 31--Garnetta, the Silver King's Daughter, L. J. Libbey. 32--A Romance of Two Worlds, Marie Corelli. 34--Her Ransom, Charles Garvice. 36--A Hidden Terror, Caroline Hart. 37--Flora Temple, Laura Jean Libbey. 38--Claribel's Love Story, Charlotte M. Braeme. 39--Pretty Rose Hall, Laura Jean Libbey. 40--The Mystery of Suicide Place, Mrs. Alex. Miller. 41--Cora, the Pet of the Regiment, Laura Jean Libbey. 42--The Vengeance of Love, Caroline Hart. 43--Jolly Sally Pendleton, Laura Jean Libbey. 44--A Bitter Reckoning, Mrs. E. Burke Collins. 45--Kathleen's Diamonds, Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. 46--Angela's Lover, Caroline Hart. 47--Lancaster's Choice, Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. 48--The Madness of Love, Caroline Hart. 49--Little Sweetheart, Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. 50--A Working Girl's Honor, Caroline Hart. 51--The Mystery of Colde Fell, Charlotte M. Braeme. 52--The Rival Heiresses, Caroline Hart. 53--Little Nobody, Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. 54--Her Husband's Ghost, Mary E. Bryan. 55--Sold for Gold, Mrs. E. Burke Collins. 56--Her Husband's Secret, Lucy Randall Comfort. 57--A Passionate Love, Barbara Howard. 58--From Want to Wealth, Caroline Hart. 59--Loved You Better Than You Knew, Mrs. A. Miller. 60--Irene's Vow, Charlotte M. Braeme. 61--She Loved Not Wisely, Caroline Hart. 62--Molly's Treachery, Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. 63--Was It Wrong? Barbara Howard. 64--The Midnight Marriage, Mrs. Sumner Hayden. 65--Ailsa, Wenona Gilman. 66--Her Dark Inheritance, Mrs. E. Burke Collins. 67--Viola's Vanity, Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. 68--The Ghost of the Hurricane Hills, Mary E. Bryan. 69--A Woman Wronged, Caroline Hart. 70--Was She His Lawful Wife? Barbara Howard. 71--Val, the Tomboy, Wenona Gilman. 72--The Richmond Secret, Mrs. E. Burke Collins. 73--Edna's Vow, Charlotte M. Stanley. 74--Heart's of Fire, Caroline Hart. 75--St. Elmo, Augusta J. Evans. 76--Nobody's Wife, Caroline Hart. 77--Ishmael, Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. 78--Self-Raised, Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. 79--Pretty Little Rosebud, Barbara Howard. 80--Inez, Augusta J. Evans. 81--The Girl Wife, Mrs. Sumner Hayden. 82--Dora Thorne, Charlotte M. Braeme. 83--Followed by Fate, Lucy Randall Comfort. 84--India, or the Pearl of Pearl River, Southworth. 85--Mad Kingsley's Heir, Mrs. E. Burke Collins. 86--The Missing Bride, Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. 87--Wicked Sir Dare, Charles Garvice. 88--Daintie's Cruel Rivals, Mrs. Alex. McV. Miller. 89--Lillian's Vow, Caroline Hart. 90--Miss Estcourt, Charles Garvice. 91--Beulah, Augusta J. Evans. 92--Daphane's Fate, Mrs. E. Burke Collins. 93--Wormwood, Marie Corelli. 94--Nellie, Charles Garvice. 95--His Legal Wife, Mary E. Bryan. 96--Macaria, Augusta J. Evans. 97--Lost and Found, Charlotte M. Stanley. 98--The Curse of Clifton, Mrs. Southworth. 99--That Strange Girl, Charles Garvice. 100--The Lovers at Storm Castle, Mrs. M. A. Collins. 101--Margerie's Mistake, Lucy Randall Comfort. 102--The Curse of Pocahontas, Wenona Gilman. 103--My Love Kitty, Charles Garvice. 104--His Fairy Queen, Elizabeth Stiles. 105--From Worse than Death, Caroline Hart. 106--Audrey Fane's Love, Mrs. E. Burke Collins. 107--Thorns and Orange Blossoms, Charlotte Braeme. 108--Ethel Dreeme, Frank Corey. 109--Three Girls, Mary E. Bryan. 110--A Strange Marriage, Caroline Hart. 111--Violet, Charles Garvice. 112--The Ghost of the Power, Mrs. Sumner Hayden. 113--Baptised with a Curse, Edith Stewart Drewry. 114--A Tragic Blunder, Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron. 115--The Secret of Her Life, Edward Jenkins. 116--My Guardian, Ada Cambridge. 117--A Last Love, Georges Ohnet. 118--His Angel, Henry Herman. 119--Pretty Miss Bellew, Theo. Gift. 120--Blind Love, Wilkie Collins. 121--A Life's Mistake, Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron. 122--Won By Waiting, Edna Lyall. 123--Passion's Slave, King. 124--Under Currents, Duchess. 125--False Vow, Braeme. 126--The Belle of Lynne, Braeme. 127--Lord Lynne's Choice, Braeme. 128--Blossom and Fruit, Braeme. 129--Weaker Than a Woman, Braeme. 130--Tempest and Sunshine, Mary J. Holmes. 131--Lady Muriel's Secret, Braeme. 132--A Mad Love, Braeme. The Hart Series books are for sale everywhere, or they will be sent by mail, postage paid, for 30 cents a copy by the publisher; 4 copies for $1.00. Postage stamps taken the same as money. THE ARTHUR WESTBROOK COMPANY Cleveland, Ohio, U.S.A. Transcriber's Notes: Added table of contents. Italics are represented with _underscores_. Several instances of the word "eat" being used where "ate" would seem more appropriate have been retained from the original. Page 14, changed "beauiful" to "beautiful." Page 59, added missing quote before "_Ciel_!" Page 69, changed "thinkng" to "thinking." Page 73, changed "and" to "an" in "chirped an 'oh!'" Page 83, changed "soemthing" to "something" ("something very strange"). Page 92, corrected end punctuation from period to question mark and added missing quote after "opening of the hidden door." Page 95, changed "sight" to "sigh" in "sigh of dismay." Page 126, corrected "Eilot" to "Eliot" in first line of chapter XXVIII. Page 130, corrected "he" to "she" in "under which she had chafed." Page 132, corrected "ready" to "read" in "read her whole chapters." Page 133, removed duplicate "the" from "the the dark eyes only looked." Page 135, changed "more sense that" to "more sense than." Page 136, changed "went down-staris" to "went down-stairs." Page 146, removed extraneous period after "too fine for Eliot's wife." Page 148, added missing period after "half-frightened tone." Back cover advertisement, normalized punctuation. Corrected "Barabara" to "Barbara" in #57. Corrected "Gorvice" to "Garvice" in #90. 
21977	----	Transcriber's note: Some obvious typographical errors have been corrected. The use of double quotation marks for quotations within quotations has been retained as in the original, and the reader's attention is called to the author's failure to close some quotations. THE NARRATIVE OF A BLOCKADE-RUNNER. by J. WILKINSON, Captain in the Late Confederate States Navy. New York: Sheldon & Company, 8 Murray Street. 1877 Copyright, Sheldon & Company, 1877. PREFACE. In deference to the judgment of two or three literary friends, I have entitled this, my first attempt at authorship, "The Narrative of a Blockade-runner." They do not agree with Shakspeare that "a rose by any other name would smell as sweet," to the reading public; nor that it is always advisable to call a thing by its proper name. It will be seen, however, by any reader who has the patience to peruse the work, that it embraces a wider scope than its title would imply. I have endeavored to give a full account of the passage by the U. S. fleet of the forts below New Orleans; and to contribute some facts that will probably settle the controversy, in the judgment of the reader, as to the real captors of that city. "Honor to whom honor is due." It will be seen that I have been favored with access to Commodore Mitchell's official report of that conflict, a document never published. The information derived from it, added to facts and circumstances coming under my personal observation, furnishes the means of laying before the public an account of that action from a new point of view. In bearing testimony to the kind and humane treatment of the prisoners of war at Fort Warren, I perform a most grateful duty. It was my good fortune to be captured and held a prisoner, before the "retaliatory" measures were adopted by the United States Government. I have contributed some new, and, I hope, interesting facts about the manner in which blockade running was conducted. I cannot do better than furnish the following extract from a literary friend's letter to me in reference to this effort of mine. "I am particularly glad, believing as I do, that such a volume will help to the production of that state of mind, North and South, which every good man wishes to see grow. It is only necessary that we shall all fall into the habit of talking and writing about war matters without feeling; that we shall forget the bitterness of the conflict in our interest in its history; and if you or I can amuse Northern readers, or entertain them with our recollections, we shall certainly leave them in a pleasanter and better state of mind than we found them in." I should be happy to believe that I had contributed, in ever so small a degree, to this consummation so devoutly to be wished for. But I would make no sacrifice of principle nor of interest to achieve this end. While accepting the situation consequent upon the unsuccessful appeal to arms, the Southern people do not stultify themselves by professing to renounce their conviction of their right and duty in having responded to the call to defend their respective States from invasion. But they believe that the war was conducted by the Confederate Government in a spirit of humanity. Conceiving it to be the duty of every southern man to submit any testimony in his possession relating to this subject, and especially to the treatment of prisoners of war, I have quoted some passages from a "Vindication of the Confederacy against the charge of Cruelty to Prisoners." This work was recently published by the Southern Historical Society, and was compiled by the Rev. J. Wm. Jones, D.D., author of "Personal Reminiscences of Gen. R. E. Lee." The candid and dispassionate student of History, in seeking after the truth, should read this work before forming a judgment upon this point, which has, perhaps, caused more bitter resentments among the Northern people than all the other deplorable events of our civil strife combined. WOODSIDE, AMELIA CO., VA., Oct. 15th, 1876. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. PAGE Secession of Virginia.--Service at Fort Powhatan.--Volunteers at the Big Guns.--"Wide Awake" Clubs.--Want of preparation in Virginia.--Fort Powhatan abandoned.--Service at Acquia Creek.--The "Tigers."--Coal Mining on the Potomac. 15 CHAPTER II. Ordered to New Orleans.--The Naval Fleet there.--The "River Defence" Squadron.--The iron-clad "Louisiana."--Difficulty in managing the Fleet.--Going down the River.--Want of concert.--Admiral Farragut.--Our crew. 29 CHAPTER III. The 24th April.--Passage of the United States Fleet.--After the Storm.--The "River Defence" boats.--The Refuge in the Bayou.--Surrender of the Forts.--Extracts from Commodore Mitchell's official Report.--Council of War.--Destruction of the "Louisiana."--Our Surrender.--General B. F. Butler.--Transferred to the United States Frigate "Colorado." 44 CHAPTER IV. Transferred to the "Rhode Island."--Meeting with an old Friend.--Arrival at Fort Warren.--Treatment there.--Correspondence, and its Result.--Prison Life.--Exchanged.--The Crew at quarters.--Burial of the "Unknown." 60 CHAPTER V. A Brief Stay at Home.--Report to the War Department.--Instructions to go abroad.--The Blockade-runner "Kate."--Voyage to Nassau.--Yellow Fever.--The Undertaker.--Our Skipper "Captain Dick."--The Major sick.--A Story for the Marines.--Arrival at Cardenas.--The Coolies.--Arrival at Havana.--The American Consul and I.--The Pirate Marti.--The Spanish Steamer.--Pretty Harbors.--Captain Fry. 83 CHAPTER VI. San Domingo.--The Island of Hayti and its Inhabitants.--St. Thomas.--General Santa Anna.--The Mail Steamer Atrato.--Arrival at Southampton.--English Scenery.--The Major Fails.--The Giraffe purchased.--A Claim against the Confederate Government.--The Hon J. M. Mason.--Credit of the Confederate Government abroad.--An Improper Agent.--Captain Bullock.--The Giraffe ready for Sea.--Glasgow.--Our Last Dinner.--Our Scotch Landlady and Head Waiter.--We part with the Major.--Hot Punch and Scotch Babies.--A Reminiscence. 100 CHAPTER VII. Voyage to Madeira.--A Capital Sea-boat.--The Island Ponies.--Mr. B. and his daughters.--Voyage to St. John's, Porto Rico.--Run across the Bahama Banks.--Nassau during the War.--High Wages and Low Characters.--Crew re-shipped.--Failure to enter Charleston.--The "Lump."--A Narrow Escape.--The Scotch Lithographers and their work.--Crossing the Bar.--Transfer of the Giraffe to the Confederate Government.--She becomes the "R. E. Lee."--The Major fulfills his promise, but fails in his object. 117 CHAPTER VIII. Dyer and the Sailing Captain.--First Voyage to Nassau.--Major Ficklen and the Two Young Lieutenants.--Our Old Skipper "Captain Dick."--Bermuda.--The Races there and elsewhere.--Description of Bermuda.--Moore, the Poet, and his Rival Mr. Tucker.--Tame Fish.--The Naval Station.--Col. B.'s Accident. 136 CHAPTER IX. We sail for Wilmington.--Thick Weather on the Coast.--Anchored among the Blockading Fleet.--The "Mound."--Running the Blockade by Moonlight.--A Device to mislead the Enemy.--The man Hester. 149 CHAPTER X. The Confederate States Steamer "Florida."--Short Supply of Coal.--The "Florida's" Decks.--Tea and Costly China.--Narrow Escape from Capture.--Miss Lucy G.--Arrival at Bermuda.--Our uneventful Trip inward.--The Johnson's Island Expedition.--Another Narrow Escape.--"Pretty Shooting."--Arrival at Halifax, N.S. 159 CHAPTER XI. The Lee Captured at Last.--Sandy Keith alias Thomassen.--Recruiting in the British Provinces for the United States Army.--Failure of the Expedition.--Return to Bermuda. 173 CHAPTER XII. Take Command of the "Whisper."--High Rates of Freight.--Confederate Money and Sterling Exchange.--An Investment in Cotton.--The Ill-fated Ironclad.--The Point Lookout Expedition and its Failure.--A Faithful Servant and a Narrow Escape.--Futile Projects.--Wilmington during the War.--Light Houses reëstablished.--Gloomy Prospects of the South. 189 CHAPTER XIII. Cruise of the Chickamauga.--Mr. Mallory's inefficiency.--Troubles in Bermuda.--The Three Wrecks.--End of the cruise. 209 CHAPTER XIV. Last Summons to Richmond.--Demoralization.--The Chameleon.--More trouble in Bermuda.--Another Narrow Escape.--Fall of Fort Fisher.--Maffitt's Escape, and Captain S.'s Capture.--Another Hard Chase.--Failure to enter Charleston.--Return to Nassau. 225 CHAPTER XV. Sad News via New York.--Consternation among Speculators in Nassau.--Departure from Nassau via Bermuda.--Arrival at Liverpool.--The End. 244 NARRATIVE OF A BLOCKADE-RUNNER. CHAPTER I. Secession of Virginia.--Service at Fort Powhatan.--Volunteers at the Big Guns.--"Wide Awake" Clubs.--Want of preparation in Virginia.--Fort Powhatan abandoned.--Service at Acquia Creek.--The "Tigers."--Coal Mining on the Potomac. When the State of Virginia seceded from the Union, on the 17th day of April, 1861, most of her citizens, belonging to the United States Navy, resigned their commissions, and offered their services to the State of their birth. Many of them had meddled so little with politics as never even to have cast a vote; but having been educated in the belief that their allegiance was due to their State, they did not hesitate to act as honor and patriotism seemed to demand. They were compelled to choose whether they would aid in subjugating their State, or in defending it against invasion; for it was already evident that coercion would be used by the General Government, and that war was inevitable. In reply to the accusation of perjury in breaking their oath of allegiance, since brought against the officers of the Army and Navy who resigned their commissions to render aid to the South, it need only be stated that, in their belief, the resignation of their commissions absolved them from any special obligation. They then occupied the same position towards the Government as other classes of citizens. But this charge was never brought against them till the war was ended. The resignation of their commissions was accepted when their purpose was well known. As to the charge of ingratitude, they reply, their respective States had contributed their full share towards the expenses of the General Government, acting as their disbursing agent; and when these States withdrew from the Union, their citizens belonging to the two branches of the public service did not, and do not, consider themselves amenable to this charge for abandoning their official positions to cast their lot with their kindred and friends. But yielding as they did to necessity, it was nevertheless a painful act to separate themselves from companions with whom they had been long and intimately associated, and from the flag under which they had been proud to serve. During the brief interval which elapsed between the act of secession and the admission of the State into the Confederacy, the Virginia Army and Navy were organized; and all of the naval officers who had tendered their services received commissions in the Virginia, and afterward in the Confederate Navy; but as there were very few vessels in commission, the greater portion of these officers were ordered to shore batteries. My first experience was at Fort Powhatan, an earthwork situated on James River a short distance below City Point, and carrying six or eight guns mounted on ships' carriages, which had been transported from the Norfolk Navy-yard. "Grim visaged war" had not shown his "wrinkled front" in those fair portions of the land; and our time was chiefly spent in drilling the volunteers at the big guns, and visiting the hospitable families in the neighborhood; but all of us were soon to be transferred to more active scenes. The young gentlemen-privates of the gallant volunteer company, who so daintily handled the side and train-tackles of the 42-pounders in the battery, considered themselves fortunate, not long afterwards, if they obtained full rations of lean beef, or "Nassau" pork, and "hard tack;" and bore the brunt of many a severely contested battle as part of Stonewall Jackson's "foot cavalry." But at this period there were only a few so called croakers who at all realized the magnitude of the struggle about to ensue. The camps resounded with song and merriment; and many of the young warriors were attended, like the knights-errant of old, by a faithful squire, who polished the boots, cleaned the musket, and performed other menial service for his "young master." My own "fidus Achates," was old "Uncle Billy," whose occupation was gone by the stoppage of a tobacco factory in Richmond, where he had been used to take a prominent part in the peculiar songs of the "profession." He would sometimes give us a specimen of his vocal powers, and would nearly bring the house down, literally and metaphorically, while executing the mysteries of a "Virginny breakdown" in thick soled brogans sixteen inches long. But to return from this digression, it was believed by many persons that a large party at the North would oppose the prosecution of a war of invasion. It will be remembered by those at all conversant with the history of events at that time, how strong had been the party opposed to secession in the Convention then in session at Richmond, (at least two-thirds of its members having been elected as Union men,) and what strenuous efforts towards peace and compromise had been made by the Border States Commissioners. The call upon Virginia, by President Lincoln, for her quota of troops to aid in subjugating the South, had settled the question, however, in the Convention; and in a few hours after Governor Letcher's reply to that call, Virginia had virtually cast her lot with the Gulf States, although two weeks elapsed before she became a member of the Confederacy. I had visited, some months previous to the secession of the State, many of the little villages in New England, where I saw that the population were in terrible earnest. "Wide awake," and other secret societies were organized; and inflammatory harangues aroused the populace. The favorite theme of the orators was the "martyrdom" of John Brown; the piratical and murderous raid of that fanatic into the State of Virginia being exalted into a praiseworthy act of heroism. When I returned to Virginia and contrasted the apparent apathy and want of preparation there with the state of affairs at the North, I trembled for the result. But when the State severed her relations with the Union, the Governor acted with great vigor and ability, and the most was made of the limited resources at his command. Volunteers responded with alacrity to the call to defend the State from invasion; and none responded more readily, or served more bravely, than those who had opposed secession in the Convention. It seems invidious to cite particular examples; but the "noblest Trojan of them all" will point a moral, and serve as an exemplar for generations to come. Wise in council, eloquent in debate, bravest and coolest among the brave in battle, and faithful to his convictions in adversity, he still lives to denounce falsehood and wrong. Truly the old hero, in all he says and does, "gives the world assurance of a man."--I allude to Gen. J. A. Early. When Fort Powhatan was abandoned, I was ordered to the command of a battery at Acquia Creek on the Potomac. Although situated upon the frontier, few incidents occurred there to vary the monotony of our lives. Occasionally some of the gunboats guarding the river would steam in, and exchange a few shots with us; and we witnessed frequent skirmishes between them and Walker's afterwards famous battery of flying artillery; but ammunition being extremely scarce at that period in the Confederacy, the orders to us were peremptory to be very sparing in the use of it.[1] The battery at Acquia Creek was constructed at the terminus of the railroad from Fredericksburg, and was manned by an infantry company acting as artillerists. Besides this force, permanently stationed at the battery, and quartered near it, a company of infantry from military headquarters was sent every evening to guard against a night attack. A company called the "Tigers," took their turn at this service, and we would gladly have dispensed with their "protection." Utterly undisciplined, they were more dangerous to friends than to foes. Mutinous and insubordinate, they were engaged in constant collisions with each other and with the companies so unfortunate as to be quartered near them; and their camp was a pandemonium. In addition to other sources of quarrel and contention, several women (_vivandiéres_, they called themselves) followed the company. The patience of Gen. M.[2] who commanded the division, was finally exhausted. He summoned the Captain of the "Tigers" into his presence; and after severely reprimanding him for the misconduct of his men, insisted that the "_vivandiéres_" should be sent away. The captain urged many reasons for keeping them; the chief one being the good _moral effect_ of their presence! but the General was inflexible. Even gallantry to the sex must be sacrificed to the truth; and a proper regard for the latter demands the statement that a reformation commenced with the departure of the women; and our friends the "Tigers" eventually became well-behaved soldiers. We passed many months of inglorious inactivity here until the spring of 1862, when the line of the Potomac was abandoned. While the Federal forces had remained comparatively quiet in this part of the Confederacy, they had achieved many important successes elsewhere. Fort Donelson, on the Cumberland River, and Roanoke Island in North Carolina had been captured, with large garrisons; and New Orleans and Savannah were threatened. General Joseph E. Johnston, who at the time commanded the Army of Northern Virginia, determined to fall back to the line of the Rappahannock; and all the batteries on the Potomac were abandoned between the 8th and 10th of March, 1862; the guns being removed to other quarters. The monotonous service at the batteries had tried the patience of all who were attached to them; and we rejoiced at the prospect of more active duty. The reverses sustained by the Confederate arms were not to be disguised, nor were our convictions of great danger to the country to be removed by the politic proclamation issued by the Confederate Government, to the effect that a contraction of the lines could exercise no material influence upon the issue of the war. But as it was deemed necessary by the military authorities to abandon the situation, we were not at all sorry to depart; for although we had seen no active service, insatiate war had claimed many victims, who had perished ingloriously by the malarial fevers of that marshy district. The naval officers were especially elated at the change. Their duties and their authority being alike undefined, there resulted a deplorable want of harmony between them and the military. This was, indeed, the inevitable consequence of the anomalous position held by the former; and this want of concert of action subsequently contributed, in some measure at least, to the disastrous issue of the conflict below New Orleans. We having been trained in the strict discipline of a man of war, wanted "savoir faire" in dealing with the fastidious young captains, and the equally sensitive "high privates"; while they no doubt looked upon us as a domineering, tyrannical set of exclusives and wished that we were on board the Federal gunboats in the river, or farther. My personal intercourse, however, was always very pleasant with them. Capt. Brown, commanding the company of North Carolinians at the battery, had graduated at the U. S. Naval School a year or two previous to the war, and was a strict disciplinarian. Two years after our separation, I fell in with him accidentally; and he then gave me a sad account of the changes wrought by death and disease in his fine company. He had risen to the rank of Colonel, and was then on his return to duty in the army of Northern Virginia after recovery from wounds received in battle. The graphic account given by him of the manner in which he was wounded and his narrow escape from death, may interest others as much as it did me. His regiment formed part of Gen. Ed. Johnson's division, which held the salient angle in Gen. Lee's line at Spottsylvania C. H. when it was forced by the Federal troops. The attack was made at early dawn and in the additional obscurity of a Scotch mist; and so complete was the surprise according to B.'s account, that he was only made aware of the close proximity of the enemy by dimly discerning, a few paces distant, a Federal soldier with his musket levelled at him. The soldier fired, and B. fell insensible, shot through one of the lungs. Upon recovering consciousness, he found himself on a litter borne by Federal soldiers. An officer leaned over him, and offered him some liquor from his canteen, which revived him so far that he was able to speak. His humane captor then volunteered to transmit any message to B.'s friends and relatives. While B. was rallying his failing senses to deliver what he believed to be his dying messages to the loved ones at home, a rattling fire of musketry opened upon them, the litter bearers and the officer were shot down; the latter falling across Brown, who relapsed into insensibility. When he again recovered consciousness, he found himself borne in the same litter, now carried by Confederate soldiers. The position had been retaken. His good friend had been shot dead. Our mess at Acquia Creek was abundantly supplied with food from land and water. Every member of it, no doubt, frequently longed afterwards for the "flesh pots of Egypt." We discovered, by chance, a large bulk of coal, which had been stored on the long wharf where the Acquia Creek steam-boats used to make their landings. When the Point was shelled about the commencement of the war by the gunboats, the wharf was destroyed, the coal falling uninjured ten or twelve feet to the bottom of the river. We fished up our supplies with oyster tongs as they were needed, and our snug quarters were kept warm during the winter. Towards the end of the season, one of the mess servants lately arrived from the rural districts, was sent in the boat for a supply from the _coal mine_. He had made many a fire of soft coal in the drawing room at home; but although an accomplished servant, his education had been so far neglected that he was ignorant of all the "'ologies." He was very much astonished at our process of coal mining, and asked me with great gravity, on his return with the load, "if coal grew like that all over the Potomac." Of course I replied in the affirmative. It was anthracite hard coal, a specimen of which he had never seen; so he was further informed that it was hard or soft according to the season when it was fished up, being soft in the summer and hard in the winter. He was much pleased to have acquired all this information, and probably took the earliest opportunity, on his return home, to enlighten his circle of friends and acquaintances upon the subject of coal mining on the Potomac. FOOTNOTES: [1] The belief still prevails, probably, at the North, that extensive preparations had been made by the South for the war. But General Joseph E. Johnston who was assigned to the service of organizing and instructing the Virginia volunteers called out by Governor Letcher states the contrary. He asserts that all the arms to be depended upon at that time, were those found in the Southern arsenals, U. S. muskets, and rifles of discarded patterns to the number of about 75,000; 40,000 flint muskets belonging to the State of Virginia, and 20,000 procured for the State of Georgia by Governor Brown. It was charged that Mr. Floyd of Virginia while Secretary of War under President Buchanan had caused the removal of public arms to the Southern arsenals; but a Committee of the House of Representatives, in 1861, exonerated Mr. Floyd from the charge, and the chairman of that Committee was the Hon. Mr. Stanton, a prominent and zealous member of the Republican party. General Johnston, who was in a position to know the facts, states in his "Narrative, etc.," that the "Confederate States began the war with one hundred and twenty thousand arms of obsolete models, and seven hundred of the recently adopted weapons rifled-muskets, and the United States with about four hundred and fifty thousand of the old, and all of the modern arms that had been made since the adoption of the new models." When in August, 1861, it was in contemplation to send the Army of Northern Virginia into Maryland, want of ammunition, according to the distinguished authority just quoted, was one of the chief obstacles to the project. [2] The allusion is made to Genl. Mears, who commanded at Acquia Creek and to the Baltimore "Tigers", at the time commanded by Captain Thomas. CHAPTER II. Ordered to New Orleans.--The Naval Fleet there.--The "River Defence" Squadron.--The iron clad "Louisiana."--Difficulty in managing the Fleet.--Going down the River.--Want of concert.--Admiral Farragut.--Our crew. I was ordered to report to Commodore Whittle, commanding the naval station at New Orleans, for duty afloat. A powerful fleet of ships of war and bomb vessels, under the command of Commodore (afterwards Admiral) Farragut, was then assembling at the mouth of the Mississippi, for an attack upon New Orleans, in which a large land force under Gen. Butler (afterwards called the Beast) was to coöperate. The citizens were under the impression that the place was impregnable. Gen. Duncan, commanding Forts Jackson and St. Philip, below the city, was considered one of the best artillerists in the service; and the land defence was intrusted to Gen. Lovell, with a well appointed force under his command. The people of that gay city were occupied as usual in business and pleasure, and continued unconscious of their peril up to the very time when the Federal fleet passed the forts. But the condition of affairs, so far as naval defence was concerned, was lamentable. The regular C. S. naval fleet consisted of the Louisiana (Captain McIntosh) and carrying the flag of Commodore Mitchell; the steamer McRae (Captain Huger), carrying six light 32-pounders and nine-inch pivot gun; the steamer Jackson (Captain Renshaw), with two pivoted smooth bore 32-pounders; the small ironplated "Ram" Manassas (Captain Warley), carrying one 32-pounder carronade in the bow; and two launches, each carrying a howitzer and a crew of twenty men. There were also present, at the time the passage was forced by the U. S. fleet, two Louisiana State gunboats, viz., the "Governor Moore," Captain Kennon, carrying two 32-pounder rifled guns, and the "General Quitman," with a similar battery. _These_ were converted sea steamers, with pine and cotton barricades to protect the more vulnerable part of their machinery. All of the above vessels, with the exception of the Louisiana and Manassas, were too slightly built for war purposes. The unarmed steamboats, "Mozier," placed under Commodore Mitchell's command. In addition to the above force, there were six steamers carrying from one to two guns each, constituting what was called the "River Defence Squadron," under the command of Captain Stevenson. These vessels' boilers and machinery were protected by heavy timber barricades, filled in with compressed cotton; and they were prepared with bar-iron casing around their bows to act as "Rams." The Louisiana was pierced for twelve guns rifled six-inch; and eight-inch shell guns, three in the bow, three in each broadside, and three in the stern. Her armor consisted of railroad-iron bars securely bolted upon the sides and ends of the long covered box built upon her nearly submerged hull. These sides and ends sloped at an angle of about forty-five degrees; around the upper deck was a stout bulwark about five feet high, and iron plated inside, to resist grape shot, and afford a protection to the sharp-shooters stationed there in action. The propelling power consisted of huge wheels, boxed up in the centre of the vessel; and a propeller on each quarter. A more powerful and efficient iron-clad called the Mississippi had just been launched from the stocks, but the passage of the forts was effected before her battery could be put on board. After a few days' service on board the Jackson, I was ordered on board the Louisiana (as executive officer) then lying alongside the "levee" at New Orleans. Her battery was not mounted; and the mechanics were at work upon her unfinished armor and machinery. Much was to be done, and with the most limited facilities; but many obstacles had been surmounted and affairs were progressing favorably, when we received orders from Commodore Whittle to proceed down the river as far as the forts. Our wheels were in working order; but a great deal was to be done to the propellers, and the crew were still engaged in mounting the guns. But Commodore Whittle, though cognizant of our condition, was compelled against his judgment, to yield to the urgent telegrams of General Duncan to send the Louisiana down the river. We had been unable to man the ship with sailors; for although many of this class belonged to the various volunteer companies around New Orleans, their commanding officers were not disposed to part with them; nor were the "jack tars" themselves willing to exchange camp life for the discipline and subordination of the naval service. Our regular crew being too small to man the battery, we gladly accepted the services of the "Crescent Artillery," a fine volunteer company raised in New Orleans. Two river steamboats were assigned to the Louisiana for the purpose of towage, if necessary, and for the accommodation of the mechanics who were still at work on board. We cast off from the "levee" on Sunday, April the 20th. It was a bright day, and a large concourse was assembled to witness our departure. Steam had been got up, and as our big wheels were set in motion in the rapid current of the Mississippi, torrents of water rushed through the crevices in the bulkheads and deluged the gun deck, while the Louisiana drifted helplessly down the river, feeling the effect of the wheels no more sensibly than if they were a pair of sculling oars. "Facilis descensus Averno; sed revocare gradum, hoc opus, hic labor est." The aptness of the quotation will be appreciated by the reader who is in at the death of the Louisiana. We accomplished our object of getting down to the forts about seventy miles below the city, thanks to the current and our two transports; but our artillerists were in a shabby plight while trying to work the guns knee-deep in water. Securing the Louisiana by hawsers to the left bank of the river near Fort St. Philip, on the morning of the 21st, we continued our labors upon the machinery and on the battery. The bombardment of the forts had been in progress for several days and nights, and the shells from the fleet were thrown with beautiful and destructive precision (some of them occasionally falling in close proximity to the Louisiana,) while the bomb vessels themselves were beyond the range of the fort's guns. The naval officers were quite sure that an attempt would soon be made by Admiral Farragut to force the passage, and that so far as the naval strength was concerned, it was apparent our means were inadequate to prevent it. Commodore Mitchell, on our arrival below, had delivered to Captain Stevenson written orders from General Lovell requiring him to place all the "River Defence Squadron" under the Commodore's orders. Captain S., on receiving these instructions, addressed a written communication to Commodore Mitchell, to the effect that all of the officers and crew under his command had entered the service with the distinct understanding that they were not to be placed under the command of naval officers; and that, while willing to coöperate with our forces, he would receive no orders from the Commodore nor allow any vessel under his command to do so; reserving to himself the right of obeying or disobeying any orders the Commodore might issue. With this assumption of absolute independence, Commodore Mitchell's position was extremely embarrassing, but he did all that was then in his power. Not knowing at what moment an attack would be made, he endeavored to agree with Captain Stevenson upon a plan of coöperation; and he states in his official report made after the action that Captain Stevenson "seemed disposed zealously to second these objects in many respects." A few days previous to the action, I had been sent down the river to communicate, under a flag of truce, with one of the ships of the squadron; and in the course of conversation with my old friend Captain DeCamp, the officer in command of a division of the fleet had been informed by him that they could force the obstructions across the river whenever they pleased, and intended doing so when they were ready. The interview took place in his cabin; and although I indignantly repudiated the idea, I could not help feeling how confidently I would stake life and reputation upon the issue if our situations were reversed. I had noticed many familiar faces among the officers and crew as I passed along the deck a few moments before. Every one was at his station; the guns cast loose for action; and it was in the nature of things, that I should contrast this gallant man of war and all this efficiency and discipline with the iron bound box and crew of "horse marines" which I had just left. But it was in no spirit of depreciation of the gallantry of my comrades, for I was quite sure that they would stand to their guns. The wretched "bowl of Gotham" which had no efficient motive power, and which could not even be got under way, when anchored, without slipping the chain cable, caused the misgivings. It is no disparagement to the prowess of the U. S. fleet which passed the forts, to assert, that they never could have successfully opposed our forces; but the battle was won quite as effectually when they succeeded in passing beyond the range of the guns of the forts and the "Louisiana." After our official business was closed, DeC. and I began to talk of the war; and he expressed the opinions then entertained, beyond a doubt, by a majority of U. S. army and naval officers. They believed it to be the intention of the Government to bring the seceding States back into the Union, with their rights and institutions unimpaired. Since then a little leaven has leavened the whole lump, and the former doctrine of the extreme abolitionists has long become the creed of the dominant party. But some facts should be borne in mind by those who denounce slavery as the sum of all villanies; for instance, that the slave code of Massachusetts was the earliest in America; the cruelest in its provisions and has never been formally repealed; that the Plymouth settlers, according to history, maintained "that the white man might own and sell the negro and his offspring forever;" that Mr. Quincy, a representative from Massachusetts during the war of 1812, threatened the House of Congress that the North would secede "peaceably if we can, forcibly if we must" unless their demands for peace were acceded to; and lastly that the abolitionists of a later age denounced the Constitution and canonized John Brown for committing a number of murders and endeavoring to incite servile insurrection in time of peace. Truly "tempora mutantur," etc. The river obstructions, above alluded to, consisted of a line of sunken vessels, and of heavy pieces of timber chained together, and extending from bank to bank. A few days before the attack was made, General Duncan was speaking rather confidently of his barricade, when Warley remarked, "General, if I commanded a fleet below, and my commission lay above your obstructions, I would _come up and get it_." Most of us belonging to that little naval fleet, knew that Admiral Farragut would dare to attempt what any man would; and for my own part, I had not forgotten that while I was under his command during the Mexican War, he had proposed to Commodore Perry, then commanding the Gulf Squadron, and urged upon him, the enterprise of capturing the strong fort of San Juan de Ulloa at Vera Cruz _by boarding_. Ladders were to be constructed and triced up along the attacking ships' masts; and the ships to be towed along side the walls by the steamers of the squadron. Here was a much grander prize to be fought for; and every day of delay was strengthening his adversaries. It was the general belief, indeed, at the time, that the admiral was in daily communication with the city by means of spies; and the public indignation was so deeply roused against Mr. T----t, the constructor of the Mississippi, ("a Northern man with Southern principles") who failed from time to time in launching that vessel as he had appointed to do, that he was in danger of "_Lynch law_"; and it is at least a singular coincidence that the naval attack was made immediately after that powerful vessel was launched, and before the guns could be put on board. But the idea of any collusion between Mr. T----t and the enemy, or of treachery on the part of the former, was never entertained, I believe, except by a few bigoted zealots, blinded by hate and passion against every one born north of the Potomac. This class, which ought to have acted more fairly, found many followers among the multitude; from which little charity or justice can ever be expected. Nearly 1900 years ago the "plebes," influenced by their leaders, demanded the release of a robber and murderer and crucified the Saviour of mankind; and history further informs us that 500 years before that era, a Greek citizen could be banished without special trial, accusation, or defence; and that Aristides was sent into exile because people were tired of hearing him always called "the Just." Social ostracism will continue to exist till the millennium. The gentlemen of northern birth who were so unfortunate as to occupy prominent positions during the war, were mercilessly held up to scorn and distrust, if they failed to come up to the public expectation. In truth, they occupied trying positions; being regarded by many as aliens and mercenaries. "Mens conscia recti" will support us under many trials; but it does not furnish armor of proof against the "poor man's scorn, the proud man's contumely." The interval between the 21st and 24th of April was occupied by Commodore Mitchell in organizing the force under his command, and in endeavoring to arrange some concert of action with the "River Defence" gunboats. On board the Louisiana every effort was made to complete the works upon the propellers, and in mounting the battery, on which the mechanics worked night and day. Our "Crescent artillery;" a detachment of artillery from the forts under Lieutenant Dixon; and Captain Ryan's company of Sharp-shooters supplied the deficiencies in our crew. The Commodore was unsuccessful in his efforts to induce Captain Stevenson to employ one of his gunboats below the obstructions at night, to watch the U. S. fleet; and we had no vessel suitable for that purpose; the only one which would have answered (the Jackson) having been sent, with one of the launches, to watch the U. S. land forces near the Quarantine station, five miles above us. The only launch which remained to us was sent, by the Commodore's orders, below the obstructions every night, but the officer in command afterwards proved either a traitor or a coward, failing to make the concerted signal upon the approach of the fleet, and never reporting himself on board the Louisiana afterwards. General Duncan urged upon the Commodore, the first or second day after our arrival below, to take a new position with the Louisiana at the river bank just below Fort St. Philip, and under cover of its guns, from whence she might open fire with effect upon the mortar fleet. The Commodore declined the proposition, and his action was sustained in a consultation with all the commanding officers of the C. S. naval forces present, on the grounds, "first, that the battery of the Louisiana was not in a condition for service;" "second, that the completion of the propeller and other mechanical work in progress, was indispensable to the efficiency of the vessel, and that it would be interrupted if she were placed under fire;" and third, "that placing the Louisiana in a position to receive the fire of the enemy, before her own battery could be served with effect, would be improperly hazarding, not only her own safety, but the security of the passage between the forts on which rested the possession of New Orleans."[3] But on the afternoon of the 23d the work had so far progressed as to encourage the belief that the vessel might be moved to the point proposed, and the Commodore, after making a reconnoissance, had decided to do so, and notified General Duncan of this intention. Captain Stevenson was to assist with two of his gunboats which were especially well adapted to this purpose. Commodore Mitchell, in his official report to the C. S. Secretary of the Navy, intimates that "he fully appreciated and admitted the importance of the proposed change of position for the Louisiana," but contends that "the state of the battery, independent of other weighty reasons, was sufficient to prevent its being made previous to the engagement of the 24th." One of these consists in the fact, that owing to the peculiar construction of the Louisiana's port-holes, her guns could not be elevated more than five degrees. The mortar fleet would have been beyond their range. FOOTNOTE: [3] From Commodore Mitchell's official report to the Secretary of the C. S. Navy, dated August 19th, 1862. CHAPTER III. The 24th April.--Passage of the United States Fleet.--After the Storm.--The "River Defence" boats.--The Refuge in the Bayou.--Surrender of the Forts.--Extracts from Commodore Mitchell's official reports.--Council of War.--Destruction of the "Louisiana."--Our Commander General B. F. Butler.--Transferred to the United States frigate "Colorado." On the night of April 23d, the bursting of the shells was as incessant as usual. Toward daylight of the 24th, an ominous calm of brief duration was broken by the first broadside of the advancing fleet, which had approached so rapidly as to remove and pass the obstructions undiscovered, and before the launch on picket duty could get back to our fleet. For a few minutes the roar of the guns was deafening; but objects were so obscured by the darkness and the dense smoke, that we could only fire, with effect, at the flashes of the ship's guns. The Louisiana's three bow guns (one rifled seven-inch and two seven-inch shell guns) and her three starboard broadside guns (a rifled six-inch and two eight-inch shell guns) were all that could be brought to bear during the engagement; for being moored to the river bank, the stern and port broadside guns were useless. The U. S. fleet came up in two divisions, delivering their broadsides in rapid succession. One of the ships was set on fire by one of the fireboats (a number of which had been prepared) but the flames were speedily extinguished. It is said that the unarmed tug Mozier, under her heroic commander, Sherman, while towing a fireboat alongside a heavy ship, was sunk by a broadside delivered at short range, all on board perishing. One of the largest ships, believed to be the Hartford, came in contact with our stern, and received the fire of our three bow guns while in this position, returning a broadside, but she soon swung clear of us and continued on her way up the river. When day fairly broke, the storm had passed away, leaving wreck and ruin in its wake. The river banks were dotted, here and there, with burning steamers, and a large portion of the U. S. fleet had succeeded in getting beyond the forts. A few vessels of the attacking force had failed to pass the obstructions before daylight, and were driven back by the guns from the forts. The Louisiana and the McRae were the only vessels left to the Confederates; but the former was almost intact, her armor proving a sufficient defence against the broadsides, even when delivered at close range. The eight-inch shells of the Hartford buried themselves about half their diameter in our armor, and crumbled into fragments. All of our casualties occurred on the spar deck; our gallant commander being mortally wounded there; and many of the mechanics, who were quartered on board the tenders alongside of us, were killed or wounded. The McRae and the Manassas were in the stream in time to take an active part in the conflict; the former being considerably cut up. The Manassas struck two vessels with her prow, but did not succeed in sinking either. Having followed the fleet some distance up the river, and being hard pressed and seriously damaged, she was run ashore and abandoned. She shortly afterwards floated off and drifting down the river, sank between the forts. The Louisiana State gunboat "Governor Moore" made a gallant fight, sinking the U. S. gunboat "Verona." Kennon, in his official report, states his loss at fifty-seven killed and thirteen wounded out of a crew of ninety-three. He ran his vessel ashore when she was in a sinking condition, and set fire to her with his own hand. The "River Defence" gunboats, with the exception of the "Resolute," were either destroyed by fire of the enemy's fleet, or by their own crews. The "Resolute" was discovered ashore, after the action, about a mile above Fort Jackson and abandoned by her crew. Lieut. Alden, with a party from the "McRae," took possession of her, and endeavored to get her afloat as she was very little injured, but being attacked by one of the gunboats from above, which succeeded in putting several shots through her hull at the water line, Alden was compelled to abandon her after setting her on fire. Among the mortally wounded on board the "McRae" was her commander T. B. Huger. The "Defiance," one of the "River Defence" gunboats, escaped without material injury. She was turned over to the command of Commodore Mitchell by Captain Stevenson on the 26th, without any of her officers and crew, who refused to remain in her, and went ashore.[4] After landing the wounded, we continued the work upon the machinery of the Louisiana, buoyed up by the hope of soon being able to retrieve our disasters. Our number was increased by officers and men who had escaped from some of the abandoned vessels. Many of them, to obtain shelter from the shells and canister shot of the Federal fleet, had taken refuge in the "bayous" which lie not far from the river in many places; and they looked like half drowned rats as they came on board the Louisiana. One of the officers gave a ludicrous account of a poor girl, who had fled from her home on the river bank as the fleet was passing, with no clothing except her night dress, and no earthly possession but a lap-dog which she held in her clasped arms. She had sought the same place of refuge and as the shells and shot would whistle over her head she would dive like a duck under the water; and every time she rose above the surface, the lap-dog would sneeze and whimper a protest against the frequent submersions. The officer at last persuaded her to let him take charge of her draggled pet; and finally had the pleasure of seeing her safe back to her home before leaving her. During the night of the 27th after unremitting labor, our machinery was at last completed, and we prepared to make the attempt to go up the river in pursuit of the fleet. Commodore Mitchell notified General Duncan of his purpose, and the latter seemed sanguine of a successful issue, assuring the Commodore of his ability to hold the forts for weeks. Orders were issued on board the Louisiana for the crew to have an early breakfast, and every thing to be in readiness to cast off from the river bank a little after sunrise. The situation justified the hopes entertained by us of at least partially retrieving our fortunes, when, shortly after daylight, an officer came across the river to us from Fort Jackson, with General Duncan's compliments, and to say that General D. was about to surrender the forts to Commodore Porter.[5] In nautical parlance, we were "struck flat aback" by this astounding intelligence. With the forts as a base of operations, we might repeat the effort, if the first were unsuccessful; and would be able to repair damages, if necessary, under shelter of their guns; but with their surrender we were helpless. The capture of the Louisiana would then become, indeed, a mere question of time, without the firing of a gun; for we would have been unable to replenish our supplies either of provisions or coal when exhausted. The most sanguine spirits on board, in the light of their experience of the motive power of the Louisiana, did not believe that we could accomplish more than the control of that portion of the river within the range of our guns; nor that the vessel could ever do much more than stem the rapid current of the Mississippi. The surrender of New Orleans was, indeed, inevitable; but even that catastrophe would not involve complete possession of the river by the enemy while we held the forts near its mouth. The gigantic efforts afterwards made by the Federal forces for the capture of Vicksburg showed the vital importance attached by the United States Government to the possession of the fortified positions on the Mississippi, while the equally desperate exertions made by the Confederacy to hold it, demonstrated our consciousness of its value to us. Commodore Mitchell ordered his boat and proceeded with all haste to remonstrate with General Duncan; but all was unavailing; the General informing the Commodore that he had already dispatched a boat to the United States fleet, offering to surrender his command under certain conditions; disclaiming, in the offer, all control over the forces afloat. The Commodore's boat had scarcely got back to the Louisiana, when the quartermaster on duty reported one of the ships of the fleet below steaming up the river towards us, with a white flag flying at the mast-head. General Duncan, it is said, stated to the citizens of New Orleans a few days afterward, that a large number of his guns had been spiked by the mutineers of the garrison; and that he had no alternative but to surrender. A hasty council of war was held on board the Louisiana, during which it was decided to transfer the officers and crew to our two tenders and to burn the ship. This was speedily carried into effect, and the two transports steamed across the river as the flames burst through the Louisiana's hatchway.[6] Those who wished to make the attempt to escape through the bayous, received permission to do so; and a few of the number, familiar with the locality, succeeded in evading the Federal pickets, and getting within the Confederate lines. The rest of us were entrapped; passing several hours of very unpleasant suspense, while the forts were being surrendered. It was a grand spectacle when the flames reached the Louisiana's magazine. The hawsers, securing her to the river-bank, having been burnt in two, she floated out into the stream a few minutes before the explosion; and at the moment of its occurrence, a column of pure white smoke shot rapidly high into the air from the blazing hull, wreathing itself at the top into the shape of a snow-white "cumulus" cloud; and in a few seconds afterwards, huge fragments of the wreck showered down, far and wide, upon the river and the adjacent shore. The Louisiana had disappeared before the deafening report attending the catastrophe reached our ears. Immediately after the United States flag was hoisted upon the forts, the steamer "Harriet Lane" steamed slowly toward us, and sent a shot over our heads as a summons to haul down the Confederate flag which was then flying at our peak. The demand was promptly complied with, and we were prisoners of war. Upon the pretext that we had violated the usages of war by burning the Louisiana while a flag of truce was flying, we were for a time subjected to unusual humiliations; learning afterwards, indeed, that Commodore Porter had recommended to the Secretary of the Navy a continuance of harsh treatment toward us upon our arrival at Fort Warren, where we were destined. The reply to the charge brought against us is obvious, viz., we were no parties to the flag of truce; nor were we included in the terms of the surrender; General Duncan treating only for the garrisons under his command, and expressly disclaiming any connection with us. We were kept for a few days in close confinement on board the United States gunboat "Clifton,"[7] and were transferred from her on the 7th of May to the frigate Colorado, lying off the mouth of the Mississippi. Here we found Kennon, who had been consigned to a "lower deep" than ourselves. He was placed under a sentry's charge behind a canvas screen on the opposite side of the gun deck from us; and strict orders were given that no one should hold any communication with him. The charge against him was, that he had caused the death of some of his wounded crew by setting fire to his ship before their removal, a charge denied by him; but even if it were true, or admitted, that some of his crew were unable to escape, he was only responsible to his own government. In a few days, however, he was released from solitary confinement, and many restrictions were removed from all of us. But humiliations or physical discomforts weighed as a feather upon our spirits compared with our reflections upon the consequences of the disaster which we had witnessed; and our consciousness that this sad fate had been brought upon the country chiefly by treachery and want of concert. And, indeed, the extent of the disaster could scarcely be exaggerated. It gave the United States Government possession of the State of Louisiana, the almost complete control of the Mississippi river, and separated Texas and Arkansas from the rest of the Confederacy for the remainder of the war. FOOTNOTES: [4] Extract from Commodore Mitchell's official report dated August 19th, 1862. "The following is believed to be a correct list of the vessels that passed up by Forts Jackson and St. Philip during the engagement of the 24th April; mounting in the aggregate one hundred and eighty-four guns, viz., Hartford steamer, 28 guns 1st class sloop. Richmond, " 28 " " Brooklyn, " 28 " " Pensacola, " 28 " " Mississippi, " 21 " " Iroquois, " 10 " 2d class sloop. Oneida, " 10 " " Verona, " 11 " " Cayuga, " 5 " " Penola, " 5 " " Wissahickon, " 5 " " Winona, " 5 " " How any controversy could arise as to which branch of the U. S. Service deserves the credit of the capture of New Orleans is a matter of wonder to those who were present at the time. The following article from the Richmond Enquirer of September 10th, 1875, written by an eye-witness of many of the scenes in the city which he describes, would seem conclusively to establish the fact that the navy alone achieved the capture. "The question has again been raised as to whether the army or the navy is entitled to the credit of having captured New Orleans from the Confederates in April or May, 1862. It has been a mooted point in history ever since the event happened, and its discussion has caused no little angry feeling between the two branches of the service. Ben Butler, of course, laid claim to the honors of the capture, and proclaimed himself "the hero" of New Orleans, completely overshadowing Farragut and his fleet, and the lying histories of the day, written in the Radical interest on the other side of the line, have perpetuated the fraud. No citizen of New Orleans who personally knows anything of the circumstances of the fall of the city into the hands of the Federals has ever had any doubts as to who was or is entitled to the credit; but the persistent efforts of Butler and his friends to claim the lion's share in that exploit, have at last called out the Hon. Gideon Welles, Secretary of the Navy in Mr. Lincoln's Cabinet, as the champion of Admiral Farragut and his gallant tars. In the course of an article in the Hartford _Times_, Mr. Welles shows that "In January, 1862, the plan for the reduction of the forts below New Orleans and the capture of the city was fully matured in the Navy Department, Farragut receiving orders in detail for the work on the 20th of that month; that the memorable passage of the forts was made, and the surly submission of the Mayor of New Orleans received by Farragut on the 26th of April, formal possession being immediately taken and the United States flag displayed on the public buildings; that the army was not only absent alike from the plan and the execution of this great movement, but did not appear until May 1, when General Butler's troops arrived, and on the day following entered upon the occupation of the city captured by Farragut." Quite correct, Mr. ex-Secretary. Farragut passed the forts as stated, with the Hartford and one or two other vessels, destroyed the ram Manassas, and the other Confederate vessels of war, after a most desperate battle, in which at least one of his best ships was sunk, and then made his way in his flag-ship unmolested up the river. He arrived alone in front of New Orleans on the 26th of April, and at noon brought his guns to bear on the city at the head of Girod street. He immediately dispatched Lieutenant Bailey with a flag of truce to the authorities demanding the surrender, and giving them thirty-six hours in which to reply,--at the expiration of which time he should open fire and bombard the place, if an answer favorable to his demand were not received. The city at this time had been partially evacuated by General Lovell and his troops, and all authority had been surrendered by the military to the mayor. The terms submitted by Farragut were discussed for fully twenty-four hours by the Council, assembled at the Mayor's office, and all this time the city was in the hands of a wild, reckless and excited mob of citizens, while people everywhere were flying or preparing for flight, many even in such haste as to leave their houses open and valuables exposed to the depredations of servants or the mob. Perhaps no more fearful scene of confusion was ever witnessed outside of Paris when in the throes of a periodic revolution. It was a novelty then for an American city to be captured or to fall into the hands of an enemy, and the people had some very queer notions about defending it to the last, and fighting the enemy with all sorts of weapons amid its ruins. It was with the utmost difficulty the police could protect Bailey and his middies with their flag of truce. But on the following day, and before the time of grace expired, the Council determined that as they had no means of defence against the enemy's ships, which held the city at the mercy of their guns, it was best to enter into negotiations for the surrender. Farragut then demanded that as a sign of submission the Confederate flag should be hauled down from all points where displayed in the city and replaced by the stars and stripes, and in the meantime he would send a battery with his sailors and marines ashore to maintain order. But no one was found in the city to take the Confederate flags down, and hoist the starry banner in their place; so a battery of ships' guns was landed and hauled through the streets till it reached the City Hall, and there it was placed in position to cover every point of approach. A young middy, apparently about fifteen years of age, then made his appearance at the entrance of the City Hall, bearing a United States flag. He was admitted without opposition, and was shown the way to the top of the building. The lad ascended to the roof, and in full view of an assembled multitude of thousands in the streets and on the housetops, deliberately undid the halyards and hauled down the Confederate, or rather Louisiana State flag; then replacing it with the one he carried, hoisted it to the peak of the staff in its place, and the capture of New Orleans by the navy was complete. Many who witnessed the act of this daring boy trembled for his life, as a rifle shot from any of the houses surrounding, or even from the street, would have proved fatal and put an end to his young life at any moment. So excited was the crowd in the street, when the middy came down, and so fierce the thirst for vengeance upon any object that might present itself, that it was found necessary to hurry him into a close carriage and drive with all speed through back streets, to keep clear of the pressing mob, who, in the blindness of their passion, would perhaps have sacrificed the youngster, had they caught him, to appease their rage. After this the city began to quiet down. The foreign residents formed themselves into a police and took charge of the streets; and had succeeded pretty well in restoring order, when, on the 2d of May, Butler landed at the levee from his transports, and marched to the St. Charles, where he established his headquarters and took formal possession of the city. Still he found it no easy matter to subdue the spirit of a people who did not hesitate to jeer at his soldiers or jostle them from the sidewalks as they marched through the streets. But he soon enough became master of the situation, and made the most for himself out of what Farragut had so readily placed in his hands. The navy was certainly entitled to all the credit of the capture; one ship in front of the city with open ports was enough, it did what the entire army of Butler, had it been ten times as numerous, could never have accomplished. New Orleans never would have been taken by the army alone; but the guns of a sloop-of-war in front of an open city are conclusive and irresistible arguments. If it was heroism to capture that city the Confederacy will always be as free to admit that Farragut was the hero of New Orleans, as that Butler was the tyrant, robber, and oppressor of its conquered people. [5] Extract from Commodore Mitchell's official report, dated Aug. 19th, 1862. "During the night of Sunday the 27th we had so far succeeded in operating the propellers that we expected early the next day to make a fair trial of them in connection with the paddle wheels, when at daylight an officer sent by Gen. Duncan came on board to inform us that many of the garrison at Fort Jackson had deserted during the night; that serious disturbances had occurred; and that the disaffection of the men was believed to be general on account of what appeared to them to have become the desperate character of the "defence," etc." [6] Extract from Commodore Mitchell's official report: "I at once returned on board and called a council of war composed of Lieutenants Wilkinson, (commanding) W. H. Ward, A. F. Warley, Wm. C. Whittle, Jr., R. J. Bowen, Arnold, F. M. Harris, and George N. Shryock, by whom--in consequence of the enemy's having the entire command of the river above and below us, with an overwhelming force, and who was in the act of obtaining quiet and undisturbed possession of Forts Jackson and St. Philip, with all their material defences intact, with ordnance, military stores and provisions, thus cutting the Louisiana off from all succor or support; and her having on board not more than ten days' provisions, her surrender would be rendered certain in a brief period by the simple method of blockade; and that, in the condition of her motive power and defective steering apparatus, and the immediate danger of attack, she was very liable to capture--it was unanimously recommended that the Louisiana be destroyed, forthwith, to prevent her falling into the hands of the enemy, while it remained in our power to prevent it; first retiring to our tenders." [7] The first and only time that I ever saw the notorious General B. F. Butler, who subsequently claimed for himself and the troops under his command, the honor of capturing New Orleans, was on board the "Clifton." He took passage in her to the city. No one who has ever looked upon that unique countenance can ever forget it; and as his glance rested for a moment upon us, each one conceived himself to be the special object of the General's regard; for owing to his peculiar visual organs, that distinguished individual seems to possess the Argus like faculty of looking steadily at several persons at one and the same time. With the pride that apes humility, or perhaps with the eccentricity of genius, he affected, upon the occasion, a rough costume; wearing a slouch hat, and having his trowsers tucked inside of his soiled boots; and he carried in his hand a long stick like a pilgrim's staff. He _preceded_ his troops to the city, however, and might therefore, with equal propriety and regard for truth, claim the _sole_ glory of its capture. CHAPTER IV. Transferred to the "Rhode Island."--Meeting with an old Friend.--Arrival at Fort Warren.--Treatment there.--Correspondence, and its Result.--Prison Life.--Exchanged.--The Crew at quarters.--Burial of the "Unknown." On the 9th of May we were transferred from the Colorado to the steamer Rhode Island, bound to Fort Warren. On board of this vessel we were "tabooed" even more completely by the officers, than on board the Colorado; for the Rhode Island was officered, with the single exception, I believe, of her captain, by volunteers, who were not connected with us by any associations of friendship or congeniality of taste. The harsh order to hold no intercourse with us, had been evaded or violated, "sub rosa," on board the Colorado by old friends and shipmates. On board the Rhode Island, much to our satisfaction, it was strictly obeyed; for we would have lost our patience to be "interviewed" by fledgling naval heroes, many of whom had reached the quarter deck through the hawseholes. Upon one occasion, many years ago, when the question of increasing the United States Navy was under discussion by Congress, a rough western member, opposed to the measure, stated that his section of the country could supply droves of young officers whenever they were needed. The United States Government must have "corralled" lots of youngsters, without regard to their fitness or capacity, to send on board the ships of war during our civil conflict. The "noble commander" of the Rhode Island most of us had known of old as a prim little precisian, and a great stickler for etiquette, and by no means a bad fellow; but so strict a constructionist that he would probably have refused to recognize his grandfather, if it were against orders. But he had a humane disposition under his frigid exterior; and allowed us all the comfort and privileges compatible with discipline and safety. We touched at Fortress Monroe; and while the vessel was at anchor there I received a gratifying evidence that this fratricidal war had not destroyed all kindly feelings between former friends and messmates. The executive officer of the Rhode Island called me aside to say that a friend wished to see me in his state-room; and as he did not mention the name, I was surprised to find myself warmly greeted by Albert Smith. We had served together during the Mexican war, and our cruise had not been an uneventful one; for the vessel to which we were attached ("the Perry") after considerable service in the Mexican Gulf, was dismasted and wrecked, during one of the most terrific hurricanes that ever desolated the West India Islands. Thirty-nine vessels, out of forty-two, which lay in the harbor of Havana, foundered at their anchors, or were driven ashore; all of the light-houses along the Florida reef were destroyed, and hundreds of persons perished. The Perry lost all of her boats, her guns, except two, were thrown overboard, and she escaped complete destruction almost by a miracle. She encountered the hurricane off Havana, and after scudding for many hours under bare poles, describing a circle as the wind continued to veer in the cyclone, she passed over the Florida reef with one tremendous shock as she hung for a moment upon its rocky crest. Her masts went by the board, but we had passed in a moment from a raging sea into smooth water. Captain Blake, who commanded her, achieved the feat of rigging jury masts with his crew, and carrying the vessel to the Philadelphia navy yard for repairs. Albert Smith and I had not met for many years. He offered me any service in his power, and pressed me to accept at least a pecuniary loan. The kind offer, although declined, was gratefully remembered; and I was glad, too, to find that he, in common with many others, who remained to fight under the old flag, could appreciate the sacrifices made by those who felt equally bound, by all the truest and best feelings of our nature, to defend their homes and firesides. On our arrival at Fort Warren we were assigned quarters in one of the casemates. Little more than a year had passed away since I had planted a signal staff upon its parapet to _angle_ upon; being then engaged, as chief of a hydrographic surveying party, in surveying the approaches to Boston Harbor. _Then_ its garrison consisted of a superannuated sergeant whose office was a sinecure; _now_ it held an armed garrison, who drilled and paraded every day, with all the "pomp and circumstance" of war, to the patriotic tune of "John Brown's body lies a-moulding in the grave, but his spirit is marching on;" and it was crowded with southern prisoners of war. For a few days, in pursuance of Commodore Porter's policy, we were closely confined; but all exceptional restrictions were then removed and we fell into the monotonous routine of prison life. The following correspondence took place previous to the removal of the restrictions, and explains the reason of their withdrawal. FORT WARREN, Boston Harbor, May 25, 1862. Sir,--I was much surprised last evening on being informed by Colonel Dimmick that Lieutenants Wilkinson, Warly, Ward, Whittle and Harris, together with myself, have been, by your order, denied the "privileges and courtesies that are extended to other prisoners," on the ground that the act of burning the Confederate States Battery "Louisiana," late under my command, was held by the United States Navy Department as "infamous." In my letter to the Department, dated on board of the United States Steamer Rhode Island, Key West, May 14th, 1862, and forwarded through Commander Trenchard on the arrival of that vessel in Hampton Roads, together with a copy of my letter to Flag officer Farragut, and his reply thereto, I felt assured that all the facts connected with the destruction of the Louisiana were placed in such a light as not to be mistaken, nor my motives misconstrued. To render the affair still more clear I enclose herewith a memorandum of W. C. Whittle Jr., Confederate States Navy, who was the bearer of my message to Commodore Porter respecting my fears that the magazine of the Louisiana had not been effectually drowned. With all these statements forwarded by me to the United States Navy Department I am perfectly willing to rest the case with impartial and unprejudiced minds, as well as with my own Government, satisfied that nothing has been done by the foregoing officers, nor myself, militating at all against the strictest rules of military honor and usage. Though I will not affect an indifference to the personal annoyance to us by the action of the United States Navy Department in our case as prisoners of war, yet my chief solicitude is to have placed on file in that office such a statement of facts as will, on a fair investigation, vindicate all the officers of the Confederate States Navy concerned from the odium of infamous conduct unjustly attempted to be fixed upon them by those of the United States Navy; against which and the infliction of punishment as directed by the Navy Department I enter my solemn protest. I most emphatically assert that the Louisiana, when abandoned and fired by my order, was not only not "turned adrift" or intended to injure the United States forces as charged by Commander Porter; but that she was actually left secured to the opposite bank of the river and distant quite three-fourths of a mile from the said forces, for the very reason that they were flying a flag of truce, and for that reason I dispatched the warning message to Commander Porter respecting the magazine. That it is not only the right, but the duty, of an officer to destroy public property to prevent its falling into the hands of an enemy does not admit of question; and in addition to all which, it must not be overlooked that the forces under my command flew no flag of truce, and that I was not in any way a party to the surrender of Forts Jackson and St. Philip. I have the honor to be Very respectfully your obedient servant, (Signed) JNO. K. MITCHELL, _Commander C. S. Navy._ Hon. GIDEON WELLES, Secretary of the Navy, Washington, D. C. _Copy in Substance._ NAVY DEPARTMENT, WASHINGTON, May 29, 1862 SIR,--The explanations of Commodore J. K. Mitchell are satisfactory, and the restrictions imposed on him and his associates by the department's order of the 2d instant will be removed, and they will be treated as prisoners of war. This does not relieve Beverly Kennon from the restrictions imposed on him. (Signed) GIDEON WELLES. Colonel Justin Dimmick, Commanding Fort Warren, Boston. (_Copy._) NAVY DEPARTMENT, June 25, 1862. SIR,--The letter of John K. Mitchell of the 20th inst., concerning the restrictions imposed on you, by order of this Department, at Fort Warren, has been received. Will you please furnish the Department with the particulars of the destruction of the gunboat of which you had command in the engagement below New Orleans, with _wounded_ men on board. I am respectfully your obedient servant, (Signed) GIDEON WELLES. BEVERLY KENNON, Fort Warren, Boston. (_Copy_) FORT WARREN, BOSTON, June 28, 1862. HON. GIDEON WELLES, _Secretary U. S. Navy_. Sir,--Colonel Dimmick, the commander of this post, delivered to me yesterday a letter signed by you under date of June 25th directed to me as "Beverly Kennon" and referring to a communication addressed to you on the 20th inst. by my superior officer, Commander J. K. Mitchell, of the Confederate States Navy, whom you are pleased to designate as "John K. Mitchell." The purport of your letter is a request that I will furnish your Department of the United States Government with the "particulars of the destruction of the gunboat of which I had command in the engagement below New Orleans with _wounded_ men on board." When I destroyed and left the vessel which I had commanded on the occasion referred to, all the wounded men had been removed, the most of them lowered into boats by my own hands. I was, myself, the last person to leave the vessel. _Any_ statements which you may have received to the contrary are wholly without foundation. It would not be proper, under any circumstances, that I should report to you the "particulars" of her destruction; that being a matter which concerns my own Government exclusively, and with which yours can have nothing to do. Should any charges be made against me, however, of which you have a right to take cognizance under the laws of war, I will with pleasure, respond to any respectful communication which you may address me on the subject. Indeed I shall be glad of the opportunity to vindicate my character as an officer from the unjust and unfounded imputations which have been cast upon it in the connection to which you allude, and upon the faith of which I have already been disparaged by unusual restrictions and confinements, here and elsewhere, since I have been a prisoner of war, without having been furnished an opportunity for such vindication. But your letter of the 20th inst. so studiously denies, both to Commander Mitchell and myself, not only our official designations, but those of common courtesy, that while I am unwilling to believe you would intentionally offer an indignity to prisoners of war in your power, I can not now make further reply without failing in respect to myself as well as to my superior officer and Government. I am Sir, very respectfully, your obedient servant, (Signed) BEVERLY KENNON, Commander in Provisional Navy of the State of Louisiana in the Confederate service. The restrictions were removed from Kennon in a few days after the close of this correspondence. Many distinguished political prisoners were at that time confined at Fort Warren; and all of the officers captured at Fort Donelson. Among the former class, were those members of the Maryland Legislature, and of the Baltimore City Council, who had been arrested and imprisoned by the United States Government for alleged treason. It was my good fortune to be invited into this mess. It is not my purpose to inflict upon the reader a detailed account of prison life during the war, which has been described by far abler pens than mine. All the members of our mess took their turns, either at carving or waiting upon the table, and guests were never better served. The graceful and accomplished old Commodore B. and General T. shone conspicuous as carvers; while Colonels, Majors and Captains, with spotless napkins on their arms, anticipated every wish of the guests at the table. Colonel Dimmick was honored and beloved by the prisoners for his humanity, and he and his family will ever be held in affectionate remembrance by them; many of us having received special acts of kindness, while suffering from sickness. When his son was ordered to active service in the field I believe there was an unanimous prayer by the prisoners that his life would be spared through the perils he was about to encounter. The prisoners, first giving their parole not to attempt to escape, were allowed the range of nearly the whole island during the day; and not unfrequently suffered to see relatives and friends who had received permission from the proper authorities to visit them. In happier "ante bellum" times, I had known some of the good people of Boston, and had spent a portion of a summer with several families at that pleasant watering place, Nahant. One of my most esteemed friends--Mrs. L.--with the charity of a noble and Christian heart, wrote to me as soon as she learned that I was a prisoner; but she was too loyal to the flag not to express regret and distress at what she believed to be a mistaken sense of duty. The reader may remember the definition once given of "Orthodoxy" by a dignitary of the church of England to an inquiring nobleman. "Orthodoxy, my Lord, is _my_ doxy, heterodoxy is _your_ doxy if you differ from me." The same authority, it has always appeared to me, was assumed by a large portion of the Northern people. They demanded a Government to suit their ideas, and disloyalty consisted in opposing them. We were permitted to write once a month to our friends in the Confederacy; the letters being left open for inspection. There were a few Northerners among us, but I know of only a single case where the individual concerned so far yielded to the persuasion of his friends outside, as to renounce the cause which he had sworn to defend. Aside from the confinement, and the earnest desire to be doing our part in the war, there could be no cause to repine at our lot. We were allowed, at our own expense, to supply our tables from the Boston market, not only abundantly, but luxuriously; the Government furnishing the usual rations; and the prisoners grew robust upon the good fare and the bracing climate. A tug plied daily between Boston and the island on which Fort Warren is situated. We were permitted to receive the daily papers and to purchase clothing and other necessaries, either from the sutler, or from outside; and many of the prisoners were indebted to a noble charity for the means of supplying many of these needs; of clothing especially, which was chiefly furnished by the firm of Noah Walker & Co. of Baltimore. The firm itself was said to be most liberal, not merely dispensing the donations received in Baltimore and elsewhere, but supplying a large amount of clothing gratuitously. The policy of retaliation had not then been adopted. It is conceded that the United States Government, towards the close of the war, subjected the Confederate prisoners in their hands to harsh treatment in pursuance of this policy; but in justice to the Confederate authorities it should be borne in mind that they repeatedly proposed an exchange of prisoners upon the ground of humanity, seeing that neither provisions nor medicine were procurable; and, I believe, it is also a conceded fact that General Grant opposed exchanges. The testimony of General Lee given before the "reconstruction" Committee, clearly establishes the fact that _he_ did all in his power to effect this object. In answer to a question he says: "I offered to General Grant around Richmond that we should ourselves exchange all the prisoners in our hands, and to show that I would do whatever was in my power, I offered them to send to City Point all the prisoners in Virginia and North Carolina, over which my command extended, providing they returned an equal number of mine, man for man. I reported this to the War Department, and received for answer, that they would place at my command all the prisoners at the South, if the proposition was accepted." The Rev. J. Wm. Jones, D.D., author of "Personal Reminiscences of General R. E. Lee," writes as follows upon this subject (page 194, et seq.) viz: "1st--The Confederate authorities gave to prisoners in their hands the same rations which they issued to their own soldiers, and gave them the very best accommodations which their scant means afforded. "2d. They were always anxious to exchange prisoners, man for man, and when this was rejected by the Federal authorities, they offered to send home the prisoners in their hands without any equivalent. "3d. By refusing all propositions to exchange prisoners, and declining even to receive their own men without equivalent the Federal authorities made themselves responsible for all the suffering, of both Federal and Confederate prisoners, that ensued. "4th. And yet notwithstanding these facts, it is susceptible of proof, from the official records of the Federal Department, that the suffering of Confederate prisoners in Federal prisons was much greater than that of Federal prisoners in Confederate prisons. Without going more fully into the question, the following figures, from the report of Mr. Stanton, Secretary of War, in response to a resolution of the House of Representatives, calling for the number of prisoners on both sides and their mortality, are triumphantly submitted. In prison. Died. U. S. Soldiers 260,940 22,526 Confederates 200,000 26,500 That is, the Confederate States held as prisoners nearly 61,000 more men than the Federals; and yet the death of Federal prisoners fell below those of the Confederates four thousand." Lastly, the Southern Historical Society, Richmond, Va., has recently published a "Vindication of the Confederacy against the Charge of Cruelty to Prisoners," which is conclusive on the whole question. It was compiled by the Secretary of the Society, the Rev. J. Wm. Jones, just quoted, who concludes with the following summing up of his argument. "We think that we have established the following points: "1st. The laws of the Confederate Congress, the orders of the War Department, the Regulations of the Surgeon General, the action of our Generals in the field, and the orders of those who had the immediate charge of the prisoners, all provided that prisoners in the hands of the Confederates should be kindly treated, supplied with the same rations which our soldiers had, and cared for, when sick, in hospitals placed on _precisely the same footing as the hospitals for Confederate soldiers_. "2d. If these regulations were violated in individual instances, and if subordinates were sometimes cruel to prisoners, it was without the knowledge or consent of the Confederate Government, which always took prompt action on any case reported to them. "3d. If the prisoners failed to get their full rations, and had those of inferior quality, the Confederate soldiers suffered in precisely the same way and to the same extent; and it resulted from that system of warfare adopted by the Federal authorities, which carried desolation and ruin to every part of the South they could reach, and which in starving the Confederates into submission, brought the same evils upon their own men in Southern prisons. "4th. The mortality in Southern prisons (fearfully large, although over three per cent less than the mortality in Northern prisons) resulted from causes beyond the control of our authorities, from epidemics, etc., which might have been avoided or greatly mitigated had not the Federal Government declared medicines "contraband of war," refused the proposition of Judge Ould, that each Government should send its own surgeons with medicines, hospital stores, etc., to minister to soldiers in prison, declined his proposition to send medicines to its own men in southern prisons, without being required to allow the Confederates the same privileges--refused to allow the Confederate Government to buy medicines for gold, tobacco, or cotton, which it offered to pledge its honor should be used only for Federal prisoners in its hands, refused to exchange sick and wounded, and neglected from August to December, 1864, to accede to Judge Ould's proposition to send transportation to Savannah and receive _without equivalent_ from ten to fifteen thousand Federal prisoners, notwithstanding the fact that this offer was accompanied with a statement of the utter inability of the Confederacy to provide for these prisoners, and a detailed report of the monthly mortality at Andersonville, and that Judge Ould, again and again, urged compliance with his humane proposal. "5th. We have proven by the most unimpeachable testimony, that the sufferings of Confederate prisoners in Northern "prison pens," were terrible beyond description; that they were starved in a land of plenty, that they were frozen where fuel and clothing were abundant; that they suffered untold horrors for want of medicines, hospital stores and proper medical attention; that they were shot by sentinels, beaten by officers, and subjected to the most cruel punishments upon the slightest pretexts; that friends at the North were refused the privilege of clothing their nakedness or feeding them when starving; and that these outrages were perpetrated not only with the full knowledge of, but under the orders of E. M. Stanton, United States Secretary of War. We have proven these things by Federal as well as Confederate testimony. "6th. We have shown that all the suffering of prisoners on both sides could have been avoided by simply carrying out the terms of the cartel, and that for the failure to do this, the _Federal authorities alone_ were responsible; that the Confederate Government originally proposed the cartel, and were always ready to carry it out both in letter and spirit; that the Federal authorities observed its terms only so long as it was to their interest to do so, and then repudiated their plighted faith and proposed other terms which were greatly to the disadvantage of the Confederates; that when the Government at Richmond agreed to accept the hard terms of exchange offered them, these were at once repudiated by the Federal authorities; that when Judge Ould agreed upon a new cartel with General Butler, Lieutenant-General Grant refused to approve it, and Mr. Stanton repudiated it; and that the policy of the Federal Government was to refuse all exchanges while they "fired the Northern heart" by placing the whole blame upon the "Rebels," and by circulating the most heartrending stories of "Rebel barbarity" to prisoners. If either of the above points has not been made clear to any sincere seeker after the truth, we would be most happy to produce further testimony. And we hold ourselves prepared to maintain against all comers, the _truth of every proposition we have laid down in this discussion_. Let the calm verdict of history decide between the Confederate Government and its calumniators." These extracts are inserted with the hope that the fair minded reader may be induced to read the evidence upon the Confederate side. "Truth crushed to Earth will rise again; The Eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain; And dies amid her worshipers." It is not to be denied that the sufferings in Confederate prisons were fearful; but they were caused by the destitute condition of the country ravaged by war, and the scarcity of medicines which were not to be obtained. We were growing very tired of the monotony of prison life, scarcely varied except by the daily game of football and the semi-weekly reports of the capture of Richmond, when a rumor began to circulate of a speedy exchange of prisoners. It was about the time when General McClellan "changed his base" from the lines around Richmond to Harrison's Landing, on James River. Early in August a large number of us, military and naval officers, were sent on board a transport bound to James River, where we arrived in due time, and thence, after taking on board a number of Confederates forwarded from other prisons, we proceeded up the river to Aiken's Landing. There was fighting near Malvern Hill as we passed by there, and the United States gunboats had been shelling the Confederate troops. The crew of one of them was at quarters, the men in their snow white "frocks" and trowsers, the beautifully polished eight inch guns cast loose and ready for action. The captain of one of the guns, a handsome man-of-war's man, looked at our party with a smile of bravado as we passed by, at the same time tapping his gun with his hand. Garrick or Kean could not have conveyed more meaning by a gesture. That handsome fellow's confidence in his pet was not misplaced; for history records how frequently during the war the tide of battle was turned by that gallant Navy to which it is an honor ever to have belonged. We, who so reluctantly severed our connection with it, still feel a pride in its achievements; and in our dreams are frequently pacing the deck, or sitting at the mess table with dear friends of "auld lang syne," from whom we are probably severed forever on this side of eternity. We were put ashore at Aiken's Landing on the 5th of August. It was a hot, sultry day. Three or four poor fellows had died on board our transport while on our way up the river, and their bodies were landed at the same time with ourselves. While we were waiting for the preliminaries for the exchange of prisoners to be settled between the Commissioners, a large grave was dug in the sand with such implements as could be procured, and the "unknown" were consigned to their last resting place between high and low water mark. CHAPTER V. A Brief Stay at Home.--Report to the War Department.--Instructions to go abroad.--The Blockade-runner "Kate."--Voyage to Nassau.--Yellow Fever.--The Undertaker.--Our Skipper "Captain Dick."--The Major sick.--A Story for the Marines.--Arrival at Cardenas.--The Coolies.--Arrival at Havana.--The American Consul and I.--The Pirate Marti.--The Spanish Steamer.--Pretty Harbors.--Captain Fry. After reporting at the Navy Department, I proceeded to my home. The day after my arrival there I was summoned by telegram to Richmond, to report in person to the Secretary of War. I had been detailed for special duty, and from this date commenced my connection with blockade running. Upon reaching the office, I found written instructions from the Secretary of War to proceed to England and purchase a steamer suitable for running the blockade, to load her with arms, munitions of war, and other supplies, and to bring her into a Confederate port with all dispatch. Ample funds in sterling exchange were provided and a large amount of Confederate bonds was entrusted to me for deposit with an agent of the Government in England. Accompanied by my small staff of assistants, and by Major Ben. Ficklin, who went abroad under special instructions from the War and Treasury Departments, I left Richmond about the 12th of August, and after some difficulty and delay, secured passage for the whole party on board the little steamer Kate, about to sail from Wilmington for Nassau. Under her skilful commander, Lockwood, this little side-wheel steamer had already acquired fame as a successful blockade-runner, and was destined to continue successful to the end of her career. But her appearance was by no means prepossessing, and she was very slow, her maximum speed being about nine knots. I forget by what accident she was at last disabled; perhaps by sheer old age and infirmity; but her ribs were to be seen for many a day before the war ended, bleaching in the sun on one of the mud flats in Cape Fear River. The night of our crossing the bar was dark and stormy and we felt under great obligations to the blockading fleet outside, for showing lights at their peaks--thus enabling us to avoid them with much ease. At this period, indeed, blockade running had not assumed such enormous proportions as it afterwards attained, when hundreds of thousands of dollars were invested in a single venture and the profits were so immense that the game was well worth the candle. Subsequent to the period of which I now write, Wilmington became the chief place of import and export. Large quantities of cotton were stored there, both on Government and private account; and steam cotton presses were erected, but at this period Charleston possessed greater facilities and was perhaps quite as accessible. Our voyage to Nassau was safely accomplished; the vigilant look-out at the mast-head giving prompt notice of a speck on the horizon no larger than a gull's wing, when the course would be so changed as to lose sight of it. Two cases of yellow fever, both ending fatally, occurred among the passengers during the brief voyage, and we were quarantined on our arrival at Nassau. One of the sick men had been brought on deck and placed on a couch under the deck awning. As he had taken no nourishment for two or three days, our good captain directed that a bowl of soup should be prepared for him. The sick man sat up when the steaming bowl was presented to him; seized it with both hands, drained it to the bottom, and fell back dead. We had not been at anchor more than an hour when an outward-bound passing schooner hailed us and announced to our captain the death of his wife and child, whom he had left in good health only a few days before. As the epidemic on board the Kate had been contracted at Nassau, and still prevailed on shore, we were at a loss to understand why we should be refused "pratique"; but it gave our little party no concern, as the town did not present an attractive or inviting appearance from the quarantine ground; nor were our unfavorable impressions removed upon a nearer acquaintance with it two or three months afterwards. But it was evident, that in spite of the epidemic, there was a vast deal of activity ashore and afloat. Cotton, cotton, everywhere! Blockade-runners discharging it into lighters, tier upon tier of it, piled high upon the wharves, and merchant vessels, chiefly under the British flag, loading with it. Here and there in the crowded harbor might be seen a long, low, rakish-looking lead-colored steamer with short masts, and a convex forecastle deck extending nearly as far aft as the waist, and placed there to enable the steamer to be forced _through_ and not _over_ a heavy head sea. These were the genuine blockade-runners, built for speed; and some of them survived all the desperate hazards of the war. The mulatto undertaker, who came on board to take the measure for coffins for the two passengers who had died, did not leave us in a very cheerful state of mind, although _he_ was in fine spirits, in the anticipation of a brisk demand for his stock in trade. Presenting each one of us with his card, he politely expressed the hope that we would give him our custom, if we needed anything in his line. Fortunately we had no occasion for his services. Just before leaving the ship he was invited to take a glass of brandy and water. Holding the glass in his hands which were yet stained with the coffin paint, he drank to our death, a toast to which Dyer, my Wilmington pilot, responded, "You shouldn't bury me, you d----d rascal, if I _did_ die." With the assistance of the Confederate agent on shore, we succeeded in promptly chartering a schooner for Cardenas and in provisioning her for the voyage; and in a day or two, were making our way across the Bahama Banks for Cuba. The agent had supplied us liberally with flesh, fowls, and ice; and the Banks gave us an abundance of fish, as the light winds fanned us slowly along, sometimes freshening into a moderate breeze, and occasionally dying away to a calm. The "_chef d'oeuvre_" of our mulatto skipper who was also cook, was conch soup, and he was not only an adept at cooking but also at catching the conch. In those almost transparent waters, the smallest object can be distinctly seen at the depth of three or four fathoms. When soup was to be prepared Captain Dick would take his station at the bow "in puris naturalibus," watching intently for his prize. Overboard he would go like an arrow, and rising again to the surface, would pitch the conch (and sometimes one in each hand) on board. His son Napoleon Bonaparte, (who was first mate, steward and half the starboard watch) would throw him a rope, and the old fellow would climb on board as the little craft sailed by, without an alteration in her course. Major Ben. Ficklin was attacked with yellow fever just after we left Nassau; but as we had no medicines on board he recovered. The medical fraternity might perhaps take a hint from the treatment of his case. Small lumps of ice were kept in a saucer beside him as he lay on a mattress under a deck awning, and by the constant use of it he allayed the raging thirst attending high fever. The "vis medicatrix naturæ" accomplished the rest. Having no books on board, we beguiled the time occasionally by telling stories as we lay under the shelter of the deck awning. One of my contributions was the following: Many officers of the navy will remember it, and there are some who, like myself, will recollect the solemn earnestness with which the hero of it would narrate the facts, for he firmly believed it to the day of his death. At the time of its occurrence he was enjoying a day's shooting at his home in Vermont. Becoming tired toward midday he took a seat on an old log in the woods. A few minutes afterwards, he saw an old bareheaded man, meanly clad, approaching, who seated himself in silence at the other end of the log. The head of the stranger was bound with a white cloth and his eyes were fixed with a glassy stare upon Major B., who felt his blood run cold at the singular apparition. At last the Major mustered up courage to ask the stranger what he wanted. The spectre replied "I am a dead man, and was buried in the graveyard yonder" (pointing as he spoke to a dilapidated enclosure a few yards distant). "The dogs," he continued, "have found their way into my shallow grave, and are gnawing my flesh. I can not rest until I am laid deeper in the ground." The Major used to assert that his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth; but he managed to promise the dead man that his wishes should be complied with, when the apparition dissolved into the air. The Major went straight to some of the neighbors, and when he accompanied them to the grave, it was found in the condition described by its occupant. N. B. The Major was in the habit of carrying a "pocket pistol," which may have been overcharged upon this occasion; he _also_ belonged to the _marines_. We arrived at Cardenas after a week's voyage, and stopped there a day to recruit. During our stay we witnessed a curious scene. While we were enjoying our cigars in the cool of the evening upon the "azotea" of our hotel, we saw a file of soldiers march up to a house directly opposite, and after repeated efforts to enter, they finally burst open the door; reappearing in a few moments with seven or eight "coolies," who were apparently dead drunk, but in reality were stupefied with opium; having met, by appointment, to "shuffle off this mortal coil" after this characteristic fashion. One or two of them were quite beyond resuscitation, and the others were only prevented from sinking into fatal insensibility by severe flogging with bamboo canes, and being forced to keep upon their feet. We were informed that suicide is very common among them in Cuba; it being their last resort against misery and oppression. Colonel Totten, the able civil engineer who constructed the railroad across the Isthmus of Panama, once gave a party of us a graphic account of the mortality among a number of them, who had been employed by him in that pestilential climate. Having no access to opium, and being deprived of knives, they resorted to the most ingenious modes of self destruction. Sometimes they would wade out in the bay at low water, with a pole, which they would stick firmly into the mud, and securely tying themselves to it, would wait for the rising tide to drown them. Others would point a stake by charring it in the fire and impale themselves upon it. The evils of this system of labor cannot be truthfully denied. Ignorant even of the nature of the contract which binds them to servitude, the coolies are driven in crowds to the ship which is to transport them to another hemisphere; and they endure all the horrors of the "middle passage" during their long voyage. When they arrive at their port of destination in the West Indies they are apprenticed for a term of years to the planters who need their services, and many of them succumb to the tropical climate and the severe labor in the cane field. Many more seek a ready means of escape in death. The philanthropy of the civilized governments, which has been concentrated for many years upon efforts to liberate the "black man and brother," has never been exerted to rescue "John China-man" from a crueler thraldom and a harder lot. Taking the train for Havana, we passed through a very beautiful country, luxuriant with tropical verdure; the most conspicuous natural feature in the landscape being the graceful palm tree in its many varieties. We passed, too, many sugar plantations, the growing cane not at all unlike our own cornfields at home, while the long lines of negroes, at work with their hoes, in the crop, made the fields appear even more familiar and home-like. Our friends, the "darkies," evidently did not contemplate suicide. Sleek and well-fed, they were chattering like so many flocks of blackbirds. Arriving at Havana we took up our quarters at Mrs. B.'s hotel, and as my first object was to find Colonel Helm, the agent of the Confederate Government, I started for that purpose immediately after our arrival. The Colonel had held the position of United States Consul before the war; and the residence then occupied by him was now tenanted by his successor. Being directed to this house by mistake, I was ushered in by the servant, and found myself face to face with Captain S., the American Consul. We were not totally unacquainted, having met occasionally in bygone days, when both of us were in the United States Navy. The surprise was mutual, and the awkward silence was interrupted by my saying "Apparently I am in the wrong pew." "Evidently," he replied, and we parted without another word. With the assistance of Colonel Helm our business in Havana was speedily transacted; and passage was engaged for the whole party on board a Spanish steamer bound for St. Thomas, thence to take passage by the British mail steamer for Southampton. The few days spent in Havana were pleasantly passed in sight-seeing; the afternoons being devoted to a ride upon the "paseo," and the evenings closed by a visit to the noted "Dominica" the principal café of the city. There are many beautiful rides and drives in the environs, and the summer heats are tempered by the cool refreshing sea breeze which blows daily. That scourge of the tropics, yellow fever, is chiefly confined to the cities of Cuba, the country being salubrious; and it appears strange that this beautiful island has never been a favorite place of resort, during the winter, for invalids from the Northern States in search of an equable climate. It must be confessed that Havana itself possesses few attractions for the stranger and that its sanitary arrangements are execrable. In addition to the imperfect municipal regulations in this respect, all the sewage of the city empties itself into the harbor, in which there is no current to sweep the decomposing matter into the Gulf Stream outside. The water in the harbor is sometimes so phosphorescent at night that showers of liquid fire appear to drop from a boat's oars passing through it; and the boat leaves a long lane of light in her wake. No stranger visiting Havana fails to see the spot in the cathedral held sacred as the tomb of Columbus. His remains were transferred here with great pomp, after resting many years in the city of San Domingo, whither they had been carried from Spain. The fish market and the "Tacon" theatre too, are well worth a visit. Both of them once belonged to the same individual, the noted pirate "Marti," whom I have seen many a time, in the streets of Havana, after his reformation. He was then a venerable looking old gentleman "As mild a mannered man As ever scuttled ship or cut a throat." For a long time he had been chief of all the piratical bands that then infested the shores of Cuba. They plied their fearful trade with comparative impunity; the numerous lagoons on the coast, only accessible through tortuous and shallow channels, and hidden by mangrove bushes, affording safe shelter; while they could easily intercept many vessels passing through the narrow strait separating Cuba from Florida. They gave no quarter to man, woman, or child, and scuttled their prizes after taking from them what was most valuable. A ready sale was found for their plunder in Havana through accomplices there; and their depredations upon commerce finally became so extensive that the United States Government fitted out an expedition against them. General Tacon, at that time Governor-General of Cuba, also prepared an expedition to operate against them. This fleet was on the eve of sailing. The night was dark and rainy. A stranger, wrapped in a cloak for disguise, watched the sentry on duty before the door of the palace from a hiding place near by; and as the sentry turned his back for a moment or two from the door, the stranger slipped by him, undiscovered, and proceeded rapidly to the apartments of the Captain-General. His excellency was writing at a table; and the stranger had opened the door and entered the room without being discovered. When the Governor-General raised his eyes and saw the cloaked figure standing silently before him, he stretched his hand toward a bell near him, but the stranger interposed. "Stop, your Excellency," he said, "I am here upon a desperate enterprise. I have come to deliver into your hands every pirate on the Cuban coast upon one condition; a pardon for myself." "You shall have it," replied his excellency, "but who are you?" "I am Marti, and I rely upon the promise you have given to me." The Governor-General repeated his assurances of immunity upon the prescribed conditions. Marti had laid his plans well, having appointed a place of rendezvous for the different bands before venturing upon his perilous expedition. He acted as a guide to the force sent in pursuit, and every pirate was captured and afterwards "garroted." A large price had been set upon the head of Marti. This is the story as told by his contemporaries. For these distinguished services to the State the vile old reprobate was offered the promised reward. In lieu of it he asked for the monopoly of the sale of fish in Havana, which was granted to him; and the structure erected by him for a fish market is perhaps the finest of the sort in the world. He afterwards built the noble "Tacon" theatre, named after his benefactor,--and died in the odor of sanctity. We were not sorry when the day of our departure came. There was a motley crowd of passengers on board the little steamer. "Paisanos" wearing broad brimmed sombreroes and in picturesque costume; "Padres" in their long gowns and shovel hats; pretty "senoritas" with hair plaited down their backs, and officers on their way to join the army in the field in San Domingo. But every one was amiable and disposed to be companionable. Most of them were aware of the fact that there was a state of war between the North and the South; and their sympathies were altogether with our side; for no earthly reason, probably, except that they entertained the blind hatred against the "Norte Americanos" so prevalent among the Latin race on this continent, and supposed the people of the South to be of different origin.[8] We were half poisoned, and wholly saturated with garlic, while on board the little steamer; and men, women and children smoked incessantly. Our clever artist, Johnny T., drew a capital sketch of a portly old lady whose habit it was, after every meal, to take from her side pocket an oil skin bundle of huge cigars--evidently "plantations," and made to order. Selecting one, she would strike a light with her "matchero" and begin to puff away like a furnace. When fairly alight, she would dispose of the smoke in some mysterious inner receptacle, whence it would issue in a minute or more, from nose, eyes, ears, and even through the pores of her mahogany-colored skin, as it appeared to us. We touched at many little ports, all of them very pretty and picturesque; little quiet basins of blue water, with the houses scattered about along the hill sides, and half hidden by foliage; the white surf thundering outside, and the surface, inside, glassy smooth. Our last port in Cuba was Santiago, since made memorable as the scene of the murder of the gallant and unfortunate Fry, and his companions in misfortune. Should these lines ever meet the eye of any of his old friends and comrades in the United States Navy, they will bear witness, that a brave and noble gentleman was there cruelly done to death. He had lost everything by our war, and dire poverty, with the responsibility of a family to support, forced him to the desperate venture of running the blockade in Cuba. _Morally_ he was not more criminal than the British naval officers, who engaged in the same hazardous pursuit during our struggle. FOOTNOTE: [8] The educated Cubans must be exonerated from this charge. Many of this class have been at the schools and colleges in the United States; and admire our republican institutions. They are even now, and have been for years, maintaining a desperate struggle for the establishment of these institutions among themselves. CHAPTER VI. San Domingo.--The Island of Hayti and its Inhabitants.--St. Thomas.--General Santa Anna.--The Mail Steamer Atrato.--Arrival at Southampton.--English Scenery.--The Major fails.--The Giraffe Purchased.--A Claim against the Confederate Government.--The Hon. J. M. Mason.--Credit of the Confederate Government Abroad.--An improper Agent.--Captain Bullock.--The Giraffe Ready for Sea.--Glasgow.--Our last Dinner.--Our Scotch Landlady and Head Waiter.--We part with the Major.--Hot Punch and Scotch Babies.--A Reminiscence. We touched at the little port of San Domingo in the island of Dominica on our way to St. Thomas; and lay at anchor there long enough to allow the passengers to visit the shore for a few hours. It was once a prosperous town, but is now in ruins, and hovels stand upon the very sites where once arose magnificent palaces; for it was at one time the chief seat of the Spanish Empire in the New World, and the place of residence of Columbus himself. Cortez, the Conqueror of Mexico, once lived in its vicinity. The cathedral still stands entire and is still used as a place of worship, but the walls of the convent attached to the cathedral have yielded to the corroding influences of time and the climate, and are crumbling into ruins. The palace of Diego Columbus, the son of the immortal admiral, who to Castile and Leon gave a new world, is still pointed out, but that, too, is a mere shell, the roof having entirely disappeared. The population is a wretched mongrel indolent race, and there is little to do there. The whole island, indeed, long ago fell from its high estate, and everywhere thorns and brambles grow where once there were well cultivated plantations. I had previously visited many portions of the island, and saw wherever I went, the same evidences of misrule and indolence; but, the negroes, who hold the western portion of it or Hayti, are physically, at least, a finer race of people than the degenerate, puny hybrids of the eastern part, who have "miscegenated" to an extent that would satisfy the most enthusiastic admirer of our sable "friends and fellow-citizens." I have never seen finer specimens of stalwart manhood than in "Solouque's" army years ago, although the "tout ensemble" of it was sufficiently ludicrous; the officers being mounted on ponies a little bigger than goats; and some of them wearing no apparel, except a coat and cocked hat; with spurs on their naked heels; and the ragged half-naked privates chewing one end of a big stick of sugar cane (their only rations) as they marched. Upon one occasion, an officer of the ship to which I was attached, had died at sea, and was buried at Gonaives, with military honors. The drummer and fifer of our guard of marines were little fellows of twelve or thirteen years of age. The black military commandant of the district was so captivated with their appearance, as they marched at the head of the funeral procession, that he "corralled" all the little "niggers" within his district the next day, to select from them a few drummers and fifers; and I believe there would have been a "casus belli" if our little musicians had been sent ashore, for I doubt if he could have resisted the temptation to kidnap them. We arrived at St. Thomas two days before the mail-steamer was due and took up our quarters at the only hotel of which the town boasted, but it was an excellent one. The black steward, who superintended the staff of waiters, was a noticeable personage, speaking several languages with correctness and fluency. We appreciated the "cuisine" of the hotel, after so long a diet upon garlic and rancid sweet oil; and were content to pass the greater part of the time at the "Ice house," a refreshment saloon conducted by a Vermont "Yankee," but who had been so long abroad as to have become cosmopolitan in his ideas and opinions. The residence of General Santa Anna, the old Mexican hero, then in exile, was pointed out to us; a handsome building crowning a hill overlooking the town; and we were informed that the old gentleman was still passionately fond of his favorite amusement, cock-fighting. "E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires." We sailed for Southampton in the British mail steamer "Atrato," the best appointed and most comfortable ship on board which I have ever taken passage. She was a paddle-wheel steamer of the first class, belonging to the Cunards, who boast that not a life or a mail has ever been lost in their line. There was a very good band of musicians on board, and the weather during the whole voyage was so pleasant that dancing could be enjoyed. The screw steamers, now so rapidly superseding the old "side wheelers," possess many advantages, it is true, but the superior comfort of the passengers is not to be reckoned among them. Arriving at Southampton, we took the first train for London. What specially attracted the admiration of our little party as the train sped along, was the exquisite beauty of the country. Almost every view would have furnished a subject for a landscape painter. We saw vast lawns green as emeralds, with clumps of fine trees here and there, and dotted with cattle and sheep; and would frequently catch a glimpse of castles and country seats beautifully ornamented with parks and gardens. It was a series of pictures of rural repose and quiet, embellished with perfect taste. Even the thatched cottages, with their trim hedges, their little flower gardens, and the vines covering the outside, were most picturesque. What a striking contrast with the log cabins and "snake" fences in our own loved "Dixie!" The Secretary of War, in his instructions to me, had stated that Major Ficklin, who had lately returned from Europe, had been struck by the qualities of a steamer which, in the Major's opinion, was admirably adapted for blockade-running. She was called the Giraffe, a Clyde built iron steamer, and plied as a packet between Glasgow and Belfast. She was a side-wheel of light draft, very strongly built and reputed to be of great speed. She possessed the last quality, it is true, but not to such a degree as represented, for her best rate of speed while under my command never exceeded thirteen and a half knots. Under the same instructions I was to examine the ship and if the inspection proved favorable, the Major was to negotiate for the purchase. I have always believed that some informal arrangement had been made between the parties concerned during the Major's late visit to England. However that may have been, we found, on our arrival in London that the Giraffe had been sold within a day or two, to a company about to engage in blockade-running. The manager of this company was Mr. Alexander Collie, who subsequently made such immense ventures, and became so well known in connection with blockade-running. The Major did not lose heart upon learning that the Giraffe had changed hands, but all his efforts to get possession of the vessel were unsuccessful, Mr. C. refusing to part with her upon any terms. As a last resort the Major, whose resources were almost inexhaustible, suggested that I should make an effort. All difficulties instantly vanished, when I informed Mr. Collie that I held a commission in the Confederate States Navy, and had been sent abroad to buy a ship for the Confederate Government. He instantly agreed to transfer possession for the amount paid by him, £32,000, stipulating, however, that the steamer should not be sold, during the war, to private parties without the consent of the company represented by him, who were to have the refusal of her. Although these conditions conflicted with certain arrangements made between the Confederate Secretary of War and Major Ficklin, the latter assented to them; and the Giraffe became the property of the Confederate States Government. The necessary alterations to fit her for a blockade-runner were at once commenced. Her beautiful saloon and cabins were dismantled and bulkheads constructed to separate the quarters for officers and men from the space to be used for stowage of a cargo. Purchases of arms, clothing, etc., were to be made; and after much disgust and vexation of spirit, I employed Mr. Collie, who was a shrewd and practical man of business, to make the purchases on commission, while I found more congenial employment. Long afterwards, when I got a friend in Richmond to prepare my accounts for the auditor, he proved conclusively from the vouchers (which I was careful to preserve) that the Confederate Government owed me £1,000; but I never applied for the "little balance" and now it is buried with the "lost cause." The Hon. J. M. Mason, representing the Confederate Government, was living very quietly and unostentatiously in London; and although not officially recognized, he was the frequent guest of the nobility and gentry of the kingdom. He looked, so I thought, the equal of any peer in the land, for he was of a noble presence; and he possessed that rare tact of adapting himself to almost any company in which he might be thrown. We always met with a cordial welcome from him; and it was very interesting to hear his comments upon the government and the social life of England. I am sure the contrast between the conservatism, stability and respect for precedents and laws, so manifest everywhere in that favored land, and the rapidly growing disregard of all these obligations in our own country, struck him most forcibly. He closed a long eulogy of England upon one occasion by remarking, "This is the best Government upon the earth--_except of course our own_." He, in common with others, who had access to private sources of information, believed, at that time, that the Confederacy would soon be recognized by England and France; and it appears from evidence made public since the close of the war, that their hopes were by no means groundless; the Emperor of the French having proposed joint recognition to the British government; but all efforts in that direction were thwarted by the "Exeter Hall" influence. We saw of course many of the sights and curiosities of London. One pleasant day of leisure, after a walk to see that magnificent pile, the Houses of Parliament, I was sauntering along, without thought of where I was going, until I found myself in a perfect labyrinth of filthy streets and tumble down buildings and presenting all the other evidences of vice and poverty; the very neighborhood in short of "Tom Allalone's" lair. Fortunately I met a policeman who guided me into a respectable part of the city. He told me that I was about to invade the worst section of London, almost within a stone's throw of the Houses of Parliament. It is astonishing how frequently Dickens' characters and descriptions come into the memory of a stranger visiting London. No one, who has ever seen them, will forget the houses in Chancery. Situated as some of them are, in the busiest and most crowded parts of the city, and mouldering away from disuse and neglect, the idea constantly presented itself to me as I passed one of them, "there is more of the Jarndyce property," and I never saw an "old clo'" man that the rascally Fagin and his hopeful protegés did not rise to my recollection. How wonderful is the power of genius which can not only "give to airy nothings a local habitation and a name," but fix them as realities in our memory forever! At that period the credit of the Confederate Government abroad was excellent; and either from love of "filthy lucre" or of the cause, some of the best firms in England were ready and eager to furnish supplies. It appeared quite practicable to send in machinery, iron plates, etc., for building small vessels of war; and several firms offered to engage in the enterprise, receiving Confederate bonds in payment. These parties went to the trouble of preparing models with plans and specifications; all of which were afterwards duly submitted to the incompetent Secretary of the Confederate States Navy; but it resulted in nothing. A considerable amount of the Government funds was lavished abroad upon the building of vessels which could by no possibility be got to sea under the Confederate flag while the war lasted; and to make matters worse, the Secretary had sent to England, as special agent for building or buying vessels, a man well known throughout the kingdom to be bankrupt in fame and fortune, who was hawking our government securities about the country at a ruinous rate of discount; and who inflicted much loss and injury upon the Confederate Government in various ways during his connection with it. The management of naval affairs abroad should have been left in the hands of Captain Bullock, the efficient agent of the Navy Department in England, who showed admirable tact in the conduct of affairs entrusted to him. We stopped at the Burlington Hotel during our stay in London. There was none of the glare and glitter of an American hotel about this highly respectable establishment, no crowded "table d'hote" where the guests scrambled for food, and the waiters must be bribed to wait upon them; no gorgeous bar-room where the clinking of glasses resounds day and night, and no hotel clerk, with hair parted in the middle, who deems it a condescension to be civil. Everything was staid, quiet, orderly, and it must be added, rather slow and expensive. As an illustration of the isolation of the boarders in an English hotel, it may be mentioned that two Southern ladies, acquaintances of a member of our party, were staying at the Burlington at the same time with ourselves, without our knowledge of the fact. Meals were usually served in the coffee room, the regular dinner consisting of a "joint," and one or two dishes of vegetables, any dish not included in this very plain bill of fare being furnished at an extra charge. Including fees to servants, etc., which are regularly entered in the bill, one may live very comfortably in an English hotel for five dollars a day, but not for less. In thirty days from our arrival in England, the Giraffe was reported laden and ready for sea. Besides the purchases made through my agency, a large quantity of lithographic material had been bought by Major Ficklin for the Treasury Department; and twenty-six lithographers were engaged for the Confederate Government. We took the train for Glasgow as soon as we were notified that the Giraffe was ready for sea; parting from our London friends with mutual good wishes and regrets. There is a striking contrast between the scenery in the south of England, and that in the northern portion. As we approached the "iron country" even the fresh green woods disappeared, and for many miles on our way we could see tall chimneys pouring forth huge volumes of smoke, and we passed numerous coal pits, while the whole busy population seemed to be begrimed with coal dust and iron filings. As we approached Glasgow the scenery again changed to broad and well cultivated plains in the immediate vicinity of the city. Its trade with Virginia and the West Indies laid the foundation of its present prosperity. To this day there are many descendants in Richmond of the old Scotch merchants who formerly traded in tobacco between that port and Glasgow, but of late years it has become chiefly noted for its iron ships and steamers, which are unsurpassed; and it is now, I believe, the second city in the United Kingdom in point of wealth and population. The Clyde, naturally an insignificant stream, has been deepened by art until it is now navigable for the largest vessels. We were so busily occupied, during our brief stay, as to be able to see very little of the city or its environs. The city itself was enveloped in a fog during the whole time; its normal atmospheric condition, I presume; for once when we made a visit to the romantic "Brigg of Allan," we passed beyond the suburbs into a clear bright atmosphere; and on our return in the afternoon, we found the pall hanging over the city as usual. We would have been delighted to take the advice of our hostess to see more of the land immortalized by Scott and Burns. "Ech, Sirs," she said, "but ye suld gae doon to the Heelands to see Scotland"; from which remark it may be reasonably inferred that she was a "Heeland" woman. We were painfully struck by the number of paupers and intoxicated females in the streets; and some of our party saw, for the first time in their lives, white women shoeless, and shivering in scanty rags, which scarcely concealed their nakedness, with the thermometer at the freezing point. Whitaker's British Almanac publishes, statistically, the _drinking_ propensities of the population of the three kingdoms, from which it appears that there were consumed per head in 1869-- Malt 1,989 bushels in England. Spirits 591 gallons " Malt 509 bushels in Ireland. Spirits 873 gallons " Malt 669 bushels in Scotland. Spirits 1,576 gallons " The inventory taken on board the Giraffe, after she was turned over to the Confederate Government, showed over _two hundred_ pitchers and ladles for hot punch! We came to the conclusion that Scotch babies were weaned upon this beverage, for the law forbade the carrying of that number of grown passengers by the Giraffe. Having secured the services of a sailing captain, British laws not allowing the clearance of a vessel under the British flag, except under the command of one who holds a certificate of competence, we sent our luggage on board one evening, and sat down to our last meal on British soil. There were many guests at the table; several of our friends having come on from London to see us take our departure, and toasts were duly and enthusiastically drank to the success of "the cause." The privileged old head-waiter, dressed in professional black, (and ridiculously like an old magpie as he hopped about the room with his head on one side,) "whose custom it was of an afternoon" to get drunk, but always with Scotch decorum, nodded approval of the festivities, until, overcome by his feelings (or Usquebaugh) he was obliged to withdraw. We bade adieu to our friends late at night, and went on board early next morning. In addition to the Scotch artisans already mentioned, there were several young gentlemen who were about to return home in the Giraffe. These youths had been prosecuting their studies in Germany. They were now about to return home to enter the army. Two of them, Messrs. Price and Blair, are now Professors in Virginia Colleges, after doing their duty as brave and faithful soldiers during the war. It is well known that many thousands of young men, the flower of the South, served as privates during the whole of our struggle for independence; and it is equally well known that they never flinched from dangers or privations. Many years ago an expedition under the command of Lieutenant Strain, of the United States Navy, was sent to make a reconnoissance across the Isthmus of Darien. The party lost their way among the morasses and almost impenetrable forests, and endured frightful hardships. But the officers survived, while many of the men succumbed to fatigue and famine. During our war, the youths of gentle blood and tender nurture displayed equally wonderful endurance. We parted from the Major on the wharf before going on board. He promised to meet us in Richmond; preferring himself to return via. New York; and we did not doubt his ability to keep his promise; for he seemed to experience no difficulty in passing and repassing through the lines at his pleasure during the war. He was in Washington, indeed, at the time when President Lincoln was assassinated, and was arrested as an accomplice in that great crime. His numerous friends who had so often suffered from his practical jokes, would have been pleased no doubt, to see how he appreciated the jest, when his head was tied up in a feather pillow to prevent him from defrauding the law by committing suicide in the murderer's cell. The shrill sound of a whistle was heard in the theatre just before Booth committed the act; and when the Major was arrested in his bed at the hotel a few hours afterwards, a whistle was found in his pocket. It was damaging evidence, but he escaped prosecution as an accomplice by adopting the advice once given by Mr. Toney Weller, and proving an alibi. CHAPTER VII. Voyage to Madeira.--A Capital Sea-boat.--The Island Ponies.--Mr. B. and his daughters.--Voyage to St. John's, Porto Rico.--Run across the Bahama Banks.--Nassau during the War.--High Wages and Low Characters.--Crew re-shipped.--Failure to enter Charleston.--The "Lump."--A Narrow Escape.--The Scotch Lithographers and their work.--Crossing the Bar.--Transfer of the Giraffe to the Confederate Government.--She becomes the "R. E. Lee."--The Major fulfills his promise, but fails in his object. Our voyage to Madeira was uneventful with the exception of a heavy gale of wind, during which the Giraffe showed her superb qualities as a sea boat. We were hospitably entertained during our three days' stay at Funchal. The process of coaling ship there is a tedious one, the port being an open roadstead, and there are no wharves. With a moderate breeze blowing on or along shore, all communication is interrupted. Loading and unloading ships is accomplished by lighters; and passengers are carried to and fro in surf boats which are expertly managed by their crews. The vines had failed for several years previous to our visit; but the inhabitants had substituted the cultivation of vegetables for which they found a market on the continent and in England; and the numerous cultivated patches along the mountain sides presented a very pretty appearance from the anchorage--laid out as they were with seemingly geometrical precision. The hardy little horses could be hired very cheaply, and the justly extolled natural beauties of the island in the vicinity of Funchal were fully explored. The greater portion of it is quite inaccessible except on foot, but the tough little native ponies which are as sure footed as goats perform wonderful feats in the way of climbing, and are quite equal to the double duty of carrying their riders, and dragging along their owner who holds by one hand to the pony's tail while he occasionally "progs" him with a sharp stick held in the other hand. This island is, as every one knows, of volcanic origin; although its volcanoes are now either dormant or extinct; and its lofty vertical cliffs rise abruptly from the ocean. The highest peak in the island is more than six thousand feet above the level of the sea. The disintegrated lava forms the best soil in the world for the grape; and the south side of the island, from its more favorable exposure to the sun, is supposed to produce the more delicately flavored wine. Wonderful stories are told of the exquisite sense of taste possessed by the professional "tasters" who never swallow the wine. So soon as they indulge in this luxury they lose the faculty of nice discrimination. We slept securely under the "Stars and Stripes," our hotel being kept by a "Yankee" who hoisted the flag upon his house-top every day, and was not so cosmopolitan, perhaps I should say not so politic, as our St. Thomas friend. He soothed his conscience for associating with "rebels," and avenged himself by charging us heavily, and, no doubt, congratulated himself after our departure, upon having "spoiled the Egyptians." We received many courtesies from Mr. B., an English gentleman, and his family. Our susceptible young men lost their hearts with his _seven_ beautiful daughters, all of them fair, tall, and stately. As soon as the Giraffe was coaled we took our departure for St. John's, Porto Rico. A sea-voyage has elsewhere been described in two lines. "Sometimes we ship a sea, Sometimes we see a ship." The monotony of our voyage was rarely disturbed by either of these incidents. After two days' detention at St. John's for the purpose of coaling we got under way for that haven of blockade-runners, El Dorado of adventurers, and paradise of wreckers and darkies--filthy Nassau. In making our way to this port we had a foretaste of some of the risks and dangers to be subsequently encountered. In order to economize coal and to lessen the risk of capture I determined to approach Nassau by the "Tongue of Ocean," a deep indentation in the sea bounded on the south by the Bahama Banks; and to reach the "Tongue" it was necessary to cross the whole extent of the "Banks" from Elbow Key light-house. On arriving off the light-house we were disappointed in our hope of finding a pilot, and no alternative was left but to attempt the transit without one, as we had not a sufficient supply of coal to enable us to pursue any other course. Our charts showed twelve feet water all over that portion of the Banks and the Giraffe was drawing eleven feet; but the innumerable black dots on the chart showed where the dangerous coral heads were nearly "awash." On the other hand, we knew there could be no "swell" in such an expanse of shallow water; so waving adieu to the keeper of the light-house we pointed the Giraffe's bow for the Banks, which showed ahead of us smooth as a lake, and almost milk white. It was early in the morning when we started, and the distance to be run to the "Tongue" was only sixty or seventy miles. Taking my station in the fore-rigging I could easily direct the helmsman bow to avoid those treacherous black spots. It was the Florida Reef over again, and my experience in surveying that coast stood us in good stead here. We were so fortunate, indeed, as never once to touch the bottom although the lead frequently showed less than twelve feet; and about 3 o'clock in the afternoon the welcome blue water showed itself ahead. It would have been impossible to make the transit in cloudy weather; but the day was fortunately clear. Occasionally when a "trade" cloud would approach the sun, we would slow down or stop until it had passed by, when the black patches would again be visible. The iron plates of the Giraffe would have been pierced as completely as if made of pasteboard, if she had come into contact even at low speed with those jagged coral heads. Before dark we were out of danger, and next morning came to anchor in the harbor of Nassau. Nassau was a busy place during the war; the chief depot of supplies for the Confederacy, and the port to which most of the cotton was shipped. Its proximity to the ports of Charleston and Wilmington gave it superior advantages, while it was easily accessible to the swift, light draft blockade-runners; all of which carried Bahama bank pilots who knew every channel, while the United States cruisers having no Bank pilots and drawing more water were compelled to keep the open sea. Occasionally one of the latter would heave to outside the harbor and send in a boat to communicate with the American Consul; but their usual cruising ground was off Abaco Light. Nassau is situated upon the island of New Providence, one of the Bahamas, and is the chief town and capital of the group. All of the islands are surrounded by coral reefs and shoals, through which are channels more or less intricate. That wonderful "River in the Sea"--the Gulf Stream--which flows between the Florida coast and the Bahama Banks is only forty miles broad between the nearest opposite points; but there is no harbor on that part of the Florida coast. The distance from Charleston to Nassau is about five hundred miles, and from Wilmington about five hundred and fifty. Practically, however, they were equi-distant because blockade-runners bound from either port, in order to evade the cruisers lying in wait off Abaco, were compelled to give that head-land a wide berth, by keeping well to the eastward of it. But in avoiding Scylla they ran the risk of striking upon Charybdis; for the dangerous reefs of Eleuthera were fatal to many vessels. The chief industries of the islands before the war were the collection and exportation of sponges, corals, etc., and wrecking, to which was added, during the war, the lucrative trade of picking and stealing. The inhabitants may be classed as "amphibious," and are known among sailors by the generic name of "Conchs." The wharves of Nassau, during the war, were always piled high with cotton, and huge warehouses were stored full of supplies for the Confederacy. The harbor was crowded at times, with lead-colored, short masted, rakish looking steamers; the streets alive with bustle and activity during day time and swarming with drunken revellers by night. Every nationality on earth, nearly, was represented there; the high wages ashore and afloat, tempting adventurers of the baser sort; and the prospect of enormous profits offering equally strong inducements to capitalists of a speculative turn. The monthly wages of a sailor on board a blockade-runner was one hundred dollars in gold, and fifty dollars bounty at the end of a successful trip; and this could be accomplished under favorable circumstances in seven days. The captains and pilots sometimes received as much as five thousand dollars besides perquisites. All of the cotton shipped on account of the Confederate Government was landed and transferred to a mercantile firm in Nassau, who received a commission for assuming ownership. It was then shipped under the British or other neutral flag to Europe. The firm is reputed to have made many thousands of dollars by these commissions. But, besides the cotton shipped by the Confederate Government, many private companies and individuals were engaged in the trade; and it was computed (so large were the gains) that the owner could afford to lose a vessel and cargo after two successful voyages. Three or four steamers were wholly owned by the Confederate Government; a few more were owned by it in part, and the balance were private property; but these last were compelled to carry out, as portion of their cargo, cotton on government account, and to bring in supplies. On board the government steamers, the crew which was shipped abroad, and under the articles regulating the "merchant marine," received the same wages as were paid on board the other blockade-runners; but the captains and subordinate officers of the government steamers who belonged to the Confederate States Navy, and the pilots, who were detailed from the army for this service, received the pay in gold of their respective grades. As the Giraffe's crew was shipped only for the voyage to Nassau "and a market," it was necessary to cancel the engagement of those who did not wish to follow her fortunes further. A few of them preferring their discharge were paid off, and provided with a passage to England; and the balance signed articles for Havana "and a market." Everything being in readiness, we sailed on December 26th, 1862. Having on board a Charleston pilot, as well as one for Wilmington, I had not determined, on sailing, which port to attempt; but having made the land near Charleston bar during thick weather on the night of the 28th, our pilot was afraid to venture further. We made an offing, therefore, before daylight; and circumstances favoring Wilmington, we approached the western bar on the night of December 29th. We had been biding our time since twelve o'clock that day close in to the shore about forty miles southwest of the bar and in the deep bay formed by the coast between Wilmington and Charleston. The weather had been so clear and the sea so smooth that we had communicated with the Confederate pickets at several points along the coast; and no sail was visible even from aloft until about three o'clock in the afternoon, when a cruiser hove in sight to the north and east. As she was coasting along the land and approaching us we turned the Giraffe's bow away from her, and got up more steam, easily preserving our distance, as the stranger was steaming at a low rate of speed. A little while before sunset the strange steamer wore round, and we immediately followed her example, gradually lessening the distance between us, and an hour or more after dark we had the pleasure of passing inside of her at anchor off New River Inlet. She was evidently blockading that harbor, and had run down the coast to reconnoitre. Before approaching the bar I had adopted certain precautions against disaster which I ever afterwards followed. Any one who showed an open light when we were near the fleet was liable to the penalty of death upon the spot; a cool, steady leadsman was stationed on each quarter to give the soundings; a staunch old quartermaster took the wheel and a kedge, bent to a stout hawser, was slung at each quarter. All lights were extinguished; the fire-room hatch covered over with a tarpaulin; and a hood fitted over the binnacle, with a small circular opening for the helmsman to see the compass through the aperture. About ten o'clock we passed inside the first ship of the blockading fleet, about five miles outside the bar; and four or five others appeared in quick succession as the Giraffe was cutting rapidly through the smooth water. We were going at full speed when, with a shock that threw nearly every one on board off his feet, the steamer was brought up "all standing" and hard and fast aground! The nearest blockader was fearfully close to us, and all seemed lost. We had struck upon "the Lump," a small sandy knoll two or three miles outside the bar with deep water on both sides of it. That knoll was the "rock ahead" during the whole war, of the blockade-runners, for it was impossible in the obscurity of night to judge accurately of the distance to the coast, and there were no landmarks or bearings which would enable them to steer clear of it. Many a ton of valuable freight has been launched overboard there; and, indeed, all the approaches to Wilmington are paved as thickly with valuables as a certain place is said to be with good intentions. The first order was to lower the two quarter boats: in one of them were packed the Scotch lithographers who were safely landed; and a kedge was lowered into the other with orders to the officer in charge to pull off shore and drop the kedge. The risk, though imminent, was much reduced after our panic stricken passengers had got fairly away from the ship; and the spirits of officers and crew rose to meet the emergency. The glimmer of a light, or an incautiously loud order would bring a broadside from that frowning battery crashing through our bulwarks. So near the goal (I thought) and now to fail! but I did not despair. To execute the order to drop the kedge, it was necessary to directly approach one of the blockaders, and so near to her did they let it go, that the officer of the boat was afraid to call out that it had been dropped; and muffled the oars as he returned to make his report. Fortunately, the tide was rising. After twenty or thirty minutes of trying suspense, the order was given "to set taut on the hawser," and our pulses beat high as the stern of the Giraffe slowly and steadily turned seaward. In fact, she swung round upon her stem as upon a pivot. As soon as the hawser "trended" right astern, the engineer was ordered to "back hard," and in a very few revolutions of the wheels the ship slid rapidly off into deep water. The hawser was instantly cut, and we headed directly for the bar channel. We were soon out of danger from the blockading fleet; but as we drew in toward Fort Caswell, one of the look-outs on the wheel-house (who, like the thief in Shakespeare, "feared each bush an officer") would every now and then say to the pilot, "that looks like a boat on the star-board bow, Mr. D." "There are breakers on the port-bow, Mr. D." And at last "There is a rock right ahead, Mr. D;" at which last remark, D., losing all patience, exclaimed, "G----d A----y, man, there isn't a rock as big as my hat in the whole d----d State of North Carolina." A too sweeping assertion, but quite true as applied to the coast. We passed safely over the bar; and steaming up the river, anchored off Smithville a little before midnight of the 29th of December, 1862. The Scotch lithographers found abundant employment in Richmond, as the Government "paper mills" were running busily during the whole war; but the style of their work was not altogether faultless, for it was said that the counterfeit notes, made at the North, and extensively circulated through the South, could be easily detected by the superior execution of the engraving upon them! The natural advantages of Wilmington for blockade-running were very great, chiefly owing to the fact, that there are two separate and distinct approaches to Cape Fear River, i. e., either by "New Inlet" to the north of Smith's Island, or by the "western bar" to the south of it. This island is ten or eleven miles in length; but the Frying Pan Shoals extend ten or twelve miles further south, making the distance by sea between the two bars thirty miles or more, although the direct distance between them is only six or seven miles. From Smithville, a little village nearly equi-distant from either bar, both blockading fleets could be distinctly seen, and the outward bound blockade-runners could take their choice through which of them to run the gauntlet. The inward bound blockade-runners, too, were guided by circumstances of wind and weather; selecting that bar over which they would cross, after they had passed the Gulf Stream; and shaping their course accordingly. The approaches to both bars were clear of danger, with the single exception of the "Lump" before mentioned; and so regular are the soundings that the shore can be coasted for miles within a stone's throw of the breakers. These facts explain why the United States fleet were unable wholly to stop blockade-running. It was, indeed, impossible to do so; the result to the very close of the war proves this assertion; for in spite of the vigilance of the fleet, many blockade-runners were afloat when Fort Fisher was captured. In truth the passage through the fleet was little dreaded; for although the blockade-runner might receive a shot or two, she was rarely disabled; and in proportion to the increase of the fleet, the greater would be the danger (we knew,) of their firing into each other. As the boys before the deluge used to say, they would be very apt "to miss the cow and kill the calf." The chief danger was upon the open sea; many of the light cruisers having great speed. As soon as one of them discovered a blockade-runner during daylight she would attract other cruisers in the vicinity by sending up a dense column of smoke, visible for many miles in clear weather. A "cordon" of fast steamers stationed ten or fifteen miles apart _inside the Gulf Stream_, and in the course from Nassau and Bermuda to Wilmington and Charleston, would have been more effectual in stopping blockade-running than the whole United States Navy concentrated off those ports; and it was unaccountable to us why such a plan did not occur to good Mr. Welles; but it was not our place to suggest it. I have no doubt, however, that the fraternity to which I then belonged would have unanimously voted thanks and a service of plate to the Hon. Secretary of the United States Navy for this oversight. I say _inside the Gulf Stream_, because every experienced captain of a blockade-runner made a point to cross "the stream" early enough in the afternoon, if possible, to establish the ship's position by chronometer so as to escape the influence of that current upon his dead reckoning. The lead always gave indication of our distance from the land, but not, of course, of our position; and the numerous salt works along the coast, where evaporation was produced by fire, and which were at work night and day were visible long before the low coast could be seen. Occasionally the whole inward voyage would be made under adverse conditions. Cloudy, thick weather and heavy gales would prevail so as to prevent any solar or lunar observations, and reduce the dead reckoning to mere guess work. In these cases the nautical knowledge and judgment of the captain would be taxed to the utmost. The current of the Gulf Stream varies in velocity and (within certain limits) in direction; and the stream, itself almost as well defined as a river within its banks under ordinary circumstances, is impelled by a strong gale toward the direction in which the wind is blowing, overflowing its banks as it were. The counter current, too, inside of the Gulf Stream is much influenced by the prevailing winds. Upon one occasion, while in command of the R. E. Lee, we had experienced very heavy and thick weather; and had crossed the Stream and struck soundings about midday. The weather then clearing so that we could obtain an altitude near meridian we found ourselves at least forty miles north of our supposed position and near the shoals which extend in a southerly direction off Cape Lookout. It would be more perilous to run out to sea than to continue on our course, for we had passed through the off shore line of blockaders, and the sky had become perfectly clear. I determined to personate a transport bound to Beaufort, which was in the possession of the United States forces, and the coaling station of the fleet blockading Wilmington. The risk of detection was not very great, for many of the captured blockade-runners were used as transports and dispatch vessels. Shaping our course for Beaufort, and slowing down, as we were in no haste to get there, we passed several vessels, showing United States colors to them all. Just as we were crossing through the ripple of shallow water off the "tail" of the shoals, we dipped our colors to a sloop of war which passed three or four miles to the south of us. The courtesy was promptly responded to; but I have no doubt her captain thought me a lubberly and careless seaman to shave the shoals so closely. We stopped the engines when no vessel was in sight; and I was relieved from a heavy burden of anxiety as the sun sank below the horizon; and the course was shaped at full speed for Masonboro' Inlet. A few days after our arrival at Wilmington the Giraffe was transferred to the Confederate Government, and named the R. E. Lee; and thenceforward carried the Confederate flag. Our friend the Major fulfilled his promise of meeting me in Richmond, having made his way across the Potomac. He made a gallant effort to get possession of the ship; but Mr. Seddon, who had succeeded Mr. Randolph as Secretary of War during our absence, contended that the Government had a juster claim; and the facts of the case were too stubborn even for the Major's determined persistence. "The best laid plans of mice and men Gang aft agley." The Secretary of War having carried his point, the Major directed his efforts towards another quarter, and more successfully. Indeed he rarely failed in any enterprise requiring nerve, perseverance, tact, and ability; and it may well be added that he seemed to accumulate wealth to enjoy the pleasure of spending it worthily. His unostentatious charities during the war were almost boundless; and hundreds of widows and orphans blessed him for the relief which he extended to them in those dark days, when even medicines were contraband of war, and the simplest necessaries of life were beyond the reach of nearly every one in the Confederacy. CHAPTER VIII. Dyer and the Sailing Captain.--First Voyage to Nassau.--Major Ficklen and the Two Young Lieutenants.--Our Old Skipper "Captain Dick."--Bermuda.--The Races there and elsewhere.--Description of Bermuda.--Moore, the Poet, and his Rival Mr. Tucker.--Tame Fish.--The Naval Station.--Col. B.'s Accident. Before sailing with our cargo of cotton for Nassau, a signal officer was detailed for the ship, (signal stations having been established along the coast for the benefit of the blockade-runners;) and I was compelled to discharge my pilot Dyer. He and the sailing captain, who was to take passage with us, his engagement having terminated with the transfer of the vessel to the Confederate flag, had been quarreling incessantly during my absence from Wilmington, and had finally become mortal foes. An hour or more after my return to the ship, while sitting in the cabin, I heard loud and angry altercation overhead; and going on deck, I saw Dyer pacing up and down the wharf, along side which the "Lee" was lying; while the sailing captain was bidding him defiance from the steamer's deck; Dyer with a drawn knife in his hand, and the captain armed with a handspike. They had exhausted their vocabulary of abuse, but neither was disposed to invade the enemy's territory. At last Dyer cried out "Come ashore you d----d English hog, and I'll make mince meat of you!" I shall never forget the expression of the captain's face at this cruel taunt. He was literally struck speechless for a moment; then turning to me and drawing himself up with a thumb in his arm-hole, and the handspike over his shoulder, he exclaimed, "Now, sir, isn't that _too_ bad! Do I _look_ like a Henglish og?" To this pathetic appeal, I could but answer "no," but the fact was they bore a ludicrous resemblance to two boars about to engage in mortal combat; the captain, with his jolly, rosy face and portly figure, not at all unlike a sleek, well fed "White Chester," and Dyer quite as much resembling a lean, lank, wiry "razor-back" native of his own pine woods. I discharged Dyer. The poor fellow's subsequent fate was a sad one. While acting as pilot of a blockade-runner, inward bound, he committed the folly one day of saying that he would put a steamer under his charge ashore, before he would be captured. The remark was overheard and treasured up by some of the crew; and a night or two afterwards the steamer ran aground on the bar in the attempt to enter Cape Fear River, and was deserted. As she was under the shelter of the guns of Fort Caswell, a boat from shore was sent off to her next morning, and poor Dyer was found in a dying condition on the deck with his skull fractured. He had paid for his folly with his life. Our first voyage to Nassau was made without any unusual incident. The Major took passage with us by permission of the Secretary of War, and his practical jokes amused every one except the butt of them; even the aggrieved party, himself, being frequently obliged to laugh at his own expense. There were two very young lieutenants of the Confederate Navy then in Nassau, on their way to Europe; the senior of whom _ranking_ the other by one or two days, assumed much authority over him. One day the Major with the help of an accomplice, who was supposed to be able to imitate my handwriting, addressed an official letter to the senior in my name, informing him that both of them had been reported to me for unofficer-like and unbecoming conduct, and requiring them to repair immediately on board the Lee with their luggage, as I felt it to be an imperative duty to take them back to the Confederacy for trial by court-martial. The junior demurred, believing it to be a hoax, but the senior peremptorily ordered him to accompany him on board. They were caught in a drenching shower on their way to the Lee; and they made their appearance in the cabin in a sorry plight, reporting themselves "in obedience to orders," handing me the written document. As I pronounced it a forgery, the junior turned to the senior and exclaimed, "What did I tell you? didn't I say it was a hoax of that d----d Major Ficklen?" They started to the shore, vowing vengeance; but the Major had posted his sentinels at every street corner near the landing, and successfully eluded them. They were to sail that afternoon at four o'clock; and after a fruitless chase, went to the hotel to get dinner. While sitting at the table, and some time after soup was served, a waiter came to them "with Major Ficklen's compliments and the pleasure of a glass of champagne with them." After a hurried consultation, they decided to bury the hatchet; and bowed over their wine to the Major, who had just slipped into a seat reserved for him at the other end of the long and crowded table, and was smiling graciously in their direction. As Ficklen bade them "good-bye," he said "Don't forget me, my sons!" "No, indeed," they replied, "you may swear we never will!" Seeing the necessity, while at Nassau, of carrying a Bahama Banks pilot, I engaged our worthy old skipper, Captain Dick Watkins, who served under my command for many months, maintaining and deserving the respect of all on board. His son, and only heir to his name and fortune, Napoleon Bonaparte, gave him much anxiety. "Ah, Sir," he said on one occasion, "dat b----y's heddication has cost me a sight of money, as much as ten dollars a year for two or three years, and he don't know nothing hardly." During one of our voyages he had left his wife quite sick at home. My young friend Johnny T---- was endeavoring to console him. "But the ole 'oman is _mighty_ sick, Master Johnny," said the old fellow, "and I don't spect to see her no more." Johnny's heart was touched. The silence was broken by Captain Dick after a long pause, "dere are some mighty pretty yaller gals in _Nassau_, Master Johnny!" He had the profoundest respect for the head of the firm of A----y and Co. in Nassau, the "King Conch" as he was irreverently styled by us outside barbarians. Speaking of the firm upon one occasion he assured me the members were as wealthy as the "_Roths children_." My good purser and the old captain were fast friends, the former fighting the old fellow's battles in Rebeldom; and once, when the latter was unjustly treated in Wilmington, the purser "took the daggers," and bore him triumphantly through the difficulty. We made two or three trips between Wilmington and Nassau during the winter of 1862-3 encountering no extraordinary hazards. During one of them we arrived within ten or twelve miles of the western bar too early in the night to cross it, as the ebb tide was still running; and it was always my custom to cross the bar on a rising tide, if possible. All the usual preparations had been made on board for running through the fleet, and as no sail was in sight we steamed cautiously in toward the land until we arrived within a cable's length of the shore, and in the dense shadow of a comparatively high bluff. Here we dropped a kedge and rode by the hawser. Although there was no moon, the stars were shining brightly; and the air was so calm and still, that the silence was oppressive. While we were lying in the friendly shadow of the bluff, one of the blockading fleet could be occasionally seen from our deck, steaming slowly along upon her "beat" a short distance outside of us. When the time arrived for making the dash at the bar, the kedge was run up to the bows by willing hands, and the "Lee" started at full speed. When the land was once fairly got hold of, and our exact position known, the chances were ten to one in our favor. No blockader could get inshore of us to cut us off from the bar, and we believed that we could either go by or go over anything in our course; and in extremity we could beach the vessel with the probability of being able to save most, if not the whole of the cargo. During the month of March, 1863, the Lee's port of destination was St. George's, Bermuda. This island is easily accessible on the southern side, and was much resorted to by blockade-runners. Surrounded on all other sides by dangerous coral reefs, which extend for many miles into deep water, a vessel of heavy draft can approach from the south within a cable's length of the shore. A light of the first class at the west end of the group composing the "Bermudas," is visible for many miles in clear weather. It may as well be mentioned here, that the blockade-runners rarely approached _any_ head land during daylight; "preferring darkness rather than light." The agent of the Confederate Government, Major Walker, with his staff of assistants, lived at St. George's; and he and his accomplished wife always welcomed their compatriots with genuine hospitality. The house of Mr. Black (an assistant of the Major) was also open to us, and no sick exile from home will ever forget the tender nursing of Mrs. Black and the kindness of that whole family. The little graveyard attached to the Episcopal church at St. George's, contains all that is mortal of several gallant youths from the south, who died of yellow fever; but they were soothed in the hours of their last illness by Christian counsel, and by tender hands. The white natives of the island, too, extended many attentions and civilities to Confederates, so that St. George's became not only a harbor of refuge, but a pleasant resting place after the excitement and fatigue of an outward voyage. The same antagonism which prevails between the white and the black races, wherever they live together upon equal terms, exists in Bermuda. People are classed there as "colored and _plain_" and a fine of one pound sterling is imposed for calling the former "negroes." There must be a natural antipathy between the two races; or at least it seems to exist in the heart of the negro, for wherever he has the power, he shows his dislike and jealousy of the white man. In Hayti, since the French inhabitants were murdered, the jealousy and hatred of the negroes have been directed against the mulattoes, who have been nearly exterminated; and the whites in Jamaica would have shared the same fate at the hands of a brutal horde of black savages a few years ago, but for the premature exposure of the plot, and the vigorous action of the Governor of the island. In the model republic of Liberia no white man can obtain the right of citizenship, own real estate, nor sit upon a jury. Nowhere in the world did there exist the same kindly relation between the two races, as in the South before the war; and even now, the older negroes seek aid and advice, when in difficulties, from their former owners, although they have been misled by unprincipled adventurers, by whom they have been taught to distrust them in politics. A short time ago Dr. B----, a Virginia gentleman, was asked by a Northerner his opinion of the negroes' feelings toward the Southern people. "I will tell you," replied Dr. B. "If you and I were candidates for the same office, you would get every negro's vote; but, if one of them wanted advice or assistance he would come to me or some other southerner." The group composing the "Bermudas" still justifies the reputation given to it by one of the British admirals of the "olden time." The "Bermoothees," he records in his quaintly written journal, "is a hellish place for thunder, lightning, and storms." Shakspeare, too, sends "Ariel" to "fetch dew" from the "still vexed Bermoothes" for his exacting master Prospero. But although gales of wind during the winter, and thunder storms in the summer, are so prevalent, the climate is delightful. There are upward of three hundred islands in the group, most of them mere barren coral rocks; and the largest, St. George's, is not more than three miles long, and about a mile in width. The roads are cut out of the soft coral, which hardens by exposure to the atmosphere, and are perfect. There are several very curious natural caves about five miles distant from St. George's; and near one of them is still pointed out the calabash tree under which the Irish poet, Tom Moore, is said to have composed one of his sonnets to _Nea_, who afterwards became the wife of Mr. Tucker, and left many descendants on the island. The venerable old gentleman was living, in his ninetieth year, when I was last in St. George's; and although the bride of his youth, and his rival the poet, had been long mouldering in their graves, he was still so jealous of the latter that he would not allow his great-grandchildren to keep a copy of the poet's works in the house. The only indigenous tree upon the islands, I believe, is the cedar; the oleander, which now grows everywhere, having been introduced by Mr. Tucker. Nearly all of the tropical fruits grow there, and many indigenous to the temperate zone; but the staple products are potatoes and onions, chiefly for the New York market, and arrow root. The waters teem with fish of the most brilliantly beautiful colors. An ingenious individual has succeeded in taming a number, by availing himself of a natural cavity in the coral situated close to the shore and a few miles distant from St. George's. The sea water, percolating through the coral, supplies the basin. At a whistle the tame fish swim close to the edge and feed from one's hand. There is a naval station at "Ireland Island," and a floating dock (which was built in England and towed out,) capable of taking in the largest-sized man of war. The naval officers attached to the dock-yard, and to the men of war, were always friendly and more than civil to Confederates; being sometimes, indeed, too profuse in their hospitality. Upon one occasion, Col. ---- a personal friend of mine, had obtained a furlough, and permission to make a trip in the Lee, for the sake of his health, broken by the hardships of a campaign in northern Virginia. The purser, who was always ready for a "lark," and the Colonel, who was of an inquiring turn of mind, paid a visit to the dock-yard. After an inspection of it, they went on board several of the men of war in harbor, receiving on board each of them refreshments, solid and liquid. They had crossed over to Ireland Island in a sail-boat, and when about to return, were escorted to the wharf by a party of officers. Their boat was lying outside of another, containing a fat old washerwoman; and Col.----, who had had no experience in boating in his life, except "paddling his own canoe" upon a mill pond in Amelia county, Va., stopped to exchange farewell salutations with the party of officers on the wharf, while he stood with one foot in the "stern sheets" of the washerwoman's boat, and the other in his own. The boatman forward, ignorant of the critical state of affairs, hoisted the jib, and the boat, under the influence of a stiff breeze, began to "pay off" before the wind. Before Col. ---- could "realize the situation," he was in the attitude of the Colossus of Rhodes. The purser promptly seized one of his legs, and the fat washerwoman with equal presence of mind, laid hold of the other. Each was determined not to let go, and the strain upon the Colonel must have been terrific; but he was equal to the emergency. Taking in the whole situation, he deliberately drew his watch out of his pocket, and holding it high above his head with both hands, he said, with his usually imperturbable calmness, "Well I reckon you had better let go!" His endeavors to protect his watch proved to have been fruitless; the purser indeed always insists that he touched bottom in three fathoms of water. He returned on board the Lee to be wrung out and dried. CHAPTER IX. We sail for Wilmington.--Thick Weather on the Coast.--Anchored among the Blockading Fleet.--The "Mound."--Running the Blockade by Moonlight.--A Device to mislead the Enemy.--The man Hester. After discharging our cargo of cotton and loading with supplies for the Confederate Government, chiefly for the army of Northern Virginia, we sailed for Wilmington in the latter part of the month of March. Our return voyage was uneventful, until we reached the coast near Masonborough Inlet, distant about nine miles north of the "New Inlet" bar. The weather had been pleasant during the voyage, and we had sighted the _fires_ from the salt works along the coast, but before we could get hold of the land, a little before midnight, a densely black cloud made its appearance to the north and east; and the rapidity with which it rose and enlarged, indicated too surely that a heavy gale was coming from that quarter. We had been unable to distinguish any landmark before the storm burst in all its fury upon us, and the rain poured in torrents. Our supply of coals was too limited to enable us, with prudence, to put to sea again; and of course, the marks or ranges for crossing the bar would not be visible fifty yards in such thick weather. Being quite confident of our position, however, I determined to run down the coast, and anchor off the bar till daylight. Knowing the "trend" of the land north of New Inlet bar, the engine was slowed down and the lead kept going on both sides. The sounding continued quite regular three and three and a quarter fathoms, with the surf thundering within a stone's throw on our starboard beam, and nothing visible in the blinding torrents of rain. I knew that if my calculated position was correct, the water would shoal very suddenly just before reaching the bar; but a trying hour or more of suspense had passed before the welcome fact was announced by the leadsmen. The course and distance run, and the soundings up to this point proved, beyond doubt, that we had now reached the "horse shoe" north of New Inlet bar. At the moment when both of the leadsmen almost simultaneously called out "and a quarter less three," the helm was put hard a-starboard, and the Lee's bow was pointed seaward. We could not prudently anchor in less than five fathoms water, as the sea was rising rapidly; and that depth would carry us into the midst of the blockading fleet at anchor outside. It seemed an age before the cry came from the leadsmen "by the mark five." The Lee was instantly stopped, and one of the bower anchors let go, veering to thirty fathoms on the chain. The cable was then well stoppered at the "bitts," and unshackled; and two men stationed at the stopper, with axes, and the order to cut the lashings, instantly, when so ordered; the fore-staysail was loosed, and hands stationed at the halliards; and the chief engineer directed to keep up a full head of steam. The night wore slowly away; and once or twice we caught a glimpse, by a flash of lightning, of the blockading fleet around us, rolling and pitching in the heavy sea. The watch having been set, the rest of the officers and crew were permitted to go below, except the chief engineer and the pilot. We paced the bridge, anxiously waiting for daylight. It came at last, and there, right astern of us, looming up through the mist and rain, was the "Mound." We had only to steer for it, to be on our right course for crossing the bar. The stoppers were cut, the engine started ahead, and the fore stay-sail hoisted. As the chain rattled through the hawse-hole, the Lee wore rapidly around, and the Confederate flag was run up to the peak as she dashed toward the bar with the speed of a greyhound slipped from the leash. The bar was a sheet of foam and surf, breaking sheer across the channel; but the great length of the Lee enabled her to ride over three or four of the short chopping seas at once, and she never touched the bottom. In less than half an hour from the time when we slipped our chain under the guns of the fleet, we had passed beyond Fort Fisher, and were on our way up the river to Wilmington. The "Mound" was an artificial one, erected by Colonel Lamb, who commanded Fort Fisher. Two heavy guns were mounted upon it, and it eventually became a site for a light, and very serviceable to blockade-runners; but even at this period, it was an excellent landmark. Joined by a long low isthmus of sand with the higher main land, its regular conical shape enabled the blockade-runners easily to identify it from the offing; and in clear weather, it showed plain and distinct against the sky at night. I believe the military men used to laugh slyly at the Colonel for undertaking its erection, predicting that it would not stand; but the result showed the contrary; and whatever difference of opinion may have existed with regard to its value as a military position, there can be but one as to its utility to the blockade-runners, for it was not a landmark, alone, along this monotonous coast; but one of the range lights for crossing New Inlet bar was placed on it. Seamen will appreciate at its full value, this advantage; but it may be stated, for the benefit of the unprofessional reader, that while the compass bearing of an object does not enable a pilot to steer a vessel with sufficient accuracy through a narrow channel, _range lights_ answer the purpose completely. These lights were only set after signals had been exchanged between the blockade-runner and the shore station, and were removed immediately after the vessel had entered the river. The range lights were changed as circumstances required; for the New Inlet channel, itself, was and is constantly changing, being materially affected both in depth of water, and in its course, by a heavy gale of wind or a severe freshet in Cape Fear River. The "Lee" continued to make her regular trips either to Nassau or Bermuda, as circumstances required, during the summer of 1863; carrying abroad cotton and naval stores, and bringing in "hardware," as munitions of war were then invoiced. Usually the time selected for sailing was during the "dark of the moon," but upon one occasion, a new pilot had been detailed for duty on board, who failed in many efforts to get the ship over the "rip," a shifting sand bar a mile or more inside the true bar. More than a week of valuable time had thus been lost, but the exigencies of the army being at that time more than usually urgent, I determined to run what appeared to be a very great risk. The tide serving at ten o'clock, we succeeded in crossing the rip at that hour, and as we passed over New Inlet bar, the moon rose in a cloudless sky. It was a calm night too, and the regular beat of our paddles through the smooth water sounded to our ears ominously loud. As we closely skirted the shore, the blockading vessels were plainly visible to us, some at anchor, some under way; and some of them so near to us that we saw, or fancied we saw, with our night glasses, the men on watch on their forecastles; but as we were inside of them all, and invisible against the background of the land, we passed beyond them undiscovered. The roar of the surf breaking upon the beach, prevented the noise of our paddles from being heard. The Lee's head was not pointed seaward, however, until we had run ten or twelve miles along the land so close to the breakers that we could almost have tossed a biscuit into them, and no vessel was to be seen in any direction. Discovery of us by the fleet would probably have been fatal to us, but the risk was really not so great as it appeared; for, as I had been informed by a blockade-runner who had been once captured and released, being a British subject, the vigilance on board the blockading fleet was much relaxed during the moonlit nights. The vessels were sent to Beaufort to coal at these times. My informant was an officer of the British Navy, and was the guest, for a few days after his capture, of Captain Patterson then commanding the blockading fleet off the Cape Fear. Speaking of the arduous service, P. remarked to him, that he never undressed nor retired to bed, during the dark nights; but could enjoy those luxuries when the moon was shining. On this hint I acted. It was about this time that I adopted an expedient which proved of great service on several occasions. A blockade-runner did not often pass through the fleet without receiving one or more shots, but these were always preceded by the flash of a calcium light, or by a blue light; and immediately followed by two rockets thrown in the direction of the blockade-runner. The signals were probably concerted each day for the ensuing night, as they appeared to be constantly changed; but the rockets were invariably sent up. I ordered a lot of rockets from New York. Whenever all hands were called to run through the fleet, an officer was stationed alongside of me on the bridge with the rockets. One or two minutes after our immediate pursuer had sent up his rockets I would direct ours to be discharged at a right angle to our course. The whole fleet would be misled, for even if the vessel which had discovered us were not deceived, the rest of the fleet would be baffled. While we were lying at anchor in the harbor of St. George's, during one of our trips, I was notified by the Governor of the island, that an officer of the Confederate Navy, then held as a prisoner on board one of H. B. M.'s ships of war at the naval anchorage, would be delivered up to me for transportation to the Confederacy, if I would assume the charge. This officer was charged with the murder of a messmate on board the Confederate States steamer Sumter, while lying at Gibraltar. The demand for his extradition, made by the Confederate Government, had been complied with by the British Government after much delay; and he was turned over to me for transportation to the Confederacy. Although the crime appeared to have been committed under circumstances of peculiar atrocity--it being alleged that the victim was asleep at the time he was shot--I so far respected the commission which the criminal bore, as to place him upon parole. Upon reporting his arrival at Wilmington to the Secretary of the Navy, the latter directed me to release him, upon the ground that it would be impossible to convict him by court-martial, all of the witnesses to the transaction being abroad. The man, Hester, was therefore released, and was never heard of again, I believe, during the war; but he has added to his evil reputation since its close, by plying the infamous trade (under the guise of United States Secret Service agent) of false informer and persecutor in several of the Southern States. The General Government failed to exercise its usual careful discrimination in making this appointment! The base renegades are many degrees worse even than the unprincipled adventurers from the North who have so long preyed upon the South. The latter are only thieves and robbers; the former are, in addition, unnatural monsters, who hate their own people and are guilty of the crime of Judas, who betrayed his Lord for thirty pieces of silver. CHAPTER X. The Confederate States Steamer "Florida."--Short Supply of Coal.--The "Florida's" Decks.--Tea and Costly China.--Narrow Escape from Capture.--Miss Lucy G.--Arrival at Bermuda.--Our uneventful Trip inward.--The Johnson's Island Expedition.--Another Narrow Escape.--"Pretty Shooting."--Arrival at Halifax, N. S. During the latter part of July, 1863, the "Lee" was lying in the harbor of St. George's, when the Confederate States steamer "Florida" arrived there in want of coal, of which there happened to be a very limited supply on hand. The most suitable coal was procured with difficulty throughout the war, all of the British coals, although excellent for raising steam, making more or less smoke, and objectionable on that account Exportation of the American anthracite, which would have been almost invaluable, was prohibited by the Government. This is, I believe, the only accessible, or at least available nonbituminous coal in the world; but the best substitute for it is the Welsh semi-bituminous coal, and this was chiefly used by the blockade-runners. The Florida was in greater need of coal than ourselves, for the United States steamer Wachusett came into port a day or two after the former, and Maffitt, in command of the Florida, wished to get to sea first. When belligerent rights were accorded to the Confederate Government by foreign powers, the Confederate cruisers were admitted into their ports upon equal terms with the United States men of war, except that there was no interchange of _official_ courtesies. In order to preserve strict neutrality toward the contending powers, a man of war under either flag was not permitted to follow out of a neutral port a ship under the enemy's colors within twenty-four hours of the sailing of the latter; and it was an equal violation of neutrality for a ship of war under either flag to cruise within a marine league of neutral territory. When occasion required no one could be more resolute than Maffitt, as he had repeatedly shown in the management of the Florida; and especially when he ran the gauntlet in broad daylight through the whole Federal fleet blockading Mobile, and for which affair Preble, then commanding the fleet, was so harshly dealt with; but the chief object of the Confederate cruisers being to destroy the American commerce, an engagement with a United States ship of war was to be avoided, if possible. The Florida's deck, when the crew were at their meals, was a curious scene; the plain fare of the sailors being served in costly china, captured from homeward bound "Indiamen," and the scamps had become fastidious in their taste about tea. I had the pleasure to carry into Wilmington ten or twelve chests of the finest hyson, which were distributed among the hospitals; and a lot of silver ingots made a narrow escape from confiscation. But the law officers in Bermuda, whom Maffitt consulted, assuring him that they would be adjudged legal prize of war in the British courts, they were shipped to England, instead of the Confederacy, and there returned to the claimants. Although there was no exchange of civilities between the officers of the two ships, the sailors harmonized amiably and got drunk together ashore with mutual good will. A jack tar is probably the only representative left of the old "free lance," who served under any flag where he was sure of pay and booty. The blue jackets will fight under any colors, where there is a fair prospect of adventure and prize money. After the Florida had been coaled, there was scarcely a sufficient supply left to carry the Lee into Wilmington under the most favorable circumstances; but it was necessary either to sail at once, or to wait two weeks for the next moon. Our chief engineer had noticed a large pile of coal on one of the wharves rented by the Confederate agent; but the heap had been so long exposed to the weather, and trampled upon for so many months, that it appeared to be a mere pile of dirt. "Necessity having no law," however, we shoveled off the surface; and were surprised to find that it was of very fair quality. It made an abundance of steam, indeed, but burned with great rapidity; and although we took on board an extra supply, we were able to retain barely enough English coal in the bunkers to use in running through the fleet on our next outward voyage. The consequence was the narrowest escape from capture ever made by the Lee while under my command. We were ready to sail for Nassau on the 15th of August, 1863, and had on board, as usual, several passengers. Indeed we rarely made a trip either way without as many as could be accommodated, and many ladies among them. My observation of the conduct of the fair sex, under trying and novel circumstances, has convinced me that they face inevitable dangers more bravely and with more composure than men. I have frequently seen a frail, delicate woman standing erect and unflinching upon the deck, as the shells were whistling and bursting over us, while her lawful protector would be cowering "under the lee" of a cotton bale. I pay this humble tribute of admiration to the sex, but a cynical old bachelor, to whom I once made the observation, replied that in his opinion their insatiable curiosity prevailed even over their natural fears! On our outward voyage we had among our passengers ex-Senator Gwin and his daughter, and Dr. and Mrs. P. We passed safely through the blockading fleet off the New Inlet Bar, receiving no damage from the few shots fired at us, and gained an offing from the coast of thirty miles by daylight. By this time our supply of English coal had been exhausted, and we were obliged to commence upon North Carolina coal of very inferior quality, and which smoked terribly. We commenced on this fuel a little after daylight. Very soon afterwards the vigilant look-out at the mast-head called out "Sail ho!" and in reply to the "where away" from the deck, sang out "Right astern, sir, and in chase." The morning was very clear. Going to the mast-head I could just discern the royal of the chaser; and before I left there, say in half an hour, her top-gallant sail showed above the horizon. By this time the sun had risen in a cloudless sky. It was evident our pursuer would be alongside of us by mid-day at the rate we were then going. The first orders given were to throw overboard the deck-load of cotton and to make more steam. The latter proved to be more easily given than executed; the chief engineer reporting that it was impossible to make steam with the wretched stuff filled with slate and dirt. A moderate breeze from the north and east had been blowing ever since daylight and every stitch of canvas on board the square-rigged steamer in our wake was drawing. We were steering east by south, and it was clear that the chaser's advantages could only be neutralized either by bringing the "Lee" gradually head to wind or edging away to bring the wind aft. The former course would be running toward the land, besides incurring the additional risk of being intercepted and captured by some of the inshore cruisers. I began to edge away therefore, and in two or three hours enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing our pursuer clew up and furl his sails. The breeze was still blowing as fresh as in the morning, but we were now running directly away from it, and the cruiser was going literally as fast as the wind, causing the sails to be rather a hindrance than a help. But she was still gaining on us. A happy inspiration occurred to me when the case seemed hopeless. Sending for the chief engineer I said "Mr. S., let us try cotton, saturated with spirits of turpentine." There were on board, as part of the deck load, thirty or forty barrels of "spirits." In a very few moments, a bale of cotton was ripped open, a barrel tapped, and buckets full of the saturated material passed down into the fire-room. The result exceeded our expectations. The chief engineer, an excitable little Frenchman from Charleston, very soon made his appearance on the bridge, his eyes sparkling with triumph, and reported a full head of steam. Curious to see the effect upon our speed, I directed him to wait a moment until the log was hove. I threw it myself, nine and a half knots. "Let her go now sir!" I said. Five minutes afterwards, I hove the log again, _thirteen and a quarter_. We now began to hold our own, and even to gain a little upon the chaser; but she was fearfully near, and I began to have visions of another residence at Fort Warren, as I saw the "big bone in the mouth" of our pertinacious friend, for she was near enough to us at one time for us to see distinctly the white curl of foam under her bows, called by that name among seamen. I wonder if they could have screwed another turn of speed out of her if they had known that the Lee had on board, in addition to her cargo of cotton, a large amount of gold shipped by the Confederate Government? There continued to be a very slight change in our relative positions till about six o'clock in the afternoon, when the chief engineer again made his appearance, with a very ominous expression of countenance. He came to report that the burnt cotton had choked the flues, and that the steam was running down. "Only keep her going till dark, sir," I replied, "and we will give our pursuer the slip yet." A heavy bank was lying along the horizon to the south and east; and I saw a possible means of escape. At sunset the chaser was about four miles astern and gaining upon us. Calling two of my most reliable officers, I stationed one of them on each wheel-house, with glasses, directing them to let me know the instant they lost sight of the chaser in the growing darkness. At the same time, I ordered the chief engineer to make as black a smoke as possible, and to be in readiness to cut off the smoke, by closing the dampers instantly, when ordered. The twilight was soon succeeded by darkness. Both of the officers on the wheel house called out at the same moment, "We have lost sight of her," while a dense volume of smoke was streaming far in our wake. "Close the dampers," I called out through the speaking tube, and at the same moment ordered the helm "hard a starboard." Our course was altered eight points, at a right angle to the previous one. I remained on deck an hour, and then retired to my state-room with a comfortable sense of security. We had fired so hard that the very planks on the bridge were almost scorching hot, and my feet were nearly blistered. I put them out of the window to cool, after taking off slippers and socks. While in this position, Miss Lucy G. came on the bridge in company with her father. Tapping my foot with her hand, she said, "Ah, captain, I see we are all safe, and I congratulate you!" At one time during the chase, when capture seemed inevitable, the kegs containing the gold had been brought on deck, and one of them opened by my orders, it being my intention to distribute its contents among the officers and crew. Miss Lucy, who preserved her presence of mind throughout the trying scenes of the day, called me aside, and suggested that she should fill a purse for me, and keep it about her person, until the prize crew had taken possession, and all danger of personal search was over, when she would make an opportunity to give it to me; and I have no doubt she would have accomplished her intentions if occasion had required. The chaser proved afterwards to be the "Iroquois." Feeling confident that she would continue on the course toward Abaco, and perhaps have another and more successful chase, I changed the destination of the Lee to Bermuda, where we arrived safely two days afterward. Upon the arrival of the Lee at Wilmington, after one more trip to Nassau, I was summoned by telegraph to Richmond. An attempt was to be made for the release of the prisoners at Johnson's Island. This island, situated in the harbor of Sandusky, on Lake Erie, was supposed to be easily accessible from Canada, and the Canadian shore; but it was left to the judgment of the officer in command how the details were to be arranged, his sole explicit instructions being not to violate the neutrality of British territory. How this was to be avoided has ever seemed impossible to me, but having been selected to command the expedition, I resolved to disregard all personal consequences, and to leave the responsibility to be borne by the Confederate Government. A party of twenty-six officers of the different grades was detailed for the service. The Lee, laden with a cargo of cotton, was to carry us to Halifax, N. S.; the cotton to be consigned to a firm there, who were to purchase, with a part of the proceeds, blankets, shoes, etc., for the army; the balance to be retained for the benefit of the prisoners, if released. My successor in command of the Lee took passage with us. We sailed for Halifax on the night of October 10th, 1863. The season was so far advanced, that we could not afford to lose even a day; we therefore dropped down the Cape Fear River to Smithville as soon as the preparations were completed, and although the night was very clear, I determined to attempt the passage through the fleet soon after dark, so as to get as far north along the coast as possible before daylight. We crossed the western bar about nine o'clock at night, and instead of "hugging" the shore, which would have carried us too far to the southward and westward, the course was shaped so as to clear the Frying Pan Shoals. We had been running at full speed for nearly an hour, when a shot came whizzing a few feet over our bulwarks, and struck the water just beyond us; it was followed immediately by another, which striking a little short "ricocheted" over us; and then a third, which crashing through the starboard bulwarks, burst in a cotton bale on the port side, and set fire to it; several men being wounded by splinters and fragments of the shells. The flames leaped high into the air, and there was a momentary confusion on board, but the order to throw the burning bale overboard was promptly executed, and for some time afterwards we could see it blazing far astern. We never saw the cruiser which fired at us, as she was inshore, and although several more shots were fired, each succeeding one flew wider from the mark. We promptly sent up our two rockets abeam, and experienced no further trouble, easily avoiding a sloop of war cruising off the end of the Frying Pan Shoals. The fact is, a blockade-runner was almost as invisible at night as Harlequin in the pantomime. Nothing showed above the deck but the two short masts, and the smoke-stack; and the lead colored hull could scarcely be seen at the distance of one hundred yards. Even in a clear day, they were not easily discovered. Upon one occasion, when bound to Wilmington, we had crossed the Gulf Stream and struck soundings, when the look-out aloft reported a cruiser in sight ahead, and lying "_a-hull_" with her broadside exposed to us. It was evident, of course, that we were undiscovered so long as she lay in this position, and we continued to steam towards her, until we could plainly see her broadside guns. It was time for us to stop, but we preserved the same distance, undiscovered, for at least two hours. The engineer then reporting that the steam was running down, I directed him to fire up cautiously. The second shovel-full had scarcely been tossed into the furnace when a slight puff of smoke passed out of our smoke-stack, and at the same instant, the cruiser ahead wore round, and commenced a pursuit. There was clearly no want of vigilance on board of her. But to return from this digression. By next morning we had got beyond dangerous waters. Some amusement was occasioned at the breakfast table by Johnny T., who had overheard the soliloquy of Colonel B. the night before. The Colonel, who was a member of the expedition, had seen service in the army of Northern Virginia. He was sitting upon the wheel house when the first shot was fired, and calmly remarked (to no one in particular,) "that is pretty firing," at the second "that is _very_ pretty firing," and when the third shell burst upon the deck, he jumped upon his feet and exclaimed, with much emphasis, "if that isn't the prettiest firing I ever saw, I wish I may be d----d!" CHAPTER XI. The Lee Captured at Last.--Sandy Keith alias Thomassen. Recruiting in the British Provinces for the United States Army.--Failure of the Expedition.--Return to Bermuda. On our voyage to Halifax, we passed many vessels, and exciting no suspicion, for at that period many of the captured blockade-runners were afloat in the United States service. We showed American colors to those which passed near us and once, in thick weather off New York, we passed within hailing distance of a man of war bound South. We arrived at Halifax the 16th of October. The cargo of cotton was consigned to the firm of B. Wier & Co. with instructions to purchase shoes, etc., with a part of the proceeds, and to hold the balance to my credit. There was then no agent of the Confederate Government in Halifax, but I had taken letters of introduction from a mercantile house in London to this firm to be used in case of touching there on the way back from Glasgow the year before. When I received my instructions from the Secretary of the Navy before leaving Richmond, I wished to ascertain to whom the cargo was to be consigned on our arrival at Halifax; and then learned from the Secretary of State, to whom I was referred, that there was no accredited agent of the government there. In this dilemma I sought counsel of my good friend Mr. Seddon, Secretary of War, who advised me to act according to my own judgment. I therefore directed the bills of lading, invoices, etc., to be made out with B. Wier & Co. as consignees. In no case, I believe, did the Confederate Government appear as the shipper or consignor. Every cargo was supposed to be owned by private individuals; and the blockade-runners were regularly entered and cleared at the Confederate Custom House. Upon this occasion the Lee's papers were closely scrutinized by the collector of the customs at Halifax, who did me the honor of personal attention; but he could find no flaw in them, and the vessel was regularly entered, with little more than the customary delay. The Lee had made her last voyage under the Confederate flag. Sailing for Wilmington with a full cargo, she was captured off the coast of North Carolina. The land had been made the night before under quite favorable circumstances, but neither the captain, nor the pilot, being willing to assume the responsibility of taking charge of the vessel, the Lee was put to sea again, and by further culpable mismanagement, she fell an easy prey next morning to one of the United States cruisers. She had run the blockade twenty-one times while under my command, and had carried abroad between six thousand and seven thousand bales of cotton, worth at that time about two millions of dollars in gold, and had carried into the Confederacy equally valuable cargoes. My staunch old helmsman, who had been released in New York by claiming British protection, and who started at once in search of me, met me in Halifax on our return from the Johnson's Island expedition. He actually shed tears as he narrated the train of circumstances which led to the capture. "She would have gone in by herself," he said, "if they had only let her alone;" for indeed it was evident to all on board the morning of her capture, that she had been close in to the shore within a few miles of the New Inlet Bar. She had not reached the bar, however, so that the pilot's course in refusing to take charge was justifiable; but the fatal error was committed by not making a good offing before daylight. At the time of her capture, she was not more than twenty miles from the land, and in the deep bay formed by the coast between Masonborough Inlet and the Cape Lookout Shoals. The arrival of so large a party of Confederates in Halifax attracted attention, and it was essential to the successful execution of the project, that all suspicion should be allayed. The party, therefore, was divided into groups of three or four individuals, who were directed to report, in person, at Montreal, each one being strictly enjoined to secrecy and discretion; for although the precise object of the expedition was only known to three of its members, Lieutenants R. Minor, Ben. Loyall and myself, every one belonging to it was quite well aware that it was hostile to the United States Government. They were a set of gallant young fellows, with a single exception. Who he was and where he came from, none of us knew; but he had been ordered by the Secretary of the Navy to report to me for duty. We believed him to be a traitor and a spy; and succeeded in ridding ourselves of him the day after our arrival at Halifax, by advancing him a month's wages. No member of the expedition ever saw him again. The most officiously zealous friend and partisan whom we all encountered in Halifax was Mr. "Sandy" Keith, who was facetiously called the Confederate Consul. By dint of a brazen assurance, a most obliging manner, and the lavish expenditure of money, "profusus sui alieni appetens"--he ingratiated himself with nearly every southerner who visited Halifax although he was a coarse, ill-bred vulgarian, of no social standing in the community. It is true that a worthy member of the same family had risen from obscurity to high honors, but Sandy was a black sheep of the flock. He was employed at first by many of our people to purchase for them on commission, and afterwards by the Confederate Government. He profited by so good an opportunity for swindling, eventually forging invoices of articles, and drawing bills of exchange upon the Confederate Government, which were duly honored. This villainy was perpetrated towards the end of the war, and at its close, Sandy Keith absconded with his ill-gotten gains, a considerable proportion consisting of money in his hands, belonging to private individuals. Among his victims was Colonel S. of Baltimore, who determined to make an effort to recover his money. His first step was a visit to Halifax. His endeavors there to find Keith's whereabouts were for some time fruitless. But at last a clue was found. A girl, who had accompanied Keith in his flight, had written a letter to a relative in Halifax, and Colonel S. by some means obtained a sight of the envelope. The post-mark, plainly legible, indicated that the letter had been written at an obscure little village in Missouri. S. hastened back to Baltimore, and secured the coöperation of a detective, not for the purpose of arresting Keith, because he doubted whether he could recover possession of his property by the slippery and uncertain process of law, but for the sake of the detective's strong arm and presence of mind in the event of resistance. The reward to the detective being made contingent upon the recovery of the money, the pair left Baltimore, and in due time reached the village in the backwoods, where they learned that two persons, as man and wife, were boarding at the house of a widow, a mile or two distant. They waited until night, and then, arming themselves with revolvers, started for the house of the widow. Knocking at the door, it was opened to them, and as they passed in, Keith's voice was heard, inquiring who had entered. Guided by the sound, they rushed to the room occupied by him. He had retired for the night. His loaded pistol was lying on a table near his bedside; but he had neglected to lock the door of his chamber, and S. and the detective had secured his arms and held him a prisoner before he was fairly awake. There was little parleying between them, the detective merely assuring him that if he did not come to terms speedily, his trunk would be broken open and all of its contents seized. The whole affair was amicably settled in ten minutes, by a check upon the bank in which Keith had deposited some of his money, for the amount due to S., and the detective's reward. Keith demurred a little to the latter demand, but finally yielded to moral suasion; and next day S. presented the check, which was paid. Sandy Keith was supposed by those who had known him, to have been lost among the common herd of low swindlers and rogues, for none of them would have given him credit for enterprise or sagacity. He emerged, however, from obscurity, to perpetrate the most horrible and devilishly ingenious crime of the century; for it was he who under the name of Thomassen blew up the "City of Bremen" with his infernal machine. Those who have read the account of that dreadful tragedy will remember that the explosion was precipitated by the fall of the box containing dynamite from a cart, or wheelbarrow, conveying it to the steamer. The hammer was set, by clockwork apparatus, to explode the dynamite after the departure of the steamer from England and when near mid-ocean, and Keith, confiding in the efficacy of the arrangement, was actually about to take passage in the steamer from Bremerhaven as far as England. Many persons believe that the "City of Boston" was destroyed some years ago by this incarnate fiend, and by the same means. That calamity carried mourning into many households in Keith's native city, for a large number of its most respectable citizens were on board. It will be remembered that she was supposed at the time to have foundered at sea in a gale of wind. I had been furnished, before leaving Richmond, with letters to parties in Canada, who, it was believed, could give valuable aid to the expedition. To expedite matters, a trustworthy agent, a canny Scotchman, who had long served under my command, was dispatched to Montreal, via Portland, to notify these parties that we were on our way there. Our emissary, taking passage in a steamer bound to Portland, passed safely through United States territory, while the rest of us commenced our long and devious route through the British Provinces. Wherever we travelled, even through the remotest settlements, recruiting agents for the United States army were at work, scarcely affecting to disguise their occupation; and the walls of the obscurest country taverns bristled with advertisements like the following: "Wanted for a tannery in Maine one thousand tanners to whom a large bonus will be paid, etc." Many could not resist such allurements, but it was from this class and similar ones, no doubt, that the "bounty jumpers" sprang. It has been asserted, by those who were in a position to form a correct estimate, that the British Provinces, alone, contributed one hundred thousand men to the Federal army. It is scarcely an exaggeration to add, that the population of the civilized world was subsidized. We were seven days in making the journey to Montreal, where my faithful agent met me by appointment, and carried me to the residence of Captain M., a zealous and self-sacrificing friend to the cause, and to whom I had been accredited. He looked steadily at me for a moment after our introduction, and then said "I have met you once before." He recalled to my memory the fact, that while I commanded the battery at Acquia Creek in the early part of the war, he had brought a schooner loaded with arms, etc., up the Potomac, and succeeded in placing her under the protection of our batteries; having profited by a cold, dark, and inclement night, to evade the vigilance of the gunboats. Subsequently he and his family were compelled to leave Baltimore, and were now refugees in Canada. Colonel K., also a refugee and an inmate of Captain M.'s house, and to whom, likewise, I carried letters, enlisted enthusiastically in the expedition, and devoted his whole time and energies to its success. We might, indeed, have obtained a large number of recruits from among refugees and escaped prisoners in Canada, but it was not considered prudent to increase the size of the party to any extent, our number being quite sufficient, under the plan as devised. But we picked up two or three escaped prisoners from Johnson's Island; among them an individual who was well known to Colonel Finney (a member of the expedition); having been in the Colonel's employment on the plains previous to the war. The Colonel was the right hand of Major Ficklin in organizing and putting into operation the "pony express," which used to traverse the continent from St. Louis to San Francisco, and our recruit, Thompson, was one of his trusted subordinates. This man had led a very adventurous life. He informed us that after making his escape from Johnson's Island on the ice one dark winter night, he walked into Sandusky, and there laid in wait at the entrance of a dark alley for a victim with whom to exchange clothing. His patience being rewarded after a while, he laid violent hands upon his prize, and directed him to divest himself of his suit. The stranger replied, that he would not only supply him with clothing, but with money to make his way into Canada; adding that he had a son in the Confederate army. He gave Thompson the contents of his purse, and requesting him to wait till he could go home, soon returned with a full suit of clothes. We had reliable information to the effect that the garrison at Johnson's Island was small, and that the United States sloop of war Michigan was anchored off the island as an additional guard. If the sloop of war could be carried by boarding, and her guns turned upon the garrison, the rest would be easy of accomplishment; and there appeared to be no obstacle to the seizure of as many vessels in Sandusky harbor, as might be required for purposes of transportation. They were to be towed over to the Canada shore, about twenty-five miles distant. There were several difficulties to be overcome; the chief one being how to notify the prisoners of the attempt about to be made. This was accomplished after several visits to Baltimore and Washington, by the brave and devoted Mrs. M. and her daughter; and finally the wife of General ---- obtained permission from the authorities at Washington, to visit her husband, then a prisoner on Johnson's Island. Although the interview between them was brief, and in the presence of witnesses, she contrived to place in his hand a slip of paper, which informed him that our progress would appear in the New York Herald's "Personals" over certain initials, and so disguised as to be intelligible only to those who were initiated. Next, it was important to know the exact condition of affairs in Sandusky, up to the time of our departure from Canada; and this was effected through the agency of a gallant gentleman, a retired British army officer, who went over to Sandusky upon the pretext of duck shooting, and who by a pre-arranged vocabulary, conveyed daily intelligence to us up to the time of our departure from Montreal. Everything progressed favorably, until we began to make final preparations for departure. Colonel K., who knew personally the manager of an English line of steamers upon the lakes, and confided in the integrity of the man, recommended him as most competent to give valuable information; and to him, under the seal of confidence, I applied. The only interview between us, (and in the presence of Colonel K.) was brief, and the object of the expedition was not divulged to him; nor was it intimated to him that any hostile act was contemplated; but he probably drew the inference. His replies to my questions were so unsatisfactory that I never saw him again, having recourse to other sources of information. It was arranged that our party should take passage on board one of the American lake steamers at a little port on the Welland Canal. We were disguised as immigrants to the west; our arms being shipped as mining tools; and when clear of the canal, we were to rise upon the crew, and make our way to Sandusky. As the Michigan was anchored close to the main channel of the harbor, and we had provided ourselves with grapnels, it was believed that she could be carried by surprise. We had sent off our last "Personal" to the New York Herald, informing our friends at Johnson's Island "that the carriage would be at the door on or about the tenth;" our party had collected at the little port on the canal waiting for the steamer then nearly due, when a proclamation was issued by the Governor General, which fell among us like a thunderbolt. It was announced in this proclamation, that it had come to the knowledge of the Government that a hostile expedition was about to embark from the Canada shores, and the infliction of divers pains and penalties was threatened against all concerned in the violation of the neutrality laws. What was even more fatal to our hopes, we learned that His Excellency had notified the United States Government of our contemplated expedition. Our good friend sojourning at Sandusky abandoned his duck shooting in haste, (for the news sped across the frontier,) bringing intelligence that the garrison at Johnson's Island had been increased, and such other measures adopted as to render our success impossible. I called a council of the senior officers, who unanimously recommended that the attempt be abandoned; and so ended all our hopes. We learned, from what was believed by some to be a reliable source, that the informant against us was the manager, alluded to above, who betrayed us at the last moment. There was a possibility of a successful issue to this enterprise, but not a probability. The American Consul at Halifax possessed intelligence and zeal; and he could easily have traced our course, by means of a detective, up to the very point of our departure on the Welland Canal. It is quite probable, indeed, that we were closely watched through the whole route, for immediately after the proclamation was issued, two or three detectives, no longer affecting disguise, dogged my footsteps for several days, with the intention I suspected of carrying me "vi et armis" across the frontier. But they were, in turn, subjected to as close an espionage by several members of the expedition, who were prepared for any emergency. "The engineer would have been hoisted with his own petard" probably, if they had attempted the arrest. That dare-devil Thompson, in fact, proposed one night that I should take a walk alone along the canal, and see what would come of it, but I declined the invitation. One plan of releasing the Johnson's Island prisoners was to purchase a steamer in England, through the agency of Captain Bullock, load her with a cargo, and clear from the Custom House "for a market" on the lakes.--The chief obstacle to this plan would have been the passage, unsuspected, through the Welland Canal, but it was believed that, by proper discretion and management, this might have been accomplished, and the rest would have been easy; for all that was expected of any expedition was to carry the Michigan by surprise; the prisoners upon the island coöperating by attacking and overpowering the garrison. As there was no farther necessity for keeping our movements secret, the whole party started together on the return to Halifax. We followed the route from "Riviere du Loup" overland by stage, or rather in sleighs, for the ground was already covered with snow, and the steamers had stopped running for the season, upon the beautiful picturesque St. John's River; and our way lay through a cheerless and sparsely populated country for nearly the whole distance. We were able too, without indiscretion, to accept the hospitalities of our friends in Halifax, during our brief stay there. But duty called us back to the Confederacy, and passage was engaged for the whole party by the first steamer (the Alpha,) to sail for Bermuda. CHAPTER XII. Take Command of the "Whisper."--High Rates of Freight.--Confederate Money and Sterling Exchange.--An Investment in Cotton.--The Ill-fated Ironclad.--The Point Lookout Expedition and its Failure.--A Faithful Servant and a Narrow Escape.--Futile Projects.--Wilmington during the War.--Light Houses reëstablished.--Gloomy Prospects of the South. Arriving there, after a five or six day's voyage, we found many blockade-runners at anchor in St. George's harbor; and application was made to me to take command of one of them, called the "Whisper," just out from England. She was a fair specimen of her class. Built expressly for speed and light draft, her frame was very slight, but she was a capital sea boat, and made several successful trips. There was a striking contrast, however, between her and the solidly built, magnificent "Lee." After all arrangements had been completed for the transportation to the Confederacy of our party, I assumed command of the little "Whisper," with six or eight of the party as passengers. I remember my astonishment at learning the rates for freight at this period. The "Whisper" was loaded and ready for sea, and I was dining with Mr. Campbell, the agent of the company, when a person asked to see him upon pressing business. The purpose of the visitor was, to ship by the Whisper a small lot of medicines. As the vessel was already heavily laden, Mr. Campbell referred him to me, and I consented to take the box in the cabin. The freight upon it was £500 sterling![9] Six blockade-runners, including the Whisper, sailed for Wilmington within twenty-four hours of each other. The voyage across was stormy, and the sky so overcast as to compel us to run by dead-reckoning, until we had crossed the Gulf Stream, early on the third day. We had been steaming against a strong gale the whole time. These cold north-westers brought disaster upon many blockade-runners; for blowing over the tepid water of the Gulf Stream, clouds of vapor would rise like steam, and be condensed by the cold wind into a fog so dense as to obscure every object. At such times, the skill and perseverance of the navigator would be taxed to the utmost. A glimpse of the sun, moon, or north star, caught through the sextant wet with spray, and brought down to a most uncertain horizon, would furnish the only means of guidance, where an error of a few miles in the calculation would probably prove fatal. Upon reaching soundings on the western edge of the "stream," about eleven o'clock in the forenoon, we succeeded in catching a glimpse of the sun, and thus ascertaining our position. The sea was still running very high, but the weather had moderated considerably, and we found ourselves not more than forty miles south-east of the western bar. The Whisper had fared badly, while running in the teeth of the gale; all of our boats, except one, had been swept from the davits, and the wheel houses had been stove in. As there was no further necessity to strain the hull and engines, the little craft was brought near the wind under low steam, and close-reefed mainsail; riding the long rolling seas like a sea-gull. To windward the sky-soon became clear, but we took care not to get far away from the dense fog to leeward of us. We did not see a cruiser, while we lay for many hours anxiously waiting for night. As the sun set, the order was given to go at full speed, and before midnight we had passed safely through the blockading fleet, and had come to anchor off Smithville. Out of the six steamers which sailed from St. George's, the Whisper alone succeeded in getting in. Most of them were run ashore, and their cargoes partially saved; but some fell, intact, into the hands of the vigilant cruisers. After a few weeks' service on board the ill-fated ironclad, built in Wilmington, I was summoned by telegram to Richmond. The Confederate authorities were then projecting an attempt to release the Point Lookout prisoners. There appeared to be no insuperable obstacle in the way; and it was believed that the prisoners, if released, and furnished with arms, would be able to join the forces under the command of General Early, then in the vicinity. Two steamers of light draft were to be loaded with arms, etc., and were to carry, in addition to their crews, an infantry force under the command of General Custis Lee. In the event of success, the steamers were to be burned. On my way to Richmond, my life was saved by the presence of mind of my faithful servant (Essex,) who accompanied me on a visit to his home in Virginia. General Wilson had just made a very destructive raid along the line of the Richmond and Danville Railroad, striking the road at Burkeville, and effectually damaging it as far as Meherrin Bridge, a distance of thirty miles or more, where his progress was stopped. He did not return within General Grant's lines without heavy loss; and when I arrived at Ream's Station, on the Petersburg and Weldon road, I found there a strong force of Confederate cavalry, under General Chambliss, waiting to intercept the retreat. As I was bearer of dispatches from General Whiting to General Lee, a hand car, with two men to work it, was detailed for me, and with my servant on board we started to run the gauntlet between the lines. The distance to be accomplished was about seven miles, and we had passed over more than half of it, when one of our "videttes" suddenly made his appearance, and we halted to inquire about the state of affairs ahead. His report was satisfactory, and we started again, but had only gone a short distance when we saw a squad of cavalry, which we supposed to be part of General Wilson's force, charging rapidly after us. The highway lay close alongside the railroad, and our pursuers were enveloped in a cloud of dust. The car was stopped, or rather the men who were working the crank incontinently took to their heels, and we followed their example. There was a fence a few rods from the road, which I succeeded in reaching, and over which I jumped, just before our pursuers overtook us. As they forced their horses over it, I discovered my friend, the "vidette" among them, who cried out as he saw me "_That_ is General Wilson, kill him?" and I have not the least doubt his advice would have been followed, but for Essex, who cried out from a snug corner, where he was ensconced, "For God's sake, don't shoot! He is one of your best friends!" They lowered their pistols, and I had an opportunity to explain matters. My gold watch and chain had probably excited the cupidity of my friend above mentioned. I admit that I felt uncharitable towards him, and when I hinted my suspicions of his motives to the officer in command of the squad, he did not deny the probability of a cause for them, but seemed to consider me unreasonable in expecting to find _all_ the virtues in a "high private," who was receiving scanty fare, and $8 a month in Confederate money! The party escorted us within the lines. After all the details of the expedition had been arranged in Richmond, the naval portion of it was ordered to Wilmington under my command. On our journey, we followed the route previously pursued by the raiders from Burkeville to Meherrin Bridge. Nearly every foot of the way was marked by evidences of the havoc of war; and the air was tainted with the stench from the dead horses and mules, whose throats had been cut when they could travel no farther. There were sufficient reasons why I took no subsequent part in the expedition, the naval portion of it being placed under the command of Captain J. T. Wood, of the Confederate States Navy and also one of the President's aids. It failed, however, owing to the fact that secretly as all the preparations had been made, information of it was speedily conveyed to the authorities at Washington, and prompt measures taken to prevent its success. The steamers had dropped down the Cape Fear River, and were on the very point of putting to sea when countermanding orders were telegraphed from Richmond; for the Confederate Government, through their secret sources of information, had been promptly notified of the fact that the plot had been betrayed to the United States authorities. How the Federal Government obtained its intelligence will, perhaps, forever remain a mystery to the public; but there was a very general belief in the Confederacy, that an individual near the President was a paid traitor to the cause. These futile projects for the release of prisoners, serve to show the desperate straits to which the Confederacy was reduced, for want of soldiers. It was deemed expedient, at this period, to reëstablish the light on Smith's Island, which had been discontinued ever since the commencement of hostilities; and to erect a structure for a light on the Mound. At the beginning of the war, nearly all of the lights along the Southern coast had been discontinued; the apparatus being removed to places of safety. Under special instructions, I was charged with the duties of relighting the approaches to the Cape Fear River, and of detailing pilots, and signal officers to the blockade-runners. To provide the means of light, every blockade-runner was required to bring in a barrel of sperm oil. In addition to these aids to navigation, the signal stations were extended farther along the coast, and compulsory service was required of the pilots. Owing to the constantly increasing vigilance of the blockading fleet, and the accession to the navy of fast cruisers, many prizes had been captured of late. Their pilots were, of course, held as prisoners of war; and the demand for those available for service, increasing in proportion to their diminished number, there was much competition between the rival companies, to the great detriment of the public service.[10] It was considered necessary, therefore, to establish an office of "Orders and Detail" at Wilmington, whence should proceed all orders and assignments in relation to pilots and signal officers. In a short time, the benefit of these arrangements was very perceptible. The blockade-runners were never delayed for want of a pilot, and the casualties were much diminished. The staid old town of Wilmington was turned "topsy turvy" during the war. Here resorted the speculators from all parts of the South, to attend the weekly auctions of imported cargoes; and the town was infested with rogues and desperadoes, who made a livelihood by robbery and murder. It was unsafe to venture into the suburbs at night, and even in daylight, there were frequent conflicts in the public streets, between the crews of the steamers in port and the soldiers stationed in the town, in which knives and pistols would be freely used; and not unfrequently a dead body would rise to the surface of the water in one of the docks with marks of violence upon it. The civil authorities were powerless to prevent crime. "Inter arma silent leges!" The agents and employès of the different blockade-running companies, lived in magnificent style, paying a king's ransom (in Confederate money) for their household expenses, and nearly monopolizing the supplies in the country market. Towards the end of the war, indeed, fresh provisions were almost beyond the reach of every one. Our family servant, newly arrived from the country in Virginia, would sometimes return from market with an empty basket, having flatly refused to pay what he called "such nonsense prices" for a bit of fresh beef, or a handful of vegetables. A quarter of lamb, at the time of which I now write, sold for $100, a pound of tea for $500. Confederate money which in September, 1861, was nearly equal to specie in value, had declined in September 1862 to 225; in the same month, in 1863, to 400, and before September, 1864, to 2000! Many of the permanent residents of the town had gone into the country, letting their houses at enormous prices; those who were compelled to remain kept themselves much secluded; the ladies rarely being seen upon the more public streets. Many of the fast young officers belonging to the army would get an occasional leave to come to Wilmington; and would live at free quarters on board the blockade-runners, or at one of the numerous bachelor halls ashore. The convalescent soldiers from the Virginia hospitals were sent by the route through Wilmington to their homes in the South. The ladies of the town were organized by Mrs. De R. into a society for the purpose of ministering to the wants of these poor sufferers; the trains which carried them stopping an hour or two at the depot, that their wounds might be dressed, and food and medicine supplied to them. These self-sacrificing, heroic women patiently and faithfully performed the offices of hospital nurses. "O! there are angels in this world unheeded, Who, when their earthly labor is laid down, Will soar aloft, with pinions unimpeded, And wear their starry glory like a crown!" Liberal contributions were made by companies and individuals to this society, and the long tables at the depot were spread with delicacies for the sick, to be found nowhere else in the Confederacy. The remains of the meals were carried by the ladies to a camp of mere boys--homeguards outside of the town. Some of these children were scarcely able to carry a musket, and were altogether unable to endure the exposure and fatigues of field service; and they suffered fearfully from measles, and typhoid fever. General Grant used a strong figure of speech, when he asserted, that "the cradle and the grave were robbed, to recruit the Confederate armies." The fact of a fearful drain upon the population was scarcely exaggerated, but with this difference in the metaphor, that those who were verging upon both the cradle and the grave, shared the hardships and dangers of war, with equal self-devotion to the cause. It is true that a class of heartless speculators infested the country, who profited by the scarcity of all sorts of supplies, but it makes the self-sacrifice of the mass of the Southern people more conspicuous, and no State made more liberal voluntary contributions to the armies, or furnished better soldiers, than North Carolina. When General A. P. Hill asked for the promotion of some of his officers in June, 1863, the President laid down the rule of selection for the guidance of the Secretary of War, viz: "the State which had the greatest number of regiments should be entitled to the choice of positions; to be taken from the candidates of its citizens, according to qualifications," etc. It appeared that North Carolina stood first on the list, Virginia second, Georgia third, etc. On the opposite side of the river from Wilmington, on a low marshy flat, were erected the steam cotton presses, and there the blockade-runners took in their cargoes. Sentries were posted on the wharves, day and night, to prevent deserters from getting on board, and stowing themselves away; and the additional precaution of fumigating the outward bound steamers at Smithville, was adopted; but in spite of this vigilance, many persons succeeded in getting a free passage abroad. These deserters, or "stowaways," were in most instances sheltered by one or more of the crew; in which event they kept their places of concealment until the steamer had arrived at her port of destination, when they would profit by the first opportunity to leave the vessel undiscovered. A small bribe would tempt the average blockade-running sailor to connive at this means of escape. The "impecunious" deserter fared more hardly; and would, usually, be forced by hunger and thirst to emerge from his hiding place, while the steamer was on the outward voyage. A cruel device, employed by one of the captains, effectually put a stop, I believe, certainly a check to the escape of this class of "stowaways." He turned three or four of them adrift in the Gulf Stream, in an open boat, with a pair of oars, and a few days' allowance of bread and water. The ironclad, to which I had been attached for a short time, made her first and last essay while I was on special duty at Wilmington. Having crossed New Inlet Bar early one morning, she steamed at her best speed towards the blockading-fleet, which kept beyond the range of her guns with much ease. After "raising the blockade" for an hour or two, she steamed back across the bar, grounded upon the "rip," broke her back, and doubtless remains there to this day, buried fathoms deep in the quicksands. The prospects of the South were growing more and more gloomy with each succeeding day; and the last hopes of the country now rested upon that gallant army of Northern Virginia, which, under its great captain, still confronted General Grant's forces around Petersburg. It is easy now by the light of subsequent events to censure Mr. Davis for the removal of General Johnston from the command of the army in Georgia; but who does not remember how, previous to that unfortunate measure, the whole Southern press, almost without an exception, were urging it? It may be that the President was not indisposed to gratify his inclination, and at the same time appease the public. I do not presume to express an opinion on this point; being no partisan of either, but a sincere admirer of both these distinguished individuals, and crediting both with strict veracity and unselfish honesty of purpose. But the fact remains that the press teemed with articles denouncing General Johnston's retrograde movements. A spurious telegram, concocted by some facetious editor, to the effect that General Johnston had ordered means of transportation for his army to Nassau, was circulated through all the newspapers for the public amusement. But the old army officers were shocked at the intelligence of his removal from command. When the fact was officially announced, all of them, whom I had an opportunity of hearing speak upon the subject, expressed the gravest fears of the consequences; General Whiting, especially, declaring his conviction that it was a fatal measure; and it is certain that General Johnston's army was enthusiastically devoted to him; officers and men, with few exceptions, reposing unbounded confidence in him. Concurrent testimony has since conclusively proven how grave a mistake was committed. General Hooker, who served in that campaign under General Sherman, writes "This retreat was so masterly, that I regard it as a useful lesson for study for all persons who may hereafter elect for their calling the profession of arms." "The news that General Johnston had been removed from the command of the army opposed to us, was received by our officers with universal rejoicing." "One of the prominent historians of the Confederacy ascribes the misfortunes of the 'Lost Cause' to the relief of General Johnston. I do not think this, but it certainly contributed materially to hasten its collapse." Indeed the Confederate Government seems subsequently to have admitted its mistake, and the injustice inflicted upon General Johnston, by reinstating him in the command of the "army of the South," and with orders "to concentrate all available forces, and drive back Sherman." This, however, was not till February, 1865, when the "available forces" amounted to about 16,000 men, and General Sherman's army of 70,000, had reached the State of North Carolina unopposed. When General Johnston turned over the command to General Hood, the army consisted of 36,900 infantry 3,750 artillery, and 9,970 cavalry, a total of 50,620 well equipped troops. "In returning from its disastrous expedition against Nashville, the army of Tennessee had halted in north-eastern Mississippi. A large proportion of these troops were then furloughed by General Hood, and went to their homes. When General Sherman's army invaded South Carolina, General Beauregard ordered those remaining on duty to repair to that State * * * The remaining troops of that army were coming through Georgia in little parties * * * at least two-thirds of the arms of these troops had been lost in Tennessee."[11] In General Johnston's Narrative, page 351, he says "The troops themselves, who had been seventy-four days in the immediate presence of the enemy, laboring and fighting daily; enduring trial and encountering dangers with equal cheerfulness; more confident and high-spirited even than when the Federal army presented itself before them at Dalton; and though I say it, full of devotion to him who had commanded them, and belief of ultimate success in the campaign, were then inferior to none who ever served the Confederacy, or fought on the Continent," and on page 356: "I believed then, as firmly as I do now, that the system pursued was the only one at my command, that promised success, and that, if adhered to, would have given us success." Many among those most competent to judge entertained the same conviction. His removal from the command was, indeed, a mortal blow to the cause. FOOTNOTES: [9] Mr. Campbell had given me a bill of exchange for just this amount to take command of the steamer during the inward trip. As the Whisper belonged to a private company, I accepted the bonus without scruple. What became of it, and the value of Confederate currency at that time may be seen by the following-- "Invoice of 123 bales cotton purchased and stored at Columbus, Georgia, for account of Captain John Wilkinson. Feb. 27, 1864. By W. W. Garrard. 2 Bales weighing 1,085 lbs. 4 " " 2,219 5 " " 3,241 5 " " 2,655 107 " " 52,833 ------ 62,033 at 72-5/8 $45,051 46 CHARGES. State tax on investment, $225 26 Commission for purchasing. 2252 57 C. S. war tax 337 89 2815 72 ------- E. & O. E. $47,867 18 Signed, POWER, LOW & CO. Wilmington, March 2, 1864. Captain J. Wilkinson In acc. with POWER, LOW & CO. March 2, 1864. To Invoice 123 bales cotton at Columbus, Georgia, 47,867 18 Cr. Feb. 17. By proceeds W. L. Campbell's Exchange on London £500 at 2100 46,666 66 --------- Wilmington, Balance due us, $1,200 52 March 2, 1864. Signed, POWER, LOW & CO. "The cotton was destroyed at the very close of the war by a party of raiders commanded, I believe, by General Wilson. If he were the same individual for whom I was once mistaken (as will be seen in the sequel) he served me two very ill turns." [10] One or two agents of the blockade-running companies were opposed to any project for increasing the facilities of entrance to or exit from Wilmington. The profits were of course proportionate to the risks, and these heartless worshipers of Mammon, having secured the services of the best captains and pilots, would have rejoiced to see every blockade-runner, but their own, captured. They protested vehemently, but unavailingly, against interference with their pilots. [11] General Johnston's Narrative page 374. It appears from the same distinguished authority that of all that gallant array not more than 5,000 were ever reassembled; and a large portion of these continued without arms to the end of the war. CHAPTER XIII. Cruise of the Chickamauga.--Mr. Mallory's inefficiency.--Troubles in Bermuda.--The three Weeks.--End of the Cruise. In the latter part of September, 1864, I was ordered to the command of the "Chickamauga," a double screw steamer converted into a so-called man of war. She was one of those vessels before alluded to in this narrative, as partly owned by the Confederate Government, and was taken possession of by the government authorities with scant regard for the rights of the other owners, who had no alternative but to accept inadequate compensation for their share of the vessel. Her battery consisted of a twelve-pounder rifled gun forward, a sixty-four pounder amidships, and a thirty-two pounder rifle aft, all on pivots. She was more substantially built than most of the blockade-runners, and was very swift, but altogether unfit for a cruiser, as she could only keep the sea while her supply of coal lasted. She was schooner rigged, with very short masts, and her sails were chiefly serviceable to steady her in a sea-way. Under all sail and _off_ the wind, without steam, she could not make more than three knots with a stiff breeze; _by_ the wind under the same circumstances, she had not even steerage way. Captain J. T. Wood, of the Confederate Navy, had just returned from a "raid" along the Northern coast, and the incompetent Secretary of the Navy conceived, no doubt, that he had hit upon a happy idea when it occurred to his muddled brain, to send these vessels out to harass the coasting trade and fisheries of the North.[12] As a mere question of policy, it would have been far better to have kept them employed carrying out cotton and bringing in the supplies of which the army was so sorely in need. The attack upon Fort Fisher was probably precipitated by these expeditions, which could in no wise affect the real issues of the war. But Mr. Mallory was from first to last an incubus upon the country. I do not impugn his patriotism, nor his private character, but his official imbecility, which wrought much damage to the cause, is a legitimate object for censure. At this period Atlanta had been captured, and a large portion of Georgia was practically severed from the Confederacy. It was becoming more and more difficult to provision the troops. The Subsistence Department of the Confederate Government has been often censured for its alleged mismanagement. I have personal knowledge of an instance where it resented the interference of a subordinate. Major Magruder, General Whiting's chief Commissary, had effected what he believed to be a mutually beneficial arrangement with the farmers of western North Carolina. He was to furnish salt and transportation, (the former a very rare and costly commodity at that time, and the latter difficult to be obtained); and in return, they were to supply his department with the cured bacon. The arrangement, when reported to the Department at Richmond, was cancelled, and the Major, a very zealous and competent officer, was ordered elsewhere. Surely there must have been grave mismanagement somewhere; for, several months after the period of which I now write, and when the army of Northern Virginia was almost reduced to starvation in February, 1865, there were stored "in the principal railroad depots between Charlotte, Danville and Weldon inclusive, rations for 60,000 men for more than four months," and these provisions were for the exclusive use of the army in Virginia. The fact was ascertained by taking account of those stores, which was done by order of General Johnston, "and the very zealous and efficient officer, Major Charles Carrington, who was at the head of the service of collecting provisions in North Carolina for the army, was increasing the quantity rapidly." "The officers of the commissariat in North Carolina, upon whom the army in Virginia depended for subsistence, were instructed by the Commissary General just then, to permit none of the provisions they collected to be used by the troops serving in it."[13] We sailed in the Chickamauga on the night of October 29th, with a motley crew, and passed through the blockading fleet without receiving any damage from numerous shots. We had a fine view of several of our pursuers for a few moments, as they burned their signal blue light; and had not crossed the bar two hours before the commanding officer of the fleet received information of the fact. Our rockets had diverted the pursuit to the misfortune of the blockade-runner "Lady Stirling," which was captured; and from some of her crew, as we subsequently learned, the fact of our departure was ascertained. If we could have foreseen such an event, we might have tried the range of our after pivot gun with very good effect upon the blockader following in our wake; but although our crew was at quarters, and we were prepared to fight our way to sea, we wished to avoid an encounter by which nothing was to be gained; our chief object being to injure the enemy's commerce. Nearly all of the officers of the Chickamauga had resigned from the United States Navy, and I have no doubt they contrasted (as I could not help doing) next morning, our spar deck encumbered with coal bags, and begrimed with dirt, and the ragged tatterdemalions leaning over the bulwarks, or stretched along the decks in the agonies of sea-sickness, with the cleanliness, order and discipline, to which we had been accustomed under the "Stars and Stripes." The condition below decks was even worse; the crew sleeping upon the coal which was stowed in the hold; and the officers upon the softest plank they could find in the contracted cabin. In addition to a complement of officers for a frigate, the Secretary of the Navy had ordered _six_ pilots to the vessel. As three of them held their "branches" for the approaches to Norfolk, Mr. Mallory must have expected to hear that we had passed under the guns of Fortress Monroe, laid Norfolk under contribution, and captured the Gosport Navy-yard. The scene upon our decks, when the sun rose the morning after our passage through the fleet, was demoralizing; and I am sure some of us felt as if we were indeed "pirates," although we were bound to deny the "soft impeachment," when brought against us by the Northern press. The exertions of the executive officer, Dozier, seconded by his zealous subordinates, brought some degree of order out of this "chaotic" mass after a while. Our first prize was the "Mark L. Potter," from Bangor for Key West, with a cargo of lumber. As there was no alternative but to destroy her, the officers and crew were transferred to the Chickamauga, and she was set on fire. This capture was made on Sunday the 30th. The next morning at 7.30 A. M., when about one hundred and fifty miles off the Capes of Delaware, we sighted a square-rigged vessel, which changed her course in the effort to escape, as soon as she discovered that we were steering for her. At 9.30 we overhauled her and brought her to. It proved to be the barque "Emma L. Hall," loaded with a cargo of sugar and molasses. She was set on fire at 11.15 A. M. Hasty work was made of this prize, as a full rigged ship hove in sight while we were transferring the crew, and such stores as we needed, from the Emma L. Hall. The stranger bore north by west when discovered, and was standing almost directly toward us, with studding-sails and royals set to the favorable breeze, a cloud of snowy canvas from her graceful hull to the trucks of her tapering royalmasts. She approached within five or six miles, when her studding-sails were suddenly hauled down, and she was brought close to the wind in an effort to escape from us. We soon overhauled her, and at 1.15 were near enough to throw a shot across her bow, and to show the Confederate flag at our peak. The summons was replied to by their hoisting the Stars and Stripes, and heaving to. Our prize was the clipper ship "Shooting Star," bound from New York to Panama, with a cargo of coal for the U. S. Pacific squadron. While we were making preparations for burning her, another square rigged vessel hove in sight, steering toward us. It proved to be the barque "Albion Lincoln," bound for Havana, partly in ballast; and as her cargo consisted only of a small lot of potatoes and onions, I determined to bond her, and to put the prisoners, now numbering sixty (the wife of the captain of the Shooting Star among them) on board of her. In truth, I was relieved from an awkward dilemma by the opportune capture of the Albion Lincoln; for there was absolutely no place for a female on board the Chickamauga. I do not doubt, however, that the redoubtable Mrs. Drinkwater would have accommodated herself to the circumstances by turning me out of my own cabin. Heavens! what a tongue she wielded! The young officers of the Chickamauga relieved each other in boat duty to and fro; and she routed every one of them ignominiously. After the Albion Lincoln had been bonded for $18,000, we were kept very busy for several hours paroling prisoners, etc., and in the meanwhile a gale of wind was brewing, and the sea growing very rough. By six o'clock in the afternoon, the Lincoln was under way with the paroled prisoners; her master having been put under oath to shape the vessel's course for Fortress Monroe; and we applied the torch to the "Shooting Star." The burning ship was visible for many miles after we left her; and it was a strange, wild spectacle, that flaming beacon in the rough sea. The master of the "Albion Lincoln" shaped his course straight for New York. I hope his conscience has since reproached him for violating his oath, though given to a "rebel." The gale increased during the night. Next day our course was shaped for Montauk Point; the scene of the previous day's operations having been in about latitude 40° and longitude 71°, or about fifty miles southeast of Sandy Hook. Montauk Point was sighted from aloft about mid-day, and the engines were slowed down, so as not to approach too near the land before night. We spoke several vessels during the day, all of them under the British flag. Toward night we steamed towards the land, with the expectation of finding smoother water, for the wind continued to blow from the southwest. At 5.45 P. M., we overhauled two schooners close in to the shore; one of them was the "Good-speed," from Boston to Philadelphia, in ballast; and the other, the "Otter Rock," from Bangor for Washington with a load of potatoes. Both were scuttled. Our boats did not get alongside the Chickamauga again till eight o'clock. The wind had been gradually veering round to the northeast, and the night was growing so dark and stormy, that I was reluctantly compelled to abandon the purpose previously entertained of entering Long Island Sound. The crew of the Good-speed profited by the darkness to escape in their boat to the land, a few miles distant. We made an offing of thirty or forty miles during the night, and next morning captured the bark "Speedwell," in ballast from Boston to Philadelphia. The captain's sister and his child were on board his vessel, and represented to be sick. I could not reconcile it to my sense of humanity to subject the weaker sex to the probable dangers and certain hardships of confinement on board the Chickamauga. The Speedwell was therefore bonded for $18,000, and the captain--a very decent fellow by the way--sent on his voyage rejoicing; but the "recording angels" of the Northern press never placed this act to my credit. The northeast gale, which had been brewing for some days, commenced in earnest toward the evening. After buffeting against it for two days, the necessity for making a port became apparent, our supply of coal beginning to get low. The course was, therefore, shaped for Bermuda, and we anchored off the bar at St. George's on Monday morning, November 7th. The Governor of the island gave us a vast deal of trouble and annoyance, from this time until we finally left port. Lending apparently a willing ear to the representation of the American Consul, he would not permit us to enter the harbor until after a correspondence, in which I stated the fact that our engines needed repairs; but we lay outside twenty-four hours before even this permission was granted. He next forbade me to coal the ship. After a protest from me he relented so far, only, as to authorize a supply of coal, sufficient to carry the Chickamauga to the nearest Confederate port, although he had been officially informed that the vessel was regularly commissioned, and was then on a cruise. Although I was never favored with a sight of the correspondence, which must have been carried on between the American Consul and His Excellency on the subject, I am satisfied that the former presented a favorable case; but the Governor had no right to inquire into the antecedents of the Chickamauga, or to question the title by which she was held by the Confederate Government. She was, to all intents and purposes, as "bona fide" a man-of-war as the Florida, which had entered that same port, and been supplied with coal, and other necessaries, without question or molestation. But the fortunes of the Confederacy were now waning; and his Excellency wished perhaps--and may have received instructions--to keep on good terms with the winning side, and in disregard of the obligations of justice to the weaker party.[14] The result of his partial, and unfriendly course, was to bring the cruise of the Chickamauga to a speedy end; for it was impossible for her to keep the sea without a supply of fuel--steam, which is merely an auxiliary in a properly constituted man of war, being the Chickamauga's sole motive power. Many of our crew, too, were enticed to desert; but the efficiency of the vessel was rather increased than diminished by our getting rid of the vagabonds. They were for the most part "waifs and strays," of Wilmington, and "skulkers" from the army, who had been drafted from the Receiving ship. They profited by liberty on shore to secrete themselves, and many of them perished with the yellow fever, then prevailing in Bermuda. We sailed from St. George's for Wilmington November 15th, showing our colors to several vessels on the way, all of which carried a foreign flag. American colors had for a long time become a rare sight upon the ocean, except when flying from the peak of a man-of-war. All of the vessels captured by the Chickamauga were either coasters, or traders to West India ports, and were scarcely off soundings on the American coast.[15] The Alabama and Florida had demonstrated what a vast amount of injury might be inflicted upon an enemy's commerce by a few swift cruisers; and there is no doubt that this number might have been increased to any reasonable extent, by proper management. No sensible individual, I presume, really attaches any importance to the ravings of a portion of the Northern press, during the war, against the "rebel pirates," and their depredations upon commerce. To destroy merchant vessels was not a pleasure, but it was a duty, and a matter of necessity, seeing that the Confederate ports were so closely blockaded as to render it absolutely impossible to send the prizes in for adjudication, and that all of the foreign powers prohibited the sending of captured vessels into their ports. The officers and crews attached to these "piratical vessels" would very gladly have carried or sent their prizes into a Confederate port; for in that case they would have been equally fortunate with their confreres of the United States Navy, whose pockets were filled to repletion with the proceeds of captured property belonging to Confederates, on land and sea. We approached the coast in very thick weather on the night of the 18th. We could dimly discern the breakers ahead, and close aboard; but it was impossible to distinguish any landmark in so dense a fog. A boat was lowered therefore, and one of the bar pilots sent to examine nearer, but he returned on board in the course of an hour, with the report that he had pulled close in to the surf, but could recognize no object on the shore, although he had rowed some distance parallel to it, and as closely as he could venture. "Did you see no wrecks on the beach?" I inquired. "Yes, sir," he replied, "I saw three." "And how were they lying?" I asked. He stated that two of them were "broadside on" to the beach, and close together; and the third "bows on" to the beach, about a cable's length to the north of them. I was satisfied about our exact position at once, for while I was on the special service before alluded to, I had made a visit to Masonborough Inlet, on duty connected with the signal stations, and had noticed three wrecks in the positions described. The Chickamauga was put under low steam, with one watch at quarters, and we waited for daylight to cross the bar. As the fog lifted, shortly after sunrise, two of the blockading fleet were discovered on our port quarter, steaming towards us, as we were running down the coast towards Fort Fisher. When within long range they opened fire, which was returned by us. They were soon joined by a third blockader, and as we drew nearer to the bar, Fort Fisher took part in the engagement, and the blockaders hauled off. Shortly afterwards we crossed the bar, and anchored inside of the "Rip." FOOTNOTES: [12] It is very far from my intention, by these remarks, to condemn the depredations of the Confederate cruisers upon the Federal commerce, or the policy which dictated the fitting of them out. But there appears to me to be a wide difference between the destruction of ships and cargoes belonging to capitalists, who contributed by their means and influence to the support of the Federal Government, and the burning of fishing craft manned by poor men, who relied upon the "catch" of the trip for the means of feeding and clothing their families. But I will not expatiate upon the "sentiment" involved in the subject, for fear of incurring the reproach cast by Sir Peter Teazle upon that very humane and sentimental character, Joseph Surface, whose actions differed so widely from his words. [13] From General Johnston's Narrative, pages 374, 375. [14] But there was a striking contrast during the war, between the conduct of the British officials, acting in their official capacity, towards the Confederate officers, and that of individuals belonging to both branches of Her Majesty's service; the latter, almost without an exception, expressed their cordial sympathy with the south, and extended many acts of courtesy and good feeling towards us, but the former scrupulously abstained from every semblance of recognition or of sympathy. [15] The Shooting Star was an exception, she being chartered by the government. CHAPTER XIV Last Summons to Richmond.--Demoralization.--The "Chameleon."--More trouble in Bermuda.--Another Narrow Escape.--Fall of Fort Fisher.--Maffitt's Escape, and Capt. S.'s Capture.--Another Hard Chase.--Failure to enter Charleston.--Return to Nassau. Another, and a longer cruise, was then contemplated, and there was some prospect of prevailing with the Secretary of the Navy to fit out the ship for a cruiser, by giving her proper spars, providing the means of disconnecting the screws, and furnishing quarters for officers and men. But disasters to our arms were then following fast upon each other. General Sherman, after marching unopposed from Atlanta to the sea, and capturing Savannah, was preparing to continue his progress. Wilmington was threatened by a powerful sea and land force. The half starved and ill clad army of Northern Virginia was in the trenches around Petersburg, and the now contracting area of country available for supplies, had been so thoroughly drained, that it became a vital question how to provision the troops. I was summoned again, and for the last time during the war, to Richmond. It was in the early part of December. There now remained to the Confederacy only the single line of rail communication from Wilmington, via Greensborough, and Danville, to Richmond. The progress of demoralization was too evident at every step of my journey, and nowhere were the poverty, and the straits to which the country was reduced, more palpably visible, than in the rickety, windowless, filthy cars, traveling six or eight miles an hour, over the worn out rails and decaying road-bed. We were eighteen hours in making the distance (about one hundred and twenty miles) from Danville to Richmond. As we passed in the rear of General Lee's lines, and I saw the scare-crow cattle there being slaughtered for the troops, the game seemed to be at last growing desperate. We were detained for perhaps an hour at the station where the cattle were being slaughtered. Several soldiers who were on the train, left us there; and as soon as they alighted from the cars, they seized portions of the offal, kindled a fire, charred the scraps upon the points of their ramrods, and devoured the unclean food with the avidity of famished tigers. It was arranged in Richmond, that I should take command of the "Tallahassee," and proceed with all dispatch to Bermuda for a cargo of provisions; my late experience with the Governor of the island rendering it quite probable that he would prevent the Chickamauga from even discharging her cargo as a merchant vessel. That steamer (the Tallahassee,) of so many aliases, had just returned from a short cruise under Captain Ward of the Confederate States Navy. She was now christened again, and bore, thenceforward, the appropriate name of the "Chameleon." Her battery was dismounted, the officers and crew detached, and she was ostensibly sold to the navy agent at Wilmington. A register, and bill of sale, were prepared in legal form, the crew shipped according to the laws relating to the merchant service, and regular invoices and bills of lading made out of her cargo of cotton. The vessel, indeed, was so thoroughly whitewashed, that she subsequently passed a searching examination in Bermuda; but my recent experience there had convinced me of the necessity of adopting every precaution, and I was left to my own discretion with regard to all the details; the instructions under which I was acting requiring me only to bring in a cargo of provisions with all dispatch. The "Chameleon" was in nearly all respects like the Chickamauga, only a few feet longer, and drawing a few inches more water. On the afternoon of December 24th, the United States fleet opened fire upon Fort Fisher, the heavy cannonading continuing during the two following days. The booming of the heavy guns could be distinctly heard in Wilmington. There was a complete panic there; the non-combatants moving away, and fright and confusion prevailing everywhere. The co-operating land forces, under General Butler, had almost completely invested the fort, and the communication between it and Wilmington was at one time interrupted, so that it was impossible to ascertain the condition of affairs below. In the midst of the turmoil, we cast off from the wharf, about two o'clock in the afternoon of December 26th, and anchored off Smithville after dark, the tide not serving for crossing the bar that night. Next morning the "Agnes Fry," an inward bound blockade-runner, was discovered aground on the western bar. Towards evening two or three of the blockading fleet stationed off that bar steamed in, and opened fire upon her. The bombardment of the fort was still in progress. A little after dark, just as we were weighing our anchor, General Whiting, who was then in Fort Fisher, telegraphed to us that the United States land forces were embarking, the attack upon the fort having been abandoned. We were under way in a few moments, closely followed by the Hansa, Captain Murray, and parting from her just as we crossed the bar. I had known the captain for many months, under his assumed name, and it was quite generally known that he held a commission in the British Navy. While I was living in Nova Scotia, some years afterwards, the card of Captain A. commanding H. B. M. ship J----n was brought to me, and I was surprised to find in the owner of it, my old friend Murray. Several British naval officers of rank and high character, were engaged in the same exciting and lucrative occupation of blockade-running; among them the gallant Captain Burgoyne, who commanded afterwards the unfortunate ship "Captain" of H. B. M.'s Navy, and who perished together with nearly the whole crew when she foundered at sea. We crossed the bar under such favorable circumstances, that we were not discovered; nor did we see any of the fleet until we had cleared the Frying Pan Shoals, when we easily avoided several vessels which had participated, no doubt, in the attack upon Fort Fisher, and were now about to take their stations off the western bar. We made a rapid, though a very rough voyage to Bermuda, a stormy northwest gale following us nearly the whole distance. The Prussian Major Von Borcke, who had served on General Jeb Stewart's staff, and who afterwards published (in Blackwood's) his experience of the war, was a passenger. The Major was no sailor, and his sufferings from sea sickness were much aggravated by a gunshot wound in his throat. As the engines of the "Chameleon" would "race" in the heavy sea following us, and her whole frame would vibrate, he declared in military phraseology ("our army swore terribly in Flanders!") that he would rather encounter the dangers of a "stricken field" than voluntarily endure an hour of such torture. We arrived at St. George's on the 30th of December; and our troubles immediately commenced. It was the 5th of January before permission was received to land our cargo of cotton; His Excellency, the Governor having called upon the law officers of the crown for aid in the dire dilemma. When the vessel's papers were at last pronounced correct, we discharged our cargo, and then arose the perplexing question of loading. I haven't the least doubt that the American Consul was sadly bothering His Excellency all this time; but permission was finally granted to us to take in provisions but no munitions of war. As we did not want "hardware," as munitions of war were then invoiced, we proceeded to load. But a great deal of time had been lost, and we did not take our departure for Wilmington till January the 19th; having on board as passengers General Preston and staff, returning from Europe. Our voyage across was very rough, and the night of our approach to New Inlet Bar was dark and rainy. Between one and two o'clock in the morning, as we were feeling our way with the lead, a light was discovered nearly ahead and a short distance from us. As we drew closer in and "sheered" the Chameleon, so as to bring the light abeam, I directed our signal officer to make the regular signal. No reply was made to it, although many lights now began to appear looming up through the drizzling rain. These were undoubtedly camp fires of the United States troops outside of Fort Fisher; but it never occurred to me as possible, that a second attack could have been made, and successfully in the brief period of time which had elapsed since our departure from Wilmington. Believing that I had made some error in my day's observations, the Chameleon was put to sea again, as the most prudent course in the emergency. The night was too far spent to allow of any delay. Orders were therefore given to go at full speed, and by daylight we had made an offing of forty or fifty miles from the coast. Clear and pleasant weather enabled me to establish our position accurately--it was my invariable custom, at sea, during the war, to take my own observations--and early in the night we made the Mound Light ahead, for which I had shaped our course. The range lights were showing, and we crossed the bar without interference, but without a suspicion of anything wrong, as it would occasionally happen, under particularly favorable circumstances, that we would cross the bar without even seeing a blockader. We were under the guns of Fort Fisher in fact, and close to the fleet of United States vessels, which had crossed the bar after the fall of the fort, when I directed my signal officer to communicate with the shore station. His signal was promptly answered, but turning to me, he said, "No Confederate signal officer there, sir; he cannot reply to me." The order to wear round was instantly obeyed; not a moment too soon, for the bow of the Chameleon was scarcely pointed for the bar before two of the light cruisers were plainly visible in pursuit, steaming with all speed to intercept us. Nothing saved us from capture but the twin screws, which enabled our steamer to turn as upon a pivot in the narrow channel between the bar and the "rip." We reached the bar before our pursuers, and were soon lost to their sight in the darkness outside. Our supply of coal being limited, the course was shaped for Nassau as the nearer port, where we arrived without accident. A day or two after our arrival the news came of the fall of Fort Fisher. Several narrow escapes, besides our own, were made. Maffitt, in command of the "Owl" crossed the Western Bar a night or two after the fall of Fort Fisher, and while our troops were evacuating Fort Caswell and other military stations along the river. Crossing the bar, and suspecting no danger, he continued on his way up to Smithville, where he anchored. He was boarded a few moments afterwards by a boat from our military post there. The officer in command of the boat informed him of the capture of Fort Fisher, and that our troops were then evacuating Fort Caswell; adding that several vessels of the Federal fleet had crossed the New Inlet Bar, and were at anchor in the river almost within hail of him. Maffitt was about to give the order to slip the chain, "not standing upon the order of his going," when his pilot begged for permission to go ashore, if only for ten minutes. He represented the situation of his wife, whom he had left ill and without means of support, in such moving terms, that Maffitt granted permission, upon condition that he would return speedily. The pilot was faithful to his promise, returning in fifteen or twenty minutes. During his absence, steam was raised, and the chain unshackled. As the pilot's foot touched the deck of the "Owl" again, the boat was hooked on and run up to the davits, the chain slipped, and the "Owl" on her way to sea again. Another blockade-runner is said to have been not so fortunate. She had run the gauntlet safely, and come to anchor off Smithville. The tarpaulins had been removed from the hatches, the lamps lighted, and a cold supper spread upon the table, at which the passengers were seated, two or three officers of the British army among them. A toast to the captain had been proposed, and they had just tossed off a bumper in champagne to his health and continued successes, and he was about to reply to the compliment, when the officer of the deck reported that a boat was coming alongside. The captain received the officer at the gangway. The mail bag, according to the usual routine, was given to the latter for transportation to the shore; and the customary inquiries made after the name of the vessel, cargo, number of passengers, etc. The astounded captain was then informed that his vessel was a prize to the United States ship--then at anchor near him! Charleston was now the only harbor on the Atlantic coast at all accessible, and that must evidently soon fall; but a cargo might be landed there before that inevitable catastrophe, and fully appreciating the exigency, I determined to make the effort. Even after the occupation of Wilmington by the United States troops, there would remain an interior line of communication between Charleston and Virginia. The facts of history prove that the importance of carrying in a cargo of provisions was not exaggerated, for the army of northern Virginia was shortly afterwards literally starving; and during their retreat from the position around Petersburg the country adjacent to their line of march was swarming with soldiers who had left the ranks in search of food. But it was the part of prudence to ascertain, positively, before sailing, that Charleston was still in our possession. This intelligence was brought by the "Chicora" which arrived at Nassau on the 30th of January; and on February 1st, the "Owl," "Carolina," "Dream," "Chicora" and "Chameleon" sailed within a few hours of each other for Charleston. The condition of affairs throughout the Confederacy was far more desperate than we, who were abroad, had any idea of. Despondency and demoralization had advanced with gigantic strides within the past two or three eventful months. Admiral Semmes, in his "Memoirs of Service Afloat, etc," gives the following account of an interview with General Lee: "As soon as I could command a leisure moment, I paid General Lee a visit at his head-quarters near Petersburg, and spent a night with him. I had served with him in the Mexican War. We discussed together the critical state of the country and of his army--we were now near the end of January, 1865, and I thought the grand old chieftain and Christian gentleman seemed to foreshadow in his conversation, more by manner than by words, the approaching downfall of the cause for which we were both struggling. I had come to him, I told him, to speak of what I had seen of the people, and of the army, in my transit across the country, and to say to him that unless prompt measures could be devised to put an end to the desertions that were going on among our troops, our cause must inevitably be lost. He did not seem to be at all surprised at the revelations I made. He knew all about the condition of the country, civil and military, but seemed to feel himself powerless to prevent the downward tendency of things, and he was right. It was no longer in the power of any one man to save the country. The body politic was already dead. The people themselves had given up the contest, and this being the case, no army could do more than retard the catastrophe for a few months. Besides, his army itself was melting away. That very night, as I learned at the breakfast table, one hundred and sixty men deserted in a body. It was useless to attempt to shoot deserters when demoralization had gone to this extent." A few weeks subsequent to the date referred to in the above extract, General Johnston was ordered to "drive back Sherman." He states in his "Narrative" in reference to accepting the command: "This was done with a full consciousness on my part, however, that we could have no other object in continuing the war than to obtain fair terms of peace; for the Southern cause must have appeared hopeless then to all intelligent and dispassionate Southern men." We passed Abaco light soon after dark, and shaped our course direct for Charleston. At early dawn the next morning, while I was lying awake in my room on the bridge, I heard the officer of the deck give the quick sharp order to the helmsman "hard a-port!" The steering wheel in all of the blockade-runners was upon the bridge and immediately forward of the captain's state-room, and the officer of the deck kept his watch upon the bridge. As I never undressed at night, while at sea in command during the war, I was out upon the deck in a moment; and then I saw distant two or three miles and directly in our former course, a large side-wheel steamer. From her size and rig, I guessed her to be the "Vanderbilt;" and I was afraid that the Chameleon had at last found more than her match, for the Vanderbilt enjoyed the reputation of great speed. We wore round before we were discovered, but as the strange steamer's bow was pointed in our direction a few moments afterwards, it was plain that we would have to make good use of our heels, and that the race would be a trying one. The Chameleon was in fine condition for the ordeal, and the usual precaution of cleaning fires, and raising the steam had been taken before daylight. My staunch old quartermaster, McLean, who had been with me in nearly all the chances and changes of blockade-running, always took his place at the wheel on trying occasions. He had nerves of steel, and would have steered the vessel without flinching against a line of battle ship, if so ordered. Upon one occasion, after we had crossed the Western Bar, and were steaming at full speed along the coast, we suddenly discovered a long low blockader on our starboard bow, and at the same instant, distinctly heard the order from the stranger's deck, to "pass along the shell!" I called out to my old helmsman, "Port and run her down!" and if the strange vessel had not moved out of our way with alacrity, she would have been assuredly cut in two. We grazed her stern by a hair's breadth as we shot by her at the rate of thirteen knots. Before they had recovered from the confusion on board of her, we had passed into the darkness beyond, and the shell which they sent after us flew wide of its mark. McLean was now placed at the wheel. It was a close race for hours, neither apparently gaining or losing a foot; but Providence again befriended us. As the day advanced, the breeze, which was very light from the northward at daylight, continued to freshen from that quarter. We soon set all of our canvas, and so did the chaser, but as the latter was square rigged, and we carried fore and aft sails, our sheets were hauled flat aft, and the Chameleon kept close to the wind by the steady old helmsman. I do not doubt that we would have been overhauled but for this favorable contingency. Head to wind our pursuer would certainly have overtaken us, and off the wind her chances would have been almost equally good. But she began to drop gradually to leeward as the wind continued steady, and by two o'clock in the afternoon, she was five or six miles distant on our lee quarter. Although we had not increased the distance between us much, if any, since the commencement of the chase, we had weathered upon the chaser until her sails had become useless about twelve o'clock when she furled them. As the snowy cloud of canvas was rolled up like magic, and the tall tapering spars were seen in its place, I supposed the cruiser was about to retire from the contest; but she still followed with the tenacity of a bloodhound. But apparently to no purpose till about two o'clock, when the chief engineer, Mr. Schroeder, appeared on the bridge with the report that the journals were heated, and it was absolutely necessary to stop to ease the bearings! This was a predicament, indeed; but when I looked down into the hold, and saw the clouds of vapor rising from the overheated journals, as a stream of water was being pumped upon them, I saw that Schroeder was right in the assertion, that unless the bearings were instantly eased, the machinery would give way. I had implicit confidence in Schroeder, and it had been justly earned, for he had served long under my command, and had always displayed, under trying circumstances, great coolness, presence of mind, and ability. He made every preparation for the work before him, taking off his own coat, and when everything was in readiness, the order to stop the engines was given. In a few moments, we lay like a log upon the water, and the chaser was rapidly lessening the distance between as, and the suspense became almost intolerable. Our fate was hanging by a thread; but in ten minutes the journals had been cooled off, the bearings eased, and the Chameleon again sprang ahead with renewed speed. The steamer in chase had approached nearly within cannon shot--probably within long range--but in the course of the next hour, we had gained so rapidly in the race that the pursuit was abandoned as hopeless; and as the stranger wore around, to resume her station under easy steam, we followed in her wake till dark, when we evaded her without difficulty, and continued on our course toward Charleston. But another precious day had been lost, and subsequent unfavorable weather still further retarding our progress, we did not reach the coast near Charleston Bar till the fifth night after our departure from Nassau. The blockading fleet had been reinforced by all the light cruisers from the approaches to the Cape Fear River; and as we drew in to the land, we were so frequently compelled to alter the course of the Chameleon, in order to evade the blockaders, that we did not reach the bar till long after midnight, and after the tide had commenced to fall. I was tempted to force the pilot to make the attempt, but finally yielded to his assurances that access was impossible under the circumstances. As this was the last night during that moon, when the bar could be crossed during the dark hours, the course of the Chameleon was again, and for the last time, shaped for Nassau. As we turned away from the land, our hearts sank within us, while the conviction forced itself upon us, that the cause for which so much blood had been shed, so many miseries bravely endured, and so many sacrifices cheerfully made, was about to perish at last! CHAPTER XV. Sad News via New York.--Consternation among Speculators in Nassau.--Departure from Nassau via Bermuda.--Arrival at Liverpool.--The End. Arriving at Nassau on the 8th, we found many blockade-runners in port, waiting for news from Charleston; and on the 10th, the Owl returned, after an unsuccessful attempt to enter Charleston, during which she received a shot through her bows; and intelligence came also of the capture of the "Stag" and "Charlotte." On the 23d, the "Chicora," which had succeeded in getting into Charleston, arrived with the fatal news of its evacuation, and the progress of General Sherman through Georgia and South Carolina. This sad intelligence put an end to all our hopes, and we were now cut off from all communication with the Confederate Government authorities. In this dilemma, Maffitt and I consulted with Mr. Heyliger, the Confederate agent at Nassau; and it was decided that the Chameleon should be taken over to England. Whatever might be the course of events, our duty appeared to be to turn our vessels over, either to the agent of the Navy Department in Liverpool, or to the firm of Messrs. Fraser, Trenholm & Co. there. We learned afterwards, indeed, that Captain Pembroke Jones, of the Confederate Navy, was at that time on his way to us via Galveston or Mexico, with orders from the Navy Department. All of us were directed to take in cargoes of provisions to a specified point on the Rappahannock River, under the protection of Confederate artillery to be stationed there in readiness. The steamers were to be burned after landing their cargoes, but Jones could not reach us in time. The bottom of the Chameleon being quite foul, divers were employed to scrub it preparatory to her long sea voyage. These people are wonderfully expert, remaining under the surface nearly two minutes; and the water in the harbor of Nassau is so clear that they can be distinctly seen even at the keel of a vessel. Our cargo of provisions was landed, and an extra supply of coal taken on board. The vessel being under Confederate colors and liable to capture wherever found, except in neutral waters, it behooved us to be prepared at all times to show our heels to a stranger Some of our crew who wished their discharge, for the purpose of rejoining their families at the South, were paid off; the rest of them shipped for the voyage to Liverpool via Bermuda. We still lingered for later intelligence which was brought by the mail steamer Corsica from New York. Charleston was evacuated on the 17th of February, and Fort Anderson, the last of the defences at Wilmington, fell on the 19th. General Johnston had assumed command of the broken remnant of the army of the Tennessee in North Carolina, and subsequently offered some resistance to the hitherto unimpeded march of General Sherman; but the latter was now about to effect a junction with General Schofield, who commanded a large force which had landed at Wilmington. It was too evident that the end was near. The speculators in Nassau saw that "the bottom had fallen out," and all of them were in the depths of despair. Some of them, it is true, had risen from the desperately hazardous game with large gains, but the majority had staked their all and lost it; and even the fortunate ones had contracted a thirst for rash ventures, which eventually led to the pecuniary and social ruin of some of them. Even the negro stevedores and laborers bewailed our misfortunes, for they knew that the glory of Nassau had departed forever. My old friend Captain Dick Watkins probably more unselfishly regretted the disasters to our arms than the speculators or even the refugees in Nassau, who had succeeded in evading service in the army by skulking abroad. A recruiting officer might have "conscripted" nearly a brigade of the swaggering blusterers. Captain Dick and I parted with mutual regret; and I sincerely hope, if Providence has been pleased to remove the old fellow's helpmeet to a better sphere, that he has found consolation in a virtuous union with one of those "mighty pretty yaller gals" he so much admired; and that Napoleon Bonaparte may rise to the highest dignities in that particolored community of spongers and "wrackers." We sailed from Nassau on the 22d of March and arrived at St. George's, Bermuda on the 26th. The harbor was deserted, and the town, in its listless inactivity, presented a striking contrast with its late stir and bustle. "'Twas Greece, but living Greece no more." After coaling, we took our departure for Liverpool on the 26th of March, and arrived there on the 9th of April. It was Palm Sunday, and the chimes were ringing sweetly from the church bells, as we came to anchor. The contrast between this happy, peaceful, prosperous country and our own desolated, war-distracted land, struck a chill to our saddened hearts. The last act in the bloody drama was about to close on that very day at Appomattox Court House, and before that sun had set, the Confederate Government had become a thing of the past. We, who were abroad, were not unprepared for the final catastrophe; for we had learned on our arrival at Liverpool of General Early's defeat in the valley of the Shenandoah, and the accession to General Grant's already overwhelmingly large forces of General Sheridan's cavalry; and of the junction of General Sherman with General Schofield. To oppose these mighty armies, there were 33,000 half starved, ragged heroes in the trenches around Petersburg, and about 25,000 under General Johnston in North Carolina. This may not be a proper place to allude to the fearful penalties inflicted upon a people who fought and suffered for what they deemed a holy cause. But it should be proclaimed, in the interest of truth and justice, that the South since the close of the war, has been preyed upon by unprincipled adventurers and renegades who are determined to rule or ruin. But a brighter day will come. Calumny and injustice cannot triumph forever. That distinguished officer Colonel C. C. Chesney of the British army in a volume of "Military Biography" lately published by him, in allusion to General Lee, writes thus: "But though America has learned to pardon, she has yet to attain the full reconciliation for which the dead hero would have sacrificed a hundred lives. Time can only bring this to a land, which in her agony, bled at every pore. Time, the healer of all wounds will bring it yet. The day will come, when the evil passions of the great civil strife will sleep in oblivion, and North and South do justice to each other's motives, and forget each other's wrongs. Then History will speak with clear voice of the deeds done on either side, and the citizens of the whole Union do justice to the memories of the dead." Surely all honest men and true patriots will rejoice to see that day. The firm of Fraser, Trenholm & Co. was represented in Liverpool by a Mr. Prioleau who was by no means anxious for the consignment of the Chameleon in ballast; with a cargo on board the case would have been different. He evidently considered her a very big and unsalable elephant, and repudiated the part of showman. The vessel was therefore turned over to Captain Bullock, who acted with his usual tact and discretion in the subsequent transactions connected with her. There was a sharp struggle between rival claimants for the possession of the ship, but the Gordian knot was cut by the British Government which placed the "broad arrow" upon her. The public funds were also transferred to Captain Bullock and his receipt taken for them. Here I beg leave to affirm that I neither appropriated nor desired to appropriate any of the spoils of the perishing ship of state.[16] But as memory recalls the many opportunities placed in my way of making a fortune during the war, without detriment to the cause, and consistent with every obligation due to the Confederate Government, there are times when I cannot decide whether I acted the part of a fool, or that of a patriot. We are told that when Lord Clive was arraigned before the British Parliament for profiting by his high position in India to enrich himself, he exclaimed at the close of his defence against the charge, "By G----d, Mr. Chairman, at this moment I stand astonished at my own moderation!" His idea of "moderation" was £300,000. A "dead broke" Confederate would have considered himself fortunate to possess 300,000 cents! Some of the crew of the Chameleon, who had served for years in the Confederate Navy, brought a claim against me for pay due them while in the public service, and it was with some difficulty that their counsel, a pettifogging lawyer, could be induced to consent to arbitration; but the matter was finally settled through Bullock's agency, although it appeared probable at one time that I would be obliged to take a hasty departure from England. The end was close at hand. News of the capture of Richmond arrived on the 15th, and a few days afterwards, intelligence of the surrender of General Lee's army. The Chameleon was soon afterwards given up to the United States Government which claimed the assets, but repudiated the liabilities of the Confederate Government. Her officers and crew were turned adrift with "the wide world before them where to choose." FOOTNOTE: [16] The proofs, which I hold in my possession, of this affirmation can have no interest for the general reader. Shortly after the close of the war, I learned through a friend in Washington that I was charged with appropriating many thousands of dollars belonging to the late Confederate Government. Although I was then living in Halifax, Nova Scotia, and beyond the jurisdiction of the United States Government, I forwarded to the Hon. Secretary of the United States Navy, copies of the receipts taken by me from Captain Bullock, in Liverpool, for all Confederate property in my possession. I may be permitted indeed, to claim eminent disinterestedness, for I might have accumulated a fortune; and at the end, my faithful and efficient paymaster, E. Courtenay Jenkins, a gentleman of the purest integrity, made the transfer by my direction; both of us washing our hands of the "filthy lucre," and retaining a clear conscience. 
12280	----	THE GRANDISSIMES BY GEORGE W. CABLE WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ALBERT HERTER MDCCCXCIX 1899 CONTENTS I. Masked Batteries. II. The Fate of the Immigrant. III. "And who is my Neighbor?" IV. Family Trees. V. A Maiden who will not Marry. VI. Lost Opportunities. VII. Was it Honoré Grandissime? VIII. Signed--Honoré Grandissime. IX. Illustrating the Tractive Power of Basil. X. "Oo dad is, 'Sieur Frowenfel'?" XI. Sudden Flashes of Light. XII. The Philosophe. XIII. A Call from the Rent-Spectre. XIV. Before Sunset. XV. Rolled in the Dust. XVI. Starlight in the rue Chartres. XVII. That Night. XVIII. New Light upon Dark Places. XIX. Art and Commerce. XX. A very Natural Mistake. XXI. Doctor Keene Recovers his Bullet. XXII. Wars within the Breast. XXIII. Frowenfeld Keeps his Appointment. XXIV. Frowenfeld Makes an Argument. XXV. Aurora as a Historian. XXVI. A Ride and a Rescue. XXVII. The Fête de Grandpère. XXVIII. The Story of Bras-Coupé. XXIX. The Story of Bras-Coupé, Continued. XXX. Paralysis. XXXI. Another Wound in a New Place. XXXII. Interrupted Preliminaries. XXXIII. Unkindest Cut of All. XXXIV. Clotilde as a Surgeon. XXXV. "Fo' wad you Cryne?" XXXVI. Aurora's Last Picayune. XXXVII. Honoré Makes some Confessions. XXXVIII. Tests of Friendship. XXXIX. Louisiana States her Wants. XL. Frowenfeld Finds Sylvestre. XLI. To Come to the Point. XLII. An Inheritance of Wrong. XLIII. The Eagle Visits the Doves in their Nest. XLIV. Bad for Charlie Keene. XLV. More Reparation. XLVI. The Pique-en-terre Loses One of her Crew. XLVII. The News. XLVIII. An Indignant Family and a Smashed Shop. XLIX. Over the New Store. L. A Proposal of Marriage. LI. Business Changes. LII. Love Lies-a-Bleeding. LIII. Frowenfeld at the Grandissime Mansion. LIV. "Cauldron Bubble". LV. Caught. LVI. Blood for a Blow. LVII. Voudou Cured. LVIII. Dying Words. LIX. Where some Creole Money Goes. LX. "All Right". LXI. "No!". PHOTOGRAVURES "They paused a little within the obscurity of the corridor, and just to reassure themselves that everything _was_ 'all right'" _Frontispiece_. "She looked upon an unmasked, noble countenance, lifted her own mask a little, and then a little more; and then shut it quickly". "The daughter of the Natchez sitting in majesty, clothed in many-colored robes of shining feathers crossed and recrossed with girdles of serpent-skins and of wampum". "Aurora,--alas! alas!--went down upon her knees with her gaze fixed upon the candle's flame". "The young man with auburn curls rested the edge of his burden upon the counter, tore away its wrappings and disclosed a painting". "Silently regarding the intruder with a pair of eyes that sent an icy chill through him and fastened him where he stood, lay Palmyre Philosophe". "On their part, they would sit in deep attention, shielding their faces from the fire, and responding to enunciations directly contrary to their convictions with an occasional 'yes-seh,' or 'ceddenly,' or 'of coze,' or,--prettier affirmation still,--a solemn drooping of the eyelids". "Bras-Coupé was practically declaring his independence on a slight rise of ground hardly sixty feet in circumference and lifted scarce above the water in the inmost depths of the swamp". "'Ma lill dotter, wad dad meggin you cry? Iv you will tell me wad dad mague you cry, I will tell you--on ma _second word of honor_'--she rolled up her fist--'juz wad I thing about dad 'Sieur Frowenfel!'". "His head was bowed, a heavy grizzled lock fell down upon his dark, frowning brow, one hand clenched the top of his staff, the other his knee, and both trembled violently". "The tall figure of Palmyre rose slowly and silently from her chair, her eyes lifted up and her lips moving noiselessly. She seemed to have lost all knowledge of place or of human presence". "They turned in a direction opposite to the entrance and took chairs in a cool nook of the paved court, at a small table where the hospitality of Clemence had placed glasses of lemonade". _In addition to the foregoing, the stories are illustrated with eight smaller photogravures from drawings by Mr. Herter_. CHAPTER I MASKED BATTERIES It was in the Théatre St. Philippe (they had laid a temporary floor over the parquette seats) in the city we now call New Orleans, in the month of September, and in the year 1803. Under the twinkle of numberless candles, and in a perfumed air thrilled with the wailing ecstasy of violins, the little Creole capital's proudest and best were offering up the first cool night of the languidly departing summer to the divine Terpsichore. For summer there, bear in mind, is a loitering gossip, that only begins to talk of leaving when September rises to go. It was like hustling her out, it is true, to give a select _bal masqué_ at such a very early--such an amusingly early date; but it was fitting that something should be done for the sick and the destitute; and why not this? Everybody knows the Lord loveth a cheerful giver. And so, to repeat, it was in the Théatre St. Philippe (the oldest, the first one), and, as may have been noticed, in the year in which the First Consul of France gave away Louisiana. Some might call it "sold." Old Agricola Fusilier in the rumbling pomp of his natural voice--for he had an hour ago forgotten that he was in mask and domino--called it "gave away." Not that he believed it had been done; for, look you, how could it be? The pretended treaty contained, for instance, no provision relative to the great family of Brahmin Mandarin Fusilier de Grandissime. It was evidently spurious. Being bumped against, he moved a step or two aside, and was going on to denounce further the detestable rumor, when a masker--one of four who had just finished the contra-dance and were moving away in the column of promenaders--brought him smartly around with the salutation: "_Comment to yé, Citoyen Agricola!_" "H-you young kitten!" said the old man in a growling voice, and with the teased, half laugh of aged vanity as he bent a baffled scrutiny at the back-turned face of an ideal Indian Queen. It was not merely the _tutoiement_ that struck him as saucy, but the further familiarity of using the slave dialect. His French was unprovincial. "H-the cool rascal!" he added laughingly, and, only half to himself; "get into the garb of your true sex, sir, h-and I will guess who you are!" But the Queen, in the same feigned voice as before, retorted: "_Ah! mo piti fils, to pas connais to zancestres?_ Don't you know your ancestors, my little son!" "H-the g-hods preserve us!" said Agricola, with a pompous laugh muffled under his mask, "the queen of the Tchoupitoulas I proudly acknowledge, and my great-grandfather, Epaminondas Fusilier, lieutenant of dragoons under Bienville; but,"--he laid his hand upon his heart, and bowed to the other two figures, whose smaller stature betrayed the gentler sex--"pardon me, ladies, neither Monks nor _Filles à la Cassette_ grow on our family tree." The four maskers at once turned their glance upon the old man in the domino; but if any retort was intended it gave way as the violins burst into an agony of laughter. The floor was immediately filled with waltzers and the four figures disappeared. "I wonder," murmured Agricola to himself, "if that Dragoon can possibly be Honoré Grandissime." Wherever those four maskers went there were cries of delight: "Ho, ho, ho! see there! here! there! a group of first colonists! One of Iberville's Dragoons! don't you remember great-great grandfather Fusilier's portrait--the gilded casque and heron plumes? And that one behind in the fawn-skin leggings and shirt of birds' skins is an Indian Queen. As sure as sure can be, they are intended for Epaminondas and his wife, Lufki-Humma!" All, of course, in Louisiana French. "But why, then, does he not walk with her?" "Why, because, Simplicity, both of them are men, while the little Monk on his arm is a lady, as you can see, and so is the masque that has the arm of the Indian Queen; look at their little hands." In another part of the room the four were greeted with, "Ha, ha, ha! well, that is magnificent! But see that Huguenotte Girl on the Indian Queen's arm! Isn't that fine! Ha, ha! she carries a little trunk. She is a _Fille à la Cassette!_" Two partners in a cotillion were speaking in an undertone, behind a fan. "And you think you know who it is?" asked one. "Know?" replied the other. "Do I know I have a head on my shoulders? If that Dragoon is not our cousin Honoré Grandissime--well--" "Honoré in mask? he is too sober-sided to do such a thing." "I tell you it is he! Listen. Yesterday I heard Doctor Charlie Keene begging him to go, and telling him there were two ladies, strangers, newly arrived in the city, who would be there, and whom he wished him to meet. Depend upon it the Dragoon is Honoré, Lufki-Humma is Charlie Keene, and the Monk and the Huguenotte are those two ladies." But all this is an outside view; let us draw nearer and see what chance may discover to us behind those four masks. An hour has passed by. The dance goes on; hearts are beating, wit is flashing, eyes encounter eyes with the leveled lances of their beams, merriment and joy and sudden bright surprises thrill the breast, voices are throwing off disguise, and beauty's coy ear is bending with a venturesome docility; here love is baffled, there deceived, yonder takes prisoners and here surrenders. The very air seems to breathe, to sigh, to laugh, while the musicians, with disheveled locks, streaming brows and furious bows, strike, draw, drive, scatter from the anguished violins a never-ending rout of screaming harmonies. But the Monk and the Huguenotte are not on the floor. They are sitting where they have been left by their two companions, in one of the boxes of the theater, looking out upon the unwearied whirl and flash of gauze and light and color. "Oh, _chérie, chérie!_" murmured the little lady in the Monk's disguise to her quieter companion, and speaking in the soft dialect of old Louisiana, "now you get a good idea of heaven!" The _Fille à la Cassette_ replied with a sudden turn of her masked face and a murmur of surprise and protest against this impiety. A low, merry laugh came out of the Monk's cowl, and the Huguenotte let her form sink a little in her chair with a gentle sigh. "Ah, for shame, tired!" softly laughed the other; then suddenly, with her eyes fixed across the room, she seized her companion's hand and pressed it tightly. "Do you not see it?" she whispered eagerly, "just by the door--the casque with the heron feathers. Ah, Clotilde, I _cannot_ believe he is one of those Grandissimes!" "Well," replied the Huguenotte, "Doctor Keene says he is not." Doctor Charlie Keene, speaking from under the disguise of the Indian Queen, had indeed so said; but the Recording Angel, whom we understand to be particular about those things, had immediately made a memorandum of it to the debit of Doctor Keene's account. "If I had believed that it was he," continued the whisperer, "I would have turned about and left him in the midst of the contra-dance!" Behind them sat unmasked a well-aged pair, "_bredouillé_," as they used to say of the wall-flowers, with that look of blissful repose which marks the married and established Creole. The lady in monk's attire turned about in her chair and leaned back to laugh with these. The passing maskers looked that way, with a certain instinct that there was beauty under those two costumes. As they did so, they saw the _Fille à la Cassette_ join in this over-shoulder conversation. A moment later, they saw the old gentleman protector and the _Fille à la Cassette_ rising to the dance. And when presently the distant passers took a final backward glance, that same Lieutenant of Dragoons had returned and he and the little Monk were once more upon the floor, waiting for the music. "But your late companion?" said the voice in the cowl. "My Indian Queen?" asked the Creole Epaminondas. "Say, rather, your Medicine-Man," archly replied the Monk. "In these times," responded the Cavalier, "a medicine-man cannot dance long without professional interruption, even when he dances for a charitable object. He has been called to two relapsed patients." The music struck up; the speaker addressed himself to the dance; but the lady did not respond. "Do dragoons ever moralize?" she asked. "They do more," replied her partner; "sometimes, when beauty's enjoyment of the ball is drawing toward its twilight, they catch its pleasant melancholy, and confess; will the good father sit in the confessional?" The pair turned slowly about and moved toward the box from which they had come, the lady remaining silent; but just as they were entering she half withdrew her arm from his, and, confronting him with a rich sparkle of the eyes within the immobile mask of the monk, said: "Why should the conscience of one poor little monk carry all the frivolity of this ball? I have a right to dance, if I wish. I give you my word, Monsieur Dragoon, I dance only for the benefit of the sick and the destitute. It is you men--you dragoons and others--who will not help them without a compensation in this sort of nonsense. Why should we shrive you when you ought to burn?" "Then lead us to the altar," said the Dragoon. "Pardon, sir," she retorted, her words entangled with a musical, open-hearted laugh, "I am not going in that direction." She cast her glance around the ball-room. "As you say, it is the twilight of the ball; I am looking for the evening star,--that is, my little Huguenotte." "Then you are well mated." "How?" "For you are Aurora." The lady gave a displeased start. "Sir!" "Pardon," said the Cavalier, "if by accident I have hit upon your real name--" She laughed again--a laugh which was as exultantly joyous as it was high-bred. "Ah, my name? Oh no, indeed!" (More work for the Recording Angel.) She turned to her protectress. "Madame, I know you think we should be going home." The senior lady replied in amiable speech, but with sleepy eyes, and the Monk began to lift and unfold a wrapping. As the Cavalier' drew it into his own possession, and, agreeably to his gesture, the Monk and he sat down side by side, he said, in a low tone: "One more laugh before we part." "A monk cannot laugh for nothing." "I will pay for it." "But with nothing to laugh at?" The thought of laughing at nothing made her laugh a little on the spot. "We will make something to laugh at," said the Cavalier; "we will unmask to each other, and when we find each other first cousins, the laugh will come of itself." "Ah! we will unmask?--no! I have no cousins. I am certain we are strangers." "Then we will laugh to think that I paid for the disappointment." Much more of this childlike badinage followed, and by and by they came around again to the same last statement. Another little laugh escaped from the cowl. "You will pay? Let us see; how much will you give to the sick and destitute?" "To see who it is I am laughing with, I will give whatever you ask." "Two hundred and fifty dollars, cash, into the hands of the managers!" "A bargain!" The Monk laughed, and her chaperon opened her eyes and smiled apologetically. The Cavalier laughed, too, and said: "Good! That was the laugh; now the unmasking." "And you positively will give the money to the managers not later than to-morrow evening?" "Not later. It shall be done without fail." "Well, wait till I put on my wrappings; I must be ready to run." This delightful nonsense was interrupted by the return of the _Fille à la Cassette_ and her aged, but sprightly, escort, from a circuit of the floor. Madame again opened her eyes, and the four prepared to depart. The Dragoon helped the Monk to fortify herself against the outer air. She was ready before the others. There was a pause, a low laugh, a whispered "Now!" She looked upon an unmasked, noble countenance, lifted her own mask a little, and then a little more; and then shut it quickly down again upon a face whose beauty was more than even those fascinating graces had promised which Honoré Grandissime had fitly named the Morning; but it was a face he had never seen before. "Hush!" she said, "the enemies of religion are watching us; the Huguenotte saw me. Adieu"--and they were gone. M. Honoré Grandissime turned on his heel and very soon left the ball. "Now, sir," thought he to himself, "we'll return to our senses." "Now I'll put my feathers on again," says the plucked bird. CHAPTER II THE FATE OF THE IMMIGRANT It was just a fortnight after the ball, that one Joseph Frowenfeld opened his eyes upon Louisiana. He was an American by birth, rearing and sentiment, yet German enough through his parents, and the only son in a family consisting of father, mother, self, and two sisters, new-blown flowers of womanhood. It was an October dawn, when, long wearied of the ocean, and with bright anticipations of verdure, and fragrance, and tropical gorgeousness, this simple-hearted family awoke to find the bark that had borne them from their far northern home already entering upon the ascent of the Mississippi. We may easily imagine the grave group, as they came up one by one from below, that morning of first disappointment, and stood (with a whirligig of jubilant mosquitoes spinning about each head) looking out across the waste, seeing the sky and the marsh meet in the east, the north, and the west, and receiving with patient silence the father's suggestion that the hills would, no doubt, rise into view after a while. "My children, we may turn this disappointment into a lesson; if the good people of this country could speak to us now, they might well ask us not to judge them or their land upon one or two hasty glances, or by the experiences of a few short days or weeks." But no hills rose. However, by and by they found solace in the appearance of distant forest, and in the afternoon they entered a land--but such a land! A land hung in mourning, darkened by gigantic cypresses, submerged; a land of reptiles, silence, shadow, decay. "The captain told father, when we went to engage passage, that New Orleans was on high land," said the younger daughter, with a tremor in the voice, and ignoring the remonstrative touch of her sister. "On high land?" said the captain, turning from the pilot; "well, so it is--higher than the swamp, but not higher than the river," and he checked a broadening smile. But the Frowenfelds were not a family to complain. It was characteristic of them to recognize the bright as well as the solemn virtues, and to keep each other reminded of the duty of cheerfulness. A smile, starting from the quiet elder sister, went around the group, directed against the abstracted and somewhat rueful countenance of Joseph, whereat he turned with a better face and said that what the Creator had pronounced very good they could hardly feel free to condemn. The old father was still more stout of heart. "These mosquitoes, children, are thought by some to keep the air pure," he said. "Better keep out of it after sunset," put in the captain. After that day and night, the prospect grew less repellent. A gradually matured conviction that New Orleans would not be found standing on stilts in the quagmire enabled the eye to become educated to a better appreciation of the solemn landscape. Nor was the landscape always solemn. There were long openings, now and then, to right and left, of emerald-green savannah, with the dazzling blue of the Gulf far beyond, waving a thousand white-handed good-byes as the funereal swamps slowly shut out again the horizon. How sweet the soft breezes off the moist prairies! How weird, how very near, the crimson and green and black and yellow sunsets! How dream-like the land and the great, whispering river! The profound stillness and breath reminded the old German, so he said, of that early time when the evenings and mornings were the first days of the half-built world. The barking of a dog in Fort Plaquemines seemed to come before its turn in the panorama of creation--before the earth was ready for the dog's master. But he was assured that to live in those swamps was not entirely impossible to man--"if one may call a negro a man." Runaway slaves were not so rare in them as one--a lost hunter, for example--might wish. His informant was a new passenger, taken aboard at the fort. He spoke English. "Yes, sir! Didn' I had to run from Bras-Coupé in de haidge of de swamp be'ine de 'abitation of my cousin Honoré, one time? You can hask 'oo you like!" (A Creole always provides against incredulity.) At this point he digressed a moment: "You know my cousin, Honoré Grandissime, w'at give two hund' fifty dolla' to de 'ospill laz mont'? An' juz because my cousin Honoré give it, somebody helse give de semm. Fo' w'y don't he give his nemm?" The reason (which this person did not know) was that the second donor was the first one over again, resolved that the little unknown Monk should not know whom she had baffled. "Who was Bras-Coupé?" the good German asked in French. The stranger sat upon the capstan, and, in the shadow of the cypress forest, where the vessel lay moored for a change of wind, told in a _patois_ difficult, but not impossible, to understand, the story of a man who chose rather to be hunted like a wild beast among those awful labyrinths, than to be yoked and beaten like a tame one. Joseph, drawing near as the story was coming to a close, overheard the following English: "Friend, if you dislike heated discussion, do not tell that to my son." The nights were strangely beautiful. The immigrants almost consumed them on deck, the mother and daughters attending in silent delight while the father and son, facing south, rejoiced in learned recognition of stars and constellations hitherto known to them only on globes and charts. "Yes, my dear son," said the father, in a moment of ecstatic admiration, "wherever man may go, around this globe--however uninviting his lateral surroundings may be, the heavens are ever over his head, and I am glad to find the stars your favorite objects of study." So passed the time as the vessel, hour by hour, now slowly pushed by the wind against the turbid current, now warping along the fragrant precincts of orange or magnolia groves or fields of sugar-cane, or moored by night in the deep shade of mighty willow-jungles, patiently crept toward the end of their pilgrimage; and in the length of time which would at present be consumed in making the whole journey from their Northern home to their Southern goal, accomplished the distance of ninety-eight miles, and found themselves before the little, hybrid city of "Nouvelle Orléans." There was the cathedral, and standing beside it, like Sancho beside Don Quixote, the squat hall of the Cabildo with the calabozo in the rear. There were the forts, the military bakery, the hospitals, the plaza, the Almonaster stores, and the busy rue Toulouse; and, for the rest of the town, a pleasant confusion of green tree-tops, red and gray roofs, and glimpses of white or yellow wall, spreading back a few hundred yards behind the cathedral, and tapering into a single rank of gardened and belvedered villas, that studded either horn of the river's crescent with a style of home than which there is probably nothing in the world more maternally homelike. "And now," said the "captain," bidding the immigrants good-by, "keep out of the sun and stay in after dark; you're not 'acclimated,' as they call it, you know, and the city is full of the fever." Such were the Frowenfelds. Out of such a mold and into such a place came the young Américain, whom even Agricola Fusilier, as we shall see, by and by thought worthy to be made an exception of, and honored with his recognition. The family rented a two-story brick house in the rue Bienville, No. 17, it seems. The third day after, at daybreak, Joseph called his father to his bedside to say that he had had a chill, and was suffering such pains in his head and back that he would like to lie quiet until they passed off. The gentle father replied that it was undoubtedly best to do so, and preserved an outward calm. He looked at his son's eyes; their pupils were contracted to tiny beads. He felt his pulse and his brow; there was no room for doubt; it was the dreaded scourge--the fever. We say, sometimes, of hearts that they sink like lead; it does not express the agony. On the second day, while the unsated fever was running through every vein and artery, like soldiery through the streets of a burning city, and far down in the caverns of the body the poison was ransacking every palpitating corner, the poor immigrant fell into a moment's sleep. But what of that? The enemy that moment had mounted to the brain. And then there happened to Joseph an experience rare to the sufferer by this disease, but not entirely unknown,--a delirium of mingled pleasures and distresses. He seemed to awake somewhere between heaven and earth, reclining in a gorgeous barge, which was draped in curtains of interwoven silver and silk, cushioned with rich stuffs of every beautiful dye, and perfumed _ad nauseam_ with orange-leaf tea. The crew was a single old negress, whose head was wound about with a blue Madras handkerchief, and who stood at the prow, and by a singular rotary motion, rowed the barge with a teaspoon. He could not get his head out of the hot sun; and the barge went continually round and round with a heavy, throbbing motion, in the regular beat of which certain spirits of the air--one of whom appeared to be a beautiful girl and another a small, red-haired man,--confronted each other with the continual call and response: "Keep the bedclothes on him and the room shut tight, keep the bedclothes on him and the room shut tight,"--"An' don' give 'im some watta, an' don' give 'im some watta." During what lapse of time--whether moments or days--this lasted, Joseph could not then know; but at last these things faded away, and there came to him a positive knowledge that he was on a sick-bed, where unless something could be done for him he should be dead in an hour. Then a spoon touched his lips, and a taste of brandy and water went all through him; and when he fell into sweet slumber and awoke, and found the teaspoon ready at his lips again, he had to lift a little the two hands lying before him on the coverlet to know that they were his--they were so wasted and yellow. He turned his eyes, and through the white gauze of the mosquito-bar saw, for an instant, a strange and beautiful young face; but the lids fell over his eyes, and when he raised them again the blue-turbaned black nurse was tucking the covering about his feet. "Sister!" No answer. "Where is my mother?" The negress shook her head. He was too weak to speak again, but asked with his eyes so persistently, and so pleadingly, that by and by she gave him an audible answer. He tried hard to understand it, but could not, it being in these words: "_Li pa' oulé vini 'ci--li pas capabe_." Thrice a day, for three days more, came a little man with a large head surrounded by short, red curls and with small freckles in a fine skin, and sat down by the bed with a word of good cheer and the air of a commander. At length they had something like an extended conversation. "So you concluded not to die, eh? Yes, I'm the doctor--Doctor Keene. A young lady? What young lady? No, sir, there has been no young lady here. You're mistaken. Vagary of your fever. There has been no one here but this black girl and me. No, my dear fellow, your father and mother can't see you yet; you don't want them to catch the fever, do you? Good-bye. Do as your nurse tells you, and next week you may raise your head and shoulders a little; but if you don't mind her you'll have a backset, and the devil himself wouldn't engage to cure you." The patient had been sitting up a little at a time for several days, when at length the doctor came to pay a final call, "as a matter of form;" but, after a few pleasantries, he drew his chair up gravely, and, in a tender tone--need we say it? He had come to tell Joseph that his father, mother, sisters, all, were gone on a second--a longer--voyage, to shores where there could be no disappointments and no fevers, forever. "And, Frowenfeld," he said, at the end of their long and painful talk, "if there is any blame attached to not letting you go with them, I think I can take part of it; but if you ever want a friend,--one who is courteous to strangers and ill-mannered only to those he likes,--you can call for Charlie Keene. I'll drop in to see you, anyhow, from time to time, till you get stronger. I have taken a heap of trouble to keep you alive, and if you should relapse now and give us the slip, it would be a deal of good physic wasted; so keep in the house." The polite neighbors who lifted their cocked hats to Joseph, as he spent a slow convalescence just within his open door, were not bound to know how or when he might have suffered. There were no "Howards" or "Y.M.C.A.'s" in those days; no "Peabody Reliefs." Even had the neighbors chosen to take cognizance of those bereavements, they were not so unusual as to fix upon him any extraordinary interests an object of sight; and he was beginning most distressfully to realize that "great solitude" which the philosopher attributes to towns, when matters took a decided turn. CHAPTER III "AND WHO IS MY NEIGHBOR?" We say matters took a turn; or, better, that Frowenfeld's interest in affairs received a new life. This had its beginning in Doctor Keene's making himself specially entertaining in an old-family-history way, with a view to keeping his patient within doors for a safe period. He had conceived a great liking for Frowenfeld, and often, of an afternoon, would drift in to challenge him to a game of chess--a game, by the way, for which neither of them cared a farthing. The immigrant had learned its moves to gratify his father, and the doctor--the truth is, the doctor had never quite learned them; but he was one of those men who cannot easily consent to acknowledge a mere affection for one, least of all one of their own sex. It may safely be supposed, then, that the board often displayed an arrangement of pieces that would have bewildered Morphy himself. "By the by, Frowenfeld," he said one evening, after the one preliminary move with which he invariably opened his game, "you haven't made the acquaintance of your pretty neighbors next door." Frowenfeld knew of no specially pretty neighbors next door on either side--had noticed no ladies. "Well, I will take you in to see them some time." The doctor laughed a little, rubbing his face and his thin, red curls with one hand, as he laughed. The convalescent wondered what there could be to laugh at. "Who are they?" he inquired. "Their name is De Grapion--oh, De Grapion, says I! their name is Nancanou. They are, without exception, the finest women--the brightest, the best, and the bravest--that I know in New Orleans." The doctor resumed a cigar which lay against the edge of the chess-board, found it extinguished, and proceeded to relight it. "Best blood of the province; good as the Grandissimes. Blood is a great thing here, in certain odd ways," he went on. "Very curious sometimes." He stooped to the floor where his coat had fallen, and took his handkerchief from a breast-pocket. "At a grand mask ball about two months ago, where I had a bewilderingly fine time with those ladies, the proudest old turkey in the theater was an old fellow whose Indian blood shows in his very behavior, and yet--ha, ha! I saw that same old man, at a quadroon ball a few years ago, walk up to the handsomest, best dressed man in the house, a man with a skin whiter than his own,--a perfect gentleman as to looks and manners,--and without a word slap him in the face." "You laugh?" asked Frowenfeld. "Laugh? Why shouldn't I? The fellow had no business there. Those balls are not given to quadroon _males_, my friend. He was lucky to get out alive, and that was about all he did. "They are right!" the doctor persisted, in response to Frowenfeld's puzzled look. "The people here have got to be particular. However, that is not what we were talking about. Quadroon balls are not to be mentioned in connection. Those ladies--" He addressed himself to the resuscitation of his cigar. "Singular people in this country," he resumed; but his cigar would not revive. He was a poor story-teller. To Frowenfeld--as it would have been to any one, except a Creole or the most thoroughly Creoleized Américain--his narrative, when it was done, was little more than a thick mist of strange names, places and events; yet there shone a light of romance upon it that filled it with color and populated it with phantoms. Frowenfeld's interest rose--was allured into this mist--and there was left befogged. As a physician, Doctor Keene thus accomplished his end,--the mental diversion of his late patient,--for in the midst of the mist Frowenfeld encountered and grappled a problem of human life in Creole type, the possible correlations of whose quantities we shall presently find him revolving in a studious and sympathetic mind, as the poet of to-day ponders the "Flower in the crannied wall." The quantities in that problem were the ancestral--the maternal--roots of those two rival and hostile families whose descendants--some brave, others fair--we find unwittingly thrown together at the ball, and with whom we are shortly to have the honor of an unmasked acquaintance. CHAPTER IV FAMILY TREES In the year 1673, and in the royal hovel of a Tchoupitoulas village not far removed from that "Buffalo's Grazing-ground," now better known as New Orleans, was born Lufki-Humma, otherwise Red Clay. The mother of Red Clay was a princess by birth as well as by marriage. For the father, with that devotion to his people's interests presumably common to rulers, had ten moons before ventured northward into the territory of the proud and exclusive Natchez nation, and had so prevailed with--so outsmoked--their "Great Sun," as to find himself, as he finally knocked the ashes from his successful calumet, possessor of a wife whose pedigree included a long line of royal mothers--fathers being of little account in Natchez heraldry--extending back beyond the Mexican origin of her nation, and disappearing only in the effulgence of her great original, the orb of day himself. As to Red Clay's paternal ancestry, we must content ourselves with the fact that the father was not only the diplomate we have already found him, but a chief of considerable eminence; that is to say, of seven feet stature. It scarce need be said that when Lufki-Humma was born, the mother arose at once from her couch of skins, herself bore the infant to the neighboring bayou and bathed it--not for singularity, nor for independence, nor for vainglory, but only as one of the heart-curdling conventionalities which made up the experience of that most pitiful of holy things, an Indian mother. Outside the lodge door sat and continued to sit, as she passed out, her master or husband. His interest in the trivialities of the moment may be summed up in this, that he was as fully prepared as some men are in more civilized times and places to hold his queen to strict account for the sex of her offspring. Girls for the Natchez, if they preferred them, but the chief of the Tchoupitoulas wanted a son. She returned from the water, came near, sank upon her knees, laid the infant at his feet, and lo! a daughter. Then she fell forward heavily upon her face. It may have been muscular exhaustion, it may have been the mere wind of her hasty-tempered matrimonial master's stone hatchet as it whiffed by her skull; an inquest now would be too great an irony; but something blew out her "vile candle." Among the squaws who came to offer the accustomed funeral howlings, and seize mementoes from the deceased lady's scant leavings, was one who had in her own palmetto hut an empty cradle scarcely cold, and therefore a necessity at her breast, if not a place in her heart, for the unfortunate Lufki-Humma; and thus it was that this little waif came to be tossed, a droll hypothesis of flesh, blood, nerve and brain, into the hands of wild nature with _carte blanche_ as to the disposal of it. And now, since this was Agricola's most boasted ancestor--since it appears the darkness of her cheek had no effect to make him less white, or qualify his right to smite the fairest and most distant descendant of an African on the face, and since this proud station and right could not have sprung from the squalid surroundings of her birth, let us for a moment contemplate these crude materials. As for the flesh, it was indeed only some of that "one flesh" of which we all are made; but the blood--to go into finer distinctions--the blood, as distinguished from the milk of her Alibamon foster-mother, was the blood of the royal caste of the great Toltec mother-race, which, before it yielded its Mexican splendors to the conquering Aztec, throned the jeweled and gold-laden Inca in the South, and sent the sacred fire of its temples into the North by the hand of the Natchez. For it is a short way of expressing the truth concerning Red Clay's tissues to say she had the blood of her mother and the nerve of her father, the nerve of the true North American Indian, and had it in its finest strength. As to her infantine bones, they were such as needed not to fail of straightness in the limbs, compactness in the body, smallness in hands and feet, and exceeding symmetry and comeliness throughout. Possibly between the two sides of the occipital profile there may have been an Incaean tendency to inequality; but if by any good fortune her impressible little cranium should escape the cradle-straps, the shapeliness that nature loves would soon appear. And this very fortune befell her. Her father's detestation of an infant that had not consulted his wishes as to sex prompted a verbal decree which, among other prohibitions, forbade her skull the distortions that ambitious and fashionable Indian mothers delighted to produce upon their offspring. And as to her brain: what can we say? The casket in which Nature sealed that brain, and in which Nature's great step-sister, Death, finally laid it away, has never fallen into the delighted fingers--and the remarkable fineness of its texture will never kindle admiration in the triumphant eyes--of those whose scientific hunger drives them to dig for _crania Americana_; nor yet will all their learned excavatings ever draw forth one of those pale souvenirs of mortality with walls of shapelier contour or more delicate fineness, or an interior of more admirable spaciousness, than the fair council-chamber under whose dome the mind of Lufki-Humma used, about two centuries ago, to sit in frequent conclave with high thoughts. "I have these facts," it was Agricola Fusilier's habit to say, "by family tradition; but you know, sir, h-tradition is much more authentic than history!" Listening Crane, the tribal medicine-man, one day stepped softly into the lodge of the giant chief, sat down opposite him on a mat of plaited rushes, accepted a lighted calumet, and, after the silence of a decent hour, broken at length by the warrior's intimation that "the ear of Raging Buffalo listened for the voice of his brother," said, in effect, that if that ear would turn toward the village play-ground, it would catch a murmur like the pleasing sound of bees among the blossoms of the catalpa, albeit the catalpa was now dropping her leaves, for it was the moon of turkeys. No, it was the repressed laughter of squaws, wallowing with their young ones about the village pole, wondering at the Natchez-Tchoupitoulas child, whose eye was the eye of the panther, and whose words were the words of an aged chief in council. There was more added; we record only enough to indicate the direction of Listening Crane's aim. The eye of Raging Buffalo was opened to see a vision: the daughter of the Natchez sitting in majesty, clothed in many-colored robes of shining feathers crossed and recrossed with girdles of serpent-skins and of wampum, her feet in quilled and painted moccasins, her head under a glory of plumes, the carpet of buffalo-robes about her throne covered with the trophies of conquest, and the atmosphere of her lodge blue with the smoke of embassadors' calumets; and this extravagant dream the capricious chief at once resolved should eventually become reality. "Let her be taken to the village temple," he said to his prime-minister, "and be fed by warriors on the flesh of wolves." The Listening Crane was a patient man; he was the "man that waits" of the old French proverb; all things came to him. He had waited for an opportunity to change his brother's mind, and it had come. Again, he waited for him to die; and, like Methuselah and others, he died. He had heard of a race more powerful than the Natchez--a white race; he waited for them; and when the year 1682 saw a humble "black gown" dragging and splashing his way, with La Salle and Tonti, through the swamps of Louisiana, holding forth the crucifix and backed by French carbines and Mohican tomahawks, among the marvels of that wilderness was found this: a child of nine sitting, and--with some unostentatious aid from her medicine-man--ruling; queen of her tribe and high-priestess of their temple. Fortified by the acumen and self-collected ambition of Listening Crane, confirmed in her regal title by the white man's Manitou through the medium of the "black gown," and inheriting her father's fear-compelling frown, she ruled with majesty and wisdom, sometimes a decreer of bloody justice, sometimes an Amazonian counselor of warriors, and at all times--year after year, until she had reached the perfect womanhood of twenty-six--a virgin queen. On the 11th of March, 1699, two overbold young Frenchmen of M. D'Iberville's little exploring party tossed guns on shoulder, and ventured away from their canoes on the bank of the Mississippi into the wilderness. Two men they were whom an explorer would have been justified in hoarding up, rather than in letting out at such risks; a pair to lean on, noble and strong. They hunted, killed nothing, were overtaken by rain, then by night, hunger, alarm, despair. And when they had lain down to die, and had only succeeded in falling asleep, the Diana of the Tchoupitoulas, ranging the magnolia groves with bow and quiver, came upon them in all the poetry of their hope-forsaken strength and beauty, and fell sick of love. We say not whether with Zephyr Grandissime or Epaminondas Fusilier; that, for the time being, was her secret. The two captives were made guests. Listening Crane rejoiced in them as representatives of the great gift-making race, and indulged himself in a dream of pipe-smoking, orations, treaties, presents and alliances, finding its climax in the marriage of his virgin queen to the king of France, and unvaryingly tending to the swiftly increasing aggrandizement of Listening Crane. They sat down to bear's meat, sagamite and beans. The queen sat down with them, clothed in her entire wardrobe: vest of swan's skin, with facings of purple and green from the neck of the mallard; petticoat of plaited hair, with embroideries of quills; leggings of fawn-skin; garters of wampum; black and green serpent-skin moccasins, that rested on pelts of tiger-cat and buffalo; armlets of gars' scales, necklaces of bears' claws and alligators' teeth, plaited tresses, plumes of raven and flamingo, wing of the pink curlew, and odors of bay and sassafras. Young men danced before them, blowing upon reeds, hooting, yelling, rattling beans in gourds and touching hands and feet. One day was like another, and the nights were made brilliant with flambeau dances and processions. Some days later M. D'Iberville's canoe fleet, returning down the river, found and took from the shore the two men, whom they had given up for dead, and with them, by her own request, the abdicating queen, who left behind her a crowd of weeping and howling squaws and warriors. Three canoes that put off in their wake, at a word from her, turned back; but one old man leaped into the water, swam after them a little way, and then unexpectedly sank. It was that cautious wader but inexperienced swimmer, the Listening Crane. When the expedition reached Biloxi, there were two suitors for the hand of Agricola's great ancestress. Neither of them was Zephyr Grandissime. (Ah! the strong heads of those Grandissimes.) They threw dice for her. Demosthenes De Grapion--he who, tradition says, first hoisted the flag of France over the little fort--seemed to think he ought to have a chance, and being accorded it, cast an astonishingly high number; but Epaminondas cast a number higher by one (which Demosthenes never could quite understand), and got a wife who had loved him from first sight. Thus, while the pilgrim fathers of the Mississippi Delta with Gallic recklessness were taking wives and moot-wives from the ill specimens of three races, arose, with the church's benediction, the royal house of the Fusiliers in Louisiana. But the true, main Grandissime stock, on which the Fusiliers did early, ever, and yet do, love to marry, has kept itself lily-white ever since France has loved lilies--as to marriage, that is; as to less responsible entanglements, why, of course-- After a little, the disappointed Demosthenes, with due ecclesiastical sanction, also took a most excellent wife, from the first cargo of House of Correction girls. Her biography, too, is as short as Methuselah's, or shorter; she died. Zephyr Grandissime married, still later, a lady of rank, a widow without children, sent from France to Biloxi under a _lettre de cachet_. Demosthenes De Grapion, himself an only son, left but one son, who also left but one. Yet they were prone to early marriages. So also were the Grandissimes, or, as the name is signed in all the old notarial papers, the Brahmin Mandarin de Grandissimes. That was one thing that kept their many-stranded family line so free from knots and kinks. Once the leisurely Zephyr gave them a start, generation followed generation with a rapidity that kept the competing De Grapions incessantly exasperated, and new-made Grandissime fathers continually throwing themselves into the fond arms and upon the proud necks of congratulatory grandsires. Verily it seemed as though their family tree was a fig-tree; you could not look for blossoms on it, but there, instead, was the fruit full of seed. And with all their speed they were for the most part fine of stature, strong of limb and fair of face. The old nobility of their stock, including particularly the unnamed blood of her of the _lettre de cachet_, showed forth in a gracefulness of carriage, that almost identified a De Grandissime wherever you saw him, and in a transparency of flesh and classic beauty of feature, that made their daughters extra-marriageable in a land and day which was bearing a wide reproach for a male celibacy not of the pious sort. In a flock of Grandissimes might always be seen a Fusilier or two; fierce-eyed, strong-beaked, dark, heavy-taloned birds, who, if they could not sing, were of rich plumage, and could talk, and bite, and strike, and keep up a ruffled crest and a self-exalting bad humor. They early learned one favorite cry, with which they greeted all strangers, crying the louder the more the endeavor was made to appease them: "Invaders! Invaders!" There was a real pathos in the contrast offered to this family line by that other which sprang up, as slenderly as a stalk of wild oats, from the loins of Demosthenes De Grapion. A lone son following a lone son, and he another--it was sad to contemplate, in that colonial beginning of days, three generations of good, Gallic blood tripping jocundly along in attenuated Indian file. It made it no less pathetic to see that they were brilliant, gallant, much-loved, early epauletted fellows, who did not let twenty-one catch them without wives sealed with the authentic wedding kiss, nor allow twenty-two to find them without an heir. But they had a sad aptness for dying young. It was altogether supposable that they would have spread out broadly in the land; but they were such inveterate duelists, such brave Indian-fighters, such adventurous swamp-rangers, and such lively free-livers, that, however numerously their half-kin may have been scattered about in an unacknowledged way, the avowed name of De Grapion had become less and less frequent in lists where leading citizens subscribed their signatures, and was not to be seen in the list of managers of the late ball. It is not at all certain that so hot a blood would not have boiled away entirely before the night of the _bal masqué_, but for an event which led to the union of that blood with a stream equally clear and ruddy, but of a milder vintage. This event fell out some fifty-two years after that cast of the dice which made the princess Lufki-Humma the mother of all the Fusiliers and of none of the De Grapions. Clotilde, the Casket-Girl, the little maid who would not marry, was one of an heroic sort, worth--the De Grapions maintained--whole swampfuls of Indian queens. And yet the portrait of this great ancestress, which served as a pattern to one who, at the ball, personated the long-deceased heroine _en masque_, is hopelessly lost in some garret. Those Creoles have such a shocking way of filing their family relics and records in rat-holes. One fact alone remains to be stated: that the De Grapions, try to spurn it as they would, never could quite suppress a hard feeling in the face of the record, that from the two young men, who, when lost in the horrors of Louisiana's swamps, had been esteemed as good as dead, and particularly from him who married at his leisure,--from Zephyr de Grandissime,--sprang there so many as the sands of the Mississippi innumerable. CHAPTER V A MAIDEN WHO WILL NOT MARRY Midway between the times of Lufki-Humma and those of her proud descendant, Agricola Fusilier, fifty-two years lying on either side, were the days of Pierre Rigaut, the magnificent, the "Grand Marquis," the Governor, De Vaudreuil. He was the Solomon of Louisiana. For splendor, however, not for wisdom. Those were the gala days of license, extravagance and pomp. He made paper money to be as the leaves of the forest for multitude; it was nothing accounted of in the days of the Grand Marquis. For Louis Quinze was king. Clotilde, orphan of a murdered Huguenot, was one of sixty, the last royal allotment to Louisiana, of imported wives. The king's agents had inveigled her away from France with fair stories: "They will give you a quiet home with some lady of the colony. Have to marry?--not unless it pleases you. The king himself pays your passage and gives you a casket of clothes. Think of that these times, fillette; and passage free, withal, to--the garden of Eden, as you may call it--what more, say you, can a poor girl want? Without doubt, too, like a model colonist, you will accept a good husband and have a great many beautiful children, who will say with pride, 'Me, I am no House-of-Correction-girl stock; my mother'--or 'grandmother,' as the case may be--'was a _fille à la cassette!_'" The sixty were landed in New Orleans and given into the care of the Ursuline nuns; and, before many days had elapsed, fifty-nine soldiers of the king were well wived and ready to settle upon their riparian land-grants. The residuum in the nuns' hands was one stiff-necked little heretic, named, in part, Clotilde. They bore with her for sixty days, and then complained to the Grand Marquis. But the Grand Marquis, with all his pomp, was gracious and kind-hearted, and loved his ease almost as much as his marchioness loved money. He bade them try her another month. They did so, and then returned with her; she would neither marry nor pray to Mary. Here is the way they talked in New Orleans in those days. If you care to understand why Louisiana has grown up so out of joint, note the tone of those who governed her in the middle of the last century: "What, my child," the Grand Marquis said, "you a _fille à la cassette?_ France, for shame! Come here by my side. Will you take a little advice from an old soldier? It is in one word--submit. Whatever is inevitable, submit to it. If you want to live easy and sleep easy, do as other people do--submit. Consider submission in the present case; how easy, how comfortable, and how little it amounts to! A little hearing of mass, a little telling of beads, a little crossing of one's self--what is that? One need not believe in them. Don't shake your head. Take my example; look at me; all these things go in at this ear and out at this. Do king or clergy trouble me? Not at all. For how does the king in these matters of religion? I shall not even tell you, he is such a bad boy. Do you not know that all the _noblesse_, and all the _savants_, and especially all the archbishops and cardinals,--all, in a word, but such silly little chicks as yourself,--have found out that this religious business is a joke? Actually a joke, every whit; except, to be sure, this heresy phase; that is a joke they cannot take. Now, I wish you well, pretty child; so if you--eh?--truly, my pet, I fear we shall have to call you unreasonable. Stop; they can spare me here a moment; I will take you to the Marquise: she is in the next room.... Behold," said he, as he entered the presence of his marchioness, "the little maid who will not marry!" The Marquise was as cold and hard-hearted as the Marquis was loose and kind; but we need not recount the slow tortures of the _fille à la cassette's_ second verbal temptation. The colony had to have soldiers, she was given to understand, and the soldiers must have wives. "Why, I am a soldier's wife, myself!" said the gorgeously attired lady, laying her hand upon the governor-general's epaulet. She explained, further, that he was rather softhearted, while she was a business woman; also that the royal commissary's rolls did not comprehend such a thing as a spinster, and--incidentally--that living by principle was rather out of fashion in the province just then. After she had offered much torment of this sort, a definite notion seemed to take her; she turned her lord by a touch of the elbow, and exchanged two or three business-like whispers with him at a window overlooking the Levee. "Fillette," she said, returning, "you are going to live on the sea-coast. I am sending an aged lady there to gather the wax of the wild myrtle. This good soldier of mine buys it for our king at twelve livres the pound. Do you not know that women can make money? The place is not safe; but there are no safe places in Louisiana. There are no nuns to trouble you there; only a few Indians and soldiers. You and Madame will live together, quite to yourselves, and can pray as you like." "And not marry a soldier," said the Grand Marquis. "No," said the lady, "not if you can gather enough myrtle-berries to afford me a profit and you a living." It was some thirty leagues or more eastward to the country of the Biloxis, a beautiful land of low, evergreen hills looking out across the pine-covered sand-keys of Mississippi Sound to the Gulf of Mexico. The northern shore of Biloxi Bay was rich in candleberry-myrtle. In Clotilde's day, though Biloxi was no longer the capital of the Mississippi Valley, the fort which D'Iberville had built in 1699, and the first timber of which is said to have been lifted by Zephyr Grandissime at one end and Epaminondas Fusilier at the other, was still there, making brave against the possible advent of corsairs, with a few old culverines and one wooden mortar. And did the orphan, in despite of Indians and soldiers and wilderness, settle down here and make a moderate fortune? Alas, she never gathered a berry! When she--with the aged lady, her appointed companion in exile, the young commandant of the fort, in whose pinnace they had come, and two or three French sailors and Canadians--stepped out upon the white sand of Biloxi beach, she was bound with invisible fetters hand and foot, by that Olympian rogue of a boy, who likes no better prey than a little maiden who thinks she will never marry. The officer's name was De Grapion--Georges De Grapion. The Marquis gave him a choice grant of land on that part of the Mississippi river "coast" known as the Cannes Brulées. "Of course you know where Cannes Brulées is, don't you?" asked Doctor Keene of Joseph Frowenfeld. "Yes," said Joseph, with a twinge of reminiscence that recalled the study of Louisiana on paper with his father and sisters. There Georges De Grapion settled, with the laudable determination to make a fresh start against the mortifyingly numerous Grandissimes. "My father's policy was every way bad," he said to his spouse; "it is useless, and probably wrong, this trying to thin them out by duels; we will try another plan. Thank you," he added, as she handed his coat back to him, with the shoulder-straps cut off. In pursuance of the new plan, Madame De Grapion,--the precious little heroine!--before the myrtles offered another crop of berries, bore him a boy not much smaller (saith tradition) than herself. Only one thing qualified the father's elation. On that very day Numa Grandissime (Brahmin-Mandarin de Grandissime), a mere child, received from Governor de Vaudreuil a cadetship. "Never mind, Messieurs Grandissime, go on with your tricks; we shall see! Ha! we shall see!" "We shall see what?" asked a remote relative of that family. "Will Monsieur be so good as to explain himself?" * * * * * Bang! bang! Alas, Madame De Grapion! It may be recorded that no affair of honor in Louisiana ever left a braver little widow. When Joseph and his doctor pretended to play chess together, but little more than a half-century had elapsed since the _fille à la cassette_ stood before the Grand Marquis and refused to wed. Yet she had been long gone into the skies, leaving a worthy example behind her in twenty years of beautiful widowhood. Her son, the heir and resident of the plantation at Cannes Brulées, at the age of--they do say--eighteen, had married a blithe and pretty lady of Franco-Spanish extraction, and, after a fair length of life divided between campaigning under the brilliant young Galvez and raising unremunerative indigo crops, had lately lain down to sleep, leaving only two descendants--females--how shall we describe them?--a Monk and a _Fille à la Cassette_. It was very hard to have to go leaving his family name snuffed out and certain Grandissime-ward grievances burning. * * * * * "There are so many Grandissimes," said the weary-eyed Frowenfeld, "I cannot distinguish between--I can scarcely count them." "Well, now," said the doctor, "let me tell you, don't try. They can't do it themselves. Take them in the mass--as you would shrimps." CHAPTER VI LOST OPPORTUNITIES The little doctor tipped his chair back against the wall, drew up his knees, and laughed whimperingly in his freckled hands. "I had to do some prodigious lying at that ball. I didn't dare let the De Grapion ladies know they were in company with a Grandissime." "I thought you said their name was Nancanou." "Well, certainly--De Grapion-Nancanou. You see, that is one of their charms: one is a widow, the other is her daughter, and both as young and beautiful as Hebe. Ask Honoré Grandissime; he has seen the little widow; but then he don't know who she is. He will not ask me, and I will not tell him. Oh, yes; it is about eighteen years now since old De Grapion--elegant, high-stepping old fellow--married her, then only sixteen years of age, to young Nancanou, an indigo-planter on the Fausse Rivière--the old bend, you know, behind Pointe Coupée. The young couple went there to live. I have been told they had one of the prettiest places in Louisiana. He was a man of cultivated tastes, educated in Paris, spoke English, was handsome (convivial, of course), and of perfectly pure blood. But there was one thing old De Grapion overlooked: he and his son-in-law were the last of their names. In Louisiana a man needs kinsfolk. He ought to have married his daughter into a strong house. They say that Numa Grandissime (Honoré's father) and he had patched up a peace between the two families that included even old Agricola, and that he could have married her to a Grandissime. However, he is supposed to have known what he was about. "A matter of business called young Nancanou to New Orleans. He had no friends here; he was a Creole, but what part of his life had not been spent on his plantation he had passed in Europe. He could not leave his young girl of a wife alone in that exiled sort of plantation life, so he brought her and the child (a girl) down with him as far as to her father's place, left them there, and came on to the city alone. "Now, what does the old man do but give him a letter of introduction to old Agricole Fusilier! (His name is Agricola, but we shorten it to Agricole.) It seems that old De Grapion and Agricole had had the indiscretion to scrape up a mutually complimentary correspondence. And to Agricole the young man went. "They became intimate at once, drank together, danced with the quadroons together, and got into as much mischief in three days as I ever did in a fortnight. So affairs went on until by and by they were gambling together. One night they were at the Piety Club, playing hard, and the planter lost his last quarti. He became desperate, and did a thing I have known more than one planter to do: wrote his pledge for every arpent of his land and every slave on it, and staked that. Agricole refused to play. 'You shall play,' said Nancanou, and when the game was ended he said: 'Monsieur Agricola Fusilier, you cheated.' You see? Just as I have frequently been tempted to remark to my friend, Mr. Frowenfeld. "But, Frowenfeld, you must know, withal the Creoles are such gamblers, they never cheat; they play absolutely fair. So Agricole had to challenge the planter. He could not be blamed for that; there was no choice--oh, now, Frowenfeld, keep quiet! I tell you there was no choice. And the fellow was no coward. He sent Agricole a clear title to the real estate and slaves,--lacking only the wife's signature,--accepted the challenge and fell dead at the first fire. "Stop, now, and let me finish. Agricole sat down and wrote to the widow that he did not wish to deprive her of her home, and that if she would state in writing her belief that the stakes had been won fairly, he would give back the whole estate, slaves and all; but that if she would not, he should feel compelled to retain it in vindication of his honor. Now wasn't that drawing a fine point?" The doctor laughed according to his habit, with his face down in his hands. "You see, he wanted to stand before all creation--the Creator did not make so much difference--in the most exquisitely proper light; so he puts the laws of humanity under his feet, and anoints himself from head to foot with Creole punctilio." "Did she sign the paper?" asked Joseph. "She? Wait till you know her! No, indeed; she had the true scorn. She and her father sent down another and a better title. Creole-like, they managed to bestir themselves to that extent and there they stopped. "And the airs with which they did it! They kept all their rage to themselves, and sent the polite word, that they were not acquainted with the merits of the case, that they were not disposed to make the long and arduous trip to the city and back, and that if M. Fusilier de Grandissime thought he could find any pleasure or profit in owning the place, he was welcome; that the widow of _his late friend_ was not disposed to live on it, but would remain with her father at the paternal home at Cannes Brulées. "Did you ever hear of a more perfect specimen of Creole pride? That is the way with all of them. Show me any Creole, or any number of Creoles, in any sort of contest, and right down at the foundation of it all, I will find you this same preposterous, apathetic, fantastic, suicidal pride. It is as lethargic and ferocious as an alligator. That is why the Creole almost always is (or thinks he is) on the defensive. See these De Grapions' haughty good manners to old Agricole; yet there wasn't a Grandissime in Louisiana who could have set foot on the De Grapion lands but at the risk of his life. "But I will finish the story: and here is the really sad part. Not many months ago old De Grapion--'old,' said I; they don't grow old; I call him old--a few months ago he died. He must have left everything smothered in debt; for, like his race, he had stuck to indigo because his father planted it, and it is a crop that has lost money steadily for years and years. His daughter and granddaughter were left like babes in the wood; and, to crown their disasters, have now made the grave mistake of coming to the city, where they find they haven't a friend--not one, sir! They called me in to prescribe for a trivial indisposition, shortly after their arrival; and I tell you, Frowenfeld, it made me shiver to see two such beautiful women in such a town as this without a male protector, and even"--the doctor lowered his voice--"without adequate support. The mother says they are perfectly comfortable; tells the old couple so who took them to the ball, and whose little girl is their embroidery scholar; but you cannot believe a Creole on that subject, and I don't believe her. Would you like to make their acquaintance?" Frowenfeld hesitated, disliking to say no to his friend, and then shook his head. "After a while--at least not now, sir, if you please." The doctor made a gesture of disappointment. "Um-hum," he said grumly--"the only man in New Orleans I would honor with an invitation!--but all right; I'll go alone." He laughed a little at himself, and left Frowenfeld, if ever he should desire it, to make the acquaintance of his pretty neighbors as best he could. CHAPTER VII WAS IT HONORÉ GRANDISSIME? A Creole gentleman, on horseback one morning with some practical object in view,--drainage, possibly,--had got what he sought,--the evidence of his own eyes on certain points,--and now moved quietly across some old fields toward the town, where more absorbing interests awaited him in the Rue Toulouse; for this Creole gentleman was a merchant, and because he would presently find himself among the appointments and restraints of the counting-room, he heartily gave himself up, for the moment, to the surrounding influences of nature. It was late in November; but the air was mild and the grass and foliage green and dewy. Wild flowers bloomed plentifully and in all directions; the bushes were hung, and often covered, with vines of sprightly green, sprinkled thickly with smart-looking little worthless berries, whose sparkling complacency the combined contempt of man, beast and bird could not dim. The call of the field-lark came continually out of the grass, where now and then could be seen his yellow breast; the orchard oriole was executing his fantasias in every tree; a covey of partridges ran across the path close under the horse's feet, and stopped to look back almost within reach of the riding-whip; clouds of starlings, in their odd, irresolute way, rose from the high bulrushes and settled again, without discernible cause; little wandering companies of sparrows undulated from hedge to hedge; a great rabbit-hawk sat alone in the top of a lofty pecan-tree; that petted rowdy, the mocking-bird, dropped down into the path to offer fight to the horse, and, failing in that, flew up again and drove a crow into ignominious retirement beyond the plain; from a place of flags and reeds a white crane shot upward, turned, and then, with the slow and stately beat peculiar to her wing, sped away until, against the tallest cypress of the distant forest, she became a tiny white speck on its black, and suddenly disappeared, like one flake of snow. The scene was altogether such as to fill any hearty soul with impulses of genial friendliness and gentle candor; such a scene as will sometimes prepare a man of the world, upon the least direct incentive, to throw open the windows of his private thought with a freedom which the atmosphere of no counting-room or drawing-room tends to induce. The young merchant--he was young--felt this. Moreover, the matter of business which had brought him out had responded to his inquiring eye with a somewhat golden radiance; and your true man of business--he who has reached that elevated pitch of serene, good-natured reserve which is of the high art of his calling--is never so generous with his pennyworths of thought as when newly in possession of some little secret worth many pounds. By and by the behavior of the horse indicated the near presence of a stranger; and the next moment the rider drew rein under an immense live-oak where there was a bit of paling about some graves, and raised his hat. "Good-morning, sir." But for the silent r's, his pronunciation was exact, yet evidently an acquired one. While he spoke his salutation in English, he was thinking in French: "Without doubt, this rather oversized, bareheaded, interrupted-looking convalescent who stands before me, wondering how I should know in what language to address him, is Joseph Frowenfeld, of whom Doctor Keene has had so much to say to me. A good face--unsophisticated, but intelligent, mettlesome and honest. He will make his mark; it will probably be a white one; I will subscribe to the adventure. "You will excuse me, sir?" he asked after a pause, dismounting, and noticing, as he did so, that Frowenfeld's knees showed recent contact with the turf; "I have, myself, some interest in two of these graves, sir, as I suppose--you will pardon my freedom--you have in the other four." He approached the old but newly whitened paling, which encircled the tree's trunk as well as the six graves about it. There was in his face and manner a sort of impersonal human kindness, well calculated to engage a diffident and sensitive stranger, standing in dread of gratuitous benevolence or pity. "Yes, sir," said the convalescent, and ceased; but the other leaned against the palings in an attitude of attention, and he felt induced to add: "I have buried here my father, mother, and two sisters,"--he had expected to continue in an unemotional tone; but a deep respiration usurped the place of speech. He stooped quickly to pick up his hat, and, as he rose again and looked into his listener's face, the respectful, unobtrusive sympathy there expressed went directly to his heart. "Victims of the fever," said the Creole with great gravity. "How did that happen?" As Frowenfeld, after a moment's hesitation, began to speak, the stranger let go the bridle of his horse and sat down upon the turf. Joseph appreciated the courtesy and sat down, too; and thus the ice was broken. The immigrant told his story; he was young--often younger than his years--and his listener several years his senior; but the Creole, true to his blood, was able at any time to make himself as young as need be, and possessed the rare magic of drawing one's confidence without seeming to do more than merely pay attention. It followed that the story was told in full detail, including grateful acknowledgment of the goodness of an unknown friend, who had granted this burial-place on condition that he should not be sought out for the purpose of thanking him. So a considerable time passed by, in which acquaintance grew with delightful rapidity. "What will you do now?" asked the stranger, when a short silence had followed the conclusion of the story. "I hardly know. I am taken somewhat by surprise. I have not chosen a definite course in life--as yet. I have been a general student, but have not prepared myself for any profession; I am not sure what I shall be." A certain energy in the immigrant's face half redeemed this childlike speech. Yet the Creole's lips, as he opened them to reply, betrayed amusement; so he hastened to say: "I appreciate your position, Mr. Frowenfeld,--excuse me, I believe you said that was your father's name. And yet,"--the shadow of an amused smile lurked another instant about a corner of his mouth,--"if you would understand me kindly I would say, take care--" What little blood the convalescent had rushed violently to his face, and the Creole added: "I do not insinuate you would willingly be idle. I think I know what you want. You want to make up your mind _now_ what you will _do_, and at your leisure what you will _be_; eh? To be, it seems to me," he said in summing up,--"that to be is not so necessary as to do, eh? or am I wrong?" "No, sir," replied Joseph, still red, "I was feeling that just now. I will do the first thing that offers; I can dig." The Creole shrugged and pouted. "And be called a _dos brile_--a 'burnt-back.'" "But"--began the immigrant, with overmuch warmth. The other interrupted him, shaking his head slowly and smiling as he spoke. "Mr. Frowenfeld, it is of no use to talk; you may hold in contempt the Creole scorn of toil--just as I do, myself, but in theory, my-de'-seh, not too much in practice. You cannot afford to be _entirely_ different from the community in which you live; is that not so?" "A friend of mine," said Frowenfeld, "has told me I must 'compromise.'" "You must get acclimated," responded the Creole; "not in body only, that you have done; but in mind--in taste--in conversation--and in convictions too, yes, ha, ha! They all do it--all who come. They hold out a little while--a very little; then they open their stores on Sunday, they import cargoes of Africans, they bribe the officials, they smuggle goods, they have colored housekeepers. My-de'-seh, the water must expect to take the shape of the bucket; eh?" "One need not be water!" said the immigrant. "Ah!" said the Creole, with another amiable shrug, and a wave of his hand; "certainly you do not suppose that is my advice--that those things have my approval." Must we repeat already that Frowenfeld was abnormally young? "Why have they not your condemnation?" cried he with an earnestness that made the Creole's horse drop the grass from his teeth and wheel half around. The answer came slowly and gently. "Mr. Frowenfeld, my habit is to buy cheap and sell at a profit. My condemnation? My-de'-seh, there is no sa-a-ale for it! it spoils the sale of other goods my-de'-seh. It is not to condemn that you want; you want to suc-_ceed_. Ha, ha, ha! you see I am a merchant, eh? My-de'-seh, can _you_ afford not to succeed?" The speaker had grown very much in earnest in the course of these few words, and as he asked the closing question, arose, arranged his horse's bridle and, with his elbow in the saddle, leaned his handsome head on his equally beautiful hand. His whole appearance was a dazzling contradiction of the notion that a Creole is a person of mixed blood. "I think I can!" replied the convalescent, with much spirit, rising with more haste than was good, and staggering a moment. The horseman laughed outright. "Your principle is the best, I cannot dispute that; but whether you can act it out--reformers do not make money, you know." He examined his saddle-girth and began to tighten it. "One can condemn--too cautiously--by a kind of--elevated cowardice (I have that fault); but one can also condemn too rashly; I remember when I did so. One of the occupants of those two graves you see yonder side by side--I think might have lived longer if I had not spoken so rashly for his rights. Did you ever hear of Bras-Coupé, Mr. Frowenfeld?" "I have heard only the name." "Ah! Mr. Frowenfeld, _there_ was a bold man's chance to denounce wrong and oppression! Why, that negro's death changed the whole channel of my convictions." The speaker had turned and thrown up his arm with frowning earnestness; he dropped it and smiled at himself. "Do not mistake me for one of your new-fashioned Philadelphia '_negrophiles_'; I am a merchant, my-de'-seh, a good subject of His Catholic Majesty, a Creole of the Creoles, and so forth, and so forth. Come!" He slapped the saddle. To have seen and heard them a little later as they moved toward the city, the Creole walking before the horse, and Frowenfeld sitting in the saddle, you might have supposed them old acquaintances. Yet the immigrant was wondering who his companion might be. He had not introduced himself--seemed to think that even an immigrant might know his name without asking. Was it Honoré Grandissime? Joseph was tempted to guess so; but the initials inscribed on the silver-mounted pommel of the fine old Spanish saddle did not bear out that conjecture. The stranger talked freely. The sun's rays seemed to set all the sweetness in him a-working, and his pleasant worldly wisdom foamed up and out like fermenting honey. By and by the way led through a broad, grassy lane where the path turned alternately to right and left among some wild acacias. The Creole waved his hand toward one of them and said: "Now, Mr. Frowenfeld, you see? one man walks where he sees another's track; that is what makes a path; but you want a man, instead of passing around this prickly bush, to lay hold of it with his naked hands and pull it up by the roots." "But a man armed with the truth is far from being barehanded," replied the convalescent, and they went on, more and more interested at every step,--one in this very raw imported material for an excellent man, the other in so striking an exponent of a unique land and people. They came at length to the crossing of two streets, and the Creole, pausing in his speech, laid his hand upon the bridle. Frowenfeld dismounted. "Do we part here?" asked the Creole. "Well, Mr. Frowenfeld, I hope to meet you soon again." "Indeed, I thank you, sir," said Joseph, "and I hope we shall, although--" The Creole paused with a foot in the stirrup and interrupted him with a playful gesture; then as the horse stirred, he mounted and drew in the rein. "I know; you want to say you cannot accept my philosophy and I cannot appreciate yours; but I appreciate it more than you think, my-de'-seh." The convalescent's smile showed much fatigue. The Creole extended his hand; the immigrant seized it, wished to ask his name, but did not; and the next moment he was gone. The convalescent walked meditatively toward his quarters, with a faint feeling of having been found asleep on duty and awakened by a passing stranger. It was an unpleasant feeling, and he caught himself more than once shaking his head. He stopped, at length, and looked back; but the Creole was long since out of sight. The mortified self-accuser little knew how very similar a feeling that vanished person was carrying away with him. He turned and resumed his walk, wondering who Monsieur might be, and a little impatient with himself that he had not asked. "It is Honoré Grandissime; it must be he!" he said. Yet see how soon he felt obliged to change his mind. CHAPTER VIII SIGNED--HONORÉ GRANDISSIME On the afternoon of the same day, having decided what he would "do," he started out in search of new quarters. He found nothing then, but next morning came upon a small, single-story building in the rue Royale,--corner of Conti,--which he thought would suit his plans. There were a door and show-window in the rue Royale, two doors in the intersecting street, and a small apartment in the rear which would answer for sleeping, eating, and studying purposes, and which connected with the front apartment by a door in the left-hand corner. This connection he would partially conceal by a prescription-desk. A counter would run lengthwise toward the rue Royale, along the wall opposite the side-doors. Such was the spot that soon became known as "Frowenfeld's Corner." The notice "À Louer" directed him to inquire at numero--rue Condé. Here he was ushered through the wicket of a _porte cochère_ into a broad, paved corridor, and up a stair into a large, cool room, and into the presence of a man who seemed, in some respects, the most remarkable figure he had yet seen in this little city of strange people. A strong, clear, olive complexion; features that were faultless (unless a woman-like delicacy, that was yet not effeminate, was a fault); hair _en queue_, the handsomer for its premature streakings of gray; a tall, well knit form, attired in cloth, linen and leather of the utmost fineness; manners Castilian, with a gravity almost oriental,--made him one of those rare masculine figures which, on the public promenade, men look back at and ladies inquire about. Now, who might _this_ be? The rent poster had given no name. Even the incurious Frowenfeld would fain guess a little. For a man to be just of this sort, it seemed plain that he must live in an isolated ease upon the unceasing droppings of coupons, rents, and like receivables. Such was the immigrant's first conjecture; and, as with slow, scant questions and answers they made their bargain, every new glance strengthened it; he was evidently a _rentier_. What, then, was his astonishment when Monsieur bent down and made himself Frowenfeld's landlord, by writing what the universal mind esteemed the synonym of enterprise and activity--the name of Honoré Grandissime. The landlord did not see, or ignored, his tenant's glance of surprise, and the tenant asked no questions. * * * * * We may add here an incident which seemed, when it took place, as unimportant as a single fact well could be. The little sum that Frowenfeld had inherited from his father had been sadly depleted by the expenses of four funerals; yet he was still able to pay a month's rent in advance, to supply his shop with a scant stock of drugs, to purchase a celestial globe and some scientific apparatus, and to buy a dinner or two of sausages and crackers; but after this there was no necessity of hiding his purse. His landlord early contracted a fondness for dropping in upon him, and conversing with him, as best the few and labored English phrases at his command would allow. Frowenfeld soon noticed that he never entered the shop unless its proprietor was alone, never sat down, and always, with the same perfection of dignity that characterized all his movements, departed immediately upon the arrival of any third person. One day, when the landlord was making one of these standing calls,--he always stood' beside a high glass case, on the side of the shop opposite the counter,--he noticed in Joseph's hand a sprig of basil, and spoke of it. "You ligue?" The tenant did not understand. "You--find--dad--nize?" Frowenfeld replied that it had been left by the oversight of a customer, and expressed a liking for its odor. "I sand you," said the landlord,--a speech whose meaning Frowenfeld was not sure of until the next morning, when a small, nearly naked black boy, who could not speak a word of English, brought to the apothecary a luxuriant bunch of this basil, growing in a rough box. CHAPTER IX ILLUSTRATING THE TRACTIVE POWER OF BASIL On the twenty-fourth day of December, 1803, at two o'clock, P.M., the thermometer standing at 79, hygrometer 17, barometer 29.880, sky partly clouded, wind west, light, the apothecary of the rue Royale, now something more than a month established in his calling, might have been seen standing behind his counter and beginning to show embarrassment in the presence of a lady, who, since she had got her prescription filled and had paid for it, ought in the conventional course of things to have hurried out, followed by the pathetically ugly black woman who tarried at the door as her attendant; for to be in an apothecary's shop at all was unconventional. She was heavily veiled; but the sparkle of her eyes, which no multiplication of veils could quite extinguish, her symmetrical and well-fitted figure, just escaping smallness, her grace of movement, and a soft, joyous voice, had several days before led Frowenfeld to the confident conclusion that she was young and beautiful. For this was now the third time she had come to buy; and, though the purchases were unaccountably trivial, the purchaser seemed not so. On the two previous occasions she had been accompanied by a slender girl, somewhat taller than she, veiled also, of graver movement, a bearing that seemed to Joseph almost too regal, and a discernible unwillingness to enter or tarry. There seemed a certain family resemblance between her voice and that of the other, which proclaimed them--he incautiously assumed--sisters. This time, as we see, the smaller, and probably elder, came alone. She still held in her hand the small silver which Frowenfeld had given her in change, and sighed after the laugh they had just enjoyed together over a slip in her English. A very grateful sip of sweet the laugh was to the all but friendless apothecary, and the embarrassment that rushed in after it may have arisen in part from a conscious casting about in his mind for something--anything--that might prolong her stay an instant. He opened his lips to speak; but she was quicker than he, and said, in a stealthy way that seemed oddly unnecessary: "You 'ave some basilic?" She accompanied her words with a little peeping movement, directing his attention, through the open door, to his box of basil, on the floor in the rear room. Frowenfeld stepped back to it, cut half the bunch and returned, with the bold intention of making her a present of it; but as he hastened back to the spot he had left, he was astonished to see the lady disappearing from his farthest front door, followed by her negress. "Did she change her mind, or did she misunderstand me?" he asked himself; and, in the hope that she might return for the basil, he put it in water in his back room. The day being, as the figures have already shown, an unusually mild one, even for a Louisiana December, and the finger of the clock drawing by and by toward the last hour of sunlight, some half dozen of Frowenfeld's townsmen had gathered, inside and out, some standing, some sitting, about his front door, and all discussing the popular topics of the day. For it might have been anticipated that, in a city where so very little English was spoken and no newspaper published except that beneficiary of eighty subscribers, the "Moniteur de la Louisiane," the apothecary's shop in the rue Royale would be the rendezvous for a select company of English-speaking gentlemen, with a smart majority of physicians. The Cession had become an accomplished fact. With due drum-beatings and act-reading, flag-raising, cannonading and galloping of aides-de-camp, Nouvelle Orléans had become New Orleans, and Louisiane was Louisiana. This afternoon, the first week of American jurisdiction was only something over half gone, and the main topic of public debate was still the Cession. Was it genuine? and, if so, would it stand? "Mark my words," said one, "the British flag will be floating over this town within ninety days!" and he went on whittling the back of his chair. From this main question, the conversation branched out to the subject of land titles. Would that great majority of Spanish titles, derived from the concessions of post-commandants and others of minor authority, hold good? "I suppose you know what ---- thinks about it?" "No." "Well, he has quietly purchased the grant made by Carondelet to the Marquis of ----, thirty thousand acres, and now says the grant is two hundred _and_ thirty thousand. That is one style of men Governor Claiborne is going to have on his hands. The town will presently be as full of them as my pocket is of tobacco crumbs,--every one of them with a Spanish grant as long as Clark's ropewalk and made up since the rumor of the Cession." "I hear that some of Honoré Grandissime's titles are likely to turn out bad,--some of the old Brahmin properties and some of the Mandarin lands." "Fudge!" said Dr. Keene. There was also the subject of rotation in office. Would this provisional governor-general himself be able to stand fast? Had not a man better temporize a while, and see what Ex-Governor-general Casa Calvo and Trudeau were going to do? Would not men who sacrificed old prejudices, braved the popular contumely, and came forward and gave in their allegiance to the President's appointee, have to take the chances of losing their official positions at last? Men like Camille Brahmin, for instance, or Charlie Mandarin: suppose Spain or France should get the province back, then where would they be? "One of the things I pity most in this vain world," drawled Doctor Keene, "is a hive of patriots who don't know where to swarm." The apothecary was drawn into the discussion--at least he thought he was. Inexperience is apt to think that Truth will be knocked down and murdered unless she comes to the rescue. Somehow, Frowenfeld's really excellent arguments seemed to give out more heat than light. They were merciless; their principles were not only lofty to dizziness, but precipitous, and their heights unoccupied, and--to the common sight--unattainable. In consequence, they provoked hostility and even resentment. With the kindest, the most honest, and even the most modest, intentions, he found himself--to his bewilderment and surprise--sniffed at by the ungenerous, frowned upon by the impatient, and smiled down by the good-natured in a manner that brought sudden blushes of exasperation to his face, and often made him ashamed to find himself going over these sham battles again in much savageness of spirit, when alone with his books; or, in moments of weakness, casting about for such unworthy weapons as irony and satire. In the present debate, he had just provoked a sneer that made his blood leap and his friends laugh, when Doctor Keene, suddenly rising and beckoning across the street, exclaimed: "Oh! Agricole! Agricole! _venez ici_; we want you." A murmur of vexed protest arose from two or three. "He's coming," said the whittler, who had also beckoned. "Good evening, Citizen Fusilier," said Doctor Keene. "Citizen Fusilier, allow me to present my friend, Professor Frowenfeld--yes, you are a professor--yes, you are. He is one of your sort, Citizen Fusilier, a man of thorough scientific education. I believe on my soul, sir, he knows nearly as much as you do!" The person who confronted the apothecary was a large, heavily built, but well-molded and vigorous man, of whom one might say that he was adorned with old age. His brow was dark, and furrowed partly by time and partly by a persistent, ostentatious frown. His eyes were large, black and bold, and the gray locks above them curled short and harsh like the front of a bull. His nose was fine and strong, and if there was any deficiency in mouth or chin, it was hidden by a beard that swept down over his broad breast like the beard of a prophet. In his dress, which was noticeably soiled, the fashions of three decades were hinted at; he seemed to have donned whatever he thought his friends would most have liked him to leave off. "Professor," said the old man, extending something like the paw of a lion, and giving Frowenfeld plenty of time to become thoroughly awed, "this is a pleasure as magnificent as unexpected! A scientific man?--in Louisiana?" He looked around upon the doctors as upon a graduating class. "Professor, I am rejoiced!" He paused again, shaking the apothecary's hand with great ceremony. "I do assure you, sir, I dislike to relinquish your grasp. Do me the honor to allow me to become your friend! I congratulate my downtrodden country on the acquisition of such a citizen! I hope, sir,--at least I might have hoped, had not Louisiana just passed into the hands of the most clap-trap government in the universe, notwithstanding it pretends to be a republic,--I might have hoped that you had come among us to fasten the lie direct upon a late author, who writes of us that 'the air of this region is deadly to the Muses.'" "He didn't say that?" asked one of the debaters, with pretended indignation. "He did, sir, after eating our bread!" "And sucking our sugar-cane, too, no doubt!" said the wag; but the old man took no notice. Frowenfeld, naturally, was not anxious to reply, and was greatly relieved to be touched on the elbow by a child with a picayune in one hand and a tumbler in the other. He escaped behind the counter and gladly remained there. "Citizen Fusilier," asked one of the gossips, "what has the new government to do with the health of the Muses?" "It introduces the English tongue," said the old man, scowling. "Oh, well," replied the questioner, "the Creoles will soon learn the language." "English is not a language, sir; it is a jargon! And when this young simpleton, Claiborne, attempts to cram it down the public windpipe in the courts, as I understand he intends, he will fail! Hah! sir, I know men in this city who would rather eat a dog than speak English! I speak it, but I also speak Choctaw." "The new land titles will be in English." "They will spurn his rotten titles. And if he attempts to invalidate their old ones, why, let him do it! Napoleon Buonaparte" (Italian pronounciation) "will make good every arpent within the next two years. _Think so?_ I know it! _How?_ H-I perceive it! H-I hope the yellow fever may spare you to witness it." A sullen grunt from the circle showed the "citizen" that he had presumed too much upon the license commonly accorded his advanced age, and by way of a diversion he looked around for Frowenfeld to pour new flatteries upon. But Joseph, behind his counter, unaware of either the offense or the resentment, was blushing with pleasure before a visitor who had entered by the side door farthest from the company. "Gentlemen," said Agricola, "h-my dear friends, you must not expect an old Creole to like anything in comparison with _la belle langue_." "Which language do you call _la belle?_" asked Doctor Keene, with pretended simplicity. The old man bent upon him a look of unspeakable contempt, which nobody noticed. The gossips were one by one stealing a glance toward that which ever was, is and must be an irresistible lodestone to the eyes of all the sons of Adam, to wit, a chaste and graceful complement of--skirts. Then in a lower tone they resumed their desultory conversation. It was the seeker after basil who stood before the counter, holding in her hand, with her purse, the heavy veil whose folds had before concealed her features. CHAPTER X "OO DAD IS, 'SIEUR FROWENFEL'?" Whether the removal of the veil was because of the milder light of the evening, or the result of accident, or of haste, or both, or whether, by reason of some exciting or absorbing course of thought, the wearer had withdrawn it unconsciously, was a matter that occupied the apothecary as little as did Agricola's continued harangue. As he looked upon the fair face through the light gauze which still overhung but not obscured it, he readily perceived, despite the sprightly smile, something like distress, and as she spoke this became still more evident in her hurried undertone. "'Sieur Frowenfel', I want you to sell me doze _basilic_." As she slipped the rings of her purse apart her fingers trembled. "It is waiting for you," said Frowenfeld; but the lady did not hear him; she was giving her attention to the loud voice of Agricola saying in the course of discussion: "The Louisiana Creole is the noblest variety of enlightened man!" "Oo dad is, 'Sieur Frowenfel'?" she asked, softly, but with an excited eye. "That is Mr. Agricola Fusilier," answered Joseph in the same tone, his heart leaping inexplicably as he met her glance. With an angry flush she looked quickly around, scrutinized the old man in an instantaneous, thorough way, and then glanced back at the apothecary again, as if asking him to fulfil her request the quicker. He hesitated, in doubt as to her meaning. "Wrap it yonder," she almost whispered. He went, and in a moment returned, with the basil only partially hid in a paper covering. But the lady, muffled again in her manifold veil, had once more lost her eagerness for it; at least, instead of taking it, she moved aside, offering room for a masculine figure just entering. She did not look to see who it might be--plenty of time to do that by accident, by and by. There she made a mistake; for the new-comer, with a silent bow of thanks, declined the place made for him, moved across the shop, and occupied his eyes with the contents of the glass case, his back being turned to the lady and Frowenfeld. The apothecary recognized the Creole whom he had met under the live-oak. The lady put forth her hand suddenly to receive the package. As she took it and turned to depart, another small hand was laid upon it and it was returned to the counter. Something was said in a low-pitched undertone, and the two sisters--if Frowenfeld's guess was right--confronted each other. For a single instant only they stood so; an earnest and hurried murmur of French words passed between them, and they turned together, bowed with great suavity, and were gone. "The Cession is a mere temporary political manoeuvre!" growled M. Fusilier. Frowenfeld's merchant friend came from his place of waiting, and spoke twice before he attracted the attention of the bewildered apothecary. "Good-day, Mr. Frowenfeld; I have been told that--" Joseph gazed after the two ladies crossing the street, and felt uncomfortable that the group of gossips did the same. So did the black attendant who glanced furtively back. "Good-day, Mr. Frowenfeld; I--" "Oh! how do you do, sir?" exclaimed the apothecary, with great pleasantness, of face. It seemed the most natural thing that they should resume their late conversation just where they had left off, and that would certainly be pleasant. But the man of more experience showed an unresponsive expression, that was as if he remembered no conversation of any note. "I have been told that you might be able to replace the glass in this thing out of your private stock." He presented a small, leather-covered case, evidently containing some optical instrument. "It will give me a pretext for going," he had said to himself, as he put it into his pocket in his counting-room. He was not going to let the apothecary know he had taken such a fancy to him. "I do not know," replied Frowenfeld, as he touched the spring of the case; "I will see what I have." He passed into the back room, more than willing to get out of sight till he might better collect himself. "I do not keep these things for sale," said he as he went. "Sir?" asked the Creole, as if he had not understood, and followed through the open door. "Is this what that lady was getting?" he asked, touching the remnant of the basil in the box. "Yes, sir," said the apothecary, with his face in the drawer of a table. "They had no carriage with them." The Creole spoke with his back turned, at the same time running his eyes along a shelf of books. Frowenfeld made only the sound of rejecting bits of crystal and taking up others. "I do not know who they are," ventured the merchant. Joseph still gave no answer, but a moment after approached, with the instrument in his extended hand. "You had it? I am glad," said the owner, receiving it, but keeping one hand still on the books. Frowenfeld put up his materials. "Mr. Frowenfeld, are these your books? I mean do you use these books?" "Yes, sir." The Creole stepped back to the door. "Agricola!" "_Quoi_!" "_Vien ici_." Citizen Fusilier entered, followed by a small volley of retorts from those with whom he had been disputing, and who rose as he did. The stranger said something very sprightly in French, running the back of one finger down the rank of books, and a lively dialogue followed. "You must be a great scholar," said the unknown by and by, addressing the apothecary. "He is a professor of chimistry," said the old man. "I am nothing, as yet, but a student," said Joseph, as the three returned into the shop; "certainly not a scholar, and still less a professor." He spoke with a new quietness of manner that made the younger Creole turn upon him a pleasant look. "H-my young friend," said the patriarch, turning toward Joseph with a tremendous frown, "when I, Agricola Fusilier, pronounce you a professor, you are a professor. Louisiana will not look to _you_ for your credentials; she will look to me!" He stumbled upon some slight impediment under foot. There were times when it took but little to make Agricola stumble. Looking to see what it was, Joseph picked up a silken purse. There was a name embroidered on it. CHAPTER XI SUDDEN FLASHES OF LIGHT The day was nearly gone. The company that had been chatting at the front door, and which in warmer weather would have tarried until bedtime, had wandered off; however, by stepping toward the light the young merchant could decipher the letters on the purse. Citizen Fusilier drew out a pair of spectacles, looked over his junior's shoulder, read aloud, "_Aurore De G. Nanca_--," and uttered an imprecation. "Do not speak to me!" he thundered; "do not approach me! she did it maliciously!" "Sir!" began Frowenfeld. But the old man uttered another tremendous malediction and hurried into the street and away. "Let him pass," said the other Creole calmly. "What is the matter with him?" asked Frowenfeld. "He is getting old." The Creole extended the purse carelessly to the apothecary. "Has it anything inside?" "But a single pistareen." "That is why she wanted the _basilic_, eh?" "I do not understand you, sir." "Do you not know what she was going to do with it?" "With the basil? No sir." "May be she was going to make a little tisane, eh?" said the Creole, forcing down a smile. But a portion of the smile would come when Frowenfeld answered, with unnecessary resentment: "She was going to make some proper use of it, which need not concern me." "Without doubt." The Creole quietly walked a step or two forward and back and looked idly into the glass case. "Is this young man in love with her?" he asked himself. He turned around. "Do you know those ladies, Mr. Frowenfeld? Do you visit them at home?" He drew out his porte-monnaie. "No, sir." "I will pay you for the repair of this instrument; have you change for--" "I will see," said the apothecary. As he spoke he laid the purse on a stool, till he should light his shop, and then went to his till without again taking it. The Creole sauntered across to the counter and nipped the herb which still lay there. "Mr. Frowenfeld, you know what some very excellent people do with this? They rub it on the sill of the door to make the money come into the house." Joseph stopped aghast with the drawer half drawn. "Not persons of intelligence and--" "All kinds. It is only some of the foolishness which they take from the slaves. Many of your best people consult the voudou horses." "Horses?" "Priestesses, you might call them," explained the Creole, "like Momselle Marcelline or 'Zabeth Philosophe." "Witches!" whispered Frowenfeld. "Oh no," said the other with a shrug; "that is too hard a name; say fortune-tellers. But Mr. Frowenfeld, I wish you to lend me your good offices. Just supposing the possi_bil_ity that that lady may be in need of money, you know, and will send back or come back for the purse, you know, knowing that she most likely lost it here, I ask you the favor that you will not let her know I have filled it with gold. In fact, if she mentions my name--" "To confess the truth, sir, I am not acquainted with your name." The Creole smiled a genuine surprise. "I thought you knew it." He laughed a little at himself. "We have nevertheless become very good friends--I believe? Well, in fact then, Mr. Frowenfeld, you might say you do not know who put the money in." He extended his open palm with the purse hanging across it. Joseph was about to object to this statement, but the Creole, putting on an expression of anxious desire, said: "I mean, not by name. It is somewhat important to me, Mr. Frowenfeld, that that lady should not know my present action. If you want to do those two ladies a favor, you may rest assured the way to do it is to say you do not know who put this gold." The Creole in his earnestness slipped in his idiom. "You will excuse me if I do not tell you my name; you can find it out at any time from Agricola. Ah! I am glad she did not see me! You must not tell anybody about this little event, eh?" "No, sir," said Joseph, as he finally accepted the purse. "I shall say nothing to any one else, and only what I cannot avoid saying to the lady and her sister." "_'Tis not her sister_" responded the Creole, "_'tis her daughter_." The italics signify, not how the words were said, but how they sounded to Joseph. As if a dark lantern were suddenly turned full upon it, he saw the significance of Citizen Fusilier's transport. The fair strangers were the widow and daughter of the man whom Agricola had killed in duel--the ladies with whom Doctor Keene had desired to make him acquainted. "Well, good evening, Mr. Frowenfeld." The Creole extended his hand (his people are great hand-shakers). "Ah--" and then, for the first time, he came to the true object of his visit. "The conversation we had some weeks ago, Mr. Frowenfeld, has started a train of thought in my mind"--he began to smile as if to convey the idea that Joseph would find the subject a trivial one--"which has almost brought me to the--" A light footfall accompanied with the soft sweep of robes cut short his words. There had been two or three entrances and exits during the time the Creole had tarried, but he had not allowed them to disturb him. Now, however, he had no sooner turned and fixed his glance upon this last comer, than without so much as the invariable Creole leave-taking of "Well, good evening, sir," he hurried out. CHAPTER XII THE PHILOSOPHE The apothecary felt an inward nervous start as there advanced into the light of his hanging lamp and toward the spot where he had halted, just outside the counter, a woman of the quadroon caste, of superb stature and poise, severely handsome features, clear, tawny skin and large, passionate black eyes. "_Bon soi', Miché_." [Monsieur.] A rather hard, yet not repellent smile showed her faultless teeth. Frowenfeld bowed. "_Mo vien c'erc'er la bourse de Madame_." She spoke the best French at her command, but it was not understood. The apothecary could only shake his head. "_La bourse_" she repeated, softly smiling, but with a scintillation of the eyes in resentment of his scrutiny. "_La bourse_" she reiterated. "Purse?" "_Oui, Miché_." "You are sent for it?" "_Oui, Miché_." He drew it from his breast pocket and marked the sudden glisten of her eyes, reflecting the glisten of the gold in the silken mesh. "_Oui, c'est ça_," said she, putting her hand out eagerly. "I am afraid to give you this to-night," said Joseph. "_Oui_," ventured she, dubiously, the lightning playing deep back in her eyes. "You might be robbed," said Frowenfeld. "It is very dangerous for you to be out alone. It will not be long, now, until gun-fire." (Eight o'clock P.M.--the gun to warn slaves to be in-doors, under pain of arrest and imprisonment.) The object of this solicitude shook her head with a smile at its gratuitousness. The smile showed determination also. "_Mo pas compren_'," she said. "Tell the lady to send for it to-morrow." She smiled helplessly and somewhat vexedly, shrugged and again shook her head. As she did so she heard footsteps and voices in the door at her back. "_C'est ça_" she said again with a hurried attempt at extreme amiability; "Dat it; _oui_;" and lifting her hand with some rapidity made a sudden eager reach for the purse, but failed. "No!" said Frowenfeld, indignantly. "Hello!" said Charlie Keene amusedly, as he approached from the door. The woman turned, and in one or two rapid sentences in the Creole dialect offered her explanation. "Give her the purse, Joe; I will answer for its being all right." Frowenfeld handed it to her. She started to pass through the door in the rue Royale by which Doctor Keene had entered; but on seeing on its threshold Agricola frowning upon her, she turned quickly with evident trepidation, and hurried out into the darkness of the other street. Agricola entered. Doctor Keene looked about the shop. "I tell you, Agricole, you didn't have it with you; Frowenfeld, you haven't seen a big knotted walking-stick?" Frowenfeld was sure no walking-stick had been left there. "Oh, yes, Frowenfeld," said Doctor Keene, with a little laugh, as the three sat down, "I'd a'most as soon trust that woman as if she was white." The apothecary said nothing. "How free," said Agricola, beginning with a meditative gaze at the sky without, and ending with a philosopher's smile upon his two companions,--"how free we people are from prejudice against the negro!" "The white people," said Frowenfeld, half abstractedly, half inquiringly. "H-my young friend, when we say, 'we people,' we _always_ mean we white people. The non-mention of color always implies pure white; and whatever is not pure white is to all intents and purposes pure black. When I say the 'whole community,' I mean the whole white portion; when I speak of the 'undivided public sentiment,' I mean the sentiment of the white population. What else could I mean? Could you suppose, sir, the expression which you may have heard me use--'my downtrodden country'--includes blacks and mulattoes? What is that up yonder in the sky? The moon. The new moon, or the old moon, or the moon in her third quarter, but always the moon! Which part of it? Why, the shining part--the white part, always and only! Not that there is a prejudice against the negro. By no means. Wherever he can be of any service in a strictly menial capacity we kindly and generously tolerate his presence." Was the immigrant growing wise, or weak, that he remained silent? Agricola rose as he concluded and said he would go home. Doctor Keene gave him his hand lazily, without rising. "Frowenfeld," he said, with a smile and in an undertone, as Agricola's footsteps died away, "don't you know who that woman is?" "No." "Well, I'll tell you." He told him. * * * * * On that lonely plantation at the Cannes Brulées, where Aurore Nancanou's childhood had been passed without brothers or sisters, there had been given her, according to the well-known custom of plantation life, a little quadroon slave-maid as her constant and only playmate. This maid began early to show herself in many ways remarkable. While yet a child she grew tall, lithe, agile; her eyes were large and black, and rolled and sparkled if she but turned to answer to her name. Her pale yellow forehead, low and shapely, with the jet hair above it, the heavily pencilled eyebrows and long lashes below, the faint red tinge that blushed with a kind of cold passion through the clear yellow skin of the cheek, the fulness of the red, voluptuous lips and the roundness of her perfect neck, gave her, even at fourteen, a barbaric and magnetic beauty, that startled the beholder like an unexpected drawing out of a jewelled sword. Such a type could have sprung only from high Latin ancestry on the one side and--we might venture--Jaloff African on the other. To these charms of person she added mental acuteness, conversational adroitness, concealed cunning, and noiseless but visible strength of will; and to these, that rarest of gifts in one of her tincture, the purity of true womanhood. At fourteen a necessity which had been parleyed with for two years or more became imperative, and Aurore's maid was taken from her. Explanation is almost superfluous. Aurore was to become a lady and her playmate a lady's maid; but not _her_ maid, because the maid had become, of the two, the ruling spirit. It was a question of grave debate in the mind of M. De Grapion what disposition to make of her. About this time the Grandissimes and De Grapions, through certain efforts of Honoré's father (since dead) were making some feeble pretences of mutual good feeling, and one of those Kentuckian dealers in corn and tobacco whose flatboat fleets were always drifting down the Mississippi, becoming one day M. De Grapion's transient guest, accidentally mentioned a wish of Agricola Fusilier. Agricola, it appeared, had commissioned him to buy the most beautiful lady's maid that in his extended journeyings he might be able to find; he wanted to make her a gift to his niece, Honoré's sister. The Kentuckian saw the demand met in Aurore's playmate. M. De Grapion would not sell her. (Trade with a Grandissime? Let them suspect he needed money?) No; but he would ask Agricola to accept the services of the waiting-maid for, say, ten years. The Kentuckian accepted the proposition on the spot and it was by and by carried out. She was never recalled to the Cannes Brulées, but in subsequent years received her freedom from her master, and in New Orleans became Palmyre la Philosophe, as they say in the corrupt French of the old Creoles, or Palmyre Philosophe, noted for her taste and skill as a hair-dresser, for the efficiency of her spells and the sagacity of her divinations, but most of all for the chaste austerity with which she practised the less baleful rites of the voudous. "That's the woman," said Doctor Keene, rising to go, as he concluded the narrative,--"that's she, Palmyre Philosophe. Now you get a view of the vastness of Agricole's generosity; he tolerates her even though she does not present herself in the 'strictly menial capacity.' Reason why--_he's afraid of her_." Time passed, if that may be called time which we have to measure with a clock. The apothecary of the rue Royale found better ways of measurement. As quietly as a spider he was spinning information into knowledge and knowledge into what is supposed to be wisdom; whether it was or not we shall see. His unidentified merchant friend who had adjured him to become acclimated as "they all did" had also exhorted him to study the human mass of which he had become a unit; but whether that study, if pursued, was sweetening and ripening, or whether it was corrupting him, that friend did not come to see; it was the busy time of year. Certainly so young a solitary, coming among a people whose conventionalities were so at variance with his own door-yard ethics, was in sad danger of being unduly--as we might say--Timonized. His acquaintances continued to be few in number. During this fermenting period he chronicled much wet and some cold weather. This may in part account for the uneventfulness of its passage; events do not happen rapidly among the Creoles in bad weather. However, trade was good. But the weather cleared; and when it was getting well on into the Creole spring and approaching the spring of the almanacs, something did occur that extended Frowenfeld's acquaintance without Doctor Keene's assistance. CHAPTER XIII A CALL FROM THE RENT-SPECTRE It is nearly noon of a balmy morning late in February. Aurore Nancanou and her daughter have only this moment ceased sewing, in the small front room of No. 19 rue Bienville. Number 19 is the right-hand half of a single-story, low-roofed tenement, washed with yellow ochre, which it shares generously with whoever leans against it. It sits as fast on the ground as a toad. There is a kitchen belonging to it somewhere among the weeds in the back yard, and besides this room where the ladies are, there is, directly behind it, a sleeping apartment. Somewhere back of this there is a little nook where in pleasant weather they eat. Their cook and housemaid is the plain person who attends them on the street. Her bedchamber is the kitchen and her bed the floor. The house's only other protector is a hound, the aim of whose life is to get thrust out of the ladies' apartments every fifteen minutes. Yet if you hastily picture to yourself a forlorn-looking establishment, you will be moving straight away from the fact. Neatness, order, excellence, are prevalent qualities in all the details of the main house's inward garniture. The furniture is old-fashioned, rich, French, imported. The carpets, if not new, are not cheap, either. Bits of crystal and silver, visible here and there, are as bright as they are antiquated; and one or two portraits, and the picture of Our Lady of Many Sorrows, are passably good productions. The brass work, of which there is much, is brilliantly burnished, and the front room is bright and cheery. At the street door of this room somebody has just knocked. Aurore has risen from her seat. The other still sits on a low chair with her hands and sewing dropped into her lap, looking up steadfastly into her mother's face with a mingled expression of fondness and dismayed expectation. Aurore hesitates beside her chair, desirous of resuming her seat, even lifts her sewing from it; but tarries a moment, her alert suspense showing in her eyes. Her daughter still looks up into them. It is not strange that the dwellers round about dispute as to which is the fairer, nor that in the six months during which the two have occupied Number 19 the neighbors have reached no conclusion on this subject. If some young enthusiast compares the daughter--in her eighteenth year--to a bursting blush rosebud full of promise, some older one immediately retorts that the other--in her thirty-fifth--is the red, red, full-blown, faultless joy of the garden. If one says the maiden has the dew of youth,--"But!" cry two or three mothers in a breath, "that other one, child, will never grow old. With her it will always be morning. That woman is going to last forever; ha-a-a-a!--even longer!" There was one direction in which the widow evidently had the advantage; you could see from the street or the opposite windows that she was a wise householder. On the day they moved into Number 19 she had been seen to enter in advance of all her other movables, carrying into the empty house a new broom, a looking-glass, and a silver coin. Every morning since, a little watching would have discovered her at the hour of sunrise sprinkling water from her side casement, and her opposite neighbors often had occasion to notice that, sitting at her sewing by the front window, she never pricked her finger but she quickly ran it up behind her ear, and then went on with her work. Would anybody but Joseph Frowenfeld ever have lived in and moved away from the two-story brick next them on the right and not have known of the existence of such a marvel? "Ha!" they said, "she knows how to keep off bad luck, that Madame yonder. And the younger one seems not to like it. Girls think themselves so smart these days." Ah, there was the knock again, right there on the street-door, as loud as if it had been given with a joint of sugar-cane! The daughter's hand, which had just resumed the needle, stood still in mid-course with the white thread half-drawn. Aurore tiptoed slowly over the carpeted floor. There came a shuffling sound, and the corner of a folded white paper commenced appearing and disappearing under the door. She mounted a chair and peeped through that odd little _jalousie_ which formerly was in almost all New Orleans street-doors; but the missive had meantime found its way across the sill, and she saw only the unpicturesque back of a departing errand-boy. But that was well. She had a pride, to maintain which--and a poverty, to conceal which--she felt to be necessary to her self-respect; and this made her of necessity a trifle unsocial in her own castle. Do you suppose she was going to put on the face of having been born or married to this degraded condition of things? Who knows?--the knock might have been from 'Sieur Frowenfel'--ha, ha! He might be just silly enough to call so early; or it might have been from that _polisson_ of a Grandissime,--which one didn't matter, they were all detestable,--coming to collect the rent. That was her original fear; or, worse still, it might have been, had it been softer, the knock of some possible lady visitor. She had no intention of admitting any feminine eyes to detect this carefully covered up indigence. Besides, it was Monday. There is no sense in trifling with bad luck. The reception of Monday callers is a source of misfortune never known to fail, save in rare cases when good luck has already been secured by smearing the front walk or the banquette with Venetian red. Before the daughter could dart up and disengage herself from her work her mother had pounced upon the paper. She was standing and reading, her rich black lashes curtaining their downcast eyes, her infant waist and round, close-fitted, childish arms harmonizing prettily with her mock frown of infantile perplexity, and her long, limp robe heightening the grace of her posture, when the younger started from her seat with the air of determining not to be left at a disadvantage. But what is that on the dark eyelash? With a sudden additional energy the daughter dashes the sewing and chair to right and left, bounds up, and in a moment has Aurore weeping in her embrace and has snatched the note from her hand. "_Ah! maman! Ah! ma chère mère_!" The mother forced a laugh. She was not to be mothered by her daughter; so she made a dash at Clotilde's uplifted hand to recover the note, which was unavailing. Immediately there arose in colonial French the loveliest of contentions, the issue of which was that the pair sat down side by side, like two sisters over one love-letter, and undertook to decipher the paper. It read as follows: "NEW ORLEANS, 20 Feb're, 1804. "MADAME NANCANOU: I muss oblige to ass you for rent of that house whare you living, it is at number 19 Bienville street whare I do not received thos rent from you not since tree mons and I demand you this is mabe thirteen time. And I give to you notice of 19 das writen in Anglish as the new law requi. That witch the law make necessare only for 15 das, and when you not pay me those rent in 19 das till the tense of Marh I will rekes you to move out. That witch make me to be verry sorry. I have the honor to remain, Madam, "Your humble servant, "H. Grandissime. "_per_ Z.F." There was a short French postscript on the opposite page signed only by M. Zénon François, explaining that he, who had allowed them in the past to address him as their landlord and by his name, was but the landlord's agent; that the landlord was a far better-dressed man than he could afford to be; that the writing opposite was a notice for them to quit the premises they had rented (not leased), or pay up; that it gave the writer great pain to send it, although it was but the necessary legal form and he only an irresponsible drawer of an inadequate salary, with thirteen children to support; and that he implored them to tear off and burn up this postscript immediately they had read it. "Ah, the miserable!" was all the comment made upon it as the two ladies addressed their energies to the previous English. They had never suspected him of being M. Grandissime. Their eyes dragged slowly and ineffectually along the lines to the signature. "H. Grandissime! Loog ad 'im!" cried the widow, with a sudden short laugh, that brought the tears after it like a wind-gust in a rose-tree. She held the letter out before them as if she was lifting something alive by the back of the neck, and to intensify her scorn spoke in the hated tongue prescribed by the new courts. "Loog ad 'im! dad ridge gen'leman oo give so mudge money to de 'ozpill!" "Bud, _maman_," said the daughter, laying her hand appeasingly upon her mother's knee, "_ee_ do nod know 'ow we is poor." "Ah!" retorted Aurore, "_par example! Non?_ Ee thingue we is ridge, eh? Ligue his oncle, eh? Ee thing so, too, eh?" She cast upon her daughter the look of burning scorn intended for Agricola Fusilier. "You wan' to tague the pard of dose Grandissime'?" The daughter returned a look of agony. "No," she said, "bud a man wad godd some 'ouses to rend, muz ee nod boun' to ged 'is rend?" "Boun' to ged--ah! yez ee muz do 'is possible to ged 'is rend. Oh! certain_lee_. Ee is ridge, bud ee need a lill money, bad, bad. Fo' w'at?" The excited speaker rose to her feet under a sudden inspiration. "_Tenez, Mademoiselle!_" She began to make great show of unfastening her dress. "_Mais, comment?_" demanded the suffering daughter. "Yez!" continued Aurore, keeping up the demonstration, "you wand 'im to 'ave 'is rend so bad! An' I godd honely my cloze; so you juz tague diz to you' fine gen'lemen, 'Sieur Honoré Grandissime." "Ah-h-h-h!" cried the martyr. "An' you is righd," persisted the tormentor, still unfastening; but the daughter's tears gushed forth, and the repentant tease threw herself upon her knees, drew her child's head into her bosom and wept afresh. Half an hour was passed in council; at the end of which they stood beneath their lofty mantelshelf, each with a foot on a brazen fire-dog, and no conclusion reached. "Ah, my child!"--they had come to themselves now and were speaking in their peculiar French--"if we had here in these hands but the tenth part of what your papa often played away in one night without once getting angry! But we have not. Ah! but your father was a fine fellow; if he could have lived for you to know him! So accomplished! Ha, ha, ha! I can never avoid laughing, when I remember him teaching me to speak English; I used to enrage him so!" The daughter brought the conversation back to the subject of discussion. There were nineteen days yet allowed them. God knows--by the expiration of that time they might be able to pay. With the two music scholars whom she then had and three more whom she had some hope to get, she made bold to say they could pay the rent. "Ah, Clotilde, my child," exclaimed Aurore, with sudden brightness, "you don't need a mask and costume to resemble your great-grandmother, the casket-girl!" Aurore felt sure, on her part, that with the one embroidery scholar then under her tutelage, and the three others who had declined to take lessons, they could easily pay the rent--and how kind it was of Monsieur, the aged father of that one embroidery scholar, to procure those invitations to the ball! The dear old man! He said he must see one more ball before he should die. Aurore looked so pretty in the reverie into which she fell that her daughter was content to admire her silently. "Clotilde," said the mother, presently looking up, "do you remember the evening you treated me so ill?" The daughter smiled at the preposterous charge. "I did not treat you ill." "Yes, don't you know--the evening you made me lose my purse?" "Certainly, I know!" The daughter took her foot from the andiron; her eyes lighted up aggressively. "For losing your purse blame yourself. For the way you found it again--which was far worse--thank Palmyre. If you had not asked her to find it and shared the gold with her we could have returned with it to 'Sieur Frowenfel'; but now we are ashamed to let him see us. I do not doubt he filled the purse." "He? He never knew it was empty. It was Nobody who filled it. Palmyre says that Papa Lébat--" "Ha!" exclaimed Clotilde at this superstitious mention. The mother tossed her head and turned her back, swallowing the unendurable bitterness of being rebuked by her daughter. But the cloud hung over but a moment. "Clotilde," she said, a minute after, turning with a look of sun-bright resolve, "I am going to see him." "To see whom?" asked the other, looking back from the window, whither she had gone to recover from a reactionary trembling. "To whom, my child? Why--" "You do not expect mercy from Honoré Grandissime? You would not ask it?" "No. There is no mercy in the Grandissime blood; but cannot I demand justice? Ha! it is justice that I shall demand!" "And you will really go and see him?" "You will see, Mademoiselle," replied Aurore, dropping a broom with which she had begun to sweep up some spilled buttons. "And I with you?" "No! To a counting-room? To the presence of the chief of that detestable race? No!" "But you don't know where his office is." "Anybody can tell me." Preparation began at once. By and by-- "Clotilde." Clotilde was stooping behind her mother, with a ribbon between her lips, arranging a flounce. "M-m-m." "You must not watch me go out of sight; do you hear? ... But it _is_ dangerous. I knew of a gentleman who watched his wife go out of his sight and she never came back!" "Hold still!" said Clotilde. "But when my hand itches," retorted Aurore in a high key, "haven't I got to put it instantly into my pocket if I want the money to come there? Well, then!" The daughter proposed to go to the kitchen and tell Alphonsina to put on her shoes. "My child," cried Aurore, "you are crazy! Do you want Alphonsina to be seized for the rent?" "But you cannot go alone--and on foot!" "I must go alone; and--can you lend me your carriage? Ah, you have none? Certainly I must go alone and on foot if I am to say I cannot pay the rent. It is no indiscretion of mine. If anything happens to me it is M. Grandissime who is responsible." Now she is ready for the adventurous errand. She darts to the mirror. The high-water marks are gone from her eyes. She wheels half around and looks over her shoulder. The flaring bonnet and loose ribbons gave her a more girlish look than ever. "Now which is the older, little old woman?" she chirrups, and smites her daughter's cheek softly with her palm. "And you are not afraid to go alone?" "No; but remember! look at that dog!" The brute sinks apologetically to the floor. Clotilde opens the street door, hands Aurore the note, Aurore lays a frantic kiss upon her lips, pressing it on tight so as to get it again when she comes back, and--while Clotilde calls the cook to gather up the buttons and take away the broom, and while the cook, to make one trip of it, gathers the hound into her bosom and carries broom and dog out together--Aurore sallies forth, leaving Clotilde to resume her sewing and await the coming of a guitar scholar. "It will keep her fully an hour," thought the girl, far from imagining that Aurore had set about a little private business which she proposed to herself to accomplish before she even started in the direction of M. Grandissime's counting-rooms. CHAPTER XIV BEFORE SUNSET In old times, most of the sidewalks of New Orleans not in the heart of town were only a rough, rank turf, lined on the side next the ditch with the gunwales of broken-up flatboats--ugly, narrow, slippery objects. As Aurora--it sounds so much pleasanter to anglicize her name--as Aurora gained a corner where two of these gunwales met, she stopped and looked back to make sure that Clotilde was not watching her. That others had noticed her here and there she did not care; that was something beauty would have to endure, and it only made her smile to herself. "Everybody sees I am from the country--walking on the street without a waiting-maid." A boy passed, hushing his whistle, and gazing at the lone lady until his turning neck could twist no farther. She was so dewy fresh! After he had got across the street he turned to look again. Where could she have disappeared? The only object to be seen on the corner from which she had vanished was a small, yellow-washed house much like the one Aurora occupied, as it was like hundreds that then characterized and still characterize the town, only that now they are of brick instead of adobe. They showed in those days, even more than now, the wide contrast between their homely exteriors and the often elegant apartments within. However, in this house the front room was merely neat. The furniture was of rude, heavy pattern, Creole-made, and the walls were unadorned; the day of cheap pictures had not come. The lofty bedstead which filled one corner was spread and hung with a blue stuff showing through a web of white needlework. The brazen feet of the chairs were brightly burnished, as were the brass mountings of the bedstead and the brass globes on the cold andirons. Curtains of blue and white hung at the single window. The floor, from habitual scrubbing with the common weed which politeness has to call _Helenium autumnale_, was stained a bright, clean yellow. On it were, here and there in places, white mats woven of bleached palmetto-leaf. Such were the room's appointments; there was but one thing more, a singular bit of fantastic carving,--a small table of dark mahogany supported on the upward-writhing images of three scaly serpents. Aurora sat down beside this table. A dwarf Congo woman, as black as soot, had ushered her in, and, having barred the door, had disappeared, and now the mistress of the house entered. February though it was, she was dressed--and looked comfortable--in white. That barbaric beauty which had begun to bud twenty years before was now in perfect bloom. The united grace and pride of her movement was inspiring but--what shall we say?--feline? It was a femininity without humanity,--something that made her, with all her superbness, a creature that one would want to find chained. It was the woman who had received the gold from Frowenfeld--Palmyre Philosophe. The moment her eyes fell upon Aurora her whole appearance changed. A girlish smile lighted up her face, and as Aurora rose up reflecting it back, they simultaneously clapped hands, laughed and advanced joyously toward each other, talking rapidly without regard to each other's words. "Sit down," said Palmyre, in the plantation French of their childhood, as they shook hands. They took chairs and drew up face to face as close as they could come, then sighed and smiled a moment, and then looked grave and were silent. For in the nature of things, and notwithstanding the amusing familiarity common between Creole ladies and the menial class, the unprotected little widow should have had a very serious errand to bring her to the voudou's house. "Palmyre," began the lady, in a sad tone. "Momselle Aurore." "I want you to help me." The former mistress not only cast her hands into her lap, lifted her eyes supplicatingly and dropped them again, but actually locked her fingers to keep them from trembling. "Momselle Aurore--" began Palmyre, solemnly. "Now, I know what you are going to say--but it is of no use to say it; do this much for me this one time and then I will let voudou alone as much as you wish--forever!" "You have not lost your purse _again?_" "Ah! foolishness, no." Both laughed a little, the philosophe feebly, and Aurora with an excited tremor. "Well?" demanded the quadroon, looking grave again. Aurora did not answer. "Do you wish me to work a spell for you?" The widow nodded, with her eyes cast down. Both sat quite still for some time; then the philosophe gently drew the landlord's letter from between Aurora's hands. "What is this?" She could not read in any language. "I must pay my rent within nineteen days." "Have you not paid it?" The delinquent shook her head. "Where is the gold that came into your purse? All gone?" "For rice and potatoes," said Aurora, and for the first time she uttered a genuine laugh, under that condition of mind which Latins usually substitute for fortitude. Palmyre laughed too, very properly. Another silence followed. The lady could not return the quadroon's searching gaze. "Momselle Aurore," suddenly said Palmyre, "you want me to work a spell for something else." Aurora started, looked up for an instant in a frightened way, and then dropped her eyes and let her head droop, murmuring: "No, I do not." Palmyre fixed a long look upon her former mistress. She saw that though Aurora might be distressed about the rent, there was something else,--a deeper feeling,--impelling her upon a course the very thought of which drove the color from her lips and made her tremble. "You are wearing red," said the philosophe. Aurora's hand went nervously to the red ribbon about her neck. "It is an accident; I had nothing else convenient." "Miché Agoussou loves red," persisted Palmyre. (Monsieur Agoussou is the demon upon whom the voudous call in matters of love.) The color that came into Aurora's cheek ought to have suited Monsieur precisely. "It is an accident," she feebly insisted. "Well," presently said Palmyre, with a pretence of abandoning her impression, "then you want me to work you a spell for money, do you?" Aurora nodded, while she still avoided the quadroon's glance. "I know better," thought the philosophe. "You shall have the sort you want." The widow stole an upward glance. "Oh!" said Palmyre, with the manner of one making a decided digression, "I have been wanting to ask you something. That evening at the pharmacy--was there a tall, handsome gentleman standing by the counter?" "He was standing on the other side." "Did you see his face?" "No; his back was turned." "Momselle Aurore," said Palmyre, dropping her elbows upon her knees and taking the lady's hand as if the better to secure the truth, "was that the gentleman you met at the ball?" "My faith!" said Aurora, stretching her eyebrows upward. "I did not think to look. Who was it?" But Palmyre Philosophe was not going to give more than she got, even to her old-time Momselle; she merely straightened back into her chair with an amiable face. "Who do you think he is?" persisted Aurora, after a pause, smiling downward and toying with her rings. The quadroon shrugged. They both sat in reverie for a moment--a long moment for such sprightly natures--and Palmyre's mien took on a professional gravity. She presently pushed the landlord's letter under the lady's hands as they lay clasped in her lap, and a moment after drew Aurora's glance with her large, strong eyes and asked: "What shall we do?" The lady immediately looked startled and alarmed and again dropped her eyes in silence. The quadroon had to speak again. "We will burn a candle." Aurora trembled. "No," she succeeded in saying. "Yes," said Palmyre, "you must get your rent money." But the charm which she was meditating had no reference to rent money. "She knows that," thought the voudou. As she rose and called her Congo slave-woman, Aurora made as if to protest further; but utterance failed her. She clenched her hands and prayed to fate for Clotilde to come and lead her away as she had done at the apothecary's. And well she might. The articles brought in by the servant were simply a little pound-cake and cordial, a tumbler half-filled with the _sirop naturelle_ of the sugar-cane, and a small piece of candle of the kind made from the fragrant green wax of the candleberry myrtle. These were set upon the small table, the bit of candle standing, lighted, in the tumbler of sirup, the cake on a plate, the cordial in a wine-glass. This feeble child's play was all; except that as Palmyre closed out all daylight from the room and received the offering of silver that "paid the floor" and averted _guillons_ (interferences of outside imps), Aurora,--alas! alas!--went down upon her knees with her gaze fixed upon the candle's flame, and silently called on Assonquer (the imp of good fortune) to cast his snare in her behalf around the mind and heart of--she knew not whom. By and by her lips, which had moved at first, were still and she only watched the burning wax. When the flame rose clear and long it was a sign that Assonquer was enlisted in the coveted endeavor. When the wick sputtered, the devotee trembled in fear of failure. Its charred end curled down and twisted away from her and her heart sank; but the tall figure of Palmyre for a moment came between, the wick was snuffed, the flame tapered up again, and for a long time burned, a bright, tremulous cone. Again the wick turned down, but this time toward her,--a propitious omen,--and suddenly fell through the expended wax and went out in the sirup. The daylight, as Palmyre let it once more into the apartment, showed Aurora sadly agitated. In evidence of the innocence of her fluttering heart, guilt, at least for the moment, lay on it, an appalling burden. "That is all, Palmyre, is it not? I am sure that is all--it must be all. I cannot stay any longer. I wish I was with Clotilde; I have stayed too long." "Yes; all for the present," replied the quadroon. "Here, here is some charmed basil; hold it between your lips as you walk--" "But I am going to my landlord's office!" "Office? Nobody is at his office now; it is too late. You would find that your landlord had gone to dinner. I will tell you, though, where you _must_ go. First go home; eat your dinner; and this evening [the Creoles never say afternoon], about a half-hour before sunset, walk down Royale to the lower corner of the Place d'Armes, pass entirely around the square and return up Royale. Never look behind until you get into your house again." Aurora blushed with shame. "Alone?" she exclaimed, quite unnerved and tremulous. "You will seem to be alone; but I will follow behind you when you pass here. Nothing shall hurt you. If you do that, the charm will certainly work; if you do not--" The quadroon's intentions were good. She was determined to see who it was that could so infatuate her dear little Momselle; and, as on such an evening as the present afternoon promised to merge into all New Orleans promenaded on the Place d'Armes and the levee, her charm was a very practical one. "And that will bring the money, will it?" asked Aurora. "It will bring anything you want." "Possible?" "These things that _you_ want, Momselle Aurore, are easy to bring. You have no charms working against you. But, oh, I wish to God I could work the _curse_ I want to work!" The woman's eyes blazed, her bosom heaved, she lifted her clenched hand above her head and looked upward, crying: "I would give this right hand off at the wrist to catch Agricola Fusilier where I could work him a curse! But I shall; I shall some day be revenged!" She pitched her voice still higher. "I cannot die till I have been! There is nothing that could kill me, I want my revenge so bad!" As suddenly as she had broken out, she hushed, unbarred the door, and with a stern farewell smile saw Aurora turn homeward. "Give me something to eat, _chérie_," cried the exhausted lady, dropping into Clotilde's chair and trying to die. "Ah! _maman_, what makes you look so sick?" Aurora waved her hand contemptuously and gasped. "Did you see him? What kept you so long--so long?" "Ask me nothing; I am so enraged with disappointment. He was gone to dinner!" "Ah! my poor mother!" "And I must go back as soon as I can take a little _sieste_. I am determined to see him this very day." "Ah! my poor mother!" CHAPTER XV ROLLED IN THE DUST "No, Frowenfeld," said little Doctor Keene, speaking for the after-dinner loungers, "you must take a little human advice. Go, get the air on the Plaza. We will keep shop for you. Stay as long as you like and come home in any condition you think best." And Joseph, tormented into this course, put on his hat and went out. "Hard to move as a cow in the moonlight," continued Doctor Keene, "and knows just about as much of the world. He wasn't aware, until I told him to-day, that there are two Honoré Grandissimes." [Laughter.] "Why did you tell him?" "I didn't give him anything but the bare fact. I want to see how long it will take him to find out the rest." The Place d'Armes offered amusement to every one else rather than to the immigrant. The family relation, the most noticeable feature of its' well-pleased groups, was to him too painful a reminder of his late losses, and, after an honest endeavor to flutter out of the inner twilight of himself into the outer glare of a moving world, he had given up the effort and had passed beyond the square and seated himself upon a rude bench which encircled the trunk of a willow on the levee. The negress, who, resting near by with a tray of cakes before her, has been for some time contemplating the three-quarter face of her unconscious neighbor, drops her head at last with a small, Ethiopian, feminine laugh. It is a self-confession that, pleasant as the study of his countenance is, to resolve that study into knowledge is beyond her powers; and very pardonably so it is, she being but a _marchande des gâteaux_ (an itinerant cake-vender), and he, she concludes, a man of parts. There is a purpose, too, as well as an admission, in the laugh. She would like to engage him in conversation. But he does not notice. Little supposing he is the object of even a cake-merchant's attention, he is lost in idle meditation. One would guess his age to be as much as twenty-six. His face is beardless, of course, like almost everybody's around him, and of a German kind of seriousness. A certain diffidence in his look may tend to render him unattractive to careless eyes, the more so since he has a slight appearance of self-neglect. On a second glance, his refinement shows out more distinctly, and one also sees that he is not shabby. The little that seems lacking is woman's care, the brush of attentive fingers here and there, the turning of a fold in the high-collared coat, and a mere touch on the neckerchief and shirt-frill. He has a decidedly good forehead. His blue eyes, while they are both strong and modest, are noticeable, too, as betraying fatigue, and the shade of gravity in them is deepened by a certain worn look of excess--in books; a most unusual look in New Orleans in those days, and pointedly out of keeping with the scene which was absorbing his attention. You might mistake the time for mid-May. Before the view lies the Place d'Armes in its green-breasted uniform of new spring grass crossed diagonally with white shell walks for facings, and dotted with the _élite_ of the city for decorations. Over the line of shade-trees which marks its farther boundary, the white-topped twin turrets of St. Louis Cathedral look across it and beyond the bared site of the removed battery (built by the busy Carondelet to protect Louisiana from herself and Kentucky, and razed by his immediate successors) and out upon the Mississippi, the color of whose surface is beginning to change with the changing sky of this beautiful and now departing day. A breeze, which is almost early June, and which has been hovering over the bosom of the great river and above the turf-covered levee, ceases, as if it sank exhausted under its burden of spring odors, and in the profound calm the cathedral bell strikes the sunset hour. From its neighboring garden, the convent of the Ursulines responds in a tone of devoutness, while from the parapet of the less pious little Fort St. Charles, the evening gun sends a solemn ejaculation rumbling down the "coast;" a drum rolls, the air rises again from the water like a flock of birds, and many in the square and on the levee's crown turn and accept its gentle blowing. Rising over the levee willows, and sinking into the streets,--which are lower than the water,--it flutters among the balconies and in and out of dim Spanish arcades, and finally drifts away toward that part of the sky where the sun is sinking behind the low, unbroken line of forest. There is such seduction in the evening air, such sweetness of flowers on its every motion, such lack of cold, or heat, or dust, or wet, that the people have no heart to stay in-doors; nor is there any reason why they should. The levee road is dotted with horsemen, and the willow avenue on the levee's crown, the whole short mile between Terre aux Boeufs gate on the right and Tchoupitoulas gate on the left, is bright with promenaders, although the hour is brief and there will be no twilight; for, so far from being May, it is merely that same nineteenth of which we have already spoken,--the nineteenth of Louisiana's delicious February. Among the throng were many whose names were going to be written large in history. There was Casa Calvo,--Sebastian de Casa Calvo de la Puerta y O'Farril, Marquis of Casa Calvo,--a man then at the fine age of fifty-three, elegant, fascinating, perfect in Spanish courtesy and Spanish diplomacy, rolling by in a showy equipage surrounded by a clanking body-guard of the Catholic king's cavalry. There was young Daniel Clark, already beginning to amass those riches which an age of litigation has not to this day consumed; it was he whom the French colonial prefect, Laussat, in a late letter to France, had extolled as a man whose "talents for intrigue were carried to a rare degree of excellence." There was Laussat himself, in the flower of his years, sour with pride, conscious of great official insignificance and full of petty spites--he yet tarried in a land where his beautiful wife was the "model of taste." There was that convivial old fox, Wilkinson, who had plotted for years with Miro and did not sell himself and his country to Spain because--as we now say--"he found he could do better;" who modestly confessed himself in a traitor's letter to the Spanish king as a man "whose head may err, but whose heart cannot deceive!" and who brought Governor Gayoso to an early death-bed by simply out-drinking him. There also was Edward Livingston, attorney-at-law, inseparably joined to the mention of the famous Batture cases--though that was later. There also was that terror of colonial peculators, the old ex-Intendant Morales, who, having quarrelled with every governor of Louisiana he ever saw, was now snarling at Casa Calvo from force of habit. And the Creoles--the Knickerbockers of Louisiana--but time would fail us. The Villeres and Destrehans--patriots and patriots' sons; the De La Chaise family in mourning for young Auguste La Chaise of Kentuckian-Louisianian-San Domingan history; the Livaudaises, _père et fils_, of Haunted House fame, descendants of the first pilot of the Belize; the pirate brothers Lafitte, moving among the best; Marigny de Mandeville, afterwards the marquis member of Congress; the Davezacs, the Mossys, the Boulignys, the Labatuts, the Bringiers, the De Trudeaus, the De Macartys, the De la Houssayes, the De Lavilleboeuvres, the Grandprés, the Forstalls; and the proselyted Creoles: Étienne de Boré (he was the father of all such as handle the sugar-kettle); old man Pitot, who became mayor; Madame Pontalba and her unsuccessful suitor, John McDonough; the three Girods, the two Graviers, or the lone Julian Poydras, godfather of orphan girls. Besides these, and among them as shining fractions of the community, the numerous representatives of the not only noble, but noticeable and ubiquitous, family of Grandissime: Grandissimes simple and Grandissimes compound; Brahmins, Mandarins and Fusiliers. One, 'Polyte by name, a light, gay fellow, with classic features, hair turning gray, is standing and conversing with this group here by the mock-cannon inclosure of the grounds. Another, his cousin, Charlie Mandarin, a tall, very slender, bronzed gentleman in a flannel hunting-shirt and buckskin leggings, is walking, in moccasins, with a sweet lady in whose tasteful attire feminine scrutiny, but such only, might detect economy, but whose marked beauty of yesterday is retreating and reappearing in the flock of children who are noisily running round and round them, nominally in the care of three fat and venerable black nurses. Another, yonder, Théophile Grandissime, is whipping his stockings with his cane, a lithe youngster in the height of the fashion (be it understood the fashion in New Orleans was five years or so behind Paris), with a joyous, noble face, a merry tongue and giddy laugh, and a confession of experiences which these pages, fortunately for their moral tone, need not recount. All these were there and many others. This throng, shifting like the fragments of colored glass in the kaleidoscope, had its far-away interest to the contemplative Joseph. To them he was of little interest, or none. Of the many passers, scarcely an occasional one greeted him, and such only with an extremely polite and silent dignity which seemed to him like saying something of this sort: "Most noble alien, give you good-day--stay where you are. Profoundly yours--" Two men came through the Place d'Armes on conspicuously fine horses. One it is not necessary to describe. The other, a man of perhaps thirty-three or thirty-four years of age, was extremely handsome and well dressed, the martial fashion of the day showing his tall and finely knit figure to much advantage. He sat his horse with an uncommon grace, and, as he rode beside his companion, spoke and gave ear by turns with an easy dignity sufficient of itself to have attracted popular observation. It was the apothecary's unknown friend. Frowenfeld noticed them while they were yet in the middle of the grounds. He could hardly have failed to do so, for some one close beside his bench in undoubted allusion to one of the approaching figures exclaimed: "Here comes Honoré Grandissime." Moreover, at that moment there was a slight unwonted stir on the Place d'Armes. It began at the farther corner of the square, hard by the Principal, and spread so quickly through the groups near about, that in a minute the entire company were quietly made aware of something going notably wrong in their immediate presence. There was no running to see it. There seemed to be not so much as any verbal communication of the matter from mouth to mouth. Rather a consciousness appeared to catch noiselessly from one to another as the knowledge of human intrusion comes to groups of deer in a park. There was the same elevating of the head here and there, the same rounding of beautiful eyes. Some stared, others slowly approached, while others turned and moved away; but a common indignation was in the breast of that thing dreadful everywhere, but terrible in Louisiana, the Majority. For there, in the presence of those good citizens, before the eyes of the proudest and fairest mothers and daughters of New Orleans, glaringly, on the open Plaza, the Creole whom Joseph had met by the graves in the field, Honoré Grandissime, the uttermost flower on the topmost branch of the tallest family tree ever transplanted from France to Louisiana, Honoré,--the worshiped, the magnificent,--in the broad light of the sun's going down, rode side by side with the Yankee governor and was not ashamed! Joseph, on his bench, sat contemplating the two parties to this scandal as they came toward him. Their horses' flanks were damp from some pleasant gallop, but their present gait was the soft, mettlesome movement of animals who will even submit to walk if their masters insist. As they wheeled out of the broad diagonal path that crossed the square, and turned toward him in the highway, he fancied that the Creole observed him. He was not mistaken. As they seemed about to pass the spot where he sat, M. Grandissime interrupted the governor with a word and, turning his horse's head, rode up to the bench, lifting his hat as he came. "Good-evening, Mr. Frowenfeld." Joseph, looking brighter than when he sat unaccosted, rose and blushed. "Mr. Frowenfeld, you know my uncle very well, I believe--Agricole Fusilier--long beard?" "Oh! yes, sir, certainly." "Well, Mr. Frowenfeld, I shall be much obliged if you will tell him--that is, should you meet him this evening--that I wish to see him. If you will be so kind?" "Oh! yes, sir, certainly." Frowenfeld's diffidence made itself evident in this reiterated phrase. "I do not know that you will see him, but if you should, you know--" "Oh, certainly, sir!" The two paused a single instant, exchanging a smile of amiable reminder from the horseman and of bashful but pleased acknowledgment from the one who saw his precepts being reduced to practice. "Well, good-evening, Mr. Frowenfeld." M. Grandissime lifted his hat and turned. Frowenfeld sat down. "_Bou zou, Miché Honoré!_" called the _marchande_. "_Comment to yé, Clemence?_" The merchant waved his hand as he rode away with his companion. "_Beau Miché, là_," said the _marchande_, catching Joseph's eye. He smiled his ignorance and shook his head. "Dass one fine gen'leman," she repeated. "_Mo pa'lé Anglé_," she added with a chuckle. "You know him?" "Oh! yass, sah; Mawse Honoré knows me, yass. All de gen'lemens knows me. I sell de _calas;_ mawnin's sell _calas_, evenin's sell zinzer-cake. _You_ know me" (a fact which Joseph had all along been aware of). "Dat me w'at pass in rue Royale ev'y mawnin' holl'in' '_Bé calas touts chauds_,' an' singin'; don't you know?" The enthusiasm of an artist overcame any timidity she might have been supposed to possess, and, waiving the formality of an invitation, she began, to Frowenfeld's consternation, to sing, in a loud, nasal voice. But the performance, long familiar, attracted no public attention, and he for whose special delight it was intended had taken an attitude of disclaimer and was again contemplating the quiet groups of the Place d'Armes and the pleasant hurry of the levee road. "Don't you know?" persisted the woman. "Yass, sah, dass me; I's Clemence." But Frowenfeld was looking another way. "You know my boy," suddenly said she. Frowenfeld looked at her. "Yass, sah. Dat boy w'at bring you de box of _basilic_ lass Chrismus; dass my boy." She straightened her cakes on the tray and made some changes in their arrangement that possibly were important. "I learned to speak English in Fijinny. Bawn dah." She looked steadily into the apothecary's absorbed countenance for a full minute, then let her eyes wander down the highway. The human tide was turning cityward. Presently she spoke again. "Folks comin' home a'ready, yass." Her hearer looked down the road. Suddenly a voice that, once heard, was always known,--deep and pompous, as if a lion roared,--sounded so close behind him as to startle him half from his seat. "Is this a corporeal man, or must I doubt my eyes? Hah! Professor Frowenfeld!" it said. "Mr. Fusilier!" exclaimed Frowenfeld in a subdued voice, while he blushed again and looked at the new-comer with that sort of awe which children experience in a menagerie. "_Citizen_ Fusilier," said the lion. Agricola indulged to excess the grim hypocrisy of brandishing the catchwords of new-fangled reforms; they served to spice a breath that was strong with the praise of the "superior liberties of Europe,"--those old, cast-iron tyrannies to get rid of which America was settled. Frowenfeld smiled amusedly and apologetically at the same moment. "I am glad to meet you. I--" He was going on to give Honoré Grandissime's message, but was interrupted. "My young friend," rumbled the old man in his deepest key, smiling emotionally and holding and solemning continuing to shake Joseph's hand, "I am sure you are. You ought to thank God that you have my acquaintance." Frowenfeld colored to the temples. "I must acknowledge--" he began. "Ah!" growled the lion, "your beautiful modesty leads you to misconstrue me, sir. You pay my judgment no compliment. I know your worth, sir; I merely meant, sir, that in me--poor, humble me--you have secured a sympathizer in your tastes and plans. Agricola Fusilier, sir, is not a cock on a dunghill, to find a jewel and then scratch it aside." The smile of diffidence, but not the flush, passed from the young man's face, and he sat down forcibly. "You jest," he said. The reply was a majestic growl. "I _never_ jest!" The speaker half sat down, then straightened up again. "Ah, the Marquis of Caso Calvo!--I must bow to him, though an honest man's bow is more than he deserves." "More than he deserves?" was Frowenfeld's query. "More than he deserves!" was the response. "What has he done? I have never heard--" The denunciator turned upon Frowenfeld his most royal frown, and retorted with a question which still grows wild in Louisiana: "What"--he seemed to shake his mane--"what has he _not_ done, sir?" and then he withdrew his frown slowly, as if to add, "You'll be careful next time how you cast doubt upon a public official's guilt." The marquis's cavalcade came briskly jingling by. Frowenfeld saw within the carriage two men, one in citizen's dress, the other in a brilliant uniform. The latter leaned forward, and, with a cordiality which struck the young spectator as delightful, bowed. The immigrant glanced at Citizen Fusilier, expecting to see the greeting returned with great haughtiness; instead of which that person uncovered his leonine head, and, with a solemn sweep of his cocked hat, bowed half his length. Nay, he more than bowed, he bowed down--so that the action hurt Frowenfeld from head to foot. "What large gentlemen was that sitting on the other side?" asked the young man, as his companion sat down with the air of having finished an oration. "No gentleman at all!" thundered the citizen. "That fellow" (beetling frown), "that _fellow_ is Edward Livingston." "The great lawyer?" "The great villain!" Frowenfeld himself frowned. The old man laid a hand upon his junior's shoulder and growled benignantly: "My young friend, your displeasure delights me!" The patience with which Frowenfeld was bearing all this forced a chuckle and shake of the head from the _marchande_. Citizen Fusilier went on speaking in a manner that might be construed either as address or soliloquy, gesticulating much and occasionally letting out a fervent word that made passers look around and Joseph inwardly wince. With eyes closed and hands folded on the top of the knotted staff which he carried but never used, he delivered an apostrophe to the "spotless soul of youth," enticed by the "spirit of adventure" to "launch away upon the unploughed sea of the future!" He lifted one hand and smote the back of the other solemnly, once, twice, and again, nodding his head faintly several times without opening his eyes, as who should say, "Very impressive; go on," and so resumed; spoke of this spotless soul of youth searching under unknown latitudes for the "sunken treasures of experience"; indulged, as the reporters of our day would say, in "many beautiful nights of rhetoric," and finally depicted the loathing with which the spotless soul of youth "recoils!"--suiting the action to the word so emphatically as to make a pretty little boy who stood gaping at him start back--"on encountering in the holy chambers of public office the vultures hatched in the nests of ambition and avarice!" Three or four persons lingered carelessly near by with ears wide open. Frowenfeld felt that he must bring this to an end, and, like any young person who has learned neither deceit nor disrespect to seniors, he attempted to reason it down. "You do not think many of our public men are dishonest!" "Sir!" replied the rhetorician, with a patronizing smile, "h-you must be thinking of France!" "No, sir; of Louisiana." "Louisiana! Dishonest? All, sir, all. They are all as corrupt as Olympus, sir!" "Well," said Frowenfeld, with more feeling than was called for, "there is one who, I feel sure, is pure. I know it by his face!" The old man gave a look of stern interrogation. "Governor Claiborne." "Ye-e-e g-hods! Claiborne! _Claiborne!_ Why, he is a Yankee!" The lion glowered over the lamb like a thundercloud. "He is a Virginian," said Frowenfeld. "He is an American, and no American can be honest." "You are prejudiced," exclaimed the young man. Citizen Fusilier made himself larger. "What is prejudice? I do not know." "I am an American myself," said Frowenfeld, rising up with his face burning. The citizen rose up also, but unruffled. "My beloved young friend," laying his hand heavily upon the other's shoulder, "you are not. You were merely born in America." But Frowenfeld was not appeased. "Hear me through," persisted the flatterer. "You were merely born in America. I, too, was born in America--but will any man responsible for his opinion mistake me--Agricola Fusilier--for an American?" He clutched his cane in the middle and glared around, but no person seemed to be making the mistake to which he so scornfully alluded, and he was about to speak again when an outcry of alarm coming simultaneously from Joseph and the _marchande_ directed his attention to a lady in danger. The scene, as afterward recalled to the mind of the un-American citizen, included the figures of his nephew and the new governor returning up the road at a canter; but, at the time, he knew only that a lady of unmistakable gentility, her back toward him, had just gathered her robes and started to cross the road, when there was a general cry of warning, and the _marchande_ cried, "_Garde choual!_" while the lady leaped directly into the danger and his nephew's horse knocked her to the earth! Though there was a rush to the rescue from every direction, she was on her feet before any one could reach her, her lips compressed, nostrils dilated, cheek burning, and eyes flashing a lady's wrath upon a dismounted horseman. It was the governor. As the crowd had rushed in, the startled horses, from whom the two riders had instantly leaped, drew violently back, jerking their masters with them and leaving only the governor in range of the lady's angry eye. "Mademoiselle!" he cried, striving to reach her. She pointed him in gasping indignation to his empty saddle, and, as the crowd farther separated them, waved away all permission to apologize and turned her back. "Hah!" cried the crowd, echoing her humor. "Lady," interposed the governor, "do not drive us to the rudeness of leaving--" "_Animal, vous!_" cried half a dozen, and the lady gave him such a look of scorn that he did not finish his sentence. "Open the way, there," called a voice in French. It was Honoré Grandissime. But just then he saw that the lady had found the best of protectors, and the two horsemen, having no choice, remounted and rode away. As they did so, M. Grandissime called something hurriedly to Frowenfeld, on whose arm the lady hung, concerning the care of her; but his words were lost in the short yell of derision sent after himself and his companion by the crowd. Old Agricola, meanwhile, was having a trouble of his own. He had followed Joseph's wake as he pushed through the throng; but as the lady turned her face he wheeled abruptly away. This brought again into view the bench he had just left, whereupon he, in turn, cried out, and, dashing through all obstructions, rushed back to it, lifting his ugly staff as he went and flourishing it in the face of Palmyre Philosophe. She stood beside the seat with the smile of one foiled and intensely conscious of peril, but neither frightened nor suppliant, holding back with her eyes the execution of Agricola's threat against her life. Presently she drew a short step backward, then another, then a third, and then turned and moved away down the avenue of willows, followed for a few steps by the lion and by the laughing comment of the _marchande_, who stood looking after them with her tray balanced on her head. "_Ya, ya! ye connais voudou bien!_[1]" [Footnote 1: "They're up in the voudou arts."] The old man turned to rejoin his companion. The day was rapidly giving place to night and the people were withdrawing to their homes. He crossed the levee, passed through the Place d'Armes and on into the city without meeting the object of his search. For Joseph and the lady had hurried off together. As the populace floated away in knots of three, four and five, those who had witnessed mademoiselle's (?) mishap told it to those who had not; explaining that it was the accursed Yankee governor who had designedly driven his horse at his utmost speed against the fair victim (some of them butted against their hearers by way of illustration); that the fiend had then maliciously laughed; that this was all the Yankees came to New Orleans for, and that there was an understanding among them--"Understanding, indeed!" exclaimed one, "They have instructions from the President!"--that unprotected ladies should be run down wherever overtaken. If you didn't believe it you could ask the tyrant, Claiborne, himself; he made no secret of it. One or two--but they were considered by others extravagant--testified that, as the lady fell, they had seen his face distorted with a horrid delight, and had heard him cry: "Daz de way to knog them!" "But how came a lady to be out on the levee, at sunset, on foot and alone?" asked a citizen, and another replied--both using the French of the late province: "As for being on foot"--a shrug. "But she was not alone; she had a _milatraisse_ behind her." "Ah! so; that was well." "But--ha, ha!--the _milatraisse_, seeing her mistress out of danger, takes the opportunity to try to bring the curse upon Agricola Fusilier by sitting down where he had just risen up, and had to get away from him as quickly as possible to save her own skull." "And left the lady?" "Yes; and who took her to her home at last, but Frowenfeld, the apothecary!" "Ho, ho! the astrologer! We ought to hang that fellow." "With his books tied to his feet," suggested a third citizen. "It is no more than we owe to the community to go and smash his show-window. He had better behave himself. Come, gentlemen, a little _taffia_ will do us good. When shall we ever get through these exciting times?" CHAPTER XVI STARLIGHT IN THE RUE CHARTRES "Oh! M'sieur Frowenfel', tague me ad home!" It was Aurora, who caught the apothecary's arm vehemently in both her hands with a look of beautiful terror. And whatever Joseph's astronomy might have previously taught him to the contrary, he knew by his senses that the earth thereupon turned entirely over three times in two seconds. His confused response, though unintelligible, answered all purposes, as the lady found herself the next moment hurrying across the Place d'Armes close to his side, and as they by-and-by passed its farther limits she began to be conscious that she was clinging to her protector as though she would climb up and hide under his elbow. As they turned up the rue Chartres she broke the silence. "Oh!-h!"--breathlessly,--"'h!--M'sieur Frowenf'--you walkin' so faz!" "Oh!" echoed Frowenfeld, "I did not know what I was doing." "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the lady, "me, too, juz de sem lag you! _attendez_; wait." They halted; a moment's deft manipulation of a veil turned it into a wrapping for her neck. "'Sieur Frowenfel', oo dad man was? You know 'im?" She returned her hand to Frowenfeld's arm and they moved on. "The one who spoke to you, or--you know the one who got near enough to apologize is not the one whose horse struck you!" "I din know. But oo dad odder one? I saw h-only 'is back, bud I thing it is de sem--" She identified it with the back that was turned to her during her last visit to Frowenfeld's shop; but finding herself about to mention a matter so nearly connected with the purse of gold, she checked herself; but Frowenfeld, eager to say a good word for his acquaintance, ventured to extol his character while he concealed his name. "While I have never been introduced to him, I have some acquaintance with him, and esteem him a noble gentleman." "W'ere you meet him?" "I met him first," he said, "at the graves of my parents and sisters." There was a kind of hush after the mention, and the lady made no reply. "It was some weeks after my loss," resumed Frowenfeld. "In wad _cimetière_ dad was?" "In no cemetery--being Protestants, you know--" "Ah, yes, sir?" with a gentle sigh. "The physician who attended me procured permission to bury them on some private land below the city." "Not in de groun'[2]?" [Footnote 2: Only Jews and paupers are buried in the ground in New Orleans.] "Yes; that was my father's expressed wish when he died." "You 'ad de fivver? Oo nurse you w'en you was sick?" "An old hired negress." "Dad was all?" "Yes." "Hm-m-m!" she said piteously, and laughed in her sleeve. Who could hope to catch and reproduce the continuous lively thrill which traversed the frame of the escaped book-worm as every moment there was repeated to his consciousness the knowledge that he was walking across the vault of heaven with the evening star on his arm--at least, that he was, at her instigation, killing time along the dim, ill-lighted _trottoirs_ of the rue Chartres, with Aurora listening sympathetically at his side. But let it go; also the sweet broken English with which she now and then interrupted him; also the inward, hidden sparkle of her dancing Gallic blood; her low, merry laugh; the roguish mental reservation that lurked behind her graver speeches; the droll bravados she uttered against the powers that be, as with timid fingers he brushed from her shoulder a little remaining dust of the late encounter--these things, we say, we let go,--as we let butterflies go rather than pin them to paper. They had turned into the rue Bienville, and were walking toward the river, Frowenfeld in the midst of a long sentence, when a low cry of tearful delight sounded in front of them, some one in long robes glided forward, and he found his arm relieved of its burden and that burden transferred to the bosom and passionate embrace of another--we had almost said a fairer--Creole, amid a bewildering interchange of kisses and a pelting shower of Creole French. A moment after, Frowenfeld found himself introduced to "my dotter, Clotilde," who all at once ceased her demonstrations of affection and bowed to him with a majestic sweetness, that seemed one instant grateful and the next, distant. "I can hardly understand that you are not sisters," said Frowenfeld, a little awkwardly. "Ah! _ecoutez!_" exclaimed the younger. "Ah! _par exemple!_" cried the elder, and they laughed down each other's throats, while the immigrant blushed. This encounter was presently followed by a silent surprise when they stopped and turned before the door of Number 19, and Frowenfeld contrasted the women with their painfully humble dwelling. But therein is where your true Creole was, and still continues to be, properly, yea, delightfully un-American; the outside of his house may be as rough as the outside of a bird's nest; it is the inside that is for the birds; and the front room of this house, when the daughter presently threw open the batten shutters of its single street door, looked as bright and happy, with its candelabra glittering on the mantel, and its curtains of snowy lace, as its bright-eyed tenants. "'Sieur Frowenfel', if you pliz to come in," said Aurora, and the timid apothecary would have bravely accepted the invitation, but for a quick look which he saw the daughter give the mother; whereupon he asked, instead, permission to call at some future day, and received the cordial leave of Aurora and another bow from Clotilde. CHAPTER XVII THAT NIGHT Do we not fail to accord to our nights their true value? We are ever giving to our days the credit and blame of all we do and mis-do, forgetting those silent, glimmering hours when plans--and sometimes plots--are laid; when resolutions are formed or changed; when heaven, and sometimes heaven's enemies, are invoked; when anger and evil thoughts are recalled, and sometimes hate made to inflame and fester; when problems are solved, riddles guessed, and things made apparent in the dark, which day refused to reveal. Our nights are the keys to our days. They explain them. They are also the day's correctors. Night's leisure untangles the mistakes of day's haste. We should not attempt to comprise our pasts in the phrase, "in those days;" we should rather say "in those days and nights." That night was a long-remembered one to the apothecary of the rue Royale. But it was after he had closed his shop, and in his back room sat pondering the unusual experiences of the evening, that it began to be, in a higher degree, a night of events to most of those persons who had a part in its earlier incidents. That Honoré Grandissime whom Frowenfeld had only this day learned to know as _the_ Honoré Grandissime and the young governor-general were closeted together. "What can you expect, my-de'-seh?" the Creole was asking, as they confronted each other in the smoke of their choice tobacco. "Remember, they are citizens by compulsion. You say your best and wisest law is that one prohibiting the slave-trade; my-de'-seh, I assure you, privately, I agree with you; but they abhor your law! "Your principal danger--at least, I mean difficulty--is this: that the Louisianais themselves, some in pure lawlessness, some through loss of office, some in a vague hope of preserving the old condition of things, will not only hold off from all participation in your government, but will make all sympathy with it, all advocacy of its principles, and especially all office-holding under it, odious--disreputable--infamous. You may find yourself constrained to fill your offices with men who can face down the contumely of a whole people. You know what such men generally are. One out of a hundred may be a moral hero--the ninety-nine will be scamps; and the moral hero will most likely get his brains blown out early in the day. "Count O'Reilly, when he established the Spanish power here thirty-five years ago, cut a similar knot with the executioner's sword; but, my-de'-seh, you are here to establish a _free_ government; and how can you make it freer than the people wish it? There is your riddle! They hold off and say, 'Make your government as free as you can, but do not ask us to help you;' and before you know it you have no retainers but a gang of shameless mercenaries, who will desert you whenever the indignation of this people overbalances their indolence; and you will fall the victim of what you may call our mutinous patriotism." The governor made a very quiet, unappreciative remark about a "patriotism that lets its government get choked up with corruption and then blows it out with gunpowder!" The Creole shrugged. "And repeats the operation indefinitely," he said. The governor said something often heard, before and since, to the effect that communities will not sacrifice themselves for mere ideas. "My-de'-seh," replied the Creole, "you speak like a true Anglo-Saxon; but, sir! how many communities have _committed_ suicide. And this one?--why, it is _just_ the kind to do it!" "Well," said the governor, smilingly, "you have pointed out what you consider to be the breakers, now can you point out the channel?" "Channel? There is none! And you, nor I, cannot dig one. Two great forces _may_ ultimately do it, Religion and Education--as I was telling you I said to my young friend, the apothecary,--but still I am free to say what would be my first and principal step, if I was in your place--as I thank God I am not." The listener asked him what that was. "Wherever I could find a Creole that I could venture to trust, my-de'-seh, I would put him in office. Never mind a little political heterodoxy, you know; almost any man can be trusted to shoot away from the uniform he has on. And then--" "But," said the other, "I have offered you--" "Oh!" replied the Creole, like a true merchant, "me, I am too busy; it is impossible! But, I say, I would _compel_, my-de'-seh, this people to govern themselves!" "And pray, how would you give a people a free government and then compel them to administer it?" "My-de'-seh, you should not give one poor Creole the puzzle which belongs to your whole Congress; but you may depend on this, that the worst thing for all parties--and I say it only because it is worst for all--would be a feeble and dilatory punishment of bad faith." When this interview finally drew to a close the governor had made a memorandum of some fifteen or twenty Grandissimes, scattered through different cantons of Louisiana, who, their kinsman Honoré thought, would not decline appointments. * * * * * Certain of the Muses were abroad that night. Faintly audible to the apothecary of the rue Royale through that deserted stillness which is yet the marked peculiarity of New Orleans streets by night, came from a neighboring slave-yard the monotonous chant and machine-like tune-beat of an African dance. There our lately met _marchande_ (albeit she was but a guest, fortified against the street-watch with her master's written "pass") led the ancient Calinda dance with that well-known song of derision, in whose ever multiplying stanzas the helpless satire of a feeble race still continues to celebrate the personal failings of each newly prominent figure among the dominant caste. There was a new distich to the song to-night, signifying that the pride of the Grandissimes must find his friends now among the Yankees: "Miché Hon'ré, allé! h-allé! Trouvé to zamis parmi les Yankis. Dancé calinda, bou-joum! bou-joum! Dancé calinda, bou-joum! bou-joum! Frowenfeld, as we have already said, had closed his shop, and was sitting in the room behind it with one arm on his table and the other on his celestial globe, watching the flicker of his small fire and musing upon the unusual experiences of the evening. Upon every side there seemed to start away from his turning glance the multiplied shadows of something wrong. The melancholy face of that Honoré Grandissime, his landlord, at whose mention Dr. Keene had thought it fair to laugh without explaining; the tall, bright-eyed _milatraisse_; old Agricola; the lady of the basil; the newly identified merchant friend, now the more satisfactory Honoré,--they all came before him in his meditation, provoking among themselves a certain discord, faint but persistent, to which he strove to close his ear. For he was brain-weary. Even in the bright recollection of the lady and her talk he became involved among shadows, and going from bad to worse, seemed at length almost to gasp in an atmosphere of hints, allusions, faint unspoken admissions, ill-concealed antipathies, unfinished speeches, mistaken identities and whisperings of hidden strife. The cathedral clock struck twelve and was answered again from the convent belfry; and as the notes died away he suddenly became aware that the weird, drowsy throb of the African song and dance had been swinging drowsily in his brain for an unknown lapse of time. The apothecary nodded once or twice, and thereupon rose up and prepared for bed, thinking to sleep till morning. * * * * * Aurora and her daughter had long ago put out their chamber light. Early in the evening the younger had made favorable mention of retiring, to which the elder replied by asking to be left awhile to her own thoughts. Clotilde, after some tender protestations, consented, and passed through the open door that showed, beyond it, their couch. The air had grown just cool and humid enough to make the warmth of one small brand on the hearth acceptable, and before this the fair widow settled herself to gaze beyond her tiny, slippered feet into its wavering flame, and think. Her thoughts were such as to bestow upon her face that enhancement of beauty that comes of pleasant reverie, and to make it certain that that little city afforded no fairer sight,--unless, indeed, it was the figure of Clotilde just beyond the open door, as in her white nightdress, enriched with the work of a diligent needle, she knelt upon the low _prie-Dieu_ before the little family altar, and committed her pure soul to the Divine keeping. Clotilde could not have been many minutes asleep when Aurora changed her mind and decided to follow. The shade upon her face had deepened for a moment into a look of trouble; but a bright philosophy, which was part of her paternal birthright, quickly chased it away, and she passed to her room, disrobed, lay softly down beside the beauty already there and smiled herself to sleep,-- "Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again." But she also wakened again, and lay beside her unconscious bedmate, occupied with the company of her own thoughts. "Why should these little concealments ruffle my bosom? Does not even Nature herself practise wiles? Look at the innocent birds; do they build where everybody can count their eggs? And shall a poor human creature try to be better than a bird? Didn't I say my prayers under the blanket just now?" Her companion stirred in her sleep, and she rose upon one elbow to bend upon the sleeper a gaze of ardent admiration. "Ah, beautiful little chick! how guileless! indeed, how deficient in that respect!" She sat up in the bed and hearkened; the bell struck for midnight. Was that the hour? The fates were smiling! Surely M. Assonquer himself must have wakened her to so choice an opportunity. She ought not to despise it. Now, by the application of another and easily wrought charm, that darkened hour lately spent with Palmyre would have, as it were, its colors set. The night had grown much cooler. Stealthily, by degrees, she rose and left the couch. The openings of the room were a window and two doors, and these, with much caution, she contrived to open without noise. None of them exposed her to the possibility of public view. One door looked into the dim front room; the window let in only a flood of moonlight over the top of a high house which was without openings on that side; the other door revealed a weed-grown back yard, and that invaluable protector, the cook's hound, lying fast asleep. In her night-clothes as she was, she stood a moment in the centre of the chamber, then sank upon one knee, rapped the floor gently but audibly thrice, rose, drew a step backward, sank upon the other knee, rapped thrice, rose again, stepped backward, knelt the third time, the third time rapped, and then, rising, murmured a vow to pour upon the ground next day an oblation of champagne--then closed the doors and window and crept back to bed. Then she knew how cold she had become. It seemed as though her very marrow was frozen. She was seized with such an uncontrollable shivering that Clotilde presently opened her eyes, threw her arm about her mother's neck, and said: "Ah! my sweet mother, are you so cold?" "The blanket was all off of me," said the mother, returning the embrace, and the two sank into unconsciousness together. * * * * * Into slumber sank almost at the same moment Joseph Frowenfeld. He awoke, not a great while later, to find himself standing in the middle of the floor. Three or four men had shouted at once, and three pistol-shots, almost in one instant, had resounded just outside his shop. He had barely time to throw himself into half his garments when the knocker sounded on his street door, and when he opened it Agricola Fusilier entered, supported by his nephew Honoré on one side and Doctor Keene on the other. The latter's right hand was pressed hard against a bloody place in Agricola's side. "Give us plenty of light, Frowenfeld," said the doctor, "and a chair and some lint, and some Castile soap, and some towels and sticking-plaster, and anything else you can think of. Agricola's about scared to death--" "Professor Frowenfeld," groaned the aged citizen, "I am basely and mortally stabbed!" "Right on, Frowenfeld," continued the doctor, "right on into the back room. Fasten that front door. Here, Agricola, sit down here. That's right, Frow., stir up a little fire. Give me--never mind, I'll just cut the cloth open." There was a moment of silent suspense while the wound was being reached, and then the doctor spoke again. "Just as I thought; only a safe and comfortable gash that will keep you in-doors a while with your arm in a sling. You are more scared than hurt, I think, old gentleman." "You think an infernal falsehood, sir!" "See here, sir," said the doctor, without ceasing to ply his dexterous hands in his art, "I'll jab these scissors into your back if you say that again." "I suppose," growled the "citizen," "it is just the thing your professional researches have qualified you for, sir!" "Just stand here, Mr. Frowenfeld," said the little doctor, settling down to a professional tone, "and hand me things as I ask for them. Honoré, please hold this arm; so." And so, after a moderate lapse of time, the treatment that medical science of those days dictated was applied--whatever that was. Let those who do not know give thanks. M. Grandissime explained to Frowenfeld what had occurred. "You see, I succeeded in meeting my uncle, and we went together to my office. My uncle keeps his accounts with me. Sometimes we look them over. We stayed until midnight; I dismissed my carriage. As we walked homeward we met some friends coming out of the rooms of the Bagatelle Club; five or six of my uncles and cousins, and also Doctor Keene. We all fell a-talking of my grandfather's _fête de grandpère_ of next month, and went to have some coffee. When we separated, and my uncle and my cousin Achille Grandissime and Doctor Keene and myself came down Royal street, out from that dark alley behind your shop jumped a little man and stuck my uncle with a knife. If I had not caught his arm he would have killed my uncle." "And he escaped," said the apothecary. "No, sir!" said Agricola, with his back turned. "I think he did. I do not think he was struck." "And Mr. ----, your cousin?" "Achille? I have sent him for a carriage." "Why, Agricola," said the doctor, snipping the loose ravellings from his patient's bandages, "an old man like you should not have enemies." "I am _not_ an old man, sir!" "I said _young_ man." "I am not a _young_ man, sir!" "I wonder who the fellow was," continued Doctor Keene, as he readjusted the ripped sleeve. "That is _my_ affair, sir; I know who it was." * * * * * "And yet she insists," M. Grandissime was asking Frowenfeld, standing with his leg thrown across the celestial globe, "that I knocked her down intentionally?" Frowenfeld, about to answer, was interrupted by a rap on the door. "That is my cousin, with the carriage," said M. Grandissime, following the apothecary into the shop. Frowenfeld opened to a young man,--a rather poor specimen of the Grandissime type, deficient in stature but not in stage manner. "_Est il mort_?" he cried at the threshold. "Mr. Frowenfeld, let me make you acquainted with my cousin, Achille Grandissime." Mr. Achille Grandissime gave Frowenfeld such a bow as we see now only in pictures. "Ve'y 'appe to meck, yo' acquaintenz!" Agricola entered, followed by the doctor, and demanded in indignant thunder-tones, as he entered: "Who--ordered--that--carriage?" "I did," said Honoré. "Will you please get into it at once." "Ah! dear Honoré!" exclaimed the old man, "always too kind! I go in it purely to please you." Good-night was exchanged; Honoré entered the vehicle and Agricola was helped in. Achille touched his hat, bowed and waved his hand to Joseph, and shook hands with the doctor, and saying, "Well, good-night. Doctor Keene," he shut himself out of the shop with another low bow. "Think I am going to shake hands with an apothecary?" thought M. Achille. Doctor Keene had refused Honoré's invitation to go with them. "Frowenfeld," he said, as he stood in the middle of the shop wiping a ring with a towel and looking at his delicate, freckled hand, "I propose, before going to bed with you, to eat some of your bread and cheese. Aren't you glad?" "I shall be, Doctor," replied the apothecary, "if you will tell me what all this means." "Indeed I will not,--that is, not to-night. What? Why, it would take until breakfast to tell what 'all this means,'--the story of that pestiferous darky Bras Coupé, with the rest? Oh, no, sir. I would sooner not have any bread and cheese. What on earth has waked your curiosity so suddenly, anyhow?" "Have you any idea who stabbed Citizen Fusilier?" was Joseph's response. "Why, at first I thought it was the other Honoré Grandissime; but when I saw how small the fellow was, I was at a loss, completely. But, whoever it is, he has my bullet in him, whatever Honoré may think." "Will Mr. Fusilier's wound give him much trouble?" asked Joseph, as they sat down to a luncheon at the fire. "Hardly; he has too much of the blood of Lufki-Humma in him. But I need not say that; for the Grandissime blood is just as strong. A wonderful family, those Grandissimes! They are an old, illustrious line, and the strength that was once in the intellect and will is going down into the muscles. I have an idea that their greatness began, hundreds of years ago, in ponderosity of arm,--of frame, say,--and developed from generation to generation, in a rising scale, first into fineness of sinew, then, we will say, into force of will, then into power of mind, then into subtleties of genius. Now they are going back down the incline. Look at Honoré; he is high up on the scale, intellectual and sagacious. But look at him physically, too. What an exquisite mold! What compact strength! I should not wonder if he gets that from the Indian Queen. What endurance he has! He will probably go to his business by and by and not see his bed for seventeen or eighteen hours. He is the flower of the family, and possibly the last one. Now, old Agricola shows the downward grade better. Seventy-five, if he is a day, with, maybe, one-fourth the attainments he pretends to have, and still less good sense; but strong--as an orang-outang. Shall we go to bed?" CHAPTER XVIII NEW LIGHT UPON DARK PLACES When the long, wakeful night was over, and the doctor gone, Frowenfeld seated himself to record his usual observations of the weather; but his mind was elsewhere--here, there, yonder. There are understandings that expand, not imperceptibly hour by hour, but as certain flowers do, by little explosive ruptures, with periods of quiescence between. After this night of experiences it was natural that Frowenfeld should find the circumference of his perceptions consciously enlarged. The daylight shone, not into his shop alone, but into his heart as well. The face of Aurora, which had been the dawn to him before, was now a perfect sunrise, while in pleasant timeliness had come in this Apollo of a Honoré Grandissime. The young immigrant was dazzled. He felt a longing to rise up and run forward in this flood of beams. He was unconscious of fatigue, or nearly so--would, have been wholly so but for the return by and by of that same dim shadow, or shadows, still rising and darting across every motion of the fancy that grouped again the actors in last night's scenes; not such shadows as naturally go with sunlight to make it seem brighter, but a something which qualified the light's perfection and the air's freshness. Wherefore, resolved: that he would compound his life, from this time forward, by a new formula: books, so much; observation, so much; social intercourse, so much; love--as to that, time enough for that in the future (if he was in love with anybody, he certainly did not know it); of love, therefore, amount not yet necessary to state, but probably (when it should be introduced), in the generous proportion in which physicians prescribe _aqua_. Resolved, in other words, without ceasing to be Frowenfeld the studious, to begin at once the perusal of this newly found book, the Community of New Orleans. True, he knew he should find it a difficult task--not only that much of it was in a strange tongue, but that it was a volume whose displaced leaves would have to be lifted tenderly, blown free of much dust, re-arranged, some torn fragments laid together again with much painstaking, and even the purport of some pages guessed out. Obviously, the place to commence at was that brightly illuminated title-page, the ladies Nancanou. As the sun rose and diffused its beams in an atmosphere whose temperature had just been recorded as 50° F., the apothecary stepped half out of his shop-door to face the bracing air that came blowing upon his tired forehead from the north. As he did so, he said to himself: "How are these two Honoré Grandissimes related to each other, and why should one be thought capable of attempting the life of Agricola?" The answer was on its way to him. There is left to our eyes but a poor vestige of the picturesque view presented to those who looked down the rue Royale before the garish day that changed the rue Enghien into Ingine street, and dropped the 'e' from Royale. It was a long, narrowing perspective of arcades, lattices, balconies, _zaguans_, dormer windows, and blue sky--of low, tiled roofs, red and wrinkled, huddled down into their own shadows; of canvas awnings with fluttering borders, and of grimy lamp-posts twenty feet in height, each reaching out a gaunt iron arm over the narrow street and dangling a lamp from its end. The human life which dotted the view displayed a variety of tints and costumes such as a painter would be glad to take just as he found them: the gayly feathered Indian, the slashed and tinselled Mexican, the leather-breeched raftsmen, the blue-or yellow-turbaned _négresse_, the sugar-planter in white flannel and moccasins, the average townsman in the last suit of clothes of the lately deceased century, and now and then a fashionable man in that costume whose union of tight-buttoned martial severity, swathed throat, and effeminate superabundance of fine linen seemed to offer a sort of state's evidence against the pompous tyrannies and frivolities of the times. The _marchande des calas_ was out. She came toward Joseph's shop, singing in a high-pitched nasal tone this new song: "Dé'tit zozos--yé té assis-- Dé'tit zozos--si la barrier. Dé'tit zozos, qui zabotté; Qui ça yé di' mo pas conné. "Manzeur-poulet vini simin, Croupé si yé et croqué yé; Personn' pli' 'tend' yé zabotté-- Dé'tit zozos si la barrier." "You lak dat song?" she asked, with a chuckle, as she let down from her turbaned head a flat Indian basket of warm rice cakes. "What does it mean?" She laughed again--more than the questioner could see occasion for. "Dat mean--two lill birds; dey was sittin' on de fence an' gabblin' togeddah, you know, lak you see two young gals sometime', an' you can't mek out w'at dey sayin', even ef dey know demself? H-ya! Chicken-hawk come 'long dat road an' jes' set down an' munch 'em, an' nobody can't no mo' hea' deir lill gabblin' on de fence, you know." Here she laughed again. Joseph looked at her with severe suspicion, but she found refuge in benevolence. "Honey, you ought to be asleep dis werry minit; look lak folks been a-worr'in' you. I's gwine to pick out de werry bes' _calas_ I's got for you." As she delivered them she courtesied, first to Joseph and then, lower and with hushed gravity, to a person who passed into the shop behind him, bowing and murmuring politely as he passed. She followed the new-comer with her eyes, hastily accepted the price of the cakes, whispered, "Dat's my mawstah," lifted her basket to her head and went away. Her master was Frowenfeld's landlord. Frowenfeld entered after him, calas in hand, and with a grave "Good-morning, sir." "--m'sieu'," responded the landlord, with a low bow. Frowenfeld waited in silence. The landlord hesitated, looked around him, seemed about to speak, smiled, and said, in his soft, solemn voice, feeling his way word by word through the unfamiliar language: "Ah lag to teg you apar'." "See me alone?" The landlord recognized his error by a fleeting smile. "Alone," said he. "Shall we go into my room?" "_S'il vous plait, m'sieu'_." Frowenfeld's breakfast, furnished by contract from a neighboring kitchen, stood on the table. It was a frugal one, but more comfortable than formerly, and included coffee, that subject of just pride in Creole cookery. Joseph deposited his _calas_ with these things and made haste to produce a chair, which his visitor, as usual, declined. "Idd you' bregfuz, m'sieu'." "I can do that afterward," said Frowenfeld; but the landlord insisted and turned away from him to look up at the books on the wall, precisely as that other of the same name had done a few weeks before. Frowenfeld, as he broke his loaf, noticed this, and, as the landlord turned his face to speak, wondered that he had not before seen the common likeness. "Dez stog," said the sombre man. "What, sir? Oh!--dead stock? But how can the materials of an education be dead stock?" The landlord shrugged. He would not argue the point. One American trait which the Creole is never entirely ready to encounter is this gratuitous Yankee way of going straight to the root of things. "Dead stock in a mercantile sense, you mean," continued the apothecary; "but are men right in measuring such things only by their present market value?" The landlord had no reply. It was little to him, his manner intimated; his contemplation dwelt on deeper flaws in human right and wrong; yet--but it was needless to discuss it. However, he did speak. "Ah was elevade in Pariz." "Educated in Paris," exclaimed Joseph, admiringly. "Then you certainly cannot find your education dead stock." The grave, not amused, smile which was the landlord's only rejoinder, though perfectly courteous, intimated that his tenant was sailing over depths of the question that he was little aware of. But the smile in a moment gave way for the look of one who was engrossed with another subject. "M'sieu'," he began; but just then Joseph made an apologetic gesture and went forward to wait upon an inquirer after "Godfrey's Cordial;" for that comforter was known to be obtainable at "Frowenfeld's." The business of the American drug-store was daily increasing. When Frowenfeld returned his landlord stood ready to address him, with the air of having decided to make short of a matter. "M'sieu' ----" "Have a seat, sir," urged the apothecary. His visitor again declined, with his uniform melancholy grace. He drew close to Frowenfeld. "Ah wand you mague me one _ouangan_," he said. Joseph shook his head. He remembered Doctor Keene's expressed suspicion concerning the assault of the night before. "I do not understand you, sir; what is that?" "You know." The landlord offered a heavy, persuading smile. "An unguent? Is that what you mean--an ointment?" "M'sieu'," said the applicant, with a not-to-be-deceived expression, "_vous êtes astrologue--magicien--" "God forbid!" The landlord was grossly incredulous. "You godd one 'P'tit Albert.'" He dropped his forefinger upon an iron-clasped book on the table, whose title much use had effaced. "That is the Bible. I do not know what the Tee Albare is!" Frowenfeld darted an aroused glance into the ever-courteous eyes of his visitor, who said without a motion: "You di'n't gave Agricola Fusilier _une ouangan, la nuit passé_?" "Sir?" "Ee was yeh?--laz nighd?" "Mr. Fusilier was here last night--yes. He had been attacked by an assassin and slightly wounded. He was accompanied by his nephew, who, I suppose, is your cousin: he has the same name." Frowenfeld, hoping he had changed the subject, concluded with a propitiatory smile, which, however, was not reflected. "Ma bruzzah," said the visitor. "Your brother!" "Ma whide bruzzah; ah ham nod whide, m'sieu'." Joseph said nothing. He was too much awed to speak; the ejaculation that started toward his lips turned back and rushed into his heart, and it was the quadroon who, after a moment, broke the silence: "Ah ham de holdez son of Numa Grandissime." "Yes--yes," said Frowenfeld, as if he would wave away something terrible. "Nod sell me--_ouangan_?" asked the landlord, again. "Sir," exclaimed Frowenfeld, taking a step backward, "pardon me if I offend you; that mixture of blood which draws upon you the scorn of this community is to me nothing--nothing! And every invidious distinction made against you on that account I despise! But, sir, whatever may be either your private wrongs, or the wrongs you suffer in common with your class, if you have it in your mind to employ any manner of secret art against the interests or person of any one--" The landlord was making silent protestations, and his tenant, lost in a wilderness of indignant emotions, stopped. "M'sieu'," began the quadroon, but ceased and stood with an expression of annoyance every moment deepening on his face, until he finally shook his head slowly, and said with a baffled smile: "Ah can nod spig Engliss." "Write it," said Frowenfeld, lifting forward a chair. The landlord, for the first time in their acquaintance, accepted a seat, bowing low as he did so, with a demonstration of profound gratitude that just perceptibly heightened his even dignity. Paper, quills, and ink were handed down from a shelf and Joseph retired into the shop. Honoré Grandissime, f.m.c. (these initials could hardly have come into use until some months later, but the convenience covers the sin of the slight anachronism), Honoré Grandissime, free man of color, entered from the rear room so silently that Joseph was first made aware of his presence by feeling him at his elbow. He handed the apothecary--but a few words in time, lest we misjudge. * * * * * The father of the two Honorés was that Numa Grandissime--that mere child--whom the Grand Marquis, to the great chagrin of the De Grapions, had so early cadetted. The commission seems not to have been thrown away. While the province was still in first hands, Numa's was a shining name in the annals of Kerlerec's unsatisfactory Indian wars; and in 1768 (when the colonists, ill-informed, inflammable, and long ill-governed, resisted the transfer of Louisiana to Spain), at a time of life when most young men absorb all the political extravagances of their day, he had stood by the side of law and government, though the popular cry was a frenzied one for "liberty." Moreover, he had held back his whole chafing and stamping tribe from a precipice of disaster, and had secured valuable recognition of their office-holding capacities from that really good governor and princely Irishman whose one act of summary vengeance upon a few insurgent office-coveters has branded him in history as Cruel O'Reilly. But the experience of those days turned Numa gray, and withal he was not satisfied with their outcome. In the midst of the struggle he had weakened in one manly resolve--against his will he married. The lady was a Fusilier, Agricola's sister, a person of rare intelligence and beauty, whom, from early childhood, the secret counsels of his seniors had assigned to him. Despite this, he had said he would never marry; he made, he said, no pretensions to severe conscientiousness, or to being better than others, but--as between his Maker and himself--he had forfeited the right to wed, they all knew how. But the Fusiliers had become very angry and Numa, finding strife about to ensue just when without unity he could not bring an undivided clan through the torrent of the revolution, had "nobly sacrificed a little sentimental feeling," as his family defined it, by breaking faith with the mother of the man now standing at Joseph Frowenfeld's elbow, and who was then a little toddling boy. It was necessary to save the party--nay, that was a slip; we should say, to save the family; this is not a parable. Yet Numa loved his wife. She bore him a boy and a girl, twins; and as her son grew in physical, intellectual, and moral symmetry, he indulged the hope that--the ambition and pride of all the various Grandissimes now centering in this lawful son, and all strife being lulled--he should yet see this Honoré right the wrongs which he had not quite dared to uproot. And Honoré inherited the hope and began to make it an intention and aim even before his departure (with his half-brother the other Honoré) for school in Paris, at the early age of fifteen. Numa soon after died, and Honoré, after various fortunes in Paris, London, and elsewhere, in the care, or at least company, of a pious uncle in holy orders, returned to the ancestral mansion. The father's will--by the law they might have set it aside, but that was not their way--left the darker Honoré the bulk of his fortune, the younger a competency. The latter--instead of taking office, as an ancient Grandissime should have done--to the dismay and mortification of his kindred, established himself in a prosperous commercial business. The elder bought houses and became a _rentier_. * * * * * The landlord handed the apothecary the following writing: MR. JOSEPH FROWENFELD: Think not that anybody is to be either poisoned by me nor yet to be made a sufferer by the exercise of anything by me of the character of what is generally known as grigri, otherwise magique. This, sir, I do beg your permission to offer my assurance to you of the same. Ah, no! it is not for that! I am the victim of another entirely and a far differente and dissimilar passion, _i.e._, Love. Esteemed sir, speaking or writing to you as unto the only man of exclusively white blood whom I believe is in Louisiana willing to do my dumb, suffering race the real justice, I love Palmyre la Philosophe with a madness which is by the human lips or tongues not possible to be exclaimed (as, I may add, that I have in the same like manner since exactley nine years and seven months and some days). Alas! heavens! I can't help it in the least particles at all! What, what shall I do, for ah! it is pitiful! She loves me not at all, but, on the other hand, is (if I suspicion not wrongfully) wrapped up head and ears in devotion of one who does not love her, either, so cold and incapable of appreciation is he. I allude to Honoré Grandissime. Ah! well do I remember the day when we returned--he and me--from the France. She was there when we landed on that levee, she was among that throng of kindreds and domestiques, she shind like the evening star as she stood there (it was the first time I saw her, but she was known to him when at fifteen he left his home, but I resided not under my own white father's roof--not at all--far from that). She cried out "A la fin to vini!" and leap herself with both resplendant arm around his neck and kist him twice on the one cheek and the other, and her resplendant eyes shining with a so great beauty. If you will give me a _poudre d'amour_ such as I doubt not your great knowledge enable you to make of a power that cannot to be resist, while still at the same time of a harmless character toward the life or the health of such that I shall succeed in its use to gain the affections of that emperice of my soul, I hesitate not to give you such price as it may please you to nominate up as high as to $l,000--nay, more. Sir, will you do that? I have the honor to remain, sir, Very respectfully, your obedient servant, H. Grandissime. Frowenfeld slowly transferred his gaze from the paper to his landlord's face. Dejection and hope struggled with each other in the gaze that was returned; but when Joseph said, with a countenance full of pity, "I have no power to help you," the disappointed lover merely looked fixedly for a moment in the direction of the street, then lifted his hat toward his head, bowed, and departed. CHAPTER XIX ART AND COMMERCE It was some two or three days after the interview just related that the apothecary of the rue Royale found it necessary to ask a friend to sit in the shop a few minutes while he should go on a short errand. He was kept away somewhat longer than he had intended to stay, for, as they were coming out of the cathedral, he met Aurora and Clotilde. Both the ladies greeted him with a cordiality which was almost inebriating, Aurora even extending her hand. He stood but a moment, responding blushingly to two or three trivial questions from her; yet even in so short a time, and although Clotilde gave ear with the sweetest smiles and loveliest changes of countenance, he experienced a lively renewal of a conviction that this young lady was most unjustly harboring toward him a vague disrelish, if not a positive distrust. That she had some mental reservation was certain. "'Sieur Frowenfel'," said Aurora, as he raised his hat for good-day, "you din come home yet." He did not understand until he had crimsoned and answered he knew not what--something about having intended every day. He felt lifted he knew not where, Paradise opened, there was a flood of glory, and then he was alone; the ladies, leaving adieus sweeter than the perfume they carried away with them, floated into the south and were gone. Why was it that the elder, though plainly regarded by the younger with admiration, dependence, and overflowing affection, seemed sometimes to be, one might almost say, watched by her? He liked Aurora the better. On his return to the shop his friend remarked that if he received many such visitors as the one who had called during his absence, he might be permitted to be vain. It was Honoré Grandissime, and he had left no message. "Frowenfeld," said his friend, "it would pay you to employ a regular assistant." Joseph was in an abstracted mood. "I have some thought of doing so." Unlucky slip! As he pushed open his door next morning, what was his dismay to find himself confronted by some forty men. Five of them leaped up from the door-sill, and some thirty-five from the edge of the _trottoir_, brushed that part of their wearing-apparel which always fits with great neatness on a Creole, and trooped into the shop. The apothecary fell behind his defences, that is to say, his prescription desk, and explained to them in a short and spirited address that he did not wish to employ any of them on any terms. Nine-tenths of them understood not a word of English; but his gesture was unmistakable. They bowed gratefully, and said good-day. Now Frowenfeld did these young men an injustice; and though they were far from letting him know it, some of them felt it and interchanged expressions of feeling reproachful to him as they stopped on the next corner to watch a man painting a sign. He had treated them as if they all wanted situations. Was this so? Far from it. Only twenty men were applicants; the other twenty were friends who had come to see them get the place. And again, though, as the apothecary had said, none of them knew anything about the drug business--no, nor about any other business under the heavens--they were all willing that he should teach them--except one. A young man of patrician softness and costly apparel tarried a moment after the general exodus, and quickly concluded that on Frowenfeld's account it was probably as well that he could not qualify, since he was expecting from France an important government appointment as soon as these troubles should be settled and Louisiana restored to her former happy condition. But he had a friend--a cousin--whom he would recommend, just the man for the position; a splendid fellow; popular, accomplished--what? the best trainer of dogs that M. Frowenfeld might ever hope to look upon; a "so good fisherman as I never saw! "--the marvel of the ball-room--could handle a partner of twice his weight; the speaker had seen him take a lady so tall that his head hardly came up to her bosom, whirl her in the waltz from right to left--this way! and then, as quick as lightning, turn and whirl her this way, from left to right--"so grezful ligue a peajohn! He could read and write, and knew more comig song!"--the speaker would hasten to secure him before he should take some other situation. The wonderful waltzer never appeared upon the scene; yet Joseph made shift to get along, and by and by found a man who partially met his requirements. The way of it was this: With his forefinger in a book which he had been reading, he was one day pacing his shop floor in deep thought. There were two loose threads hanging from the web of incident weaving around him which ought to connect somewhere; but where? They were the two visits made to his shop by the young merchant, Honoré Grandissime. He stopped still to think; what "train of thought" could he have started in the mind of such a man? He was about to resume his walk, when there came in, or more strictly speaking, there shot in, a young, auburn-curled, blue-eyed man, whose adolescent buoyancy, as much as his delicate, silver-buckled feet and clothes of perfect fit, pronounced him all-pure Creole. His name, when it was presently heard, accounted for the blond type by revealing a Franco-Celtic origin. "'Sieur Frowenfel'," he said, advancing like a boy coming in after recess, "I 'ave somet'ing beauteeful to place into yo' window." He wheeled half around as he spoke and seized from a naked black boy, who at that instant entered, a rectangular object enveloped in paper. Frowenfeld's window was fast growing to be a place of art exposition. A pair of statuettes, a golden tobacco-box, a costly jewel-casket, or a pair of richly gemmed horse-pistols--the property of some ancient gentleman or dame of emaciated fortune, and which must be sold to keep up the bravery of good clothes and pomade that hid slow starvation--went into the shop-window of the ever-obliging apothecary, to be disposed of by _tombola_. And it is worthy of note in passing, concerning the moral education of one who proposed to make no conscious compromise with any sort of evil, that in this drivelling species of gambling he saw nothing hurtful or improper. But "in Frowenfeld's window" appeared also articles for simple sale or mere transient exhibition; as, for instance, the wonderful tapestries of a blind widow of ninety; tremulous little bunches of flowers, proudly stated to have been made entirely of the bones of the ordinary catfish; others, large and spreading, the sight of which would make any botanist fall down "and die as mad as the wild waves be," whose ticketed merit was that they were composed exclusively of materials produced upon Creole soil; a picture of the Ursulines' convent and chapel, done in forty-five minutes by a child of ten years, the daughter of the widow Felicie Grandissime; and the siege of Troy, in ordinary ink, done entirely with the pen, the labor of twenty years, by "a citizen of New Orleans." It was natural that these things should come to "Frowenfeld's corner," for there, oftener than elsewhere, the critics were gathered together. Ah! wonderful men, those critics; and, fortunately, we have a few still left. The young man with auburn curls rested the edge of his burden upon the counter, tore away its wrappings and disclosed a painting. He said nothing--with his mouth; but stood at arm's length balancing the painting and casting now upon it and now upon Joseph Frowenfeld a look more replete with triumph than Caesar's three-worded dispatch. The apothecary fixed upon it long and silently the gaze of a somnambulist. At length he spoke: "What is it?" "Louisiana rif-using to hanter de h-Union!" replied the Creole, with an ecstasy that threatened to burst forth in hip-hurrahs. Joseph said nothing, but silently wondered at Louisiana's anatomy. "Gran' subjec'!" said the Creole. "Allegorical," replied the hard-pressed apothecary. "Allegoricon? No, sir! Allegoricon never saw dat pigshoe. If you insist to know who make dat pigshoe--de hartis' stan' bif-ore you!" "It is your work?" "'Tis de work of me, Raoul Innerarity, cousin to de disting-wish Honoré Grandissime. I swear to you, sir, on stack of Bible' as 'igh as yo' head!" He smote his breast. "Do you wish to put it in the window?" "Yes, seh." "For sale?" M. Raoul Innerarity hesitated a moment before replying: "'Sieur Frowenfel', I think it is a foolishness to be too proud, eh? I want you to say, 'My frien', 'Sieur Innerarity, never care to sell anything; 'tis for egs-hibby-shun'; _mais_--when somebody look at it, so," the artist cast upon his work a look of languishing covetousness, "'you say, _foudre tonnerre!_ what de dev'!--I take dat ris-pon-sibble-ty--you can have her for two hun'red fifty dollah!' Better not be too proud, eh, 'Sieur Frowenfel'?" "No, sir," said Joseph, proceeding to place it in the window, his new friend following him about spanielwise; "but you had better let me say plainly that it is for sale." "Oh--I don't care--_mais_--my rillation' will never forgive me! _Mais_--go-ahead-I-don't-care! 'T is for sale." "'Sieur Frowenfel'," he resumed, as they came away from the window, "one week ago"--he held up one finger--"what I was doing? Makin' bill of ladin', my faith!--for my cousin Honoré! an' now, I ham a hartis'! So soon I foun' dat, I say, 'Cousin Honoré,'"--the eloquent speaker lifted his foot and administered to the empty air a soft, polite kick--"I never goin' to do anoder lick o' work so long I live; adieu!" He lifted a kiss from his lips and wafted it in the direction of his cousin's office. "Mr. Innerarity," exclaimed the apothecary, "I fear you are making a great mistake." "You tink I hass too much?" "Well, sir, to be candid, I do; but that is not your greatest mistake." "What she's worse?" The apothecary simultaneously smiled and blushed. "I would rather not say; it is a passably good example of Creole art; there is but one way by which it can ever be worth what you ask for it." "What dat is?" The smile faded and the blush deepened as Frowenfeld replied: "If it could become the means of reminding this community that crude ability counts next to nothing in art, and that nothing else in this world ought to work so hard as genius, it would be worth thousands of dollars!" "You tink she is worse a t'ousand dollah?" asked the Creole, shadow and sunshine chasing each other across his face. "No, sir." The unwilling critic strove unnecessarily against his smile. "Ow much you tink?" "Mr. Innerarity, as an exercise it is worth whatever truth or skill it has taught you; to a judge of paintings it is ten dollars' worth of paint thrown away; but as an article of sale it is worth what it will bring without misrepresentation." "Two--hun-rade an'--fifty--dollahs or--not'in'!" said the indignant Creole, clenching one fist, and with the other hand lifting his hat by the front corner and slapping it down upon the counter. "Ha, ha, ha! a pase of waint--a wase of paint! 'Sieur Frowenfel', you don' know not'in' 'bout it! You har a jedge of painting?" he added cautiously. "No, sir." "_Eh, bien! foudre tonnerre_!--look yeh! you know? 'Sieur Frowenfel'? Dat de way de publique halways talk about a hartis's firs' pigshoe. But, I hass you to pardon me, Monsieur Frowenfel', if I 'ave speak a lill too warm." "Then you must forgive me if, in my desire to set you right, I have spoken with too much liberty. I probably should have said only what I first intended to say, that unless you are a person of independent means--" "You t'ink I would make bill of ladin'? Ah! Hm-m!" "--that you had made a mistake in throwing up your means of support--" "But 'e 'as fill de place an' don' want me no mo'. You want a clerk?--one what can speak fo' lang-widge--French, Eng-lish, Spanish, _an'_ Italienne? Come! I work for you in de mawnin' an' paint in de evenin'; come!" Joseph was taken unaware. He smiled, frowned, passed his hand across his brow, noticed, for the first time since his delivery of the picture, the naked little boy standing against the edge of a door, said, "Why--," and smiled again. "I riffer you to my cousin Honoré," said Innerarity. "Have you any knowledge of this business?" "I 'ave.' "Can you keep shop in the forenoon or afternoon indifferently, as I may require?" "Eh? Forenoon--afternoon?" was the reply. "Can you paint sometimes in the morning and keep shop in the evening?" "Yes, seh." Minor details were arranged on the spot. Raoul dismissed the black boy, took off his coat and fell to work decanting something, with the understanding that his salary, a microscopic one, should begin from date if his cousin should recommend him. "'Sieur Frowenfel'," he called from under the counter, later in the day, "you t'ink it would be hanny disgrace to paint de pigshoe of a niggah?" "Certainly not." "Ah, my soul! what a pigshoe I could paint of Bras-Coupé!" We have the afflatus in Louisiana, if nothing else. CHAPTER XX A VERY NATURAL MISTAKE MR. Raoul Innerarity proved a treasure. The fact became patent in a few hours. To a student of the community he was a key, a lamp, a lexicon, a microscope, a tabulated statement, a book of heraldry, a city directory, a glass of wine, a Book of Days, a pair of wings, a comic almanac, a diving bell, a Creole _veritas_. Before the day had had time to cool, his continual stream of words had done more to elucidate the mysteries in which his employer had begun to be befogged than half a year of the apothecary's slow and scrupulous guessing. It was like showing how to carve a strange fowl. The way he dovetailed story into story and drew forward in panoramic procession Lufki-Humma and Epaminondas Fusilier, Zephyr Grandissime and the lady of the _lettre de cachet_, Demosthenes De Grapion and the _fille à l'hôpital_, Georges De Grapion and the _fille à la cassette_, Numa Grandissime, father of the two Honorés, young Nancanou and old Agricola,--the way he made them "Knit hands and beat the ground In a light, fantastic round," would have shamed the skilled volubility of Sheharazade. "Look!" said the story-teller, summing up; "you take hanny 'istory of France an' see the hage of my familie. Pipple talk about de Boulignys, de Sauvés, de Grandprès, de Lemoynes, de St. Maxents,--bla-a-a! De Grandissimes is as hole as de dev'! What? De mose of de Creole families is not so hold as plenty of my yallah kinfolks!" The apothecary found very soon that a little salt improved M. Raoul's statements. But here he was, a perfect treasure, and Frowenfeld, fleeing before his illimitable talking power in order to digest in seclusion the ancestral episodes of the Grandissimes and De Grapions, laid pleasant plans for the immediate future. To-morrow morning he would leave the shop in Raoul's care and call on M. Honoré Grandissime to advise with him concerning the retention of the born artist as a drug-clerk. To-morrow evening he would pluck courage and force his large but bashful feet up to the doorstep of Number 19 rue Bienville. And the next evening he would go and see what might be the matter with Doctor Keene, who had looked ill on last parting with the evening group that lounged in Frowenfeld's door, some three days before. The intermediate hours were to be devoted, of course, to the prescription desk and his "dead stock." And yet after this order of movement had been thus compactly planned, there all the more seemed still to be that abroad which, now on this side, and now on that, was urging him in a nervous whisper to make haste. There had escaped into the air, it seemed, and was gliding about, the expectation of a crisis. Such a feeling would have been natural enough to the tenants of Number 19 rue Bienville, now spending the tenth of the eighteen days of grace allowed them in which to save their little fortress. For Palmyre's assurance that the candle burning would certainly cause the rent-money to be forthcoming in time was to Clotilde unknown, and to Aurora it was poor stuff to make peace of mind of. But there was a degree of impracticability in these ladies, which, if it was unfortunate, was, nevertheless, a part of their Creole beauty, and made the absence of any really brilliant outlook what the galaxy makes a moonless sky. Perhaps they had not been as diligent as they might have been in canvassing all possible ways and means for meeting the pecuniary emergency so fast bearing down upon them. From a Creole standpoint, they were not bad managers. They could dress delightfully on an incredibly small outlay; could wear a well-to-do smile over an inward sigh of stifled hunger; could tell the parents of their one or two scholars to consult their convenience, and then come home to a table that would make any kind soul weep; but as to estimating the velocity of bills-payable in their orbits, such trained sagacity was not theirs. Their economy knew how to avoid what the Creole-African apothegm calls _commerce Man Lizon--qui asseté pou' trois picaillons et vend' pou' ein escalin_ (bought for three picayunes and sold for two); but it was an economy that made their very hound a Spartan; for, had that economy been half as wise as it was heroic, his one meal a day would not always have been the cook's leavings of cold rice and the lickings of the gumbo plates. On the morning fixed by Joseph Frowenfeld for calling on M. Grandissime, on the banquette of the rue Toulouse, directly in front of an old Spanish archway and opposite a blacksmith's shop,--this blacksmith's shop stood between a jeweller's store and a large, balconied and dormer-windowed wine-warehouse--Aurore Nancanou, closely veiled, had halted in a hesitating way and was inquiring of a gigantic negro cartman the whereabouts of the counting-room of M. Honoré Grandissime. Before he could respond she descried the name upon a staircase within the archway, and, thanking the cartman as she would have thanked a prince, hastened to ascend. An inspiring smell of warm rusks, coming from a bakery in the paved court below, rushed through the archway and up the stair and accompanied her into the cemetery-like silence of the counting-room. There were in the department some fourteen clerks. It was a den of Grandissimes. More than half of them were men beyond middle life, and some were yet older. One or two were so handsome, under their noble silvery locks, that almost any woman--Clotilde, for instance,--would have thought, "No doubt that one, or that one, is the head of the house." Aurora approached the railing which shut in the silent toilers and directed her eyes to the farthest corner of the room. There sat there at a large desk a thin, sickly-looking man with very sore eyes and two pairs of spectacles, plying a quill with a privileged loudness. "H-h-m-m!" said she, very softly. A young man laid down his rule and stepped to the rail with a silent bow. His face showed a jaded look. Night revelry, rather than care or years, had wrinkled it; but his bow was high-bred. "Madame,"--in an undertone. "Monsieur, it is M. Grandissime whom I wish to see," she said in French. But the young man responded in English. "You har one tenant, ent it?" "Yes, seh." "Zen eet ees M. De Brahmin zat you 'ave to see." "No, seh; M. Grandissime." "M. Grandissime nevva see one tenant." "I muz see M. Grandissime." Aurora lifted her veil and laid it up on her bonnet. The clerk immediately crossed the floor to the distant desk. The quill of the sore-eyed man scratched louder--scratch, scratch--as though it were trying to scratch under the door of Number 19 rue Bienville--for a moment, and then ceased. The clerk, with one hand behind him and one touching the desk, murmured a few words, to which the other, after glancing under his arm at Aurora, gave a short, low reply and resumed his pen. The clerk returned, came through a gateway in the railing, led the way into a rich inner room, and turning with another courtly bow, handed her a cushioned armchair and retired. "After eighteen years," thought Aurora, as she found herself alone. It had been eighteen years since any representative of the De Grapion line had met a Grandissime face to face, so far as she knew; even that representative was only her deceased husband, a mere connection by marriage. How many years it was since her grandfather, Georges De Grapion, captain of dragoons, had had his fatal meeting with a Mandarin de Grandissime, she did not remember. There, opposite her on the wall, was the portrait of a young man in a corslet who might have been M. Mandarin himself. She felt the blood of her race growing warmer in her veins. "Insolent tribe," she said, without speaking, "we have no more men left to fight you; but now wait. See what a woman can do." These thoughts ran through her mind as her eye passed from one object to another. Something reminded her of Frowenfeld, and, with mingled defiance at her inherited enemies and amusement at the apothecary, she indulged in a quiet smile. The smile was still there as her glance in its gradual sweep reached a small mirror. She almost leaped from her seat. Not because that mirror revealed a recess which she had not previously noticed; not because behind a costly desk therein sat a youngish man, reading a letter; not because he might have been observing her, for it was altogether likely that, to avoid premature interruption, he had avoided looking up; nor because this was evidently Honoré Grandissime; but because Honoré Grandissime, if this were he, was the same person whom she had seen only with his back turned in the pharmacy--the rider whose horse ten days ago had knocked her down, the Lieutenant of Dragoons who had unmasked and to whom she had unmasked at the ball! Fly! But where? How? It was too late; she had not even time to lower her veil. M. Grandissime looked up at the glass, dropped the letter with a slight start of consternation and advanced quickly toward her. For an instant her embarrassment showed itself in a mantling blush and a distressful yearning to escape; but the next moment she rose, all a-flutter within, it is true, but with a face as nearly sedate as the inborn witchery of her eyes would allow. He spoke in Parisian French: "Please be seated, madame." She sank down. "Do you wish to see me?" "No, sir." She did not see her way out of this falsehood, but--she couldn't say yes. Silence followed. "Whom do--" "I wish to see M. Honoré Grandissime." "That is my name, madame." "Ah!"--with an angelic smile; she had collected her wits now, and was ready for war. "You are not one of his clerks?" M. Grandissime smiled softly, while he said to himself: "You little honey-bee, you want to sting me, eh?" and then he answered her question. "No, madame; I am the gentleman you are looking for." "The gentleman she was look--" her pride resented the fact. "Me!"--thought she--"I am the lady whom, I have not a doubt, you have been longing to meet ever since the ball;" but her look was unmoved gravity. She touched her handkerchief to her lips and handed him the rent notice. "I received that from your office the Monday before last." There was a slight emphasis in the announcement of the time; it was the day of the run-over. Honoré Grandissime, stopping with the rent-notice only half unfolded, saw the advisability of calling up all the resources of his sagacity and wit in order to answer wisely; and as they answered his call a brighter nobility so overspread face and person that Aurora inwardly exclaimed at it even while she exulted in her thrust. "Monday before last?" She slightly bowed. "A serious misfortune befell me that day," said M. Grandissime. "Ah?" replied the lady, raising her brows with polite distress, "but you have entirely recovered, I suppose." "It was I, madame, who that evening caused you a mortification for which I fear you will accept no apology." "On the contrary," said Aurora, with an air of generous protestation, "it is I who should apologize; I fear I injured your horse." M. Grandissime only smiled, and opening the rent-notice dropped his glance upon it while he said in a preoccupied tone: "My horse is very well, I thank you." But as he read the paper, his face assumed a serious air and he seemed to take an unnecessary length of time to reach the bottom of it. "He is trying to think how he will get rid of me," thought Aurora; "he is making up some pretext with which to dismiss me, and when the tenth of March comes we shall be put into the street." M. Grandissime extended the letter toward her, but she did not lift her hands. "I beg to assure you, madame, I could never have permitted this notice to reach you from my office; I am not the Honoré Grandissime for whom this is signed." Aurora smiled in a way to signify clearly that that was just the subterfuge she had been anticipating. Had she been at home she would have thrown herself, face downward, upon the bed; but she only smiled meditatively upward at the picture of an East Indian harbor and made an unnecessary rearrangement of her handkerchief under her folded hands. "There are, you know,"--began Honoré, with a smile which changed the meaning to "You know very well there are"--"two Honoré Grandissimes. This one who sent you this letter is a man of color--" "Oh!" exclaimed Aurora, with a sudden malicious sparkle. "If you will entrust this paper to me," said Honoré, quietly, "I will see him and do now engage that you shall have no further trouble about it. Of course, I do not mean that I will pay it, myself; I dare not offer to take such a liberty." Then he felt that a warm impulse had carried him a step too far. Aurora rose up with a refusal as firm as it was silent. She neither smiled nor scintillated now, but wore an expression of amiable practicality as she presently said, receiving back the rent-notice as she spoke: "I thank you, sir, but it might seem strange to him to find his notice in the hands of a person who can claim no interest in the matter. I shall have to attend to it myself." "Ah! little enchantress," thought her grave-faced listener, as he gave attention, "this, after all--ball and all--is the mood in which you look your very, very best"--a fact which nobody knew better than the enchantress herself. He walked beside her toward the open door leading back into the counting-room, and the dozen or more clerks, who, each by some ingenuity of his own, managed to secure a glimpse of them, could not fail to feel that they had never before seen quite so fair a couple. But she dropped her veil, bowed M. Grandissime a polite "No farther," and passed out. M. Grandissime walked once up and down his private office, gave the door a soft push with his foot and lighted a cigar. The clerk who had before acted as usher came in and handed him a slip of paper with a name written on it. M. Grandissime folded it twice, gazed out the window, and finally nodded. The clerk disappeared, and Joseph Frowenfeld paused an instant in the door and then advanced, with a buoyant good-morning. "Good-morning," responded M. Grandissime. He smiled and extended his hand, yet there was a mechanical and preoccupied air that was not what Joseph felt justified in expecting. "How can I serve you, Mr. Frhowenfeld?" asked the merchant, glancing through into the counting-room. His coldness was almost all in Joseph's imagination, but to the apothecary it seemed such that he was nearly induced to walk away without answering. However, he replied: "A young man whom I have employed refers to you to recommend him." "Yes, sir? Prhay, who is that?" "Your cousin, I believe, Mr. Raoul Innerarity." M. Grandissime gave a low, short laugh, and took two steps toward his desk. "Rhaoul? Oh yes, I rhecommend Rhaoul to you. As an assistant in yo' sto'?--the best man you could find." "Thank you, sir," said Joseph, coldly. "Good-morning!" he added turning to go. "Mr. Frhowenfeld," said the other, "do you evva rhide?" "I used to ride," replied the apothecary, turning, hat in hand, and wondering what such a question could mean. "If I send a saddle-hoss to yo' do' on day aftah to-morrhow evening at fo' o'clock, will you rhide out with me for-h about a hour-h and a half--just for a little pleasu'e?" Joseph was yet more astonished than before. He hesitated, accepted the invitation, and once more said good-morning. CHAPTER XXI DOCTOR KEENE RECOVERS HIS BULLET It early attracted the apothecary's notice, in observing the civilization around him, that it kept the flimsy false bottoms in its social errors only by incessant reiteration. As he re-entered the shop, dissatisfied with himself for accepting M. Grandissime's invitation to ride, he knew by the fervent words which he overheard from the lips of his employee that the f.m.c. had been making one of his reconnoisances, and possibly had ventured in to inquire for his tenant. "I t'ink, me, dat hanny w'ite man is a gen'leman; but I don't care if a man are good like a h-angel, if 'e har not pu'e w'ite '_ow can_ 'e be a gen'leman?" Raoul's words were addressed to a man who, as he rose up and handed Frowenfeld a note, ratified the Creole's sentiment by a spurt of tobacco juice and an affirmative "Hm-m." The note was a lead-pencil scrawl, without date. DEAR JOE: Come and see me some time this evening. I am on my back in bed. Want your help in a little matter. Yours, Keene. I have found out who ---- ----" Frowenfeld pondered: "I have found out who ---- ----" Ah! Doctor Keene had found out who stabbed Agricola. Some delays occurred in the afternoon, but toward sunset the apothecary dressed and went out. From the doctor's bedside in the rue St. Louis, if not delayed beyond all expectation, he would proceed to visit the ladies at Number 19 rue Bienville. The air was growing cold and threatening bad weather. He found the Doctor prostrate, wasted, hoarse, cross and almost too weak for speech. He could only whisper, as his friend approached his pillow: "These vile lungs!" "Hemorrhage?" The invalid held up three small, freckled fingers. Joseph dared not show pity in his gaze, but it seemed savage not to express some feeling, so after standing a moment he began to say: "I am very sorry--" "You needn't bother yourself!" whispered the doctor, who lay frowning upward. By and by he whispered again. Frowenfeld bent his ear, and the little man, so merry when well, repeated, in a savage hiss: "Sit down!" It was some time before he again broke the silence. "Tell you what I want--you to do--for me." "Well, sir--" "Hold on!" gasped the invalid, shutting his eyes with impatience,--"till I get through." He lay a little while motionless, and then drew from under his pillow a wallet, and from the wallet a pistol-ball. "Took that out--a badly neglected wound--last day I saw you." Here a pause, an appalling cough, and by and by a whisper: "Knew the bullet in an instant." He smiled wearily. "Peculiar size." He made a feeble motion. Frowenfeld guessed the meaning of it and handed him a pistol from a small table. The ball slipped softly home. "Refused two hundred dollars--those pistols"--with a sigh and closed eyes. By and by again--"Patient had smart fever--but it will be gone--time you get--there. Want you to--take care--t' I get up." "But, Doctor--" The sick man turned away his face with a petulant frown; but presently, with an effort at self-control, brought it back and whispered: "You mean you--not physician?" "Yes." "No. No more are half--doc's. You can do it. Simple gun-shot wound in the shoulder." A rest. "Pretty wound; ranges"--he gave up the effort to describe it. "You'll see it." Another rest. "You see--this matter has been kept quiet so far. I don't want any one--else to know--anything about it." He sighed audibly and looked as though he had gone to sleep, but whispered again, with his eyes closed--"'specially on culprit's own account." Frowenfeld was silent: but the invalid was waiting for an answer, and, not getting it, stirred peevishly. "Do you wish me to go to-night?" asked the apothecary. "To-morrow morning. Will you--?" "Certainly, Doctor." The invalid lay quite still for several minutes, looking steadily at his friend, and finally let a faint smile play about his mouth,--a wan reminder of his habitual roguery. "Good boy," he whispered. Frowenfeld rose and straightened the bedclothes, took a few steps about the room, and finally returned. The Doctor's restless eye had followed him at every movement. "You'll go?" "Yes," replied the apothecary, hat in hand; "where is it?" "Corner Bienville and Bourbon,--upper river corner,--yellow one-story house, doorsteps on street. You know the house?" "I think I do." "Good-night. Here!--I wish you would send that black girl in here--as you go out--make me better fire--Joe!" the call was a ghostly whisper. Frowenfeld paused in the door. "You don't mind my--bad manners, Joe?" The apothecary gave one of his infrequent smiles. "No, Doctor." He started toward Number 19 rue Bienville, but a light, cold sprinkle set in, and he turned back toward his shop. No sooner had the rain got him there than it stopped, as rain sometimes will do. CHAPTER XXII WARS WITHIN THE BREAST The next morning came in frigid and gray. The unseasonable numerals which the meteorologist recorded in his tables might have provoked a superstitious lover of better weather to suppose that Monsieur Danny, the head imp of discord, had been among the aërial currents. The passionate southern sky, looking down and seeing some six thousand to seventy-five hundred of her favorite children disconcerted and shivering, tried in vain, for two hours, to smile upon them with a little frozen sunshine, and finally burst into tears. In thus giving way to despondency, it is sad to say, the sky was closely imitating the simultaneous behavior of Aurora Nancanou. Never was pretty lady in cheerier mood than that in which she had come home from Honoré's counting-room. Hard would it be to find the material with which to build again the castles-in-air that she founded upon two or three little discoveries there made. Should she tell them to Clotilde? Ah! and for what? No, Clotilde was a dear daughter--ha! few women were capable of having such a daughter as Clotilde; but there were things about which she was entirely too scrupulous. So, when she came in from that errand profoundly satisfied that she would in future hear no more about the rent than she might choose to hear, she had been too shrewd to expose herself to her daughter's catechising. She would save her little revelations for disclosure when they might be used to advantage. As she threw her bonnet upon the bed, she exclaimed, in a tone of gentle and wearied reproach: "Why did you not remind me that M. Honoré Grandissime, that precious somebody-great, has the honor to rejoice in a quadroon half-brother of the same illustrious name? Why did you not remind me, eh?" "Ah! and you know it as well as A, B, C," playfully retorted Clotilde. "Well, guess which one is our landlord?" "Which one?" "_Ma foi_! how do _I_ know? I had to wait a shameful long time to see _Monsieur le prince_,--just because I am a De Grapion, I know. When at last I saw him, he says, 'Madame, this is the other Honoré Grandissime.' There, you see we are the victims of a conspiracy; if I go to the other, he will send me back to the first. But, Clotilde, my darling," cried the beautiful speaker, beamingly, "dismiss all fear and care; we shall have no more trouble about it." "And how, indeed, do you know that?" "Something tells it to me in my ear. I feel it! Trust in Providence, my child. Look at me, how happy I am; but you--you never trust in Providence. That is why we have so much trouble,--because you don't trust in Providence. Oh! I am so hungry, let us have dinner." "What sort of a person is M. Grandissime in his appearance?" asked Clotilde, over their feeble excuse for a dinner. "What sort? Do you imagine I had nothing better to do than notice whether a Grandissime is good-looking or not? For all I know to the contrary, he is--some more rice, please, my dear." But this light-heartedness did not last long. It was based on an unutterable secret, all her own, about which she still had trembling doubts; this, too, notwithstanding her consultation of the dark oracles. She was going to stop that. In the long run, these charms and spells themselves bring bad luck. Moreover, the practice, indulged in to excess, was wicked, and she had promised Clotilde,--that droll little saint,--to resort to them no more. Hereafter, she should do nothing of the sort, except, to be sure, to take such ordinary precautions against misfortune as casting upon the floor a little of whatever she might be eating or drinking to propitiate M. Assonquer. She would have liked, could she have done it without fear of detection, to pour upon the front door-sill an oblation of beer sweetened with black molasses to Papa Lébat (who keeps the invisible keys of all the doors that admit suitors), but she dared not; and then, the hound would surely have licked it up. Ah me! was she forgetting that she was a widow? She was in poor plight to meet the all but icy gray morning; and, to make her misery still greater, she found, on dressing, that an accident had overtaken her, which she knew to be a trustworthy sign of love grown cold. She had lost--alas! how can we communicate it in English!--a small piece of lute-string ribbon, about _so long_, which she used for--not a necktie exactly, but-- And she hunted and hunted, and couldn't bear to give up the search, and sat down to breakfast and ate nothing, and rose up and searched again (not that she cared for the omen), and struck the hound with the broom, and broke the broom, and hunted again, and looked out the front window, and saw the rain beginning to fall, and dropped into a chair--crying, "Oh! Clotilde, my child, my child! the rent collector will be here Saturday and turn us into the street!" and so fell a-weeping. A little tear-letting lightened her unrevealable burden, and she rose, rejoicing that Clotilde had happened to be out of eye-and-ear-shot. The scanty fire in the fireplace was ample to warm the room; the fire within her made it too insufferably hot! Rain or no rain, she parted the window-curtains and lifted the sash. What a mark for Love's arrow she was, as, at the window, she stretched her two arms upward! And, "right so," who should chance to come cantering by, the big drops of rain pattering after him, but the knightliest man in that old town, and the fittest to perfect the fine old-fashioned poetry of the scene! "Clotilde," said Aurora, turning from her mirror, whither she had hastened to see if her face showed signs of tears (Clotilde was entering the room), "we shall never be turned out of this house by Honoré Grandissime!" "Why?" asked Clotilde, stopping short in the floor, forgetting Aurora's trust in Providence, and expecting to hear that M. Grandissime had been found dead in his bed. "Because I saw him just now; he rode by on horseback. A man with that noble face could never _do such a thing_!" The astonished Clotilde looked at her mother searchingly. This sort of speech about a Grandissime? But Aurora was the picture of innocence. Clotilde uttered a derisive laugh. "_Impertinente_!" exclaimed the other, laboring not to join in it. "Ah-h-h!" cried Clotilde, in the same mood, "and what face had he when he wrote that letter?" "What face?" "Yes, what face?" "I do not know what face you mean," said Aurora. "What face," repeated Clotilde, "had Monsieur Honoré de Grandissime on the day that he wrote--" "Ah, f-fah!" cried Aurora, and turned away, "you don't know what you are talking about! You make me wish sometimes that I were dead!" Clotilde had gone and shut down the sash, as it began to rain hard and blow. As she was turning away, her eye was attracted by an object at a distance. "What is it?" asked Aurora, from a seat before the fire. "Nothing," said Clotilde, weary of the sensational,--"a man in the rain." It was the apothecary of the rue Royale, turning from that street toward the rue Bourbon, and bowing his head against the swirling norther. CHAPTER XXIII FROWENFELD KEEPS HIS APPOINTMENT Doctor Keene, his ill-humor slept off, lay in bed in a quiescent state of great mental enjoyment. At times he would smile and close his eyes, open them again and murmur to himself, and turn his head languidly and smile again. And when the rain and wind, all tangled together, came against the window with a whirl and a slap, his smile broadened almost to laughter. "He's in it," he murmured, "he's just reaching there. I would give fifty dollars to see him when he first gets into the house and sees where he is." As this wish was finding expression on the lips of the little sick man, Joseph Frowenfeld was making room on a narrow doorstep for the outward opening of a pair of small batten doors, upon which he had knocked with the vigorous haste of a man in the rain. As they parted, he hurriedly helped them open, darted within, heedless of the odd black shape which shuffled out of his way, wheeled and clapped them shut again, swung down the bar and then turned, and with the good-natured face that properly goes with a ducking, looked to see where he was. One object--around which everything else instantly became nothing--set his gaze. On the high bed, whose hangings of blue we have already described, silently regarding the intruder with a pair of eyes that sent an icy thrill through him and fastened him where he stood, lay Palmyre Philosophe. Her dress was a long, snowy morning-gown, wound loosely about at the waist with a cord and tassel of scarlet silk; a bright-colored woollen shawl covered her from the waist down, and a necklace of red coral heightened to its utmost her untamable beauty. An instantaneous indignation against Doctor Keene set the face of the speechless apothecary on fire, and this, being as instantaneously comprehended by the philosophe, was the best of introductions. Yet her gaze did not change. The Congo negress broke the spell with a bristling protest, all in African b's and k's, but hushed and drew off at a single word of command from her mistress. In Frowenfeld's mind an angry determination was taking shape, to be neither trifled with nor contemned. And this again the quadroon discerned, before he was himself aware of it. "Doctor Keene"--he began, but stopped, so uncomfortable were her eyes. She did not stir or reply. Then he bethought him with a start, and took off his dripping hat. At this a perceptible sparkle of imperious approval shot along her glance; it gave the apothecary speech. "The doctor is sick, and he asked me to dress your wound." She made the slightest discernible motion of the head, remained for a moment silent, and then, still with the same eye, motioned her hand toward a chair near a comfortable fire. He sat down. It would be well to dry himself. He drew near the hearth and let his gaze fall into the fire. When he presently lifted his eyes and looked full upon the woman with a steady, candid glance, she was regarding him with apparent coldness, but with secret diligence and scrutiny, and a yet more inward and secret surprise and admiration. Hard rubbing was bringing out the grain of the apothecary. But she presently suppressed the feeling. She hated men. But Frowenfeld, even while his eyes met hers, could not resent her hostility. This monument of the shame of two races--this poisonous blossom of crime growing out of crime--this final, unanswerable white man's accuser--this would-be murderess--what ranks and companies would have to stand up in the Great Day with her and answer as accessory before the fact! He looked again into the fire. The patient spoke: "_Eh bi'n, Miché_?" Her look was severe, but less aggressive. The shuffle of the old negress's feet was heard and she appeared bearing warm and cold water and fresh bandages; after depositing them she tarried. "Your fever is gone," said Frowenfeld, standing by the bed. He had laid his fingers on her wrist. She brushed them off and once more turned full upon him the cold hostility of her passionate eyes. The apothecary, instead of blushing, turned pale. "You--" he was going to say, "You insult me;" but his lips came tightly together. Two big cords appeared between his brows, and his blue eyes spoke for him. Then, as the returning blood rushed even to his forehead, he said, speaking his words one by one; "Please understand that you must trust me." She may not have understood his English, but she comprehended, nevertheless. She looked up fixedly for a moment, then passively closed her eyes. Then she turned, and Frowenfeld put out one strong arm, helped her to a sitting posture on the side of the bed and drew the shawl about her. "Zizi," she said, and the negress, who had stood perfectly still since depositing the water and bandages, came forward and proceeded to bare the philosophe's superb shoulder. As Frowenfeld again put forward his hand, she lifted her own as if to prevent him, but he kindly and firmly put it away and addressed himself with silent diligence to his task; and by the time he had finished, his womanly touch, his commanding gentleness, his easy despatch, had inspired Palmyre not only with a sense of safety, comfort, and repose, but with a pleased wonder. This woman had stood all her life with dagger drawn, on the defensive against what certainly was to her an unmerciful world. With possibly one exception, the man now before her was the only one she had ever encountered whose speech and gesture were clearly keyed to that profound respect which is woman's first, foundation claim on man. And yet, by inexorable decree, she belonged to what we used to call "the happiest people under the sun." We ought to stop saying that. So far as Palmyre knew, the entire masculine wing of the mighty and exalted race, three-fourths of whose blood bequeathed her none of its prerogatives, regarded her as legitimate prey. The man before her did not. There lay the fundamental difference that, in her sight, as soon as she discovered it, glorified him. Before this assurance the cold fierceness of her eyes gave way, and a friendlier light from them rewarded the apothecary's final touch. He called for more pillows, made a nest of them, and, as she let herself softly into it, directed his next consideration toward his hat and the door. It was many an hour after he had backed out into the trivial remains of the rain-storm before he could replace with more tranquillizing images the vision of the philosophe reclining among her pillows, in the act of making that uneasy movement of her fingers upon the collar button of her robe, which women make when they are uncertain about the perfection of their dishabille, and giving her inaudible adieu with the majesty of an empress. CHAPTER XXIV FROWENFELD MAKES AN ARGUMENT On the afternoon of the same day on which Frowenfeld visited the house of the philosophe, the weather, which had been so unfavorable to his late plans, changed; the rain ceased, the wind drew around to the south, and the barometer promised a clear sky. Wherefore he decided to leave his business, when he should have made his evening weather notes, to the care of M. Raoul Innerarity, and venture to test both Mademoiselle Clotilde's repellent attitude and Aurora's seeming cordiality at Number 19 rue Bienville. Why he should go was a question which the apothecary felt himself but partially prepared to answer. What necessity called him, what good was to be effected, what was to happen next, were points he would have liked to be clear upon. That he should be going merely because he was invited to come--merely for the pleasure of breathing their atmosphere--that he should be supinely gravitating toward them--this conclusion he positively could not allow; no, no; the love of books and the fear of women alike protested. True, they were a part of that book which is pronounced "the proper study of mankind,"--indeed, that was probably the reason which he sought: he was going to contemplate them as a frontispiece to that unwriteable volume which he had undertaken to con. Also, there was a charitable motive. Doctor Keene, months before, had expressed a deep concern regarding their lack of protection and even of daily provision; he must quietly look into that. Would some unforeseen circumstance shut him off this evening again from this very proper use of time and opportunity? As he was sitting at the table in his back room, registering his sunset observations, and wondering what would become of him if Aurora should be out and that other in, he was startled by a loud, deep voice exclaiming, close behind him: "_Eh, bien! Monsieur le Professeur!_" Frowenfeld knew by the tone, before he looked behind him, that he would find M. Agricola Fusilier very red in the face; and when he looked, the only qualification he could make was that the citizen's countenance was not so ruddy as the red handkerchief in which his arm was hanging. "What have you there?" slowly continued the patriarch, taking his free hand off his fettered arm and laying it upon the page as Frowenfeld hurriedly rose, and endeavored to shut the book. "Some private memoranda," answered the meteorologist, managing to get one page turned backward, reddening with confusion and indignation, and noticing that Agricola's spectacles were upside down. "Private! Eh? No such thing, sir! Professor Frowenfeld, allow me" (a classic oath) "to say to your face, sir, that you are the most brilliant and the most valuable man--of your years--in afflicted Louisiana! Ha!" (reading:) "'Morning observation; Cathedral clock, 7 A.M. Thermometer 70 degrees.' Ha! 'Hygrometer l5'--but this is not to-day's weather? Ah! no. Ha! 'Barometer 30.380.' Ha! 'Sky cloudy, dark; wind, south, light.' Ha! 'River rising.' Ha! Professor Frowenfeld, when will you give your splendid services to your section? You must tell me, my son, for I ask you, my son, not from curiosity, but out of impatient interest." "I cannot say that I shall ever publish my tables," replied the "son," pulling at the book. "Then, sir, in the name of Louisiana," thundered the old man, clinging to the book, "I can! They shall be published! Ah! yes, dear Frowenfeld. The book, of course, will be in French, eh? You would not so affront the most sacred prejudices of the noble people to whom you owe everything as to publish it in English? You--ah! have we torn it?" "I do not write French," said the apothecary, laying the torn edges together. "Professor Frowenfeld, men are born for each other. What do I behold before me? I behold before me, in the person of my gifted young friend, a supplement to myself! Why has Nature strengthened the soul of Agricola to hold the crumbling fortress of this body until these eyes--which were once, my dear boy, as proud and piercing as the battle-steed's--have become dim?" Joseph's insurmountable respect for gray hairs kept him standing, but he did not respond with any conjecture as to Nature's intentions, and there was a stern silence. The crumbling fortress resumed, his voice pitched low like the beginning of the long roll. He knew Nature's design. "It was in order that you, Professor Frowenfeld, might become my vicar! Your book shall be in French! We must give it a wide scope! It shall contain valuable geographical, topographical, biographical, and historical notes. It shall contain complete lists of all the officials in the province (I don't say territory, I say province) with their salaries and perquisites; ah! we will expose that! And--ha! I will write some political essays for it. Raoul shall illustrate it. Honoré shall give you money to publish it. Ah! Professor Frowenfeld, the star of your fame is rising out of the waves of oblivion! Come--I dropped in purposely to ask you--come across the street and take a glass of _taffia_ with Agricola Fusilier." This crowning honor the apothecary was insane enough to decline, and Agricola went away with many professions of endearment, but secretly offended because Joseph had not asked about his wound. All the same the apothecary, without loss of time, departed for the yellow-washed cottage, Number 19 rue Bienville. "To-morrow, at four P.M.," he said to himself, "if the weather is favorable, I ride with M. Grandissime." He almost saw his books and instruments look up at him reproachfully. The ladies were at home. Aurora herself opened the door, and Clotilde came forward from the bright fireplace with a cordiality never before so unqualified. There was something about these ladies--in their simple, but noble grace, in their half-Gallic, half-classic beauty, in a jocund buoyancy mated to an amiable dignity--that made them appear to the scholar as though they had just bounded into life from the garlanded procession of some old fresco. The resemblance was not a little helped on by the costume of the late Revolution (most acceptably chastened and belated by the distance from Paris). Their black hair, somewhat heavier on Clotilde's head, where it rippled once or twice, was knotted _en Grecque_, and adorned only with the spoils of a nosegay given to Clotilde by a chivalric small boy in the home of her music scholar. "We was expectin' you since several days," said Clotilde, as the three sat down before the fire, Frowenfeld in a cushioned chair whose moth-holes had been carefully darned. Frowenfeld intimated, with tolerable composure, that matters beyond his control had delayed his coming, beyond his intention. "You gedd'n' ridge," said Aurora, dropping her wrists across each other. Frowenfeld, for once, laughed outright, and it seemed so odd in him to do so that both the ladies followed his example. The ambition to be rich had never entered his thought, although in an unemotional, German way, he was prospering in a little city where wealth was daily pouring in, and a man had only to keep step, so to say, to march into possessions. "You hought to 'ave a mo' larger sto' an' some clerque," pursued Aurora. The apothecary answered that he was contemplating the enlargement of his present place or removal to a roomier, and that he had already employed an assistant. "Oo it is, 'Sieur Frowenfel'?" Clotilde turned toward the questioner a remonstrative glance. "His name," replied Frowenfeld, betraying a slight embarrassment, "is--Innerarity; Mr. Raoul Innerarity; he is--" "Ee pain' dad pigtu' w'at 'angin' in yo' window?" Clotilde's remonstrance rose to a slight movement and a murmur. Frowenfeld answered in the affirmative, and possibly betrayed the faint shadow of a smile. The response was a peal of laughter from both ladies. "He is an excellent drug clerk," said Frowenfeld defensively. Whereat Aurora laughed again, leaning over and touching Clotilde's knee with one finger. "An' excellen' drug cl'--ha, ha, ha! oh!" "You muz podden uz, M'sieu' Frowenfel'," said Clotilde, with forced gravity. Aurora sighed her participation in the apology; and, a few moments later, the apothecary and both ladies (the one as fond of the abstract as the other two were ignorant of the concrete) were engaged in an animated, running discussion on art, society, climate, education,--all those large, secondary _desiderata_ which seem of first importance to young ambition and secluded beauty, flying to and fro among these subjects with all the liveliness and uncertainty of a game of pussy-wants-a-corner. Frowenfeld had never before spent such an hour. At its expiration, he had so well held his own against both the others, that the three had settled down to this sort of entertainment: Aurora would make an assertion, or Clotilde would ask a question; and Frowenfeld, moved by that frankness and ardent zeal for truth which had enlisted the early friendship of Dr. Keene, amused and attracted Honoré Grandissime, won the confidence of the f.m.c., and tamed the fiery distrust and enmity of Palmyre, would present his opinions without the thought of a reservation either in himself or his hearers. On their part, they would sit in deep attention, shielding their faces from the fire, and responding to enunciations directly contrary to their convictions with an occasional "yes-seh," or "ceddenly," or "of coze," or,--prettier affirmation still,--a solemn drooping of the eyelids, a slight compression of the lips, and a low, slow declination of the head. "The bane of all Creole art-effort"--(we take up the apothecary's words at a point where Clotilde was leaning forward and slightly frowning in an honest attempt to comprehend his condensed English)--"the bane of all Creole art-effort, so far as I have seen it, is amateurism." "Amateu--" murmured Clotilde, a little beclouded on the main word and distracted by a French difference of meaning, but planting an elbow on one knee in the genuineness of her attention, and responding with a bow. "That is to say," said Frowenfeld, apologizing for the homeliness of his further explanation by a smile, "a kind of ambitious indolence that lays very large eggs, but can neither see the necessity for building a nest beforehand, nor command the patience to hatch the eggs afterward." "Of coze," said Aurora. "It is a great pity," said the sermonizer, looking at the face of Clotilde, elongated in the brass andiron; and, after a pause: "Nothing on earth can take the place of hard and patient labor. But that, in this community, is not esteemed; most sorts of it are contemned; the humbler sorts are despised, and the higher are regarded with mingled patronage and commiseration. Most of those who come to my shop with their efforts at art hasten to explain, either that they are merely seeking pastime, or else that they are driven to their course by want; and if I advise them to take their work back and finish it, they take it back and never return. Industry is not only despised, but has been degraded and disgraced, handed over into the hands of African savages." "Doze Creole' is _lezzy_," said Aurora. "That is a hard word to apply to those who do not _consciously_ deserve it," said Frowenfeld; "but if they could only wake up to the fact,--find it out themselves--" "Ceddenly," said Clotilde. "'Sieur Frowenfel'," said Aurora, leaning her head on one side, "some pipple thing it is doze climade; 'ow you lag doze climade?" "I do not suppose," replied the visitor, "there is a more delightful climate in the world." "Ah-h-h!"--both ladies at once, in a low, gracious tone of acknowledgment. "I thing Louisiana is a paradize-me!" said Aurora. "W'ere you goin' fin' sudge a h-air?" She respired a sample of it. "W'ere you goin' fin' sudge a so ridge groun'? De weed' in my bag yard is twenny-five feet 'igh!" "Ah! maman!" "Twenty-six!" said Aurora, correcting herself. "W'ere you fin' sudge a reever lag dad Mississippi? _On dit_," she said, turning to Clotilde, "_que ses eaux ont la propriété de contribuer même à multiplier l'espèce humaine_--ha, ha, ha!" Clotilde turned away an unmoved countenance to hear Frowenfeld. Frowenfeld had contracted a habit of falling into meditation whenever the French language left him out of the conversation. "Yes," he said, breaking a contemplative pause, "the climate is _too_ comfortable and the soil too rich,--though I do not think it is entirely on their account that the people who enjoy them are so sadly in arrears to the civilized world." He blushed with the fear that his talk was bookish, and felt grateful to Clotilde for seeming to understand his speech. "W'ad you fin' de rizzon is, 'Sieur Frowenfel'?" she asked. "I do not wish to philosophize," he answered. "_Mais_, go hon." "_Mais_, go ahade," said both ladies, settling themselves. "It is largely owing," exclaimed Frowenfeld, with sudden fervor, "to a defective organization of society, which keeps this community, and will continue to keep it for an indefinite time to come, entirely unprepared and disinclined to follow the course of modern thought." "Of coze," murmured Aurora, who had lost her bearings almost at the first word. "One great general subject of thought now is human rights,--universal human rights. The entire literature of the world is becoming tinctured with contradictions of the dogmas upon which society in this section is built. Human rights is, of all subjects, the one upon which this community is most violently determined to hear no discussion. It has pronounced that slavery and caste are right, and sealed up the whole subject. What, then, will they do with the world's literature? They will coldly decline to look at it, and will become, more and more as the world moves on, a comparatively illiterate people." "Bud, 'Sieur Frowenfel'," said Clotilde, as Frowenfeld paused--Aurora was stunned to silence,--"de Unitee State' goin' pud doze nigga' free, aind it?" Frowenfeld pushed his hair hard back. He was in the stream now, and might as well go through. "I have heard that charge made, even by some Americans. I do not know. But there is a slavery that no legislation can abolish,--the slavery of caste. That, like all the slaveries on earth, is a double bondage. And what a bondage it is which compels a community, in order to preserve its established tyrannies, to walk behind the rest of the intelligent world! What a bondage is that which incites a people to adopt a system of social and civil distinctions, possessing all the enormities and none of the advantages of those systems which Europe is learning to despise! This system, moreover, is only kept up by a flourish of weapons. We have here what you may call an armed aristocracy. The class over which these instruments of main force are held is chosen for its servility, ignorance, and cowardice; hence, indolence in the ruling class. When a man's social or civil standing is not dependent on his knowing how to read, he is not likely to become a scholar." "Of coze," said Aurora, with a pensive respiration, "I thing id is doze climade," and the apothecary stopped, as a man should who finds himself unloading large philosophy in a little parlor. "I thing, me, dey hought to pud doze quadroon' free?" It was Clotilde who spoke, ending with the rising inflection to indicate the tentative character of this daringly premature declaration. Frowenfeld did not answer hastily. "The quadroons," said he, "want a great deal more than mere free papers can secure them. Emancipation before the law, though it may be a right which man has no right to withhold, is to them little more than a mockery until they achieve emancipation in the minds and good will of the people--'the people,' did I say? I mean the ruling class." He stopped again. One must inevitably feel a little silly, setting up tenpins for ladies who are too polite, even if able, to bowl them down. Aurora and the visitor began to speak simultaneously; both apologized, and Aurora said: "'Sieur Frowenfel', w'en I was a lill girl,"--and Frowenfeld knew that he was going to hear the story of Palmyre. Clotilde moved, with the obvious intention to mend the fire. Aurora asked, in French, why she did not call the cook to do it, and Frowenfeld said, "Let me,"--threw on some wood, and took a seat nearer Clotilde. Aurora had the floor. CHAPTER XXV AURORA AS A HISTORIAN Alas! the phonograph was invented three-quarters of a century too late. If type could entrap one-half the pretty oddities of Aurora's speech,--the arch, the pathetic, the grave, the earnest, the matter-of-fact, the ecstatic tones of her voice,--nay, could it but reproduce the movement of her hands, the eloquence of her eyes, or the shapings of her mouth,--ah! but type--even the phonograph--is such an inadequate thing! Sometimes she laughed; sometimes Clotilde, unexpectedly to herself, joined her; and twice or thrice she provoked a similar demonstration from the ox-like apothecary,--to her own intense amusement. Sometimes she shook her head in solemn scorn; and, when Frowenfeld, at a certain point where Palmyre's fate locked hands for a time with that of Bras-Coupé, asked a fervid question concerning that strange personage, tears leaped into her eyes, as she said: "Ah! 'Sieur Frowenfel', iv I tra to tell de sto'y of Bras-Coupé, I goin' to cry lag a lill bebby." The account of the childhood days upon the plantation at Cannes Brulées may be passed by. It was early in Palmyre's fifteenth year that that Kentuckian, 'mutual friend' of her master and Agricola, prevailed with M. de Grapion to send her to the paternal Grandissime mansion,--a complimentary gift, through Agricola, to Mademoiselle, his niece,--returnable ten years after date. The journey was made in safety; and, by and by, Palmyre was presented to her new mistress. The occasion was notable. In a great chair in the centre sat the _grandpère_, a Chevalier de Grandissime, whose business had narrowed down to sitting on the front veranda and wearing his decorations,--the cross of St. Louis being one; on his right, Colonel Numa Grandissime, with one arm dropped around Honoré, then a boy of Palmyre's age, expecting to be off in sixty days for France; and on the left, with Honoré's fair sister nestled against her, "Madame Numa," as the Creoles would call her, a stately woman and beautiful, a great admirer of her brother Agricola. (Aurora took pains to explain that she received these minutiae from Palmyre herself in later years.) One other member of the group was a young don of some twenty years' age, not an inmate of the house, but only a cousin of Aurora on her deceased mother's side. To make the affair complete, and as a seal to this tacit Grandissime-de-Grapion treaty, this sole available representative of the "other side" was made a guest for the evening. Like the true Spaniard that he was, Don José Martinez fell deeply in love with Honoré's sister. Then there came Agricola leading in Palmyre. There were others, for the Grandissime mansion was always full of Grandissimes; but this was the central group. In this house Palmyre grew to womanhood, retaining without interruption the place into which she seemed to enter by right of indisputable superiority over all competitors,--the place of favorite attendant to the sister of Honoré. Attendant, we say, for servant she never seemed. She grew tall, arrowy, lithe, imperial, diligent, neat, thorough, silent. Her new mistress, though scarcely at all her senior, was yet distinctly her mistress; she had that through her Fusilier blood; experience was just then beginning to show that the Fusilier Grandissime was a superb variety; she was a mistress one could wish to obey. Palmyre loved her, and through her contact ceased, for a time, at least, to be the pet leopard she had been at the Cannes Brulées. Honoré went away to Paris only sixty days after Palmyre entered the house. But even that was not soon enough. "'Sieur Frowenfel'," said Aurora, in her recital, "Palmyre, she never tole me dad, _mais_ I am shoe, _shoe_ dad she fall in love wid Honoré Grandissime. 'Sieur Frowenfel', I thing dad Honoré Grandissime is one bad man, ent it? Whad you thing, 'Sieur Frowenfel'?" "I think, as I said to you the last time, that he is one of the best, as I know that he is one of the kindest and most enlightened gentlemen in the city," said the apothecary. "Ah, 'Sieur Frowenfel'! ha, ha!" "That is my conviction." The lady went on with her story. "Hanny'ow, I know she _con_tinue in love wid 'im all doze ten year' w'at 'e been gone. She baig Mademoiselle Grandissime to wrad dad ledder to my papa to ass to kip her two years mo'." Here Aurora carefully omitted that episode which Doctor Keene had related to Frowenfeld,--her own marriage and removal to Fausse Rivière, the visit of her husband to the city, his unfortunate and finally fatal affair with Agricola, and the surrender of all her land and slaves to that successful duellist. M. de Grapion, through all that, stood by his engagement concerning Palmyre; and, at the end of ten years, to his own astonishment, responded favorably to a letter from Honoré's sister, irresistible for its goodness, good sense, and eloquent pleading, asking leave to detain Palmyre two years longer; but this response came only after the old master and his pretty, stricken Aurora had wept over it until they were weak and gentle,--and was not a response either, but only a silent consent. Shortly before the return of Honoré--and here it was that Aurora took up again the thread of her account--while his mother, long-widowed, reigned in the paternal mansion, with Agricola for her manager, Bras-Coupé appeared. From that advent, and the long and varied mental sufferings which its consequences brought upon her, sprang that second change in Palmyre, which made her finally untamable, and ended in a manumission, granted her more for fear than for conscience' sake. When Aurora attempted to tell those experiences, even leaving Bras-Coupé as much as might be out of the recital, she choked with tears at the very start, stopped, laughed, and said: "_C'est tout_--daz all. 'Sieur Frowenfel', oo you fine dad pigtu' to loog lag, yonnah, hon de wall?" She spoke as if he might have overlooked it, though twenty times, at least, in the last hour, she had seen him glance at it. "It is a good likeness," said the apothecary, turning to Clotilde, yet showing himself somewhat puzzled in the matter of the costume. The ladies laughed. "Daz ma grade-gran'-mamma," said Clotilde. "Dass one _fille à la cassette_," said Aurora, "my gran'-muzzah; _mais_, ad de sem tarn id is Clotilde." She touched her daughter under the chin with a ringed finger. "Clotilde is my gran'-mamma." Frowenfeld rose to go. "You muz come again, 'Sieur Frowenfel'," said both ladies, in a breath. What could he say? CHAPTER XXVI A RIDE AND A RESCUE "Douane or Bienville?" Such was the choice presented by Honoré Grandissime to Joseph Frowenfeld, as the former on a lively brown colt and the apothecary on a nervy chestnut fell into a gentle, preliminary trot while yet in the rue Royale, looked after by that great admirer of both, Raoul Innerarity. "Douane?" said Frowenfeld. (It was the street we call Custom-house.) "It has mud-holes," objected Honoré. "Well, then, the rue du Canal?" "The canal--I can smell it from here. Why not rue Bienville?" Frowenfeld said he did not know. (We give the statement for what it is worth.) Notice their route. A spirit of perversity seems to have entered into the very topography of this quarter. They turned up the rue Bienville (up is toward the river); reaching the levee, they took their course up the shore of the Mississippi (almost due south), and broke into a lively gallop on the Tchoupitoulas road, which in those days skirted that margin of the river nearest the sunsetting, namely, the _eastern_ bank. Conversation moved sluggishly for a time, halting upon trite topics or swinging easily from polite inquiry to mild affirmation, and back again. They were men of thought, these two, and one of them did not fully understand why he was in his present position; hence some reticence. It was one of those afternoons in early March that make one wonder how the rest of the world avoids emigrating to Louisiana in a body. "Is not the season early?" asked Frowenfeld. M. Grandissime believed it was; but then the Creole spring always seemed so, he said. The land was an inverted firmament of flowers. The birds were an innumerable, busy, joy-compelling multitude, darting and fluttering hither and thither, as one might imagine the babes do in heaven. The orange-groves were in blossom; their dark-green boughs seemed snowed upon from a cloud of incense, and a listening ear might catch an incessant, whispered trickle of falling petals, dropping "as the honey-comb." The magnolia was beginning to add to its dark and shining evergreen foliage frequent sprays of pale new leaves and long, slender, buff buds of others yet to come. The oaks, both the bare-armed and the "green-robed senators," the willows, and the plaqueminiers, were putting out their subdued florescence as if they smiled in grave participation with the laughing gardens. The homes that gave perfection to this beauty were those old, large, belvidered colonial villas, of which you may still here and there see one standing, battered into half ruin, high and broad, among foundries, cotton-and tobacco-sheds, junk-yards, and longshoremen's hovels, like one unconquered elephant in a wreck of artillery. In Frowenfeld's day the "smell of their garments was like Lebanon." They were seen by glimpses through chance openings in lofty hedges of Cherokee-rose or bois-d'arc, under boughs of cedar or pride-of-China, above their groves of orange or down their long, overarched avenues of oleander; and the lemon and the pomegranate, the banana, the fig, the shaddock, and at times even the mango and the guava, joined "hands around" and tossed their fragrant locks above the lilies and roses. Frowenfeld forgot to ask himself further concerning the probable intent of M. Grandissime's invitation to ride; these beauties seemed rich enough in good reasons. He felt glad and grateful. At a certain point the two horses turned of their own impulse, as by force of habit, and with a few clambering strides mounted to the top of the levee and stood still, facing the broad, dancing, hurrying, brimming river. The Creole stole an amused glance at the elated, self-forgetful look of his immigrant friend. "Mr. Frowenfeld," he said, as the delighted apothecary turned with unwonted suddenness and saw his smile, "I believe you like this better than discussion. You find it easier to be in harmony with Louisiana than with Louisianians, eh?" Frowenfeld colored with surprise. Something unpleasant had lately occurred in his shop. Was this to signify that M. Grandissime had heard of it? "I am a Louisianian," replied he, as if this were a point assailed. "I would not insinuate otherwise," said M. Grandissime, with a kindly gesture. "I would like you to feel so. We are citizens now of a different government from that under which we lived the morning we first met. Yet"--the Creole paused and smiled--"you are not, and I am glad you are not, what we call a Louisianian." Frowenfeld's color increased. He turned quickly in his saddle as if to say something very positive, but hesitated, restrained himself and asked: "Mr. Grandissime, is not your Creole 'we' a word that does much damage?" The Creole's response was at first only a smile, followed by a thoughtful countenance; but he presently said, with some suddenness: "My-de'-seh, yes. Yet you see I am, even this moment, forgetting we are not a separate people. Yes, our Creole 'we' does damage, and our Creole 'you' does more. I assure you, sir, I try hard to get my people to understand that it is time to stop calling those who come and add themselves to the community, aliens, interlopers, invaders. That is what I hear my cousins, 'Polyte and Sylvestre, in the heat of discussion, called you the other evening; is it so?" "I brought it upon myself," said Frowenfeld. "I brought it upon myself." "Ah!" interrupted M. Grandissime, with a broad smile, "excuse me--I am fully prepared to believe it. But the charge is a false one. I told them so. My-de'-seh--I know that a citizen of the United States in the United States has a right to become, and to be called, under the laws governing the case, a Louisianian, a Vermonter, or a Virginian, as it may suit his whim; and even if he should be found dishonest or dangerous, he has a right to be treated just exactly as we treat the knaves and ruffians who are native born! Every discreet man must admit that." "But if they do not enforce it, Mr. Grandissime," quickly responded the sore apothecary, "if they continually forget it--if one must surrender himself to the errors and crimes of the community as he finds it--" The Creole uttered a low laugh. "Party differences, Mr. Frowenfeld; they have them in all countries." "So your cousins said," said Frowenfeld. "And how did you answer them?" "Offensively," said the apothecary, with sincere mortification. "Oh! that was easy," replied the other, amusedly; "but how?" "I said that, having here only such party differences as are common elsewhere, we do not behave as they elsewhere do; that in most civilized countries the immigrant is welcome, but here he is not. I am afraid I have not learned the art of courteous debate," said Frowenfeld, with a smile of apology. "'Tis a great art," said the Creole, quietly, stroking his horse's neck. "I suppose my cousins denied your statement with indignation, eh?" "Yes; they said the honest immigrant is always welcome." "Well, do you not find that true?" "But, Mr. Grandissime, that is requiring the immigrant to prove his innocence!" Frowenfeld spoke from the heart. "And even the honest immigrant is welcome only when he leaves his peculiar opinions behind him. Is that right, sir?" The Creole smiled at Frowenfeld's heat. "My-de'-seh, my cousins complain that you advocate measures fatal to the prevailing order of society." "But," replied the unyielding Frowenfeld, turning redder than ever, "that is the very thing that American liberty gives me the right--peaceably--to do! Here is a structure of society defective, dangerous, erected on views of human relations which the world is abandoning as false; yet the immigrant's welcome is modified with the warning not to touch these false foundations with one of his fingers." "Did you tell my cousins the foundations of society here are false?" "I regret to say I did, very abruptly. I told them they were privately aware of the fact." "You may say," said the ever-amiable Creole, "that you allowed debate to run into controversy, eh?" Frowenfeld was silent; he compared the gentleness of this Creole's rebukes with the asperity of his advocacy of right, and felt humiliated. But M. Grandissime spoke with a rallying smile. "Mr. Frowenfeld, you never make pills with eight corners eh?" "No, sir." The apothecary smiled. "No, you make them round; cannot you make your doctrines the same way? My-de'-seh, you will think me impertinent; but the reason I speak is because I wish very much that you and my cousins would not be offended with each other. To tell you the truth, my-de'-seh, I hoped to use you with them--pardon my frankness." "If Louisiana had more men like you, M. Grandissime," cried the untrained Frowenfeld, "society would be less sore to the touch." "My-de'-seh," said the Creole, laying his hand out toward his companion and turning his horse in such a way as to turn the other also, "do me one favor; remember that it _is_ sore to the touch." The animals picked their steps down the inner face of the levee and resumed their course up the road at a walk. "Did you see that man just turn the bend of the road, away yonder?" the Creole asked. "Yes." "Did you recognize him?" "It was--my landlord, wasn't it?" "Yes. Did he not have a conversation with you lately, too?" "Yes, sir; why do you ask?" "It has had a bad effect on him. I wonder why he is out here on foot?" The horses quickened their paces. The two friends rode along in silence. Frowenfeld noticed his companion frequently cast an eye up along the distant sunset shadows of the road with a new anxiety. Yet, when M. Grandissime broke the silence it was only to say: "I suppose you find the blemishes in our state of society can all be attributed to one main defect, Mr. Frowenfeld?" Frowenfeld was glad of the chance to answer: "I have not overlooked that this society has disadvantages as well as blemishes; it is distant from enlightened centres; it has a language and religion different from that of the great people of which it is now called to be a part. That it has also positive blemishes of organism--" "Yes," interrupted the Creole, smiling at the immigrant's sudden magnanimity, "its positive blemishes; do they all spring from one main defect?" "I think not. The climate has its influence, the soil has its influence--dwellers in swamps cannot be mountaineers." "But after all," persisted the Creole, "the greater part of our troubles comes from--" "Slavery," said Frowenfeld, "or rather caste." "Exactly," said M. Grandissime. "You surprise me, sir," said the simple apothecary. "I supposed you were--" "My-de'-seh," exclaimed M. Grandissime, suddenly becoming very earnest, "I am nothing, nothing! There is where you have the advantage of me. I am but a _dilettante_, whether in politics, in philosophy, morals, or religion. I am afraid to go deeply into anything, lest it should make ruin in my name, my family, my property." He laughed unpleasantly. The question darted into Frowenfeld's mind, whether this might not be a hint of the matter that M. Grandissime had been trying to see him about. "Mr. Grandissime," he said, "I can hardly believe you would neglect a duty either for family, property, or society." "Well, you mistake," said the Creole, so coldly that Frowenfeld colored. They galloped on. M. Grandissime brightened again, almost to the degree of vivacity. By and by they slackened to a slow trot and were silent. The gardens had been long left behind, and they were passing between continuous Cherokee-rose hedges on the right and on the left, along that bend of the Mississippi where its waters, glancing off three miles above from the old De Macarty levee (now Carrollton), at the slightest opposition in the breeze go whirling and leaping like a herd of dervishes across to the ever-crumbling shore, now marked by the little yellow depot-house of Westwego. Miles up the broad flood the sun was disappearing gorgeously. From their saddles, the two horsemen feasted on the scene without comment. But presently, M. Grandissime uttered a low ejaculation and spurred his horse toward a tree hard by, preparing, as he went, to fasten his rein to an overhanging branch. Frowenfeld, agreeable to his beckon, imitated the movement. "I fear he intends to drown himself," whispered M. Grandissime, as they hurriedly dismounted. "Who? Not--" "Yes, your landlord, as you call him. He is on the flatboat; I saw his hat over the levee. When we get on top the levee, we must get right into it. But do not follow him into the water in front of the flat; it is certain death; no power of man could keep you from going under it." The words were quickly spoken; they scrambled to the levee's crown. Just abreast of them lay a flatboat, emptied of its cargo and moored to the levee. They leaped into it. A human figure swerved from the onset of the Creole and ran toward the bow of the boat, and in an instant more would have been in the river. "Stop!" said Frowenfeld, seizing the unresisting f.m.c. firmly by the collar. Honoré Grandissime smiled, partly at the apothecary's brief speech, but much more at his success. "Let him go, Mr. Frowenfeld," he said, as he came near. The silent man turned away his face with a gesture of shame. M. Grandissime, in a gentle voice, exchanged a few words with him, and he turned and walked away, gained the shore, descended the levee, and took a foot-path which soon hid him behind a hedge. "He gives his pledge not to try again," said the Creole, as the two companions proceeded to resume the saddle. "Do not look after him." (Joseph had cast a searching look over the hedge.) They turned homeward. "Ah! Mr. Frowenfeld," said the Creole, suddenly, "if the _immygrant_ has cause of complaint, how much more has _that_ man! True, it is only love for which he would have just now drowned himself; yet what an accusation, my-de'-seh, is his whole life against that 'caste' which shuts him up within its narrow and almost solitary limits! And yet, Mr. Frowenfeld, this people esteem this very same crime of caste the holiest and most precious of their virtues. My-de'-seh, it never occurs to us that in this matter we are interested, and therefore disqualified, witnesses. We say we are not understood; that the jury (the civilized world) renders its decision without viewing the body; that we are judged from a distance. We forget that we ourselves are too _close_ to see distinctly, and so continue, a spectacle to civilization, sitting in a horrible darkness, my-de'-seh!" He frowned. "The shadow of the Ethiopian," said the grave apothecary. M. Grandissime's quick gesture implied that Frowenfeld had said the very word. "Ah! my-de'-seh, when I try sometimes to stand outside and look at it, I am _ama-aze_ at the length, the blackness of that shadow!" (He was so deeply in earnest that he took no care of his English.) "It is the _Némésis_ w'ich, instead of coming afteh, glides along by the side of this morhal, political, commercial, social mistake! It blanches, my-de'-seh, ow whole civilization! It drhags us a centurhy behind the rhes' of the world! It rhetahds and poisons everhy industrhy we got!--mos' of all our-h immense agrhicultu'e! It brheeds a thousan' cusses that nevva leave home but jus' flutter-h up an' rhoost, my-de'-seh, on ow _heads_; an' we nevva know it!--yes, sometimes some of us know it." He changed the subject. They had repassed the ruins of Fort St. Louis, and were well within the precincts of the little city, when, as they pulled up from a final gallop, mention was made of Doctor Keene. He was improving; Honoré had seen him that morning; so, at another hour, had Frowenfeld. Doctor Keene had told Honoré about Palmyre's wound. "You was at her house again this morning?" asked the Creole. "Yes," said Frowenfeld. M. Grandissime shook his head warningly. "'Tis a dangerous business. You are almost sure to become the object of slander. You ought to tell Doctor Keene to make some other arrangement, or presently you, too, will be under the--" he lowered his voice, for Frowenfeld was dismounting at the shop door, and three or four acquaintances stood around--"under the 'shadow of the Ethiopian.'" CHAPTER XXVII THE FÊTE DE GRANDPÈRE Sojourners in New Orleans who take their afternoon drive down Esplanade street will notice, across on the right, between it and that sorry streak once fondly known as Champs Élysées, two or three large, old houses, rising above the general surroundings and displaying architectural features which identify them with an irrevocable past--a past when the faithful and true Creole could, without fear of contradiction, express his religious belief that the antipathy he felt for the Américain invader was an inborn horror laid lengthwise in his ante-natal bones by a discriminating and appreciative Providence. There is, for instance, or was until lately, one house which some hundred and fifteen years ago was the suburban residence of the old sea-captain governor, Kerlerec. It stands up among the oranges as silent and gray as a pelican, and, so far as we know, has never had one cypress plank added or subtracted since its master was called to France and thrown into the Bastile. Another has two dormer windows looking out westward, and, when the setting sun strikes the panes, reminds one of a man with spectacles standing up in an audience, searching for a friend who is not there and will never come back. These houses are the last remaining--if, indeed, they were not pulled down yesterday--of a group that once marked from afar the direction of the old highway between the city's walls and the suburb St. Jean. Here clustered the earlier aristocracy of the colony; all that pretty crew of counts, chevaliers, marquises, colonels, dons, etc., who loved their kings, and especially their kings' moneys, with an _abandon_ which affected the accuracy of nearly all their accounts. Among these stood the great mother-mansion of the Grandissimes. Do not look for it now; it is quite gone. The round, white-plastered brick pillars which held the house fifteen feet up from the reeking ground and rose on loftily to sustain the great overspreading roof, or clustered in the cool, paved basement; the lofty halls, with their multitudinous glitter of gilded brass and twinkle of sweet-smelling wax-candles; the immense encircling veranda, where twenty Creole girls might walk abreast; the great front stairs, descending from the veranda to the garden, with a lofty palm on either side, on whose broad steps forty Grandissimes could gather on a birthday afternoon; and the belvidere, whence you could see the cathedral, the Ursulines', the governor's mansion, and the river, far away, shining between the villas of Tchoupitoulas Coast--all have disappeared as entirely beyond recall as the flowers that bloomed in the gardens on the day of this _fête de grandpère_. Odd to say, it was not the grandpère's birthday that had passed. For weeks the happy children of the many Grandissime branches--the Mandarins, the St. Blancards, the Brahmins--had been standing with their uplifted arms apart, awaiting the signal to clap hands and jump, and still, from week to week, the appointed day had been made to fall back, and fall back before--what think you?--an inability to understand Honoré. It was a sad paradox in the history of this majestic old house that her best child gave her the most annoyance; but it had long been so. Even in Honoré's early youth, a scant two years after she had watched him, over the tops of her green myrtles and white and crimson oleanders, go away, a lad of fifteen, supposing he would of course come back a Grandissime of the Grandissimes--an inflexible of the inflexibles--he was found "inciting" (so the stately dames and officials who graced her front veranda called it) a Grandissime-De Grapion reconciliation by means of transatlantic letters, and reducing the flames of the old feud, rekindled by the Fusilier-Nancanou duel, to a little foul smoke. The main difficulty seemed to be that Honoré could not be satisfied with a clean conscience as to his own deeds and the peace and fellowships of single households; his longing was, and had ever been--he had inherited it from his father--to see one unbroken and harmonious Grandissime family gathering yearly under this venerated roof without reproach before all persons, classes, and races with whom they had ever had to do. It was not hard for the old mansion to forgive him once or twice; but she had had to do it often. It seems no over-stretch of fancy to say she sometimes gazed down upon his erring ways with a look of patient sadness in her large and beautiful windows. And how had that forbearance been rewarded? Take one short instance: when, seven years before this present _fête de grandpère_, he came back from Europe, and she (this old home which we cannot help but personify), though in trouble then--a trouble that sent up the old feud flames again--opened her halls to rejoice in him with the joy of all her gathered families, he presently said such strange things in favor of indiscriminate human freedom that for very shame's sake she hushed them up, in the fond hope that he would outgrow such heresies. But he? On top of all the rest, he declined a military commission and engaged in commerce--"shopkeeping, _parbleu!_" However, therein was developed a grain of consolation. Honoré became--as he chose to call it--more prudent. With much tact, Agricola was amiably crowded off the dictator's chair, to become, instead, a sort of seneschal. For a time the family peace was perfect, and Honoré, by a touch here to-day and a word there to-morrow, was ever lifting the name, and all who bore it, a little and a little higher; when suddenly, as in his father's day--that dear Numa who knew how to sacrifice his very soul, as a sort of Iphigenia for the propitiation of the family gods--as in Numa's day came the cession to Spain, so now fell this other cession, like an unexpected tornado, threatening the wreck of her children's slave-schooners and the prostration alike of their slave-made crops and their Spanish liberties; and just in the fateful moment where Numa would have stood by her, Honoré had let go. Ah, it was bitter! "See what foreign education does!" cried a Mandarin de Grandissime of the Baton Rouge Coast. "I am sorry now"--derisively--"that I never sent _my_ boy to France, am I not? No! No-o-o! I would rather my son should never know how to read, than that he should come back from Paris repudiating the sentiments and prejudices of his own father. Is education better than family peace? Ah, bah! My son make friends with Américains and tell me they--that call a negro 'monsieur'--are as good as his father? But that is what we get for letting Honoré become a merchant. Ha! the degradation! Shaking hands with men who do not believe in the slave trade! Shake hands? Yes; associate--fraternize! with apothecaries and negrophiles. And now we are invited to meet at the _fête de grandpère_, in the house where he is really the chief--the _caçique!_" No! The family would not come together on the first appointment; no, nor on the second; no, not if the grandpapa did express his wish; no, nor on the third--nor on the fourth. "_Non, Messieurs_!" cried both youth and reckless age; and, sometimes, also, the stronger heads of the family, the men of means, of force and of influence, urged on from behind by their proud and beautiful wives and daughters. Arms, generally, rather than heads, ruled there in those days. Sentiments (which are the real laws) took shape in accordance with the poetry, rather than the reason, of things, and the community recognized the supreme domination of "the gentleman" in questions of right and of "the ladies" in matters of sentiment. Under such conditions strength establishes over weakness a showy protection which is the subtlest of tyrannies, yet which, in the very moment of extending its arm over woman, confers upon her a power which a truer freedom would only diminish; constitutes her in a large degree an autocrat of public sentiment and thus accepts her narrowest prejudices and most belated errors as veriest need-be's of social life. The clans classified easily into three groups; there were those who boiled, those who stewed, and those who merely steamed under a close cover. The men in the first two groups were, for the most part, those who were holding office under old Spanish commissions, and were daily expecting themselves to be displaced and Louisiana thereby ruined. The steaming ones were a goodly fraction of the family--the timid, the apathetic, the "conservative." The conservatives found ease better than exactitude, the trouble of thinking great, the agony of deciding harrowing, and the alternative of smiling cynically and being liberal so much easier--and the warm weather coming on with a rapidity-wearying to contemplate. "The Yankee was an inferior animal." "Certainly." "But Honoré had a right to his convictions." "Yes, that was so, too." "It looked very traitorous, however." "Yes, so it did." "Nevertheless, it might turn out that Honoré was advancing the true interests of his people." "Very likely." "It would not do to accept office under the Yankee government." "Of course not." "Yet it would never do to let the Yankees get the offices, either." "That was true; nobody could deny that." "If Spain or France got the country back, they would certainly remember and reward those who had held out faithfully." "Certainly! That was an old habit with France and Spain." "But if they did not get the country back--" "Yes, that is so; Honoré is a very good fellow, and--" And, one after another, under the mild coolness of Honoré's amiable disregard, their indignation trickled back from steam to water, and they went on drawing their stipends, some in Honoré's counting-room, where they held positions, some from the provisional government, which had as yet made but few changes, and some, secretly, from the cunning Casa-Calvo; for, blow the wind east or blow the wind west, the affinity of the average Grandissime for a salary abideth forever. Then, at the right moment, Honoré made a single happy stroke, and even the hot Grandissimes, they of the interior parishes and they of Agricola's squadron, slaked and crumbled when he wrote each a letter saying that the governor was about to send them appointments, and that it would be well, if they wished to _evade_ them, to write the governor at once, surrendering their present commissions. Well! Evade? They would evade nothing! Do you think they would so belittle themselves as to write to the usurper? They would submit to keep the positions first. But the next move was Honoré's making the whole town aware of his apostasy. The great mansion, with the old grandpère sitting out in front, shivered. As we have seen, he had ridden through the Place d'Armes with the arch-usurper himself. Yet, after all, a Grandissime would be a Grandissime still; whatever he did he did openly. And wasn't that glorious--never to be ashamed of anything, no matter how bad? It was not everyone who could ride with the governor. And blood was so much thicker than vinegar that the family, that would not meet either in January or February, met in the first week of March, every constituent one of them. The feast has been eaten. The garden now is joyous with children and the veranda resplendent with ladies. From among the latter the eye quickly selects one. She is perceptibly taller than the others; she sits in their midst near the great hall entrance; and as you look at her there is no claim of ancestry the Grandissimes can make which you would not allow. Her hair, once black, now lifted up into a glistening snow-drift, augments the majesty of a still beautiful face, while her full stature and stately bearing suggest the finer parts of Agricola, her brother. It is Madame Grandissime, the mother of Honoré. One who sits at her left, and is very small, is a favorite cousin. On her right is her daughter, the widowed señora of José Martinez; she has wonderful black hair and a white brow as wonderful. The commanding carriage of the mother is tempered in her to a gentle dignity and calm, contrasting pointedly with the animated manners of the courtly matrons among whom she sits, and whose continuous conversation takes this direction or that, at the pleasure of Madame Grandissime. But if you can command your powers of attention, despite those children who are shouting Creole French and sliding down the rails of the front stair, turn the eye to the laughing squadron of beautiful girls, which every few minutes, at an end of the veranda, appears, wheels and disappears, and you note, as it were by flashes, the characteristics of face and figure that mark the Louisianaises in the perfection of the new-blown flower. You see that blondes are not impossible; there, indeed, are two sisters who might be undistinguishable twins but that one has blue eyes and golden hair. You note the exquisite pencilling of their eyebrows, here and there some heavier and more velvety, where a less vivacious expression betrays a share of Spanish blood. As Grandissimes, you mark their tendency to exceed the medium Creole stature, an appearance heightened by the fashion of their robes. There is scarcely a rose in all their cheeks, and a full red-ripeness of the lips would hardly be in keeping; but there is plenty of life in their eyes, which glance out between the curtains of their long lashes with a merry dancing that keeps time to the prattle of tongues. You are not able to get a straight look into them, and if you could you would see only your own image cast back in pitiful miniature; but you turn away and feel, as you fortify yourself with an inward smile, that they know you, you man, through and through, like a little song. And in turning, your sight is glad to rest again on the face of Honoré's mother. You see, this time, that she _is_ his mother, by a charm you had overlooked, a candid, serene and lovable smile. It is the wonder of those who see that smile that she can ever be harsh. The playful, mock-martial tread of the delicate Creole feet is all at once swallowed up by the sound of many heavier steps in the hall, and the fathers, grandfathers, sons, brothers, uncles and nephews of the great family come out, not a man of them that cannot, with a little care, keep on his feet. Their descendants of the present day sip from shallower glasses and with less marked results. The matrons, rising, offer the chief seat to the first comer, the great-grandsire--the oldest living Grandissime--Alcibiade, a shaken but unfallen monument of early colonial days, a browned and corrugated souvenir of De Vaudreuil's pomps, of O'Reilly's iron rule, of Galvez' brilliant wars--a man who had seen Bienville and Zephyr Grandissime. With what splendor of manner Madame Fusilier de Grandissime offers, and he accepts, the place of honor! Before he sits down he pauses a moment to hear out the companion on whose arm he had been leaning. But Théophile, a dark, graceful youth of eighteen, though he is recounting something with all the oblivious ardor of his kind, becomes instantly silent, bows with grave deference to the ladies, hands the aged forefather gracefully to his seat, and turning, recommences the recital before one who hears all with the same perfect courtesy--his beloved cousin Honoré. Meanwhile, the gentlemen throng out. Gallant crew! These are they who have been pausing proudly week after week in an endeavor (?) to understand the opaque motives of Numa's son. In the middle of the veranda pauses a tall, muscular man of fifty, with the usual smooth face and an iron-gray queue. That is Colonel Agamemnon Brahmin de Grandissime, purveyor to the family's military pride, conservator of its military glory, and, after Honoré, the most admired of the name. Achille Grandissime, he who took Agricola away from Frowenfeld's shop in the carriage, essays to engage Agamemnon in conversation, and the colonel, with a glance at his kinsman's nether limbs and another at his own, and with that placid facility with which the graver sort of Creoles take up the trivial topics of the lighter, grapples the subject of boots. A tall, bronzed, slender young man, who prefixes to Grandissime the maternal St. Blancard, asks where his wife is, is answered from a distance, throws her a kiss and sits down on a step, with Jean Baptiste de Grandissime, a piratical-looking black-beard, above him, and Alphonse Mandarin, an olive-skinned boy, below. Valentine Grandissime, of Tchoupitoulas, goes quite down to the bottom of the steps and leans against the balustrade. He is a large, broad-shouldered, well-built man, and, as he stands smoking a cigar, with his black-stockinged legs crossed, he glances at the sky with the eye of a hunter--or, it may be, of a sailor. "Valentine will not marry," says one of two ladies who lean over the rail of the veranda above. "I wonder why." The other fixes on her a meaning look, and she twitches her shoulders and pouts, seeing she has asked a foolish question, the answer to which would only put Valentine in a numerous class and do him no credit. Such were the choice spirits of the family. Agricola had retired. Raoul was there; his pretty auburn head might have been seen about half-way up the steps, close to one well sprinkled with premature gray. "No such thing!" exclaimed his companion. (The conversation was entirely in Creole French.) "I give you my sacred word of honor!" cried Raoul. "That Honoré is having all his business carried on in English?" asked the incredulous Sylvestre. (Such was his name.) "I swear--" replied Raoul, resorting to his favorite pledge--"on a stack of Bibles that high!" "Ah-h-h-h, pf-f-f-f-f!" This polite expression of unbelief was further emphasized by a spasmodic flirt of one hand, with the thumb pointed outward. "Ask him! ask him!" cried Raoul. "Honoré!" called Sylvestre, rising up. Two or three persons passed the call around the corner of the veranda. Honoré came with a chain of six girls on either arm. By the time he arrived, there was a Babel of discussion. "Raoul says you have ordered all your books and accounts to be written in English," said Sylvestre. "Well?" "It is not true, is it?" "Yes." The entire veranda of ladies raised one long-drawn, deprecatory "Ah!" except Honoré's mother. She turned upon him a look of silent but intense and indignant disappointment. "Honoré!" cried Sylvestre, desirous of repairing his defeat, "Honoré!" But Honoré was receiving the clamorous abuse of the two half dozens of girls. "Honoré!" cried Sylvestre again, holding up a torn scrap of writing-paper which bore the marks of the counting-room floor and of a boot-heel, "how do you spell 'la-dee?'" There was a moment's hush to hear the answer. "Ask Valentine," said Honoré. Everybody laughed aloud. That taciturn man's only retort was to survey the company above him with an unmoved countenance, and to push the ashes slowly from his cigar with his little finger. M. Valentine Grandissime, of Tchoupitoulas, could not read. "Show it to Agricola," cried two or three, as that great man came out upon the veranda, heavy-eyed, and with tumbled hair. Sylvestre, spying Agricola's head beyond the ladies, put the question. "How is it spelled on that paper?" retorted the king of beasts. "L-a-y--" "Ignoramus!" growled the old man. "I did not spell it," cried Raoul, and attempted to seize the paper. But Sylvestre throwing his hand behind him, a lady snatched the paper, two or three cried "Give it to Agricola!" and a pretty boy, whom the laughter and excitement had lured from the garden, scampered up the steps and handed it to the old man. "Honoré!" cried Raoul, "it must not be read. It is one of your private matters." But Raoul's insinuation that anybody would entrust him with a private matter brought another laugh. Honoré nodded to his uncle to read it out, and those who could not understand English, as well as those who could, listened. It was a paper Sylvestre had picked out of a waste-basket on the day of Aurore's visit to the counting-room. Agricola read: "What is that layde want in thare with Honoré?" "Honoré is goin giv her bac that proprety--that is Aurore De Grapion what Agricola kill the husband." That was the whole writing, but Agricola never finished. He was reading aloud--"that is Aurore De Grap--" At that moment he dropped the paper and blackened with wrath; a sharp flash of astonishment ran through the company; an instant of silence followed and Agricola's thundering voice rolled down upon Sylvestre in a succession of terrible imprecations. It was painful to see the young man's face as, speechless, he received this abuse. He stood pale and frightened, with a smile playing about his mouth, half of distress and half of defiance, that said as plain as a smile could say, "Uncle Agricola, you will have to pay for this mistake." As the old man ceased, Sylvestre turned and cast a look downward to Valentine Grandissime, then walked up the steps, and passing with a courteous bow through the group that surrounded Agricola, went into the house. Valentine looked at the zenith, then at his shoe-buckles, tossed his cigar quietly into the grass and passed around a corner of the house to meet Sylvestre in the rear. Honoré had already nodded to his uncle to come aside with him, and Agricola had done so. The rest of the company, save a few male figures down in the garden, after some feeble efforts to keep up their spirits on the veranda, remarked the growing coolness or the waning daylight, and singly or in pairs withdrew. It was not long before Raoul, who had come up upon the veranda, was left alone. He seemed to wait for something, as, leaning over the rail while the stars came out, he sang to himself, in a soft undertone, a snatch of a Creole song: "La pluie--la pluie tombait, Crapaud criait, Moustique chantait--" The moon shone so brightly that the children in the garden did not break off their hide-and-seek, and now and then Raoul suspended the murmur of his song, absorbed in the fate of some little elf gliding from one black shadow to crouch in another. He was himself in the deep shade of a magnolia, over whose outer boughs the moonlight was trickling, as if the whole tree had been dipped in quicksilver. In the broad walk running down to the garden gate some six or seven dark forms sat in chairs, not too far away for the light of their cigars to be occasionally seen and their voices to reach his ear; but he did not listen. In a little while there came a light footstep, and a soft, mock-startled "Who is that?" and one of that same sparkling group of girls that had lately hung upon Honoré came so close to Raoul, in her attempt to discern his lineaments, that their lips accidentally met. They had but a moment of hand-in-hand converse before they were hustled forth by a feminine scouting party and thrust along into one of the great rooms of the house, where the youth and beauty of the Grandissimes were gathered in an expansive semicircle around a languishing fire, waiting to hear a story, or a song, or both, or half a dozen of each, from that master of narrative and melody, Raoul Innerarity. "But mark," they cried unitedly, "you have got to wind up with the story of Bras-Coupé!" "A song! A song!" "_Une chanson Créole! Une chanson des nègres!_" "Sing 'yé tolé dancé la doung y doung doung!'" cried a black-eyed girl. Raoul explained that it had too many objectionable phrases. "Oh, just hum the objectionable phrases and go right on." But instead he sang them this: "_La prémier' fois mo té 'oir li, Li té posé au bord so lit; Mo di', Bouzon, bel n'amourèse! L'aut' fois li té si' so la saise Comme vié Madam dans so fauteil, Quand li vivé cóté soleil. So giés yé té plis noir passé la nouitte, So dé la lev' plis doux passe la quitte! Tou' mo la vie, zamein mo oir Ein n' amourèse zoli comme ça! Mo' blié manzé--mo' blié boir'-- Mo' blié tout dipi ç' temps-là-- Mo' blié parlé--mo' blié dormi, Quand mo pensé aprés zami!_" "And you have heard Bras-Coupé sing that, yourself?" "Once upon a time," said Raoul, warming with his subject, "we were coming down from Pointe Macarty in three pirogues. We had been three days fishing and hunting in Lake Salvador. Bras-Coupé had one pirogue with six paddles--" "Oh, yes!" cried a youth named Baltazar; "sing that, Raoul!" And he sang that. "But oh, Raoul, sing that song the negroes sing when they go out in the bayous at night, stealing pigs and chickens!" "That boat song, do you mean, which they sing as a signal to those on shore?" He hummed. [Illustration: Music] "Dé zabs, dé zabs, dé counou ouaïe ouaïe, Dé zabs, dé zabs, dé counou ouaïe ouaïe, Counou ouaïe ouaïe ouaïe ouaïe, Counou ouaïe ouaïe ouaïe ouaïe, Counou ouaïe ouaïe ouaïe, momza; Momza, momza, momza, momza, Roza, roza, roza-et--momza." This was followed by another and still another, until the hour began to grow late. And then they gathered closer around him and heard the promised story. At the same hour Honoré Grandissime, wrapping himself in a greatcoat and giving himself up to sad and somewhat bitter reflections, had wandered from the paternal house, and by and by from the grounds, not knowing why or whither, but after a time soliciting, at Frowenfeld's closing door, the favor of his company. He had been feeling a kind of suffocation. This it was that made him seek and prize the presence and hand-grasp of the inexperienced apothecary. He led him out to the edge of the river. Here they sat down, and with a laborious attempt at a hard and jesting mood, Honoré told the same dark story. CHAPTER XXVIII THE STORY OF BRAS-COUPÉ "A very little more than eight years ago," began Honoré--but not only Honoré, but Raoul also; and not only they, but another, earlier on the same day,--Honoré, the f.m.c. But we shall not exactly follow the words of any one of these. Bras-Coupé, they said, had been, in Africa and under another name, a prince among his people. In a certain war of conquest, to which he had been driven by _ennui_, he was captured, stripped of his royalty, marched down upon the beach of the Atlantic, and, attired as a true son of Adam, with two goodly arms intact, became a commodity. Passing out of first hands in barter for a looking-glass, he was shipped in good order and condition on board the good schooner _Égalité_, whereof Blank was master, to be delivered without delay at the port of Nouvelle Orléans (the dangers of fire and navigation excepted), unto Blank Blank. In witness whereof, He that made men's skins of different colors, but all blood of one, hath entered the same upon His book, and sealed it to the day of judgment. Of the voyage little is recorded--here below; the less the better. Part of the living merchandise failed to keep; the weather was rough, the cargo large, the vessel small. However, the captain discovered there was room over the side, and there--all flesh is grass--from time to time during the voyage he jettisoned the unmerchantable. Yet, when the reopened hatches let in the sweet smell of the land, Bras-Coupé had come to the upper--the favored--the buttered side of the world; the anchor slid with a rumble of relief down through the muddy fathoms of the Mississippi, and the prince could hear through the schooner's side the savage current of the river, leaping and licking about the bows, and whimpering low welcomes home. A splendid picture to the eyes of the royal captive, as his head came up out of the hatchway, was the little Franco-Spanish-American city that lay on the low, brimming bank. There were little forts that showed their whitewashed teeth; there was a green parade-ground, and yellow barracks, and cabildo, and hospital, and cavalry stables, and custom-house, and a most inviting jail, convenient to the cathedral--all of dazzling white and yellow, with a black stripe marking the track of the conflagration of 1794, and here and there among the low roofs a lofty one with round-topped dormer windows and a breezy belvidere looking out upon the plantations of coffee and indigo beyond the town. When Bras-Coupé staggered ashore, he stood but a moment among a drove of "likely boys," before Agricola Fusilier, managing the business adventures of the Grandissime estate, as well as the residents thereon, and struck with admiration for the physical beauties of the chieftain (a man may even fancy a negro--as a negro), bought the lot, and, both to resell him with the rest to some unappreciative 'Cadian, induced Don José Martinez' overseer to become his purchaser. Down in the rich parish of St. Bernard (whose boundary line now touches that of the distended city) lay the plantation, known before Bras-Coupé passed away as La Renaissance. Here it was that he entered at once upon a chapter of agreeable surprises. He was humanely met, presented with a clean garment, lifted into a cart drawn by oxen, taken to a whitewashed cabin of logs, finer than his palace at home, and made to comprehend that it was a free gift. He was also given some clean food, whereupon he fell sick. At home it would have been the part of piety for the magnate next the throne to launch him heavenward at once; but now, healing doses were administered, and to his amazement he recovered. It reminded him that he was no longer king. His name, he replied to an inquiry touching that subject, was --------, something in the Jaloff tongue, which he by and by condescended to render into Congo: Mioko-Koanga; in French Bras-Coupé; the Arm Cut Off. Truly it would have been easy to admit, had this been his meaning, that his tribe, in losing him, had lost its strong right arm close off at the shoulder; not so easy for his high-paying purchaser to allow, if this other was his intent: that the arm which might no longer shake the spear or swing the wooden sword was no better than a useless stump never to be lifted for aught else. But whether easy to allow or not, that was his meaning. He made himself a type of all Slavery, turning into flesh and blood the truth that all Slavery is maiming. He beheld more luxury in a week than all his subjects had seen in a century. Here Congo girls were dressed in cottons and flannels worth, where he came from, an elephant's tusk apiece. Everybody wore clothes--children and lads alone excepted. Not a lion had invaded the settlement since his immigration. The serpents were as nothing; an occasional one coming up through the floor--that was all. True, there was more emaciation than unassisted conjecture could explain--a profusion of enlarged joints and diminished muscles, which, thank God, was even then confined to a narrow section and disappeared with Spanish rule. He had no experimental knowledge of it; nay, regular meals, on the contrary, gave him anxious concern, yet had the effect--spite of his apprehension that he was being fattened for a purpose--of restoring the herculean puissance which formerly in Africa had made him the terror of the battle. When one day he had come to be quite himself, he was invited out into the sunshine, and escorted by the driver (a sort of foreman to the overseer), went forth dimly wondering. They reached a field where some men and women were hoeing. He had seen men and women--subjects of his--labor--a little--in Africa. The driver handed him a hoe; he examined it with silent interest--until by signs he was requested to join the pastime. "What?" He spoke, not with his lips, but with the recoil of his splendid frame and the ferocious expansion of his eyes. This invitation was a cataract of lightning leaping down an ink-black sky. In one instant of all-pervading clearness he read his sentence--WORK. Bras-Coupé was six feet five. With a sweep as quick as instinct the back of the hoe smote the driver full in the head. Next, the prince lifted the nearest Congo crosswise, brought thirty-two teeth together in his wildly kicking leg and cast him away as a bad morsel; then, throwing another into the branches of a willow, and a woman over his head into a draining-ditch, he made one bound for freedom, and fell to his knees, rocking from side to side under the effect of a pistol-ball from the overseer. It had struck him in the forehead, and running around the skull in search of a penetrable spot, tradition--which sometimes jests--says came out despairingly, exactly where it had entered. It so happened that, except the overseer, the whole company were black. Why should the trivial scandal be blabbed? A plaster or two made everything even in a short time, except in the driver's case--for the driver died. The woman whom Bras-Coupé had thrown over his head lived to sell _calas_ to Joseph Frowenfeld. Don José, young and austere, knew nothing about agriculture and cared as much about human nature. The overseer often thought this, but never said it; he would not trust even himself with the dangerous criticism. When he ventured to reveal the foregoing incidents to the señor he laid all the blame possible upon the man whom death had removed beyond the reach of correction, and brought his account to a climax by hazarding the asserting that Bras-Coupé was an animal that could not be whipped. "Caramba!" exclaimed the master, with gentle emphasis, "how so?" "Perhaps señor had better ride down to the quarters," replied the overseer. It was a great sacrifice of dignity, but the master made it. "Bring him out." They brought him out--chains on his feet, chains on his wrists, an iron yoke on his neck. The Spanish Creole master had often seen the bull, with his long, keen horns and blazing eye, standing in the arena; but this was as though he had come face to face with a rhinoceros. "This man is not a Congo," he said. "He is a Jaloff," replied the encouraged overseer. "See his fine, straight nose; moreover, he is a _candio_--a prince. If I whip him he will die." The dauntless captive and fearless master stood looking into each other's eyes until each recognized in the other his peer in physical courage, and each was struck with an admiration for the other which no after difference was sufficient entirely to destroy. Had Bras-Coupé's eye quailed but once--just for one little instant--he would have got the lash; but, as it was-- "Get an interpreter," said Don José; then, more privately, "and come to an understanding. I shall require it of you." Where might one find an interpreter--one not merely able to render a Jaloff's meaning into Creole French, or Spanish, but with such a turn for diplomatic correspondence as would bring about an "understanding" with this African buffalo? The overseer was left standing and thinking, and Clemence, who had not forgotten who threw her into the draining-ditch, cunningly passed by. "Ah, Clemence--" "_Mo pas capabe! Mo pas capabe!_ (I cannot, I cannot!) _Ya, ya, ya! 'oir Miché Agricol' Fusilier! ouala yune bon monture, oui!_"--which was to signify that Agricola could interpret the very Papa Lébat. "Agricola Fusilier! The last man on earth to make peace." But there seemed to be no choice, and to Agricola the overseer went. It was but a little ride to the Grandissime place. "I, Agricola Fusilier, stand as an interpreter to a negro? H-sir!" "But I thought you might know of some person," said the weakening applicant, rubbing his ear with his hand. "Ah!" replied Agricola, addressing the surrounding scenery, "if I did not--who would? You may take Palmyre." The overseer softly smote his hands together at the happy thought. "Yes," said Agricola, "take Palmyre; she has picked up as many negro dialects as I know European languages." And she went to the don's plantation as interpreter, followed by Agricola's prayer to Fate that she might in some way be overtaken by disaster. The two hated each other with all the strength they had. He knew not only her pride, but her passion for the absent Honoré. He hated her, also, for her intelligence, for the high favor in which she stood with her mistress, and for her invincible spirit, which was more offensively patent to him than to others, since he was himself the chief object of her silent detestation. It was Palmyre's habit to do nothing without painstaking. "When Mademoiselle comes to be Señora," thought she--she knew that her mistress and the don were affianced--"it will be well to have a Señor's esteem. I shall endeavor to succeed." It was from this motive, then, that with the aid of her mistress she attired herself in a resplendence of scarlet and beads and feathers that could not fail the double purpose of connecting her with the children of Ethiopia and commanding the captive's instant admiration. Alas for those who succeed too well! No sooner did the African turn his tiger glance upon her than the fire of his eyes died out; and when she spoke to him in the dear accents of his native tongue, the matter of strife vanished from his mind. He loved. He sat down tamely in his irons and listened to Palmyre's argument as a wrecked mariner would listen to ghostly church-bells. He would give a short assent, feast his eyes, again assent, and feast his ears; but when at length she made bold to approach the actual issue, and finally uttered the loathed word, _Work_, he rose up, six feet five, a statue of indignation in black marble. And then Palmyre, too, rose up, glorying in him, and went to explain to master and overseer. Bras-Coupé understood, she said, that he was a slave--it was the fortune of war, and he was a warrior; but, according to a generally recognized principle in African international law, he could not reasonably be expected to work. "As Señor will remember I told him," remarked the overseer; "how can a man expect to plow with a zebra?" Here he recalled a fact in his earlier experience. An African of this stripe had been found to answer admirably as a "driver" to make others work. A second and third parley, extending through two or three days, were held with the prince, looking to his appointment to the vacant office of driver; yet what was the master's amazement to learn at length that his Highness declined the proffered honor. "Stop!" spoke the overseer again, detecting a look of alarm in Palmyre's face as she turned away, "he doesn't do any such thing. If Señor will let me take the man to Agricola--" "No!" cried Palmyre, with an agonized look, "I will tell. He will take the place and fill it if you will give me to him for his own--but oh, messieurs, for the love of God--I do not want to be his wife!" The overseer looked at the Señor, ready to approve whatever he should decide. Bras-Coupé's intrepid audacity took the Spaniard's heart by irresistible assault. "I leave it entirely with Señor Fusilier," he said. "But he is not my master; he has no right--" "Silence!" And she was silent; and so, sometimes, is fire in the wall. Agricola's consent was given with malicious promptness, and as Bras-Coupé's fetters fell off it was decreed that, should he fill his office efficiently, there should be a wedding on the rear veranda of the Grandissime mansion simultaneously with the one already appointed to take place in the grand hall of the same house six months from that present day. In the meanwhile Palmyre should remain with Mademoiselle, who had promptly but quietly made up her mind that Palmyre should not be wed unless she wished to be. Bras-Coupé made no objection, was royally worthless for a time, but learned fast, mastered the "gumbo" dialect in a few weeks, and in six months was the most valuable man ever bought for gourde dollars. Nevertheless, there were but three persons within as many square miles who were not most vividly afraid of him. The first was Palmyre. His bearing in her presence was ever one of solemn, exalted respect, which, whether from pure magnanimity in himself, or by reason of her magnetic eye, was something worth being there to see. "It was royal!" said the overseer. The second was not that official. When Bras-Coupé said--as, at stated intervals, he did say--"_Mo courri c'ez Agricole Fusilier pou' 'oir 'namourouse_ (I go to Agricola Fusilier to see my betrothed,)" the overseer would sooner have intercepted a score of painted Chickasaws than that one lover. He would look after him and shake a prophetic head. "Trouble coming; better not deceive that fellow;" yet that was the very thing Palmyre dared do. Her admiration for Bras-Coupé was almost boundless. She rejoiced in his stature; she revelled in the contemplation of his untamable spirit; he seemed to her the gigantic embodiment of her own dark, fierce will, the expanded realization of her lifetime longing for terrible strength. But the single deficiency in all this impassioned regard was--what so many fairer loves have found impossible to explain to so many gentler lovers--an entire absence of preference; her heart she could not give him--she did not have it. Yet after her first prayer to the Spaniard and his overseer for deliverance, to the secret surprise and chagrin of her young mistress, she simulated content. It was artifice; she knew Agricola's power, and to seem to consent was her one chance with him. He might thus be beguiled into withdrawing his own consent. That failing, she had Mademoiselle's promise to come to the rescue, which she could use at the last moment; and that failing, there was a dirk in her bosom, for which a certain hard breast was not too hard. Another element of safety, of which she knew nothing, was a letter from the Cannes Brulée. The word had reached there that love had conquered--that, despite all hard words, and rancor, and positive injury, the Grandissime hand--the fairest of Grandissime hands--was about to be laid into that of one who without much stretch might be called a De Grapion; that there was, moreover, positive effort being made to induce a restitution of old gaming-table spoils. Honoré and Mademoiselle, his sister, one on each side of the Atlantic, were striving for this end. Don José sent this intelligence to his kinsman as glad tidings (a lover never imagines there are two sides to that which makes him happy), and, to add a touch of humor, told how Palmyre, also, was given to the chieftain. The letter that came back to the young Spaniard did not blame him so much: _he_ was ignorant of all the facts; but a very formal one to Agricola begged to notify him that if Palmyre's union with Bras-Coupé should be completed, as sure as there was a God in heaven, the writer would have the life of the man who knowingly had thus endeavored to dishonor one who _shared the blood of the De Grapions_. Thereupon Agricola, contrary to his general character, began to drop hints to Don José that the engagement of Bras-Coupé and Palmyre need not be considered irreversible; but the don was not desirous of disappointing his terrible pet. Palmyre, unluckily, played her game a little too deeply. She thought the moment had come for herself to insist on the match, and thus provoke Agricola to forbid it. To her incalculable dismay she saw him a second time reconsider and become silent. The second person who did not fear Bras-Coupé was Mademoiselle. On one of the giant's earliest visits to see Palmyre he obeyed the summons which she brought him, to appear before the lady. A more artificial man might have objected on the score of dress, his attire being a single gaudy garment tightly enveloping the waist and thighs. As his eyes fell upon the beautiful white lady he prostrated himself upon the ground, his arms outstretched before him. He would not move till she was gone. Then he arose like a hermit who has seen a vision. "_Bras-Coupé n' pas oulé oir zombis_ (Bras-Coupé dares not look upon a spirit)." From that hour he worshipped. He saw her often; every time, after one glance at her countenance, he would prostrate his gigantic length with his face in the dust. The third person who did not fear him was--Agricola? Nay, it was the Spaniard--a man whose capability to fear anything in nature or beyond had never been discovered. Long before the end of his probation Bras-Coupé would have slipped the entanglements of bondage, though as yet he felt them only as one feels a spider's web across the face, had not the master, according to a little affectation of the times, promoted him to be his game-keeper. Many a day did these two living magazines of wrath spend together in the dismal swamps and on the meagre intersecting ridges, making war upon deer and bear and wildcat; or on the Mississippi after wild goose and pelican; when even a word misplaced would have made either the slayer of the other. Yet the months ran smoothly round and the wedding night drew nigh[3]. A goodly company had assembled. All things were ready. The bride was dressed, the bridegroom had come. On the great back piazza, which had been inclosed with sail-cloth and lighted with lanterns, was Palmyre, full of a new and deep design and playing her deceit to the last, robed in costly garments to whose beauty was added the charm of their having been worn once, and once only, by her beloved Mademoiselle. [Footnote 3: An over-zealous Franciscan once complained bitterly to the bishop of Havana, that people were being married in Louisiana in their own houses after dark and thinking nothing of it. It is not certain that he had reference to the Grandissime mansion; at any rate he was tittered down by the whole community.] But where was Bras-Coupé? The question was asked of Palmyre by Agricola with a gaze that meant in English, "No tricks, girl!" Among the servants who huddled at the windows and door to see the inner magnificence a frightened whisper was already going round. "We have made a sad discovery, Miché Fusilier," said the overseer. "Bras-Coupé is here; we have him in a room just yonder. But--the truth is, sir, Bras-Coupé is a voudou." "Well, and suppose he is; what of it? Only hush; do not let his master know it. It is nothing; all the blacks are voudous, more or less." "But he declines to dress himself--has painted himself all rings and stripes, antelope fashion." "Tell him Agricola Fusilier says, 'dress immediately!'" "Oh, Miché, we have said that five times already, and his answer--you will pardon me--his answer is--spitting on the ground--that you are a contemptible _dotchian_ (white trash)." There is nothing to do but privily to call the very bride--the lady herself. She comes forth in all her glory, small, but oh, so beautiful! Slam! Bras-Coupé is upon his face, his finger-tips touching the tips of her snowy slippers. She gently bids him go and dress, and at once he goes. Ah! now the question may be answered without whispering. There is Bras-Coupé, towering above all heads, in ridiculous red and blue regimentals, but with a look of savage dignity upon him that keeps every one from laughing. The murmur of admiration that passed along the thronged gallery leaped up into a shout in the bosom of Palmyre. Oh, Bras-Coupé--heroic soul! She would not falter. She would let the silly priest say his say--then her cunning should help her _not to be_ his wife, yet to show his mighty arm how and when to strike. "He is looking for Palmyre," said some, and at that moment he saw her. "Ho-o-o-o-o!" Agricola's best roar was a penny trumpet to Bras-Coupé's note of joy. The whole masculine half of the indoor company flocked out to see what the matter was. Bras-Coupé was taking her hand in one of his and laying his other upon her head; and as some one made an unnecessary gesture for silence, he sang, beating slow and solemn time with his naked foot and with the hand that dropped hers to smite his breast: "'_En haut la montagne, zami, Mo pé coupé canne, zami, Pou' fé l'a'zen' zami, Pou' mo baille Palmyre. Ah! Palmyre, Palmyre mo c'ere, Mo l'aimé 'ou'--mo l'aimé 'ou'_.'" "_Montagne?_" asked one slave of another, "_qui est çà, montagne? gnia pas quiç 'ose comme çà dans la Louisiana?_ (What's a mountain?" We haven't such things in Louisiana.)" "_Mein ye gagnein plein montagnes dans l'Afrique_, listen!" "'_Ah! Palmyre, Palmyre, mo' piti zozo,' Mo l'aimé 'ou'--mo l'aimé, l'aimé 'ou'_.'" "Bravissimo!--" but just then a counter-attraction drew the white company back into the house. An old French priest with sandalled feet and a dirty face had arrived. There was a moment of handshaking with the good father, then a moment of palpitation and holding of the breath, and then--you would have known it by the turning away of two or three feminine heads in tears--the lily hand became the don's, to have and to hold, by authority of the Church and the Spanish king. And all was merry, save that outside there was coming up as villanous a night as ever cast black looks in through snug windows. It was just as the newly-wed Spaniard, with Agricola and all the guests, were concluding the byplay of marrying the darker couple, that the hurricane struck the dwelling. The holy and jovial father had made faint pretence of kissing this second bride; the ladies, colonels, dons, etc.,--though the joke struck them as a trifle coarse--were beginning to laugh and clap hands again and the gowned jester to bow to right and left, when Bras-Coupé, tardily realizing the consummation of his hopes, stepped forward to embrace his wife. "Bras-Coupé!" The voice was that of Palmyre's mistress. She had not been able to comprehend her maid's behavior, but now Palmyre had darted upon her an appealing look. The warrior stopped as if a javelin had flashed over his head and stuck in the wall. "Bras-Coupé must wait till I give him his wife." He sank, with hidden face, slowly to the floor. "Bras-Coupé hears the voice of zombis; the voice is sweet, but the words are very strong; from the same sugar-cane comes _sirop_ and _tafia_; Bras-Coupé says to zombis, 'Bras-Coupé will wait; but if the _dotchians_ deceive Bras-Coupé--" he rose to his feet with his eyes closed and his great black fist lifted over his head--"Bras-Coupé will call Voudou-Magnan!" The crowd retreated and the storm fell like a burst of infernal applause. A whiff like fifty witches flouted up the canvas curtain of the gallery and a fierce black cloud, drawing the moon under its cloak, belched forth a stream of fire that seemed to flood the ground; a peal of thunder followed as if the sky had fallen in, the house quivered, the great oaks groaned, and every lesser thing bowed down before the awful blast. Every lip held its breath for a minute--or an hour, no one knew--there was a sudden lull of the wind, and the floods came down. Have you heard it thunder and rain in those Louisiana lowlands? Every clap seems to crack the world. It has rained a moment; you peer through the black pane--your house is an island, all the land is sea. However, the supper was spread in the hall and in due time the guests were filled. Then a supper was spread in the big hall in the basement, below stairs, the sons and daughters of Ham came down like the fowls of the air upon a rice-field, and Bras-Coupé, throwing his heels about with the joyous carelessness of a smutted Mercury, for the first time in his life tasted the blood of the grape. A second, a fifth, a tenth time he tasted it, drinking more deeply each time, and would have taken it ten times more had not his bride cunningly concealed it. It was like stealing a tiger's kittens. The moment quickly came when he wanted his eleventh bumper. As he presented his request a silent shiver of consternation ran through the dark company; and when, in what the prince meant as a remonstrative tone, he repeated the petition--splitting the table with his fist by way of punctuation--there ensued a hustling up staircases and a cramming into dim corners that left him alone at the banquet. Leaving the table, he strode upstairs and into the chirruping and dancing of the grand salon. There was a halt in the cotillion and a hush of amazement like the shutting off of steam. Bras-Coupé strode straight to his master, laid his paw upon his fellow-bridegroom's shoulder and in a thunder-tone demanded: "More!" The master swore a Spanish oath, lifted his hand and--fell, beneath the terrific fist of his slave, with a bang that jingled the candelabra. Dolorous stroke!--for the dealer of it. Given, apparently to him--poor, tipsy savage--in self-defence, punishable, in a white offender, by a small fine or a few days' imprisonment, it assured Bras-Coupé the death of a felon; such was the old _Code Noir_. (We have a _Code Noir_ now, but the new one is a mental reservation, not an enactment.) The guests stood for an instant as if frozen, smitten stiff with the instant expectation of insurrection, conflagration and rapine (just as we do to-day whenever some poor swaggering Pompey rolls up his fist and gets a ball through his body), while, single-handed and naked-fisted in a room full of swords, the giant stood over his master, making strange signs and passes and rolling out in wrathful words of his mother tongue what it needed no interpreter to tell his swarming enemies was a voudou malediction. "_Nous sommes grigis!_" screamed two or three ladies, "we are bewitched!" "Look to your wives and daughters!" shouted a Brahmin-Mandarin. "Shoot the black devils without mercy!" cried a Mandarin-Fusilier, unconsciously putting into a single outflash of words the whole Creole treatment of race troubles. With a single bound Bras-Coupé reached the drawing-room door; his gaudy regimentals made a red and blue streak down the hall; there was a rush of frilled and powdered gentlemen to the rear veranda, an avalanche of lightning with Bras-Coupé in the midst making for the swamp, and then all without was blackness of darkness and all within was a wild commingled chatter of Creole, French, and Spanish tongues,--in the midst of which the reluctant Agricola returned his dresssword to its scabbard. While the wet lanterns swung on crazily in the trees along the way by which the bridegroom was to have borne his bride; while Madame Grandissime prepared an impromptu bridalchamber; while the Spaniard bathed his eye and the blue gash on his cheek-bone; while Palmyre paced her room in a fever and wild tremor of conflicting emotions throughout the night, and the guests splashed home after the storm as best they could, Bras-Coupé was practically declaring his independence on a slight rise of ground hardly sixty feet in circumference and lifted scarce above the water in the inmost depths of the swamp. And amid what surroundings! Endless colonnades of cypresses; long, motionless drapings of gray moss; broad sheets of noisome waters, pitchy black, resting on bottomless ooze; cypress knees studding the surface; patches of floating green, gleaming brilliantly here and there; yonder where the sunbeams wedge themselves in, constellations of water-lilies, the many-hued iris, and a multitude of flowers that no man had named; here, too, serpents great and small, of wonderful colorings, and the dull and loathsome moccasin sliding warily off the dead tree; in dimmer recesses the cow alligator, with her nest hard by; turtles a century old; owls and bats, raccoons, opossums, rats, centipedes and creatures of like vileness; great vines of beautiful leaf and scarlet fruit in deadly clusters; maddening mosquitoes, parasitic insects, gorgeous dragon-flies and pretty water-lizards: the blue heron, the snowy crane, the red-bird, the moss-bird, the night-hawk and the chuckwill's-widow; a solemn stillness and stifled air only now and then disturbed by the call or whir of the summer duck, the dismal ventriloquous note of the rain-crow, or the splash of a dead branch falling into the clear but lifeless bayou. The pack of Cuban hounds that howl from Don José's kennels cannot snuff the trail of the stolen canoe that glides through the sombre blue vapors of the African's fastnesses. His arrows send no telltale reverberations to the distant clearing. Many a wretch in his native wilderness has Bras-Coupé himself, in palmier days, driven to just such an existence, to escape the chains and horrors of the barracoons; therefore not a whit broods he over man's inhumanity, but, taking the affair as a matter of course, casts about him for a future. CHAPTER XXIX THE STORY OF BRAS-COUPÉ, CONTINUED Bras-Coupé let the autumn pass, and wintered in his den. Don José, in a majestic way, endeavored to be happy. He took his señora to his hall, and under her rule it took on for a while a look and feeling which turned it from a hunting-lodge into a home. Wherever the lady's steps turned--or it is as correct to say wherever the proud tread of Palmyre turned--the features of bachelor's-hall disappeared; guns, dogs, oars, saddles, nets, went their way into proper banishment, and the broad halls and lofty chambers--the floors now muffled with mats of palmetto-leaf--no longer re-echoed the tread of a lonely master, but breathed a redolence of flowers and a rippling murmur of well-contented song. But the song was not from the throat of Bras-Coupé's "_piti zozo_." Silent and severe by day, she moaned away whole nights heaping reproaches upon herself for the impulse--now to her, because it had failed, inexplicable in its folly--which had permitted her hand to lie in Bras-Coupé's and the priest to bind them together. For in the audacity of her pride, or, as Agricola would have said, in the immensity of her impudence, she had held herself consecrate to a hopeless love. But now she was a black man's wife! and even he unable to sit at her feet and learn the lesson she had hoped to teach him. She had heard of San Domingo; for months the fierce heart within her silent bosom had been leaping and shouting and seeing visions of fire and blood, and when she brooded over the nearness of Agricola and the remoteness of Honoré these visions got from her a sort of mad consent. The lesson she would have taught the giant was Insurrection. But it was too late. Letting her dagger sleep in her bosom, and with an undefined belief in imaginary resources, she had consented to join hands with her giant hero before the priest; and when the wedding had come and gone like a white sail, she was seized with a lasting, fierce despair. A wild aggressiveness that had formerly characterized her glance in moments of anger--moments which had grown more and more infrequent under the softening influence of her Mademoiselle's nature--now came back intensified, and blazed in her eye perpetually. Whatever her secret love may have been in kind, its sinking beyond hope below the horizon had left her fifty times the mutineer she had been before--the mutineer who has nothing to lose. "She loves her _candio_" said the negroes. "Simple creatures!" said the overseer, who prided himself on his discernment, "she loves nothing; she hates Agricola; it's a case of hate at first sight--the strongest kind." Both were partly right; her feelings were wonderfully knit to the African; and she now dedicated herself to Agricola's ruin. The señor, it has been said, endeavored to be happy; but now his heart conceived and brought forth its first-born fear, sired by superstition--the fear that he was bewitched. The negroes said that Bras-Coupé had cursed the land. Morning after morning the master looked out with apprehension toward the fields, until one night the worm came upon the indigo, and between sunset and sunrise every green leaf had been eaten up and there was nothing left for either insect or apprehension to feed upon. And then he said--and the echo came back from the Cannes Brulées--that the very bottom culpability of this thing rested on the Grandissimes, and specifically on their fugleman Agricola, through his putting the hellish African upon him. Moreover, fever and death, to a degree unknown before, fell upon his slaves. Those to whom life was spared--but to whom strength did not return--wandered about the place like scarecrows, looking for shelter, and made the very air dismal with the reiteration, "_No' ouanga_ (we are bewitched), _Bras-Coupé fé moi des grigis_ (the voudou's spells are on me)." The ripple of song was hushed and the flowers fell upon the floor. "I have heard an English maxim," wrote Colonel De Grapion to his kinsman, "which I would recommend you to put into practice--'Fight the devil with fire.'" No, he would not recognize devils as belligerents. But if Rome commissioned exorcists, could not he employ one? No, he would not! If his hounds could not catch Bras-Coupé, why, let him go. The overseer tried the hounds once more and came home with the best one across his saddle-bow, an arrow run half through its side. Once the blacks attempted by certain familiar rum-pourings and nocturnal charm-singing to lift the curse; but the moment the master heard the wild monotone of their infernal worship, he stopped it with a word. Early in February came the spring, and with it some resurrection of hope and courage. It may have been--it certainly was, in part--because young Honoré Grandissime had returned. He was like the sun's warmth wherever he went; and the other Honoré was like his shadow. The fairer one quickly saw the meaning of these things, hastened to cheer the young don with hopes of a better future, and to effect, if he could, the restoration of Bras-Coupé to his master's favor. But this latter effort was an idle one. He had long sittings with his uncle Agricola to the same end, but they always ended fruitless and often angrily. His dark half-brother had seen Palmyre and loved her. Honoré would gladly have solved one or two riddles by effecting their honorable union in marriage. The previous ceremony on the Grandissime back piazza need be no impediment; all slave-owners understood those things. Following Honoré's advice, the f.m.c., who had come into possession of his paternal portion, sent to Cannes Brulées a written offer, to buy Palmyre at any price that her master might name, stating his intention to free her and make her his wife. Colonel De Grapion could hardly hope to settle Palmyre's fate more satisfactorily, yet he could not forego an opportunity to indulge his pride by following up the threat he had hung over Agricola to kill whosoever should give Palmyre to a black man. He referred the subject and the would-be purchaser to him. It would open up to the old braggart a line of retreat, thought the planter of the Cannes Brulées. But the idea of retreat had left Citizen Fusilier. "She is already married," said he to M. Honoré Grandissime, f.m.c. "She is the lawful wife of Bras-Coupé; and what God has joined together let no man put asunder. You know it, sirrah. You did this for impudence, to make a show of your wealth. You intended it as an insinuation of equality. I overlook the impertinence for the sake of the man whose white blood you carry; but h-mark you, if ever you bring your Parisian airs and self-sufficient face on a level with mine again, h-I will slap it." The quadroon, three nights after, was so indiscreet as to give him the opportunity, and he did it--at that quadroon ball to which Dr. Keene alluded in talking to Frowenfeld. But Don José, we say, plucked up new spirit.. "Last year's disasters were but fortune's freaks," he said. "See, others' crops have failed all about us." The overseer shook his head. "_C'est ce maudit cocodri' là bas_ (It is that accursed alligator, Bras-Coupé, down yonder in the swamp)." And by and by the master was again smitten with the same belief. He and his neighbors put in their crops afresh. The spring waned, summer passed, the fevers returned, the year wore round, but no harvest smiled. "Alas!" cried the planters, "we are all poor men!" The worst among the worst were the fields of Bras-Coupé's master--parched and shrivelled. "He does not understand planting," said his neighbors; "neither does his overseer. Maybe, too, it is true as he says, that he is voudoued." One day at high noon the master was taken sick with fever. The third noon after--the sad wife sitting by the bedside--suddenly, right in the centre of the room, with the door open behind him, stood the magnificent, half-nude form of Bras-Coupé. He did not fall down as the mistress's eyes met his, though all his flesh quivered. The master was lying with his eyes closed. The fever had done a fearful three days' work. "_Mioko-Koanga oulé so' femme_ (Bras-Coupé wants his wife)." The master started wildly and stared upon his slave. "_Bras-Coupé oulé so' femme_!" repeated the black. "Seize him!" cried the sick man, trying to rise. But, though several servants had ventured in with frightened faces, none dared molest the giant. The master turned his entreating eyes upon his wife, but she seemed stunned, and only covered her face with her hands and sat as if paralyzed by a foreknowledge of what was coming. Bras-Coupé lifted his great black palm and commenced: "_Mo cé voudrai que la maison ci là, et tout ça qui pas femme' ici, s'raient encore maudits_! (May this house, and all in it who are not women, be accursed)." The master fell back upon his pillow with a groan of helpless wrath. The African pointed his finger through the open window. "May its fields not know the plough nor nourish the herds that overrun it." The domestics, who had thus far stood their ground, suddenly rushed from the room like stampeded cattle, and at that moment appeared Palmyre. "Speak to him," faintly cried the panting invalid. She went firmly up to her husband and lifted her hand. With an easy motion, but quick as lightning, as a lion sets foot on a dog, he caught her by the arm. "_Bras-Coupé oulé so' femme_," he said, and just then Palmyre would have gone with him to the equator. "You shall not have her!" gasped the master. The African seemed to rise in height, and still holding his wife at arm's length, resumed his malediction: "May weeds cover the ground until the air is full of their odor and the wild beasts of the forest come and lie down under their cover." With a frantic effort the master lifted himself upon his elbow and extended his clenched fist in speechless defiance; but his brain reeled, his sight went out, and when again he saw, Palmyre and her mistress were bending over him, the overseer stood awkwardly by, and Bras-Coupé was gone. The plantation became an invalid camp. The words of the voudou found fulfilment on every side. The plough went not out; the herds wandered through broken hedges from field to field and came up with staring bones and shrunken sides; a frenzied mob of weeds and thorns wrestled and throttled each other in a struggle for standing-room--rag-weed, smart-weed, sneeze-weed, bindweed, iron-weed--until the burning skies of midsummer checked their growth and crowned their unshorn tops with rank and dingy flowers. "Why in the name of--St. Francis," asked the priest of the overseer, "didn't the señora use her power over the black scoundrel when he stood and cursed, that day?" "Why, to tell you the truth, father," said the overseer, in a discreet whisper, "I can only suppose she thought Bras-Coupé had half a right to do it." "Ah, ah, I see; like her brother Honoré--looks at both sides of a question--a miserable practice; but why couldn't Palmyre use _her_ eyes? They would have stopped him." "Palmyre? Why Palmyre has become the best _monture_ (Plutonian medium) in the parish. Agricola Fusilier himself is afraid of her. Sir, I think sometimes Bras-Coupé is dead and his spirit has gone into Palmyre. She would rather add to his curse than take from it." "Ah!" said the jovial divine, with a fat smile, "castigation would help her case; the whip is a great sanctifier. I fancy it would even make a Christian of the inexpugnable Bras-Coupé." But Bras-Coupé kept beyond the reach alike of the lash and of the Latin Bible. By and by came a man with a rumor, whom the overseer brought to the master's sick-room, to tell that an enterprising Frenchman was attempting to produce a new staple in Louisiana, one that worms would not annihilate. It was that year of history when the despairing planters saw ruin hovering so close over them that they cried to heaven for succor. Providence raised up Étienne de Boré. "And if Étienne is successful," cried the news-bearer, "and gets the juice of the sugar-cane to crystallize, so shall all of us, after him, and shall yet save our lands and homes. Oh, Señor, it will make you strong again to see these fields all cane and the long rows of negroes and negresses cutting it, while they sing their song of those droll African numerals, counting the canes they cut," and the bearer of good tidings sang them for very joy: [Illustration: music] An-o-qué, An-o-bia, Bia-tail-la, Qué-re-qué, Nal-le-oua, Au-mon-dé, Au-tap-o-té, Au-pé-to-té, Au-qué-ré-qué, Bo. "And Honoré Grandissime is going to introduce it on his lands," said Don José. "That is true," said Agricola Fusilier, coming in. Honoré, the indefatigable peacemaker, had brought his uncle and his brother-in-law for the moment not only to speaking, but to friendly, terms. The señor smiled. "I have some good tidings, too," he said; "my beloved lady has borne me a son." "Another scion of the house of Grand--I mean Martinez!" exclaimed Agricola. "And now, Don José, let me say that _I_ have an item of rare intelligence!" The don lifted his feeble head and opened his inquiring eyes with a sudden, savage light in them. "No," said Agricola, "he is not exactly taken yet, but they are on his track." "Who?" "The police. We may say he is virtually in our grasp." * * * * * It was on a Sabbath afternoon that a band of Choctaws having just played a game of racquette behind the city and a similar game being about to end between the white champions of two rival faubourgs, the beating of tom-toms, rattling of mules' jawbones and sounding of wooden horns drew the populace across the fields to a spot whose present name of Congo Square still preserves a reminder of its old barbaric pastimes. On a grassy plain under the ramparts, the performers of these hideous discords sat upon the ground facing each other, and in their midst the dancers danced. They gyrated in couples, a few at a time, throwing their bodies into the most startling attitudes and the wildest contortions, while the whole company of black lookers-on, incited by the tones of the weird music and the violent posturing of the dancers, swayed and writhed in passionate sympathy, beating their breasts, palms and thighs in time with the bones and drums, and at frequent intervals lifting, in that wild African unison no more to be described than forgotten, the unutterable songs of the Babouille and Counjaille dances, with their ejaculatory burdens of "_Aie! Aie! Voudou Magnan!_" and "_Aie Calinda! Dancé Calinda!_" The volume of sound rose and fell with the augmentation or diminution of the dancers' extravagances. Now a fresh man, young and supple, bounding into the ring, revived the flagging rattlers, drummers and trumpeters; now a wearied dancer, finding his strength going, gathered all his force at the cry of "_Dancé zisqu'a mort!_" rallied to a grand finale and with one magnificent antic fell, foaming at the mouth. The amusement had reached its height. Many participants had been lugged out by the neck to avoid their being danced on, and the enthusiasm had risen to a frenzy, when there bounded into the ring the blackest of black men, an athlete of superb figure, in breeches of "Indienne"--the stuff used for slave women's best dresses--jingling with bells, his feet in moccasins, his tight, crisp hair decked out with feathers, a necklace of alligator's teeth rattling on his breast and a living serpent twined about his neck. It chanced that but one couple was dancing. Whether they had been sent there by advice of Agricola is not certain. Snatching a tambourine from a bystander as he entered, the stranger thrust the male dancer aside, faced the woman and began a series of saturnalian antics, compared with which all that had gone before was tame and sluggish; and as he finally leaped, with tinkling heels, clean over his bewildered partner's head, the multitude howled with rapture. Ill-starred Bras-Coupé. He was in that extra-hazardous and irresponsible condition of mind and body known in the undignified present as "drunk again." By the strangest fortune, if not, as we have just hinted, by some design, the man whom he had once deposited in the willow bushes, and the woman Clemence, were the very two dancers, and no other, whom he had interrupted. The man first stupidly regarded, next admiringly gazed upon, and then distinctly recognized, his whilom driver. Five minutes later the Spanish police were putting their heads together to devise a quick and permanent capture; and in the midst of the sixth minute, as the wonderful fellow was rising in a yet more astounding leap than his last, a lasso fell about his neck and brought him, crashing like a burnt tree, face upward upon the turf. "The runaway slave," said the old French code, continued in force by the Spaniards, "the runaway slave who shall continue to be so for one month from the day of his being denounced to the officers of justice shall have his ears cut off and shall be branded with the flower de luce on the shoulder; and on a second offence of the same nature, persisted in during one month of his being denounced, he shall be hamstrung, and be marked with the flower de luce on the other shoulder. On the third offence he shall die." Bras-Coupé had run away only twice. "But," said Agricola, "these 'bossals' must be taught their place. Besides, there is Article 27 of the same code: 'The slave who, having struck his master, shall have produced a bruise, shall suffer capital punishment'--a very necessary law!" He concluded with a scowl upon Palmyre, who shot back a glance which he never forgot. The Spaniard showed himself very merciful--for a Spaniard; he spared the captive's life. He might have been more merciful still; but Honoré Grandissime said some indignant things in the African's favor, and as much to teach the Grandissimes a lesson as to punish the runaway, he would have repented his clemency, as he repented the momentary truce with Agricola, but for the tearful pleading of the señora and the hot, dry eyes of her maid. Because of these he overlooked the offence against his person and estate, and delivered Bras-Coupé to the law to suffer only the penalties of the crime he had committed against society by attempting to be a free man. We repeat it for the credit of Palmyre, that she pleaded for Bras-Coupé. But what it cost her to make that intercession, knowing that his death would leave her free, and that if he lived she must be his wife, let us not attempt to say. In the midst of the ancient town, in a part which is now crumbling away, stood the Calaboza, with its humid vaults and grated cells, its iron cages and its whips; and there, soon enough, they strapped Bras-Coupé face downward and laid on the lash. And yet not a sound came from the mutilated but unconquered African to annoy the ear of the sleeping city. ("And you suffered this thing to take place?" asked Joseph Frowenfeld of Honoré Grandissime. "My-de'-seh!" exclaimed the Creole, "they lied to me--said they would not harm him!") He was brought at sunrise to the plantation. The air was sweet with the smell of the weed-grown fields. The long-horned oxen that drew him and the naked boy that drove the team stopped before his cabin. "You cannot put that creature in there," said the thoughtful overseer. "He would suffocate under a roof--he has been too long out-of-doors for that. Put him on my cottage porch." There, at last, Palmyre burst into tears and sank down, while before her, on a soft bed of dry grass, rested the helpless form of the captive giant, a cloth thrown over his galled back, his ears shorn from his head, and the tendons behind his knees severed. His eyes were dry, but there was in them that unspeakable despair that fills the eye of the charger when, fallen in battle, he gazes with sidewise-bended neck on the ruin wrought upon him. His eye turned sometimes slowly to his wife. He need not demand her now--she was always by him. There was much talk over him--much idle talk. He merely lay still under it with a fixed frown; but once some incautious tongue dropped the name of Agricola. The black man's eyes came so quickly round to Palmyre that she thought he would speak; but no; his words were all in his eyes. She answered their gleam with a fierce affirmative glance, whereupon he slowly bent his head and spat upon the floor. There was yet one more trial of his wild nature. The mandate came from his master's sick-bed that he must lift the curse. Bras-Coupé merely smiled. God keep thy enemy from such a smile! The overseer, with a policy less Spanish than his master's, endeavored to use persuasion. But the fallen prince would not so much as turn one glance from his parted hamstrings. Palmyre was then besought to intercede. She made one poor attempt, but her husband was nearer doing her an unkindness than ever he had been before; he made a slow sign for silence--with his fist; and every mouth was stopped. At midnight following, there came, on the breeze that blew from the mansion, a sound of running here and there, of wailing and sobbing--another Bridegroom was coming, and the Spaniard, with much such a lamp in hand as most of us shall be found with, neither burning brightly nor wholly gone out, went forth to meet Him. "Bras-Coupé," said Palmyre, next evening, speaking low in his mangled ear, "the master is dead; he is just buried. As he was dying, Bras-Coupé, he asked that you would forgive him." The maimed man looked steadfastly at his wife. He had not spoken since the lash struck him, and he spoke not now; but in those large, clear eyes, where his remaining strength seemed to have taken refuge as in a citadel, the old fierceness flared up for a moment, and then, like an expiring beacon, went out. "Is your mistress well enough by this time to venture here?" whispered the overseer to Palmyre. "Let her come. Tell her not to fear, but to bring the babe--in her own arms, tell her--quickly!" The lady came, her infant boy in her arms, knelt down beside the bed of sweet grass and set the child within the hollow of the African's arm. Bras-Coupé turned his gaze upon it; it smiled, its mother's smile, and put its hand upon the runaway's face, and the first tears of Bras-Coupé's life, the dying testimony of his humanity, gushed from his eyes and rolled down his cheek upon the infant's hand. He laid his own tenderly upon the babe's forehead, then removing it, waved it abroad, inaudibly moved his lips, dropped his arm, and closed his eyes. The curse was lifted. "_Le pauv' dgiab'_!" said the overseer, wiping his eyes and looking fieldward. "Palmyre, you must get the priest." The priest came, in the identical gown in which he had appeared the night of the two weddings. To the good father's many tender questions Bras-Coupé turned a failing eye that gave no answers; until, at length: "Do you know where you are going?" asked the holy man. "Yes," answered his eyes, brightening. "Where?" He did not reply; he was lost in contemplation, and seemed looking far away. So the question was repeated. "Do you know where you are going?" And again the answer of the eyes. He knew. "Where?" The overseer at the edge of the porch, the widow with her babe, and Palmyre and the priest bending over the dying bed, turned an eager ear to catch the answer. "To--" the voice failed a moment; the departing hero essayed again; again it failed; he tried once more, lifted his hand, and with an ecstatic, upward smile, whispered, "To--Africa"--and was gone. CHAPTER XXX PARALYSIS As we have said, the story of Bras-Coupé was told that day three times: to the Grandissime beauties once, to Frowenfeld twice. The fair Grandissimes all agreed, at the close; that it was pitiful. Specially, that it was a great pity to have hamstrung Bras-Coupé, a man who even in his cursing had made an exception in favor of the ladies. True, they could suggest no alternative; it was undeniable that he had deserved his fate; still, it seemed a pity. They dispersed, retired and went to sleep confirmed in this sentiment. In Frowenfeld the story stirred deeper feelings. On this same day, while it was still early morning, Honoré Grandissime, f.m.c., with more than even his wonted slowness of step and propriety of rich attire, had reappeared in the shop of the rue Royale. He did not need to say he desired another private interview. Frowenfeld ushered him silently and at once into his rear room, offered him a chair (which he accepted), and sat down before him. In his labored way the quadroon stated his knowledge that Frowenfeld had been three times to the dwelling of Palmyre Philosophe. Why, he further intimated, he knew not, nor would he ask; but _he_--when _he_ had applied for admission--had been refused. He had laid open his heart to the apothecary's eyes--"It may have been unwisely--" Frowenfeld interrupted him; Palmyre had been ill for several days; Doctor Keene--who, Mr. Grandissime probably knew, was her physician-- The landlord bowed, and Frowenfeld went on to explain that Doctor Keene, while attending her, had also fallen sick and had asked him to take the care of this one case until he could himself resume it. So there, in a word, was the reason why Joseph had, and others had not, been admitted to her presence. As obviously to the apothecary's eyes as anything intangible could be, a load of suffering was lifted from the quadroon's mind, as this explanation was concluded. Yet he only sat in meditation before his tenant, who regarded him long and sadly. Then, seized with one of his energetic impulses, he suddenly said: "Mr. Grandissime, you are a man of intelligence, accomplishments, leisure and wealth; why" (clenchings his fists and frowning), "why do you not give yourself--your time--wealth--attainments--energies--everything--to the cause of the downtrodden race with which this community's scorn unjustly compels you to rank yourself?" The quadroon did not meet Frowenfeld's kindled eyes for a moment, and when he did, it was slowly and dejectedly. "He canno' be," he said, and then, seeing his words were not understood, he added: "He 'ave no Cause. Dad peop' 'ave no Cause." He went on from this with many pauses and gropings after words and idiom, to tell, with a plaintiveness that seemed to Frowenfeld almost unmanly, the reasons why the people, a little of whose blood had been enough to blast his life, would never be free by the force of their own arm. Reduced to the meanings which he vainly tried to convey in words, his statement was this: that that people was not a people. Their cause--was in Africa. They upheld it there--they lost it there--and to those that are here the struggle was over; they were, one and all, prisoners of war. "You speak of them in the third person," said Frowenfeld. "Ah ham nod a slev." "Are you certain of that?" asked the tenant. His landlord looked at him. "It seems to me," said Frowenfeld, "that you--your class--the free quadroons--are the saddest slaves of all. Your men, for a little property, and your women, for a little amorous attention, let themselves be shorn even of the virtue of discontent, and for a paltry bait of sham freedom have consented to endure a tyrannous contumely which flattens them into the dirt like grass under a slab. I would rather be a runaway in the swamps than content myself with such a freedom. As your class stands before the world to-day--free in form but slaves in spirit--you are--I do not know but I was almost ready to say--a warning to philanthropists!" The free man of color slowly arose. "I trust you know," said Frowenfeld, "that I say nothing in offence." "Havery word is tru'," replied the sad man. "Mr. Grandissime," said the apothecary, as his landlord sank back again into his seat, "I know you are a broken-hearted man." The quadroon laid his fist upon his heart and looked up. "And being broken-hearted, you are thus specially fitted for a work of patient and sustained self-sacrifice. You have only those things to lose which grief has taught you to despise--ease, money, display. Give yourself to your people--to those, I mean, who groan, or should groan, under the degraded lot which is theirs and yours in common." The quadroon shook his head, and after a moment's silence, answered: "Ah cannod be one Toussaint l'Ouverture. Ah cannod trah to be. Hiv I trah, I h-only s'all soogceed to be one Bras-Coupé." "You entirely misunderstand me," said Frowenfeld in quick response. "I have no stronger disbelief than my disbelief in insurrection. I believe that to every desirable end there are two roads, the way of strife and the way of peace. I can imagine a man in your place, going about among his people, stirring up their minds to a noble discontent, laying out his means, sparingly here and bountifully there, as in each case might seem wisest, for their enlightenment, their moral elevation, their training in skilled work; going, too, among the men of the prouder caste, among such as have a spirit of fairness, and seeking to prevail with them for a public recognition of the rights of all; using all his cunning to show them the double damage of all oppression, both great and petty--" The quadroon motioned "enough." There was a heat in his eyes which Frowenfeld had never seen before. "M'sieu'," he said, "waid till Agricola Fusilier ees keel." "Do you mean 'dies'?" "No," insisted the quadroon; "listen." And with slow, painstaking phrase this man of strong feeling and feeble will (the trait of his caste) told--as Frowenfeld felt he would do the moment he said "listen"--such part of the story of Bras-Coupé as showed how he came by his deadly hatred of Agricola. "Tale me," said the landlord, as he concluded the recital, "w'y deen Bras Coupé mague dad curze on Agricola Fusilier? Becoze Agricola ees one sorcier! Elz 'e bin dade sinz long tamm." The speaker's gestures seemed to imply that his own hand, if need be, would have brought the event to pass. As he rose to say adieu, Frowenfeld, without previous intention, laid a hand upon his visitor's arm. "Is there no one who can make peace between you?" The landlord shook his head. "'Tis impossib'. We don' wand." "I mean," insisted Frowenfeld, "Is there no man who can stand between you and those who wrong you, and effect a peaceful reparation?" The landlord slowly moved away, neither he nor his tenant speaking, but each knowing that the one man in the minds of both, as a possible peacemaker, was Honoré Grandissime. "Should the opportunity offer," continued Joseph, "may I speak a word for you myself?" The quadroon paused a moment, smiled politely though bitterly, and departed repeating again: "'Tis impossib'. We don' wand." "Palsied," murmured Frowenfeld, looking after him, regretfully,--"like all of them." Frowenfeld's thoughts were still on the same theme when, the day having passed, the hour was approaching wherein Innerarity was exhorted to tell his good-night story in the merry circle at the distant Grandissime mansion. As the apothecary was closing his last door for the night, the fairer Honoré called him out into the moonlight. "Withered," the student was saying audibly to himself, "not in the shadow of the Ethiopian, but in the glare of the white man." "Who is withered?" pleasantly demanded Honoré. The apothecary started slightly. "Did I speak? How do you do, sir? I meant the free quadroons." "Including the gentleman from whom you rent your store?" "Yes, him especially; he told me this morning the story of Bras-Coupé." M. Grandissime laughed. Joseph did not see why, nor did the laugh sound entirely genuine. "Do not open the door, Mr Frowenfeld," said the Creole, "Get your greatcoat and cane and come take a walk with me; I will tell you the same story." It was two hours before they approached this door again on their return. Just before they reached it, Honoré stopped under the huge street-lamp, whose light had gone out, where a large stone lay before him on the ground in the narrow, moonlit street. There was a tall, unfinished building at his back. "Mr Frowenfeld,"--he struck the stone with his cane,--"this stone is Bras-Coupé--we cast it aside because it turns the edge of our tools." He laughed. He had laughed to-night more than was comfortable to a man of Frowenfeld's quiet mind. As the apothecary thrust his shopkey into the lock and so paused to hear his companion, who had begun again to speak, he wondered what it could be--for M. Grandissime had not disclosed it--that induced such a man as he to roam aimlessly, as it seemed, in deserted streets at such chill and dangerous hours. "What does he want with me?" The thought was so natural that it was no miracle the Creole read it. "Well," said he, smiling and taking an attitude, "you are a great man for causes, Mr. Frowenfeld; but me, I am for results, ha, ha! You may ponder the philosophy of Bras-Coupé in your study, but _I_ have got to get rid of his results, me. You know them." "You tell me it revived a war where you had made a peace," said Frowenfeld. "Yes--yes--that is his results; but good night, Mr. Frowenfeld." "Good night, sir." CHAPTER XXXI ANOTHER WOUND IN A NEW PLACE Each day found Doctor Keene's strength increasing, and on the morning following the incidents last recorded he was imprudently projecting an outdoor promenade. An announcement from Honoré Grandissime, who had paid an early call, had, to that gentleman's no small surprise, produced a sudden and violent effect on the little man's temper. He was sitting alone by his window, looking out upon the levee, when the apothecary entered the apartment. "Frowenfeld," he instantly began, with evident displeasure most unaccountable to Joseph, "I hear you have been visiting the Nancanous." "Yes, I have been there." "Well, you had no business to go!" Doctor Keene smote the arm of his chair with his fist. Frowenfeld reddened with indignation, but suppressed his retort. He stood still in the middle of the floor, and Doctor Keene looked out of the window. "Doctor Keene," said the visitor, when his attitude was no longer tolerable, "have you anything more to say to me before I leave you?" "No, sir." "It is necessary for me, then, to say that in fulfilment of my promise, I am going from here to the house of Palmyre, and that she will need no further attention after to-day. As to your present manner toward me, I shall endeavor to suspend judgment until I have some knowledge of its cause." The doctor made no reply, but went on looking out of the window, and Frowenfeld turned and left him. As he arrived in the philosophe's sick-chamber--where he found her sitting in a chair set well back from a small fire--she half-whispered "Miché" with a fine, greeting smile, as if to a brother after a week's absence. To a person forced to lie abed, shut away from occupation and events, a day is ten, three are a month: not merely in the wear and tear upon the patience, but also in the amount of thinking and recollecting done. It was to be expected, then, that on this, the apothecary's fourth visit, Palmyre would have learned to take pleasure in his coming. But the smile was followed by a faint, momentary frown, as if Frowenfeld had hardly returned it in kind. Likely enough, he had not. He was not distinctively a man of smiles; and as he engaged in his appointed task she presently thought of this. "This wound is doing so well," said Joseph, still engaged with the bandages, "that I shall not need to come again." He was not looking at her as he spoke, but he felt her give a sudden start. "What is this?" he thought, but presently said very quietly: "With the assistance of your slave woman, you can now attend to it yourself." She made no answer. When, with a bow, he would have bade her good morning, she held out her hand for his. After a barely perceptible hesitation, he gave it, whereupon she held it fast, in a way to indicate that there was something to be said which he must stay and hear. She looked up into his face. She may have been merely framing in her mind the word or two of English she was about to utter; but an excitement shone through her eyes and reddened her lips, and something sent out from her countenance a look of wild distress. "You goin' tell 'im?" she asked. "Who? Agricola?" "_Non_!" He spoke the next name more softly. "Honoré?" Her eyes looked deeply into his for a moment, then dropped, and she made a sign of assent. He was about to say that Honoré knew already, but saw no necessity for doing so, and changed his answer. "I will never tell any one." "You know?" she asked, lifting her eyes for an instant. She meant to ask if he knew the motive that had prompted her murderous intent. "I know your whole sad history." She looked at him for a moment, fixedly; then, still holding his hand with one of hers, she threw the other to her face and turned away her head. He thought she moaned. Thus she remained for a few moments, then suddenly she turned, clasped both hands about his, her face flamed up and she opened her lips to speak, but speech failed. An expression of pain and supplication came upon her countenance, and the cry burst from her: "Meg 'im to love me!" He tried to withdraw his hand, but she held it fast, and, looking up imploringly with her wide, electric eyes, cried: "_Vous pouvez le faire, vous pouvez le faire_ (You can do it, you can do it); _vous êtes sorcier, mo conné bien vous êtes sorcier_ (you are a sorcerer, I know)." However harmless or healthful Joseph's touch might be to the philosophe, he felt now that hers, to him, was poisonous. He dared encounter her eyes, her touch, her voice, no longer. The better man in him was suffocating. He scarce had power left to liberate his right hand with his left, to seize his hat and go. Instantly she rose from her chair, threw herself on her knees in his path, and found command of his language sufficient to cry as she lifted her arms, bared of their drapery: "Oh, my God! don' rif-used me--don' rif-used me!" There was no time to know whether Frowenfeld wavered or not. The thought flashed into his mind that in all probability all the care and skill he had spent upon the wound was being brought to naught in this moment of wild posturing and excitement; but before it could have effect upon his movements, a stunning blow fell upon the back of his head, and Palmyre's slave woman, the Congo dwarf, under the impression that it was the most timely of strokes, stood brandishing a billet of pine and preparing to repeat the blow. He hurled her, snarling and gnashing like an ape, against the farther wall, cast the bar from the street door and plunged out, hatless, bleeding and stunned. CHAPTER XXXII INTERRUPTED PRELIMINARIES About the same time of day, three gentlemen (we use the term gentlemen in its petrified state) were walking down the rue Royale from the direction of the Faubourg Ste. Marie. They were coming down toward Palmyre's corner. The middle one, tall and shapely, might have been mistaken at first glance for Honoré Grandissime, but was taller and broader, and wore a cocked hat, which Honoré did not. It was Valentine. The short, black-bearded man in buckskin breeches on his right was Jean-Baptiste Grandissime, and the slight one on the left, who, with the prettiest and most graceful gestures and balancings, was leading the conversation, was Hippolyte Brahmin-Mandarin, a cousin and counterpart of that sturdy-hearted challenger of Agricola, Sylvestre. "But after all," he was saying in Louisiana French, "there is no spot comparable, for comfortable seclusion, to the old orange grove under the levee on the Point; twenty minutes in a skiff, five minutes for preliminaries--you would not want more, the ground has been measured off five hundred times--'are you ready?'--" "Ah, bah!" said Valentine, tossing his head, "the Yankees would be down on us before you could count one." "Well, then, behind the Jesuits' warehouses, if you insist. I don't care. Perdition take such a government! I am almost sorry I went to the governor's reception." "It was quiet, I hear; a sort of quiet ball, all promenading and no contra-dances. One quadroon ball is worth five of such." This was the opinion of Jean-Baptiste. "No, it was fine, anyhow. There was a contra-dance. The music was--tárata joonc, tará, tará--tárata joonc, tarárata joonc, tará--oh! it was the finest thing--and composed here. They compose as fine things here as they do anywhere in the--look there! That man came out of Palmyre's house; see how he staggered just then!" "Drunk," said Jean-Baptiste. "No, he seems to be hurt. He has been struck on the head. Oho, I tell you, gentlemen, that same Palmyre is a wonderful animal! Do you see? She not only defends herself and ejects the wretch, but she puts her mark upon him; she identifies him, ha, ha, ha! Look at the high art of the thing; she keeps his hat as a small souvenir and gives him a receipt for it on the back of his head. Ah! but hasn't she taught him a lesson? Why, gentlemen,--it is--if it isn't that sorcerer of an apothecary!" "What?" exclaimed the other two; "well, well, but this is too good! Caught at last, ha, ha, ha, the saintly villain! Ah, ha, ha! Will not Honoré be proud of him now? _Ah! voilà un joli Joseph!_ What did I tell you? Didn't I _always_ tell you so?" "But the beauty of it is, he is caught so cleverly. No escape--no possible explanation. There he is, gentlemen, as plain as a rat in a barrel, and with as plain a case. Ha, ha, ha! Isn't it just glorious?" And all three laughed in such an ecstasy of glee that Frowenfeld looked back, saw them, and knew forthwith that his good name was gone. The three gentlemen, with tears of merriment still in their eyes, reached a corner and disappeared. "Mister," said a child, trotting along under Frowenfeld's elbow,--the odd English of the New Orleans street-urchin was at that day just beginning to be heard--"Mister, dey got some blood on de back of you' hade!" But Frowenfeld hurried on groaning with mental anguish. CHAPTER XXXIII UNKINDEST CUT OF ALL It was the year 1804. The world was trembling under the tread of the dread Corsican. It was but now that he had tossed away the whole Valley of the Mississippi, dropping it overboard as a little sand from a balloon, and Christendom in a pale agony of suspense was watching the turn of his eye; yet when a gibbering black fool here on the edge of civilization merely swings a pine-knot, the swinging of that pine-knot becomes to Joseph Frowenfeld, student of man, a matter of greater moment than the destination of the Boulogne Flotilla. For it now became for the moment the foremost necessity of his life to show, to that minute fraction of the earth's population which our terror misnames "the world," that a man may leap forth hatless and bleeding from the house of a New Orleans quadroon into the open street and yet be pure white within. Would it answer to tell the truth? Parts of that truth he was pledged not to tell; and even if he could tell it all it was incredible--bore all the features of a flimsy lie. "Mister," repeated the same child who had spoken before, reinforced by another under the other elbow, "dey got some _blood_ on de back of you' hade." And the other added the suggestion: "Dey got one drug-sto', yondah." Frowenfeld groaned again. The knock had been a hard one, the ground and sky went round not a little, but he retained withal a white-hot process of thought that kept before him his hopeless inability to explain. He was coffined alive. The world (so-called) would bury him in utter loathing, and write on his headstone the one word--hypocrite. And he should lie there and helplessly contemplate Honoré pushing forward those purposes which he had begun to hope he was to have had the honor of furthering. But instead of so doing he would now be the by-word of the street. "Mister," interposed the child once more, spokesman this time for a dozen blacks and whites of all sizes trailing along before and behind, "_dey got some blood_ on de back of you' _hade_." * * * * * That same morning Clotilde had given a music-scholar her appointed lesson, and at its conclusion had borrowed of her patroness (how pleasant it must have been to have such things to lend!) a little yellow maid, in order that, with more propriety, she might make a business call. It was that matter of the rent--one that had of late occasioned her great secret distress. "It is plain," she had begun to say to herself, unable to comprehend Aurora's peculiar trust in Providence, "that if the money is to be got I must get it." A possibility had flashed upon her mind; she had nurtured it into a project, had submitted it to her father-confessor in the cathedral, and received his unqualified approval of it, and was ready this morning to put it into execution. A great merit of the plan was its simplicity. It was merely to find for her heaviest bracelet a purchaser in time, and a price sufficient, to pay to-morrow's "maturities." See there again!--to her, her little secret was of greater import than the collision of almost any pine-knot with almost any head. It must not be accepted as evidence either of her unwillingness to sell or of the amount of gold in the bracelet, that it took the total of Clotilde's moral and physical strength to carry it to the shop where she hoped--against hope--to dispose of it. 'Sieur Frowenfeld, M. Innerarity said, was out, but would certainly be in in a few minutes, and she was persuaded to take a chair against the half-hidden door at the bottom of the shop with the little borrowed maid crouched at her feet. She had twice or thrice felt a regret that she had undertaken to wait, and was about to rise and go, when suddenly she saw before her Joseph Frowenfeld, wiping the sweat of anguish from his brow and smeared with blood from his forehead down. She rose quickly and silently, turned sick and blind, and laid her hand upon the back of the chair for support. Frowenfeld stood an instant before her, groaned, and disappeared through the door. The little maid, retreating backward against her from the direction of the street-door, drew to her attention a crowd of sight-seers which had rushed up to the doors and against which Raoul was hurriedly closing the shop. CHAPTER XXXIV CLOTILDE AS A SURGEON Was it worse to stay, or to fly? The decision must be instantaneous. But Raoul made it easy by crying in their common tongue, as he slammed a massive shutter and shot its bolt: "Go to him! he is down--I heard him fall. Go to him!" At this rallying cry she seized her shield--that is to say, the little yellow attendant--and hurried into the room. Joseph lay just beyond the middle of the apartment, face downward. She found water and a basin, wet her own handkerchief, and dropped to her knees beside his head; but the moment he felt the small feminine hands he stood up. She took him by the arm. "_Asseyez-vous, Monsieu'_--pliz to give you'sev de pens to seet down, 'Sieu' Frowenfel'." She spoke with a nervous tenderness in contrast with her alarmed and entreating expression of face, and gently pushed him into a chair. The child ran behind the bed and burst into frightened sobs, but ceased when Clotilde turned for an instant and glared at her. "Mague yo' 'ead back," said Clotilde, and with tremulous tenderness she softly pressed back his brow and began wiping off the blood. "W'ere you is 'urted?" But while she was asking her question she had found the gash and was growing alarmed at its ugliness, when Raoul, having made everything fast, came in with: "Wat's de mattah, 'Sieur Frowenfel'? w'at's de mattah wid you? Oo done dat, 'Sieur Frowen fel'?" Joseph lifted his head and drew away from it the small hand and wet handkerchief, and without letting go the hand, looked again into Clotilde's eyes, and said: "Go home; oh, go home!" "Oh! no," protested Raoul, whereupon Clotilde turned upon him with a perfectly amiable, nurse's grimace for silence. "I goin' rad now," she said. Raoul's silence was only momentary. "Were you lef you' hat, 'Sieur Frowenfel'?" he asked, and stole an artist's glance at Clotilde, while Joseph straightened up, and nerving himself to a tolerable calmness of speech, said: "I have been struck with a stick of wood by a half-witted person under a misunderstanding of my intentions; but the circumstances are such as to blacken my character hopelessly; but I am innocent!" he cried, stretching forward both arms and quite losing his momentary self-control. "'Sieu' Frowenfel'!" cried Clotilde, tears leaping to her eyes, "I am shoe of it!" "I believe you! I believe you, 'Sieur Frowenfel'!" exclaimed Raoul with sincerity. "You will not believe me," said Joseph. "You will not; it will be impossible." "_Mais_" cried Clotilde, "id shall nod be impossib'!" But the apothecary shook his head. "All I can be suspected of will seem probable; the truth only is incredible." His head began to sink and a pallor to overspread his face. "_Allez, Monsieur, allez_," cried Clotilde to Raoul, a picture of beautiful terror which he tried afterward to paint from memory, "_appelez_ Doctah Kin!" Raoul made a dash for his hat, and the next moment she heard, with unpleasant distinctness, his impetuous hand slam the shop door and lock her in. "_Baille ma do l'eau_" she called to the little mulattress, who responded by searching wildly for a cup and presently bringing a measuring-glass full of water. Clotilde gave it to the wounded man, and he rose at once and stood on his feet. "Raoul." "'E gone at Doctah Kin." "I do not need Doctor Keene; I am not badly hurt. Raoul should not have left you here in this manner. You must not stay." "Bud, 'Sieur Frowenfel', I am afred to paz dad gangue!" A new distress seized Joseph in view of this additional complication. But, unmindful of this suggestion, the fair Creole suddenly exclaimed: "'Sieu' Frowenfel', you har a hinnocen' man! Go, hopen yo' do's an' stan juz as you har ub biffo dad crowd and sesso! My God! 'Sieu' Frowenfel', iv you cannod stan' ub by you'sev--" She ceased suddenly with a wild look, as if another word would have broken the levees of her eyes, and in that instant Frowenfeld recovered the full stature of a man. "God bless you!" he cried. "I will do it!" He started, then turned again toward her, dumb for an instant, and said: "And God reward you! You believe in me, and you do not even know me." Her eyes became wilder still as she looked up into his face with the words: "_Mais_, I does know you--betteh'n you know annyt'in' boud it!" and turned away, blushing violently. Frowenfeld gave a start. She had given him too much light. He recognized her, and she knew it. For another instant he gazed at her averted face, and then with forced quietness said: "Please go into the shop." The whole time that had elapsed since the shutting of the doors had not exceeded five minutes; a sixth sufficed for Clotilde and her attendant to resume their original position in the nook by the private door and for Frowenfeld to wash his face and hands. Then the alert and numerous ears without heard a drawing of bolts at the door next to that which Raoul had issued, its leaves opened outward, and first the pale hands and then the white, weakened face and still bloody hair and apparel of the apothecary made their appearance. He opened a window and another door. The one locked by Raoul, when unbolted, yielded without a key, and the shop stood open. "My friends," said the trembling proprietor, "if any of you wishes to buy anything, I am ready to serve him. The rest will please move away." The invitation, though probably understood, was responded to by only a few at the banquette's edge, where a respectable face or two wore scrutinizing frowns. The remainder persisted in silently standing and gazing in at the bloody man. Frowenfeld bore the gaze. There was one element of emphatic satisfaction in it--it drew their observation from Clotilde at the other end of the shop. He stole a glance backward; she was not there. She had watched her chance, safely escaped through the side door, and was gone. Raoul returned. "'Sieur Frowenfel', Doctor Keene is took worse ag'in. 'E is in bed; but 'e say to tell you in dat lill troubl' of dis mawnin' it is himseff w'at is inti'lie wrong, an' 'e hass you poddon. 'E says sen' fo' Doctor Conrotte, but I din go fo' him; dat ole scoun'rel--he believe in puttin' de niggas fre'." Frowenfeld said he would not consult professional advisers; with a little assistance from Raoul, he could give the cut the slight attention it needed. He went back into his room, while Raoul turned back to the door and addressed the public. "Pray, Messieurs, come in and be seated." He spoke in the Creole French of the gutters. "Come in. M. Frowenfeld is dressing, and desires that you will have a little patience. Come in. Take chairs. You will not come in? No? Nor you, Monsieur? No? I will set some chairs outside, eh? No?" They moved by twos and threes away, and Raoul, retiring, gave his employer such momentary aid as was required. When Joseph, in changed dress, once more appeared, only a child or two lingered to see him, and he had nothing to do but sit down and, as far as he felt at liberty to do so, answer his assistant's questions. During the recital, Raoul was obliged to exercise the severest self-restraint to avoid laughing,--a feeling which was modified by the desire to assure his employer that he understood this sort of thing perfectly, had run the same risks himself, and thought no less of a man, _providing he was a gentleman_, because of an unlucky retributive knock on the head. But he feared laughter would overclimb speech; and, indeed, with all expression of sympathy stifled, he did not succeed so completely in hiding the conflicting emotion but that Joseph did once turn his pale, grave face surprisedly, hearing a snuffling sound, suddenly stifled in a drawer of corks. Said Raoul, with an unsteady utterance, as he slammed the drawer: "H-h-dat makes me dat I can't 'elp to laugh w'en I t'ink of dat fool yesse'dy w'at want to buy my pigshoe for honly one 'undred dolla'--ha, ha ha, ha!" He laughed almost indecorously. "Raoul," said Frowenfeld, rising and closing his eyes, "I am going back for my hat. It would make matters worse for that person to send it to me, and it would be something like a vindication for me to go back to the house and get it." Mr. Innerarity was about to make strenuous objection, when there came in one whom he recognized as an attaché of his cousin Honoré's counting-room, and handed the apothecary a note. It contained Honoré's request that if Frowenfeld was in his shop he would have the goodness to wait there until the writer could call and see him. "I will wait," was the reply. CHAPTER XXXV "FO' WAD YOU CRYNE?" Clotilde, a step or two from home, dismissed her attendant, and as Aurora, with anxious haste, opened to her familiar knock, appeared before her pale and trembling. "_Ah, ma fille_--" The overwrought girl dropped her head and wept without restraint upon her mother's neck. She let herself be guided to a chair, and there, while Aurora nestled close to her side, yielded a few moments to reverie before she was called upon to speak. Then Aurora first quietly took possession of her hands, and after another tender pause asked in English, which was equivalent to whispering: "Were you was, _chérie?_" "'Sieur Frowenfel'--" Aurora straightened up with angry astonishment and drew in her breath for an emphatic speech, but Clotilde, liberating her own hands, took Aurora's, and hurriedly said, turning still paler as she spoke: "'E godd his 'ead strigue! 'Tis all knog in be'ine! 'E come in blidding--" "In w'ere?" cried Aurora. "In 'is shob." "You was in dad shob of 'Sieur Frowenfel'?" "I wend ad 'is shob to pay doze rend." "How--you wend ad 'is shob to pay--" Clotilde produced the bracelet. The two looked at each other in silence for a moment, while Aurora took in without further explanation Clotilde's project and its failure. "An' 'Sieur Frowenfel'--dey kill 'im? Ah! _Ma chère_, fo' wad you mague me to hass all dose question?" Clotilde gave a brief account of the matter, omitting only her conversation with Frowenfeld. "_Mais_, oo strigue 'im?" demanded Aurora, impatiently. "Addunno!" replied the other. "Bud I does know 'e is hinnocen'!" A small scouting-party of tears reappeared on the edge of her eyes. "Innocen' from wad?" Aurora betrayed a twinkle of amusement. "Hev'ryt'in', iv you pliz!" exclaimed Clotilde, with most uncalled-for warmth. "An' you crah bic-ause 'e is nod guiltie?" "Ah! foolish!" "Ah, non, my chile, I know fo' wad you cryne: 't is h-only de sighd of de blood." "Oh, sighd of blood!" Clotilde let a little nervous laugh escape through her dejection. "Well, then,"--Aurora's eyes twinkled like stars,--"id muz be bic-ause 'Sieur Frowenfel' bump 'is 'ead--ha, ha, ha!" "'Tis nod tru'!" cried Clotilde; but, instead of laughing, as Aurora had supposed she would, she sent a double flash of light from her eyes, crimsoned, and retorted, as the tears again sprang from their lurking-place, "You wand to mague ligue you don't kyah! But _I_ know! I know verrie well! You kyah fifty time' as mudge as me! I know you! I know you! I bin wadge you!" Aurora was quite dumb for a moment, and gazed at Clotilde, wondering what could have made her so unlike herself. Then she half rose up, and, as she reached forward an arm, and laid it tenderly about her daughter's neck, said: "Ma lill dotter, wad dad meggin you cry? Iv you will tell me wad dad mague you cry, I will tell you--on ma _second word of honor_"--she rolled up her fist--"juz wad I thing about dad 'Sieur Frowenfel'!" "I don't kyah wad de whole worl' thing aboud 'im!" "_Mais_, anny'ow, tell me fo' wad you cryne!" Clotilde gazed aside for a moment and then confronted her questioner consentingly. "I tole 'im I knowed 'e was h-innocen'." "Eh, Men, dad was h-only de poli-i-idenez. Wad 'e said?" "E said I din knowed 'im 'tall." "An' you," exclaimed Aurora, "it is nod pozzyble dad you--" "I tole 'im I know 'im bette'n 'e know annyt'in' 'boud id!" The speaker dropped her face into her mother's lap. "Ha, ha!" laughed Aurora, "an' wad of dad? I would say dad, me, fo' time' a day. I gi'e you my word 'e don godd dad sens' to know wad dad mean." "Ah! don godd sens'!" cried Clotilde, lifting her head up suddenly with a face of agony. "'E reg--'e reggo-ni-i-ize me!" Aurora caught her daughter's cheeks between her hands and laughed all over them. "_Mais_, don you see 'ow dad was luggy? Now, you know?--'e goin' fall in love wid you an' you goin' 'ave dad sadizfagzion to rif-use de biggis' hand in Noo-'leans. An' you will be h-even, ha, ha! Bud me--you wand to know wad I thing aboud 'im? I thing 'e is one--egcellen' drug-cl--ah, ha, ha!" Clotilde replied with a smile of grieved incredulity. "De bez in de ciddy!" insisted the other. She crossed the forefinger of one hand upon that of the other and kissed them, reversed the cross and kissed them again. "_Mais_, ad de sem tam," she added, giving her daughter time to smile, "I thing 'e is one _noble gen'leman_. Nod to sood me, of coze, _mais, çà fait rien_--daz nott'n; me, I am now a h'ole woman, you know, eh? Noboddie can' nevva sood me no mo', nod ivven dad Govenno' Cleb-orne." She tried to look old and jaded. "Ah, Govenno' Cleb-orne!" exclaimed Clotilde. "Yass!--Ah, you!--you thing iv a man is nod a Creole 'e bown to be no 'coun'! I assu' you dey don' godd no boddy wad I fine a so nize gen'leman lag Govenno' Cleb-orne! Ah! Clotilde, you godd no lib'ral'ty!" The speaker rose, cast a discouraged parting look upon her narrow-minded companion and went to investigate the slumbrous silence of the kitchen. CHAPTER XXXVI AURORA'S LAST PICAYUNE Not often in Aurora's life had joy and trembling so been mingled in one cup as on this day. Clotilde wept; and certainly the mother's heart could but respond; yet Clotilde's tears filled her with a secret pleasure which fought its way up into the beams of her eyes and asserted itself in the frequency and heartiness of her laugh despite her sincere participation in her companion's distresses and a fearful looking forward to to-morrow. Why these flashes of gladness? If we do not know, it is because we have overlooked one of her sources of trouble. From the night of the _bal masqué_ she had--we dare say no more than that she had been haunted; she certainly would not at first have admitted even so much to herself. Yet the fact was not thereby altered, and first the fact and later the feeling had given her much distress of mind. Who he was whose image would not down, for a long time she did not know. This, alone, was torture; not merely because it was mystery, but because it helped to force upon her consciousness that her affections, spite of her, were ready and waiting for him and he did not come after them. That he loved her, she knew; she had achieved at the ball an overwhelming victory, to her certain knowledge, or, depend upon it, she never would have unmasked--never. But with this torture was mingled not only the ecstasy of loving, but the fear of her daughter. This is a world that allows nothing without its obverse and reverse. Strange differences are often seen between the two sides; and one of the strangest and most inharmonious in this world of human relations is that coinage which a mother sometimes finds herself offering to a daughter, and which reads on one side, Bridegroom, and on the other, Stepfather. Then, all this torture to be hidden under smiles! Worse still, when by and by Messieurs Agoussou, Assonquer, Danny and others had been appealed to and a Providence boundless in tender compassion had answered in their stead, she and her lover had simultaneously discovered each other's identity only to find that he was a Montague to her Capulet. And the source of her agony must be hidden, and falsely attributed to the rent deficiency and their unprotected lives. Its true nature must be concealed even from Clotilde. What a secret--for what a spirit--to keep from what a companion!--a secret yielding honey to her, but, it might be, gall to Clotilde. She felt like one locked in the Garden of Eden all alone--alone with all the ravishing flowers, alone with all the lions and tigers. She wished she had told the secret when it was small and had let it increase by gradual accretions in Clotilde's knowledge day by day. At first it had been but a garland, then it had become a chain, now it was a ball and chain; and it was oh! and oh! if Clotilde would only fall in love herself! How that would simplify matters! More than twice or thrice she had tried to reveal her overstrained heart in broken sections; but on her approach to the very outer confines of the matter, Clotilde had always behaved so strangely, so nervously, in short, so beyond Aurora's comprehension, that she invariably failed to make any revelation. And now, here in the very central darkness of this cloud of troubles, comes in Clotilde, throws herself upon the defiant little bosom so full of hidden suffering, and weeps tears of innocent confession that in a moment lay the dust of half of Aurora's perplexities. Strange world! The tears of the orphan making the widow weep for joy, if she only dared. The pair sat down opposite each other at their little dinner-table. They had a fixed hour for dinner. It is well to have a fixed hour; it is in the direction of system. Even if you have not the dinner, there is the hour. Alphonsina was not in perfect harmony with this fixed-hour idea. It was Aurora's belief, often expressed in hungry moments with the laugh of a vexed Creole lady (a laugh worthy of study), that on the day when dinner should really be served at the appointed hour, the cook would drop dead of apoplexy and she of fright. She said it to-day, shutting her arms down to her side, closing her eyes with her eyebrows raised, and dropping into her chair at the table like a dead bird from its perch. Not that she felt particularly hungry; but there is a certain desultoriness allowable at table more than elsewhere, and which suited the hither-thither movement of her conflicting feelings. This is why she had wished for dinner. Boiled shrimps, rice, claret-and-water, bread--they were dining well the day before execution. Dining is hardly correct, either, for Clotilde, at least, did not eat; they only sat. Clotilde had, too, if not her unknown, at least her unconfessed emotions. Aurora's were tossed by the waves, hers were sunken beneath them. Aurora had a faith that the rent would be paid--a faith which was only a vapor, but a vapor gilded by the sun--that is, by Apollo, or, to be still more explicit, by Honoré Grandissime. Clotilde, deprived of this confidence, had tried to raise means wherewith to meet the dread obligation, or, rather, had tried to try and had failed. To-day was the ninth, to-morrow, the street. Joseph Frowenfeld was hurt; her dependence upon his good offices was gone. When she thought of him suffering under public contumely, it seemed to her as if she could feel the big drops of blood dropping from her heart; and when she recalled her own actions, speeches, and demonstrations in his presence, exaggerated by the groundless fear that he had guessed into the deepest springs of her feelings, then she felt those drops of blood congeal. Even if the apothecary had been duller of discernment than she supposed, here was Aurora on the opposite side of the table, reading every thought of her inmost soul. But worst of all was 'Sieur Frowenfel's indifference. It is true that, as he had directed upon her that gaze of recognition, there was a look of mighty gladness, if she dared believe her eyes. But no, she dared not; there was nothing there for her, she thought,--probably (when this anguish of public disgrace should by any means be lifted) a benevolent smile at her and her betrayal of interest. Clotilde felt as though she had been laid entire upon a slide of his microscope. Aurora at length broke her reverie. "Clotilde,"--she spoke in French--"the matter with you is that you have no heart. You never did have any. Really and truly, you do not care whether 'Sieur Frowenfel' lives or dies. You do not care how he is or where he is this minute. I wish you had some of my too large heart. I not only have the heart, as I tell you, to think kindly of our enemies, those Grandissime, for example"--she waved her hand with the air of selecting at random--"but I am burning up to know what is the condition of that poor, sick, noble 'Sieur Frowenfel', and I am going to do it!" The heart which Clotilde was accused of not having gave a stir of deep gratitude. Dear, pretty little mother! Not only knowing full well the existence of this swelling heart and the significance, to-day, of its every warm pulsation, but kindly covering up the discovery with make-believe reproaches. The tears started in her eyes; that was her reply. "Oh, now! it is the rent again, I suppose," cried Aurora, "always the rent. It is not the rent that worries _me_, it is 'Sieur Frowenfel', poor man. But very well, Mademoiselle Silence, I will match you for making me do all the talking." She was really beginning to sink under the labor of carrying all the sprightliness for both. "Come," she said, savagely, "propose something." "Would you think well to go and inquire?" "Ah, listen! Go and what? No, Mademoiselle, I think not." "Well, send Alphonsina." "What? And let him know that I am anxious about him? Let me tell you, my little girl, I shall not drag upon myself the responsibility of increasing the self-conceit of any of that sex." "Well, then, send to buy a picayune's worth of something." "Ah, ha, ha! An emetic, for instance. Tell him we are poisoned on mushrooms, ha, ha, ha!" Clotilde laughed too. "Ah, no," she said. "Send for something he does not sell." Aurora was laughing while Clotilde spoke; but as she caught these words she stopped with open-mouthed astonishment, and, as Clotilde blushed, laughed again. "Oh, Clotilde, Clotilde, Clotilde!"--she leaned forward over the table, her face beaming with love and laughter--"you rowdy! you rascal! You are just as bad as your mother, whom you think so wicked! I accept your advice. Alphonsina!" "Momselle!" The answer came from the kitchen. "Come go--or, rather,--_vini 'ci courri dans boutique de l'apothecaire_. Clotilde," she continued, in better French, holding up the coin to view, "look!" "What?" "The last picayune we have in the world--ha, ha, ha!" CHAPTER XXXVII HONORÉ MAKES SOME CONFESSIONS "Comment çà va, Raoul?" said Honoré Grandissime; he had come to the shop according to the proposal contained in his note. "Where is Mr. Frowenfeld?" He found the apothecary in the rear room, dressed, but just rising from the bed at sound of his voice. He closed the door after him; they shook hands and took chairs. "You have fever," said the merchant. "I have been troubled that way myself, some, lately." He rubbed his face all over, hard, with one hand,' and looked at the ceiling. "Loss of sleep, I suppose, in both of us; in your case voluntary--in pursuit of study, most likely; in my case--effect of anxiety." He smiled a moment and then suddenly sobered as after a pause he said: "But I hear you are in trouble; may I ask--" Frowenfeld had interrupted him with almost the same words: "May I venture to ask, Mr. Grandissime, what--" And both were silent for a moment. "Oh," said Honoré, with a gesture. "My trouble--I did not mean to mention it; 't is an old matter--in part. You know, Mr. Frowenfeld, there is a kind of tree not dreamed of in botany, that lets fall its fruit every day in the year--you know? We call it--with reverence--'our dead father's mistakes.' I have had to eat much of that fruit; a man who has to do that must expect to have now and then a little fever." "I have heard," replied Frowenfeld, "that some of the titles under which your relatives hold their lands are found to be of the kind which the State's authorities are pronouncing worthless. I hope this is not the case." "I wish they had never been put into my custody," said M. Grandissime. Some new thought moved him to draw his chair closer. "Mr. Frowenfeld, those two ladies whom you went to see the other evening--" His listener started a little: "Yes." "Did they ever tell you their history?" "No, sir; but I have heard it." "And you think they have been deeply wronged, eh? Come, Mr. Frowenfeld, take right hold of the acacia-bush." M. Grandissime did not smile. Frowenfeld winced. "I think they have." "And you think restitution should be made them, no doubt, eh?" "I do." "At any cost?" The questioner showed a faint, unpleasant smile, that stirred something like opposition in the breast of the apothecary. "Yes," he answered. The next question had a tincture even of fierceness: "You think it right to sink fifty or a hundred people into poverty to lift one or two out?" "Mr. Grandissime," said Frowenfeld, slowly, "you bade me study this community." "I adv--yes; what is it you find?" "I find--it may be the same with other communities, I suppose it is, more or less--that just upon the culmination of the moral issue it turns and asks the question which is behind it, instead of the question which is before it." "And what is the question before me?" "I know it only in the abstract." "Well?" The apothecary looked distressed. "You should not make me say it," he objected. "Nevertheless," said the Creole, "I take that liberty." "Well, then," said Frowenfeld, "the question behind is Expediency and the question in front, Divine Justice. You are asking yourself--" He checked himself. "Which I ought to regard," said M. Grandissime, quickly. "Expediency, of course, and be like the rest of mankind." He put on a look of bitter humor. "It is all easy enough for you, Mr. Frowenfeld, my-de'-seh; you have the easy part--the theorizing." He saw the ungenerousness of his speech as soon as it was uttered, yet he did not modify it. "True, Mr. Grandissime," said Frowenfeld; and after a pause--"but you have the noble part--the doing." "Ah, my-de'-seh!" exclaimed Honoré; "the noble part! There is the bitterness of the draught! The opportunity to act is pushed upon me, but the opportunity to act nobly has passed by." He again drew his chair closer, glanced behind him and spoke low: "Because for years I have had a kind of custody of all my kinsmen's property interests, Agricola's among them, it is supposed that he has always kept the plantation of Aurore Nancanou (or rather of Clotilde--who, you know, by our laws is the real heir). That is a mistake. Explain it as you please, call it remorse, pride, love--what you like--while I was in France and he was managing my mother's business, unknown to me he gave me that plantation. When I succeeded him I found it and all its revenues kept distinct--as was but proper--from all other accounts, and belonging to me. 'Twas a fine, extensive place, had a good overseer on it and--I kept it. Why? Because I was a coward. I did not want it or its revenues; but, like my father, I would not offend my people. Peace first and justice afterwards--that was the principle on which I quietly made myself the trustee of a plantation and income which you would have given back to their owners, eh?" Frowenfeld was silent. "My-de'-seh, recollect that to us the Grandissime name is a treasure. And what has preserved it so long? Cherishing the unity of our family; that has done it; that is how my father did it. Just or unjust, good or bad, needful or not, done elsewhere or not, I do not say; but it is a Creole trait. See, even now" (the speaker smiled on one side of his mouth) "in a certain section of the territory certain men, Creoles" (he whispered, gravely), "_some Grandissimes among them_, evading the United States revenue laws and even beating and killing some of the officials: well! Do the people at large repudiate those men? My-de'-seh, in no wise, seh! No; if they were _Américains_--but a Louisianian--is a Louisianian; touch him not; when you touch him you touch all Louisiana! So with us Grandissimes; we are legion, but we are one. Now, my-de'-seh, the thing you ask me to do is to cast overboard that old traditional principle which is the secret of our existence." "_I_ ask you?" "Ah, bah! you know you expect it. Ah! but you do not know the uproar such an action would make. And no 'noble part' in it, my-de'-seh, either. A few months ago--when we met by those graves--if I had acted then, my action would have been one of pure--even violent--_self_-sacrifice. Do you remember--on the levee, by the Place d'Armes--me asking you to send Agricola to me? I tried then to speak of it. He would not let me. Then, my people felt safe in their land-titles and public offices; this restitution would have hurt nothing but pride. Now, titles in doubt, government appointments uncertain, no ready capital in reach for any purpose, except that which would have to be handed over with the plantation (for to tell you the fact, my-de'-seh, no other account on my books has prospered), with matters changed in this way, I become the destroyer of my own flesh and blood! Yes, seh! and lest I might still find some room to boast, another change moves me into a position where it suits me, my-de'-seh, to make the restitution so fatal to those of my name. When you and I first met, those ladies were as much strangers to me as to you--as far as I _knew_. Then, if I had done this thing--but now--now, my-de'-seh, I find myself in love with one of them!" M. Grandissime looked his friend straight in the eye with the frowning energy of one who asserts an ugly fact. Frowenfeld, regarding the speaker with a gaze of respectful attention, did not falter; but his fevered blood, with an impulse that started him half from his seat, surged up into his head and face; and then-- M. Grandissime blushed. In the few silent seconds that followed, the glances of the two friends continued to pass into each other's eyes, while about Honoré's mouth hovered the smile of one who candidly surrenders his innermost secret, and the lips of the apothecary set themselves together as though he were whispering to himself behind them, "Steady." "Mr. Frowenfeld," said the Creole, taking a sudden breath and waving a hand, "I came to ask about _your_ trouble; but if you think you have any reason to withhold your confidence--" "No, sir; no! But can I be no help to you in this matter?" The Creole leaned back smilingly in his chair and knit his fingers. "No, I did not intend to say all this; I came to offer my help to you; but my mind is full--what do you expect? My-de'-seh, the foam must come first out of the bottle. You see"--he leaned forward again, laid two fingers in his palm and deepened his tone--"I will tell you: this tree--'our dead father's mistakes'--is about to drop another rotten apple. I spoke just now of the uproar this restitution would make; why, my-de'-seh, just the mention of the lady's name at my house, when we lately held the _fête de grandpère_, has given rise to a quarrel which is likely to end in a duel." "Raoul was telling me," said the apothecary. M. Grandissime made an affirmative gesture. "Mr. Frowenfeld, if you--if any one--could teach my people--I mean my family--the value of peace (I do not say the duty, my-de'-seh; a merchant talks of values); if you could teach them the value of peace, I would give you, if that was your price"--he ran the edge of his left hand knife-wise around the wrist of his right--"that. And if you would teach it to the whole community--well--I think I would not give my head; maybe you would." He laughed. "There is a peace which is bad," said the contemplative apothecary. "Yes," said the Creole, promptly, "the very kind that I have been keeping all this time--and my father before me!" He spoke with much warmth. "Yes," he said again, after a pause which was not a rest, "I often see that we Grandissimes are a good example of the Creoles at large; we have one element that makes for peace; that--pardon the self-consciousness--is myself; and another element that makes for strife--led by my uncle Agricola; but, my-de'-seh, the peace element is that which ought to make the strife, and the strife element is that which ought to be made to keep the peace! Mr. Frowenfeld, I propose to become the strife-maker; how then, can I be a peacemaker at the same time? There is my diffycultie." "Mr. Grandissime," exclaimed Frowenfeld, "if you have any design in view founded on the high principles which I know to be the foundations of all your feelings, and can make use of the aid of a disgraced man, use me." "You are very generous," said the Creole, and both were silent. Honoré dropped his eyes from Frowenfeld's to the floor, rubbed his knee with his palm, and suddenly looked up. "You are innocent of wrong?" "Before God." "I feel sure of it. Tell me in a few words all about it. I ought to be able to extricate you. Let me hear it." Frowenfeld again told as much as he thought he could, consistently with his pledges to Palmyre, touching with extreme lightness upon the part taken by Clotilde. "Turn around," said M. Grandissime at the close; "let me see the back of your head. And it is that that is giving you this fever, eh?" "Partly," replied Frowenfeld; "but how shall I vindicate my innocence? I think I ought to go back openly to this woman's house and get my hat. I was about to do that when I got your note; yet it seems a feeble--even if possible--expedient." "My friend," said Honoré, "leave it to me. I see your whole case, both what you tell and what you conceal. I guess it with ease. Knowing Palmyre so well, and knowing (what you do not) that all the voudous in town think you a sorcerer, I know just what she would drop down and beg you for--a _ouangan_, ha, ha! You see? Leave it all to me--and your hat with Palmyre, take a febrifuge and a nap, and await word from me." "And may I offer you no help in your difficulty?" asked the apothecary, as the two rose and grasped hands. "Oh!" said the Creole, with a little shrug, "you may do anything you can--which will be nothing." CHAPTER XXXVIII TESTS OF FRIENDSHIP Frowenfeld turned away from the closing door, caught his head between his hands and tried to comprehend the new wildness of the tumult within. Honoré Grandissime avowedly in love with one of them--_which one_? Doctor Keene visibly in love with one of them--_which one_? And he! What meant this bounding joy that, like one gorgeous moth among innumerable bats, flashed to and fro among the wild distresses and dismays swarming in and out of his distempered imagination? He did not answer the question; he only knew the confusion in his brain was dreadful. Both hands could not hold back the throbbing of his temples; the table did not steady the trembling of his hands; his thoughts went hither and thither, heedless of his call. Sit down as he might, rise up, pace the room, stand, lean his forehead against the wall--nothing could quiet the fearful disorder, until at length he recalled Honoré's neglected advice and resolutely lay down and sought sleep; and, long before he had hoped to secure it, it came. In the distant Grandissime mansion, Agricola Fusilier was casting about for ways and means to rid himself of the heaviest heart that ever had throbbed in his bosom. He had risen at sunrise from slumber worse than sleeplessness, in which his dreams had anticipated the duel of to-morrow with Sylvestre. He was trying to get the unwonted quaking out of his hands and the memory of the night's heart-dissolving phantasms from before his inner vision. To do this he had resort to a very familiar, we may say time-honored, prescription--rum. He did not use it after the voudou fashion; the voudous pour it on the ground--Agricola was an anti-voudou. It finally had its effect. By eleven o'clock he seemed, outwardly at least, to be at peace with everything in Louisiana that he considered Louisianian, properly so-called; as to all else he was ready for war, as in peace one should be. While in this mood, and performing at a sideboard the solemn rite of _las onze_, news incidentally reached him, by the mouth of his busy second, Hippolyte, of Frowenfeld's trouble, and despite 'Polyte's protestations against the principal in a pending "affair" appearing on the street, he ordered the carriage and hurried to the apothecary's. * * * * * When Frowenfeld awoke, the fingers of his clock were passing the meridan. His fever was gone, his brain was calm, his strength in good measure had returned. There had been dreams in his sleep, too; he had seen Clotilde standing at the foot of his bed. He lay now, for a moment, lost in retrospection. "There can be no doubt about it," said he, as he rose up, looking back mentally at something in the past. The sound of carriage-wheels attracted his attention by ceasing before his street door. A moment later the voice of Agricola was heard in the shop greeting Raoul. As the old man lifted the head of his staff to tap on the inner door, Frowenfeld opened it. "Fusilier to the rescue!" said the great Louisianian, with a grasp of the apothecary's hand and a gaze of brooding admiration. Joseph gave him a chair, but with magnificent humility he insisted on not taking it until "Professor Frowenfeld" had himself sat down. The apothecary was very solemn. It seemed to him as if in this little back room his dead good name was lying in state, and these visitors were coming in to take their last look. From time to time he longed for more light, wondering why the gravity of his misadventure should seem so great. "H-m-h-y dear Professor!" began the old man. Pages of print could not comprise all the meanings of his smile and accent; benevolence, affection, assumed knowledge of the facts, disdain of results, remembrance of his own youth, charity for pranks, patronage--these were but a few. He spoke very slowly and deeply and with this smile of a hundred meanings. "Why did you not send for me, Joseph? Sir, whenever you have occasion to make a list of the friends who will stand by you, _right or wrong_--h-write the name of Citizen Agricola Fusilier at the top! Write it large and repeat it at the bottom! You understand me, Joseph?--and, mark me,--right or wrong!" "Not wrong," said Frowenfeld, "at least not in defence of wrong; I could not do that; but, I assure you, in this matter I have done--" "No worse than any one else would have done under the circumstances, my dear boy!--Nay, nay, do not interrupt me; I understand you, I understand you. H-do you imagine there is anything strange to me in this--at my age?" "But I am--" "--all right, sir! that is _what_ you are. And you are under the wing of Agricola Fusilier, the old eagle; that is _where_ you are. And you are one of my brood; that is _who_ you are. Professor, listen to your old father. _The--man--makes--the--crime!_ The wisdom of mankind never brought forth a maxim of more gigantic beauty. If the different grades of race and society did not have corresponding moral and civil liberties, varying in degree as they vary--h-why! _this_ community, at least, would go to pieces! See here! Professor Frowenfeld is charged with misdemeanor. Very well, who is he? Foreigner or native? Foreigner by sentiment and intention, or only by accident of birth? Of our mental fibre--our aspirations--our delights--our indignations? I answer for you, Joseph, yes!--yes! What then? H-why, then the decision! Reached how? By apologetic reasonings? By instinct, sir! h-h-that guide of the nobly proud! And what is the decision? Not guilty. Professor Frowenfeld, _absolvo te!_" It was in vain that the apothecary repeatedly tried to interrupt this speech. "Citizen Fusilier, do you know me no better?"--"Citizen Fusilier, if you will but listen!"--such were the fragments of his efforts to explain. The old man was not so confident as he pretended to be that Frowenfeld was that complete proselyte which alone satisfies a Creole; but he saw him in a predicament and cast to him this life-buoy, which if a man should refuse, he would deserve to drown. Frowenfeld tried again to begin. "Mr. Fusilier--" "Citizen Fusilier!" "Citizen, candor demands that I undeceive--" "Candor demands--h-my dear Professor, let me tell you exactly what she demands. She demands that in here--within this apartment--we understand each other. That demand is met." "But--" Frowenfeld frowned impatiently. "That demand, Joseph, is fully met! I understand the whole matter like an eye-witness! Now there is another demand to be met, the demand of friendship! In here, candor; outside, friendship; in here, one of our brethren has been adventurous and unfortunate; outside"--the old man smiled a smile of benevolent mendacity--"outside, nothing has happened." Frowenfeld insisted savagely on speaking; but Agricola raised his voice, and gray hairs prevailed. "At least, what _has_ happened? The most ordinary thing in the world; Professor Frowenfeld lost his footing on a slippery gunwale, fell, cut his head upon a protruding spike, and went into the house of Palmyre to bathe his wound; but finding it worse than he had at first supposed it, immediately hurried out again and came to his store. He left his hat where it had fallen, too muddy to be worth recovery. Hippolyte Brahmin-Mandarin and others, passing at the time, thought he had met with violence in the house of the hair-dresser, and drew some natural inferences, but have since been better informed; and the public will please understand that Professor Frowenfeld is a white man, a gentleman, and a Louisianian, ready to vindicate his honor, and that Citizen Agricola Fusilier is his friend!" The old man looked around with the air of a bull on a hill-top. Frowenfeld, vexed beyond degree, restrained himself only for the sake of an object in view, and contented himself with repeating for the fourth or fifth time,-- "I cannot accept any such deliverance." "Professor Frowenfeld, friendship--society--demands it; our circle must be protected in all its members. You have nothing to do with it. You will leave it with me, Joseph." "No, no," said Frowenfeld, "I thank you, but--" "Ah! my dear boy, thank me not; I cannot help these impulses; I belong to a warm-hearted race. But"--he drew back in his chair sidewise and made great pretence of frowning--"you decline the offices of that precious possession, a Creole friend?" "I only decline to be shielded by a fiction." "Ah-h!" said Agricola, further nettling his victim by a gaze of stagy admiration. "'_Sans peur et sans reproche_'--and yet you disappoint me. Is it for naught, that I have sallied forth from home, drawing the curtains of my carriage to shield me from the gazing crowd? It was to rescue my friend--my vicar--my coadjutor--my son--from the laughs and finger-points of the vulgar mass. H-I might as well have stayed at home--or better, for my peculiar position to-day rather requires me to keep in--" "No, citizen," said Frowenfeld, laying his hand upon Agricola's arm, "I trust it is not in vain that you have come out. There _is_ a man in trouble whom only you can deliver." The old man began to swell with complacency. "H-why, really--" "_He_, Citizen, is truly of your kind--" "He must be delivered, Professor Frowenfeld--" "He is a native Louisianian, not only by accident of birth but by sentiment and intention," said Frowenfeld. The old man smiled a benign delight, but the apothecary now had the upper hand, and would not hear him speak. "His aspirations," continued the speaker, "his indignations--mount with his people's. His pulse beats with yours, sir. He is a part of your circle. He is one of your caste." Agricola could not be silent. "Ha-a-a-ah! Joseph, h-h-you make my blood tingle! Speak to the point; who--" "I believe him, moreover, Citizen Fusilier, innocent of the charge laid--" "H-innocent? H-of course he is innocent, sir! We will _make_ him inno--" "Ah! Citizen, he is already under sentence of death!" "_What?_ A Creole under sentence!" Agricola swore a heathen oath, set his knees apart and grasped his staff by the middle. "Sir, we will liberate him if we have to overturn the government!" Frowenfeld shook his head. "You have got to overturn something stronger than government." "And pray what--" "A conventionality," said Frowenfeld, holding the old man's eye. "Ha, ha! my b-hoy, h-you are right. But we will overturn--eh?" "I say I fear your engagements will prevent. I hear you take part to-morrow morning in--" Agricola suddenly stiffened. "Professor Frowenfeld, it strikes me, sir, you are taking something of a liberty." "For which I ask pardon," exclaimed Frowenfeld. "Then I may not expect--" The old man melted again. "But who is this person in mortal peril?" Frowenfeld hesitated. "Citizen Fusilier," he said, looking first down at the floor and then up into the inquirer's face, "on my assurance that he is not only a native Creole, but a Grandissime--" "It is not possible!" exclaimed Agricola. "--a Grandissime of the purest blood, will you pledge me your aid to liberate him from his danger, 'right or wrong'?" "_Will_ I? H-why, certainly! Who is he?" "Citizen--it is Sylves--" Agricola sprang up with a thundering oath. The apothecary put out a pacifying hand, but it was spurned. "Let me go! How dare you, sir? How dare you, sir?" bellowed Agricola. He started toward the door, cursing furiously and keeping his eye fixed on Frowenfeld with a look of rage not unmixed with terror. "Citizen Fusilier," said the apothecary, following him with one palm uplifted, as if that would ward off his abuse, "don't go! I adjure you, don't go! Remember your pledge, Citizen Fusilier!" Agricola did not pause a moment; but when he had swung the door violently open the way was still obstructed. The painter of "Louisiana refusing to enter the Union" stood before him, his head elevated loftily, one foot set forward and his arm extended like a tragedian's. "Stan' bag-sah!" "Let me pass! Let me pass, or I will kill you!" Mr. Innerarity smote his bosom and tossed his hand aloft. "Kill me-firse an' pass aftah!" "Citizen Fusilier," said Frowenfeld, "I beg you to hear me." "Go away! Go away!" The old man drew back from the door and stood in the corner against the book-shelves as if all the horrors of the last night's dreams had taken bodily shape in the person of the apothecary. He trembled and stammered: "Ke--keep off! Keep off! My God! Raoul, he has insulted me!" He made a miserable show of drawing a weapon. "No man may insult me and live! If you are a man, Professor Frowenfeld, you will defend yourself!" Frowenfeld lost his temper, but his hasty reply was drowned by Raoul's vehement speech. "'Tis not de trute!" cried Raoul. "He try to save you from hell-'n'-damnation w'en 'e h-ought to give you a good cuss'n!"--and in the ecstasy of his anger burst into tears. Frowenfeld, in an agony of annoyance, waved him away and he disappeared, shutting the door. Agricola, moved far more from within than from without, had sunk into a chair under the shelves. His head was bowed, a heavy grizzled lock fell down upon his dark, frowning brow, one hand clenched the top of his staff, the other his knee, and both trembled violently. As Frowenfeld, with every demonstration of beseeching kindness, began to speak, he lifted his eyes and said, piteously: "Stop! Stop!" "Citizen Fusilier, it is you who must stop. Stop before God Almighty stops you, I beg you. I do not presume to rebuke you. I _know_ you want a clear record. I know it better to-day than I ever did before. Citizen Fusilier, I honor your intentions--" Agricola roused a little and looked up with a miserable attempt at his habitual patronizing smile. "H-my dear boy, I overlook"--but he met in Frowenfeld's eyes a spirit so superior to his dissimulation that the smile quite broke down and gave way to another of deprecatory and apologetic distress. He reached up an arm. "I could easily convince you, Professor, of your error"--his eyes quailed and dropped to the floor--"but I--your arm, my dear Joseph; age is creeping upon me." He rose to his feet. "I am feeling really indisposed to-day--not at all bright; my solicitude for you, my dear b--" He took two or three steps forward, tottered, clung to the apothecary, moved another step or two, and grasping the edge of the table stumbled into a chair which Frowenfeld thrust under him. He folded his arms on the edge of the board and rested his forehead on them, while Frowenfeld sat down quickly on the opposite side, drew paper and pen across the table and wrote. "Are you writing something, Professor?" asked the old man, without stirring. His staff tumbled to the floor. The apothecary's answer was a low, preoccupied one. Two or three times over he wrote and rejected what he had written. Presently he pushed back his chair, came around the table, laid the writing he had made before the bowed head, sat down again and waited. After a long time the old man looked up, trying in vain to conceal his anguish under a smile. "I have a sad headache." He cast his eyes over the table and took mechanically the pen which Frowenfeld extended toward him. "What can I do for you, Professor? Sign something? There is nothing I would not do for Professor Frowenfeld. What have you written, eh?" He felt helplessly for his spectacles. Frowenfeld read: "_Mr. Sylvestre Grandissime: I spoke in haste_." He felt himself tremble as he read. Agricola fumbled with the pen, lifted his eyes with one more effort at the old look, said, "My dear boy, I do this purely to please you," and to Frowenfeld's delight and astonishment wrote: "_Your affectionate uncle, Agricola Fusilier_." CHAPTER XXXIX LOUISIANA STATES HER WANTS "'Sieur Frowenfel'," said Raoul as that person turned in the front door of the shop after watching Agricola's carriage roll away--he had intended to unburden his mind to the apothecary with all his natural impetuosity; but Frowenfeld's gravity as he turned, with the paper in his hand, induced a different manner. Raoul had learned, despite all the impulses of his nature, to look upon Frowenfeld with a sort of enthusiastic awe. He dropped his voice and said--asking like a child a question he was perfectly able to answer-- "What de matta wid Agricole?" Frowenfeld, for the moment well-nigh oblivious of his own trouble, turned upon his assistant a look in which elation was oddly blended with solemnity, and replied as he walked by: "Rush of truth to the heart." Raoul followed a step. "'Sieur Frowenfel'--" The apothecary turned once more. Raoul's face bore an expression of earnest practicability that invited confidence. "'Sieur Frowenfel', Agricola writ'n' to Sylvestre to stop dat dool?" "Yes." "You goin' take dat lett' to Sylvestre?" "Yes." "'Sieur Frowenfel', dat de wrong g-way. You got to take it to 'Polyte Brahmin-Mandarin, an' 'e got to take it to Valentine Grandissime, an' '_e_ got to take it to Sylvestre. You see, you got to know de manner to make. Once 'pon a time I had a diffycultie wid--" "I see," said Frowenfeld; "where may I find Hippolyte Brahmin-Mandarin at this time of day?" Raoul shrugged. "If the pre-parish-ions are not complitted, you will not find 'im; but if they har complitted--you know 'im?" "By sight." "Well, you may fine him at Maspero's, or helse in de front of de Veau-qui-tête, or helse at de Café Louis Quatorze--mos' likely in front of de Veau-qui-tête. You know, dat diffycultie I had, dat arise itseff from de discush'n of one of de mil-littery mov'ments of ca-valry; you know, I--" "Yes," said the apothecary; "here, Raoul, is some money; please go and buy me a good, plain hat." "All right." Raoul darted behind the counter and got his hat out of a drawer. "Were at you buy your hats?" "Anywhere." "I will go at _my_ hatter." As the apothecary moved about his shop awaiting Raoul's return, his own disaster became once more the subject of his anxiety. He noticed that almost every person who passed looked in. "This is the place,"--"That is the man,"--how plainly the glances of passers sometimes speak! The people seemed, moreover, a little nervous. Could even so little a city be stirred about such a petty, private trouble as this of his? No; the city was having tribulations of its own. New Orleans was in that state of suppressed excitement which, in later days, a frequent need of reassuring the outer world has caused to be described by the phrase "never more peaceable." Raoul perceived it before he had left the shop twenty paces behind. By the time he reached the first corner he was in the swirl of the popular current. He enjoyed it like a strong swimmer. He even drank of it. It was better than wine and music mingled. "Twelve weeks next Thursday, and no sign of re-cession!" said one of two rapid walkers just in front of him. Their talk was in the French of the province. "Oh, re-cession!" exclaimed the other angrily. "The cession is a reality. That, at least, we have got to swallow. Incredulity is dead." The first speaker's feelings could find expression only in profanity. "The cession--we wash our hands of it!" He turned partly around upon his companion, as they hurried along, and gave his hands a vehement dry washing. "If Incredulity is dead, Non-participation reigns in its stead, and Discontent is prime minister!" He brandished his fist as they turned a corner. "If we must change, let us be subjects of the First Consul!" said one of another pair whom Raoul met on a crossing. There was a gathering of boys and vagabonds at the door of a gun-shop. A man inside was buying a gun. That was all. A group came out of a "coffee-house." The leader turned about upon the rest: "_Ah, bah! cette_ Amayrican libetty!" "See! see! it is this way!" said another of the number, taking two others by their elbows, to secure an audience, "we shall do nothing ourselves; we are just watching that vile Congress. It is going to tear the country all to bits!" "Ah, my friend, you haven't got the _inside_ news," said still another--Raoul lingered to hear him--"Louisiana is going to state her wants! We have the liberty of free speech and are going to use it!" His information was correct; Louisiana, no longer incredulous of her Americanization, had laid hold of her new liberties and was beginning to run with them, like a boy dragging his kite over the clods. She was about to state her wants, he said. "And her don't-wants," volunteered one whose hand Raoul shook heartily. "We warn the world. If Congress doesn't take heed, we will not be responsible for the consequences!" Raoul's hatter was full of the subject. As Mr. Innerarity entered, he was saying good-day to a customer in his native tongue, English, and so continued: "Yes, under Spain we had a solid, quiet government--Ah! Mr. Innerarity, overjoyed to see you! We were speaking of these political troubles. I wish we might see the last of them. It's a terrible bad mess; corruption to-day--I tell you what--it will be disruption to-morrow. Well, it is no work of ours; we shall merely stand off and see it." "Mi-frien'," said Raoul, with mingled pity and superiority, "you haven't got doze _inside_ nooz; Louisiana is goin' to state w'at she want." On his way back toward the shop Mr. Innerarity easily learned Louisiana's wants and don't-wants by heart. She wanted a Creole governor; she did not want Casa Calvo invited to leave the country; she wanted the provisions of the Treaty of Cession hurried up; "as soon as possible," that instrument said; she had waited long enough; she did not want "dat trile bi-ju'y"--execrable trash! she wanted an _unwatched import trade!_ she did not want a single additional Américain appointed to office; she wanted the slave trade. Just in sight of the bareheaded and anxious Frowenfeld, Raoul let himself be stopped by a friend. The remark was exchanged that the times were exciting. "And yet," said the friend, "the city was never more peaceable. It is exasperating to see that coward governor looking so diligently after his police and hurrying on the organization of the Américain volunteer militia!" He pointed savagely here and there. "M. Innerarity, I am lost in admiration at the all but craven patience with which our people endure their wrongs! Do my pistols show _too_ much through my coat? Well, good-day; I must go home and clean my gun; my dear friend, one don't know how soon he may have to encounter the Recorder and Register of Land-titles." Raoul finished his errand. "'Sieur Frowenfel', excuse me--I take dat lett' to 'Polyte for you if you want." There are times when mere shopkeeping--any peaceful routine--is torture. But the apothecary felt so himself; he declined his assistant's offer and went out toward the Veau-qui-tête. CHAPTER XL FROWENFELD FINDS SYLVESTRE The Veau-qui-tête restaurant occupied the whole ground floor of a small, low, two-story, tile-roofed, brick-and-stucco building which still stands on the corner of Chartres and St. Peter streets, in company with the well-preserved old Cabildo and the young Cathedral, reminding one of the shabby and swarthy Creoles whom we sometimes see helping better-kept kinsmen to murder time on the banquettes of the old French Quarter. It was a favorite rendezvous of the higher classes, convenient to the court-rooms and municipal bureaus. There you found the choicest legal and political gossips, with the best the market afforded of meat and drink. Frowenfeld found a considerable number of persons there. He had to move about among them to some extent, to make sure he was not overlooking the object of his search. As he entered the door, a man sitting near it stopped talking, gazed rudely as he passed, and then leaned across the table and smiled and murmured to his companion. The subject of his jest felt their four eyes on his back. There was a loud buzz of conversation throughout the room, but wherever he went a wake of momentary silence followed him, and once or twice he saw elbows nudged. He perceived that there was something in the state of mind of these good citizens that made the present sight of him particularly discordant. Four men, leaning or standing at a small bar, were talking excitedly in the Creole patois. They made frequent anxious, yet amusedly defiant, mention of a certain _Pointe Canadienne_. It was a portion of the Mississippi River "coast" not far above New Orleans, where the merchants of the city met the smugglers who came up from the Gulf by way of Barrataria Bay and Bayou. These four men did not call it by the proper title just given; there were commercial gentlemen in the Creole city, Englishmen, Scotchmen, Yankees, as well as French and Spanish Creoles, who in public indignantly denied, and in private tittered over, their complicity with the pirates of Grand Isle, and who knew their trading rendezvous by the sly nickname of "Little Manchac." As Frowenfeld passed these four men they, too, ceased speaking and looked after him, three with offensive smiles and one with a stare of contempt. Farther on, some Creoles were talking rapidly to an Américain, in English. "And why?" one was demanding. "Because money is scarce. Under other governments we had any quantity!" "Yes," said the venturesome Américain in retort, "such as it was; _assignats, liberanzas, bons_--Claiborne will give us better money than that when he starts his bank." "Hah! his bank, yes! John Law once had a bank, too; ask my old father. What do we want with a bank? Down with banks!" The speaker ceased; he had not finished, but he saw the apothecary. Frowenfeld heard a muttered curse, an inarticulate murmur, and then a loud burst of laughter. A tall, slender young Creole whom he knew, and who had always been greatly pleased to exchange salutations, brushed against him without turning his eyes. "You know," he was saying to a companion, "everybody in Louisiana is to be a citizen, except the negroes and mules; that is the kind of liberty they give us--all eat out of one trough." "What we want," said a dark, ill-looking, but finely-dressed man, setting his claret down, "and what we have got to have, is"--he was speaking in French, but gave the want in English--"Representesh'n wizout Taxa--" There his eye fell upon Frowenfeld and followed him with a scowl. "Mah frang," he said to his table companion, "wass you sink of a mane w'at hask-a one neegrow to 'ave-a one shair wiz 'im, eh?--in ze sem room?" The apothecary found that his fame was far wider and more general than he had supposed. He turned to go out, bowing as he did so, to an Américain merchant with whom he had some acquaintance. "Sir?" asked the merchant, with severe politeness, "wish to see me? I thought you--As I was saying, gentlemen, what, after all, does it sum up?" A Creole interrupted him with an answer: "Leetegash'n, Spoleeash'n, Pahtitsh'n, Disintegrhash'n!" The voice was like Honoré's. Frowenfeld looked; it was Agamemnon Grandissime. "I must go to Maspero's," thought the apothecary, and he started up the rue Chartres. As he turned into the rue St. Louis, he suddenly found himself one of a crowd standing before a newly-posted placard, and at a glance saw it to be one of the inflammatory publications which were a feature of the times, appearing both daily and nightly on walls and fences. "One Amerry-can pull' it down, an' Camille Brahmin 'e pas'e it back," said a boy at Frowenfeld's side. Exchange Alley was once _Passage de la Bourse_, and led down (as it now does to the State House--late St. Louis Hotel) to an establishment which seems to have served for a long term of years as a sort of merchants' and auctioneers' coffee-house, with a minimum of china and a maximum of glass: Maspero's--certainly Maspero's as far back as 1810, and, we believe, Maspero's the day the apothecary entered it, March 9, 1804. It was a livelier spot than the Veau-qui-tête; it was to that what commerce is to litigation, what standing and quaffing is to sitting and sipping. Whenever the public mind approached that sad state of public sentiment in which sanctity signs politicians' memorials and chivalry breaks into the gun-shops, a good place to feel the thump of the machinery was in Maspero's. The first man Frowenfeld saw as he entered was M. Valentine Grandissime. There was a double semicircle of gazers and listeners in front of him; he was talking, with much show of unconcern, in Creole French. "Policy? I care little about policy." He waved his hand. "I know my rights--and Louisiana's. We have a right to our opinions. We have"--with a quiet smile and an upward turn of his extended palm--"a right to protect them from the attack of interlopers, even if we have to use gunpowder. I do not propose to abridge the liberties of even this army of fortune-hunters. _Let_ them think." He half laughed. "Who cares whether they share our opinions or not? Let them have their own. I had rather they would. But let them hold their tongues. Let them remember they are Yankees. Let them remember they are unbidden guests." All this without the least warmth. But the answer came aglow with passion, from one of the semicircle, whom two or three seemed disposed to hold in check. It also was in French, but the apothecary was astonished to hear his own name uttered. "But this fellow Frowenfeld"--the speaker did not see Joseph--"has never held his tongue. He has given us good reason half a dozen times, with his too free speech and his high moral whine, to hang him with the lamppost rope! And now, when we have borne and borne and borne and borne with him, and he shows up, all at once, in all his rottenness, you say let him alone! One would think you were defending Honoré Grandissime!" The back of one of the speaker's hands fluttered in the palm of the other. Valentine smiled. "Honoré Grandissime? Boy, you do not know what you are talking about. Not Honoré, ha, ha! A man who, upon his own avowal, is guilty of affiliating with the Yankees. A man whom we have good reason to suspect of meditating his family's dishonor and embarrassment!" Somebody saw the apothecary and laid a cautionary touch on Valentine's arm, but he brushed it off. "As for Professor Frowenfeld, he must defend himself." "Ha-a-a-ah!"--a general cry of derision from the listeners. "Defend himself!" exclaimed their spokesman; "shall I tell you again what he is?" In his vehemence, the speaker wagged his chin and held his clenched fists stiffly toward the floor. "He is--he is--he is--" He paused, breathing like a fighting dog. Frowenfeld, large, white, and immovable, stood close before him. "Dey 'ad no bizniz led 'im come oud to-day," said a bystander, edging toward a pillar. The Creole, a small young man not unknown to us, glared upon the apothecary; but Frowenfeld was far above his blushing mood, and was not disconcerted. This exasperated the Creole beyond bound; he made a sudden, angry change of attitude, and demanded: "Do you interrup' two gen'lemen in dey conve'sition, you Yankee clown? Do you igno' dad you 'ave insult me, off-scow'ing?" Frowenfeld's first response was a stern gaze. When he spoke, he said: "Sir, I am not aware that I have ever offered you the slightest injury or affront; if you wish to finish your conversation with this gentleman, I will wait till you are through." The Creole bowed, as a knight who takes up the gage. He turned to Valentine. "Valentine, I was sayin' to you dad diz pusson is a cowa'd and a sneak; I repead thad! I repead id! I spurn you! Go f'om yeh!" The apothecary stood like a cliff. It was too much for Creole forbearance. His adversary, with a long snarl of oaths, sprang forward and with a great sweep of his arm slapped the apothecary on the cheek. And then-- What a silence! Frowenfeld had advanced one step; his opponent stood half turned away, but with his face toward the face he had just struck and his eyes glaring up into the eyes of the apothecary. The semicircle was dissolved, and each man stood in neutral isolation, motionless and silent. For one instant objects lost all natural proportion, and to the expectant on-lookers the largest thing in the room was the big, upraised, white fist of Frowenfeld. But in the next--how was this? Could it be that that fist had not descended? The imperturbable Valentine, with one preventing arm laid across the breast of the expected victim and an open hand held restrainingly up for truce, stood between the two men and said: "Professor Frowenfeld--one moment--" Frowenfeld's face was ashen. "Don't speak, sir!" he exclaimed. "If I attempt to parley I shall break every bone in his body. Don't speak! I can guess your explanation--he is drunk. But take him away." Valentine, as sensible as cool, assisted by the kinsman who had laid a hand on his arm, shuffled his enraged companion out. Frowenfeld's still swelling anger was so near getting the better of him that he unconsciously followed a quick step or two; but as Valentine looked back and waved him to stop, he again stood still. "_Professeur_--you know,--" said a stranger, "daz Sylvestre Grandissime." Frowenfeld rather spoke to himself than answered: "If I had not known that, I should have--" He checked himself and left the place. * * * * * While the apothecary was gathering these experiences, the free spirit of Raoul Innerarity was chafing in the shop like an eagle in a hen-coop. One moment after another brought him straggling evidences, now of one sort, now of another, of the "never more peaceable" state of affairs without. If only some pretext could be conjured up, plausible or flimsy, no matter; if only some man would pass with a gun on his shoulder, were it only a blow-gun; or if his employer were any one but his beloved Frowenfeld, he would clap up the shutters as quickly as he had already done once to-day, and be off to the wars. He was just trying to hear imaginary pistol-shots down toward the Place d'Armes, when the apothecary returned. "D' you fin' him?" "I found Sylvestre." "'E took de lett'?" "I did not offer it." Frowenfeld, in a few compact sentences, told his adventure. Raoul was ablaze with indignation. "'Sieur Frowenfel', gimmy dat lett'!" He extended his pretty hand. Frowenfeld pondered. "Gimmy 'er!" persisted the artist; "befo' I lose de sight from dat lett' she goin' to be hanswer by Sylvestre Grandissime, an' 'e goin' to wrat you one appo-logie! Oh! I goin' mek 'im crah fo' shem!" "If I could know you would do only as I--" "I do it!" cried Raoul, and sprang for his hat; and in the end Frowenfeld let him have his way. "I had intended seeing him--" the apothecary said. "Nevvamine to see; I goin' tell him!" cried Raoul, as he crowded his hat fiercely down over his curls and plunged out. CHAPTER XLI TO COME TO THE POINT It was equally a part of Honoré Grandissime's nature and of his art as a merchant to wear a look of serene leisure. With this look on his face he reëntered his counting-room after his morning visit to Frowenfeld's shop. He paused a moment outside the rail, gave the weak-eyed gentleman who presided there a quiet glance equivalent to a beckon, and, as that person came near, communicated two or three items of intelligence or instruction concerning office details, by which that invaluable diviner of business meanings understood that he wished to be let alone for an hour. Then M. Grandissime passed on into his private office, and, shutting the door behind him, walked briskly to his desk and sat down. He dropped his elbows upon a broad paper containing some recently written, unfinished memoranda that included figures in column, cast his eyes quite around the apartment, and then covered his face with his palms--a gesture common enough for a tired man of business in a moment of seclusion; but just as the face disappeared in the hands, the look of serene leisure gave place to one of great mental distress. The paper under his elbows, to the consideration of which he seemed about to return, was in the handwriting of his manager, with additions by his own pen. Earlier in the day he had come to a pause in the making of these additions, and, after one or two vain efforts to proceed, had laid down his pen, taken his hat, and gone to see the unlucky apothecary. Now he took up the broken thread. To come to a decision; that was the task which forced from him his look of distress. He drew his face slowly through his palms, set his lips, cast up his eyes, knit his knuckles, and then opened and struck his palms together, as if to say: "Now, come; let me make up my mind." There may be men who take every moral height at a dash; but to the most of us there must come moments when our wills can but just rise and walk in their sleep. Those who in such moments wait for clear views find, when the issue is past, that they were only yielding to the devil's chloroform. Honoré Grandissme bent his eyes upon the paper. But he saw neither its figures nor its words. The interrogation, "Surrender Fausse Rivière?" appeared to hang between his eyes and the paper, and when his resolution tried to answer "Yes," he saw red flags; he heard the auctioneer's drum; he saw his kinsmen handing house-keys to strangers; he saw the old servants of the great family standing in the marketplace; he saw kinswomen pawning their plate; he saw his clerks (Brahmins, Mandarins, Grandissimes) standing idle and shabby in the arcade of the Cabildo and on the banquettes of Maspero's and the Veau-qui-tête; he saw red-eyed young men in the Exchange denouncing a man who, they said, had, ostensibly for conscience's sake, but really for love, forced upon the woman he had hoped to marry a fortune filched from his own kindred. He saw the junto of doctors in Frowenfeld's door charitably deciding him insane; he saw the more vengeful of his family seeking him with half-concealed weapons; he saw himself shot at in the rue Royale, in the rue Toulouse, and in the Place d'Armes: and, worst of all, missed. But he wiped his forehead, and the writing on the paper became, in a measure, visible. He read: Total mortgages on the lands of all the Grandissimes $-- Total present value of same, titles at buyers' risk -- Cash, goods, and accounts -- Fausse Rivière Plantation account -- There were other items, but he took up the edge of the paper mechanically, pushed it slowly away from him, leaned back in his chair and again laid his hands upon his face. "Suppose I retain Fausse Rivière," he said to himself, as if he had not said it many times before. Then he saw memoranda that were not on any paper before him--such a mortgage to be met on such a date; so much from Fausse Rivière Plantation account retained to protect that mortgage from foreclosure; such another to be met on such a date--so much more of same account to protect it. He saw Aurora and Clotilde Nancanou, with anguished faces, offering woman's pleadings to deaf constables. He saw the remainder of Aurora's plantation account thrown to the lawyers to keep the question of the Grandissime titles languishing in the courts. He saw the fortunes of his clan rallied meanwhile and coming to the rescue, himself and kindred growing independent of questionable titles, and even Fausse Rivière Plantation account restored, but Aurora and Clotilde nowhere to be found. And then he saw the grave, pale face of Joseph Frowenfeld. He threw himself forward, drew the paper nervously toward him, and stared at the figures. He began at the first item and went over the whole paper, line by line, testing every extension, proving every addition, noting if possibly any transposition of figures had been made and overlooked, if something was added that should have been subtracted, or subtracted that should have been added. It was like a prisoner trying the bars of his cell. Was there no way to make things happen differently? Had he not overlooked some expedient? Was not some financial manoeuvre possible which might compass both desired ends? He left his chair and walked up and down, as Joseph at that very moment was doing in the room where he had left him, came back, looked at the paper, and again walked up and down. He murmured now and then to himself: "_Self_-denial--that is not the hard work. Penniless myself--_that_ is play," and so on. He turned by and by and stood looking up at that picture of the man in the cuirass which Aurora had once noticed. He looked at it, but he did not see it. He was thinking--"Her rent is due to-morrow. She will never believe I am not her landlord. She will never go to my half-brother." He turned once more and mentally beat his breast as he muttered: "Why do I not decide?" Somebody touched the doorknob. Honoré stepped forward and opened it. It was a mortgager. "_Ah! entrez, Monsieur_." He retained the visitor's hand, leading him in and talking pleasantly in French until both had found chairs. The conversation continued in that tongue through such pointless commercial gossip as this: "So the brig _Equinox_ is aground at the head of the Passes," said M. Grandissime. "I have just heard she is off again." "Aha?" "Yes; the Fort Plaquemine canoe is just up from below. I understand John McDonough has bought the entire cargo of the schooner _Freedom_." "No, not all; Blanque et Fils bought some twenty boys and women out of the lot. Where is she lying?" "Right at the head of the Basin." And much more like this; but by and by the mortgager came to the point with the casual remark: "The excitement concerning land titles seems to increase rather than subside." "They must have _something_ to be excited about, I suppose," said M. Grandissime, crossing his legs and smiling. It was tradesman's talk. "Yes," replied the other; "there seems to be an idea current to-day that all holders under Spanish titles are to be immediately dispossessed, without even process of court. I believe a very slight indiscretion on the part of the Governor-General would precipitate a riot." "He will not commit any," said M. Grandissime with a quiet gravity, changing his manner to that of one who draws upon a reserve of private information. "There will be no outbreak." "I suppose not. We do not know, really, that the American Congress will throw any question upon titles; but still--" "What are some of the shrewdest Americans among us doing?" asked M. Grandissime. "Yes," replied the mortgager, "it is true they are buying these very titles; but they may be making a mistake?" Unfortunately for the speaker, he allowed his face an expression of argumentative shrewdness as he completed this sentence, and M. Grandissime, the merchant, caught an instantaneous full view of his motive; he wanted to buy. He was a man whose known speculative policy was to "go in" in moments of panic. M. Grandissime was again face to face with the question of the morning. To commence selling must be to go on selling. This, as a plan, included restitution to Aurora; but it meant also dissolution to the Grandissimes, for should their _sold_ titles be pronounced bad, then the titles of other lands would be bad; many an asset among M. Grandissime's memoranda would shrink into nothing, and the meagre proceeds of the Grandissime estates, left to meet the strain without the aid of Aurora's accumulated fortune, would founder in a sea of liabilities; while should these titles, after being parted with, turn out good, his incensed kindred, shutting their eyes to his memoranda and despising his exhibits, would see in him only the family traitor, and he would go about the streets of his town the subject of their implacable denunciation, the community's obloquy, and Aurora's cold evasion. So much, should he sell. On the other hand, to decline to sell was to enter upon that disingenuous scheme of delays which would enable him to avail himself and his people of that favorable wind and tide of fortune which the Cession had brought. Thus the estates would be lost, if lost at all, only when the family could afford to lose them, and Honoré Grandissime would continue to be Honoré the Magnificent, the admiration of the city and the idol of his clan. But Aurora--and Clotilde--would have to eat the crust of poverty, while their fortunes, even in his hands, must bear all the jeopardy of the scheme. That was all. Retain Fausse Rivière and its wealth, and save the Grandissimes; surrender Fausse Rivière, let the Grandissime estates go, and save the Nancanous. That was the whole dilemma. "Let me see," said M. Grandissime. "You have a mortgage on one of our Golden Coast plantations. Well, to be frank with you, I was thinking of that when you came in. You know I am partial to prompt transactions--I thought of offering you either to take up that mortgage or to sell you the plantation, as you may prefer. I have ventured to guess that it would suit you to own it." And the speaker felt within him a secret exultation in the idea that he had succeeded in throwing the issue off upon a Providence that could control this mortgager's choice. "I would prefer to leave that choice with you," said the coy would-be purchaser; and then the two went coquetting again for another moment. "I understand that Nicholas Girod is proposing to erect a four-story brick building on the corner of Royale and St. Pierre. Do you think it practicable? Do you think our soil will support such a structure?" "Pitot thinks it will. Boré says it is perfectly feasible." So they dallied. "Well," said the mortgager, presently rising, "you will make up your mind and let me know, will you?" The chance repetition of those words "make up your mind" touched Honoré Grandissime like a hot iron. He rose with the visitor. "Well, sir, what would you give us for our title in case we should decide to part with it?" The two men moved slowly, side by side, toward the door, and in the half-open doorway, after a little further trifling, the title was sold. "Well, good-day," said M. Grandissime. "M. de Brahmin will arrange the papers for us to-morrow." He turned back toward his private desk. "And now," thought he, "I am acting without resolving. No merit; no strength of will; no clearness of purpose; no emphatic decision; nothing but a yielding to temptation." And M. Grandissime spoke truly; but it is only whole men who so yield--yielding to the temptation to do right. He passed into the counting-room, to M. De Brahmin, and standing there talked in an inaudible tone, leaning over the upturned spectacles of his manager, for nearly an hour. Then, saying he would go to dinner, he went out. He did not dine at home nor at the Veau-qui-tête, nor at any of the clubs; so much is known; he merely disappeared for two or three hours and was not seen again until late in the afternoon, when two or three Brahmins and Grandissimes, wandering about in search of him, met him on the levee near the head of the rue Bienville, and with an exclamation of wonder and a look of surprise at his dusty shoes, demanded to know where he had hid himself while they had been ransacking the town in search of him. "We want you to tell us what you will do about our titles." He smiled pleasantly, the picture of serenity, and replied: "I have not fully made up my mind yet; as soon as I do so I will let you know." There was a word or two more exchanged, and then, after a moment of silence, with a gentle "Eh, bien," and a gesture to which they were accustomed, he stepped away backward, they resumed their hurried walk and talk, and he turned into the rue Bienville. CHAPTER XLII AN INHERITANCE OF WRONG "I tell you," Doctor Keene used to say, "that old woman's a thinker." His allusion was to Clemence, the _marchande des calas_. Her mental activity was evinced not more in the cunning aptness of her songs than in the droll wisdom of her sayings. Not the melody only, but the often audacious, epigrammatic philosophy of her tongue as well, sold her _calas_ and gingercakes. But in one direction her wisdom proved scant. She presumed too much on her insignificance. She was a "study," the gossiping circle at Frowenfeld's used to say; and any observant hearer of her odd aphorisms could see that she herself had made a life-study of herself and her conditions; but she little thought that others--some with wits and some with none--young hare-brained Grandissimes, Mandarins and the like--were silently, and for her most unluckily, charging their memories with her knowing speeches; and that of every one of those speeches she would ultimately have to give account. Doctor Keene, in the old days of his health, used to enjoy an occasional skirmish with her. Once, in the course of chaffering over the price of _calas_, he enounced an old current conviction which is not without holders even to this day; for we may still hear it said by those who will not be decoyed down from the mountain fastnesses of the old Southern doctrines, that their slaves were "the happiest people under the sun." Clemence had made bold to deny this with argumentative indignation, and was courteously informed in retort that she had promulgated a falsehood of magnitude. "W'y, Mawse Chawlie," she replied, "does you s'pose one po' nigga kin tell a big lie? No, sah! But w'en de whole people tell w'at ain' so--if dey know it, aw if dey don' know it--den dat _is_ a big lie!" And she laughed to contortion. "What is that you say?" he demanded, with mock ferocity. "You charge white people with lying?" "Oh, sakes, Mawse Chawlie, no! De people don't mek up dat ah; de debble pass it on 'em. Don' you know de debble ah de grett cyount'-feiteh? Ev'y piece o' money he mek he tek an' put some debblemen' on de under side, an' one o' his pootiess lies on top; an' 'e gilt dat lie, and 'e rub dat lie on 'is elbow, an' 'e shine dat lie, an' 'e put 'is bess licks on dat lie; entel ev'ybody say: 'Oh, how pooty!' An' dey tek it fo' good money, yass--and pass it! Dey b'lieb it!" "Oh," said some one at Doctor Keene's side, disposed to quiz, "you niggers don't know when you are happy." "Dass so, Mawse--_c'est vrai, oui_!" she answered quickly: "we donno no mo'n white folks!" The laugh was against him. "Mawse Chawlie," she said again, "w'a's dis I yeh 'bout dat Eu'ope country? 's dat true de niggas is all free in Eu'ope!" Doctor Keene replied that something like that was true. "Well, now, Mawse Chawlie, I gwan t' ass you a riddle. If dat is _so_, den fo' w'y I yeh folks bragg'n 'bout de 'stayt o' s'iety in Eu'ope'?" The mincing drollery with which she used this fine phrase brought another peal of laughter. Nobody tried to guess. "I gwan tell you," said the _marchande_; "'t is becyaze dey got a 'fixed wuckin' class.'" She sputtered and giggled with the general ha, ha. "Oh, ole Clemence kin talk proctah, yass!" She made a gesture for attention. "D' y' ebber yeh w'at de cya'ge-hoss say w'en 'e see de cyaht-hoss tu'n loose in de sem pawstu'e wid he, an' knowed dat some'ow de cyaht gotteh be haul'? W'y 'e jiz snawt an' kick up 'is heel'"--she suited the action to the word--"an' tah' roun' de fiel' an' prance up to de fence an' say: 'Whoopy! shoo! shoo! dis yeh country gittin' _too_ free!'" "Oh," she resumed, as soon as she could be heard, "white folks is werry kine. Dey wants us to b'lieb we happy--dey _wants to b'lieb_ we is. W'y, you know, dey 'bleeged to b'lieb it--fo' dey own cyumfut. 'Tis de sem weh wid de preache's; dey buil' we ow own sep'ate meet'n-houses; dey b'liebs us lak it de bess, an' dey _knows_ dey lak it de bess." The laugh at this was mostly her own. It is not a laughable sight to see the comfortable fractions of Christian communities everywhere striving, with sincere, pious, well-meant, criminal benevolence, to make their poor brethren contented with the ditch. Nor does it become so to see these efforts meet, or seem to meet, some degree of success. Happily man cannot so place his brother that his misery will continue unmitigated. You may dwarf a man to the mere stump of what he ought to be, and yet he will put out green leaves. "Free from care," we benignly observe of the dwarfed classes of society; but we forget, or have never thought, what a crime we commit when we rob men and women of their cares. To Clemence the order of society was nothing. No upheaval could reach to the depth to which she was sunk. It is true, she was one of the population. She had certain affections toward people and places; but they were not of a consuming sort. As for us, our feelings, our sentiments, affections, etc., are fine and keen, delicate and many; what we call refined. Why? Because we get them as we get our old swords and gems and laces--from our grandsires, mothers, and all. Refined they are--after centuries of refining. But the feelings handed down to Clemence had come through ages of African savagery; through fires that do not refine, but that blunt and blast and blacken and char; starvation, gluttony, drunkenness, thirst, drowning, nakedness, dirt, fetichism, debauchery, slaughter, pestilence and the rest--she was their heiress; they left her the cinders of human feelings. She remembered her mother. They had been separated in her childhood, in Virginia when it was a province. She remembered, with pride, the price her mother had brought at auction, and remarked, as an additional interesting item, that she had never seen or heard of her since. She had had children, assorted colors--had one with her now, the black boy that brought the basil to Joseph; the others were here and there, some in the Grandissime households or field-gangs, some elsewhere within occasional sight, some dead, some not accounted for. Husbands--like the Samaritan woman's. We know she was a constant singer and laugher. And so on that day, when Honoré Grandissime had advised the Governor-General of Louisiana to be very careful to avoid demonstration of any sort if he wished to avert a street war in his little capital, Clemence went up one street and down another, singing her song and laughing her professional merry laugh. How could it be otherwise? Let events take any possible turn, how could it make any difference to Clemence? What could she hope to gain? What could she fear to lose? She sold some of her goods to Casa Calvo's Spanish guard and sang them a Spanish song; some to Claiborne's soldiers and sang them Yankee Doodle with unclean words of her own inspiration, which evoked true soldiers' laughter; some to a priest at his window, exchanging with him a pious comment or two upon the wickedness of the times generally and their Américain Protestant-poisoned community in particular; and (after going home to dinner and coming out newly furnished) she sold some more of her wares to the excited groups of Creoles to which we have had occasion to allude, and from whom, insensible as she was to ribaldry, she was glad to escape. The day now drawing to a close, she turned her steps toward her wonted crouching-place, the willow avenue on the levee, near the Place d'Armes. But she had hardly defined this decision clearly in her mind, and had but just turned out of the rue St. Louis, when her song attracted an ear in a second-story room under whose window she was passing. As usual, it was fitted to the passing event: "_Apportez moi mo' sabre, Ba boum, ba boum, boum, boum_." "Run, fetch that girl here," said Dr. Keene to the slave woman who had just entered his room with a pitcher of water. "Well, old eavesdropper," he said, as Clemence came, "what is the scandal to-day?" Clemence laughed. "You know, Mawse Chawlie, I dunno noth'n' 'tall 'bout nobody. I'se a nigga w'at mine my own business." "Sit down there on that stool, and tell me what is going on outside." "I d' no noth'n' 'bout no goin's on; got no time fo' sit down, me; got sell my cakes. I don't goin' git mix' in wid no white folks's doin's." "Hush, you old hypocrite; I will buy all your cakes. Put them out there on the table." The invalid, sitting up in bed, drew a purse from behind his pillow and tossed her a large price. She tittered, courtesied and received the money. "Well, well, Mawse Chawlie, 'f you ain' de funni'st gen'leman I knows, to be sho!" "Have you seen Joseph Frowenfeld to-day?" he asked. "He, he, he! W'at I got do wid Mawse Frowenfel'? I goes on de off side o' sich folks--folks w'at cann' 'have deyself no bette'n dat--he, he, he! At de same time I did happen, jis chancin' by accident, to see 'im." "How is he?" Dr. Keene made plain by his manner that any sensational account would receive his instantaneous contempt, and she answered within bounds. "Well, now, tellin' the simple trufe, he ain' much hurt." The doctor turned slowly and cautiously in bed. "Have you seen Honoré Grandissime?" "W'y--das funny you ass me dat. I jis now see 'im dis werry minnit." "Where?" "Jis gwine into de house wah dat laydy live w'at 'e runned over dat ah time." "Now, you old hag," cried the sick man, his weak, husky voice trembling with passion, "you know you're telling me a lie." "No, Mawse Chawlie," she protested with a coward's frown, "I swah I tellin' you de God's trufe!" "Hand me my clothes off that chair." "Oh! but, Mawse Chawlie--" The little doctor cursed her. She did as she was bid, and made as if to leave the room. "Don't you go away." "But Mawse Chawlie, you' undress'--he, he!" She was really abashed and half frightened. "I know that; and you have got to help me put my clothes on." "You gwan kill yo'se'f, Mawse Chawlie," she said, handling a garment. "Hold your black tongue." She dressed him hastily, and he went down the stairs of his lodging-house and out into the street. Clemence went in search of her master. CHAPTER XLIII THE EAGLE VISITS THE DOVES IN THEIR NEST Alphonsina--only living property of Aurora and Clotilde--was called upon to light a fire in the little parlor. Elsewhere, although the day was declining, few persons felt such a need; but in No. 19 rue Bienville there were two chilling influences combined requiring an artificial offset. One was the ground under the floor, which was only three inches distant, and permanently saturated with water; the other was despair. Before this fire the two ladies sat down together like watchers, in that silence and vacuity of mind which come after an exhaustive struggle ending in the recognition of the inevitable; a torpor of thought, a stupefaction of feeling, a purely negative state of joylessness sequent to the positive state of anguish. They were now both hungry, but in want of some present friend acquainted with the motions of mental distress who could guess this fact and press them to eat. By their eyes it was plain they had been weeping much; by the subdued tone, too, of their short and infrequent speeches. Alphonsina, having made the fire, went out with a bundle. It was Aurora's last good dress. She was going to try to sell it. "It ought not to be so hard," began Clotilde, in a quiet manner of contemplating some one else's difficulty, but paused with the saying uncompleted, and sighed under her breath. "But it _is_ so hard," responded Aurora. "No, it ought not to be so hard--" "How, not so hard?" "It is not so hard to live," said Clotilde; "but it is hard to be ladies. You understand--" she knit her fingers, dropped them into her lap and turned her eyes toward Aurora, who responded with the same motions, adding the crossing of her silk-stockinged ankles before the fire. "No," said Aurora, with a scintillation of irrepressible mischief in her eyes. "After all," pursued Clotilde, "what troubles us is not how to make a living, but how to get a living without making it." "Ah! that would be magnificent!" said Aurora, and then added, more soberly; "but we are compelled to make a living." "No." "No-o? Ah! what do you mean with your 'no'?" "I mean it is just the contrary; we are compelled not to make a living. Look at me: I can cook, but I must not cook; I am skillful with the needle, but I must not take in sewing; I could keep accounts; I could nurse the sick; but I must not. I could be a confectioner, a milliner, a dressmaker, a vest-maker, a cleaner of gloves and laces, a dyer, a bird-seller, a mattress-maker, an upholsterer, a dancing-teacher, a florist--" "Oh!" softly exclaimed Aurora, in English, "you could be--you know w'ad?--an egcellen' drug-cl'--ah, ha, ha!" "Now--" But the threatened irruption was averted by a look of tender apology from Aurora, in reply to one of martyrdom from Clotilde. "My angel daughter," said Aurora, "if society has decreed that ladies must be ladies, then that is our first duty; our second is to live. Do you not see why it is that this practical world does not permit ladies to make a living? Because if they could, none of them would ever consent to be married. Ha! women talk about marrying for love; but society is too sharp to trust them, yet! It makes it _necessary_ to marry. I will tell you the honest truth; some days when I get very, very hungry, and we have nothing but rice--all because we are ladies without male protectors--I think society could drive even me to marriage!--for your sake, though, darling; of course, only for your sake!" "Never!" replied Clotilde; "for my sake, never; for your own sake if you choose. I should not care. I should be glad to see you do so if it would make you happy; but never for my sake and never for hunger's sake; but for love's sake, yes; and God bless thee, pretty maman." "Clotilde, dear," said the unconscionable widow, "let me assure you, once for all,--starvation is preferable. I mean for me, you understand, simply for me; that is my feeling on the subject." Clotilde turned her saddened eyes with a steady scrutiny upon her deceiver, who gazed upward in apparently unconscious reverie, and sighed softly as she laid her head upon the high chair-back and stretched out her feet. "I wish Alphonsina would come back," she said. "Ah!" she added, hearing a footfall on the step outside the street door, "there she is." She arose and drew the bolt. Unseen to her, the person whose footsteps she had heard stood upon the doorstep with a hand lifted to knock, but pausing to "makeup his mind." He heard the bolt shoot back, recognized the nature of the mistake, and, feeling that here again he was robbed of volition, rapped. "That is not Alphonsina!" The two ladies looked at each other and turned pale. "But you must open it," whispered Clotilde, half rising. Aurora opened the door, and changed from white to crimson. Clotilde rose up quickly. The gentleman lifted his hat. "Madame Nancanou." "M. Grandissime?" "Oui, Madame." For once, Aurora was in an uncontrollable flutter. She stammered, lost her breath, and even spoke worse French than she needed to have done. "Be pl--pleased, sir--to enter. Clotilde, my daughter--Monsieur Grandissime. P-please be seated, sir. Monsieur Grandissime,"--she dropped into a chair with an air of vivacity pitiful to behold,--"I suppose you have come for the rent." She blushed even more violently than before, and her hand stole upward upon her heart to stay its violent beating. "Clotilde, dear, I should be glad if you would put the fire before the screen; it is so much too warm." She pushed her chair back and shaded her face with her hand. "I think the warmer is growing weather outside, is it--is it not?" The struggles of a wounded bird could not have been more piteous. Monsieur Grandissime sought to speak. Clotilde, too, nerved by the sight of her mother's embarrassment, came to her support, and she and the visitor spoke in one breath. "Maman, if Monsieur--pardon--" "Madame Nancanou, the--pardon, Mademoiselle--" "I have presumed to call upon you," resumed M. Grandissime, addressing himself now to both ladies at once, "to see if I may enlist you in a purely benevolent undertaking in the interest of one who has been unfortunate--a common acquaintance--" "Common acquaint--" interrupted Aurora, with a hostile lighting of her eyes. "I believe so--Professor Frowenfeld." M. Grandissme saw Clotilde start, and in her turn falsely accuse the fire by shading her face: but it was no time to stop. "Ladies," he continued, "please allow me, for the sake of the good it may effect, to speak plainly and to the point." The ladies expressed acquiescence by settling themselves to hear. "Professor Frowenfeld had the extraordinary misfortune this morning to incur the suspicion of having entered a house for the purpose of--at least, for a bad design--" "He is innocent!" came from Clotilde, against her intention; Aurora covertly put out a hand, and Clotilde clutched it nervously. "As, for example, robbery," said the self-recovered Aurora, ignoring Clotilde's look of protestation. "Call it so," responded M. Grandissime. "Have you heard at whose house this was?" "No, sir." "It was at the house of Palmyre Philosophe." "Palmyre Philosophe!" exclaimed Aurora, in low astonishment. Clotilde let slip, in a tone of indignant incredulity, a soft "Ah!" Aurora turned, and with some hope that M. Grandissime would not understand, ventured to say in Spanish, quietly: "Come, come, this will never do." And Clotilde replied in the same tongue: "I know it, but he is innocent." "Let us understand each other," said their visitor. "There is not the faintest idea in the mind of one of us that Professor Frowenfeld is guilty of even an intention of wrong; otherwise I should not be here. He is a man simply incapable of anything ignoble." Clotilde was silent. Aurora answered promptly, with the air of one not to be excelled in generosity: "Certainly, he is very incapabl'." "Still," resumed the visitor, turning especially to Clotilde, "the known facts are these, according to his own statement: he was in the house of Palmyre on some legitimate business which, unhappily, he considers himself on some account bound not to disclose, and by some mistake of Palmyre's old Congo woman, was set upon by her and wounded, barely escaping with a whole skull into the street, an object of public scandal. Laying aside the consideration of his feelings, his reputation is at stake and likely to be ruined unless the affair can be explained clearly and satisfactorily, and at once, by his friends." "And you undertake--" began Aurora. "Madame Nancanou," said Honoré Grandissime, leaning toward her earnestly, "you know--I must beg leave to appeal to your candor and confidence--you know everything concerning Palmyre that I know. You know me, and who I am; you know it is not for me to undertake to confer with Palmyre. I know, too, her old affection for you; she lives but a little way down this street upon which you live; there is still daylight enough at your disposal; if you will, you can go to see her, and get from her a full and complete exoneration of this young man. She cannot come to you; she is not fit to leave her room." "Cannot leave her room?" "I am, possibly, violating confidence in this disclosure, but it is unavoidable--you have to know: she is not fully recovered from a pistol-shot wound received between two and three weeks ago." "Pistol-shot wound!" Both ladies started forward with open lips and exclamations of amazement. "Received from a third person--not myself and not Professor Frowenfeld--in a desperate attempt made by her to avenge the wrongs which she has suffered, as you, Madam, as well as I, are aware, at the hands of--" Aurora rose up with a majestic motion for the speaker to desist. "If it is to mention the person of whom your allusion reminds me, that you have honored us with a call this evening, Monsieur--" Her eyes were flashing as he had seen them flash in front of the Place d'Armes. "I beg you not to suspect me of meanness," he answered, gently, and with a remonstrative smile. "I have been trying all day, in a way unnecessary to explain, to be generous." "I suppose you are incapabl'," said Aurora, following her double meaning with that combination of mischievous eyes and unsmiling face of which she was master. She resumed her seat, adding: "It is generous for you to admit that Palmyre has suffered wrongs." "It _would_ be," he replied, "to attempt to repair them, seeing that I am not responsible for them, but this I cannot claim yet to have done. I have asked of you, Madam, a generous act. I might ask another of you both jointly. It is to permit me to say without offence, that there is one man, at least, of the name of Grandissime who views with regret and mortification the yet deeper wrongs which you are even now suffering." "Oh!" exclaimed Aurora, inwardly ready for fierce tears, but with no outward betrayal save a trifle too much grace and an over-bright smile, "Monsieur is much mistaken; we are quite comfortable and happy, wanting nothing, eh, Clotilde?--not even our rights, ha, ha!" She rose and let Alphonsina in. The bundle was still in the negress's arms. She passed through the room and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. "Oh! no, sir, not at all," repeated Aurora, as she once more sat down. "You ought to want your rights," said M. Grandissime. "You ought to have them." "You think so?" Aurora was really finding it hard to conceal her growing excitement, and turned, with a faint hope of relief, toward Clotilde. Clotilde, looking only at their visitor, but feeling her mother's glance, with a tremulous and half-choked voice, said eagerly: "Then why do you not give them to us?" "Ah!" interposed Aurora, "we shall get them to-morrow, when the sheriff comes." And, thereupon what did Clotilde do but sit bolt upright, with her hands in her lap, and let the tears roll, tear after tear, down her cheeks. "Yes, Monsieur," said Aurora, smiling still, "those that you see are really tears. Ha, ha, ha! excuse me, I really have to laugh; for I just happened to remember our meeting at the masked ball last September. We had such a pleasant evening and were so much indebted to you for our enjoyment,--particularly myself,--little thinking, you know, that you were one of that great family which believes we ought to have our rights, you know. There are many people who ought to have their rights. There was Bras-Coupé; indeed, he got them--found them in the swamp. Maybe Clotilde and I shall find ours in the street. When we unmasked in the theatre, you know, I did not know you were my landlord, and you did not know that I could not pay a few picayunes of rent. But you must excuse those tears; Clotilde is generally a brave little woman, and would not be so rude as to weep before a stranger; but she is weak to-day--we are both weak to-day, from the fact that we have eaten nothing since early morning, although we have abundance of food--for want of appetite, you understand. You must sometimes be affected the same way, having the care of so much wealth _of all sorts_." Honoré Grandissime had risen to his feet and was standing with one hand on the edge of the lofty mantel, his hat in the other dropped at his side and his eye fixed upon Aurora's beautiful face, whence her small nervous hand kept dashing aside the tears through which she defiantly talked and smiled. Clotilde sat with clenched hands buried in her lap, looking at Aurora and still weeping. And M. Grandissime was saying to himself: "If I do this thing now--if I do it here--I do it on an impulse; I do it under constraint of woman's tears; I do it because I love this woman; I do it to get out of a corner; I do it in weakness, not in strength; I do it without having made up my mind whether or not it is the best thing to do." And then, without intention, with scarcely more consciousness of movement than belongs to the undermined tree which settles, roots and all, into the swollen stream, he turned and moved toward the door. Clotilde rose. "Monsieur Grandissime." He stopped and looked back. "We will see Palmyre at once, according to your request." He turned his eyes toward Aurora. "Yes," said she, and she buried her face in her handkerchief and sobbed aloud. She heard his footstep again; it reached the door; the door opened--closed; she heard his footstep again; was he gone? He was gone. The two women threw themselves into each other's arms and wept. Presently Clotilde left the room. She came back in a moment from the rear apartment, with a bonnet and veil in her hands. "No," said Aurora, rising quickly, "I must do it." "There is no time to lose," said Clotilde. "It will soon be dark." It was hardly a minute before Aurora was ready to start. A kiss, a sorrowful look of love exchanged, the veil dropped over the swollen eyes, and Aurora was gone. A minute passed, hardly more, and--what was this?--the soft patter of Aurora's knuckles on the door. "Just here at the corner I saw Palmyre leaving her house and walking down the rue Royale. We must wait until morn--" Again a footfall on the doorstep, and the door, which was standing ajar, was pushed slightly by the force of the masculine knock which followed. "Allow me," said the voice of Honoré Grandissime, as Aurora bowed at the door. "I should have handed you this; good-day." She received a missive. It was long, like an official document; it bore evidence of having been carried for some hours in a coat-pocket, and was folded in one of those old, troublesome ways in use before the days of envelopes. Aurora pulled it open. "It is all figures; light a candle." The candle was lighted by Clotilde and held over Aurora's shoulder; they saw a heading and footing more conspicuous than the rest of the writing. The heading read: "_Aurora and Clotilde Nancanou, owners of Fausse Rivière Plantation, in account with Honoré Grandissime_." The footing read: _ "Balance at credit, subject to order of Aurora and Clotilde Nancanou, $105,000.00_." The date followed: "_March_ 9, 1804." and the signature: "_H. Grandissime_." A small piece of torn white paper slipped from the account to the floor. Clotilde's eye followed it, but Aurora, without acknowledgement of having seen it, covered it with her foot. In the morning Aurora awoke first. She drew from under her pillow this slip of paper. She had not dared look at it until now. The writing on it had been roughly scratched down with a pencil. It read: "_Not for love of woman, but in the name of justice and the fear of God_." "And I was so cruel," she whispered. Ah! Honoré Grandissime, she was kind to that little writing! She did not put it back under her pillow; she _kept it warm_, Honoré Grandissime, from that time forth. CHAPTER XLIV BAD FOR CHARLIE KEENE On the same evening of which we have been telling, about the time that Aurora and Clotilde were dropping their last tear of joy over the document of restitution, a noticeable figure stood alone at the corner of the rue du Canal and the rue Chartres. He had reached there and paused, just as the brighter glare of the set sun was growing dim above the tops of the cypresses. After walking with some rapidity of step, he had stopped aimlessly, and laid his hand with an air of weariness upon a rotting China-tree that leaned over the ditch at the edge of the unpaved walk. "Setting in cypress," he murmured. We need not concern ourselves as to his meaning. One could think aloud there with impunity. In 1804, Canal street was the upper boundary of New Orleans. Beyond it, to southward, the open plain was dotted with country-houses, brick-kilns, clumps of live-oak and groves of pecan. At the hour mentioned the outlines of these objects were already darkening. At one or two points the sky was reflected from marshy ponds. Out to westward rose conspicuously the old house and willow-copse of Jean Poquelin. Down the empty street or road, which stretched with arrow-like straightness toward the northwest, the draining-canal that gave it its name tapered away between occasional overhanging willows and beside broken ranks of rotting palisades, its foul, crawling waters blushing, gilding and purpling under the swiftly waning light, and ending suddenly in the black shadow of the swamp. The observer of this dismal prospect leaned heavily on his arm, and cast his glance out along the beautified corruption of the canal. His eye seemed quickened to detect the smallest repellant details of the scene; every cypress stump that stood in, or overhung, the slimy water; every ruined indigo-vat or blasted tree, every broken thing, every bleached bone of ox or horse--and they were many--for roods around. As his eye passed them slowly over and swept back again around the dreary view, he sighed heavily and said: "Dissolution," and then again--"Dissolution! order of the day--" A secret overhearer might have followed, by these occasional exclamatory utterances, the course of a devouring trouble prowling up and down through his thoughts, as one's eye tracks the shark by the occasional cutting of his fin above the water. He spoke again: "It is in such moods as this that fools drown themselves." His speech was French. He straightened up, smote the tree softly with his palm, and breathed a long, deep sigh--such a sigh, if the very truth be told, as belongs by right to a lover. And yet his mind did not dwell on love. He turned and left the place; but the trouble that was plowing hither and thither through the deep of his meditations went with him. As he turned into the rue Chartres it showed itself thus: "Right; it is but right;" he shook his head slowly--"it is but right." In the rue Douane he spoke again: "Ah! Frowenfeld"--and smiled unpleasantly, with his head down. And as he made yet another turn, and took his meditative way down the city's front, along the blacksmith's shops in the street afterward called Old Levee, he resumed, in English, and with a distinctness that made a staggering sailor halt and look after him: "There are but two steps to civilization, the first easy, the second difficult; to construct--to reconstruct--ah! there it is! the tearing down! The tear'--" He was still, but repeated the thought by a gesture of distress turned into a slow stroke of the forehead. "Monsieur Honoré Grandissime," said a voice just ahead. "_Eh, bien_?" At the mouth of an alley, in the dim light of the streep lamp, stood the dark figure of Honoré Grandissime, f.m.c., holding up the loosely hanging form of a small man, the whole front of whose clothing was saturated with blood. "Why, Charlie Keene! Let him down again, quickly--quickly; do not hold him so!" "Hands off," came in a ghastly whisper from the shape. "Oh, Chahlie, my boy--" "Go and finish your courtship," whispered the doctor. "Oh Charlie, I have just made it forever impossible!" "Then help me back to my bed; I don't care to die in the street." CHAPTER XLV MORE REPARATION "That is all," said the fairer Honoré, outside Doctor Keene's sick-room about ten o'clock at night. He was speaking to the black son of Clemence, who had been serving as errand-boy for some hours. He spoke in a low tone just without the half-open door, folding again a paper which the lad had lately borne to the apothecary of the rue Royale, and had now brought back with Joseph's answer written under Honoré's inquiry. "That is all," said the other Honoré, standing partly behind the first, as the eyes of his little menial turned upon him that deprecatory glance of inquiry so common to slave children. The lad went a little way down the corridor, curled up upon the floor against the wall, and was soon asleep. The fairer Honoré handed the darker the slip of paper; it was received and returned in silence. The question was: "_Can you state anything positive concerning the duel_?" And the reply: "_Positively there will be none. Sylvestre my sworn friend for life_." The half-brothers sat down under a dim hanging lamp in the corridor, and except that every now and then one or the other stepped noiselessly to the door to look in upon the sleeping sick man, or in the opposite direction to moderate by a push with the foot the snoring of Clemence's "boy," they sat the whole night through in whispered counsel. The one, at the request of the other, explained how he had come to be with the little doctor in such extremity. It seems that Clemence, seeing and understanding the doctor's imprudence, had sallied out with the resolve to set some person on his track. We have said that she went in search of her master. Him she met, and though she could not really count him one of the doctor's friends, yet, rightly believing in his humanity, she told him the matter. He set off in what was for him a quick pace in search of the rash invalid, was misdirected by a too confident child and had given up the hope of finding him, when a faint sound of distress just at hand drew him into an alley, where, close down against a wall, with his face to the earth, lay Doctor Keene. The f.m.c. had just raised him and borne him out of the alley when Honoré came up. "And you say that, when you would have inquired for him at Frowenfeld's, you saw Palmyre there, standing and talking with Frowenfeld? Tell me more exactly." And the other, with that grave and gentle economy of words which made his speech so unique, recounted what we amplify: Palmyre had needed no pleading to induce her to exonerate Joseph. The doctors were present at Frowenfeld's in more than usual number. There was unusualness, too, in their manner and their talk. They were not entirely free from the excitement of the day, and as they talked--with an air of superiority, of Creole inflammability, and with some contempt--concerning Camille Brahmin's and Charlie Mandarin's efforts to precipitate a war, they were yet visibly in a state of expectation. Frowenfeld, they softly said, had in his odd way been indiscreet among these inflammables at Maspero's just when he could least afford to be so, and there was no telling what they might take the notion to do to him before bedtime. All that over and above the independent, unexplained scandal of the early morning. So Joseph and his friends this evening, like Aurora and Clotilde in the morning, were, as we nowadays say of buyers and sellers, "apart," when suddenly and unannounced, Palmyre presented herself among them. When the f.m.c. saw her, she had already handed Joseph his hat and with much sober grace was apologizing for her slave's mistake. All evidence of her being wounded was concealed. The extraordinary excitement of the morning had not hurt her, and she seemed in perfect health. The doctors sat or stood around and gave rapt attention to her patois, one or two translating it for Joseph, and he blushing to the hair, but standing erect and receiving it at second hand with silent bows. The f.m.c. had gazed on her for a moment, and then forced himself away. He was among the few who had not heard the morning scandal, and he did not comprehend the evening scene. He now asked Honoré concerning it, and quietly showed great relief when it was explained. Then Honoré, breaking a silence, called the attention of the f.m.c. to the fact that the latter had two tenants at Number 19 rue Bienville. Honoré became the narrator now and told all, finally stating that the die was cast--restitution made. And then the darker Honoré made a proposition to the other, which, it is little to say, was startling. They discussed it for hours. "So just a condition," said the merchant, raising his whisper so much that the rentier laid a hand in his elbow,--"such mere justice," he said, more softly, "ought to be an easy condition. God knows"--he lifted his glance reverently--"my very right to exist comes after yours. You are the elder." The solemn man offered no disclaimer. What could the proposition be which involved so grave an issue, and to which M. Grandissime's final answer was "I will do it"? It was that Honoré f.m.c. should become a member of the mercantile house of H. Grandissime, enlisting in its capital all his wealth. And the one condition was that the new style should be _Grandissime Brothers_. CHAPTER XLVI THE PIQUE-EN-TERRE LOSES ONE OF HER CREW Ask the average resident of New Orleans if his town is on an island, and he will tell you no. He will also wonder how any one could have got that notion,--so completely has Orleans Island, whose name at the beginning of the present century was in everybody's mouth, been forgotten. It was once a question of national policy, a point of difference between Republican and Federalist, whether the United States ought to buy this little strip of semi-submerged land, or whether it would not be more righteous to steal it. The Kentuckians kept the question at a red heat by threatening to become an empire by themselves if one course or the other was not taken; but when the First Consul offered to sell all Louisiana, our commissioners were quite robbed of breath. They had approached to ask a hair from the elephant's tail, and were offered the elephant. For Orleans Island--island it certainly was until General Jackson closed Bayou Manchac--is a narrow, irregular, flat tract of forest, swamp, city, prairie and sea-marsh, lying east and west, with the Mississippi, trending southeastward, for its southern boundary, and for its northern, a parallel and contiguous chain of alternate lakes and bayous, opening into the river through Bayou Manchac, and into the Gulf through the passes of the Malheureuse Islands. On the narrowest part of it stands New Orleans. Turning and looking back over the rear of the town, one may easily see from her steeples Lake Pontchartrain glistening away to the northern horizon, and in his fancy extend the picture to right and left till Pontchartrain is linked in the west by Pass Manchac to Lake Maurepas, and in the east by the Rigolets and Chef Menteur to Lake Borgne. An oddity of the Mississippi Delta is the habit the little streams have of running away from the big ones. The river makes its own bed and its own banks, and continuing season after season, through ages of alternate overflow and subsidence, to elevate those banks, creates a ridge which thus becomes a natural elevated aqueduct. Other slightly elevated ridges mark the present or former courses of minor outlets, by which the waters of the Mississippi have found the sea. Between these ridges lie the cypress swamps, through whose profound shades the clear, dark, deep bayous creep noiselessly away into the tall grasses of the shaking prairies. The original New Orleans was built on the Mississippi ridge, with one of these forest-and-water-covered basins stretching back behind her to westward and northward, closed in by Metairie Ridge and Lake Pontchartrain. Local engineers preserve the tradition that the Bayou Sauvage once had its rise, so to speak, in Toulouse street. Though depleted by the city's present drainage system and most likely poisoned by it as well, its waters still move seaward in a course almost due easterly, and empty into Chef Menteur, one of the watery threads of a tangled skein of "passes" between the lakes and the open Gulf. Three-quarters of a century ago this Bayou Sauvage (or Gentilly--corruption of Chantilly) was a navigable stream of wild and sombre beauty. On a certain morning in August, 1804, and consequently some five months after the events last mentioned, there emerged from the darkness of Bayou Sauvage into the prairie-bordered waters of Chef Menteur, while the morning star was still luminous in the sky above and in the water below, and only the practised eye could detect the first glimmer of day, a small, stanch, single-masted, broad and very light-draught boat, whose innocent character, primarily indicated in its coat of many colors,--the hull being yellow below the water line and white above, with tasteful stripings of blue and red,--was further accentuated by the peaceful name of _Pique-en-terre_ (the Sandpiper). She seemed, too, as she entered the Chef Menteur, as if she would have liked to turn southward; but the wind did not permit this, and in a moment more the water was rippling after her swift rudder, as she glided away in the direction of Pointe Aux Herbes. But when she had left behind her the mouth of the passage, she changed her course and, leaving the Pointe on her left, bore down toward Petites Coquilles, obviously bent upon passing through the Rigolets. We know not how to describe the joyousness of the effect when at length one leaves behind him the shadow and gloom of the swamp, and there bursts upon his sight the widespread, flower-decked, bird-haunted prairies of Lake Catharine. The inside and outside of a prison scarcely furnish a greater contrast; and on this fair August morning the contrast was at its strongest. The day broke across a glad expanse of cool and fragrant green, silver-laced with a network of crisp salt pools and passes, lakes, bayous and lagoons, that gave a good smell, the inspiring odor of interclasped sea and shore, and both beautified and perfumed the happy earth, laid bare to the rising sun. Waving marshes of wild oats, drooping like sated youth from too much pleasure; watery acres hid under crisp-growing greenth starred with pond-lilies and rippled by water-fowl; broad stretches of high grass, with thousands of ecstatic wings palpitating above them; hundreds of thousands of white and pink mallows clapping their hands in voiceless rapture, and that amazon queen of the wild flowers, the morning-glory, stretching her myriad lines, lifting up the trumpet and waving her colors, white, azure and pink, with lacings of spider's web, heavy with pearls and diamonds--the gifts of the summer night. The crew of the _Pique-en-terre_ saw all these and felt them; for, whatever they may have been or failed to be, they were men whose heartstrings responded to the touches of nature. One alone of their company, and he the one who should have felt them most, showed insensibility, sighed laughingly and then laughed sighingly, in the face of his fellows and of all this beauty, and profanely confessed that his heart's desire was to get back to his wife. He had been absent from her now for nine hours! But the sun is getting high; Petites Coquilles has been passed and left astern, the eastern end of Las Conchas is on the after-larboard-quarter, the briny waters of Lake Borgne flash far and wide their dazzling white and blue, and, as the little boat issues from the deep channel of the Rigolets, the white-armed waves catch her and toss her like a merry babe. A triumph for the helmsman--he it is who sighs, at intervals of tiresome frequency, for his wife. He had, from the very starting-place in the upper waters of Bayou Sauvage, declared in favor of the Rigolets as--wind and tide considered--the most practicable of all the passes. Now that they were out, he forgot for a moment the self-amusing plaint of conjugal separation to flaunt his triumph. Would any one hereafter dispute with him on the subject of Louisiana sea-coast navigation? He knew every pass and piece of water like A, B, C, and could tell, faster, much faster than he could repeat the multiplication table (upon which he was a little slow and doubtful), the amount of water in each at ebb tide--Pass Jean or Petit Pass, Unknown Pass, Petit Rigolet, Chef Menteur,-- Out on the far southern horizon, in the Gulf--the Gulf of Mexico--there appears a speck of white. It is known to those on board the _Pique-en-terre_, the moment it is descried, as the canvas of a large schooner. The opinion, first expressed by the youthful husband, who still reclines with the tiller held firmly under his arm, and then by another member of the company who sits on the centreboard-well, is unanimously adopted, that she is making for the Rigolets, will pass Petites Coquilles by eleven o'clock, and will tie up at the little port of St. Jean, on the bayou of the same name, before sundown, if the wind holds anywise as it is. On the other hand, the master of the distant schooner shuts his glass, and says to the single passenger whom he has aboard that the little sail just visible toward the Rigolets is a sloop with a half-deck, well filled with men, in all probability a pleasure party bound to the Chandeleurs on a fishing and gunning excursion, and passes into comments on the superior skill of landsmen over seamen in the handling of small sailing craft. By and by the two vessels near each other. They approach within hailing distance, and are announcing each to each their identity, when the young man at the tiller jerks himself to a squatting posture, and, from under a broad-brimmed and slouched straw hat, cries to the schooner's one passenger: "Hello, Challie Keene." And the passenger more quietly answers back: "Hello, Raoul, is that you?" M. Innerarity replied, with a profane parenthesis, that it was he. "You kin hask Sylvestre!" he concluded. The doctor's eye passed around a semicircle of some eight men, the most of whom were quite young, but one or two of whom were gray, sitting with their arms thrown out upon the wash-board, in the dark négligé of amateur fishermen and with that exultant look of expectant deviltry in their handsome faces which characterizes the Creole with his collar off. The mettlesome little doctor felt the odds against him in the exchange of greetings. "Ola, Dawctah!" "_Hé_, Doctah, _que-ce qui t'après fé?_" "_Ho, ho, compère Noyo!_" "_Comment va_, Docta?" A light peppering of profanity accompanied each salute. The doctor put on defensively a smile of superiority to the juniors and of courtesy to the others, and responsively spoke their names: "'Polyte--Sylvestre--Achille--Émile--ah! Agamemnon." The Doctor and Agamemnon raised their hats. As Agamemnon was about to speak, a general expostulatory outcry drowned his voice. The _Pique-en-terre_ was going about close abreast of the schooner, and angry questions and orders were flying at Raoul's head like a volley of eggs. "Messieurs," said Raoul, partially rising but still stooping over the tiller, and taking his hat off his bright curls with mock courtesy, "I am going back to New Orleans. I would not give _that_ for all the fish in the sea; I want to see my wife. I am going back to New Orleans to see my wife--and to congratulate the city upon your absence." Incredulity, expostulation, reproach, taunt, malediction--he smiled unmoved upon them all. "Messieurs, I _must_ go and see my wife." Amid redoubled outcries he gave the helm to Camille Brahmin, and fighting his way with his pretty feet against half-real efforts to throw him overboard, clambered forward to the mast, whence a moment later, with the help of the schooner-master's hand, he reached the deck of the larger vessel. The _Pique-en-terre_ turned, and with a little flutter spread her smooth wing and skimmed away. "Doctah Keene, look yeh!" M. Innerarity held up a hand whose third finger wore the conventional ring of the Creole bridegroom. "W'at you got to say to dat?" The little doctor felt a faintness run through his veins, and a thrill of anger follow it. The poor man could not imagine a love affair that did not include Clotilde Nancanou. "Whom have you married?" "De pritties' gal in de citty." The questioner controlled himself. "M-hum," he responded, with a contraction of the eyes. Raoul waited an instant for some kindlier comment, and finding the hope vain, suddenly assumed a look of delighted admiration. "Hi, yi, yi! Doctah, 'ow you har lookingue fine." The true look of the doctor was that he had not much longer to live. A smile of bitter humor passed over his face, and he looked for a near seat, saying: "How's Frowenfeld?" Raoul struck an ecstatic attitude and stretched forth his hand as if the doctor could not fail to grasp it. The invalid's heart sank like lead. "Frowenfeld has got her," he thought. "Well?" said he with a frown of impatience and restraint; and Raoul cried: "I sole my pigshoe!" The doctor could not help but laugh. "Shades of the masters!" "No; 'Louizyanna rif-using to hantre de h-Union.'" The doctor stood corrected. The two walked across the deck, following the shadow of the swinging sail. The doctor lay down in a low-swung hammock, and Raoul sat upon the deck _à la Turque_. "Come, come, Raoul, tell me, what is the news?" "News? Oh, I donno. You 'eard concernin' the dool?" "You don't mean to say--" "Yesseh!" "Agricola and Sylvestre?" "W'at de dev'! No! Burr an' 'Ammiltong; in Noo-Juzzy-las-June. Collonnel Burr, 'e--" "Oh, fudge! yes. How is Frowenfeld?" "'E's well. Guess 'ow much I sole my pigshoe." "Well, how much?" "Two 'ondred fifty." He laid himself out at length, his elbow on the deck, his head in his hand. "I believe I'm sorry I sole 'er." "I don't wonder. How's Honoré? Tell me what has happened. Remember, I've been away five months." "No; I am verrie glad dat I sole 'er. What? Ha! I should think so! If it have not had been fo' dat I would not be married to-day. You think I would get married on dat sal'rie w'at Proffis-or Frowenfel' was payin' me? Twenty-five dolla' de mont'? Docta Keene, no gen'leman h-ought to git married if 'e 'ave not anny'ow fifty dolla' de mont'! If I wasn' a h-artiz I wouldn' git married; I gie you my word!" "Yes," said the little doctor, "you are right. Now tell me the news." "Well, dat Cong-ress gone an' make--" "Raoul, stop. I know that Congress has divided the province into two territories; I know you Creoles think all your liberties are lost; I know the people are in a great stew because they are not allowed to elect their own officers and legislatures, and that in Opelousas and Attakapas they are as wild as their cattle about it--" "We 'ad two big mitting' about it," interrupted Raoul; "my bro'r-in-law speak at both of them!" "Who?" "Chahlie Mandarin." "Glad to hear it," said Doctor Keene,--which was the truth. "Besides that, I know Laussat has gone to Martinique; that the Américains have a newspaper, and that cotton is two-bits a pound. Now what I want to know is, how are my friends? What has Honoré done? What has Frowenfeld done? And Palmyre,--and Agricole? They hustled me away from here as if I had been caught trying to cut my throat. Tell me everything." And Raoul sank the artist and bridegroom in the historian, and told him. CHAPTER XLVII THE NEWS "My cousin Honoré,--well, you kin jus' say 'e bitray' 'is 'ole fam'ly." "How so?" asked Doctor Keene, with a handkerchief over his face to shield his eyes from the sun. "Well,--ce't'nly 'e did! Di'n' 'e gave dat money to Aurora De Grapion?--one 'undred five t'ousan' dolla'? Jis' as if to say, 'Yeh's de money my h-uncle stole from you' 'usban'.' Hah! w'en I will swear on a stack of Bible' as 'igh as yo' head, dat Agricole win dat 'abitation fair!--If I see it? No, sir; I don't 'ave to see it! I'll swear to it! Hah!" "And have she and her daughter actually got the money?" "She--an'--heh--daughtah--ac--shilly--got-'at-money-sir! W'at? Dey livin' in de rue Royale in mag-_niff_ycen' style on top de drug-sto' of Proffis-or Frowenfel'." "But how, over Frowenfeld's, when Frowenfeld's is a one-story--" "My dear frien'! Proffis-or Frowenfel' is _moove!_ You rickleck dat big new t'ree-story buildin' w'at jus' finished in de rue Royale, a lill mo' farther up town from his old shop? Well, we open dare _a big sto'!_ An' listen! You think Honoré di'n' bitrayed' 'is family? Madame Nancanou an' heh daughtah livin' upstair an' rissy-ving de finess soci'ty in de Province!--an' _me?_--downstair' meckin' pill! You call dat justice?" But Doctor Keene, without waiting for this question, had asked one: "Does Frowenfeld board with them?" "Psh-sh-sh! Board! Dey woon board de Marquis of Casa Calvo! I don't b'lieve dey would board Honoré Grandissime! All de king' an' queen' in de worl' couldn' board dare! No, sir!--'Owever, you know, I think dey are splendid ladies. Me an' my wife, we know them well. An' Honoré--I think my cousin Honoré's a splendid gen'leman, too." After a moment's pause he resumed, with a happy sigh, "Well, I don' care, I'm married. A man w'at's married, 'e don' care. "But I di'n' t'ink Honoré could ever do lak dat odder t'ing." "Do he and Joe Frowenfeld visit there?" "Doctah Keene," demanded Raoul, ignoring the question, "I hask you now, plain, don' you find dat mighty disgressful to do dat way, lak Honoré?" "What way?" "W'at? You dunno? You don' yeh 'ow 'e gone partner' wid a nigga?" "What do you mean?" Doctor Keene drew the handkerchief off his face and half lifted his feeble head. "Yesseh! 'e gone partner' wid dat quadroon w'at call 'imself Honoré Grandissime, seh!" The doctor dropped his head again and laid the handkerchief back on his face. "What do the family say to that?" "But w'at _can_ dey say? It save dem from ruin! At de sem time, me, I think it is a disgress. Not dat he h-use de money, but it is dat name w'at 'e give de h-establishmen'--Grandissime Frères! H-only for 'is money we would 'ave catch' dat quadroon gen'leman an' put some tar and fedder. Grandissime Frères! Agricole don' spik to my cousin Honoré no mo'. But I t'ink dass wrong. W'at you t'ink, Doctah?" That evening, at candle-light, Raoul got the right arm of his slender, laughing wife about his neck; but Doctor Keene tarried all night in suburb St. Jean. He hardly felt the moral courage to face the results of the last five months. Let us understand them better ourselves. CHAPTER XLVIII AN INDIGNANT FAMILY AND A SMASHED SHOP It was indeed a fierce storm that had passed over the head of Honoré Grandissime. Taken up and carried by it, as it seemed to him, without volition, he had felt himself thrown here and there, wrenched, torn, gasping for moral breath, speaking the right word as if in delirium, doing the right deed as if by helpless instinct, and seeing himself in every case, at every turn, tricked by circumstance out of every vestige of merit. So it seemed to him. The long contemplated restitution was accomplished. On the morning when Aurora and Clotilde had expected to be turned shelterless into the open air, they had called upon him in his private office and presented the account of which he had put them in possession the evening before. He had honored it on the spot. To the two ladies who felt their own hearts stirred almost to tears of gratitude, he was--as he sat before them calm, unmoved, handling keen-edged facts with the easy rapidity of one accustomed to use them, smiling courteously and collectedly, parrying their expressions of appreciation--to them, we say, at least to one of them, he was "the prince of gentlemen." But, at the same time, there was within him, unseen, a surge of emotions, leaping, lashing, whirling, yet ever hurrying onward along the hidden, rugged bed of his honest intention. The other restitution, which even twenty-four hours earlier might have seemed a pure self-sacrifice, became a self-rescue. The f.m.c. was the elder brother. A remark of Honoré made the night they watched in the corridor by Doctor Keene's door, about the younger's "right to exist," was but the echo of a conversation they had once had together in Europe. There they had practised a familiarity of intercourse which Louisiana would not have endured, and once, when speaking upon the subject of their common fatherhood, the f.m.c., prone to melancholy speech, had said: "You are the lawful son of Numa Grandissime; I had no right to be born." But Honoré quickly answered: "By the laws of men, it may be; but by the law of God's justice, you are the lawful son, and it is I who should not have been born." But, returned to Louisiana, accepting with the amiable, old-fashioned philosophy of conservatism the sins of the community, he had forgotten the unchampioned rights of his passive half-brother. Contact with Frowenfeld had robbed him of his pleasant mental drowsiness, and the oft-encountered apparition of the dark sharer of his name had become a slow-stepping, silent embodiment of reproach. The turn of events had brought him face to face with the problem of restitution, and he had solved it. But where had he come out? He had come out the beneficiary of this restitution, extricated from bankruptcy by an agreement which gave the f.m.c. only a public recognition of kinship which had always been his due. Bitter cup of humiliation! Such was the stress within. Then there was the storm without. The Grandissimes were in a high state of excitement. The news had reached them all that Honoré had met the question of titles by selling one of their largest estates. It was received with wincing frowns, indrawn breath, and lifted feet, but without protest, and presently with a smile of returning confidence. "Honoré knew; Honoré was informed; they had all authorized Honoré; and Honoré, though he might have his odd ways and notions, picked up during that unfortunate stay abroad, might safely be trusted to stand by the interests of his people." After the first shock some of them even raised a laugh: "Ha, ha, ha! Honoré would show those Yankees!" They went to his counting-room and elsewhere, in search of him, to smite their hands into the hands of their far-seeing young champion. But, as we have seen, they did not find him; none dreamed of looking for him in an enemy's camp (19 Bienville) or on the lonely suburban commons, talking to himself in the ghostly twilight; and the next morning, while Aurora and Clotilde were seated before him in his private office, looking first at the face and then at the back of two mighty drafts of equal amount on Philadelphia, the cry of treason flew forth to these astounded Grandissimes, followed by the word that the sacred fire was gone out in the Grandissime temple (counting-room), that Delilahs in duplicate were carrying off the holy treasures, and that the uncircumcised and unclean--even an f.m.c.--was about to be inducted into the Grandissime priesthood. Aurora and Clotilde were still there, when the various members of the family began to arrive and display their outlines in impatient shadow-play upon the glass door of the private office; now one, and now another, dallied with the doorknob and by and by obtruded their lifted hats and urgent, anxious faces half into the apartment; but Honoré would only glance toward them, and with a smile equally courteous, authoritative and fleeting, say: "Good-morning, Camille" (or Charlie--or Agamemnon, as the case might be); "I will see you later; let me trouble you to close the door." To add yet another strain, the two ladies, like frightened, rescued children, would cling to their deliverer. They wished him to become the custodian and investor of their wealth. Ah, woman! who is a tempter like thee? But Honoré said no, and showed them the danger of such a course. "Suppose I should die suddenly. You might have trouble with my executors." The two beauties assented pensively; but in Aurora's bosom a great throb secretly responded that as for her, in that case, she should have no use for money--in a nunnery. "Would not Monsieur at least consent to be their financial adviser?" He hemmed, commenced a sentence twice, and finally said: "You will need an agent; some one to take full charge of your affairs; some person on whose sagacity and integrity you can place the fullest dependence." "Who, for instance?" asked Aurora. "I should say, without hesitation, Professor Frowenfeld, the apothecary. You know his trouble of yesterday is quite cleared up. You had not heard? Yes. He is not what we call an enterprising man, but--so much the better. Take him all in all, I would choose him above all others; if you--" Aurora interrupted him. There was an ill-concealed wildness in her eye and a slight tremor in her voice, as she spoke, which she had not expected to betray. The quick, though quiet eye of Honoré Grandissime saw it, and it thrilled him through. "'Sieur Grandissime, I take the risk; I wish you to take care of my money." "But, Maman," said Clotilde, turning with a timid look to her mother, "If Monsieur Grandissime would rather not--" Aurora, feeling alarmed at what she had said, rose up. Clotilde and Honoré did the same, and he said: "With Professor Frowenfeld in charge of your affairs, I shall feel them not entirely removed from my care also. We are very good friends." Clotilde looked at her mother. The three exchanged glances. The ladies signified their assent and turned to go, but M. Grandissime stopped them. "By your leave, I will send for him. If you will be seated again--" They thanked him and resumed their seats; he excused himself, passed into the counting-room, and sent a messenger for the apothecary. M. Grandissime's meeting with his kinsmen was a stormy one. Aurora and Clotilde heard the strife begin, increase, subside, rise again and decrease. They heard men stride heavily to and fro, they heard hands smite together, palms fall upon tables and fists upon desks, heard half-understood statement and unintelligible counter-statement and derisive laughter; and, in the midst of all, like the voice of a man who rules himself, the clear-noted, unimpassioned speech of Honoré, sounding so loftily beautiful in the ear of Aurora that when Clotilde looked at her, sitting motionless with her rapt eyes lifted up, those eyes came down to her own with a sparkle of enthusiasm, and she softly said: "It sounds like St. Gabriel!" and then blushed. Clotilde answered with a happy, meaning look, which intensified the blush, and then leaning affectionately forward and holding the maman's eyes with her own, she said: "You have my consent." "Saucy!" said Aurora. "Wait till I get my own." Some of his kinsmen Honoré pacified; some he silenced. He invited all to withdraw their lands and moneys from his charge, and some accepted the invitation. They spurned his parting advice to sell, and the policy they then adopted, and never afterward modified, was that "all or nothing" attitude which, as years rolled by, bled them to penury in those famous cupping-leeching-and-bleeding establishments, the courts of Louisiana. You may see their grandchildren, to-day, anywhere within the angle of the old rues Esplanade and Rampart, holding up their heads in unspeakable poverty, their nobility kept green by unflinching self-respect, and their poetic and pathetic pride revelling in ancestral, perennial rebellion against common sense. "That is Agricola," whispered Aurora, with lifted head and eyes dilated and askance, as one deep-chested voice roared above all others. Agricola stormed. "Uncle," Aurora by and by heard Honoré say, "shall I leave my own counting-room?" At that moment Joseph Frowenfeld entered, pausing with one hand on the outer rail. No one noticed him but Honoré, who was watching for him, and who, by a silent motion, directed him into the private office. "H-whe shake its dust from our feet!" said Agricola, gathering some young retainers by a sweep of his glance and going out down the stair in the arched way, unmoved by the fragrance of warm bread. On the banquette he harangued his followers. He said that in such times as these every lover of liberty should go armed; that the age of trickery had come; that by trickery Louisianians had been sold, like cattle, to a nation of parvenues, to be dragged before juries for asserting the human right of free trade or ridding the earth of sneaks in the pay of the government; that laws, so-called, had been forged into thumbscrews, and a Congress which had bound itself to give them all the rights of American citizens--sorry boon!--was preparing to slip their birthright acres from under their feet, and leave them hanging, a bait to the vultures of the Américain immigration. Yes; the age of trickery! Its apostles, he said, were even then at work among their fellow-citizens, warping, distorting, blasting, corrupting, poisoning the noble, unsuspecting, confiding Creole mind. For months the devilish work had been allowed, by a patient, peace-loving people, to go on. But shall it go on forever? (Cries of "No!" "No!") The smell of white blood comes on the south breeze. Dessalines and Christophe had recommenced their hellish work. Virginia, too, trembles for the safety of her fair mothers and daughters. We know not what is being plotted in the canebrakes of Louisiana. But we know that in the face of these things the prelates of trickery are sitting in Washington allowing throats to go unthrottled that talked tenderly about the "negro slave;" we know worse: we know that mixed blood has asked for equal rights from a son of the Louisiana noblesse, and that those sacred rights have been treacherously, pusillanimously surrendered into its possession. Why did we not rise yesterday, when the public heart was stirred? The forbearance of this people would be absurd if it were not saintly. But the time has, come when Louisiana must protect herself! If there is one here who will not strike for his lands, his rights and the purity of his race, let him speak! (Cries of "We will rise now!" "Give us a leader!" "Lead the way!") "Kinsmen, friends," continued Agricola, "meet me at nightfall before the house of this too-long-spared mulatto. Come armed. Bring a few feet of stout rope. By morning the gentlemen of color will know their places better than they do to-day; h-whe shall understand each other! H-whe shall set the negrophiles to meditating." He waved them away. With a huzza the accumulated crowd moved off. Chance carried them up the rue Royale; they sang a song; they came to Frowenfeld's. It was an Américain establishment; that was against it. It was a gossiping place of Américain evening loungers; that was against it. It was a sorcerer's den--(we are on an ascending scale); its proprietor had refused employment to some there present, had refused credit to others, was an impudent condemner of the most approved Creole sins, had been beaten over the head only the day before; all these were against it. But, worse still, the building was owned by the f.m.c., and unluckiest of all, Raoul stood in the door and some of his kinsmen in the crowd stopped to have a word with him. The crowd stopped. A nameless fellow in the throng--he was still singing--said: "Here's the place," and dropped two bricks through the glass of the show-window. Raoul, with a cry of retaliative rage, drew and lifted a pistol; but a kinsman jerked it from him and three others quickly pinioned him and bore him off struggling, pleased to get him away unhurt. In ten minutes, Frowenfeld's was a broken-windowed, open-doored house, full of unrecognizable rubbish that had escaped the torch only through a chance rumor that the Governor's police were coming, and the consequent stampede of the mob. Joseph was sitting in M. Grandissime's private office, in council with him and the ladies, and Aurora was just saying: "Well, anny'ow, 'Sieur Frowenfel', ad laz you consen'!" and gathering her veil from her lap, when Raoul burst in, all sweat and rage. "'Sieur Frowenfel', we ruin'! Ow pharmacie knock all in pieces! My pigshoe is los'!" He dropped into a chair and burst into tears. Shall we never learn to withhold our tears until we are sure of our trouble? Raoul little knew the joy in store for him. 'Polyte, it transpired the next day, had rushed in after the first volley of missiles, and while others were gleefully making off with jars of asafoetida and decanters of distilled water, lifted in his arms and bore away unharmed "Louisiana" firmly refusing to the last to enter the Union. It may not be premature to add that about four weeks later Honoré Grandissime, upon Raoul's announcement that he was "betrothed," purchased this painting and presented it to a club of _natural connoisseurs_. CHAPTER XLIX OVER THE NEW STORE The accident of the ladies Nancanou making their new home over Frowenfeld's drug-store occurred in the following rather amusing way. It chanced that the building was about completed at the time that the apothecary's stock in trade was destroyed; Frowenfeld leased the lower floor. Honoré Grandissime f.m.c. was the owner. He being concealed from his enemies, Joseph treated with that person's inadequately remunerated employé. In those days, as still in the old French Quarter, it was not uncommon for persons, even of wealth, to make their homes over stores, and buildings were constructed with a view to their partition in this way. Hence, in Chartres and Decatur streets, to-day--and in the cross-streets between--so many store-buildings with balconies, dormer windows, and sometimes even belvideres. This new building caught the eye and fancy of Aurora and Clotilde. The apartments for the store were entirely isolated. Through a large _porte-cochère_, opening upon the banquette immediately beside and abreast of the store-front, one entered a high, covered carriage-way with a tessellated pavement and green plastered walls, and reached,--just where this way (corridor, the Creoles always called it) opened into a sunny court surrounded with narrow parterres,--a broad stairway leading to a hall over the "corridor" and to the drawing-rooms over the store. They liked it! Aurora would find out at once what sort of an establishment was likely to be opened below, and if that proved unexceptionable she would lease the upper part without more ado. Next day she said: "Clotilde, thou beautiful, I have signed the lease!" "Then the store below is to be occupied by a--what?" "Guess!" "Ah!" "Guess a pharmacien!" Clotilde's lips parted, she was going to smile, when her thought changed and she blushed offendedly. "Not--" "'Sieur Frowenf--ah, ha, ha, ha!--_ha, ha, ha_!" Clotilde burst into tears. Still they moved in--it was written in the bond; and so did the apothecary; and probably two sensible young lovers never before nor since behaved with such abject fear of each other--for a time. Later, and after much oft-repeated good advice given to each separately and to both together, Honoré Grandissime persuaded them that Clotilde could make excellent use of a portion of her means by reenforcing Frowenfeld's very slender stock and well filling his rather empty-looking store, and so they signed regular articles of copartnership, blushing frightfully. Frowenfeld became a visitor, Honoré not; once Honoré had seen the ladies' moneys satisfactorily invested, he kept aloof. It is pleasant here to remark that neither Aurora nor Clotilde made any waste of their sudden acquisitions; they furnished their rooms with much beauty at moderate cost, and their _salon_ with artistic, not extravagant, elegance, and, for the sake of greater propriety, employed a decayed lady as housekeeper; but, being discreet in all other directions, they agreed upon one bold outlay--a volante. Almost any afternoon you might have seen this vehicle on the Terre aux Boeuf, or Bayou, or Tchoupitoulas Road; and because of the brilliant beauty of its occupants it became known from all other volantes as the "meteor." Frowenfeld's visits were not infrequent; he insisted on Clotdlde's knowing just what was being done with her money. Without indulging ourselves in the pleasure of contemplating his continued mental unfolding, we may say that his growth became more rapid in this season of universal expansion; love had entered into his still compacted soul like a cupid into a rose, and was crowding it wide open. However, as yet, it had not made him brave. Aurora used to slip out of the drawing-room, and in some secluded nook of the hall throw up her clasped hands and go through all the motions of screaming merriment. "The little fool!"--it was of her own daughter she whispered this complimentary remark--"the little fool is afraid of the fish!" "You!" she said to Clotilde, one evening after Joseph had gone, "you call yourself a Creole girl!" But she expected too much. Nothing so terrorizes a blushing girl as a blushing man. And then--though they did sometimes digress--Clotilde and her partner met to talk "business" in a purely literal sense. Aurora, after a time, had taken her money into her own keeping. "You mighd gid robb' ag'in, you know, 'Sieur Frowenfel'," she said. But when he mentioned Clotilde's fortune as subject to the same contingency, Aurora replied: "Ah! bud Clotilde mighd gid robb'!" But for all the exuberance of Aurora's spirits, there was a cloud in her sky. Indeed, we know it is only when clouds are in the sky that we get the rosiest tints; and so it was with Aurora. One night, when she had heard the wicket in the _porte-cochère_ shut behind three evening callers, one of whom she had rejected a week before, another of whom she expected to dispose of similarly, and the last of whom was Joseph Frowenfeld, she began such a merry raillery at Clotilde and such a hilarious ridicule of the "Professor" that Clotilde would have wept again had not Aurora, all at once, in the midst of a laugh, dropped her face in her hands and run from the room in tears. It is one of the penalties we pay for being joyous, that nobody thinks us capable of care or the victim of trouble until, in some moment of extraordinary expansion, our bubble of gayety bursts. Aurora had been crying of nights. Even that same night, Clotilde awoke, opened her eyes and beheld her mother risen from the pillow and sitting upright in the bed beside her; the moon, shining brightly through the mosquito-bar revealed with distinctness her head slightly drooped, her face again in her hands and the dark folds of her hair falling about her shoulders, half-concealing the richly embroidered bosom of her snowy gown, and coiling in continuous abundance about her waist and on the slight summer covering of the bed. Before her on the sheet lay a white paper. Clotilde did not try to decipher the writing on it; she knew, at sight, the slip that had fallen from the statement of account on the evening of the ninth of March. Aurora withdrew her hands from her face--Clotilde shut her eyes; she heard Aurora put the paper in her bosom. "Clotilde," she said, very softly. "Maman," the daughter replied, opening her eyes, reached up her arms and drew the dear head down. "Clotilde, once upon a time I woke this way, and, while you were asleep, left the bed and made a vow to Monsieur Danny. Oh! it was a sin! but I cannot do those things now; I have been frightened ever since. I shall never do so any more. I shall never commit another sin as long as I live!" Their lips met fervently. "My sweet sweet," whispered Clotilde, "you looked so beautiful sitting up with the moonlight all around you!" "Clotilde, my beautiful daughter," said Aurora, pushing her bedmate from her and pretending to repress a smile, "I tell you now, because you don't know, and it is my duty as your mother to tell you--the meanest wickedness a woman can do in all this bad, bad world is to look ugly in bed!" Clotilde answered nothing, and Aurora dropped her outstretched arms, turned away with an involuntary, tremulous sigh, and after two or three hours of patient wakefulness, fell asleep. But at daybreak next morning, he that wrote the paper had not closed his eyes. CHAPTER L A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE There was always some flutter among Frowenfeld's employés when he was asked for, and this time it was the more pronounced because he was sought by a housemaid from the upper floor. It was hard for these two or three young Ariels to keep their Creole feet to the ground when it was presently revealed to their sharp ears that the "prof-fis-or" was requested to come upstairs. The new store was an extremely neat, bright, and well-ordered establishment; yet to ascend into the drawing-rooms seemed to the apothecary like going from the hold of one of those smart old packet-ships of his day into the cabin. Aurora came forward, with the slippers of a Cinderella twinkling at the edge of her robe. It seemed unfit that the floor under them should not be clouds. "Proffis-or Frowenfel', good-day! Teg a cha'." She laughed. It was the pure joy of existence. "You's well? You lookin' verrie well! Halways bizzie? You fine dad agriz wid you' healt', 'Sieur Frowenfel'? Yes? Ha, ha, ha!" She suddenly leaned toward him across the arm of her chair, with an earnest face. "'Sieur Frowenfel', Palmyre wand see you. You don' wan' come ad 'er 'ouse, eh?--an' you don' wan' her to come ad yo' bureau. You know, 'Sieur Frowenfel', she drez the hair of Clotilde an' mieself. So w'en she tell me dad, I juz say, 'Palmyre, I will sen' for Proffis-or Frowenfel' to come yeh; but I don' thing 'e comin'.' You know, I din' wan' you to 'ave dad troub'; but Clotilde--ha, ha, ha! Clotilde is sudge a foolish--she nevva thing of dad troub' to you--she say she thing you was too kine-'arted to call dad troub'--ha, ha, ha! So anny'ow we sen' for you, eh!" Frowenfeld said he was glad they had done so, whereupon Aurora rose lightly, saying: "I go an' sen' her." She started away, but turned back to add: "You know, 'Sieur Frowenfel', she say she cann' truz nobody bud y'u." She ended with a low, melodious laugh, bending her joyous eyes upon the apothecary with her head dropped to one side in a way to move a heart of flint. She turned and passed through a door, and by the same way Palmyre entered. The philosophe came forward noiselessly and with a subdued expression, different from any Frowenfeld had ever before seen. At the first sight of her a thrill of disrelish ran through him of which he was instantly ashamed; as she came nearer he met her with a deferential bow and the silent tender of a chair. She sat down, and, after a moment's pause, handed him a sealed letter. He turned it over twice, recognized the handwriting, felt the disrelish return, and said: "This is addressed to yourself." She bowed. "Do you know who wrote it?" he asked. She bowed again. "_Oui, Miché_." "You wish me to open it? I cannot read French." She seemed to have some explanation to offer, but could not command the necessary English; however, with the aid of Frowenfeld's limited guessing powers, she made him understand that the bearer of the letter to her had brought word from the writer that it was written in English purposely that M. Frowenfeld--the only person he was willing should see it--might read it. Frowenfeld broke the seal and ran his eye over the writing, but remained silent. The woman stirred, as if to say "Well?" But he hesitated. "Palmyre," he suddenly said, with a slight, dissuasive smile, "it would be a profanation for me to read this." She bowed to signify that she caught his meaning, then raised her elbows with an expression of dubiety, and said: "'E hask you--" "Yes," murmured the apothecary. He shook his head as if to protest to himself, and read in a low but audible voice: "Star of my soul, I approach to die. It is not for me possible to live without Palmyre. Long time have I so done, but now, cut off from to see thee, by imprisonment, as it may be called, love is starving to death. Oh, have pity on the faithful heart which, since ten years, change not, but forget heaven and earth for you. Now in the peril of the life, hidden away, that absence from the sight of you make his seclusion the more worse than death. Halas! I pine! Not other ten years of despair can I commence. Accept this love. If so I will live for you, but if to the contraire, I must die for you. Is there anything at all what I will not give or even do if Palmyre will be my wife? Ah, no, far otherwise, there is nothing!" ... Frowenfeld looked over the top of the letter. Palmyre sat with her eyes cast down, slowly shaking her head. He returned his glance to the page, coloring somewhat with annoyance at being made a proposing medium. "The English is very faulty here," he said, without looking up. "He mentions Bras-Coupé." Palmyre started and turned toward him; but he went on without lifting his eyes. "He speaks of your old pride and affection toward him as one who with your aid might have been a leader and deliverer of his people." Frowenfeld looked up. "Do you under--" "_Allez, Miché_" said she, leaning forward, her great eyes fixed on the apothecary and her face full of distress. "_Mo comprend bien_." "He asks you to let him be to you in the place of Bras-Coupé." The eyes of the philosophe, probably for the first time since the death of the giant, lost their pride. They gazed upon Frowenfeld almost with piteousness; but she compressed her lips and again slowly shook her head. "You see," said Frowenfeld, suddenly feeling a new interest, "he understands their wants. He knows their wrongs. He is acquainted with laws and men. He could speak for them. It would not be insurrection--it would be advocacy. He would give his time, his pen, his speech, his means, to get them justice--to get them their rights." She hushed the over-zealous advocate with a sad and bitter smile and essayed to speak, studied as if for English words, and, suddenly abandoning that attempt, said, with ill-concealed scorn and in the Creole patois: "What is all that? What I want is vengeance!" "I will finish reading," said Frowenfeld, quickly, not caring to understand the passionate speech. "Ah, Palmyre! Palmyre! What you love and hope to love you because his heart keep itself free, he is loving another!" _"Qui ci ça, Miché?"_ Frowenfeld was loth to repeat. She had understood, as her face showed; but she dared not believe. He made it shorter: "He means that Honoré Grandissime loves another woman." "'Tis a lie!" she exclaimed, a better command of English coming with the momentary loss of restraint. The apothecary thought a moment and then decided to speak. "I do not think so," he quietly said. "'Ow you know dat?" She, too, spoke quietly, but under a fearful strain. She had thrown herself forward, but, as she spoke, forced herself back into her seat. "He told me so himself." The tall figure of Palmyre rose slowly and silently from her chair, her eyes lifted up and her lips moving noiselessly. She seemed to have lost all knowledge of place or of human presence. She walked down the drawing-room quite to its curtained windows and there stopped, her face turned away and her hand laid with a visible tension on the back of a chair. She remained so long that Frowenfeld had begun to think of leaving her so, when she turned and came back. Her form was erect, her step firm and nerved, her lips set together and her hands dropped easily at her side; but when she came close up before the apothecary she was trembling. For a moment she seemed speechless, and then, while her eyes gleamed with passion, she said, in a cold, clear tone, and in her native patois: "Very well: if I cannot love I can have my revenge." She took the letter from him and bowed her thanks, still adding, in the same tongue, "There is now no longer anything to prevent." The apothecary understood the dark speech. She meant that, with no hope of Honoré's love, there was no restraining motive to withhold her from wreaking what vengeance she could upon Agricola. But he saw the folly of a debate. "That is all I can do?" asked he. "_Oui, merci, Miché_" she said; then she added, in perfect English, "but that is not all _I_ can do," and then--laughed. The apothecary had already turned to go, and the laugh was a low one; but it chilled his blood. He was glad to get back to his employments. CHAPTER LI BUSINESS CHANGES We have now recorded some of the events which characterized the five months during which Doctor Keene had been vainly seeking to recover his health in the West Indies. "Is Mr. Frowenfeld in?" he asked, walking very slowly, and with a cane, into the new drug-store on the morning of his return to the city. "If Professo' Frowenfel' 's in?" replied a young man in shirt-sleeves, speaking rapidly, slapping a paper package which he had just tied, and sliding it smartly down the counter. "No, seh." A quick step behind the doctor caused him to turn; Raoul was just entering, with a bright look of business on his face, taking his coat off as he came. "Docta Keene! _Teck_ a chair. 'Ow you like de noo sto'? See? Fo' counters! T'ree clerk'! De whole interieure paint undre mie h-own direction! If dat is not a beautiful! eh? Look at dat sign." He pointed to some lettering in harmonious colors near the ceiling at the farther end of the house. The doctor looked and read: MANDARIN, AG'T, APOTHECARY. "Why not Frowenfeld?" he asked. Raoul shrugged. "'Tis better dis way." That was his explanation. "Not the De Brahmin Mandarin who was Honoré's manager?" "Yes. Honoré was n' able to kip 'im no long-er. Honoré is n' so rich lak befo'." "And Mandarin is really in charge here?" "Oh, yes. Profess-or Frowenfel' all de time at de ole corner, w'ere 'e _con_tinue to keep 'is private room and h-use de ole shop fo' ware'ouse. 'E h-only come yeh w'en Mandarin cann' git 'long widout 'im." "What does he do there? _He's_ not rich." Raoul bent down toward the doctor's chair and whispered the dark secret: "Studyin'!" Doctor Keene went out. Everything seemed changed to the returned wanderer. Poor man! The changes were very slight save in their altered relation to him. To one broken in health, and still more to one with a broken heart, old scenes fall upon the sight in broken rays. A sort of vague alienation seemed to the little doctor to come like a film over the long-familiar vistas of the town where he had once walked in the vigor and complacency of strength and distinction. This was not the same New Orleans. The people he met on the street were more or less familiar to his memory, but many that should have recognized him failed to do so, and others were made to notice him rather by his cough than by his face. Some did not know he had been away. It made him cross. He had walked slowly down beyond the old Frowenfeld corner and had just crossed the street to avoid the dust of a building which was being torn down to make place for a new one, when he saw coming toward him, unconscious of his proximity, Joseph Frowenfeld. "Doctor Keene!" said Frowenfeld, with almost the enthusiasm of Raoul. The doctor was very much quieter. "Hello, Joe." They went back to the new drug-store, sat down in a pleasant little rear corner enclosed by a railing and curtains, and talked. "And did the trip prove of no advantage to you?" "You see. But never mind me; tell me about Honoré; how does that row with his family progress?" "It still continues; the most of his people hold ideas of justice and prerogative that run parallel with family and party lines, lines of caste, of custom and the like they have imparted their bad feeling against him to the community at large; very easy to do just now, for the election for President of the States comes on in the fall, and though we in Louisiana have little or nothing to do with it, the people are feverish." "The country's chill-day," said Doctor Keene; "dumb chill, hot fever." "The excitement is intense," said Frowenfeld. "It seems we are not to be granted suffrage yet; but the Creoles have a way of casting votes in their mind. For example, they have voted Honoré Grandissime a traitor; they have voted me an encumbrance; I hear one of them casting that vote now." Some one near the front of the store was talking excitedly with Raoul: "An'--an'--an' w'at are the consequence? The consequence are that we smash his shop for him an' 'e 'ave to make a noo-start with a Creole partner's money an' put 'is sto' in charge of Creole'! If I know he is yo' frien'? Yesseh! Valuable citizen? An' w'at we care for valuable citizen? Let him be valuable if he want; it keep' him from gettin' the neck broke; but--he mus'-tek-kyeh--'ow--he--talk'! He-mus'-tek-kyeh 'ow he stir the 'ot blood of Louisyanna!" "He is perfectly right," said the little doctor, in his husky undertone; "neither you nor Honoré is a bit sound, and I shouldn't wonder if they would hang you both, yet; and as for that darkey who has had the impudence to try to make a commercial white gentleman of himself--it may not be I that ought to say it, but--he will get his deserts--sure!" "There are a great many Americans that think as you do," said Frowenfeld, quietly. "But," said the little doctor, "what did that fellow mean by your Creole partner? Mandarin is in charge of your store, but he is not your partner, is he? Have you one?" "A silent one," said the apothecary "So silent as to be none of my business?" "No." "Well, who is it, then?" "It is Mademoiselle Nancanou." "Your partner in business?" "Yes." "Well, Joseph Frowenfeld,--" The insinuation conveyed in the doctor's manner was very trying, but Joseph merely reddened. "Purely business, I suppose," presently said the doctor, with a ghastly ironical smile. "Does the arrangem'--" his utterance failed him--"does it end there?" "It ends there." "And you don't see that it ought either not to have begun, or else ought not to have ended there?" Frowenfeld blushed angrily. The doctor asked: "And who takes care of Aurora's money?" "Herself." "Exclusively?" They both smiled more good-naturedly. "Exclusively." "She's a coon;" and the little doctor rose up and crawled away, ostensibly to see another friend, but really to drag himself into his bedchamber and lock himself in. The next day--the yellow fever was bad again--he resumed the practice of his profession. "'Twill be a sort of decent suicide without the element of pusillanimity," he thought to himself. CHAPTER LII LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING When Honoré Grandissime heard that Doctor Keene had returned to the city in a very feeble state of health, he rose at once from the desk where he was sitting and went to see him; but it was on that morning when the doctor was sitting and talking with Joseph, and Honoré found his chamber door locked. Doctor Keene called twice, within the following two days, upon Honoré at his counting-room; but on both occasions Honoré's chair was empty. So it was several days before they met. But one hot morning in the latter part of August,--the August days were hotter before the cypress forest was cut down between the city and the lake than they are now,--as Doctor Keene stood in the middle of his room breathing distressedly after a sad fit of coughing, and looking toward one of his windows whose closed sash he longed to see opened, Honoré knocked at the door. "Well, come in!" said the fretful invalid. "Why, Honoré,--well, it serves you right for stopping to knock. Sit down." Each took a hasty, scrutinizing glance at the other; and, after a pause, Doctor Keene said: "Honoré, you are pretty badly stove." M. Grandissime smiled. "Do you think so, Doctor? I will be more complimentary to you; you might look more sick." "Oh, I have resumed my trade," replied Doctor Keene. "So I have heard; but, Charlie, that is all in favor of the people who want a skilful and advanced physician and do not mind killing him; I should advise you not to do it." "You mean" (the incorrigible little doctor smiled cynically) "if I should ask your advice. I am going to get well, Honoré." His visitor shrugged. "So much the better. I do confess I am tempted to make use of you in your official capacity, right now. Do you feel strong enough to go with me in your gig a little way?" "A professional call?" "Yes, and a difficult case; also a confidential one." "Ah! confidential!" said the little man, in his painful, husky irony. "You want to get me into the sort of scrape I got our 'professor' into, eh?" "Possibly a worse one," replied the amiable Creole. "And I must be mum, eh?" "I would prefer." "Shall I need any instruments? No?"--with a shade of disappointment on his face. He pulled a bell-rope and ordered his gig to the street door. "How are affairs about town?" he asked, as he made some slight preparation for the street. "Excitement continues. Just as I came along, a private difficulty between a Creole and an Américain drew instantly half the street together to take sides strictly according to belongings and without asking a question. My-de'-seh, we are having, as Frowenfeld says, a war of human acids and alkalies." They descended and drove away. At the first corner the lad who drove turned, by Honoré's direction, toward the rue Dauphine, entered it, passed down it to the rue Dumaine, turned into this toward the river again and entered the rue Condé. The route was circuitous. They stopped at the carriage-door of a large brick house. The wicket was opened by Clemence. They alighted without driving in. "Hey, old witch," said the doctor, with mock severity; "not hung yet?" The houses of any pretension to comfortable spaciousness in the closely built parts of the town were all of the one, general, Spanish-American plan. Honoré led the doctor through the cool, high, tessellated carriage-hall, on one side of which were the drawing-rooms, closed and darkened. They turned at the bottom, ascended a broad, iron-railed staircase to the floor above, and halted before the open half of a glazed double door with a clumsy iron latch. It was the entrance to two spacious chambers, which were thrown into one by folded doors. The doctor made a low, indrawn whistle and raised his eyebrows--the rooms were so sumptuously furnished; immovable largeness and heaviness, lofty sobriety, abundance of finely wrought brass mounting, motionless richness of upholstery, much silent twinkle of pendulous crystal, a soft semi-obscurity--such were the characteristics. The long windows of the farther apartment could be seen to open over the street, and the air from behind, coming in over a green mass of fig-trees that stood in the paved court below, moved through the rooms, making them cool and cavernous. "You don't call this a hiding place, do you--in his own bedchamber?" the doctor whispered. "It is necessary, now, only to keep out of sight," softly answered Honoré. "Agricole and some others ransacked this house one night last March--the day I announced the new firm; but of course, then, he was not here." They entered, and the figure of Honoré Grandissime, f.m.c., came into view in the centre of the farther room, reclining in an attitude of extreme languor on a low couch, whither he had come from the high bed near by, as the impression of his form among its pillows showed. He turned upon the two visitors his slow, melancholy eyes, and, without an attempt to rise or speak, indicated, by a feeble motion of the hand, an invitation to be seated. "Good morning," said Doctor Keene, selecting a light chair and drawing it close to the side of the couch. The patient before him was emaciated. The limp and bloodless hand, which had not responded to the doctor's friendly pressure but sank idly back upon the edge of the couch, was cool and moist, and its nails slightly blue. "Lie still," said the doctor, reassuringly, as the rentier began to lift the one knee and slippered foot which was drawn up on the couch and the hand which hung out of sight across a large, linen-covered cushion. By pleasant talk that seemed all chat, the physician soon acquainted himself with the case before him. It was a very plain one. By and by he rubbed his face and red curls and suddenly said: "You will not take my prescription." The f.m.c. did not say yes or no. "Still,"--the doctor turned sideways in his chair, as was his wont, and, as he spoke, allowed the corners of his mouth to take that little satirical downward pull which his friends disliked, "I'll do my duty. I'll give Honoré the details as to diet; no physic; but my prescription to you is, Get up and get out. Never mind the risk of rough handling; they can but kill you, and you will die anyhow if you stay here." He rose. "I'll send you a chalybeate tonic; or--I will leave it at Frowenfeld's to-morrow morning, and you can call there and get it. It will give you an object for going out." The two visitors presently said adieu and retired together. Reaching the bottom of the stairs in the carriage "corridor," they turned in a direction opposite to the entrance and took chairs in a cool nook of the paved court, at a small table where the hospitality of Clemence had placed glasses of lemonade. "No," said the doctor, as they sat down, "there is, as yet, no incurable organic derangement; a little heart trouble easily removed; still your--your patient--" "My half-brother," said Honoré. "Your patient," said Doctor Keene, "is an emphatic 'yes' to the question the girls sometimes ask us doctors--Does love ever kill?' It will kill him _soon_, if you do not get him to rouse up. There is absolutely nothing the matter with him but his unrequited love." "Fortunately, the most of us," said Honoré, with something of the doctor's smile, "do not love hard enough to be killed by it." "Very few." The doctor paused, and his blue eyes, distended in reverie, gazed upon the glass which he was slowly turning around with his attenuated fingers as it stood on the board, while he added: "However, one _may_ love as hopelessly and harder than that man upstairs, and yet not die." "There is comfort in that--to those who must live," said Honoré with gentle gravity. "Yes," said the other, still toying with his glass. He slowly lifted his glance, and the eyes of the two men met and remained steadfastly fixed each upon each. "You've got it bad," said Doctor Keene, mechanically. "And you?" retorted the Creole. "It isn't going to kill me." "It has not killed me. And," added M. Grandissime, as they passed through the carriage-way toward the street, "while I keep in mind the numberless other sorrows of life, the burials of wives and sons and daughters, the agonies and desolations, I shall never die of love, my-de'-seh, for very shame's sake." This was much sentiment to risk within Doctor Keene's reach; but he took no advantage of it. "Honoré," said he, as they joined hands on the banquette beside the doctor's gig, to say good-day, "if you think there's a chance for you, why stickle upon such fine-drawn points as I reckon you are making? Why, sir, as I understand it, this is the only weak spot your action has shown; you have taken an inoculation of Quixotic conscience from our transcendental apothecary and perpetrated a lot of heroic behavior that would have done honor to four-and-twenty Brutuses; and now that you have a chance to do something easy and human, you shiver and shrink at the 'looks o' the thing.' Why, what do you care--" "Hush!" said Honoré; "do you suppose I have not temptation enough already?" He began to move away. "Honoré," said the doctor, following him a step, "I couldn't have made a mistake--It's the little Monk,--it's Aurora, isn't it?" Honoré nodded, then faced his friend more directly, with a sudden new thought. "But, Doctor, why not take your own advice? I know not how you are prevented; you have as good a right as Frowenfeld." "It wouldn't be honest," said the doctor; "it wouldn't be the straight up and down manly thing." "Why not?" The doctor stepped into his gig-- "Not till I feel all right _here_." (In his chest.) CHAPTER LIII FROWENFELD AT THE GRANDISSIME MANSION One afternoon--it seems to have been some time in June, and consequently earlier than Doctor Keene's return--the Grandissimes were set all a-tremble with vexation by the discovery that another of their number had, to use Agricola's expression, "gone over to the enemy,"--a phrase first applied by him to Honoré. "What do you intend to convey by that term?" Frowenfeld had asked on that earlier occasion. "Gone over to the enemy means, my son, gone over to the enemy!" replied Agricola. "It implies affiliation with Américains in matters of business and of government! It implies the exchange of social amenities with a race of upstarts! It implies a craven consent to submit the sacredest prejudices of our fathers to the new-fangled measuring-rods of pert, imported theories upon moral and political progress! It implies a listening to, and reasoning with, the condemners of some of our most time-honored and respectable practices! Reasoning with? N-a-hay! but Honoré has positively sat down and eaten with them! What?--and h-walked out into the stre-heet with them, arm in arm! It implies in his case an act--two separate and distinct acts--so base that--that--I simply do not understand them! _H-you_ know, Professor Frowenfeld, what he has done! You know how ignominiously he has surrendered the key of a moral position which for the honor of the Grandissime-Fusilier name we have felt it necessary to hold against our hereditary enemies! And--you--know--" here Agricola actually dropped all artificiality and spoke from the depths of his feelings, without figure--"h-h-he has joined himself in business h-with a man of negro blood! What can we do? What can we say? It is Honoré Grandissime. We can only say, 'Farewell! He is gone over to the enemy.'" The new cause of exasperation was the defection of Raoul Innerarity. Raoul had, somewhat from a distance, contemplated such part as he could understand of Joseph Frowenfeld's character with ever-broadening admiration. We know how devoted he became to the interests and fame of "Frowenfeld's." It was in April he had married. Not to divide his generous heart he took rooms opposite the drug-store, resolved that "Frowenfeld's" should be not only the latest closed but the earliest opened of all the pharmacies in New Orleans. This, it is true, was allowable. Not many weeks afterward his bride fell suddenly and seriously ill. The overflowing souls of Aurora and Clotilde could not be so near to trouble and not know it, and before Raoul was nearly enough recovered from the shock of this peril to remember that he was a Grandissime, these last two of the De Grapions had hastened across the street to the small, white-walled sick-room and filled it as full of universal human love as the cup of a magnolia is full of perfume. Madame Innerarity recovered. A warm affection was all she and her husband could pay such ministration in, and this they paid bountifully; the four became friends. The little madame found herself drawn most toward Clotilde; to her she opened her heart--and her wardrobe, and showed her all her beautiful new underclothing. Raoul found Clotilde to be, for him, rather--what shall we say?--starry; starrily inaccessible; but Aurora was emphatically after his liking; he was delighted with Aurora. He told her in confidence that "Profess-or Frowenfel'" was the best man in the world; but she boldly said, taking pains to speak with a tear-and-a-half of genuine gratitude,--"Egcep' Monsieur Honoré Grandissime," and he assented, at first with hesitation and then with ardor. The four formed a group of their own; and it is not certain that this was not the very first specimen ever produced in the Crescent City of that social variety of New Orleans life now distinguished as Uptown Creoles. Almost the first thing acquired by Raoul in the camp of the enemy was a certain Aurorean audacity; and on the afternoon to which we allude, having told Frowenfeld a rousing fib to the effect that the multitudinous inmates of the maternal Grandissime mansion had insisted on his bringing his esteemed employer to see them, he and his bride had the hardihood to present him on the front veranda. The straightforward Frowenfeld was much pleased with his reception. It was not possible for such as he to guess the ire with which his presence was secretly regarded. New Orleans, let us say once more, was small, and the apothecary of the rue Royale locally famed; and what with curiosity and that innate politeness which it is the Creole's boast that he cannot mortify, the veranda, about the top of the great front stair, was well crowded with people of both sexes and all ages. It would be most pleasant to tarry once more in description of this gathering of nobility and beauty; to recount the points of Creole loveliness in midsummer dress; to tell in particular of one and another eye-kindling face, form, manner, wit; to define the subtle qualities of Creole air and sky and scene, or the yet more delicate graces that characterize the music of Creole voice and speech and the light of Creole eyes; to set forth the gracious, unaccentuated dignity of the matrons and the ravishing archness of their daughters. To Frowenfeld the experience seemed all unreal. Nor was this unreality removed by conversation on grave subjects; for few among either the maturer or the younger beauty could do aught but listen to his foreign tongue like unearthly strangers in the old fairy tales. They came, however, in the course of their talk to the subject of love and marriage. It is not certain that they entered deeper into the great question than a comparison of its attendant Anglo-American and Franco-American conventionalities; but sure it is that somehow--let those young souls divine the method who can--every unearthly stranger on that veranda contrived to understand Frowenfeld's English. Suddenly the conversation began to move over the ground of inter-marriage between hostile families. Then what eyes and ears! A certain suspicion had already found lodgement in the universal Grandissime breast, and every one knew in a moment that, to all intents and purposes, they were about to argue the case of Honoré and Aurora. The conversation became discussion, Frowenfeld, Raoul and Raoul's little seraph against the whole host, chariots, horse and archery. Ah! such strokes as the apothecary dealt! And if Raoul and "Madame Raoul" played parts most closely resembling the blowing of horns and breaking of pitchers, still they bore themselves gallantly. The engagement was short; we need not say that nobody surrendered; nobody ever gives up the ship in parlor or veranda debate: and yet--as is generally the case in such affairs--truth and justice made some unacknowledged headway. If anybody on either side came out wounded--this to the credit of the Creoles as a people--the sufferer had the heroic good manners not to say so. But the results were more marked than this; indeed, in more than one or two candid young hearts and impressible minds the wrongs and rights of sovereign true love began there on the spot to be more generously conceded and allowed. "My-de'-seh," Honoré had once on a time said to Frowenfeld, meaning that to prevail in conversational debate one should never follow up a faltering opponent, "you mus' _crack_ the egg, not smash it!" And Joseph, on rising to take his leave, could the more amiably overlook the feebleness of the invitation to call again, since he rejoiced, for Honoré's sake, in the conviction that the egg was cracked. Agricola, the Grandissimes told the apothecary, was ill in his room, and Madame de Grandissime, his sister--Honoré's mother--begged to be excused that she might keep him company. The Fusiliers were a very close order; or one might say they garrisoned the citadel. But Joseph's rising to go was not immediately upon the close of the discussion; those courtly people would not let even an unwelcome guest go with the faintest feeling of disrelish for them. They were casting about in their minds for some momentary diversion with which to add a finishing touch to their guest's entertainment, when Clemence appeared in the front garden walk and was quickly surrounded by bounding children, alternately begging and demanding a song. Many of even the younger adults remembered well when she had been "one of the hands on the place," and a passionate lover of the African dance. In the same instant half a dozen voices proposed that for Joseph's amusement Clemence should put her cakes off her head, come up on the veranda and show a few of her best steps. "But who will sing?" "Raoul!" "Very well; and what shall it be?" "'Madame Gaba.'" No, Clemence objected. "Well, well, stand back--something better than 'Madame Gaba.'" Raoul began to sing and Clemence instantly to pace and turn, posture, bow, respond to the song, start, swing, straighten, stamp, wheel, lift her hand, stoop, twist, walk, whirl, tiptoe with crossed ankles, smite her palms, march, circle, leap,--an endless improvisation of rhythmic motion to this modulated responsive chant: Raoul. "_Mo pas l'aimein ça_." Clemence. "_Miché Igenne, oap! oap! oap!_" He. "_Yé donné vingt cinq sous pou' manzé poulé_." She. "_Miché Igenne, dit--dit--dit--_" He. "_Mo pas l'aimein ça!_" She. "_Miché Igenne, oap! oap! oap!_" He. "_Mo pas l'aimein ça!_" She. "_Miché Igenne, oap! oap! oap!_" Frowenfeld was not so greatly amused as the ladies thought he should have been, and was told that this was not a fair indication of what he would see if there were ten dancers instead of one. How much less was it an indication of what he would have seen in that mansion early the next morning, when there was found just outside of Agricola's bedroom door a fresh egg, not cracked, according to Honoré's maxim, but smashed, according to the lore of the voudous. Who could have got in in the night? And did the intruder get in by magic, by outside lock-picking, or by inside collusion? Later in the morning, the children playing in the basement found--it had evidently been accidentally dropped, since the true use of its contents required them to be scattered in some person's path--a small cloth bag, containing a quantity of dogs' and cats' hair, cut fine and mixed with salt and pepper. "Clemence?" "Pooh! Clemence. No! But as sure as the sun turns around the world--Palmyre Philosophe!" CHAPTER LIV "CAULDRON BUBBLE" The excitement and alarm produced by the practical threat of voudou curses upon Agricola was one thing, Creole lethargy was quite another; and when, three mornings later, a full quartette of voudou charms was found in the four corners of Agricola's pillow, the great Grandissime family were ignorant of how they could have come there. Let us examine these terrible engines of mischief. In one corner was an acorn drilled through with two holes at right angles to each other, a small feather run through each hole; in the second a joint of cornstalk with a cavity scooped from the middle, the pith left intact at the ends, and the space filled with parings from that small callous spot near the knee of the horse, called the "nail;" in the third corner a bunch of parti-colored feathers; something equally meaningless in the fourth. No thread was used in any of them. All fastening was done with the gum of trees. It was no easy task for his kindred to prevent Agricola, beside himself with rage and fright, from going straight to Palmyre's house and shooting her down in open day. "We shall have to watch our house by night," said a gentleman of the household, when they had at length restored the Citizen to a condition of mind which enabled them to hold him in a chair. "Watch this house?" cried a chorus. "You don't suppose she comes near here, do you? She does it all from a distance. No, no; watch _her_ house." Did Agricola believe in the supernatural potency of these gimcracks? No, and yes. Not to be foolhardy, he quietly slipped down every day to the levee, had a slave-boy row him across the river in a skiff, landed, re-embarked, and in the middle of the stream surreptitiously cast a picayune over his shoulder into the river. Monsieur D'Embarras, the imp of death thus placated, must have been a sort of spiritual Cheap John. Several more nights passed. The house of Palmyre, closely watched, revealed nothing. No one came out, no one went in, no light was seen. They should have watched in broad daylight. At last, one midnight, 'Polyte Grandissime stepped cautiously up to one of the batten doors with an auger, and succeeded, without arousing any one, in boring a hole. He discovered a lighted candle standing in a glass of water. "Nothing but a bedroom light," said one. "Ah, bah!" whispered the other; "it is to make the spell work strong." "We will not tell Agricola first; we had better tell Honoré," said Sylvestre. "You forget," said 'Polyte, "that I no longer have any acquaintance with Monsieur Honoré Grandissime." They told Agamemnon; and it would have gone hard with the "_milatraise_" but for the additional fact that suspicion had fastened upon another person; but now this person in turn had to be identified. It was decided not to report progress to old Agricola, but to wait and seek further developments. Agricola, having lost all ability to sleep in the mansion, moved into a small cottage in a grove near the house. But the very next morning, he turned cold with horror to find on his doorstep a small black-coffined doll, with pins run through the heart, a burned-out candle at the head and another at the feet. "You know it is Palmyre, do you?" asked Agamemnon, seizing the old man as he was going at a headlong pace through the garden gate. "What if I should tell you that by watching the Congo dancing-ground at midnight to-night, you will see the real author of this mischief--eh?" "And why to-night?" "Because the moon rises at midnight." There was firing that night in the deserted Congo dancing-grounds under the ruins of Fort St. Joseph, or, as we would say now, in Congo Square, from three pistols--Agricola's, 'Polyte's, and the weapon of an ill-defined, retreating figure answering the description of the person who had stabbed Agricola the preceding February. "And yet," said 'Polyte, "I would have sworn that it was Palmyre doing this work." Through Raoul these events came to the ear of Frowenfield. It was about the time that Raoul's fishing party, after a few days' mishaps, had returned home. Palmyre, on several later dates, had craved further audiences and shown other letters from the hidden f.m.c. She had heard them calmly, and steadfastly preserved the one attitude of refusal. But it could not escape Frowenfeld's notice that she encouraged the sending of additional letters. He easily guessed the courier to be Clemence; and now, as he came to ponder these revelations of Raoul, he found that within twenty-four hours after every visit of Clemence to the house of Palmyre, Agricola suffered a visitation. CHAPTER LV CAUGHT The fig-tree, in Louisiana, sometimes sheds its leaves while it is yet summer. In the rear of the Grandissme mansion, about two hundred yards northwest of it and fifty northeast of the cottage in which Agricola had made his new abode, on the edge of the grove of which we have spoken, stood one of these trees, whose leaves were beginning to lie thickly upon the ground beneath it. An ancient and luxuriant hedge of Cherokee-rose started from this tree and stretched toward the northwest across the level country, until it merged into the green confusion of gardened homes in the vicinity of Bayou St. Jean, or, by night, into the common obscurity of a starlit perspective. When an unclouded moon shone upon it, it cast a shadow as black as velvet. Under this fig-tree, some three hours later than that at which Honoré bade Joseph good-night, a man was stooping down and covering something with the broad, fallen leaves. "The moon will rise about three o'clock," thought he. "That, the hour of universal slumber, will be, by all odds, the time most likely to bring developments." He was the same person who had spent the most of the day in a blacksmith's shop in St. Louis street, superintending a piece of smithing. Now that he seemed to have got the thing well hid, he turned to the base of the tree and tried the security of some attachment. Yes, it was firmly chained. He was not a robber; he was not an assassin; he was not an officer of police; and what is more notable, seeing he was a Louisianian, he was not a soldier nor even an ex-soldier; and this although, under his clothing, he was encased from head to foot in a complete suit of mail. Of steel? No. Of brass? No. It was all one piece--_a white skin_; and on his head he wore an invisible helmet--the name of Grandissime. As he straightened up and withdrew into the grove, you would have recognized at once--by his thick-set, powerful frame, clothed seemingly in black, but really, as you might guess, in blue cottonade, by his black beard and the general look of a seafarer--a frequent visitor at the Grandissime mansion, a country member of that great family, one whom we saw at the _fête de grandpère_. Capitain Jean-Baptiste Grandissime was a man of few words, no sentiments, short methods; materialistic, we might say; quietly ferocious; indifferent as to means, positive as to ends, quick of perception, sure in matters of saltpetre, a stranger at the custom-house, and altogether--_take him right_--very much of a gentleman. He had been, for a whole day, beset with the idea that the way to catch a voudou was--to catch him; and as he had caught numbers of them on both sides of the tropical and semi-tropical Atlantic, he decided to try his skill privately on the one who--his experience told him--was likely to visit Agricola's doorstep to-night. All things being now prepared, he sat down at the root of a tree in the grove, where the shadow was very dark, and seemed quite comfortable. He did not strike at the mosquitoes; they appeared to understand that he did not wish to trifle. Neither did his thoughts or feelings trouble him; he sat and sharpened a small penknife on his boot. His mind--his occasional transient meditation--was the more comfortable because he was one of those few who had coolly and unsentimentally allowed Honoré Grandissime to sell their lands. It continued to grow plainer every day that the grants with which theirs were classed--grants of old French or Spanish under-officials--were bad. Their sagacious cousin seemed to have struck the right standard, and while those titles which he still held on to remained unimpeached, those that he had parted with to purchasers--as, for instance, the grant held by this Capitain Jean-Baptiste Grandissime--could be bought back now for half what he had got for it. Certainly, as to that, the Capitain might well have that quietude of mind which enabled him to find occupation in perfecting the edge of his penknife and trimming his nails in the dark. By and by he put up the little tool and sat looking out upon the prospect. The time of greatest probability had not come, but the voudou might choose not to wait for that; and so he kept watch. There was a great stillness. The cocks had finished a round and were silent. No dog barked. A few tiny crickets made the quiet land seem the more deserted. Its beauties were not entirely overlooked--the innumerable host of stars above, the twinkle of myriad fireflies on the dark earth below. Between a quarter and a half-mile away, almost in a line with the Cherokee hedge, was a faint rise of ground, and on it a wide-spreading live-oak. There the keen, seaman's eye of the Capitain came to a stop, fixed upon a spot which he had not noticed before. He kept his eye on it, and waited for the stronger light of the moon. Presently behind the grove at his back she rose; and almost the first beam that passed over the tops of the trees, and stretched across the plain, struck the object of his scrutiny. What was it? The ground, he knew; the tree, he knew; he knew there ought to be a white paling enclosure about the trunk of the tree: for there were buried--ah!--he came as near laughing at himself as ever he did in his life; the apothecary of the rue Royale had lately erected some marble headstones there, and-- "Oh! my God!" While Capitain Jean-Baptiste had been trying to guess what the tombstones were, a woman had been coming toward him in the shadow of the hedge. She was not expecting to meet him; she did not know that he was there; she knew she had risks to run, but was ignorant of what they were; she did not know there was anything under the fig-tree which she so nearly and noiselessly approached. One moment her foot was lifted above the spot where the unknown object lay with wide-stretched jaws under the leaves, and the next, she uttered that cry of agony and consternation which interrupted the watcher's meditation. She was caught in a huge steel-trap. Capitain Jean-Baptiste Grandissime remained perfectly still. She fell, a snarling, struggling, groaning heap, to the ground, wild with pain and fright, and began the hopeless effort to draw the jaws of the trap apart with her fingers. "_Ah! bon Dieu, bon Dieu!_ Quit a-_bi-i-i-i-tin' me_! Oh! Lawd 'a' mussy! Ow-ow-ow! lemme go! Dey go'n' to kyetch an' hang me! Oh! an' I hain' done nutt'n' 'gainst _no_body! Ah! _bon Dieu! ein pov' vié négresse_! Oh! Jemimy! I cyan' gid dis yeh t'ing loose--oh! m-m-m-m! An' dey'll tra to mek out't I voudou' Mich-Agricole! An' I did n' had nutt'n' do wid it! Oh Lawd, oh _Lawd_, you'll be mighty good ef you lemme loose! I'm a po' nigga! Oh! dey had n' ought to mek it so _pow_'ful!" Hands, teeth, the free foot, the writhing body, every combination of available forces failed to spread the savage jaws, though she strove until hands and mouth were bleeding. Suddenly she became silent; a thought of precaution came to her; she lifted from the earth a burden she had dropped there, struggled to a half-standing posture, and, with her foot still in the trap, was endeavoring to approach the end of the hedge near by, to thrust this burden under it, when she opened her throat in a speechless ecstasy of fright on feeling her arm grasped by her captor. "O-o-o-h! Lawd! o-o-oh! Lawd!" she cried, in a frantic, husky whisper, going down upon her knees, "_Oh, Miché! pou' l'amou' du bon Dieu! Pou' l'amou du bon Dieu ayez pitié d'ein pov' négresse! Pov' négresse, Miché_, w'at nevva done nutt'n' to nobody on'y jis sell _calas_! I iss comin' 'long an' step inteh dis-yeh bah-trap by acci_dent_! Ah! _Miché, Miché_, ple-e-ease be good! _Ah! mon Dieu_!--an' de Lawd'll reward you--'deed 'E will, _Miché_!" "_Qui ci ça?_" asked the Capitain, sternly, stooping and grasping her burden, which she had been trying to conceal under herself. "Oh, Miché, don' trouble dat! Please jes tek dis yeh trap offen me--da's all! Oh, don't, mawstah, ple-e-ease don' spill all my wash'n' t'ings! 'Tain't nutt'n' but my old dress roll' up into a ball. Oh, please--now, you see? nutt'n' but a po' nigga's dr--_oh! fo' de love o' God, Miché Jean-Baptiste, don' open dat ah box! Y'en a rien du tout la-dans, Miché Jean-Baptiste; du tout, du tout_! Oh, my God! _Miché_, on'y jis teck dis-yeh t'ing off'n my laig, ef yo' _please_, it's bit'n' me lak a _dawg_!--if you _please, Miché_! Oh! you git kill' if you open dat ah box, Mawse Jean-Baptiste! _Mo' parole d'honneur le plus sacre_--I'll kiss de cross! Oh, _sweet Miché Jean, laisse moi aller_! Nutt'n' but some dutty close _la-dans_." She repeated this again and again, even after Capitain Jean-Baptiste had disengaged a small black coffin from the old dress in which it was wrapped. "_Rien du tout, Miché_; nutt'n' but some wash'n' fo' one o' de boys." He removed the lid and saw within, resting on the cushioned bottom, the image, in myrtle-wax, moulded and painted with some rude skill, of a negro's bloody arm cut off near the shoulder--a _bras coupé_--with a dirk grasped in its hand. The old woman lifted her eyes to heaven; her teeth chattered; she gasped twice before she could recover utterance. "_Oh, Miché_ Jean-Baptiste, I di' n' mek dat ah! _Mo' té pas fé ça_! I swea' befo' God! Oh, no, no, no! 'Tain' nutt'n' nohow but a lill play-toy, _Miché_. Oh, sweet _Miché Jean_, you not gwan to kill me? I di' n' mek it! It was--ef you lemme go, I tell you who mek it! Sho's I live I tell you, _Miché Jean_--ef you lemme go! Sho's God's good to me--ef you lemme go! Oh, God A'mighty, _Miché Jean_, sho's God's good to me." She was becoming incoherent. Then Capitain Jean-Baptiste Grandissime for the first time spoke at length: "Do you see this?" he spoke the French of the Atchafalaya. He put his long flintlock pistol close to her face. "I shall take the trap off; you will walk three feet in front of me; if you make it four I blow your brains out; we shall go to Agricole. But right here, just now, before I count ten, you will tell me who sent you here; at the word ten, if I reach it, I pull the trigger. One--two--three--" "Oh, _Miché_, she gwan to gib me to de devil wid _houdou_ ef I tell you--Oh, good _Lawdy_!" But he did not pause. "Four--five--six--seven--eight--" "Palmyre!" gasped the negress, and grovelled on the ground. The trap was loosened from her bleeding leg, the burden placed in her arms, and they disappeared in the direction of the mansion. * * * * * A black shape, a boy, the lad who had carried the basil to Frowenfeld, rose up from where he had all this time lain, close against the hedge, and glided off down its black shadow to warn the philosophe. When Clemence was searched, there was found on her person an old table-knife with its end ground to a point. CHAPTER LVI BLOOD FOR A BLOW It seems to be one of the self-punitive characteristics of tyranny, whether the tyrant be a man, a community, or a caste, to have a pusillanimous fear of its victim. It was not when Clemence lay in irons, it is barely now, that our South is casting off a certain apprehensive tremor, generally latent, but at the slightest provocation active, and now and then violent, concerning her "blacks." This fear, like others similar elsewhere in the world, has always been met by the same one antidote--terrific cruelty to the tyrant's victim. So we shall presently see the Grandissime ladies, deeming themselves compassionate, urging their kinsmen to "give the poor wretch a sound whipping and let her go." Ah! what atrocities are we unconsciously perpetrating North and South now, in the name of mercy or defence, which the advancing light of progressive thought will presently show out in their enormity? Agricola slept late. He had gone to his room the evening before much incensed at the presumption of some younger Grandissimes who had brought up the subject, and spoken in defence, of their cousin Honoré. He had retired, however, not to rest, but to construct an engine of offensive warfare which would revenge him a hundred-fold upon the miserable school of imported thought which had sent its revolting influences to the very Grandissime hearthstone; he wrote a "_Phillipique Générale contre la Conduite du Gouvernement de la Louisiane_" and a short but vigorous chapter in English on "The Insanity of Educating the Masses." This accomplished, he had gone to bed in a condition of peaceful elation, eager for the next day to come that he might take these mighty productions to Joseph Frowenfeld, and make him a present of them for insertion in his book of tables. Jean-Baptiste felt no need of his advice, that he should rouse him; and, for a long time before the old man awoke, his younger kinsmen were stirring about unwontedly, going and coming through the hall of the mansion, along its verandas and up and down its outer flight of stairs. Gates were opening and shutting, errands were being carried by negro boys on bareback horses, Charlie Mandarin of St. Bernard parish and an Armand Fusilier from Faubourg Ste. Marie had on some account come--as they told the ladies--"to take breakfast;" and the ladies, not yet informed, amusedly wondering at all this trampling and stage whispering, were up a trifle early. In those days Creole society was a ship, in which the fair sex were all passengers and the ruder sex the crew. The ladies of the Grandissime mansion this morning asked passengers' questions, got sailors' answers, retorted wittily and more or less satirically, and laughed often, feeling their constrained insignificance. However, in a house so full of bright-eyed children, with mothers and sisters of all ages as their confederates, the secret was soon out, and before Agricola had left his little cottage in the grove the topic of all tongues was the abysmal treachery and _ingratitude_ of negro slaves. The whole tribe of Grandissime believed, this morning, in the doctrine of total depravity--of the negro. And right in the face of this belief, the ladies put forth the generously intentioned prayer for mercy. They were answered that they little knew what frightful perils they were thus inviting upon themselves. The male Grandissimes were not surprised at this exhibition of weak clemency in their lovely women; they were proud of it; it showed the magnanimity that was natural to the universal Grandissime heart, when not restrained and repressed by the stern necessities of the hour. But Agricola disappointed them. Why should he weaken and hesitate, and suggest delays and middle courses, and stammer over their proposed measures as "extreme"? In very truth, it seemed as though that drivelling, woman-beaten Deutsch apotheke--ha! ha! ha!--in the rue Royale had bewitched Agricola as well as Honoré. The fact was, Agricola had never got over the interview which had saved Sylvestre his life. "Here, Agricole," his kinsmen at length said, "you see you are too old for this sort of thing; besides, it would be bad taste for you, who might be presumed to harbor feelings of revenge, to have a voice in this council." And then they added to one another: "We will wait until 'Polyte reports whether or not they have caught Palmyre; much will depend on that." Agricola, thus ruled out, did a thing he did not fully understand; he rolled up the "_Philippique Générale_" and "The Insanity of Educating the Masses," and, with these in one hand and his staff in the other, set out for Frowenfeld's, not merely smarting but trembling under the humiliation of having been sent, for the first time in his life, to the rear as a non-combatant. He found the apothecary among his clerks, preparing with his own hands the "chalybeate tonic" for which the f.m.c. was expected to call. Raoul Innerarity stood at his elbow, looking on with an amiable air of having been superseded for the moment by his master. "Ha-ah! Professor Frowenfeld!" The old man nourished his scroll. Frowenfeld said good-morning, and they shook hands across the counter; but the old man's grasp was so tremulous that the apothecary looked at him again. "Does my hand tremble, Joseph? It is not strange; I have had much to excite me this morning." "Wat's de mattah?" demanded Raoul, quickly. "My life--which I admit, Professor Frowenfeld, is of little value compared with such a one as yours--has been--if not attempted, at least threatened." "How?" cried Raoul. "H-really, Professor, we must agree that a trifle like that ought not to make old Agricola Fusilier nervous. But I find it painful, sir, very painful. I can lift up this right hand, Joseph, and swear I never gave a slave--man or woman--a blow in my life but according to my notion of justice. And now to find my life attempted by former slaves of my own household, and taunted with the righteous hamstringing of a dangerous runaway! But they have apprehended the miscreants; one is actually in hand, and justice will take its course; trust the Grandissimes for that--though, really, Joseph, I assure you, I counselled leniency." "Do you say they have caught her?" Frowenfeld's question was sudden and excited; but the next moment he had controlled himself. "H-h-my son, I did not say it was a 'her'!" "Was it not Clemence? Have they caught her?" "H-yes--" The apothecary turned to Raoul. "Go tell Honoré Grandissime." "But, Professor Frowenfeld--" began Agricola. Frowenfeld turned to repeat his instruction, but Raoul was already leaving the store. Agricola straightened up angrily. "Pro-hofessor Frowenfeld, by what right do you interfere?" "No matter," said the apothecary, turning half-way and pouring the tonic into a vial. "Sir," thundered the old lion, "h-I demand of you to answer! How dare you insinuate that my kinsmen may deal otherwise than justly?" "Will they treat her exactly as if she were white, and had threatened the life of a slave?" asked Frowenfeld from behind the desk at the end of the counter. The old man concentrated all the indignation of his nature in the reply. "No-ho, sir!" As he spoke, a shadow approaching from the door caused him to turn. The tall, dark, finely clad form of the f.m.c, in its old soft-stepping dignity and its sad emaciation, came silently toward the spot where he stood. Frowenfeld saw this, and hurried forward inside the counter with the preparation in his hand. "Professor Frowenfeld," said Agricola, pointing with his ugly staff, "I demand of you, as a keeper of a white man's pharmacy, to turn that negro out." "Citizen Fusilier!" exclaimed the apothecary; "Mister Grandis--" He felt as though no price would be too dear at that moment to pay for the presence of the other Honoré. He had to go clear to the end of the counter and come down the outside again to reach the two men. They did not wait for him. Agricola turned upon the f.m.c. "Take off your hat!" A sudden activity seized every one connected with the establishment as the quadroon let his thin right hand slowly into his bosom, and answered in French, in his soft, low voice: "I wear my hat on my head." Frowenfeld was hurrying toward them; others stepped forward, and from two or three there came half-uttered exclamations of protest; but unfortunately nothing had been done or said to provoke any one to rush upon them, when Agricola suddenly advanced a step and struck the f.m.c. on the head with his staff. Then the general outcry and forward rush came too late; the two crashed together and fell, Agricola above, the f.m.c. below, and a long knife lifted up from underneath sank to its hilt, once--twice--thrice,--in the old man's back. The two men rose, one in the arms of his friends, the other upon his own feet. While every one's attention was directed toward the wounded man, his antagonist restored his dagger to its sheath, took up his hat and walked away unmolested. When Frowenfeld, with Agricola still in his arms, looked around for the quadroon, he was gone. Doctor Keene, sent for instantly, was soon at Agricola's side. "Take him upstairs; he can't be moved any further." Frowenfeld turned and began to instruct some one to run upstairs and ask permission, but the little doctor stopped him. "Joe, for shame! you don't know those women better than that? Take the old man right up!" CHAPTER LVII VOUDOU CURED "Honoré," said Agricola, faintly, "where is Honoré!" "He has been sent for," said Doctor Keene and the two ladies in a breath. Raoul, bearing the word concerning Clemence, and the later messenger summoning him to Agricola's bedside, reached Honoré within a minute of each other. His instructions were quickly given, for Raoul to take his horse and ride down to the family mansion, to break gently to his mother the news of Agricola's disaster, and to say to his kinsmen with imperative emphasis, not to touch the _marchande des calas_ till he should come. Then he hurried to the rue Royale. But when Raoul arrived at the mansion he saw at a glance that the news had outrun him. The family carriage was already coming round the bottom of the front stairs for three Mesdames Grandissime and Madame Martinez. The children on all sides had dropped their play, and stood about, hushed and staring. The servants moved with quiet rapidity. In the hall he was stopped by two beautiful girls. "Raoul! Oh, Raoul, how is he now? Oh! Raoul, if you could only stop them! They have taken old Clemence down into the swamp--as soon as they heard about Agricole--Oh, Raoul, surely that would be cruel! She nursed me--and me--when we were babies!" "Where is Agamemnon?" "Gone to the city." "What did he say about it?" "He said they were doing wrong, that he did not approve their action, and that they would get themselves into trouble: that he washed his hands of it." "Ah-h-h!" exclaimed Raoul, "wash his hands! Oh, yes, wash his hands? Suppose we all wash our hands? But where is Valentine? Where is Charlie Mandarin?" "Ah! Valentine is gone with Agamemnon, saying the same thing, and Charlie Mandarin is down in the swamp, the worst of all of them!" "But why did you let Agamemnon and Valentine go off that way, you?" "Ah! listen to Raoul! What can a woman do?" "What can a woman--Well, even if I was a woman, I would do something!" He hurried from the house, leaped into the saddle and galloped across the fields toward the forest. Some rods within the edge of the swamp, which, at this season, was quite dry in many places, on a spot where the fallen dead bodies of trees overlay one another and a dense growth of willows and vines and dwarf palmetto shut out the light of the open fields, the younger and some of the harsher senior members of the Grandissime family were sitting or standing about, in an irregular circle whose centre was a big and singularly misshapen water-willow. At the base of this tree sat Clemence, motionless and silent, a wan, sickly color in her face, and that vacant look in her large, white-balled, brown-veined eyes, with which hope-forsaken cowardice waits for death. Somewhat apart from the rest, on an old cypress stump, half-stood, half-sat, in whispered consultation, Jean-Baptiste Grandissime and Charlie Mandarin. "_Eh bien_, old woman," said Mandarin, turning, without rising, and speaking sharply in the negro French, "have you any reason to give why you should not be hung to that limb over your head?" She lifted her eyes slowly to his, and made a feeble gesture of deprecation. "_Mo té pas fé cette bras_, Mawse Challie--I di'n't mek dat ahm; no 'ndeed I di'n', Mawse Challie. I ain' wuth hangin', gen'lemen; you'd oughteh jis gimme fawty an' lemme go. I--I--I--I di'n' 'ten' no hawm to Mawse-Agricole; I wa'n't gwan to hu't nobody in God's worl'; 'ndeed I wasn'. I done tote dat old case-knife fo' twenty year'--_mo po'te ça dipi vingt ans_. I'm a po' ole _marchande des calas; mo courri_ 'mongs' de sojer boys to sell my cakes, you know, and da's de onyest reason why I cyah dat ah ole fool knife." She seemed to take some hope from the silence with which they heard her. Her eye brightened and her voice took a tone of excitement. "You'd oughteh tek me and put me in calaboose, an' let de law tek 'is co'se. You's all nice gen'lemen--werry nice gen'lemen, an' you sorter owes it to yo'sev's fo' to not do no sich nasty wuck as hangin' a po' ole nigga wench; 'deed you does. 'Tain' no use to hang me; you gwan to kyetch Palmyre yit; _li courri dans marais;_ she is in de swamp yeh, sum'ers; but as concernin' me, you'd oughteh jis gimme fawty an lemme go. You mus'n't b'lieve all dis-yeh nonsense 'bout insurrectionin'; all fool-nigga talk. W'at we want to be insurrectionin' faw? We de happies' people in de God's worl'!" She gave a start, and cast a furtive glance of alarm behind her. "Yes, we is; you jis' oughteh gimme fawty an' lemme go! Please, gen'lemen! God'll be good to you, you nice, sweet gen'lemen!" Charlie Mandarin made a sign to one who stood at her back, who responded by dropping a rawhide noose over her head. She bounded up with a cry of terror; it may be that she had all along hoped that all was make-believe. She caught the noose wildly with both hands and tried to lift it over her head. "Ah! no, mawsteh, you cyan' do dat! It's ag'in' de law! I's 'bleeged to have my trial, yit. Oh, no, no! Oh, good God, no! Even if I is a nigga! You cyan' jis' murdeh me hyeh in de woods! _Mo dis la zize_! I tell de judge on you! You ain' got no mo' biznis to do me so 'an if I was a white 'oman! You dassent tek a white 'oman out'n de Pa'sh Pris'n an' do 'er so! Oh, sweet mawsteh, fo' de love o' God! Oh, Mawse Challie, _pou' l'amou' du bon Dieu n'fé pas ça_! Oh, Mawse 'Polyte, is you gwan to let 'em kill ole Clemence? Oh, fo' de mussy o' Jesus Christ, Mawse 'Polyte, leas' of all, _you_! You dassent help to kill me, Mawse 'Polyte! You knows why! Oh God, Mawse 'Polyte, you knows why! Leas' of all you, Mawse 'Polyte! Oh, God 'a' mussy on my wicked ole soul! I aint fitt'n to die! Oh, gen'lemen, I kyan' look God in de face! _Oh, Michés, ayez pitié de moin! Oh, God A'mighty ha' mussy on my soul_! Oh, gen'lemen, dough yo' kinfolks kyvvah up yo' tricks now, dey'll dwap f'um undeh you some day! _Solé levé là, li couché là_! Yo' tu'n will come! Oh, God A'mighty! de God o' de po' nigga wench! Look down, oh God, look down an' stop dis yeh foolishness! Oh, God, fo' de love o' Jesus! _Oh, Michés, y'en a ein zizement_! Oh, yes, deh's a judgmen' day! Den it wont be a bit o' use to you to be white! Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, fo', fo', fo', de, de, _love 0' God! Oh_!" They drew her up. Raoul was not far off. He heard the woman's last cry, and came threshing through the bushes on foot. He saw Sylvestre, unconscious of any approach, spring forward, jerk away the hands that had drawn the thong over the branch, let the strangling woman down and loosen the noose. Her eyes, starting out with horror, turned to him; she fell on her knees and clasped her hands. The tears were rolling down Sylvestre's face. "My friends, we must not do this! You _shall_ not do it!" He hurled away, with twice his natural strength, one who put out a hand. "No, sirs!" cried Raoul, "you shall not do it! I come from Honoré! Touch her who dares!" He drew a weapon. "Monsieur Innerarity," said 'Polyte, "_who is_ Monsieur Honoré Grandissime? There are two of the name, you know,--partners--brothers. Which of--but it makes no difference; before either of them sees this assassin she is going to be a lump of nothing!" The next word astonished every one. It was Charlie Mandarin who spoke. "Let her go!" "Let her go!" said Jean-Baptiste Grandissime; "give her a run for life. Old woman, rise up. We propose to let you go. Can you run? Never mind, we shall see. Achille, put her upon her feet. Now, old woman, run!" She walked rapidly, but with unsteady feet, toward the fields. "Run! If you don't run I will shoot you this minute!" She ran. "Faster!" She ran faster. "Run!" "Run!" "Run, Clemence! Ha, ha, ha!" It was so funny to see her scuttling and tripping and stumbling. "_Courri! courri, Clemence! c'est pou to' vie!_ ha, ha, ha--" A pistol-shot rang out close behind Raoul's ear; it was never told who fired it. The negress leaped into the air and fell at full length to the ground, stone dead. CHAPTER LVIII DYING WORDS Drivers of vehicles in the rue Royale turned aside before two slight barriers spanning the way, one at the corner below, the other at that above, the house where the aged high-priest of a doomed civilization lay bleeding to death. The floor of the store below, the pavement of the corridor where stood the idle volante, were covered with straw, and servants came and went by the beckoning of the hand. "This way," whispered a guide of the four ladies from the Grandissime mansion. As Honoré's mother turned the angle half-way up the muffled stair, she saw at the landing above, standing as if about to part, yet in grave council, a man and a woman, the fairest--she noted it even in this moment of extreme distress--she had ever looked upon. He had already set one foot down upon the stair, but at sight of the ascending group drew back and said: "It is my mother;" then turned to his mother and took her hand; they had been for months estranged, but now they silently kissed. "He is sleeping," said Honoré. "Maman, Madame Nancanou." The ladies bowed--the one looking very large and splendid, the other very sweet and small. There was a single instant of silence, and Aurora burst into tears. For a moment Madame Grandissime assumed a frown that was almost a reminder of her brother's, and then the very pride of the Fusiliers broke down. She uttered an inaudible exclamation, drew the weeper firmly into her bosom, and with streaming eyes and choking voice, but yet with majesty, whispered, laying her hand on Aurora's head: "Never mind, my child; never mind; never mind." And Honoré's sister, when she was presently introduced, kissed Aurora and murmured: "The good God bless thee! It is He who has brought us together." "Who is with him just now?" whispered the two other ladies, while Honoré and his mother stood a moment aside in hurried consultation. "My daughter," said Aurora, "and--" "Agamemnon," suggested Madame Martinez. "I believe so," said Aurora. Valentine appeared from the direction of the sick-room and beckoned to Honoré. Doctor Keene did the same and continued to advance. "Awake?" asked Honoré. "Yes." "Alas! my brother!" said Madame Grandissime, and started forward, followed by the other women. "Wait," said Honoré, and they paused. "Charlie," he said, as the little doctor persistently pushed by him at the head of the stair. "Oh, there's no chance, Honoré, you'd as well all go in there." They gathered into the room and about the bed. Madame Grandissime bent over it. "Ah! sister," said the dying man, "is that you? I had the sweetest dream just now--just for a minute." He sighed. "I feel very weak. Where is Charlie Keene?" He had spoken in French; he repeated his question in English. He thought he saw the doctor. "Charlie, if I must meet the worst I hope you will tell me so; I am fully prepared. Ah! excuse--I thought it was-- "My eyes seem dim this evening. _Est-ce-vous_, Honoré? Ah, Honoré, you went over to the enemy, did you?--Well,--the Fusilier blood would al--ways--do as it pleased. Here's your old uncle's hand, Honoré. I forgive you, Honoré--my noble-hearted, foolish--boy." He spoke feebly, and with great nervousness. "Water." It was given him by Aurora. He looked in her face; they could not be sure whether he recognized her or not. He sank back, closed his eyes, and said, more softly and dreamily, as if to himself, "I forgive everybody. A man must die--I forgive--even the enemies--of Louisiana." He lay still a few moments, and then revived excitedly. "Honoré! tell Professor Frowenfeld to take care of that _Philippique Générale_. 'Tis a grand thing, Honoré, on a grand theme! I wrote it myself in one evening. Your Yankee Government is a failure, Honoré, a drivelling failure. It may live a year or two, not longer. Truth will triumph. The old Louisiana will rise again. She will get back her trampled rights. When she does, remem'--" His voice failed, but he held up one finger firmly by way of accentuation. There was a stir among the kindred. Surely this was a turn for the better. The doctor ought to be brought back. A little while ago he was not nearly so strong. "Ask Honoré if the doctor should not come." But Honoré shook his head. The old man began again. "Honoré! Where is Honoré? Stand by me, here, Honoré; and sister?--on this other side. My eyes are very poor to-day. Why do I perspire so? Give me a drink. You see--I am better now; I have ceased--to throw up blood. Nay, let me talk." He sighed, closed his eyes, and opened them again suddenly. "Oh, Honoré, you and the Yankees--you and--all--going wrong--education--masses--weaken--caste--indiscr'--quarrels settl'--by affidav'--Oh! Honoré." "If he would only forget," said one, in an agonized whisper, "that _philippique générale_!" Aurora whispered earnestly and tearfully to Madame Grandissime. Surely they were not going to let him go thus! A priest could at least do no harm. But when the proposition was made to him by his sister, he said: "No;--no priest. You have my will, Honoré,--in your iron box. Professor Frowenfeld,"--he changed his speech to English,--"I have written you an article on--" his words died on his lips. "Joseph, son, I do not see you. Beware, my son, of the doctrine of equal rights--a bottomless iniquity. Master and man--arch and pier--arch above--pier below." He tried to suit the gesture to the words, but both hands and feet were growing uncontrollably restless. "Society, Professor,"--he addressed himself to a weeping girl,--"society has pyramids to build which make menials a necessity, and Nature furnishes the menials all in dark uniform. She--I cannot tell you--you will find--all in the _Philippique Générale_. Ah! Honoré, is it--" He suddenly ceased. "I have lost my glasses." Beads of sweat stood out upon his face. He grew frightfully pale. There was a general dismayed haste, and they gave him a stimulant. "Brother," said the sister, tenderly. He did not notice her. "Agamemnon! Go and tell Jean-Baptiste--" his eyes drooped and flashed again wildly. "I am here, Agricole," said the voice of Jean-Baptiste, close beside the bed. "I told you to let--that negress--" "Yes, we have let her go. We have let all of them go." "All of them," echoed the dying man, feebly, with wandering eyes. Suddenly he brightened again and tossed his arms. "Why, there you were wrong, Jean-Baptiste; the community must be protected." His voice sank to a murmur. "He would not take off--'you must remem'--" He was silent. "You must remem'--those people are--are not--white people." He ceased a moment. "Where am I going?" He began evidently to look, or try to look, for some person; but they could not divine his wish until, with piteous feebleness, he called: "Aurore De Grapion!" So he had known her all the time. Honoré's mother had dropped on her knees beside the bed, dragging Aurora down with her. They rose together. The old man groped distressfully with one hand. She laid her own in it. "Honoré! "What could he want?" wondered the tearful family. He was feeling about with the other hand. "Hon'--Honoré"--his weak clutch could scarcely close upon his nephew's hand. "Put them--put--put them--" What could it mean? The four hands clasped. "Ah!" said one, with fresh tears, "he is trying to speak and cannot." But he did. "Aurora De Gra--I pledge'--pledge'--pledged--this union--to your fa'--father--twenty--years--ago." The family looked at each other in dejected amazement. They had never known it. "He is going," said Agamemnon; and indeed it seemed as though he was gone; but he rallied. "Agamemnon! Valentine! Honoré! patriots! protect the race! Beware of the"--that sentence escaped him. He seemed to fancy himself haranguing a crowd; made another struggle for intelligence, tried once, twice, to speak, and the third time succeeded: "Louis'--Louisian'--a--for--ever!" and lay still. They put those two words on his tomb. CHAPTER LIX WHERE SOME CREOLE MONEY GOES And yet the family committee that ordered the inscription, the mason who cut it in the marble--himself a sort of half-Grandissime, half-nobody--and even the fair women who each eve of All-Saints came, attended by flower-laden slave girls, to lay coronals upon the old man's tomb, felt, feebly at first, and more and more distinctly as years went by, that Forever was a trifle long for one to confine one's patriotic affection to a small fraction of a great country. * * * * * "And you say your family decline to accept the assistance of the police in their endeavors to bring the killer of your uncle to justice?" asked some _Américain_ or other of 'Polyte Grandissime. "'Sir, mie fam'lie do not want to fetch him to justice!--neither Palmyre! We are goin' to fetch the justice to them! And sir, when we cannot do that, sir, by ourselves, sir,--no, sir! no police!" So Clemence was the only victim of the family wrath; for the other two were never taken; and it helps our good feeling for the Grandissimes to know that in later times, under the gentler influences of a higher civilization, their old Spanish-colonial ferocity was gradually absorbed by the growth of better traits. To-day almost all the savagery that can justly be charged against Louisiana must--strange to say--be laid at the door of the _Américain_. The Creole character has been diluted and sweetened. One morning early in September, some two weeks after the death of Agricola, the same brig which something less than a year before had brought the Frowenfelds to New Orleans crossed, outward bound, the sharp line dividing the sometimes tawny waters of Mobile Bay from the deep blue Gulf, and bent her way toward Europe. She had two passengers; a tall, dark, wasted yet handsome man of thirty-seven or thirty-eight years of age, and a woman seemingly some three years younger, of beautiful though severe countenance; "very elegant-looking people and evidently rich," so the brig-master described them,--"had much the look of some of the Mississippi River 'Lower Coast' aristocracy." Their appearance was the more interesting for a look of mental distress evident on the face of each. Brother and sister they called themselves; but, if so, she was the most severely reserved and distant sister the master of the vessel had ever seen. They landed, if the account comes down to us right, at Bordeaux. The captain, a fellow of the peeping sort, found pastime in keeping them in sight after they had passed out of his care ashore. They went to different hotels! The vessel was detained some weeks in this harbor, and her master continued to enjoy himself in the way in which he had begun. He saw his late passengers meet often, in a certain quiet path under the trees of the Quinconce. Their conversations were low; in the patois they used they could have afforded to speak louder; their faces were always grave and almost always troubled. The interviews seemed to give neither of them any pleasure. The monsieur grew thinner than ever, and sadly feeble. "He wants to charter her," the seaman concluded, "but she doesn't like his rates." One day, the last that he saw them together, they seemed to be, each in a way different from the other, under a great strain. He was haggard, woebegone, nervous; she high-strung, resolute,--with "eyes that shone like lamps," as said the observer. "She's a-sendin' him 'way to lew-ard," thought he. Finally the Monsieur handed her--or rather placed upon the seat near which she stood, what she would not receive--a folded and sealed document, seized her hand, kissed it and hurried away. She sank down upon the seat, weak and pale, and rose to go, leaving the document behind. The mariner picked it up; it was directed to _M. Honoré Grandissime, Nouvelle Orléans, États Unis, Amérique_. She turned suddenly, as if remembering, or possibly reconsidering, and received it from him. "It looked like a last will and testament," the seaman used to say, in telling the story. The next morning, being at the water's edge and seeing a number of persons gathering about something not far away, he sauntered down toward it to see how small a thing was required to draw a crowd of these Frenchmen. It was the drowned body of the f.m.c. Did the brig-master never see the woman again? He always waited for this question to be asked him, in order to state the more impressively that he did. His brig became a regular Bordeaux packet, and he saw the Madame twice or thrice, apparently living at great ease, but solitary, in the rue--. He was free to relate that he tried to scrape acquaintance with her, but failed ignominiously. The rents of Number 19 rue Bienville and of numerous other places, including the new drug-store in the rue Royale, were collected regularly by H. Grandissime, successor to Grandissime Frères. Rumor said, and tradition repeats, that neither for the advancement of a friendless people, nor even for the repair of the properties' wear and tear, did one dollar of it ever remain in New Orleans; but that once a year Honoré, "as instructed," remitted to Madame--say Madame Inconnue--of Bordeaux, the equivalent, in francs, of fifty thousand dollars. It is averred he did this without interruption for twenty years. "Let us see: fifty times twenty--one million dollars. That is only a _part_ of the _pecuniary_ loss which this sort of thing costs Louisiana." But we have wandered. CHAPTER LX "ALL RIGHT" The sun is once more setting upon the Place d'Armes. Once more the shadows of cathedral and town-hall lie athwart the pleasant grounds where again the city's fashion and beauty sit about in the sedate Spanish way, or stand or slowly move in and out among the old willows and along the white walks. Children are again playing on the sward; some, you may observe, are in black, for Agricola. You see, too, a more peaceful river, a nearer-seeming and greener opposite shore, and many other evidences of the drowsy summer's unwillingness to leave the embrace of this seductive land; the dreamy quietude of birds; the spreading, folding, re-expanding and slow pulsating of the all-prevailing fan (how like the unfolding of an angel's wing is ofttimes the broadening of that little instrument!); the oft-drawn handkerchief; the pale, cool colors of summer costume; the swallow, circling and twittering overhead or darting across the sight; the languid movement of foot and hand; the reeking flanks and foaming bits of horses; the ear-piercing note of the cicada; the dancing butterfly; the dog, dropping upon the grass and looking up to his master with roping jaw and lolling tongue; the air sweetened with the merchandise of the flower _marchandes_. On the levee road, bridles and saddles, whips, gigs, and carriages,--what a merry coming and going! We look, perforce, toward the old bench where, six months ago, sat Joseph Frowenfeld. There is somebody there--a small, thin, weary-looking man, who leans his bared head slightly back against the tree, his thin fingers knit together in his lap, and his chapeau-bras pressed under his arm. You note his extreme neatness of dress, the bright, unhealthy restlessness of his eye, and--as a beam from the sun strikes them--the fineness of his short red curls. It is Doctor Keene. He lifts his head and looks forward. Honoré and Frowenfeld are walking arm-in-arm under the furthermost row of willows. Honoré is speaking. How gracefully, in correspondence with his words, his free arm or hand--sometimes his head or even his lithe form--moves in quiet gesture, while the grave, receptive apothecary takes into his meditative mind, as into a large, cool cistern, the valued rain-fall of his friend's communications. They are near enough for the little doctor easily to call them; but he is silent. The unhappy feel so far away from the happy. Yet--"Take care!" comes suddenly to his lips, and is almost spoken; for the two, about to cross toward the Place d'Armes at the very spot where Aurora had once made her narrow escape, draw suddenly back, while the black driver of a volante reins up the horse he bestrides, and the animal himself swerves and stops. The two friends, though startled apart, hasten with lifted hats to the side of the volante, profoundly convinced that one, at least, of its two occupants is heartily sorry that they were not rolled in the dust. Ah, ah! with what a wicked, ill-stifled merriment those two ethereal women bend forward in the faintly perfumed clouds of their ravishing summer-evening garb, to express their equivocal mortification and regret. "Oh! I'm so sawry, oh! Almoze runned o'--ah, ha, ha, ha!" Aurora could keep the laugh back no longer. "An' righd yeh befo' haivry _boddie_! Ah, ha, ha! 'Sieur Grandissime, 'tis _me-e-e_ w'ad know 'ow dad is bad, ha, ha, ha! Oh! I assu' you, gen'lemen, id is hawful!" And so on. By and by Honoré seemed urging them to do something, the thought of which made them laugh, yet was entertained as not entirely absurd. It may have been that to which they presently seemed to consent; they alighted from the volante, dismissed it, and walked each at a partner's side down the grassy avenue of the levee. It was as Clotilde with one hand swept her light robes into perfect adjustment for the walk, and turned to take the first step with Frowenfeld, that she raised her eyes for the merest instant to his, and there passed between them an exchange of glance which made the heart of the little doctor suddenly burn like a ball of fire. "Now we're all right," he murmured bitterly to himself, as, without having seen him, she took the arm of the apothecary, and they moved away. Yes, if his irony was meant for this pair, he divined correctly. Their hearts had found utterance across the lips, and the future stood waiting for them on the threshold of a new existence, to usher them into a perpetual copartnership in all its joys and sorrows, its disappointments, its imperishable hopes, its aims, its conflicts, its rewards; and the true--the great--the everlasting God of love was with them. Yes, it had been "all right," now, for nearly twenty-four hours--an age of bliss. And now, as they walked beneath the willows where so many lovers had walked before them, they had whole histories to tell of the tremors, the dismays, the misconstructions and longings through which their hearts had come to this bliss; how at such a time, thus and so; and after such and such a meeting, so and so; no part of which was heard by alien ears, except a fragment of Clotilde's speech caught by a small boy in unintentioned ambush. "--Evva sinze de firze nighd w'en I big-in to nurze you wid de fivver." She was telling him, with that new, sweet boldness so wonderful to a lately accepted lover, how long she had loved him. Later on they parted at the _porte-cochère_. Honoré and Aurora had got there before them, and were passing on up the stairs. Clotilde, catching, a moment before, a glimpse of her face, had seen that there was something wrong; weather-wise as to its indications she perceived an impending shower of tears. A faint shade of anxiety rested an instant on her own face. Frowenfeld could not go in. They paused a little within the obscurity of the corridor, and just to reassure themselves that everything _was_ "all right," they-- God be praised for love's young dream! The slippered feet of the happy girl, as she slowly mounted the stair alone, overburdened with the weight of her blissful reverie, made no sound. As she turned its mid-angle she remembered Aurora. She could guess pretty well the source of her trouble; Honoré was trying to treat that hand-clasping at the bedside of Agricola as a binding compact; "which, of course, was not fair." She supposed they would have gone into the front drawing-room; she would go into the back. But she miscalculated; as she silently entered the door she saw Aurora standing a little way beyond her, close before Honoré, her eyes cast down, and the trembling fan hanging from her two hands like a broken pinion. He seemed to be reiterating, in a tender undertone, some question intended to bring her to a decision. She lifted up her eyes toward his with a mute, frightened glance. The intruder, with an involuntary murmur of apology, drew back; but, as she turned, she was suddenly and unspeakably saddened to see Aurora drop her glance, and, with a solemn slowness whose momentous significance was not to be mistaken, silently shake her head. "Alas!" cried the tender heart of Clotilde. "Alas! M. Grandissime!" CHAPTER LXI "NO!" If M. Grandissime had believed that he was prepared for the supreme bitterness of that moment, he had sadly erred. He could not speak. He extended his hand in a dumb farewell, when, all unsanctioned by his will, the voice of despair escaped him in a low groan. At the same moment, a tinkling sound drew near, and the room, which had grown dark with the fall of night, began to brighten with the softly widening light of an evening lamp, as a servant approached to place it in the front drawing-room. Aurora gave her hand and withdrew it. In the act the two somewhat changed position, and the rays of the lamp, as the maid passed the door, falling upon Aurora's face, betrayed the again upturned eyes. "'Sieur Grandissime--" They fell. The lover paused. "You thing I'm crool." She was the statue of meekness. "Hope has been cruel to me," replied M. Grandissime, "not you; that I cannot say. Adieu." He was turning. "'Sieur Grandissime--" She seemed to tremble. He stood still. "'Sieur Grandissime,"--her voice was very tender,--"wad you' horry?" There was a great silence. "'Sieur Grandissime, you know--teg a chair." He hesitated a moment and then both sat down. The servant repassed the door; yet when Aurora broke the silence, she spoke in English--having such hazardous things to say. It would conceal possible stammerings. "'Sieur Grandissime--you know dad riz'n I--" She slightly opened her fan, looking down upon it, and was still. "I have no right to ask the reason," said M. Grandissime. "It is yours--not mine." Her head went lower. "Well, you know,"--she drooped it meditatively to one side, with her eyes on the floor,--"'tis bick-ause--'tis bick-ause I thing in a few days I'm goin' to die." M. Grandissime said never a word. He was not alarmed. She looked up suddenly and took a quick breath, as if to resume, but her eyes fell before his, and she said, in a tone of half-soliloquy: "I 'ave so mudge troub' wit dad hawt." She lifted one little hand feebly to the cardiac region, and sighed softly, with a dying languor. M. Grandissime gave no response. A vehicle rumbled by in the street below, and passed away. At the bottom of the room, where a gilded Mars was driving into battle, a soft note told the half-hour. The lady spoke again. "Id mague"--she sighed once more--"so strange,--sometime' I thing I'm git'n' crezzy." Still he to whom these fearful disclosures were being made remained as silent and motionless as an Indian captive, and, after another pause, with its painful accompaniment of small sounds, the fair speaker resumed with more energy, as befitting the approach to an incredible climax: "Some day', 'Sieur Grandissime,--id mague me fo'gid my hage! I thing I'm young!" She lifted her eyes with the evident determination to meet his own squarely, but it was too much; they fell as before; yet she went on speaking: "An' w'en someboddie git'n' ti'ed livin' wid 'imsev an' big'n' to fill ole, an' wan' someboddie to teg de care of 'im an' wan' me to gid marri'd wid 'im--I thing 'e's in love to me." Her fingers kept up a little shuffling with the fan. "I thing I'm crezzy. I thing I muz be go'n' to die torecklie." She looked up to the ceiling with large eyes, and then again at the fan in her lap, which continued its spreading and shutting. "An' daz de riz'n, 'Sieur Grandissime." She waited until it was certain he was about to answer, and then interrupted him nervously: "You know, 'Sieur Grandissime, id woon be righd! Id woon be de juztiz to _you!_ An' you de bez man I evva know in my life, 'Sieur Grandissime!" Her hands shook. "A man w'at nevva wan' to gid marri'd wid noboddie in 'is life, and now trine to gid marri'd juz only to rip-ose de soul of 'is oncl'--" M. Grandissime uttered an exclamation of protest, and she ceased. "I asked you," continued he, with low-toned emphasis, "for the single and only reason that I want you for my wife." "Yez," she quickly replied; "daz all. Daz wad I thing. An' I thing daz de rad weh to say, 'Sieur Grandissime. Bick-ause, you know, you an' me is too hole to talg aboud dad _lovin'_, you know. An' you godd dad grade _rizpeg_ fo' me, an' me I godd dad 'ighez rispeg fo' you; bud--" she clutched the fan and her face sank lower still--"bud--" she swallowed--shook her head--"bud--" She bit her lip; she could not go on. "Aurora," said her lover, bending forward and taking one of her hands. "I _do_ love you with all my soul." She made a poor attempt to withdraw her hand, abandoned the effort, and looked up savagely through a pair of overflowing eyes, demanding: "_Mais_, fo' w'y you di' n' wan' to sesso?" M. Grandissime smiled argumentatively. "I have said so a hundred times, in every way but in words." She lifted her head proudly, and bowed like a queen. "_Mais_, you see 'Sieur Grandissime, you bin meg one mizteg." "Bud 'tis corrected in time," exclaimed he, with suppressed but eager joyousness. "'Sieur Grandissime," she said, with a tremendous solemnity, "I'm verrie sawrie; _mais_--you spogue too lade." "No, no!" he cried, "the correction comes in time. Say that, lady; say that!" His ardent gaze beat hers once more down; but she shook her head. He ignored the motion. "And you will correct your answer; ah! say that, too!" he insisted, covering the captive hand with both his own, and leaning forward from his seat. "_Mais_, 'Sieur Grandissime, you know, dad is so verrie unegspeg'." "Oh! unexpected!" "_Mais_, I was thing all dad time id was Clotilde wad you--" She turned her face away and buried her mouth in her handkerchief. "Ah!" he cried, "mock me no more, Aurore Nancanou!" He rose erect and held the hand firmly which she strove to draw away: "Say the word, sweet lady; say the word!" She turned upon him suddenly, rose to her feet, was speechless an instant while her eyes flashed into his, and crying out: "No!" burst into tears, laughed through them, and let him clasp her to his bosom. 
19703	----	MADAME DELPHINE BY GEORGE W. CABLE _Author of "Old Creole Days," "The Grandissimes," etc._ NEW YORK COPYRIGHT BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 743 AND 745 BROADWAY 1881 PRESS OF J. J. LITTLE & CO., NOS. 10 TO 20 ASTOR PLACE, NEW YORK. * * * * * CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. PAGE AN OLD HOUSE 1 CHAPTER II. MADAME DELPHINE 7 CHAPTER III. CAPITAINE LEMAITRE 12 CHAPTER IV. THREE FRIENDS 18 CHAPTER V. THE CAP FITS 28 CHAPTER VI. A CRY OF DISTRESS 40 CHAPTER VII. MICHÉ VIGNEVIELLE 50 CHAPTER VIII. SHE 59 CHAPTER IX. OLIVE 68 CHAPTER X. BIRDS 74 CHAPTER XI. FACE TO FACE 82 CHAPTER XII. THE MOTHER BIRD 90 CHAPTER XIII. TRIBULATION 99 CHAPTER XIV. BY AN OATH 106 CHAPTER XV. KYRIE ELEISON 120 * * * * * MADAME DELPHINE. CHAPTER I. AN OLD HOUSE. A few steps from the St. Charles Hotel, in New Orleans, brings you to and across Canal street, the central avenue of the city, and to that corner where the flower-women sit at the inner and outer edges of the arcaded sidewalk, and make the air sweet with their fragrant merchandise. The crowd--and if it is near the time of the carnival it will be great--will follow Canal street. But you turn, instead, into the quiet, narrow way which a lover of Creole antiquity, in fondness for a romantic past, is still prone to call the Rue Royale. You will pass a few restaurants, a few auction rooms, a few furniture warehouses, and will hardly realize that you have left behind you the activity and clatter of a city of merchants before you find yourself in a region of architectural decrepitude, where an ancient and foreign-seeming domestic life, in second stories, overhangs the ruins of a former commercial prosperity, and upon everything has settled down a long Sabbath of decay. The vehicles in the street are few in number, and are merely passing through; the stores are shrunken into shops; you see here and there, like a patch of bright mould, the stall of that significant fungus, the Chinaman. Many great doors are shut and clamped and grown gray with cobweb; many street windows are nailed up; half the balconies are begrimed and rust-eaten, and many of the humid arches and alleys which characterize the older Franco-Spanish piles of stuccoed brick betray a squalor almost oriental. Yet beauty lingers here. To say nothing of the picturesque, sometimes you get sight of comfort, sometimes of opulence, through the unlatched wicket in some _porte-cochère_--red-painted brick pavement, foliage of dark palm or pale banana, marble or granite masonry and blooming parterres; or through a chink between some pair of heavy batten window-shutters, opened with an almost reptile wariness, your eye gets a glimpse of lace and brocade upholstery, silver and bronze, and much similar rich antiquity. The faces of the inmates are in keeping; of the passengers in the street a sad proportion are dingy and shabby; but just when these are putting you off your guard, there will pass you a woman--more likely two or three--of patrician beauty. Now, if you will go far enough down this old street, you will see, as you approach its intersection with----. Names in that region elude one like ghosts. However, as you begin to find the way a trifle more open, you will not fail to notice on the right-hand side, about midway of the square, a small, low, brick house of a story and a half, set out upon the sidewalk, as weather-beaten and mute as an aged beggar fallen asleep. Its corrugated roof of dull red tiles, sloping down toward you with an inward curve, is overgrown with weeds, and in the fall of the year is gay with the yellow plumes of the golden-rod. You can almost touch with your cane the low edge of the broad, overhanging eaves. The batten shutters at door and window, with hinges like those of a postern, are shut with a grip that makes one's knuckles and nails feel lacerated. Save in the brick-work itself there is not a cranny. You would say the house has the lock-jaw. There are two doors, and to each a single chipped and battered marble step. Continuing on down the sidewalk, on a line with the house, is a garden masked from view by a high, close board-fence. You may see the tops of its fruit-trees--pomegranate, peach, banana, fig, pear, and particularly one large orange, close by the fence, that must be very old. The residents over the narrow way, who live in a three-story house, originally of much pretension, but from whose front door hard times have removed almost all vestiges of paint, will tell you: "Yass, de 'ouse is in'abit; 'tis live in." And this is likely to be all the information you get--not that they would not tell, but they cannot grasp the idea that you wish to know--until, possibly, just as you are turning to depart, your informant, in a single word and with the most evident non-appreciation of its value, drops the simple key to the whole matter: "Dey's quadroons." He may then be aroused to mention the better appearance of the place in former years, when the houses of this region generally stood farther apart, and that garden comprised the whole square. Here dwelt, sixty years ago and more, one Delphine Carraze; or, as she was commonly designated by the few who knew her, Madame Delphine. That she owned her home, and that it had been given her by the then deceased companion of her days of beauty, were facts so generally admitted as to be, even as far back as that sixty years ago, no longer a subject of gossip. She was never pointed out by the denizens of the quarter as a character, nor her house as a "feature." It would have passed all Creole powers of guessing to divine what you could find worthy of inquiry concerning a retired quadroon woman; and not the least puzzled of all would have been the timid and restive Madame Delphine herself. CHAPTER II. MADAME DELPHINE. During the first quarter of the present century, the free quadroon caste of New Orleans was in its golden age. Earlier generations--sprung, upon the one hand, from the merry gallants of a French colonial military service which had grown gross by affiliation with Spanish-American frontier life, and, upon the other hand, from comely Ethiopians culled out of the less negroidal types of African live goods, and bought at the ship's side with vestiges of quills and cowries and copper wire still in their head-dresses,--these earlier generations, with scars of battle or private rencontre still on the fathers, and of servitude on the manumitted mothers, afforded a mere hint of the splendor that was to result from a survival of the fairest through seventy-five years devoted to the elimination of the black pigment and the cultivation of hyperian excellence and nymphean grace and beauty. Nor, if we turn to the present, is the evidence much stronger which is offered by the _gens de couleur_ whom you may see in the quadroon quarter this afternoon, with "Ichabod" legible on their murky foreheads through a vain smearing of toilet powder, dragging their chairs down to the narrow gate-way of their close-fenced gardens, and staring shrinkingly at you as you pass, like a nest of yellow kittens. But as the present century was in its second and third decades, the _quadroones_ (for we must contrive a feminine spelling to define the strict limits of the caste as then established) came forth in splendor. Old travellers spare no terms to tell their praises, their faultlessness of feature, their perfection of form, their varied styles of beauty,--for there were even pure Caucasian blondes among them,--their fascinating manners, their sparkling vivacity, their chaste and pretty wit, their grace in the dance, their modest propriety, their taste and elegance in dress. In the gentlest and most poetic sense they were indeed the sirens of this land, where it seemed "always afternoon"--a momentary triumph of an Arcadian over a Christian civilization, so beautiful and so seductive that it became the subject of special chapters by writers of the day more original than correct as social philosophers. The balls that were got up for them by the male _sang-pur_ were to that day what the carnival is to the present. Society balls given the same nights proved failures through the coincidence. The magnates of government,--municipal, state, federal,--those of the army, of the learned professions and of the clubs,--in short, the white male aristocracy in everything save the ecclesiastical desk,--were there. Tickets were high-priced to insure the exclusion of the vulgar. No distinguished stranger was allowed to miss them. They were beautiful! They were clad in silken extenuations from the throat to the feet, and wore, withal, a pathos in their charm that gave them a family likeness to innocence. Madame Delphine, were you not a stranger, could have told you all about it; though hardly, I suppose, without tears. But at the time of which we would speak (1821-22) her day of splendor was set, and her husband--let us call him so for her sake--was long dead. He was an American, and, if we take her word for it, a man of noble heart and extremely handsome; but this is knowledge which we can do without. Even in those days the house was always shut, and Madame Delphine's chief occupation and end in life seemed to be to keep well locked up in-doors. She was an excellent person, the neighbors said,--a very worthy person; and they were, may be, nearer correct than they knew. They rarely saw her save when she went to or returned from church; a small, rather tired-looking, dark quadroone of very good features and a gentle thoughtfulness of expression which it would take long to describe: call it a widow's look. In speaking of Madame Delphine's house, mention should have been made of a gate in the fence on the Royal-street sidewalk. It is gone now, and was out of use then, being fastened once for all by an iron staple clasping the cross-bar and driven into the post. Which leads us to speak of another person. CHAPTER III. CAPITAINE LEMAITRE. He was one of those men that might be any age,--thirty, forty, forty-five; there was no telling from his face what was years and what was only weather. His countenance was of a grave and quiet, but also luminous, sort, which was instantly admired and ever afterward remembered, as was also the fineness of his hair and the blueness of his eyes. Those pronounced him youngest who scrutinized his face the closest. But waiving the discussion of age, he was odd, though not with the oddness that he who reared him had striven to produce. He had not been brought up by mother or father. He had lost both in infancy, and had fallen to the care of a rugged old military grandpa of the colonial school, whose unceasing endeavor had been to make "his boy" as savage and ferocious a holder of unimpeachable social rank as it became a pure-blooded French Creole to be who could trace his pedigree back to the god Mars. "Remember, my boy," was the adjuration received by him as regularly as his waking cup of black coffee, "that none of your family line ever kept the laws of any government or creed." And if it was well that he should bear this in mind, it was well to reiterate it persistently, for, from the nurse's arms, the boy wore a look, not of docility so much as of gentle, _judicial_ benevolence. The domestics of the old man's house used to shed tears of laughter to see that look on the face of a babe. His rude guardian addressed himself to the modification of this facial expression; it had not enough of majesty in it, for instance, or of large dare-deviltry; but with care these could be made to come. And, true enough, at twenty-one (in Ursin Lemaitre), the labors of his grandfather were an apparent success. He was not rugged, nor was he loud-spoken, as his venerable trainer would have liked to present him to society; but he was as serenely terrible as a well-aimed rifle, and the old man looked upon his results with pride. He had cultivated him up to that pitch where he scorned to practice any vice, or any virtue, that did not include the principle of self-assertion. A few touches only were wanting here and there to achieve perfection, when suddenly the old man died. Yet it was his proud satisfaction, before he finally lay down, to see Ursin a favored companion and the peer, both in courtesy and pride, of those polished gentlemen famous in history, the brothers Lafitte. The two Lafittes were, at the time young Lemaitre reached his majority (say 1808 or 1812), only merchant blacksmiths, so to speak, a term intended to convey the idea of blacksmiths who never soiled their hands, who were men of capital, stood a little higher than the clergy, and moved in society among its autocrats. But they were full of possibilities, men of action, and men, too, of thought, with already a pronounced disbelief in the custom-house. In these days of big carnivals they would have been patented as the dukes of Little Manchac and Barataria. Young Ursin Lemaitre (in full the name was Lemaitre-Vignevielle) had not only the hearty friendship of these good people, but also a natural turn for accounts; and as his two friends were looking about them with an enterprising eye, it easily resulted that he presently connected himself with the blacksmithing profession. Not exactly at the forge in the Lafittes' famous smithy, among the African Samsons, who, with their shining black bodies bared to the waist, made the Rue St. Pierre ring with the stroke of their hammers; but as a--there was no occasion to mince the word in those days--smuggler. Smuggler--patriot--where was the difference? Beyond the ken of a community to which the enforcement of the revenue laws had long been merely so much out of every man's pocket and dish, into the all-devouring treasury of Spain. At this date they had come under a kinder yoke, and to a treasury that at least echoed when the customs were dropped into it; but the change was still new. What could a man be more than Capitaine Lemaitre was--the soul of honor, the pink of courtesy, with the courage of the lion, and the magnanimity of the elephant; frank--the very exchequer of truth! Nay, go higher still: his paper was good in Toulouse street. To the gossips in the gaming-clubs he was the culminating proof that smuggling was one of the sublimer virtues. Years went by. Events transpired which have their place in history. Under a government which the community by and by saw was conducted in their interest, smuggling began to lose its respectability and to grow disreputable, hazardous, and debased. In certain onslaughts made upon them by officers of the law, some of the smugglers became murderers. The business became unprofitable for a time until the enterprising Lafittes--thinkers--bethought them of a corrective--"privateering." Thereupon the United States Government set a price upon their heads. Later yet it became known that these outlawed pirates had been offered money and rank by Great Britain if they would join her standard, then hovering about the water-approaches to their native city, and that they had spurned the bribe; wherefore their heads were ruled out of the market, and, meeting and treating with Andrew Jackson, they were received as lovers of their country, and as compatriots fought in the battle of New Orleans at the head of their fearless men, and--here tradition takes up the tale--were never seen afterward. Capitaine Lemaitre was not among the killed or wounded, but he was among the missing. CHAPTER IV. THREE FRIENDS. The roundest and happiest-looking priest in the city of New Orleans was a little man fondly known among his people as Père Jerome. He was a Creole and a member of one of the city's leading families. His dwelling was a little frame cottage, standing on high pillars just inside a tall, close fence, and reached by a narrow outdoor stair from the green batten gate. It was well surrounded by crape myrtles, and communicated behind by a descending stair and a plank-walk with the rear entrance of the chapel over whose worshippers he daily spread his hands in benediction. The name of the street--ah! there is where light is wanting. Save the Cathedral and the Ursulines, there is very little of record concerning churches at that time, though they were springing up here and there. All there is certainty of is that Père Jerome's frame chapel was some little new-born "down-town" thing, that may have survived the passage of years, or may have escaped "Paxton's Directory" "so as by fire." His parlor was dingy and carpetless; one could smell distinctly there the vow of poverty. His bedchamber was bare and clean, and the bed in it narrow and hard; but between the two was a dining-room that would tempt a laugh to the lips of any who looked in. The table was small, but stout, and all the furniture of the room substantial, made of fine wood, and carved just enough to give the notion of wrinkling pleasantry. His mother's and sister's doing, Père Jerome would explain; they would not permit this apartment--or department--to suffer. Therein, as well as in the parlor, there was odor, but of a more epicurean sort, that explained interestingly the Père Jerome's rotundity and rosy smile. In this room, and about this miniature round table, used sometimes to sit with Père Jerome two friends to whom he was deeply attached--one, Evariste Varrillat, a playmate from early childhood, now his brother-in-law; the other, Jean Thompson, a companion from youngest manhood, and both, like the little priest himself, the regretful rememberers of a fourth comrade who was a comrade no more. Like Père Jerome, they had come, through years, to the thick of life's conflicts,--the priest's brother-in-law a physician, the other an attorney, and brother-in-law to the lonely wanderer,--yet they loved to huddle around this small board, and be boys again in heart while men in mind. Neither one nor another was leader. In earlier days they had always yielded to him who no longer met with them a certain chieftainship, and they still thought of him and talked of him, and, in their conjectures, groped after him, as one of whom they continued to expect greater things than of themselves. They sat one day drawn thus close together, sipping and theorizing, speculating upon the nature of things in an easy, bold, sophomoric way, the conversation for the most part being in French, the native tongue of the doctor and priest, and spoken with facility by Jean Thompson the lawyer, who was half Américain; but running sometimes into English and sometimes into mild laughter. Mention had been made of the absentee. Père Jerome advanced an idea something like this: "It is impossible for any finite mind to fix the degree of criminality of any human act or of any human life. The Infinite One alone can know how much of our sin is chargeable to us, and how much to our brothers or our fathers. We all participate in one another's sins. There is a community of responsibility attaching to every misdeed. No human since Adam--nay, nor Adam himself--ever sinned entirely to himself. And so I never am called upon to contemplate a crime or a criminal but I feel my conscience pointing at me as one of the accessories." "In a word," said Evariste Varrillat, the physician, "you think we are partly to blame for the omission of many of your Paternosters, eh?" Father Jerome smiled. "No; a man cannot plead so in his own defense; our first father tried that, but the plea was not allowed. But, now, there is our absent friend. I tell you truly this whole community ought to be recognized as partners in his moral errors. Among another people, reared under wiser care and with better companions, how different might he not have been! How can _we_ speak of him as a law-breaker who might have saved him from that name?" Here the speaker turned to Jean Thompson, and changed his speech to English. "A lady sez to me to-day: 'Père Jerome, 'ow dat is a dreadfool dat 'e gone at de coas' of Cuba to be one corsair! Aint it?' 'Ah, Madame,' I sez, ''tis a terrible! I'ope de good God will fo'give me an' you fo' dat!'" Jean Thompson answered quickly: "You should not have let her say that." "_Mais_, fo' w'y?" "Why, because, if you are partly responsible, you ought so much the more to do what you can to shield his reputation. You should have said,"--the attorney changed to French,--"'He is no pirate; he has merely taken out letters of marque and reprisal under the flag of the republic of Carthagena!'" "_Ah, bah_!" exclaimed Doctor Varrillat, and both he and his brother-in-law, the priest, laughed. "Why not?" demanded Thompson. "Oh!" said the physician, with a shrug, "say id thad way iv you wand." Then, suddenly becoming serious, he was about to add something else, when Père Jerome spoke. "I will tell you what I could have said. I could have said: 'Madame, yes; 'tis a terrible fo' him. He stum'le in de dark; but dat good God will mek it a _mo' terrible_ fo' dat man, oohever he is, w'at put 'at light out!'" "But how do you know he is a pirate?" demanded Thompson, aggressively. "How do we know?" said the little priest, returning to French. "Ah! there is no other explanation of the ninety-and-nine stories that come to us, from every port where ships arrive from the north coast of Cuba, of a commander of pirates there who is a marvel of courtesy and gentility----"* [*See Gazettes of the period.] "And whose name is Lafitte," said the obstinate attorney. "And who, nevertheless, is not Lafitte," insisted Père Jerome. "Daz troo, Jean," said Doctor Varrillat. "We hall know daz troo." Père Jerome leaned forward over the board and spoke, with an air of secrecy, in French. "You have heard of the ship which came into port here last Monday. You have heard that she was boarded by pirates, and that the captain of the ship himself drove them off." "An incredible story," said Thompson. "But not so incredible as the truth. I have it from a passenger. There was on the ship a young girl who was very beautiful. She came on deck, where the corsair stood, about to issue his orders, and, more beautiful than ever in the desperation of the moment, confronted him with a small missal spread open, and, her finger on the Apostles' Creed, commanded him to read. He read it, uncovering his head as he read, then stood gazing on her face, which did not quail; and then, with a low bow, said: 'Give me this book and I will do your bidding.' She gave him the book and bade him leave the ship, and he left it unmolested." Père Jerome looked from the physician to the attorney and back again, once or twice, with his dimpled smile. "But he speaks English, they say," said Jean Thompson. "He has, no doubt, learned it since he left us," said the priest. "But this ship-master, too, says his men called him Lafitte." "Lafitte? No. Do you not see? It is your brother-in-law, Jean Thompson! It is your wife's brother! Not Lafitte, but" (softly) "Lemaitre! Lemaitre! Capitaine Ursin Lemaitre!" The two guests looked at each other with a growing drollery on either face, and presently broke into a laugh. "Ah!" said the doctor, as the three rose up, "you juz kip dad cog-an'-bull fo' yo' negs summon." Père Jerome's eyes lighted up-- "I goin' to do it!" "I tell you," said Evariste, turning upon him with sudden gravity, "iv dad is troo, I tell you w'ad is sure-sure! Ursin Lemaitre din kyare nut'n fo' doze creed; _he fall in love_!" Then, with a smile, turning to Jean Thompson, and back again to Père Jerome: "But anny'ow you tell it in dad summon dad 'e kyare fo' dad creed." Père Jerome sat up late that night, writing a letter. The remarkable effects upon a certain mind, effects which we shall presently find him attributing solely to the influences of surrounding nature, may find for some a more sufficient explanation in the fact that this letter was but one of a series, and that in the rover of doubted identity and incredible eccentricity Père Jerome had a regular correspondent. CHAPTER V. THE CAP FITS. About two months after the conversation just given, and therefore somewhere about the Christmas holidays of the year 1821, Père Jerome delighted the congregation of his little chapel with the announcement that he had appointed to preach a sermon in French on the following Sabbath--not there, but in the cathedral. He was much beloved. Notwithstanding that among the clergy there were two or three who shook their heads and raised their eyebrows, and said he would be at least as orthodox if he did not make quite so much of the Bible and quite so little of the dogmas, yet "the common people heard him gladly." When told, one day, of the unfavorable whispers, he smiled a little and answered his informant,--whom he knew to be one of the whisperers himself,--laying a hand kindly upon his shoulder: "Father Murphy,"--or whatever the name was,--"your words comfort me." "How is that?" "Because--'_Væ quum benedixerint mihi homines_!'"* [*"Woe unto me, when all men speak well of me!"] The appointed morning, when it came, was one of those exquisite days in which there is such a universal harmony, that worship rises from the heart like a spring. "Truly," said Père Jerome to the companion who was to assist him in the mass, "this is a Sabbath day which we do not have to make holy, but only to _keep_ so." May be it was one of the secrets of Père Jerome's success as a preacher, that he took more thought as to how he should feel, than as to what he should say. The cathedral of those days was called a very plain old pile, boasting neither beauty nor riches; but to Père Jerome it was very lovely; and before its homely altar, not homely to him, in the performance of those solemn offices, symbols of heaven's mightiest truths, in the hearing of the organ's harmonies, and the yet more eloquent interunion of human voices in the choir, in overlooking the worshipping throng which knelt under the soft, chromatic lights, and in breathing the sacrificial odors of the chancel, he found a deep and solemn joy; and yet I guess the finest thought of his soul the while was one that came thrice and again: "Be not deceived, Père Jerome, because saintliness of feeling is easy here; you are the same priest who overslept this morning, and overate yesterday, and will, in some way, easily go wrong to-morrow and the day after." He took it with him when--the _Veni Creator_ sung--he went into the pulpit. Of the sermon he preached, tradition has preserved for us only a few brief sayings, but they are strong and sweet. "My friends," he said,--this was near the beginning,--"the angry words of God's book are very merciful--they are meant to drive us home; but the tender words, my friends, they are sometimes terrible! Notice these, the tenderest words of the tenderest prayer that ever came from the lips of a blessed martyr--the dying words of the holy Saint Stephen, 'Lord, lay not this sin to their charge.' Is there nothing dreadful in that? Read it thus: 'Lord, lay not this sin to _their_ charge.' Not to the charge of them who stoned him? To whose charge then? Go ask the holy Saint Paul. Three years afterward, praying in the temple at Jerusalem, he answered that question: 'I stood by and consented.' He answered for himself only; but the Day must come when all that wicked council that sent Saint Stephen away to be stoned, and all that city of Jerusalem, must hold up the hand and say: 'We, also, Lord--we stood by.' Ah! friends, under the simpler meaning of that dying saint's prayer for the pardon of his murderers is hidden the terrible truth that we all have a share in one another's sins." Thus Père Jerome touched his key-note. All that time has spared us beside may be given in a few sentences. "Ah!" he cried once, "if it were merely my own sins that I had to answer for, I might hold up my head before the rest of mankind; but no, no, my friends--we cannot look each other in the face, for each has helped the other to sin. Oh, where is there any room, in this world of common disgrace, for pride? Even if we had no common hope, a common despair ought to bind us together and forever silence the voice of scorn!" And again, this: "Even in the promise to Noë, not again to destroy the race with a flood, there is a whisper of solemn warning. The moral account of the antediluvians was closed off and the balance brought down in the year of the deluge; but the account of those who come after runs on and on, and the blessed bow of promise itself warns us that God will not stop it till the Judgment Day! O God, I thank thee that that day must come at last, when thou wilt destroy the world, and stop the interest on my account!" It was about at this point that Père Jerome noticed, more particularly than he had done before, sitting among the worshippers near him, a small, sad-faced woman, of pleasing features, but dark and faded, who gave him profound attention. With her was another in better dress, seemingly a girl still in her teens, though her face and neck were scrupulously concealed by a heavy veil, and her hands, which were small, by gloves. "Quadroones," thought he, with a stir of deep pity. Once, as he uttered some stirring word, he saw the mother and daughter (if such they were), while they still bent their gaze upon him, clasp each other's hand fervently in the daughter's lap. It was at these words: "My friends, there are thousands of people in this city of New Orleans to whom society gives the ten commandments of God with all the _nots_ rubbed out! Ah! good gentlemen! if God sends the poor weakling to purgatory for leaving the right path, where ought some of you to go who strew it with thorns and briers!" The movement of the pair was only seen because he watched for it. He glanced that way again as he said: "O God, be very gentle with those children who would be nearer heaven this day had they never had a father and mother, but had got their religious training from such a sky and earth as we have in Louisiana this holy morning! Ah! my friends, nature is a big-print catechism!" The mother and daughter leaned a little farther forward, and exchanged the same spasmodic hand-pressure as before. The mother's eyes were full of tears. "I once knew a man," continued the little priest, glancing to a side aisle where he had noticed Evariste and Jean sitting against each other, "who was carefully taught, from infancy to manhood, this single only principle of life: defiance. Not justice, not righteousness, not even gain; but defiance: defiance to God, defiance to man, defiance to nature, defiance to reason; defiance and defiance and defiance." "He is going to tell it!" murmured Evariste to Jean. "This man," continued Père Jerome, "became a smuggler and at last a pirate in the Gulf of Mexico. Lord, lay not that sin to his charge alone! But a strange thing followed. Being in command of men of a sort that to control required to be kept at the austerest distance, he now found himself separated from the human world and thrown into the solemn companionship with the sea, with the air, with the storm, the calm, the heavens by day, the heavens by night. My friends, that was the first time in his life that he ever found himself in really good company. "Now, this man had a great aptness for accounts. He had kept them--had rendered them. There was beauty, to him, in a correct, balanced, and closed account. An account unsatisfied was a deformity. The result is plain. That man, looking out night after night upon the grand and holy spectacle of the starry deep above and the watery deep below, was sure to find himself, sooner or later, mastered by the conviction that the great Author of this majestic creation keeps account of it; and one night there came to him, like a spirit walking on the sea, the awful, silent question: 'My account with God--how does it stand?' Ah! friends, that is a question which the book of nature does not answer. "Did I say the book of nature is a catechism? Yes. But, after it answers the first question with 'God,' nothing but questions follow; and so, one day, this man gave a ship full of merchandise for one little book which answered those questions. God help him to understand it! and God help you, monsieur and you, madame, sitting here in your _smuggled clothes_, to beat upon the breast with me and cry, 'I, too, Lord--I, too, stood by and consented.'" Père Jerome had not intended these for his closing words; but just there, straight away before his sight and almost at the farthest door, a man rose slowly from his seat and regarded him steadily with a kind, bronzed, sedate face, and the sermon, as if by a sign of command, was ended. While the _Credo_ was being chanted he was still there; but when, a moment after its close, the eye of Père Jerome returned in that direction, his place was empty. As the little priest, his labor done and his vestments changed, was turning into the Rue Royale and leaving the cathedral out of sight, he just had time to understand that two women were purposely allowing him to overtake them, when the one nearer him spoke in the Creole patois, saying, with some timid haste: "Good-morning, Père--Père Jerome; Père Jerome, we thank the good God for that sermon." "Then, so do I," said the little man. They were the same two that he had noticed when he was preaching. The younger one bowed silently; she was a beautiful figure, but the slight effort of Père Jerome's kind eyes to see through the veil was vain. He would presently have passed on, but the one who had spoken before said: "I thought you lived in the Rue des Ursulines." "Yes; I am going this way to see a sick person." The woman looked up at him with an expression of mingled confidence and timidity. "It must be a blessed thing to be so useful as to be needed by the good God," she said. Père Jerome smiled: "God does not need me to look after his sick; but he allows me to do it, just as you let your little boy in frocks carry in chips." He might have added that he loved to do it, quite as much. It was plain the woman had somewhat to ask, and was trying to get courage to ask it. "You have a little boy?" asked the priest. "No, I have only my daughter;" she indicated the girl at her side. Then she began to say something else, stopped, and with much nervousness asked: "Père Jerome, what was the name of that man?" "His name?" said the priest. "You wish to know his name?" "Yes, Monsieur" (or _Miché_, as she spoke it); "it was such a beautiful story." The speaker's companion looked another way. "His name," said Father Jerome,--"some say one name and some another. Some think it was Jean Lafitte, the famous; you have heard of him? And do you go to my church, Madame----?" "No, Miché; not in the past; but from this time, yes. My name"--she choked a little, and yet it evidently gave her pleasure to offer this mark of confidence--"is Madame Delphine--Delphine Carraze." CHAPTER VI. A CRY OF DISTRESS. Père Jerome's smile and exclamation, as some days later he entered his parlor in response to the announcement of a visitor, were indicative of hearty greeting rather than surprise. "Madame Delphine!" Yet surprise could hardly have been altogether absent, for though another Sunday had not yet come around, the slim, smallish figure sitting in a corner, looking very much alone, and clad in dark attire, which seemed to have been washed a trifle too often, was Delphine Carraze on her second visit. And this, he was confident, was over and above an attendance in the confessional, where he was sure he had recognized her voice. She rose bashfully and gave her hand, then looked to the floor, and began a faltering speech, with a swallowing motion in the throat, smiled weakly and commenced again, speaking, as before, in a gentle, low note, frequently lifting up and casting down her eyes, while shadows of anxiety and smiles of apology chased each other rapidly across her face. She was trying to ask his advice. "Sit down," said he; and when they had taken seats she resumed, with downcast eyes: "You know,--probably I should have said this in the confessional, but-- "No matter, Madame Delphine; I understand; you did not want an oracle, perhaps; you want a friend." She lifted her eyes, shining with tears, and dropped them again. "I"--she ceased. "I have done a"--she dropped her head and shook it despondingly--"a cruel thing." The tears rolled from her eyes as she turned away her face. Père Jerome remained silent, and presently she turned again, with the evident intention of speaking at length. "It began nineteen years ago--by"--her eyes, which she had lifted, fell lower than ever, her brow and neck were suffused with blushes, and she murmured--"I fell in love." She said no more, and by and by Père Jerome replied: "Well, Madame Delphine, to love is the right of every soul. I believe in love. If your love was pure and lawful I am sure your angel guardian smiled upon you; and if it was not, I cannot say you have nothing to answer for, and yet I think God may have said: 'She is a quadroone; all the rights of her womanhood trampled in the mire, sin made easy to her--almost compulsory,--charge it to account of whom it may concern." "No, no!" said Madame Delphine, looking up quickly, "some of it might fall upon--" Her eyes fell, and she commenced biting her lips and nervously pinching little folds in her skirt. "He was good--as good as the law would let him be--better, indeed, for he left me property, which really the strict law does not allow. He loved our little daughter very much. He wrote to his mother and sisters, owning all his error and asking them to take the child and bring her up. I sent her to them when he died, which was soon after, and did not see my child for sixteen years. But we wrote to each other all the time, and she loved me. And then--at last--" Madame Delphine ceased speaking, but went on diligently with her agitated fingers, turning down foolish hems lengthwise of her lap. "At last your mother-heart conquered," said Père Jerome. She nodded. "The sisters married, the mother died; I saw that even where she was she did not escape the reproach of her birth and blood, and when she asked me to let her come--." The speaker's brimming eyes rose an instant. "I know it was wicked, but--I said, come." The tears dripped through her hands upon her dress. "Was it she who was with you last Sunday?" "Yes." "And now you do not know what to do with her?" "_Ah! c'est ça, oui!_--that is it." "Does she look like you, Madame Delphine?" "Oh, thank God, no! you would never believe she was my daughter; she is white and beautiful!" "You thank God for that which is your main difficulty, Madame Delphine." "Alas! yes." Père Jerome laid his palms tightly across his knees with his arms bowed out, and fixed his eyes upon the ground, pondering. "I suppose she is a sweet, good daughter?" said he, glancing at Madame Delphine without changing his attitude. Her answer was to raise her eyes rapturously. "Which gives us the dilemma in its fullest force," said the priest, speaking as if to the floor. "She has no more place than if she had dropped upon a strange planet." He suddenly looked up with a brightness which almost as quickly passed away, and then he looked down again. His happy thought was the cloister; but he instantly said to himself: "They cannot have overlooked that choice, except intentionally--which they have a right to do." He could do nothing but shake his head. "And suppose you should suddenly die," he said; he wanted to get at once to the worst. The woman made a quick gesture, and buried her head in her handkerchief, with the stifled cry: "Oh, Olive, my daughter!" "Well, Madame Delphine," said Père Jerome, more buoyantly, "one thing is sure: we _must_ find a way out of this trouble." "Ah!" she exclaimed, looking heavenward, "if it might be!" "But it must be!" said the priest. "But how shall it be?" asked the desponding woman. "Ah!" said Père Jerome, with a shrug, "God knows." "Yes," said the quadroone, with a quick sparkle in her gentle eye; "and I know, if God would tell anybody, He would tell you!" The priest smiled and rose. "Do you think so? Well, leave me to think of it. I will ask Him." "And He will tell you!" she replied. "And He will bless you!" She rose and gave her hand. As she withdrew it she smiled. "I had such a strange dream," she said, backing toward the door. "Yes?" "Yes. I got my troubles all mixed up with your sermon. I dreamed I made that pirate the guardian of my daughter." Père Jerome smiled also, and shrugged. "To you, Madame Delphine, as you are placed, every white man in this country, on land or on water, is a pirate, and of all pirates, I think that one is, without doubt, the best." "Without doubt," echoed Madame Delphine, wearily, still withdrawing backward. Père Jerome stepped forward and opened the door. The shadow of some one approaching it from without fell upon the threshold, and a man entered, dressed in dark blue cottonade, lifting from his head a fine Panama hat, and from a broad, smooth brow, fair where the hat had covered it and dark below, gently stroking back his very soft, brown locks. Madame Delphine slightly started aside, while Père Jerome reached silently, but eagerly, forward, grasped a larger hand than his own, and motioned its owner to a seat. Madame Delphine's eyes ventured no higher than to discover that the shoes of the visitor were of white duck. "Well, Père Jerome," she said, in a hurried under-tone, "I am just going to say Hail Marys all the time till you find that out for me!" "Well, I hope that will be soon, Madame Carraze. Good-day, Madame Carraze." And as she departed, the priest turned to the new-comer and extended both hands, saying, in the same familiar dialect in which he had been addressing the quadroone: "Well-a-day, old playmate! After so many years!" They sat down side by side, like husband and wife, the priest playing with the other's hand, and talked of times and seasons past, often mentioning Evariste and often Jean. Madame Delphine stopped short half-way home and returned to Père Jerome's. His entry door was wide open and the parlor door ajar. She passed through the one and with downcast eyes was standing at the other, her hand lifted to knock, when the door was drawn open and the white duck shoes passed out. She saw, besides, this time the blue cottonade suit. "Yes," the voice of Père Jerome was saying, as his face appeared in the door--"Ah! Madame--" "I lef' my para_sol_," said Madame Delphine, in English. There was this quiet evidence of a defiant spirit hidden somewhere down under her general timidity, that, against a fierce conventional prohibition, she wore a bonnet instead of the turban of her caste, and carried a parasol. Père Jerome turned and brought it. He made a motion in the direction in which the late visitor had disappeared. "Madame Delphine, you saw dat man?" "Not his face." "You couldn' billieve me iv I tell you w'at dat man pur_pose_ to do!" "Is dad so, Père Jerome?" "He's goin' to hopen a bank!" "Ah!" said Madame Delphine, seeing she was expected to be astonished. Père Jerome evidently longed to tell something that was best kept secret; he repressed the impulse, but his heart had to say something. He threw forward one hand and looking pleasantly at Madame Delphine, with his lips dropped apart, clenched his extended hand and thrusting it toward the ground, said in a solemn under-tone: "He is God's own banker, Madame Delphine." CHAPTER VII. MICHÉ VIGNEVIELLE. Madame Delphine sold one of the corner lots of her property. She had almost no revenue, and now and then a piece had to go. As a consequence of the sale, she had a few large bank-notes sewed up in her petticoat, and one day--may be a fortnight after her tearful interview with Père Jerome--she found it necessary to get one of these changed into small money. She was in the Rue Toulouse, looking from one side to the other for a bank which was not in that street at all, when she noticed a small sign hanging above a door, bearing the name "Vignevielle." She looked in. Père Jerome had told her (when she had gone to him to ask where she should apply for change) that if she could only wait a few days, there would be a new concern opened in Toulouse street,--it really seemed as if Vignevielle was the name, if she could judge; it looked to be, and it was, a private banker's,--"U. L. Vignevielle's," according to a larger inscription which met her eyes as she ventured in. Behind the counter, exchanging some last words with a busy-mannered man outside, who, in withdrawing, seemed bent on running over Madame Delphine, stood the man in blue cottonade, whom she had met in Père Jerome's door-way. Now, for the first time, she saw his face, its strong, grave, human kindness shining softly on each and every bronzed feature. The recognition was mutual. He took pains to speak first, saying, in a re-assuring tone, and in the language he had last heard her use: "'Ow I kin serve you, Madame?" "Iv you pliz, to mague dad bill change, Miché." She pulled from her pocket a wad of dark cotton handkerchief, from which she began to untie the imprisoned note. Madame Delphine had an uncommonly sweet voice, and it seemed so to strike Monsieur Vignevielle. He spoke to her once or twice more, as he waited on her, each time in English, as though he enjoyed the humble melody of its tone, and presently, as she turned to go, he said: "Madame Carraze!" She started a little, but bethought herself instantly that he had heard her name in Père Jerome's parlor. The good father might even have said a few words about her after her first departure; he had such an overflowing heart. "Madame Carraze," said Monsieur Vignevielle, "doze kine of note wad you '_an_' me juz now is bein' contrefit. You muz tek kyah from doze kine of note. You see--" He drew from his cash-drawer a note resembling the one he had just changed for her, and proceeded to point out certain tests of genuineness. The counterfeit, he said, was so and so. "Bud," she exclaimed, with much dismay, "dad was de manner of my bill! Id muz be--led me see dad bill wad I give you,--if you pliz, Miché." Monsieur Vignevielle turned to engage in conversation with an employé and a new visitor, and gave no sign of hearing Madame Delphine's voice. She asked a second time, with like result, lingered timidly, and as he turned to give his attention to a third visitor, reiterated: "Miché Vignevielle, I wizh you pliz led----" "Madame Carraze," he said, turning so suddenly as to make the frightened little woman start, but extending his palm with a show of frankness, and assuming a look of benignant patience, "'ow I kin fine doze note now, mongs' all de rez? Iv you pliz nod to mague me doze troub'." The dimmest shadow of a smile seemed only to give his words a more kindly authoritative import, and as he turned away again with a manner suggestive of finality, Madame Delphine found no choice but to depart. But she went away loving the ground beneath the feet of Monsieur U. L. Vignevielle. "Oh, Père Jerome!" she exclaimed in the corrupt French of her caste, meeting the little father on the street a few days later, "you told the truth that day in your parlor. _Mo conné li à c't heure_. I know him now; he is just what you called him." "Why do you not make him _your_ banker, also, Madame Delphine?" "I have done so this very day!" she replied, with more happiness in her eyes than Père Jerome had ever before seen there. "Madame Delphine," he said, his own eyes sparkling, "make _him_ your daughter's guardian; for myself, being a priest, it would not be best; but ask him; I believe he will not refuse you." Madame Delphine's face grew still brighter as he spoke. "It was in my mind," she said. Yet to the timorous Madame Delphine many trifles became, one after another, an impediment to the making of this proposal, and many weeks elapsed before further delay was positively without excuse. But at length, one day in May, 1822, in a small private office behind Monsieur Vignevielle's banking-room,--he sitting beside a table, and she, more timid and demure than ever, having just taken a chair by the door,--she said, trying, with a little bashful laugh, to make the matter seem unimportant, and yet with some tremor of voice: "Miché Vignevielle, I bin maguing my will." (Having commenced their acquaintance in English, they spoke nothing else.) "'Tis a good idy," responded the banker. "I kin mague you de troub' to kib dad will fo' me, Miché Vignevielle?" "Yez." She looked up with grateful re-assurance; but her eyes dropped again as she said: "Miché Vignevielle----" Here she choked, and began her peculiar motion of laying folds in the skirt of her dress, with trembling fingers. She lifted her eyes, and as they met the look of deep and placid kindness that was in his face, some courage returned, and she said: "Miché." "Wad you wand?" asked he, gently. "If it arrive to me to die----" "Yez?" Her words were scarcely audible: "I wand you teg kyah my lill' girl." "You 'ave one lill' gal, Madame Carraze?" She nodded with her face down. "An' you godd some mo' chillen?" "No." "I nevva know dad, Madame Carraze. She's a lill' small gal?" Mothers forget their daughters' stature. Madame Delphine said: "Yez." For a few moments neither spoke, and then Monsieur Vignevielle said: "I will do dad." "Lag she been you' h-own?" asked the mother, suffering from her own boldness. "She's a good lill' chile, eh?" "Miché, she's a lill' hangel!" exclaimed Madame Delphine, with a look of distress. "Yez; I teg kyah 'v 'er, lag my h-own. I mague you dad promise." "But----" There was something still in the way, Madame Delphine seemed to think. The banker waited in silence. "I suppose you will want to see my lill' girl?" He smiled; for she looked at him as if she would implore him to decline. "Oh, I tek you' word fo' hall dad, Madame Carraze. It mague no differend wad she loog lag; I don' wan' see 'er." Madame Delphine's parting smile--she went very shortly--was gratitude beyond speech. Monsieur Vignevielle returned to the seat he had left, and resumed a newspaper,--the _Louisiana Gazette_ in all probability,--which he had laid down upon Madame Delphine's entrance. His eyes fell upon a paragraph which had previously escaped his notice. There they rested. Either he read it over and over unwearyingly, or he was lost in thought. Jean Thompson entered. "Now," said Mr. Thompson, in a suppressed tone, bending a little across the table, and laying one palm upon a package of papers which lay in the other, "it is completed. You could retire from your business any day inside of six hours without loss to anybody." (Both here and elsewhere, let it be understood that where good English is given the words were spoken in good French.) Monsieur Vignevielle raised his eyes and extended the newspaper to the attorney, who received it and read the paragraph. Its substance was that a certain vessel of the navy had returned from a cruise in the Gulf of Mexico and Straits of Florida, where she had done valuable service against the pirates--having, for instance, destroyed in one fortnight in January last twelve pirate vessels afloat, two on the stocks, and three establishments ashore. "United States brig _Porpoise_," repeated Jean Thompson. "Do you know her?" "We are acquainted," said Monsieur Vignevielle. CHAPTER VIII. SHE. A quiet footstep, a grave new presence on financial sidewalks, a neat garb slightly out of date, a gently strong and kindly pensive face, a silent bow, a new sign in the Rue Toulouse, a lone figure with a cane, walking in meditation in the evening light under the willows of Canal Marigny, a long-darkened window re-lighted in the Rue Conti--these were all; a fall of dew would scarce have been more quiet than was the return of Ursin Lemaitre-Vignevielle to the precincts of his birth and early life. But we hardly give the event its right name. It was Capitaine Lemaitre who had disappeared; it was Monsieur Vignevielle who had come back. The pleasures, the haunts, the companions, that had once held out their charms to the impetuous youth, offered no enticements to Madame Delphine's banker. There is this to be said even for the pride his grandfather had taught him, that it had always held him above low indulgences; and though he had dallied with kings, queens, and knaves through all the mazes of Faro, Rondeau, and Craps, he had done it loftily; but now he maintained a peaceful estrangement from all. Evariste and Jean, themselves, found him only by seeking. "It is the right way," he said to Père Jerome, the day we saw him there. "Ursin Lemaitre is dead. I have buried him. He left a will. I am his executor." "He is crazy," said his lawyer brother-in-law, impatiently. "On the contr-y," replied the little priest, "'e 'as come ad hisse'f." Evariste spoke. "Look at his face, Jean. Men with that kind of face are the last to go crazy." "You have not proved that," replied Jean, with an attorney's obstinacy. "You should have heard him talk the other day about that newspaper paragraph. 'I have taken Ursin Lemaitre's head; I have it with me; I claim the reward, but I desire to commute it to citizenship.' He is crazy." Of course Jean Thompson did not believe what he said; but he said it, and, in his vexation, repeated it, on the _banquettes_ and at the clubs; and presently it took the shape of a sly rumor, that the returned rover was a trifle snarled in his top-hamper. This whisper was helped into circulation by many trivial eccentricities of manner, and by the unaccountable oddness of some of his transactions in business. "My dear sir!" cried his astounded lawyer, one day, "you are not running a charitable institution!" "How do you know?" said Monsieur Vignevielle. There the conversation ceased. "Why do you not found hospitals and asylums at once," asked the attorney, at another time, with a vexed laugh, "and get the credit of it?" "And make the end worse than the beginning," said the banker, with a gentle smile, turning away to a desk of books. "Bah!" muttered Jean Thompson. Monsieur Vignevielle betrayed one very bad symptom. Wherever he went he seemed looking for somebody. It may have been perceptible only to those who were sufficiently interested in him to study his movements; but those who saw it once saw it always. He never passed an open door or gate but he glanced in; and often, where it stood but slightly ajar, you might see him give it a gentle push with his hand or cane. It was very singular. He walked much alone after dark. The _guichinangoes_ (garroters, we might say), at those times the city's particular terror by night, never crossed his path. He was one of those men for whom danger appears to stand aside. One beautiful summer night, when all nature seemed hushed in ecstasy, the last blush gone that told of the sun's parting, Monsieur Vignevielle, in the course of one of those contemplative, uncompanioned walks which it was his habit to take, came slowly along the more open portion of the Rue Royale, with a step which was soft without intention, occasionally touching the end of his stout cane gently to the ground and looking upward among his old acquaintances, the stars. It was one of those southern nights under whose spell all the sterner energies of the mind cloak themselves and lie down in bivouac, and the fancy and the imagination, that cannot sleep, slip their fetters and escape, beckoned away from behind every flowering bush and sweet-smelling tree, and every stretch of lonely, half-lighted walk, by the genius of poetry. The air stirred softly now and then, and was still again, as if the breezes lifted their expectant pinions and lowered them once more, awaiting the rising of the moon in a silence which fell upon the fields, the roads, the gardens, the walls, and the suburban and half-suburban streets, like a pause in worship. And anon she rose. Monsieur Vignevielle's steps were bent toward the more central part of the town, and he was presently passing along a high, close, board-fence, on the right-hand side of the way, when, just within this inclosure, and almost overhead, in the dark boughs of a large orange-tree, a mocking-bird began the first low flute-notes of his all-night song. It may have been only the nearness of the songster that attracted the passer's attention, but he paused and looked up. And then he remarked something more,--that the air where he had stopped was filled with the overpowering sweetness of the night-jasmine. He looked around; it could only be inside the fence. There was a gate just there. Would he push it, as his wont was? The grass was growing about it in a thick turf, as though the entrance had not been used for years. An iron staple clasped the cross-bar, and was driven deep into the gate-post. But now an eye that had been in the blacksmithing business--an eye which had later received high training as an eye for fastenings--fell upon that staple, and saw at a glance that the wood had shrunk from it, and it had sprung from its hold, though without falling out. The strange habit asserted itself; he laid his large hand upon the cross-bar; the turf at the base yielded, and the tall gate was drawn partly open. At that moment, as at the moment whenever he drew or pushed a door or gate, or looked in at a window, he was thinking of one, the image of whose face and form had never left his inner vision since the day it had met him in his life's path and turned him face about from the way of destruction. The bird ceased. The cause of the interruption, standing within the opening, saw before him, much obscured by its own numerous shadows, a broad, ill-kept, many-flowered garden, among whose untrimmed rose-trees and tangled vines, and often, also, in its old walks of pounded shell, the coco-grass and crab-grass had spread riotously, and sturdy weeds stood up in bloom. He stepped in and drew the gate to after him. There, very near by, was the clump of jasmine, whose ravishing odor had tempted him. It stood just beyond a brightly moonlit path, which turned from him in a curve toward the residence, a little distance to the right, and escaped the view at a point where it seemed more than likely a door of the house might open upon it. While he still looked, there fell upon his ear, from around that curve, a light footstep on the broken shells,--one only, and then all was for a moment still again. Had he mistaken? No. The same soft click was repeated nearer by, a pale glimpse of robes came through the tangle, and then, plainly to view, appeared an outline--a presence--a form--a spirit--a girl! From throat to instep she was as white as Cynthia. Something above the medium height, slender, lithe, her abundant hair rolling in dark, rich waves back from her brows and down from her crown, and falling in two heavy plaits beyond her round, broadly girt waist and full to her knees, a few escaping locks eddying lightly on her graceful neck and her temples,--her arms, half hid in a snowy mist of sleeve, let down to guide her spotless skirts free from the dewy touch of the grass,--straight down the path she came! Will she stop? Will she turn aside? Will she espy the dark form in the deep shade of the orange, and, with one piercing scream, wheel and vanish? She draws near. She approaches the jasmine; she raises her arms, the sleeves falling like a vapor down to the shoulders; rises upon tiptoe, and plucks a spray. O Memory! Can it be? _Can it be?_ Is this his quest, or is it lunacy? The ground seems to M. Vignevielle the unsteady sea, and he to stand once more on a deck. And she? As she is now, if she but turn toward the orange, the whole glory of the moon will shine upon her face. His heart stands still; he is waiting for her to do that. She reaches up again; this time a bunch for her mother. That neck and throat! Now she fastens a spray in her hair. The mocking-bird cannot withhold; he breaks into song--she turns--she turns her face--it is she, it is she! Madame Delphine's daughter is the girl he met on the ship. CHAPTER IX. OLIVE. She was just passing seventeen--that beautiful year when the heart of the maiden still beats quickly with the surprise of her new dominion, while with gentle dignity her brow accepts the holy coronation of womanhood. The forehead and temples beneath her loosely bound hair were fair without paleness, and meek without languor. She had the soft, lacklustre beauty of the South; no ruddiness of coral, no waxen white, no pink of shell; no heavenly blue in the glance; but a face that seemed, in all its other beauties, only a tender accompaniment for the large, brown, melting eyes, where the openness of child-nature mingled dreamily with the sweet mysteries of maiden thought. We say no color of shell on face or throat; but this was no deficiency, that which took its place being the warm, transparent tint of sculptured ivory. This side door-way which led from Madame Delphine's house into her garden was overarched partly by an old remnant of vine-covered lattice, and partly by a crape-myrtle, against whose small, polished trunk leaned a rustic seat. Here Madame Delphine and Olive loved to sit when the twilights were balmy or the moon was bright. "_Chérie_," said Madame Delphine on one of these evenings, "why do you dream so much?" She spoke in the _patois_ most natural to her, and which her daughter had easily learned. The girl turned her face to her mother, and smiled, then dropped her glance to the hands in her own lap, which were listlessly handling the end of a ribbon. The mother looked at her with fond solicitude. Her dress was white again; this was but one night since that in which Monsieur Vignevielle had seen her at the bush of night-jasmine. He had not been discovered, but had gone away, shutting the gate, and leaving it as he had found it. Her head was uncovered. Its plaited masses, quite black in the moonlight, hung down and coiled upon the bench, by her side. Her chaste drapery was of that revived classic order which the world of fashion was again laying aside to re-assume the mediæval bondage of the stay-lace; for New Orleans was behind the fashionable world, and Madame Delphine and her daughter were behind New Orleans. A delicate scarf, pale blue, of lightly netted worsted, fell from either shoulder down beside her hands. The look that was bent upon her changed perforce to one of gentle admiration. She seemed the goddess of the garden. Olive glanced up. Madame Delphine was not prepared for the movement, and on that account repeated her question: "What are you thinking about?" The dreamer took the hand that was laid upon hers between her own palms, bowed her head, and gave them a soft kiss. The mother submitted. Wherefore, in the silence which followed, a daughter's conscience felt the burden of having withheld an answer, and Olive presently said, as the pair sat looking up into the sky: "I was thinking of Père Jerome's sermon." Madame Delphine had feared so. Olive had lived on it ever since the day it was preached. The poor mother was almost ready to repent having ever afforded her the opportunity of hearing it. Meat and drink had become of secondary value to her daughter; she fed upon the sermon. Olive felt her mother's thought and knew that her mother knew her own; but now that she had confessed, she would ask a question: "Do you think, _maman_, that Père Jerome knows it was I who gave that missal?" "No," said Madame Delphine, "I am sure he does not." Another question came more timidly: "Do--do you think he knows _him_?" "Yes, I do. He said in his sermon he did." Both remained for a long time very still, watching the moon gliding in and through among the small dark-and-white clouds. At last the daughter spoke again. "I wish I was Père--I wish I was as good as Père Jerome." "My child," said Madame Delphine, her tone betraying a painful summoning of strength to say what she had lacked the courage to utter,--"my child, I pray the good God you will not let your heart go after one whom you may never see in this world!" The maiden turned her glance, and their eyes met. She cast her arms about her mother's neck, laid her cheek upon it for a moment, and then, feeling the maternal tear, lifted her lips, and, kissing her, said: "I will not! I will not!" But the voice was one, not of willing consent, but of desperate resolution. "It would be useless, anyhow," said the mother, laying her arm around her daughter's waist. Olive repeated the kiss, prolonging it passionately. "I have nobody but you," murmured the girl; "I am a poor quadroone!" She threw back her plaited hair for a third embrace, when a sound in the shrubbery startled them. "_Qui ci ça?_" called Madame Delphine, in a frightened voice, as the two stood up, holding to each other. No answer. "It was only the dropping of a twig," she whispered, after a long holding of the breath. But they went into the house and barred it everywhere. It was no longer pleasant to sit up. They retired, and in course of time, but not soon, they fell asleep, holding each other very tight, and fearing, even in their dreams, to hear another twig fall. CHAPTER X. BIRDS. Monsieur Vignevielle looked in at no more doors or windows; but if the disappearance of this symptom was a favorable sign, others came to notice which were especially bad,--for instance, wakefulness. At well-nigh any hour of the night, the city guard, which itself dared not patrol singly, would meet him on his slow, unmolested, sky-gazing walk. "Seems to enjoy it," said Jean Thompson; "the worst sort of evidence. If he showed distress of mind, it would not be so bad; but his calmness,--ugly feature." The attorney had held his ground so long that he began really to believe it was tenable. By day, it is true, Monsieur Vignevielle was at his post in his quiet "bank." Yet here, day by day, he was the source of more and more vivid astonishment to those who held preconceived notions of a banker's calling. As a banker, at least, he was certainly out of balance; while as a promenader, it seemed to those who watched him that his ruling idea had now veered about, and that of late he was ever on the quiet alert, not to find, but to evade, somebody. "Olive, my child," whispered Madame Delphine one morning, as the pair were kneeling side by side on the tiled floor of the church, "yonder is Miché Vignevielle! If you will only look at once--he is just passing a little in----. Ah, much too slow again; he stepped out by the side door." The mother thought it a strange providence that Monsieur Vignevielle should always be disappearing whenever Olive was with her. One early dawn, Madame Delphine, with a small empty basket on her arm, stepped out upon the _banquette_ in front of her house, shut and fastened the door very softly, and stole out in the direction whence you could faintly catch, in the stillness of the daybreak, the songs of the Gascon butchers and the pounding of their meat-axes on the stalls of the distant market-house. She was going to see if she could find some birds for Olive,--the child's appetite was so poor; and, as she was out, she would drop an early prayer at the cathedral. Faith and works. "One must venture something, sometimes, in the cause of religion," thought she, as she started timorously on her way. But she had not gone a dozen steps before she repented her temerity. There was some one behind her. There should not be anything terrible in a footstep merely because it is masculine; but Madame Delphine's mind was not prepared to consider that. A terrible secret was haunting her. Yesterday morning she had found a shoe-track in the garden. She had not disclosed the discovery to Olive, but she had hardly closed her eyes the whole night. The step behind her now might be the fall of that very shoe. She quickened her pace, but did not leave the sound behind. She hurried forward almost at a run; yet it was still there--no farther, no nearer. Two frights were upon her at once--one for herself, another for Olive, left alone in the house; but she had but the one prayer--"God protect my child!" After a fearful time she reached a place of safety, the cathedral. There, panting, she knelt long enough to know the pursuit was, at least, suspended, and then arose, hoping and praying all the saints that she might find the way clear for her return in all haste to Olive. She approached a different door from that by which she had entered, her eyes in all directions and her heart in her throat. "Madame Carraze." She started wildly and almost screamed, though the voice was soft and mild. Monsieur Vignevielle came slowly forward from the shade of the wall. They met beside a bench, upon which she dropped her basket. "Ah, Miché Vignevielle, I thang de good God to mid you!" "Is dad so, Madame Carraze? Fo' w'y dad is?" "A man was chase me all dad way since my 'ouse!" "Yes, Madame, I sawed him." "You sawed 'im? Oo it was?" "'Twas only one man wad is a foolizh. De people say he's crezzie. _Mais_, he don' goin' to meg you no 'arm." "But I was scare' fo' my lill' girl." "Noboddie don' goin' trouble you' lill' gal, Madame Carraze." Madame Delphine looked up into the speaker's strangely kind and patient eyes, and drew sweet re-assurance from them. "Madame," said Monsieur Vignevielle, "wad pud you hout so hearly dis morning?" She told him her errand. She asked if he thought she would find anything. "Yez," he said, "it was possible--a few lill' _bécassines-de-mer_, ou somezin' ligue. But fo' w'y you lill' gal lose doze hapetide?" "Ah, Miché,"--Madame Delphine might have tried a thousand times again without ever succeeding half so well in lifting the curtain upon the whole, sweet, tender, old, old-fashioned truth,--"Ah, Miché, she wone tell me!" "Bud, anny'ow, Madame, wad you thing?" "Miché," she replied, looking up again with a tear standing in either eye, and then looking down once more as she began to speak, "I thing--I thing she's lonesome." "You thing?" She nodded. "Ah! Madame Carraze," he said, partly extending his hand, "you see? 'Tis impossible to mague you' owze shud so tighd to priv-en dad. Madame, I med one mizteg." "Ah, _non_, Miché!" "Yez. There har nod one poss'bil'ty fo' me to be dad guardian of you' daughteh!" Madame Delphine started with surprise and alarm. "There is ondly one wad can be," he continued. "But oo, Miché?" "God." "Ah, Miché Vignevielle----" She looked at him appealingly. "I don' goin' to dizzerd you, Madame Carraze," he said. She lifted her eyes. They filled. She shook her head, a tear fell, she bit her lip, smiled, and suddenly dropped her face into both hands, sat down upon the bench and wept until she shook. "You dunno wad I mean, Madame Carraze?" She did not know. "I mean dad guardian of you' daughteh godd to fine 'er now one 'uzban'; an' noboddie are hable to do dad egceb de good God 'imsev. But, Madame, I tell you wad I do." She rose up. He continued: "Go h-open you' owze; I fin' you' daughteh dad' uzban'." Madame Delphine was a helpless, timid thing; but her eyes showed she was about to resent this offer. Monsieur Vignevielle put forth his hand--it touched her shoulder--and said, kindly still, and without eagerness. "One w'ite man, Madame; 'tis prattycabble. I _know_ 'tis prattycabble. One w'ite jantleman, Madame. You can truz me. I goin' fedge 'im. H-ondly you go h-open you' owze." Madame Delphine looked down, twining her handkerchief among her fingers. He repeated his proposition. "You will come firz by you'se'f?" she asked. "Iv you wand." She lifted up once more her eye of faith. That was her answer. "Come," he said, gently, "I wan' sen' some bird ad you' lill' gal." And they went away, Madame Delphine's spirit grown so exaltedly bold that she said as they went, though a violent blush followed her words: "Miché Vignevielle, I thing Père Jerome mighd be ab'e to tell you someboddie." CHAPTER XI. FACE TO FACE. Madame Delphine found her house neither burned nor rifled. "_Ah! ma piti sans popa_! Ah! my little fatherless one!" Her faded bonnet fell back between her shoulders, hanging on by the strings, and her dropped basket, with its "few lill' _bécassines-de-mer_" dangling from the handle, rolled out its okra and soup-joint upon the floor. "_Ma piti_! kiss!--kiss!--kiss!" "But is it good news you have, or bad?" cried the girl, a fourth or fifth time. "_Dieu sait, ma c'ère; mo pas conné!_"--God knows, my darling; I cannot tell! The mother dropped into a chair, covered her face with her apron, and burst into tears, then looked up with an effort to smile, and wept afresh. "What have you been doing?" asked the daughter, in a long-drawn, fondling tone. She leaned forward and unfastened her mother's bonnet-strings. "Why do you cry?" "For nothing at all, my darling; for nothing--I am such a fool." The girl's eyes filled. The mother looked up into her face and said: "No, it is nothing, nothing, only that--" turning her head from side to side with a slow, emotional emphasis, "Miché Vignevielle is the best--_best_ man on the good Lord's earth!" Olive drew a chair close to her mother, sat down and took the little yellow hands into her own white lap, and looked tenderly into her eyes. Madame Delphine felt herself yielding; she must make a show of telling something: "He sent you those birds!" The girl drew her face back a little. The little woman turned away, trying in vain to hide her tearful smile, and they laughed together, Olive mingling a daughter's fond kiss with her laughter. "There is something else," she said, "and you shall tell me." "Yes," replied Madame Delphine, "only let me get composed." But she did not get so. Later in the morning she came to Olive with the timid yet startling proposal that they would do what they could to brighten up the long-neglected front room. Olive was mystified and troubled, but consented, and thereupon the mother's spirits rose. The work began, and presently ensued all the thumping, the trundling, the lifting and letting down, the raising and swallowing of dust, and the smells of turpentine, brass, pumice and woollen rags that go to characterize a housekeeper's _émeute_; and still, as the work progressed, Madame Delphine's heart grew light, and her little black eyes sparkled. "We like a clean parlor, my daughter, even though no one is ever coming to see us, eh?" she said, as entering the apartment she at last sat down, late in the afternoon. She had put on her best attire. Olive was not there to reply. The mother called but got no answer. She rose with an uneasy heart, and met her a few steps beyond the door that opened into the garden, in a path which came up from an old latticed bower. Olive was approaching slowly, her face pale and wild. There was an agony of hostile dismay in the look, and the trembling and appealing tone with which, taking the frightened mother's cheeks between her palms, she said: "_Ah! ma mère, qui vini 'ci ce soir?_"--Who is coming here this evening? "Why, my dear child, I was just saying, we like a clean----" But the daughter was desperate: "Oh, tell me, my mother, _who_ is coming?" "My darling, it is our blessed friend, Miché Vignevielle!" "To see me?" cried the girl. "Yes." "Oh, my mother, what have you done?" "Why, Olive, my child," exclaimed the little mother, bursting into tears, "do you forget it is Miché Vignevielle who has promised to protect you when I die?" The daughter had turned away, and entered the door; but she faced around again, and extending her arms toward her mother, cried: "How can--he is a white man--I am a poor----" "Ah! _chérie_" replied Madame Delphine, seizing the outstretched hands, "it is there--it is there that he shows himself the best man alive! He sees that difficulty; he proposes to meet it; he says he will find you a suitor!" Olive freed her hands violently, motioned her mother back, and stood proudly drawn up, flashing an indignation too great for speech; but the next moment she had uttered a cry, and was sobbing on the floor. The mother knelt beside her and threw an arm about her shoulders. "Oh, my sweet daughter, you must not cry! I did not want to tell you at all! I did not want to tell you! It isn't fair for you to cry so hard. Miché Vignevielle says you shall have the one you wish, or none at all, Olive, or none at all." "None at all! none at all! None, none, none!" "No, no, Olive," said the mother, "none at all. He brings none with him to-night, and shall bring none with him hereafter." Olive rose suddenly, silently declined her mother's aid, and went alone to their chamber in the half-story. * * * * * Madame Delphine wandered drearily from door to window, from window to door, and presently into the newly-furnished front room which now seemed dismal beyond degree. There was a great Argand lamp in one corner. How she had labored that day to prepare it for evening illumination! A little beyond it, on the wall, hung a crucifix. She knelt under it, with her eyes fixed upon it, and thus silently remained until its outline was undistinguishable in the deepening shadows of evening. She arose. A few minutes later, as she was trying to light the lamp, an approaching step on the sidewalk seemed to pause. Her heart stood still. She softly laid the phosphorus-box out of her hands. A shoe grated softly on the stone step, and Madame Delphine, her heart beating in great thuds, without waiting for a knock, opened the door, bowed low, and exclaimed in a soft perturbed voice: "Miché Vignevielle!" He entered, hat in hand, and with that almost noiseless tread which we have noticed. She gave him a chair and closed the door; then hastened, with words of apology, back to her task of lighting the lamp. But her hands paused in their work again,--Olive's step was on the stairs; then it came off the stairs; then it was in the next room, and then there was the whisper of soft robes, a breath of gentle perfume, and a snowy figure in the door. She was dressed for the evening. "Maman?" Madame Delphine was struggling desperately with the lamp, and at that moment it responded with a tiny bead of light. "I am here, my daughter." She hastened to the door, and Olive, all unaware of a third presence, lifted her white arms, laid them about her mother's neck, and, ignoring her effort to speak, wrested a fervent kiss from her lips. The crystal of the lamp sent out a faint gleam; it grew; it spread on every side; the ceiling, the walls lighted up; the crucifix, the furniture of the room came back into shape. "Maman!" cried Olive, with a tremor of consternation. "It is Miché Vignevielle, my daughter----" The gloom melted swiftly away before the eyes of the startled maiden, a dark form stood out against the farther wall, and the light, expanding to the full, shone clearly upon the unmoving figure and quiet face of Capitaine Lemaitre. CHAPTER XII. THE MOTHER BIRD. One afternoon, some three weeks after Capitaine Lemaitre had called on Madame Delphine, the priest started to make a pastoral call and had hardly left the gate of his cottage, when a person, overtaking him, plucked his gown: "Père Jerome----" He turned. The face that met his was so changed with excitement and distress that for an instant he did not recognize it. "Why, Madame Delphine----" "Oh, Père Jerome! I wan' see you so bad, so bad! _Mo oulé dit quiç'ose_,--I godd some' to tell you." The two languages might be more successful than one, she seemed to think. "We had better go back to my parlor," said the priest, in their native tongue. They returned. Madame Delphine's very step was altered,--nervous and inelastic. She swung one arm as she walked, and brandished a turkey-tail fan. "I was glad, yass, to kedge you," she said, as they mounted the front, outdoor stair; following her speech with a slight, unmusical laugh, and fanning herself with unconscious fury. "_Fé chaud_," she remarked again, taking the chair he offered and continuing to ply the fan. Père Jerome laid his hat upon a chest of drawers, sat down opposite her, and said, as he wiped his kindly face: "Well, Madame Carraze?" Gentle as the tone was, she started, ceased fanning, lowered the fan to her knee, and commenced smoothing its feathers. "Père Jerome----" She gnawed her lip and shook her head. "Well?" She burst into tears. The priest rose and loosed the curtain of one of the windows. He did it slowly--as slowly as he could, and, as he came back, she lifted her face with sudden energy, and exclaimed: "Oh, Père Jerome, de law is brogue! de law is brogue! I brogue it! 'Twas me! 'Twas me!" The tears gushed out again, but she shut her lips very tight, and dumbly turned away her face. Père Jerome waited a little before replying; then he said, very gently: "I suppose dad muss 'ave been by accyden', Madame Delphine?" The little father felt a wish--one which he often had when weeping women were before him--that he were an angel instead of a man, long enough to press the tearful cheek upon his breast, and assure the weeper God would not let the lawyers and judges hurt her. He allowed a few moments more to pass, and then asked: "_N'est-ce-pas_, Madame Delphine? Daz ze way, aint it?" "No, Père Jerome, no. My daughter--oh, Père Jerome, I bethroath my lill' girl--to a w'ite man!" And immediately Madame Delphine commenced savagely drawing a thread in the fabric of her skirt with one trembling hand, while she drove the fan with the other. "Dey goin' git marry." On the priest's face came a look of pained surprise. He slowly said: "Is dad possib', Madame Delphine?" "Yass," she replied, at first without lifting her eyes; and then again, "Yass," looking full upon him through her tears, "yass, 'tis tru'." He rose and walked once across the room, returned, and said, in the Creole dialect: "Is he a good man--without doubt?" "De bez in God's world!" replied Madame Delphine, with a rapturous smile. "My poor, dear friend," said the priest, "I am afraid you are being deceived by somebody." There was the pride of an unswerving faith in the triumphant tone and smile with which she replied, raising and slowly shaking her head: "Ah-h, no-o-o, Miché! Ah-h, no, no! Not by Ursin Lemaitre-Vignevielle!" Père Jerome was confounded. He turned again, and, with his hands at his back and his eyes cast down, slowly paced the floor. "He _is_ a good man," he said, by and by, as if he thought aloud. At length he halted before the woman. "Madame Delphine----" The distressed glance with which she had been following his steps was lifted to his eyes. "Suppose dad should be true w'at doze peop' say 'bout Ursin." "_Qui ci ça?_ What is that?" asked the quadroone, stopping her fan. "Some peop' say Ursin is crezzie." "Ah, Père Jerome!" She leaped to her feet as if he had smitten her, and putting his words away with an outstretched arm and wide-open palm, suddenly lifted hands and eyes to heaven, and cried: "I wizh to God--_I wizh to God_--de whole worl' was crezzie dad same way!" She sank, trembling, into her chair. "Oh, no, no," she continued, shaking her head, "'tis not Miché Vignevielle w'at's crezzie." Her eyes lighted with sudden fierceness. "'Tis dad _law_! Dad _law_ is crezzie! Dad law is a fool!" A priest of less heart-wisdom might have replied that the law is--the law; but Père Jerome saw that Madame Delphine was expecting this very response. Wherefore he said, with gentleness: "Madame Delphine, a priest is not a bailiff, but a physician. How can I help you?" A grateful light shone a moment in her eyes, yet there remained a piteous hostility in the tone in which she demanded: "_Mais, pou'quoi yé fé cette méchanique là?_"--What business had they to make that contraption? His answer was a shrug with his palms extended and a short, disclamatory "Ah." He started to resume his walk, but turned to her again and said: "Why did they make that law? Well, they made it to keep the two races separate." Madame Delphine startled the speaker with a loud, harsh, angry laugh. Fire came from her eyes and her lip curled with scorn. "Then they made a lie, Père Jerome! Separate! No-o-o! They do not want to keep us separated; no, no! But they _do_ want to keep us despised!" She laid her hand on her heart, and frowned upward with physical pain. "But, very well! from which race do they want to keep my daughter separate? She is seven parts white! The law did not stop her from being that; and now, when she wants to be a white man's good and honest wife, shall that law stop her? Oh, no!" She rose up. "No; I will tell you what that law is made for. It is made to--punish--my--child--for--not--choosing--her--father! Père Jerome--my God, what a law!" She dropped back into her seat. The tears came in a flood, which she made no attempt to restrain. "No," she began again--and here she broke into English--"fo' me I don' kyare; but, Père Jerome,--'tis fo' dat I come to tell you,--dey _shall not_ punizh my daughter!" She was on her feet again, smiting her heaving bosom with the fan. "She shall marrie oo she want!" Père Jerome had heard her out, not interrupting by so much as a motion of the hand. Now his decision was made, and he touched her softly with the ends of his fingers. "Madame Delphine, I want you to go at 'ome. Go at 'ome." "Wad you goin' mague?" she asked. "Nottin'. But go at 'ome. Kip quite; don' put you'se'f sig. I goin' see Ursin. We trah to figs dat law fo' you." "You kin figs dad!" she cried, with a gleam of joy. "We goin' to try, Madame Delphine. Adieu!" He offered his hand. She seized and kissed it thrice, covering it with tears, at the same time lifting up her eyes to his and murmuring: "De bez man God evva mague!" At the door she turned to offer a more conventional good-bye; but he was following her out, bareheaded. At the gate they paused an instant, and then parted with a simple adieu, she going home and he returning for his hat, and starting again upon his interrupted business. * * * * * Before he came back to his own house, he stopped at the lodgings of Monsieur Vignevielle, but did not find him in. "Indeed," the servant at the door said, "he said he might not return for some days or weeks." So Père Jerome, much wondering, made a second detour toward the residence of one of Monsieur Vignevielle's employés. "Yes," said the clerk, "his instructions are to hold the business, as far as practicable, in suspense, during his absence. Everything is in another name." And then he whispered: "Officers of the Government looking for him. Information got from some of the prisoners taken months ago by the United States brig _Porpoise_. But"--a still softer whisper--"have no fear; they will never find him: Jean Thompson and Evariste Varrillat have hid him away too well for that." CHAPTER XIII. TRIBULATION. The Saturday following was a very beautiful day. In the morning a light fall of rain had passed across the town, and all the afternoon you could see signs, here and there upon the horizon, of other showers. The ground was dry again, while the breeze was cool and sweet, smelling of wet foliage and bringing sunshine and shade in frequent and very pleasing alternation. There was a walk in Père Jerome's little garden, of which we have not spoken, off on the right side of the cottage, with his chamber window at one end, a few old and twisted, but blossom-laden, crape-myrtles on either hand, now and then a rose of some unpretending variety and some bunches of rue, and at the other end a shrine, in whose blue niche stood a small figure of Mary, with folded hands and uplifted eyes. No other window looked down upon the spot, and its seclusion was often a great comfort to Père Jerome. Up and down this path, but a few steps in its entire length, the priest was walking, taking the air for a few moments after a prolonged sitting in the confessional. Penitents had been numerous this afternoon. He was thinking of Ursin. The officers of the Government had not found him, nor had Père Jerome seen him; yet he believed they had, in a certain indirect way, devised a simple project by which they could at any time "figs dad law," providing only that these Government officials would give over their search; for, though he had not seen the fugitive, Madame Delphine had seen him, and had been the vehicle of communication between them. There was an orange-tree, where a mocking-bird was wont to sing and a girl in white to walk, that the detectives wot not of. The law was to be "figs" by the departure of the three frequenters of the jasmine-scented garden in one ship to France, where the law offered no obstacles. It seemed moderately certain to those in search of Monsieur Vignevielle (and it was true) that Jean and Evariste were his harborers; but for all that the hunt, even for clues, was vain. The little banking establishment had not been disturbed. Jean Thompson had told the searchers certain facts about it, and about its gentle proprietor as well, that persuaded them to make no move against the concern, if the same relations did not even induce a relaxation of their efforts for his personal discovery. Père Jerome was walking to and fro, with his hands behind him, pondering these matters. He had paused a moment at the end of the walk furthest from his window, and was looking around upon the sky, when, turning, he beheld a closely veiled female figure standing at the other end, and knew instantly that it was Olive. She came forward quickly and with evident eagerness. "I came to confession," she said, breathing hurriedly, the excitement in her eyes shining through her veil, "but I find I am too late." "There is no too late or too early for that; I am always ready," said the priest. "But how is your mother?" "Ah!----" Her voice failed. "More trouble?" "Ah, sir, I have _made_ trouble. Oh, Père Jerome, I am bringing so much trouble upon my poor mother!" Père Jerome moved slowly toward the house, with his eyes cast down, the veiled girl at his side. "It is not your fault," he presently said. And after another pause: "I thought it was all arranged." He looked up and could see, even through the veil, her crimson blush. "Oh, no," she replied, in a low, despairing voice, dropping her face. "What is the difficulty?" asked the priest, stopping in the angle of the path, where it turned toward the front of the house. She averted her face, and began picking the thin scales of bark from a crape-myrtle. "Madame Thompson and her husband were at our house this morning. _He_ had told Monsieur Thompson all about it. They were very kind to me at first, but they tried----" She was weeping. "What did they try to do?" asked the priest. "They tried to make me believe he is insane." She succeeded in passing her handkerchief up under her veil. "And I suppose then your poor mother grew angry, eh?" "Yes; and they became much more so, and said if we did not write, or send a writing, to _him_, within twenty-four hours, breaking the----" "Engagement," said Père Jerome. "They would give him up to the Government. Oh, Père Jerome, what shall I do? It is killing my mother!" She bowed her head and sobbed. "Where is your mother now?" "She has gone to see Monsieur Jean Thompson. She says she has a plan that will match them all. I do not know what it is. I begged her not to go; but oh, sir, _she is_ crazy,--and--I am no better." "My poor child," said Père Jerome, "what you seem to want is not absolution, but relief from persecution." "Oh, father, I have committed mortal sin,--I am guilty of pride and anger." "Nevertheless," said the priest, starting toward his front gate, "we will put off your confession. Let it go until to-morrow morning; you will find me in my box just before mass; I will hear you then. My child, I know that in your heart, now, you begrudge the time it would take; and that is right. There are moments when we are not in place even on penitential knees. It is so with you now. We must find your mother. Go you at once to your house; if she is there, comfort her as best you can, and _keep her in, if possible_, until I come. If she is not there, stay; leave me to find her; one of you, at least, must be where I can get word to you promptly. God comfort and uphold you. I hope you may find her at home; tell her, for me, not to fear,"--he lifted the gate-latch,--"that she and her daughter are of more value than many sparrows; that God's priest sends her that word from Him. Tell her to fix her trust in the great Husband of the Church, and she shall yet see her child receiving the grace-giving sacrament of matrimony. Go; I shall, in a few minutes, be on my way to Jean Thompson's, and shall find her, either there or wherever she is. Go; they shall not oppress you. Adieu!" A moment or two later he was in the street himself. CHAPTER XIV. BY AN OATH. Père Jerome, pausing on a street-corner in the last hour of sunlight, had wiped his brow and taken his cane down from under his arm to start again, when somebody, coming noiselessly from he knew not where, asked, so suddenly as to startle him: "_Miché, commin yé 'pellé la rie ici?_--how do they call this street here?" It was by the bonnet and dress, disordered though they were, rather than by the haggard face which looked distractedly around, that he recognized the woman to whom he replied in her own _patois_: "It is the Rue Burgundy. Where are you going, Madame Delphine?" She almost leaped from the ground. "Oh, Père Jerome! _mo pas conné_,--I dunno. You know w'ere's dad 'ouse of Michè Jean Tomkin? _Mo courri 'ci, mo courri là,--mo pas capale li trouvé_. I go (run) here--there--I cannot find it," she gesticulated. "I am going there myself," said he; "but why do you want to see Jean Thompson, Madame Delphine?" "I '_blige_' to see 'im!" she replied, jerking herself half around away, one foot planted forward with an air of excited preoccupation; "I god some' to tell 'im wad I '_blige_' to tell 'im!" "Madame Delphine----" "Oh! Père Jerome, fo' de love of de good God, show me dad way to de 'ouse of Jean Tomkin!" Her distressed smile implored pardon for her rudeness. "What are you going to tell him?" asked the priest. "Oh, Père Jerome,"--in the Creole _patois_ again,--"I am going to put an end to all this trouble--only I pray you do not ask me about it now; every minute is precious!" He could not withstand her look of entreaty. "Come," he said, and they went. * * * * * Jean Thompson and Doctor Varrillat lived opposite each other on the Bayou road, a little way beyond the town limits as then prescribed. Each had his large, white-columned, four-sided house among the magnolias,--his huge live-oak overshadowing either corner of the darkly shaded garden, his broad, brick walk leading down to the tall, brick-pillared gate, his square of bright, red pavement on the turf-covered sidewalk, and his railed platform spanning the draining-ditch, with a pair of green benches, one on each edge, facing each other crosswise of the gutter. There, any sunset hour, you were sure to find the householder sitting beside his cool-robed matron, two or three slave nurses in white turbans standing at hand, and an excited throng of fair children, nearly all of a size. Sometimes, at a beckon or call, the parents on one side of the way would join those on the other, and the children and nurses of both families would be given the liberty of the opposite platform and an ice-cream fund! Generally the parents chose the Thompson platform, its outlook being more toward the sunset. Such happened to be the arrangement this afternoon. The two husbands sat on one bench and their wives on the other, both pairs very quiet, waiting respectfully for the day to die, and exchanging only occasional comments on matters of light moment as they passed through the memory. During one term of silence Madame Varrillat, a pale, thin-faced, but cheerful-looking lady, touched Madame Thompson, a person of two and a half times her weight, on her extensive and snowy bare elbow, directing her attention obliquely up and across the road. About a hundred yards distant, in the direction of the river, was a long, pleasantly shaded green strip of turf, destined in time for a sidewalk. It had a deep ditch on the nearer side, and a fence of rough cypress palisades on the farther, and these were overhung, on the one hand, by a row of bitter orange-trees inside the inclosure, and, on the other, by a line of slanting china-trees along the outer edge of the ditch. Down this cool avenue two figures were approaching side by side. They had first attracted Madame Varrillat's notice by the bright play of sunbeams which, as they walked, fell upon them in soft, golden flashes through the chinks between the palisades. Madame Thompson elevated a pair of glasses which were no detraction from her very good looks, and remarked, with the serenity of a reconnoitering general: "_Père Jerome et cette milatraise_." All eyes were bent toward them. "She walks like a man," said Madame Varrillat, in the language with which the conversation had opened. "No," said the physician, "like a woman in a state of high nervous excitement." Jean Thompson kept his eyes on the woman, and said: "She must not forget to walk like a woman in the State of Louisiana,"--as near as the pun can be translated. The company laughed. Jean Thompson looked at his wife, whose applause he prized, and she answered by an asseverative toss of the head, leaning back and contriving, with some effort, to get her arms folded. Her laugh was musical and low, but enough to make the folded arms shake gently up and down. "Père Jerome is talking to her," said one. The priest was at that moment endeavoring, in the interest of peace, to say a good word for the four people who sat watching his approach. It was in the old strain: "Blame them one part, Madame Delphine, and their fathers, mothers, brothers, and fellow-citizens the other ninety-nine." But to everything she had the one amiable answer which Père Jerome ignored: "I am going to arrange it to satisfy everybody, all together. _Tout à fait_." "They are coming here," said Madame Varrillat, half articulately. "Well, of course," murmured another; and the four rose up, smiling courteously, the doctor and attorney advancing and shaking hands with the priest. No--Père Jerome thanked them--he could not sit down. "This, I believe you know, Jean, is Madame Delphine----" The quadroone curtsied. "A friend of mine," he added, smiling kindly upon her, and turning, with something imperative in his eye, to the group. "She says she has an important private matter to communicate." "To me?" asked Jean Thompson. "To all of you; so I will---- Good-evening." He responded nothing to the expressions of regret, but turned to Madame Delphine. She murmured something. "Ah! yes, certainly." He addressed the company: "She wishes me to speak for her veracity; it is unimpeachable. "Well, good-evening." He shook hands and departed. The four resumed their seats, and turned their eyes upon the standing figure. "Have you something to say to us?" asked Jean Thompson, frowning at her law-defying bonnet. "_Oui_," replied the woman, shrinking to one side, and laying hold of one of the benches, "_mo oulé di' tou' ç'ose_"--I want to tell everything. "_Miché Vignevielle la plis bon homme di moune_"--the best man in the world; "_mo pas capabe li fé tracas_"--I cannot give him trouble. "_Mo pas capabe, non; m'olé di' tous ç'ose_." She attempted to fan herself, her face turned away from the attorney, and her eyes rested on the ground. "Take a seat," said Doctor Varrillat, with some suddenness, starting from his place and gently guiding her sinking form into the corner of the bench. The ladies rose up; somebody had to stand; the two races could not both sit down at once--at least not in that public manner. "Your salts," said the physician to his wife. She handed the vial. Madame Delphine stood up again. "We will all go inside," said Madame Thompson, and they passed through the gate and up the walk, mounted the steps, and entered the deep, cool drawing-room. Madame Thompson herself bade the quadroone be seated. "Well?" said Jean Thompson, as the rest took chairs. "_C'est drole_"--it's funny--said Madame Delphine, with a piteous effort to smile, "that nobody thought of it. It is so plain. You have only to look and see. I mean about Olive." She loosed a button in the front of her dress and passed her hand into her bosom. "And yet, Olive herself never thought of it. She does not know a word." The hand came out holding a miniature. Madame Varrillat passed it to Jean Thompson. "_Ouala so popa_" said Madame Delphine. "That is her father." It went from one to another, exciting admiration and murmured praise. "She is the image of him," said Madame Thompson, in an austere under-tone, returning it to her husband. Doctor Varrillat was watching Madame Delphine. She was very pale. She had passed a trembling hand into a pocket of her skirt, and now drew out another picture, in a case the counterpart of the first. He reached out for it, and she handed it to him. He looked at it a moment, when his eyes suddenly lighted up and he passed it to the attorney. "_Et là_"--Madame Delphine's utterance failed--"_et là, ouala sa moman_." (That is her mother.) The three others instantly gathered around Jean Thompson's chair. They were much impressed. "It is true beyond a doubt!" muttered Madame Thompson. Madame Varrillat looked at her with astonishment. "The proof is right there in the faces," said Madame Thompson. "Yes! yes!" said Madame Delphine, excitedly; "the proof is there! You do not want any better! I am willing to swear to it! But you want no better proof! That is all anybody could want! My God! you cannot help but see it!" Her manner was wild. Jean Thompson looked at her sternly. "Nevertheless you say you are willing to take your solemn oath to this." "Certainly----" "You will have to do it." "Certainly, Miché Thompson, _of course_ I shall; you will make out the paper and I will swear before God that it is true! Only"--turning to the ladies--"do not tell Olive; she will never believe it. It will break her heart! It----" A servant came and spoke privately to Madame Thompson, who rose quickly and went to the hall. Madame Delphine continued, rising unconsciously: "You see, I have had her with me from a baby. She knows no better. He brought her to me only two months old. Her mother had died in the ship, coming out here. He did not come straight from home here. His people never knew he was married!" The speaker looked around suddenly with a startled glance. There was a noise of excited speaking in the hall. "It is not true, Madame Thompson!" cried a girl's voice. Madame Delphine's look became one of wildest distress and alarm, and she opened her lips in a vain attempt to utter some request, when Olive appeared a moment in the door, and then flew into her arms. "My mother! my mother! my mother!" Madame Thompson, with tears in her eyes, tenderly drew them apart and let Madame Delphine down into her chair, while Olive threw herself upon her knees, continuing to cry: "Oh, my mother! Say you are my mother!" Madame Delphine looked an instant into the upturned face, and then turned her own away, with a long, low cry of pain, looked again, and laying both hands upon the suppliant's head, said: "_Oh, chère piti à moin, to pa' ma fie!_" (Oh, my darling little one, you are not my daughter!) Her eyes closed, and her head sank back; the two gentlemen sprang to her assistance, and laid her upon a sofa unconscious. When they brought her to herself, Olive was kneeling at her head silently weeping. "_Maman, chère maman_!" said the girl softly, kissing her lips. "_Ma courri c'ez moin_" (I will go home), said the mother, drearily. "You will go home with me," said Madame Varrillat, with great kindness of manner--"just across the street here; I will take care of you till you feel better. And Olive will stay here with Madame Thompson. You will be only the width of the street apart." But Madame Delphine would go nowhere but to her home. Olive she would not allow to go with her. Then they wanted to send a servant or two to sleep in the house with her for aid and protection; but all she would accept was the transient service of a messenger to invite two of her kinspeople--man and wife--to come and make their dwelling with her. In course of time these two--a poor, timid, helpless, pair--fell heir to the premises. Their children had it after them; but, whether in those hands or these, the house had its habits and continued in them; and to this day the neighbors, as has already been said, rightly explain its close-sealed, uninhabited look by the all-sufficient statement that the inmates "is quadroons." CHAPTER XV. KYRIE ELEISON. The second Saturday afternoon following was hot and calm. The lamp burning before the tabernacle in Père Jerome's little church might have hung with as motionless a flame in the window behind. The lilies of St. Joseph's wand, shining in one of the half opened panes, were not more completely at rest than the leaves on tree and vine without, suspended in the slumbering air. Almost as still, down under the organ-gallery, with a single band of light falling athwart his box from a small door which stood ajar, sat the little priest, behind the lattice of the confessional, silently wiping away the sweat that beaded on his brow and rolled down his face. At distant intervals the shadow of some one entering softly through the door would obscure, for a moment, the band of light, and an aged crone, or a little boy, or some gentle presence that the listening confessor had known only by the voice for many years, would kneel a few moments beside his waiting ear, in prayer for blessing and in review of those slips and errors which prove us all akin. The day had been long and fatiguing. First, early mass; a hasty meal; then a business call upon the archbishop in the interest of some projected charity; then back to his cottage, and so to the banking-house of "Vignevielle," in the Rue Toulouse. There all was open, bright, and re-assured, its master virtually, though not actually, present. The search was over and the seekers gone, personally wiser than they would tell, and officially reporting that (to the best of their knowledge and belief, based on evidence, and especially on the assurances of an unexceptionable eyewitness, to wit, Monsieur Vignevielle, banker) Capitaine Lemaitre was dead and buried. At noon there had been a wedding in the little church. Its scenes lingered before Père Jerome's vision now--the kneeling pair: the bridegroom, rich in all the excellences of man, strength and kindness slumbering interlocked in every part and feature; the bride, a saintly weariness on her pale face, her awesome eyes lifted in adoration upon the image of the Saviour; the small knots of friends behind: Madame Thompson, large, fair, self-contained; Jean Thompson, with the affidavit of Madame Delphine showing through his tightly buttoned coat; the physician and his wife, sharing one expression of amiable consent; and last--yet first--one small, shrinking female figure, here at one side, in faded robes and dingy bonnet. She sat as motionless as stone, yet wore a look of apprehension, and in the small, restless black eyes which peered out from the pinched and wasted face, betrayed the peacelessness of a harrowed mind; and neither the recollection of bride, nor of groom, nor of potential friends behind, nor the occupation of the present hour, could shut out from the tired priest the image of that woman, or the sound of his own low words of invitation to her, given as the company left the church--"Come to confession this afternoon." By and by a long time passed without the approach of any step, or any glancing of light or shadow, save for the occasional progress from station to station of some one over on the right who was noiselessly going the way of the cross. Yet Père Jerome tarried. "She will surely come," he said to himself; "she promised she would come." A moment later, his sense, quickened by the prolonged silence, caught a subtle evidence or two of approach, and the next moment a penitent knelt noiselessly at the window of his box, and the whisper came tremblingly, in the voice he had waited to hear: "_Bénissez-moin, mo' Père, pa'ce que mo péché_." (Bless me, father, for I have sinned.) He gave his blessing. "_Ainsi soit-il_--Amen," murmured the penitent, and then, in the soft accents of the Creole _patois_, continued: "'I confess to Almighty God, to the blessed Mary, ever Virgin, to blessed Michael the Archangel, to blessed John the Baptist, to the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, and to all the saints, that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and deed, _through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault_.' I confessed on Saturday, three weeks ago, and received absolution, and I have performed the penance enjoined. Since then----" There she stopped. There was a soft stir, as if she sank slowly down, and another as if she rose up again, and in a moment she said: "Olive _is_ my child. The picture I showed to Jean Thompson is the half-sister of my daughter's father, dead before my child was born. She is the image of her and of him; but, O God! Thou knowest! Oh Olive, my own daughter!" She ceased, and was still. Père Jerome waited, but no sound came. He looked through the window. She was kneeling, with her forehead resting on her arms--motionless. He repeated the words of absolution. Still she did not stir. "My daughter," he said, "go to thy home in peace." But she did not move. He rose hastily, stepped from the box, raised her in his arms, and called her by name: "Madame Delphine!" Her head fell back in his elbow; for an instant there was life in the eyes--it glimmered--it vanished, and tears gushed from his own and fell upon the gentle face of the dead, as he looked up to heaven and cried: "Lord, lay not this sin to her charge!" 
38837	----	[Transcriber's Note: The use of chapter, section, and page headers in this book was inconsistent. There are two chapters titled "Public Buildings" (starting P. 86 and P. 127). The chapters "Public Squares" (P. 181) and "Excursions" (P. 199) switched from a titled paragraph format used in the rest of the book to small cap beginnings for paragraphs (retained). In some cases, there were changes in topics with no corresponding change in section headings. To mark these topic changes, the transcriber placed additional thought breaks, not present in the original, at the following locations: P. 137 (Hotels); P. 144 (Works, Armories, Fire Department); P. 157 (Exchanges); and P. 169 (Galleries). The abbreviation "do" (used primarily in the index and routing tables) means "ditto." The Table of Contents at the beginning has been added by the transcriber; it was not present in the original. Remaining transcriber's notes are at the end of the text.] Page Preface v A BRIEF SKETCH OF THE DISCOVERY AND TERRITORIAL HISTORY OF LOUISIANA 7 THE STATE OF LOUISIANA 28 NEW ORLEANS 58 PUBLIC BUILDINGS 86 CHARITABLE INSTITUTIONS 110 HOSPITALS 117 PUBLIC BUILDINGS 127 MANUFACTURES 150 AMUSEMENTS 176 PUBLIC SQUARES 181 THE OLDEN TIME 184 EXCURSIONS 191 TRAVELLING ROUTES 201 GENERAL INDEX 207 ADVERTISEMENTS 225 NORMAN'S NEW ORLEANS AND ENVIRONS: CONTAINING A BRIEF HISTORICAL SKETCH OF THE TERRITORY AND STATE OF LOUISIANA, AND THE CITY OF NEW ORLEANS, FROM THE EARLIEST PERIOD TO THE PRESENT TIME: PRESENTING A COMPLETE GUIDE TO ALL SUBJECTS OF GENERAL INTEREST IN THE SOUTHERN METROPOLIS; WITH A CORRECT AND IMPROVED PLAN OF THE CITY, PICTORIAL ILLUSTRATIONS OF PUBLIC BUILDINGS, ETC. NEW ORLEANS: PUBLISHED BY B. M. NORMAN. NEW YORK, D. APPLETON & CO.; PHILADELPHIA, GEO. S. APPLETON; BOSTON, JAS. MUNROE & CO.; CINCINNATI, H. W. DERBY & CO.; ST. LOUIS, HALSALL & COLLET; MOBILE, J. M. SUMWALT & CO. 1845. * * * * * Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1845, by B. M. NORMAN, in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the Southern District of New York. Wm. Van Norden, Printer, 39 William street. * * * * * DEDICATED TO THE CITIZENS OF NEW ORLEANS, WITH True Sentiments of Respect, BY THEIR HUMBLE SERVANT. The Publisher. NEW ORLEANS, October, 1845. * * * * * PREFACE To the stranger visiting New Orleans, and to those abroad who may feel an interest in the metropolis of the great South-West, no apology may be urged for the present work. Curiosity, in the one case, and necessity, in the other, will prove a sufficient plea, and prepare the way for that favorable reception, which it has been the aim of the publisher it should deserve. And, judging from the interest he has taken in compiling it, he flatters himself it will be found a communicative and agreeable companion to both the above classes of readers, and to the public in general. The tables and index have been prepared with great care, and will be found highly convenient to those who wish to consult the work with reference to any particular subject of which it treats. All such subjects are there so arranged and classified, that the reader may see, at a glance, where they are to be found. The engravings were executed by Messrs. Shields & Hammond, after original drawings, made expressly for this work, by Mr. Cowell. The plan of the city was engraved by the same artists, after an original draught by Mr. Mullhausen. To several gentlemen, who have kindly aided the publisher in gathering materials for the work, he would here express his grateful acknowledgements. For the historical facts embodied in the volume, he is indebted to several works on the history of Louisiana, and the discovery and early settlement of our country. NORMAN'S NEW ORLEANS AND ENVIRONS. A BRIEF SKETCH OF THE DISCOVERY AND TERRITORIAL HISTORY OF LOUISIANA [Illustration: TOMOWEN. PINXT. De Soto's discovery of the Mississippi] Louisiana is the name given by the French, to all that extensive tract of land, lying West of the Mississippi River, which was ceded by them to the United States in 1803. The line of its western boundary follows the Sabine River to the 32d degree of north latitude; thence, due north to the Red River; along that stream westerly to the meridian of 100 west longitude; thence due north to the Arkansas River, ascending that to its source; thence due north to the 42d degree of latitude; and along that, parallel to the Pacific Ocean. Its northern boundary is a matter of dispute between the United States and Great Britain, and the discussion, at the present moment is somewhat exciting and ominous. It is the only question in relation to any part of our border, which has not been amicably adjusted by treaty. _We_ claim the boundary formed by a line drawn from the Lake of the Woods, in the 49th degree of latitude, due west to the Rocky Mountains, thence to the parallel of 54, and on that to the Pacific. The British, on the other hand, claim that part, lying west of the Rocky Mountains, and north of the 46th parallel, or the latitude of the Columbia River. Our claim to the whole of this Territory, the part in dispute being called the Oregon, is based upon priority of discovery, and purchase. The British claim the northern portion by right of possession. The question has been held in suspense for several years, under a treaty of joint occupancy, which is now about to terminate. The question of ownership and jurisdiction, will probably be adjusted definitely in the course of a few years. We trust it may be done without the necessity of an appeal to arms. The vast domain, included within the above named boundaries, contains more than twelve hundred thousand square miles. It is about six times the size of France, and nearly twice as large as the whole territory embraced in the thirteen original States of the Union--an empire, in itself sufficiently extensive to satisfy the ambition of any ordinary people. The discoveries of Columbus, and his immediate successors, were confined to the islands in and about the Gulf of Mexico, and a part of the adjacent coast of the two Continents. The immense tracts that lay inland, stretching thousands of miles towards the setting sun, were unknown and unexplored for nearly half a century after the landing of the Europeans on this coast. Those of North America were first visited in 1512, by Juan Ponce de Leon, a Spanish adventurer in quest of the FOUNTAIN OF IMMORTAL YOUTH, which the Indians represented as gushing up in one of the Elysian Valleys of the West;--but, unfortunately for him and for posterity, death overtook him before he reached the _Fountain_, and the directions for finding it perished with him. Having made the first land on Pascha _Florida_, or Palm Sunday, he gave the name of Florida to all the country lying to the North and West. In consequence of the premature death of Ponce de Leon, the expedition was given up, and little more was known of these regions until 1538, when Hernandez de Soto, having been made Governor of Cuba, and Adelantado of Florida, undertook, with a company of six hundred men, to explore these his western dominions. He penetrated Florida, Georgia, Tennessee and Kentucky, and struck the Mississippi not far from the place now known as the Chickasaw Bluffs. Thence he passed over to the Red River, and descending that, had nearly reached its mouth, when he was seized with a sudden fever, and died. To prevent his body from falling into the hands of the Indians, it was sunk in the stream at the mouth of Red River, near its junction with "_the father of waters_." The expedition of de Soto consumed four years, during which, his adventures, among the various tribes and nations then teeming in these quiet regions, were diversified and full of the most romantic interest. He was succeeded in 1542 by Lewis de Moscoso, or Mucoso, who, with none of the address or enterprise of de Soto, found himself and his small company, now reduced by disease and constant warfare with the natives, to about three hundred men, encompassed with difficulty, and in danger of being entirely cut off. They built seven brigantines, probably the first specimens of scientific ship building on the Mississippi, and then dropped down the river. Pursued by thousands of exasperated Indians in their canoes, harrassed, wounded, and some of them slain, the miserable remnant at length found their way out of the river, about the middle of July. No sooner had they put to sea, than a violent tempest arose; when another calamity befell them, which will be feelingly understood by many of the navigators of these waters, in our own day. I will give it in the language of the historian, who was one of the party. "While they were in this tempest, in great fear of being cast away, they endured an intolerable torment of an infinite swarm of musketoes, which fell upon them, which, as soon as they had stung the flesh, it so infected it, as though they had been venomous. In the morning, the sea was assuaged, and the wind slacked, but not the musketoes; for the sails, which were white, seemed black with them in the morning. Those which rowed, unless others kept them away, were not able to row. Having passed the fear and danger of the storm, beholding the deformities of their faces, and the blows which they gave themselves to drive them away, one of them laughed at another." It is manifest from the narrative of de Soto's expedition, that a dense population once covered this whole territory. It is equally manifest that they were a race infinitely superior to the almost exterminated tribes which still remain. In the arts of what we term civilization, in the comforts and conveniences of social life, in the organization of society, in works of taste, in a knowledge of the principles, and an appreciation of the beauties of architecture, and in the application of the various mechanical powers requisite to the construction of buildings on a grand and magnificent scale, they may challenge comparison with some of the proudest nations of antiquity, in the old world. What has become of those mysterious nations, we are at a loss to conjecture; but their works remain, though in ruins, eternal monuments of their genius and power. As far as they have been explored, they afford ample evidence that the appellation "New World" is an entire misnomer. As the eloquent Mr. Wirt once said--"_This is the old World_," and the day may come, when the antiquarian will find as much that is attractive and interesting in the time hallowed ruins and the almost buried cities, of America, as those of Pompeii and Herculaneum, of Thebes and Palmyra. Changed as the whole country has been, in the lapse of three centuries, in respect to most of those things which must have struck the original discoverers with wonder, admiration, and awe--there is one feature, as described by de Soto, that still remains, so distinct and characteristic, that, if the brave old Adelantado should suddenly rise from his watery grave, he would immediately recognize the place of his burial. The Mississippi is still the same as when those bold adventurers first beheld it. The historian describes it as "a river so broad, that if a man stood still on the other side, it could not be discerned whether he was a man or no. The channel was very deep, the current strong, the water muddy and filled with floating trees." Of all the great rivers of this continent, it is a distinction which is probably peculiar to the Mississippi, that it was discovered, not by navigators entering it from the ocean, but by a band of adventurous explorers, striking it in their march, at some thousand miles from its mouth! For more than a century after the expedition of de Soto, these mighty regions were suffered to remain in the quiet possession of their original owners, undisturbed by the visits of white men. In 1654, the adventurous Col. Woods, from the infant colony of Virginia, wandered into these then remote regions, and crossed "the great river," after which it lay forgotten for twenty years longer. In 1673, Marquette, a French monk, and Joliet, a trader, starting from Quebec, traversed the great northern Lakes, ascended the Fox River to its source, made a small portage west to the Wisconsin, and descended that river to the Mississippi, where they arrived on the 7th of July. Committing themselves to the current, the two solitary travellers reached a village of the Illinois, near the mouth of the Missouri, where they were kindly received and hospitably entertained. After a brief stay, they proceeded down to a settlement of the Arkansas, near the river of that name. They did not proceed farther at this time, but returned to Quebec, by the same route, fully impressed with the belief that they could reach the Gulf of Mexico, by continuing their course on the great river. There was immense rejoicing in Quebec at the result of this adventure. _Te deum_ was sung in the Churches, on the occasion, and the great Western Valley set down as belonging to France by right of discovery. They were little aware how brief their dominion in that land would be, or how soon the fruits of all their toils would fall into the hands of a nation then unborn, that in one little century, should leap to independence and power, and claim an honorable place among the hoary empires of the earth. Six years after the return of Marquette and Joliet, Robert, Chevalier de la Salle, commenced operations for a further exploration of the Mississippi. With seventeen men, he proceeded to the Little Miami, near the mouth of which he built a fort. From thence he traversed the country, till he came to the Falls of St. Anthony. Descending the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico, he returned by land to Quebec during the year 1681. He then proceeded to France, procured a vessel, and sailed in 1685, with the intention of entering the river through the Gulf, but was unable to find its mouth. In his next voyage, having met with the same disappointment, he erected a fort in the Bay of St. Bernard, near the mouth of the Colorado. Ascending that river, about sixteen miles, he established another fort, which, however, he soon destroyed, and returned to the first settlement. Here he built houses, erected another fort, which he called St. Louis, and prepared the ground for cultivation. He made many abortive attempts to find the entrance to the Mississippi. At length, a conspiracy was formed among his own party, and he was cruelly murdered by Dehault, on the 19th of March, 1687, near the western branch of Trinity River. Thus fell, in the midst of his toils, and in the prime of his years, by the hand of an assassin, one of the most renowned adventurers of the 17th century--a man who may be justly claimed as an honor to the country that gave him birth. He deserved a better fate. In cool courage, in hardy enterprise, and in fertility of resources, he was second only to Columbus. And in the power of subduing the wild spirits of his men, and bending all their energies to the one object before him, he displayed much of the sagacity and tact of that great navigator. In vigor, decision and promptitude, he much resembled the renowned Cortes, without any of the bigotry or cruelty, that tarnished the reputation of the Conqueror of Mexico. In 1699, eighteen years after La Salle had demonstrated the connection of the Mississippi with the Gulf of Mexico, by passing out at its mouth, Iberville succeeded in entering it from the Gulf. Ascending as far as the junction of Red River, he returned, and proceeded, by way of the Gulf, into Lake Pontchartrain. He formed a settlement and erected a fort, at Biloxi, which he left under the command of his brother Bienville, while he returned to France, to induce others to join the colony. Soon after he left, the new commander ascended the Mississippi as far as the present site of New Orleans. In returning, he met a British vessel of sixteen guns, under the command of Capt. Bard, who enquired the bearings of the great river, intimating that it was his intention to establish a colony upon its banks. Bienville, in reply, directed him to go farther west, and thus induced him to turn about; from which circumstance, the place of their meeting was called "The English Turn," a name which it retains to this day. Iberville accompanied by a considerable accession of force, comprising hardy settlers, and scientific men, soon returned to the colony. Finding things in a promising condition, he proceeded up the river as far as Natchez, and planted a settlement there. Leaving Bienville and St. Denys in command, he again took leave, and sailed for France. He was indefatigable in his exertions to establish and render permanent his little colony. It was the first attempt in this section; and Iberville may be well regarded as the father of Louisiana. But he did not survive to enjoy its growth and prosperity. He died in one of the West India Islands, a victim to the yellow fever, in 1708. About this time, one Sauville was elected Governor. He survived the appointment, however, but a short time. Bienville then succeeded him, and retained the office till 1710, when he was superseded by De Muys and Diron d'Artaquette. Finding that they derived no immediate advantage from this new accession of territory, the French Government, in 1712, granted to Antonio Crozat, a rich merchant of Paris, the monopoly of the trade of Louisiana, which he surrendered back in 1717. What a fortune a man might make now, out of a five years monopoly of the trade of that luxuriant region! In 1717, a new charter was issued, under the style of "The Western Company," with the exclusive privilege of the trade of Louisiana for twenty-five years. Bienville was again chosen Governor, and in the following year, 1718, he laid the foundation of New Orleans. Hitherto the pursuits of agriculture had been entirely neglected. Whether this neglect was attributable to the hostility of the Indians, compelling them to concentrate their little force in one spot, or to the flattering promises of trade, or to the illusive hope of discovering mines of gold, which occupied all their time, or to all these causes combined, we cannot now determine. We only know, that, up to this period, they had depended almost entirely upon supplies sent from France, for the common necessaries of life. But now, the cultivation of the soil began to be an object of considerable attention, tobacco and rice being the principal articles from which a profit was expected. The chief personage in this "Western Company," was the notorious John Law, a Scotch financier, one of those universal speculators, who experiment upon every thing, human and divine, who revel only in change, and to whom mere innovation becomes the professional business of a life. As is usual in such cases, he managed so as to draw down ruin upon himself and his duped associates in France, while at the same time, he had the singular tact to place the colony in a condition for the time. The result of his schemes, however, was ultimately disastrous. The finances of the colony were thrown into inextricable confusion. The French Ministry, instead of applying an efficient remedy, or leaving the evil to cure itself, only tampered with it, by changing the values of the coins, and thus deranging all the money transactions of the colony. The effect was ruinous to some, and embarrassing to all. And when was it otherwise? Never. History and experience utter but one voice on the subject of governmental experiments, and arbitrary legislative innovations, upon ordinary fiscal operations, and the course of trade. And that voice is--"_hands off_." In the mean time war was declared between France and Spain. The colonists, sympathizing with the mother country, commenced offensive operations against their neighbors in Florida, and took possession of Pensacola; which, however, the Spaniards soon recovered. The trade of war was never very profitable, even to conquerors. No sooner were the different colonies of pale faces at loggerheads among themselves, than their natural enemies, the Indians, began to take advantage of their divisions, and to endeavor to exterminate them both. A horrible massacre took place at Natchez, in 1729. This was but part of a plan which had been formed among the Mississippi tribes, for a general butchery throughout the colony. The Natchez tribe, mistaking the day appointed for the sacrifice, commenced their work of blood too soon, and thus gave timely warning of the plot to all the other settlements. The war which followed was a destructive one, but the Indians were ultimately defeated. Bienville, having returned to France in 1727, was succeeded by Perrier. Under his administration, the agricultural enterprise of the colony was considerably advanced. The cultivation of indigo was commenced in 1728. The fig tree and the orange were introduced at the same time. In 1732, ten years before the legal expiration of their monopoly, the "Western Company" returned their charter to the King. The colony was then scarcely more than thirty years old, yet, notwithstanding their many and severe trials, by war and by disease, the population numbered five thousand whites, and two thousand blacks. Bienville was, the third time, appointed Governor, having the entire confidence both of the government and of the people. He continued to exercise this office till 1741, when he again resigned, carrying with him into private life the regrets and affectionate regards of the inhabitants. He was succeeded by the Marquis de Vaudreuil. In the winter of 1747-8, the orange plantations were visited by a severe frost, such as had never been known before, which not only cut off the crop for the season, but almost destroyed the prospects of that branch of business in the colony. The cultivation of the sugar cane, now so extensive and lucrative a branch of business, did not begin to attract the attention of agriculturalists till 1751. It was then introduced by the Jesuits of St. Domingo, who sent some of the plants, as a present to their brethren in Louisiana, accompanied by negroes, well acquainted with its cultivation, and with the process then in use for manufacturing it into sugar. The lower part of the Fauxbourg of St. Mary was devoted to this experiment. That it was a happy experiment for the colony, and the country, the waving fields and princely estates on every side, and the annually increasing supply of this great staple, bear ample witness. A large accession was made to the population of the colony in 1754, by the arrival of emigrants from Acadia, (Nova Scotia) which they were compelled to leave, owing to the oppressive measures of the British Government, by which that province had just been conquered. A few years afterwards, great numbers of Canadians, fleeing from the same oppressions, found refuge in the sunny valleys of the south, and brought a very considerable acquisition of strength and wealth to the colony. "The seven years' war" between France and England, ended in the cession, to the latter power, of all the French possessions in North America, except Louisiana. It was stipulated, between the two crowns, that the boundary line of their respective dominions, in the New World, should run along the middle of the Mississippi, from its source as far as the Iberville, and along the middle of that river, and of Lakes Maurepas and Pontchartrain. This was in 1763. In the course of the same year, Louisiana was transferred by treaty to the crown of Spain. The tidings of this unexpected cession, which were not promulgated until two years after the execution of the treaty, spread dismay through the colony. The idea of being passed over, _nolens volens_, to the domination of Spaniards, was revolting to the thousands of true hearted and loyal Frenchmen, who had acquired and defended the territory, and claimed it as their own. They resolved, as one man, to resist this unceremonious change of masters, apparently determined, if their old mother, France, persisted in casting them off, to set up for themselves. In pursuance of this resolution, they refused to receive Don Ulloa, whom the King of Spain despatched in 1766, to take possession of the Province, and to assume the Government, as his representative. The point was disputed at the cannon's mouth, but the colony prevailed, and Don Ulloa returned with his dishonored commission, to his master. Charles was as indignant as his crest-fallen servant, at this unexpected repulse. But he was too busy with his own troubles at home, to pursue the matter at that moment. A fit instrument of Royal vengeance was at length found, in the person of Don O'Reilly, a renegade Irishman, who, in 1769, was appointed to subdue and rule over the refractory province. A more perfect exemplification of the remark, that the most depraved unprincipled man may gain the confidence and regard of Kings, can scarcely be found. In the execution of his trust, he showed himself a very fiend incarnate. First, by fair promises, cautiously mingled with just as much of intimidation, as would give an air of candor and courtly conciliation to his promises, he induced the too credulous Louisianians to abandon their purpose of resistance, and surrender without striking a blow. This artful guise he continued to wear, till he had obtained possession of all the insignia of government, and the sinews of power, and placed his own chosen tools in all the chief places of trust. Then the mask of hypocrisy was boldly thrown off, and the cloven foot uncovered. His fair promises were immediately shown to be only a master stroke of policy, to gain an end. In the face of his solemn stipulations, he caused those who had been foremost in refusing submission to his authority, to be seized and put to death. Five of them, principal citizens of New Orleans, he caused to be publicly shot. Five more he consigned to the dungeons of the Moro, at Havana, and one he procured to be assassinated. Other acts of cold-blooded cruelty, and false-hearted tyranny followed, till he became the execration and abhorrence of the whole colony. He introduced the Spanish colonial system, and subjected the inhabitants to every species of indignity and abuse. At length, the extravagance of his measures, and his unprincipled abuse of power, wrought its own ruin. He was recalled by his King, and disgraced--if one already so infamous could by any means be rendered more so. His successor was Unzoga, who was shortly after superseded by Galvez. The colony now enjoyed a brief season of comparative quiet. But the war between England and Spain, which broke out in 1779, afforded an opportunity for Governor Galvez to show his loyal zeal, and exercise his military talents. With the troops under his command, he invaded Florida, took possession of Baton Rouge, and Fort Charlotte, near Mobile, and proceeded to Pensacola, which, after an obstinate resistance, also submitted to his authority. Thus was the Spanish dominion completely established in Florida. Governor Miro, who succeeded Galvez, carried into full effect the colonial system of Spain, which was by no means relished by the French inhabitants of the colony. In 1785, a new firebrand was thrown into the midst of these combustible elements. An attempt was made to establish an office of the Inquisition in Louisiana. It was fearlessly opposed, and fortunately crushed without bloodshed. The agent, to whom the obnoxious business was entrusted, was seized in his bed, conveyed forcibly on board a vessel, and sent home to Spain. A census of the province, taken in 1788, just ninety years from the date of the first settlement, showed a population of 42,611. Of these, 19,445 were whites, 21,465 slaves, and 1701 colored freemen. New Orleans, then 70 years old, contained 5,338 inhabitants. The Baron de Carondelet was appointed Governor in 1792. During his administration, in the year 1794, the first newspaper, called "Le Moniteur," was published in Louisiana. At the same period the Canal Carondelet was commenced; and the cultivation of indigo and the sugar cane, which had hitherto been the great staples of the colony, was suspended. In 1795, by the treaty of St. Lorenzo, the navigation of the Mississippi was opened to the western States of the Union, and the great impulse given to the commercial prosperity of New Orleans, which secured forever the pre-eminence of the Crescent City. The same treaty defined the boundaries, as they now exist, between Florida and Mississippi. But Carondelet, being rather more tardy in yielding possession, than suited the active, enterprising spirit of the Americans, the territory was seized by an armed force, under Andrew Elliott. Two years after this, a plan set on foot by Carondelet, to dismember the American Union, by drawing the Western States into a separate compact, was detected and defeated by the address of General Wilkinson. Whether Aaron Burr was in the plot, or only took a hint from it a few years later, does not appear of record. Carondelet was succeeded by Gayosa de Lamor, Casa Calvo, and Salvado, who, successively, but for a very brief period, wielded the chief magistracy of the colony. In 1803, Louisiana was re-transferred to France, and immediately sold to the United States for 15,000,000 of dollars. The treaty which accomplished this important object was entered into on the 30th of April. Possession was taken, in behalf of the United States, by General Wilkinson and William C. Claiborne, amid the rejoicings of a people attached to liberty, and eager to grasp at any opportunity to shake off the yoke of Spain. The population of Louisiana, at the time of the purchase, did not exceed fifty thousand, exclusive of the Indians, and these were scattered over every part of its immense territory. Seven years after, the population had nearly trebled, and her prosperity had advanced in equal proportion. The year 1812 was a memorable era in the history of Louisiana, and marked with incidents never to be forgotten by her citizens. It was in this year, that the first Steam Boat was seen on the bosom of "the great river," now alive with hundreds of these winged messengers, plying to and fro. In the same year war was declared with Great Britain, and Louisiana, as now constituted, was admitted, as an independent State, into the great American Confederacy. [Illustration: The Cotton Plant] THE STATE OF LOUISIANA [Illustration: Plantation House and Works] The State of Louisiana is bounded on the north by the states of Arkansas, and Mississippi; on the east by the latter and the Gulf of Mexico; on the south by the Gulf of Mexico, and on the west by Mexico and Texas. It is a well watered garden, the soil being rich, and intersected by the Mississippi, Red, and Wachita Rivers, and many inferior streams, and washed, on its western limit, by the Sabine. The face of the country is exceedingly level, so much so, that in a portion equal to three fourths of the State, there is scarcely a hill to be found. Those parts that are covered with pine woods are usually uneven, sometimes rising into fine swells, with broad table summits, intersected with valleys from thirty to forty feet deep. They do not lie in any particular range, but, like the ocean in a high and regular swell, present a uniform undulated surface. The alluvial soil is, of course level, and the swamps, which are only inundated alluvions, are dead flats. A range of gentle elevations commences in Opelousas, and gradually increasing in height as it advances, diverges toward the Sabine. In the vicinity of Natchitoches, this range holds its way northwestwardly; about half way between the Red and the Sabine Rivers, and continues to increase in altitude, till it reaches the western border of the State. Seen from the pine hills above Natchitoches, it has the blue outline and general aspect of a range of mountains. Another line of hills, commencing not far from Alexandria, on the northern side of the Red River, and separating the waters of that stream from those of the Dudgemony, extends northwardly, till it approaches, and runs into, the mammillæ, or bluffs, that bound the alluvions of the Wachita, diverging gradually from the line of that stream, as it passes beyond the western limits of the State. That remote part of Natchitoches called Allen's settlement, is a high rolling country. There are also hills of considerable magnitude on the east side of the Mississippi, beyond the alluvions. But generally speaking, Louisiana may be considered as one immense plain, divided into pine woods, prairies, alluvions, swamps, and hickory and oak lands. The pine-wood lands, as I have already said, are usually rolling. There are some exceptions, but they are very few. They have almost invariably a poor soil. Some of those west of Opelousas, and those between the Wachita and Red Rivers, are even sterile, answering well to the name by which they are called in some other parts of the country, Pine Barrens. Some parts of the prairies of Opelousas are of great fertility, and those of Attakapas are still more so. As a general feature, they are more level than those of the upper country. An extensive belt of these prairies, bordering on the Gulf of Mexico, is low and marshy, and subject to be wholly inundated in any extraordinary swell of the river. A considerable portion of them have a cold clayey soil, the surface of which, under the influence of a warm sun, hardens into a stiff crust. In other portions, the soil is of an inky blackness, and often, in the hot and dry season, cracks in long fissures some inches in width. The bottoms are generally rich, but in very different degrees. Those of the Mississippi and Red Rivers, and the bayous connected with these streams, are more fertile than those on the western border of the State. The quality of the richer bottoms of the Mississippi, as well as those of the Red River, is sufficiently attested by the prodigious growth of timber in those parts, the luxuriance of the cane and the cotton, the tangles of vines and creepers, the astonishing size of the weeds--which, however, find it difficult to over-top the better products of the soil--and the universal strength of the vegetation. The most productive district of this State, is a belt of land, called "_the Coast_," lying along the Mississippi, in the neighborhood of New Orleans. It consists of that part of the bottom, or alluvion, of the Great River, which commences with the first cultivation above the Balize, about forty miles below the capital, and extends about one hundred and fifty miles above it. This belt on each side of the river, is secured from an overflow by an embankment, called "_the levee_," from six to eight feet in height, and sufficiently broad, for the most part, to furnish an excellent highway. The river, in an ordinary rise, would cover the greater part of these beautiful bottoms, to a depth of from two to six feet, if they were not thus protected. This belt is from one to two miles in width; a richer tract of land, of the same extent, cannot probably be found on the face of the globe. On the east side of the river the levee extends to Baton Rouge, where it meets the highlands; on the west side, it continues, with little interruption, to the Arkansas line. On the east, above the levee, are the parishes of Baton Rogue and West Feliciana. This latter received its appropriate and expressive name from its beautifully variegated surface of fertile hills and valleys, and its rare combination of all the qualities that are most to be desired in a planting country. It is a region of almost fairy beauty and wealth. The soil literally teems with the most luxuriant productions of this favored clime. The hills are covered with laurel, and forest trees of magnificent growth and foliage, indicating a soil of the richest and most productive character. Here are some of the wealthiest and most intelligent planters, and the finest plantations in the state, the region of princely taste and luxury, and more than patriarchal hospitality. The mouth of Bayou Sara, which is the point of shipment for this productive region, transmits immense quantities of cotton to New Orleans. Some of the plantations on this bayou have from five to eight hundred acres under cultivation. On the western side of the Mississippi, are the Bayous Lafourche and Plaquemine, outlets, or arms of the Great River, and subject, of course, to all its fluctuations. The bottoms bordering on these bayous are of the same luxuriant soil, as those on the parent stream, and are guarded from inundation in the same manner, by levees. In this region, the sugar cane is exceedingly productive. It is estimated that, within a compass of seven miles from Thibadeauxville, in the vicinity of the Bayous Black and Terre Bonne, about one tenth of the sugar crop of Louisiana is produced. A considerable part of Attakapas is also very productive, as well as portions of Opelousas. The latter, however, is better adapted to grazing. The Teche, which meanders through the former, and the eastern part of the latter, of these two parishes, never overflows its banks. The land rises from the river, in a regularly inclined plane towards the woods, affording free courses for the streams, which discharge themselves into the bayou. The soil, therefore, cannot be called alluvial, though in the most essential quality of productiveness, it is scarcely inferior to the best of them. It is a lovely region, the most beautiful, perhaps, in the whole Union, for agricultural purposes. But it has one great drawback, especially for the cultivation of sugar; there is a deficiency of ordinary fire-wood; though the live-oak abounds there to such an extent, that Judge Porter once remarked in Congress, that "there was enough of it in Attakapas, to supply the navies of the whole world with ship timber." The lands on the Atchafalaya are of an excellent quality, and would afford a desirable opening for enterprising cultivators, if they were not liable to frequent inundations, an evil which will doubtless be remedied, as the population and wealth of that section advances. Those on the Courtableau, which runs through Opelousas, are equal in point of fertility, to any in that parish. From thence, proceeding northward, by Bayou Boeuf, we find, on that bayou, a soil which is regarded by many as the best in the State for the cultivation of cotton. There is also land of an excellent quality on Bayou Rouge, though it is, as yet, for the most part, in the state of nature. The banks of the Bayou Robert, still further north, are of extraordinary fertility, the cane brake, a sure evidence of a very rich soil, flourishing with astonishing luxuriance. Bayou Rapid, which gives its name to the parish through which it runs, intersects one of the most beautiful tracts in the state, which is laid out, on both sides of the bayou, through the whole length of its course, into the finest cotton plantations. The bottoms of the Red River are well known for their fertility. Those which lie about its lower courses are justly esteemed the paradise of cotton planters. The soil is of a darkish red color, occasioned by the presence of the red oxide of iron. It is thought to derive its character of luxuriant productiveness from a portion of salt intimately blended with its constituents, which, from its tendency to effloresce in a warm sun, renders the compound peculiarly friable. This soil is deep, and has been accumulating for unknown ages, from the spoils of the Mexican mountains, (a species of natural annexation which the laws of nations have no power to regulate,) and the vast prairies which are washed by its upper courses. The rich valley of the Red River is of a magnificent breadth, and for the most part, where it has not been cleared for cultivation, covered with a dense growth of forest trees. All the bayous of this river, which are very numerous, branching off in every direction, and intersecting every part of this luxuriant valley, partake of the fertilizing character of the main stream.[1] There are few things among the works of nature, more remarkable than the _floating prairies_, which are found upon the lakes bordering upon the coast of the Gulf. They seem to have been formed by the natural aggregation of such vegetable matter as lay suspended upon the surface of the water, supplied with a light substratum of soil, partly by its own decay and disintegration, and partly by attracting around its roots and fibres the alluvial treasures with which all these waters abound. From this, various kinds of grass and weeds have sprung up, the roots of which have become firmly interwoven with the subjacent mass, matting it completely together, and giving it all the appearance of a substantial island. It is often several inches in thickness, and so nearly resembles terra firma, that not only the sagacity of man, but even animal instinct has been deceived by it. These floating prairies are sometimes of great extent, and are by no means confined to waters comparatively shoal. They literally cover the deeps in some cases, and a great deal of precaution is necessary to avoid them, for, stable as they look at a distance, they are as unsubstantial as shadows, so that boats may oftentimes be forced through them. They are less trustworthy than quicksands, for the unlucky wight who should adventure himself upon their deceitful appearances, would find himself entangled in a net of interminable extent, from which it would be impossible to extricate himself. It may not be deemed presumption, perhaps, to suggest, that the great Raft on the Red River may be a formation upon the same principle, though upon a more enlarged scale. The stream being sluggish, and the alluvial deposit exceedingly heavy and rich, the accumulation of a productive soil, and the consequent growth and entanglement of roots would be very rapid; and a foundation would ultimately be formed sufficiently stable and permanent, to be travelled with safety. Floating trees from the upper courses, arrested by this obstruction, would imbed themselves in the mass, until, by continual accretions, it should become what it now is, an impassable and almost irremovable barrier to navigation. The Delta of the Mississippi is a region of extensive marshes. For many leagues, the lakes, inlets and sounds, which dissect and diversify that amphibious wilderness, are connected by an inextricable tissue of communications and passes, accessible only by small vessels and bay craft, and impossible to be navigated except by the most experienced pilots. It is a perfect labyrinth of waters, more difficult to unravel than those of Crete and Lemnos. The shore is indented by numberless small bays, or coves, few of which have sufficient depth of water, to afford a shelter for vessels. Berwick and Barritaria Bays are the only ones of any considerable magnitude. The prairies which cover so large a portion of this State, are, for the most part, connected together, as if the waters from which they were originally deposited had been an immense chain of lakes, all fed from the same great source. And this was undoubtedly the fact. They were all supplied from the Mississippi, and their wonderful fertility is derived from the alluvial riches of those interminable regions, which are washed by the father of rivers and his countless tributaries. Those included under the general name of Attakapas, are the first which occur on the west of the Mississippi. It is an almost immeasurable plain of grass, extending from the Atchafalaya on the north, to the Gulf of Mexico, on the south. Its contents are stated to be about five thousand square miles. Being open to the Gulf, it is generally fanned by its refreshing breezes. To the traveller in those regions, who may have been toiling on his weary way through tangle, and swamp, and forest, there is something indescribably agreeable in this smooth and boundless sea of unrivalled fertility, whose dim outline mingles with the blue of the far off Gulf--the whole vast plain covered with tall grass, waving and rippling in the breeze, sprinkled with neat white houses, the abodes of wealth, comfort and hospitality, and dotted with innumerable cattle and horses grazing in the fields, or reposing here and there under the shade of the wooded points. The sudden transition from the rank cane, the annoying nettles, the stifling air, and the pestilent mosquitoes, to this open expanse, and the cool salubrious breath of the ocean, is as delightful and reviving as an oasis in the desert. In the midst of this immense prairie, is situated the parish of Attakapas. This word, in the language of the Aborigines, from whom it is derived, signified "man-eater," the region having been occupied by Cannibals. Strange indeed, that the inhabitants of a climate so bland, and a soil so fertile, should possess the taste, or feel the necessity for so revolting and unnatural a species of barbarism. Opelousas prairie is still more extensive than Attakapas, being computed to contain nearly eight thousand square miles. It is divided by bayous, wooded grounds, points, and bends, and other natural boundaries, into a number of smaller prairies, which have separate names, and characteristics more or less distinctive. Taken in its whole extent, it is bounded by the Attakapas prairie on the east, pine woods and hill on the north, the Sabine on the west, and the Gulf of Mexico on the south. The soil though in many places extremely fertile, is generally less so than that of Attakapas. It has, however, a compensating advantage, being deemed the healthiest region in the State. It embraces several large cotton plantations, and a considerable region devoted to the cultivation of the sugar cane. The parish which bears its name is one of the most populous in Louisiana. It is the centre of the land of shepherds, the very Arcadia of those who deal in domestic animals. To that employment, the greater part of the inhabitants are devoted, and they number their flocks and herds by thousands. On one estate five thousand calves were branded in the spring of 1845. The people of this district are distinguished for that quiet, easy, unostentatious hospitality, which assures the visitor of his welcome, and makes him so much at home, that he finds it difficult to realize that he is only a guest. Bellevue prairie lies partly in Opelousas, and partly in Attakapas. Calcasieu and Sabine prairies are only parts of the great plain, those names being given to designate some of the varied forms and openings it assumes in its ample sweep from the Plaquemine to the Sabine. They are, however, though but parts of a larger prairie, of immense extent. The Sabine, seen from any point near its centre, seems, like the mid-ocean, boundless to the view. The Calcasieu is seventy miles long, by twenty wide. Though, for the most part, so level as to have the aspect of a perfect plain, the surface is slightly undulated, with such a general, though imperceptible declination towards the streams and bayous by which it is intersected, as easily to carry off the water, and prevent those unhealthy stagnations which are so fatal in this climate. There is also a gentle slope towards the Gulf, along the shore of which the vast plain terminates in low marshes often entirely covered with the sea. These marshes are overspread with a luxuriant growth of tall reedy cane grass. One of the most striking and peculiar features of these prairies is found in the occasional patches of timbered land, with which their monotonous surface is diversified and relieved. They are like islands in the bosom of the ocean, but are for the most part so regular and symmetrical in their forms, that one is with difficulty convinced that they are not artificial, planted by the hand of man, in circles, squares, or triangles, for mere ornament. It is impossible for one who has not seen them, to conceive of the effect produced by them, rising like towers of various forms, but each regular in itself, from the midst of an ocean of grass. Wherever a bayou or a stream crosses the prairie, its course is marked with a fringe of timber, the effect of which upon the eye of the observer is exceedingly picturesque, making a background to the view in many instances, like lines of trees in landscape painting. All the rivers, bayous, and lakes of this State abound with alligators. On Red River, before it was navigated by steamboats, it was not uncommon to see hundreds in a group along the banks, or covering the immense masses of floating and stranded timber, bellowing like angry bulls, and huddled so closely together, that the smaller ones were obliged to get upon the backs of the larger. At one period, great numbers were killed for their skins, which were made into leather for boots and shoes, but not proving sufficiently close grained to keep out the water, the experiment was abandoned. Alligators average from eight to twelve feet in length. Some have been caught, measuring twenty feet. The fear is often entertained, and sometimes expressed, that the levees of the Mississippi are not sufficient to resist the great body of water that is continually bearing and wearing upon them; and these fears have, in several cases, been realized, though never to any very great extent. In May 1816 the river broke through, about nine miles above New Orleans, destroyed several plantations, and inundated the back part of the city to the depth of three or four feet. The crevasse was finally closed, by sinking a vessel in the breach, for the suggestion and accomplishment of which, the public was chiefly indebted to Governor Claiborne. In June, 1844, the river rose higher than it had done for many years, marking its whole course, for more than two thousand miles, with wide spread destruction to property and life. It crept over the levee in some places near New Orleans, but caused no actual breach in that vicinity. At Bonnet Carre it forced a crevasse, doing considerable damage and causing great alarm in the neighborhood; but the mischief was not so serious as might have been anticipated, and the embankment has been so increased and strengthened, as to leave but little apprehension for the future. The interests of Education in Louisiana, though hitherto too much neglected, are now decidedly and perceptibly advancing. In the higher departments, are the College of Louisiana, at Jackson, in East Feliciana; and Jefferson College in St. James parish, on the coast--the former incorporated in 1825, the later in 1831. Both have at various times, received generous donations from the treasury of the state. Franklin College, in Opelousas was also incorporated in 1831, under the same favorable auspices.[2] There are also several Academies acting under the legal sanction of the State, although not endowed by it. The Ursuline Nuns' School and that of the Sisters of Charity--the latter in the parish of St. James, afford instruction in all the polite branches of female education. The Convent at Grand Coteau near Opelousas, has an average of about two hundred scholars; and efficient persons from France have the control and direction of their education. The public schools, designed for the general and gratuitous dissemination of knowledge among all classes, have not only increased in number but have generally outstripped those of the higher order, by seizing at once upon all the improvements which the experience of teachers in other parts of the country, and the world, has from time to time suggested. Mere innovations rather hinder than advance the progress of education. But the simplest suggestion of an enlightened experience and a sound judgment, such as are brought to bear upon this great interest throughout the whole of the northern and eastern States, is entitled to the profound regard of the Southern philanthropist, whose aim and ambition it should be, to make the most of every facility and to be no whit behind the older, but not more wealthy sections, in any thing that can promote the moral and intellectual power of the masses of the people. The climate of Louisiana is hot and moist. In the neighborhood of the marshes, and in the summer season, it partakes of the unhealthy character of nearly all tropical climates. Diseases of the lungs, however, and other complaints so prevalent at the north, are scarcely known; and to many, the quick consuming fever which finishes its work in a few days, may be considered but a fair offset to the slow but sure consumption, which flatters its victims with the semblance of life and hope, while dragging them through its long and dreary labyrinths, to the chambers of death. This climate is favorable to almost all the productions of the tropics. The sugar, the cotton plant, the orange, the lemon, the grape, the mulberry, tobacco, rice, maize, sweet potato, &c., &c., flourish in rich abundance, and some of them attain to a luxuriance of growth scarcely known in any other part of the world. Sugar and Cotton are the two great staples. The former is confined chiefly to that tract, which, by way of distinction, is called "the coast," lying along the shores of the Gulf, and the bayous of the Mississippi. The average sugar crop of the whole state, is now about 180,000 hogsheads. That of cotton, for the last year is not ascertained, but the amount produced in the whole valley of the Mississippi, sent to New Orleans for export in 1843, was 1,088,000 bales. Owing to the large extension of the cotton growing districts, and excessive competition in its manufacture, the cultivation of cotton yields less profit than it formerly did, and there seems to be no substantial reason why it should not, in some degree, give place to sugar, at least until the latter can be furnished in sufficient quantity to supply the domestic consumption. Under the ordinary increase of population, the utmost exertions of the cane planters will hardly arrive at such a result, in half a century to come. While on this subject, it will not, I trust, be deemed irrelevant or officious, to place before the reader the suggestions of an intelligent gentleman of New Orleans, in regard to the present mode of cultivating and manufacturing sugar. He observes that in order to carry on the business to advantage, and compete favorably with those already established, a large capital is required, since in addition to the ground to be cultivated, and the hands to be employed in the field, expensive mills and machinery must be set up, and kept in motion, with a large number of laborers in attendance. Consequently no man in moderate circumstances can undertake this branch of business, as it is now conducted. To obviate this difficulty, and extend the cultivation and manufacture of this important staple, he proposes a division of labor and profit, like that which prevails in the grain growing and milling regions of the north. The farmer sells his wheat, at a fair market value, to the miller, or pays him a stipulated percentage for grinding and bolting. In the same manner might the business here be divided into two distinct branches. The planter might sell his cane to the miller, or pay him the established price for converting it into sugar and molasses. This would enable men of comparatively small means to undertake the cultivation of the cane, who now confine themselves to cotton, and thus relieve the larger cultivators of the latter staple from the dangers of over production. Casting our eyes back to no very distant period, and noticing the small beginnings of our early planters of cotton, the reader will pardon the introduction of a trifling anecdote. During the year 1784, only sixty years since, and therefore within the memory of many now living, an American vessel, having _eighty bales_ of cotton on board, was seized at Liverpool, on the plea that _so large_ an amount of cotton could not have been produced in the United States. The shipment in 1785 amounted to 14 bales, in 1786 to 6, in 1787 to 109, 1788 to 389, in 1789 to 842. An old Carolina planter, having gathered his crop of five acres, was so surprised and alarmed at the immense amount they yielded, which was fifteen bales, that he exclaimed "well, well--I have done with cotton--here is enough to make stockings for all the people in America!" The cotton crop of the United States for 1844 was 2,300,000 bales. The fluctuations in the foreign cotton market, within a few years past, have produced, among scientific agriculturalists and experienced planters, no little speculation upon the course which a due regard to their own interests requires them to pursue. It is not to be wondered at, that in a country so vast, so luxuriantly fertile as ours, and teeming with the most enterprising and industrious population on the face of the earth, the strict relations of supply and demand should be occasionally disturbed in some of the many abundant productions of the soil. It is always a difficult problem to solve, especially where the field is very large, and the producers many, and constantly increasing. In attempting to meet it, the first question to be answered is, does the present supply greatly overreach the present demand? An intelligent writer in Hunt's Merchant's Magazine for October, 1844, Henry Lee, Esq., has placed this subject, so far as he has there pursued it, in a very clear light. He commences by stating that "the consumption of cotton in Europe, other than the production of America and India, is too insignificant to have any important bearing upon prices." He goes on to show that the value placed upon the article at present, is quite sufficient, and that the advantage it gives to the manufacturer of New England, whose operations are vastly increasing, renders him a successful competitor to those of Great Britain; and nothing but an inflated currency, or imprudent speculations can produce an advance. And any advance so procured must inevitably be followed by a ruinous reaction. He shows that, through the agency of the British manufacturers, and the exporters of their goods to countries beyond the Cape of Good Hope, a considerable quantity of American grown cotton had been sent to those regions, in the form of manufactures and twist, over and above the amount of Indian grown cotton consumed in the factories of England. This simple fact, which is demonstrated as clearly as figures can speak, completely nullifies the importation of cotton from that quarter. The proportion of raw cotton, other than the produce of the United States and India, used in the manufactures of Great Britain, is very small, and constantly diminishing in quantity. After producing statistical evidence, Mr. Lee arrives at the satisfactory result that the consumption of cotton from the United States and India, is as ninety-four to one hundred, leaving, for all other sources of supply, only six per cent. With such a ratio as this, and the competition constantly declining, it is manifest that we have nothing to fear from rival producers. The delicate enquiry now arises, can the American planter sustain himself under existing prices? Or, can he, by the exercise of better economy, make his labors more productive? It seems to me, if it will not be presuming too far to offer the suggestion, that there should be an understanding between the larger and more intelligent planters, in relation to these points, and that they should, for their own individual and collective interests, consider, whether it would not be better partially to restrain the cultivation of this staple, rather than permit it to increase beyond the known and certain demands of commerce. The question increases in importance, as the cotton growing region enlarges, by the admission of "the lone star" into the constellation of Freedom. While it secures to the United States forever almost the entire monopoly of production, it puts it in her power, by a judicious combination among her great producers, to command a fair compensating price for cotton. Without some such combination, or, which is equivalent to the same thing, a prevailing disposition on the part of the planters, rather to wait for a demand than to anticipate, or endeavor to create it, there will always be a surplus stock in the market, which, however insignificant, will affect the price of the whole crop. The luxuriant soil of Louisiana is capable of of producing many articles even more lucrative than cotton, of which there is no immediate danger of creating an over supply. For some of them, there is a very large and increasing home consumption, as well as an active demand in other parts of the world that are open to our commerce. Of sugar, I have spoken already. Madder, silk, hemp, tobacco, may also be mentioned, as promising sure results to any who are disposed to try them. Under the impression that, in view of what I have already presented, the subject will be interesting to my readers, I shall venture to add a few words in relation to some of the above-mentioned articles. Madder,[3] (_rubia tinctorum_,) the roots of a plant, which consist of several varieties. They are long and slender; varying from the thickness of a goose quill, to that of the little finger. They are semi-transparent, of a reddish color, have a strong smell, and a smooth bark. Madder is very extensively used in dying red; and, though the color which it imparts be less bright and beautiful than that of cochineal, it has the advantage of being cheaper and more durable. It is a native of the south of Europe, Asia Minor, and India; but has long since been introduced into, and successfully cultivated in Holland, Alsace, Provence, &c. The attempt to cultivate it in England, like that of Indian corn, has proved a complete failure. The English, for a long time, depended upon Holland for their supplies; but now large quantities are imported from France and Turkey, under a duty of two shillings sterling on the manufactured, and sixpence on the roots. The duties, formerly, were much higher. The plant is raised from seed, and requires three years to come to maturity. It is, however, often pulled in eighteen months, without injury to the quality, the quantity only being smaller. It requires a light vegetable mould, that retains the greatest quantity of water and adheres the least to the tools. When the soil is impregnated with an alkaline matter, the root acquires a red color, in other cases it is yellow. The latter is preferred in England, from the long habit of using Dutch madder, which is of this color; but in France, the red sells at a higher price, being used for Turkey red die. The Zealand or Dutch madder is prepared for market in a manufactured state; and is known in trade by the terms, _mull_, _gamene_, _ombro_, and _crops_. In some other countries, the roots are packed up promiscuously, and the article is sold by the quintal. The price of madder, like every thing else, is affected by the quantity in market, and ranges in France from its minimum 22, to 100 francs a quintal. It does not deteriorate by age. The quantity used in this country is very considerable--but nothing equal to that required in Great Britain. For the particular manner of cultivating madder, the reader is referred to an excellent essay upon that subject, from the pen of M. De Casparin, which was laid before the Academy of Sciences at Paris, and a prize awarded to its author. The _mulberry_ is grown with little difficulty in these latitudes, and therefore, silk may be produced in abundance, and rendered an article of domestic and commercial consequence. Plantations have already been commenced in several of the parishes, which will soon test the feasibility of the undertaking. A gentleman by the name of Vasseur, recently from France, has purchased land and made preparations to enter into that business, under many years of experience. In the parish of St. James, particularly, considerable attention is being paid to the culture of silk. It would be extremely gratifying to be able to lay the result of these experiments before the reader; but the necessary information is not at hand. _Hemp_ is raised in Missouri and Kentucky to some extent, as the quantities annually landed on the levee in New Orleans afford ample evidence. The demand for it will be good for many years, and the hint should not be neglected by the citizens of Louisiana, who possess the higher grounds, which are calculated for its production. When it is considered that this is a raw material of vast demand, which has heretofore been furnished from abroad, there can scarcely be any excuse for neglecting the culture, provided the profits be equal to those on sugar and cotton. The time may come, when even foreign nations will look to this republic for cordage and duck; at all events, we should not depend upon them for articles necessary for domestic purposes, and especially for those which may with propriety be classed "among the sinews of war." Specimens of _tobacco_, the produce of seed imported from Cuba, have been exhibited in this market, which are very little, if any, inferior to the best from that island. These samples were raised by a gentleman who resides near Jackson, who took no extraordinary pains in the cultivation. The segars manufactured from them would pass, among good judges, for the best Havana. This planter is of opinion that he can very much improve the crops, by bestowing as much care upon them as is given to the same pursuit in Cuba, and there can be little reason to question his assertion. The Natchitoches tobacco stands higher abroad, particularly for snuff, than any other. This article is so well known in France, and many other places, that those who are engaged in planting it, boast that it requires no protective duties, as it will be quite able to take care of itself. The only drawback upon the cultivation of tobacco, in this state, is the worm, which begins its depredations in early summer. But much loss by this annoyance might be avoided, by forcing the plants in their early stage, in a hot-house, so that they might sooner be brought to maturity, and two clippings be made before the advent of the worm. The thin soil on lake Pontchartrain is found to be well adapted to the _vine_. Already, considerable progress has been made in its cultivation in that neighborhood, and grapes are abundantly furnished for the New Orleans market. There is no doubt that wine might be produced in abundance. _Indigo_, one of the oldest products of this state, has been superseded by the sugar cane. Whether the planter has found more advantage in the latter than in the former cultivation, can only be inferred from his continuing to pursue it; for the maxim, that trade will regulate itself, is nearly as applicable to agriculture as to commerce. _Grazing_, although it has been carried to a great extent in Attakapas and Opelousas, has never proved so lucrative as might be supposed. Many of the cattle perish there during winter, for the want of proper nourishment. There is a grass, however, known by the name of _muskeet_, an ever-green, which flourishes abundantly in Texas, spreads rapidly, is exceedingly nutritious, and much sought for by animals, and might easily be introduced into these prairies. This improvement would make this section of country the best for grazing in the United States. More attention is being paid to breeding cattle, and the improvement of stock, than formerly. Sheep may be raised among the hills, in and about Natchitoches, in almost any numbers. In Lafourche, also, although they are of small size, they are fat and of fine flavor. This is a business which is yet in its infancy here. The capabilities for its extension are immense, and there is no doubt that the enterprise of the inhabitants will soon find means to make it profitable. The mutton of this state is already superior to any produced in the Union; good judges in these matters have even pronounced it to be equal to the best English. The minerals of Louisiana, so far as known, are very limited. Lead has only been found in fragments; and none of these have proved to be rich. Valuable beds of gypseous marl exist in the vicinity of the Wachita, which admit of being worked to great advantage. Lignite coal has been discovered in tertiary formations, which never present any article of this kind beyond an ordinary quality, the better being always confined to the secondary strata. On the lands north of lake Pontchartrain, clay exists of an excellent quality and very pure, suitable for manufacturing not only the best bricks, but pottery of all kinds. It is to be hoped that this will remedy the great evil that New Orleans has hitherto experienced, by the use of a bad material for buildings. This has arisen from the employment of a substance too near the surface of the earth; whereas, by going a little deeper, a prime clay is obtained, that would bid defiance, when well burnt, to the humidity peculiar to this southern atmosphere. FOOTNOTES: [1] Many of the preceding statements are the result of an extensive personal observation; for others, the work is indebted to McCulloch, a compilation of considerable value, but, unfortunately, not always to be relied on as authority. In some points, he is glaringly incorrect. [2] The new constitution of Louisiana prescribes that the legislature shall establish free schools throughout the state, appoint a superintendent of education, and provide means for defraying the expense by taxation. The proceeds from the sale of all public lands granted by the United States, the estates of deceased persons escheating to the state, as well as certain other named emoluments, are to remain a perpetual fund, sacredly to be applied to the support of such schools. A provision is also to be made for establishing a college in the city of New Orleans, to be called _the University of Louisiana_, to consist of four faculties, viz. law, medicine, the natural sciences and letters--of which the Medical College of Louisiana, as now organized, is to constitute the faculty of medicine. The legislature is to be under no obligations to contribute to the support of this institution by appropriations. [3] For many satisfactory particulars, see McCulloch's Commercial Dictionary, under article _Madder_. NEW ORLEANS [Illustration: Mouth of the Mississippi] New Orleans, the capital of Louisiana, stands on the right side of the Mississippi, in ascending, ninety-two miles from its mouth. The river here makes a considerable bend to the northeast, and the city occupies the northwestern side, although its situation is east of the general course of the stream. It is in latitude 29° 57' north, longitude 90° 8' west; by the river 301 miles below Natchez; 1220 miles below St. Louis; 1040 below Cairo, at the mouth of the Ohio; 2004 below Pittsburgh; and 1244 south-west from Washington city. In 1718, Bienville, then governor of the province, explored the banks of the Mississippi, in order to choose a spot for the chief settlement, which had hitherto been at Biloxi. He selected the present site, and left fifty men to clear the ground, and erect the necessary buildings. Much opposition was made, both by the military and the directors of the Western Company, to removing the seat of government to this place. Another obstacle, for a while, threatened almost insurmountable difficulties to his design. In 1719, the Mississippi rose to an extraordinary height; and, as the company did not possess sufficient force to protect the spot from inundation, by dykes and levees, it was for a time abandoned. In the November of 1722, however, in pursuance of orders, Delorme removed the principal establishment to New Orleans. In the following year, agreeably to Charlevoix, it consisted only of one hundred cabins, placed with little order, a large wooden warehouse, two or three dwelling-houses, and a miserable store-house, which had been used as a chapel, a mere shed being then the only accommodation afforded for a house of prayer. The population did not exceed two hundred. Thus commenced what is now called the "Crescent City;" which, in a commercial point of view, and in proportion to the number of its inhabitants, has not an equal upon the face of the globe. During the same year, a party of German emigrants, who had been disappointed by the financier, Law, of settling on lands granted to him in Arkansas, descended the river to New Orleans, in the hope of obtaining passage to France; but the government being either unwilling or unable to grant it, small allotments of land were apportioned them, on what is now called the German Coast. These people supplied the city with garden stuffs; and most of their descendants, with large accessions from the old country, still cultivate the same land, upon a much improved scale. In September of this year, the capital was visited by a terrible hurricane, which levelled to the ground the church, if such it might be called, the hospital, and thirty houses; and three vessels that lay in the river were driven ashore. So destructive was it to the crops and gardens, that a scarcity of provisions was the consequence; and such was the distress, that several of the inhabitants seriously thought of abandoning the colony. In the summer of 1727, the Jesuits and Ursuline nuns arrived. The fathers were placed on a tract of land now forming the lowest part of the fauxbourg St. Mary. The nuns were temporarily lodged in a house in the corner of Chartres and Bienville streets--but, soon after, the company laid the foundation of the edifice in Conde and Ursuline streets, to which they were removed in 1730; this place was occupied by them until the great value of the land induced them to divide the larger portion of it into lots. Their new convent was erected about two miles below the city, and there they removed in 1824. At this period, the council house and jail were built, on the upper side of the Cathedral. In 1763, Clement XIII expelled the Jesuits from the dominions of the kings of France, Spain and Naples. They were, consequently, obliged to leave Louisiana. Their property in New Orleans was seized, and sold for about one hundred and eighty thousand dollars. It is now estimated to be worth upwards of fifteen millions. At the time of the expulsion of this order, they owned the grounds which are now occupied by the second municipality. The valuable buildings in which they dwelt, were situated in Gravier and Magazine streets. Some of them were pulled down to make room for the late banking house of the Canal bank, on the corner of those streets. It is computed, that more than one half of the real estate in this city, is derived from the confiscation of the property of the Jesuits, under legal proceedings had by order of the French government. The archives of the first municipality contain many interesting and curious documents in relation to these proceedings, that are well worth examination. The first visitation of the yellow fever was in 1769. Since that time it has continued to be almost an annual scourge. It was introduced into this continent, in the above named year, _by a British vessel_, from the coast of Africa, _with a cargo of slaves_. In addition to this affliction, (the yellow fever above alluded to,) the colony was, during the year 1769, transferred to Spain, and the capital was taken possession of by O'Reilly, with a show of military power, and an individual disposition to oppress, that brought equal disgrace upon himself, and upon the government that commissioned him. The commerce of this city suffered very much from the restrictive colonial system of Spain. This, however, was removed in 1778, (a year memorable for a fire that burnt nine hundred houses at one time) and, in 1782, the mercantile interest of the place was benefited by still further extended privileges of trade. The census of 1785 gives to the city a population of 4,780, exclusive of the settlements in the immediate vicinity. In consequence of the commercial advantages above alluded to, a number of merchants from France established themselves here, and British trading vessels navigated the Mississippi. They were a species of marine pedlars, stopping to trade at any house, by making fast to a tree, and receiving in payment for merchandise, whatever the planter had to spare, or giving him long credits. The Americans, at that time, commenced the establishment of that trade from the west to New Orleans, which has been steadily increasing ever since. The idea of this traffic was first conceived by General Wilkinson. A lucrative business was also conducted by the Philadelphians, which the colonial authorities winked at for a while; but the Spanish minister, finding that he did not participate in the profits of it, as the Americans refused to comply with his hints to consign to his friends, put a stop to it. He procured a list of the names of the vessels, severely reprimanded the intendant, Navarro, and so worked upon his fears that he began to prosecute all infringements of the revenue laws, seizing the vessels, confiscating the goods and imprisoning the owners, captains and crews. The venal minister, perceiving that he had rendered himself extremely unpopular by his intermeddling with the commerce between Philadelphia and New Orleans, finally released all the individuals he had imprisoned, restoring the confiscated property, and discontinuing any further interference. The trade immediately received a new impulse and was greatly increased. General Wilkinson at the same time obtained permission to send one or more launches loaded with tobacco, from Kentucky. Soon after, many Americans availed themselves of a privilege which was granted, of settling in the country. The first company of French comedians arrived here in 1791. They came from Cape Francois, whence they made their escape from the revolted slaves. Others from the same quarter opened academies--the education of youth having hitherto been confined to the priests and nuns. The baron Carondelet, in 1792, divided the city into four wards. He recommended lighting it, and employing watchmen. The revenue did not amount to seven thousand dollars, and to meet the charges for the purchase of lamps and oil, and to to pay watchmen, a tax of one dollar and an eighth was levied upon chimneys. He also commenced new fortifications around the capital. A fort was erected where the mint now stands, and another at the foot of Canal street. A strong redoubt was built in Rampart street, and at each of the angles of the now city proper. The Baron also paid some attention to training the militia. In the city, there were four companies of volunteers, one of artillery, and two of riflemen, consisting of one hundred men each, making an aggregate force of 700 men. A great extension was given to business in February of this year. The inhabitants were now permitted to trade freely in Europe and America, wherever Spain had formed treaties for the regulation of commerce. The merchandise thus imported, was subject to a duty of fifteen per cent; and exports to six per cent. With the Peninsula it was free. In 1795 permission was granted by the king to citizens of the United States, during a period of ten years, to deposit merchandise at New Orleans. The succeeding year, the city was visited by another conflagration, which destroyed many houses. This reduced the tax upon chimneys so much, that recourse was had to assessing wheat, bread and meat, to defray the expense of the city light and watch. At the time of the transfer to the United States, the public property consisted of two large brick stores, running from the levee on each side of Main street, (which were burnt in 1822,)--a government house, at the corner of Levee and Toulouse streets, (which also suffered a similar fate in 1826,)--a military hospital, and a powder magazine, on the opposite side of the river, which was abandoned a few years since--an old frame custom house--extensive barracks below those now remaining--five miserable redoubts, a town house, market house, assembly room and prison, a cathedral and presbytery, and a charity hospital. At this memorable era, the grounds which now constitute that thriving portion of the city, known as the second municipality, were mostly used as a plantation. It was the property of a wealthy citizen named Gravier, after whom one of the principal streets that runs through the property has been called. How has the scene changed? At this moment it contains a population of nearly fifty thousand, and has become the centre of the business, and enterprise, and beauty of the city. In 1804 New Orleans was made a port of entry and delivery, and Bayou St. John a port of delivery. The first act of incorporation was granted to the city, by the legislative council of the territory, in 1805, under the style of "the Mayor, Aldermen and inhabitants of the city of New Orleans." The officers were a mayor, recorder, fourteen aldermen, and a treasurer. This year, a branch of the United States bank was established in this capital. The population of the city and suburbs, in 1810, amounted to 24,552; having been trebled in seven years, under the administration of its new government. The prosperity of its trade increased in an equal ratio. At that time, the city extended no further down than Esplanade street, with the exception of here and there a villa scattered along the levee; nor above, further than Canal street, unless occasionally a house occupying a square of ground. A few dwellings had been erected on Canal and Magazine streets, but it was considered to be getting quite into the country, to go beyond the _Polar Star Lodge_, which was at the corner of Camp and Gravier streets. [The progress of this municipality has been greatly increased by the act for the division of the city, passed by the Legislature in 1836, by which the second municipality acquired the exclusive control of its own affairs.] There was not then a paved street in the city. The late Benjamin Morgan, who, some time after, made the first attempt, was looked upon as a visionary. The circumstance which gave an impulse to improvements in the second municipality, was the erection of the American theatre, on Camp street, by James H. Caldwell, Esq., the only access to which, for long a time, was over flat-boat gunwales. This was in 1823-4. He was ridiculed for his folly, and derided as a madman--but time proved his foresight. He was soon followed by a crowd that gave life and energy to that section; and, in a few years, through the enterprise of others of a similar spirit, the suburb of St. Mary has reached to its present advanced state of elegance and prosperity. The block where the Merchants' Exchange has since been built, was then occupied by a row of frail wooden shanties; and the corner of Royal and Custom house streets, where the bank now stands, was tenanted by Scot, who now furnishes food for his hundreds a day directly opposite, and who laid the foundation of his fortune, in the tenement that was removed to make room for the present beautiful edifice. Some of the old Frenchmen in the city proper, who have rarely trusted themselves three squares beyond their favorite cabaret, are very incredulous of the reported progress and improvement in the fauxbourg St. Mary. A few years since, a gentleman of the second municipality asked the old cabaret keeper, who has made himself illustrious and wealthy by vending, to the habitués of the lower market, a drink of his own compounding, called _pig and whistle_--why he did not come up into the fauxbourg St. Mary, and see the buildings?--at the same time describing the St. Charles Exchange, the Theatre, the Verandah, Banks' Arcade, the magnificent stores, &c. The old Frenchman, listened in doubting wonder for some time; at last, however, his faith and his gravity both gave way, and he burst into a laugh, exclaiming, "ah Monsieur B. dat is too much! You von varry funny fellow--I no believe vat you say--its only von grand--vot you call it--vere de mud, de alligator, and de bull frog live?--von grand--grand--mud swamp, vere you say is von grand city, I no believe it!" The city proper is bounded by Canal, Rampart, and Esplanade streets, and on the river by the levee, on which it extended about thirteen hundred yards, and back about seven hundred--in the form of a parallelogram. This portion is traversed by twenty-two streets, forming eighty-four principal and fourteen minor squares. The whole extent of the city, including the incorporated fauxbourgs and Lafayette, is not less than five miles on a line with the river, and running an average of half a mile in width. The houses are chiefly constructed with bricks, except a few ancient and dilapidated dwellings in the heart of the city, and some new ones in the outskirts. Wooden buildings are not permitted to be built, under present regulations, within what are denominated the fire limits. The modern structures, particularly in the second municipality, are generally three and four stories high, and are embellished with handsome and substantial granite or marble fronts. The public buildings are numerous; and many of them will vie with any of the kind in our sister cities. A particular description of these will be found in the ensuing pages. The view of New Orleans from the river, in ascending or descending, is beautiful and imposing--seen from the dome of the St. Charles Exchange, it presents a panorama at once magnificent and surprising. In taking a lounge through the lower part of the city, the stranger finds a difficulty in believing himself to be in an American city. The older buildings are of ancient and foreign construction, and the manners, customs and language are various--the population being composed, in nearly equal proportions, of American, French, Creoles, and Spaniards, together with a large portion of Germans, and a good sprinkling from almost every other nation upon the globe. The Water Works constantly supply the people with water forced from the Mississippi, by the agency of steam, into a reservoir, whence by pipes it is sent all over the city. This water is wholesome and palatable. Gas was introduced into New Orleans, through the enterprise of James H. Caldwell, Esq., in 1834; he having lighted his theatre with it several years previous. The dense part of the city is now lighted by it; and the hotels, stores, shops, and many dwelling-houses within reach, have availed themselves of the advantages it offers. In the summer of 1844, a fire destroyed about seven blocks of buildings between Common and Canal streets, near the charity Hospital. The ground has since been occupied with much better buildings, and presents a very improved appearance. The population of New Orleans, after it was ceded to the United States, increased very rapidly. At the time of the transfer, there were not eight thousand inhabitants, and, at the present period, there are probably one hundred and thirty thousand. During 1844 there were more buildings erected than any previous year--notwithstanding which, tenements are in great demand, and rents continue high. It will not be a matter of surprise, if the number of inhabitants at the next census, 1850, should be over one hundred and sixty thousand. _Blacks._ _Whites._ _Total._ In 1810 8001 16,551 24,552 1815 ---- ---- 32,947 1820 19,737 21,614 41,350 1825 ---- ---- 45,336 1830 21,280 28,530 49,826 1840 ---- ---- 102,191 The first ordinance for the establishment of a board of health in this city, (so far as known,) was passed by the general council in June, of 1841.[4] The board consisted of nine members--three aldermen, three physicians, and three private citizens. It was invested with ample powers to adopt and enforce such sanitary regulations as were thought conducive to the health of the city. This board performed all its functions well during the first year of its existence. The second year there was a falling off; but a dissolution did not take place till 1843. In 1844, the board of health having ceased to officiate, the general council invited the medico-chirurgical society to take charge of this duty. This proposition was accepted, and a committee of nine members appointed, with full power to act as a board of health. If this body do their duty, as there is no reason to doubt they will, much benefit may be expected to result. Their advice to citizens, and strangers who were unaclimated, on the approach of the warm weather of 1844, was certainly marked with a great degree of good sense and seasonable caution. They will now be looked up to as the great conservators of the health of the city; and, it is to be hoped that public expectation will not be disappointed. The following abstract of a Meteorological Journal for 1844 was obligingly furnished by D. T. Lillie, Esq., of New Orleans, a gentleman, whose scientific acquirements are a sure guaranty for its accuracy. The thermometer (a self registering one) used for these observations, is not attached to the barometer, and is placed in a fair exposure. Hours of observation, 8 A. M., 2 P. M., and 8 P. M. The barometer is located at an elevation of 28 feet above the level of the ocean; and is suspended clear of the wall of the building. The rain gauge is graduated to the thousandth part of an inch, and the receiver of it is elevated 40 feet from the ground. METEOROLOGICAL TABLE. Thermometer. Barometer. -------------------------- ------------------------ 1844. Max. Min. Range, Max. Min. Range, 0 tenths 0 tenths 0 tenths 0 hund. 0 hund. 0 hund. Months. | | | | | | | | | | | | January, 79.5 36.5 43.0 30.38 29.73 0.65 February, 81.0 40.0 41.0 30.40 29.91 0.49 March, 83.0 38.0 45.0 30.40 29.83 0.57 April, 85.0 40.0 45.0 30.46 29.98 0.48 May, 88.5 66.0 22.5 30.31 29.83 0.48 June, 91.0 69.0 22.0 30.18 30.03 0.15 July, 92.5 73.0 19.5 30.22 30.01 0.21 August, 92.5 69.0 23.5 30.26 29.93 0.33 September, 91.5 61.0 30.5 30.23 29.95 0.28 October, 85.5 46.0 39.5 30.31 29.89 0.42 November, 74.0 40.0 34.0 30.34 29.94 0.40 December, 74.5 32.5 42.0 30.44 29.83 0.61 Ann'l Mean, 84.9 50.9 33.9 30.33 29.90 0.42 1844. Rainy days. Prevailing Force of Winds, Quan. of Rain. | Winds. ratio 1 to 10. -------------- Months. | | | Inches. Thousands. | | | | | January, 11 S. E. 2.4 4 966 February, 5 S. E. 2.4 0 879 March, 9 N. W. 3.0 3 031 April, 3 S. E. 2.5 1 797 May, 9 S. W. 2.7 4 847 June, 12 S. 2.3 5 789 July, 16 S. W. 2.2 9 801 August, 14 S. W. 2.4 5 199 September, 8 E. 2.5 1 080 October, 4 N. E. 2.5 2 180 November, 9 N. 2.2 7 754 December, 4 N. 2.4 1 077 Ann'l Mean, 104 2.5 48 400 Annual range of the thermometer 60 degrees 0 minutes--of the barometer 00. degrees 73 hundreths. Society, as at present constituted in New Orleans, has very little resemblance to that of any other city in the Union. It is made up of a heterogeneous mixture of almost all nations. First, and foremost, is the Creole population. All who are born here, come under this designation, without reference to the birth place of their parents. They form the foundation, on which the superstructure of what is termed "society," is erected. They are remarkably exclusive in their intercourse with others, and, with strangers, enter into business arrangements with extreme caution. They were once, and very properly, considered as the patricians of the land. But they are not more distinguished for their exclusiveness, and pride of family, than for their habits of punctuality, temperance, and good faith. Till about the commencement of the present century, the period of the transfer of Louisiana to the United States, the Creoles were almost entirely of French and Spanish parentage. Now, the industrious Germans, the shrewd and persevering Irishmen, are beginning to be quite numerous, and many of them have advanced to a condition of wealth and respectability. Next come the emigrants from the sister States, from the mighty west, from the older sections of the south, and (last not least) from the colder regions of the north, the enterprising, calculating, hardy Yankee. To the latter class this emporium is indebted, for many of those vast improvements which, as if by magic, have risen to the astonishment and confusion of those of the ancient regime, who live in a kind of seclusion within the limits of the _city proper_--to whom beautiful and extensive blocks of buildings have appeared in the morning, as though they had sprung up by enchantment during the night. Then come the nondescript watermen. Our river steam navigation, averaging, during half the year, some three hundred arrivals per month, furnishes a class of ten thousand men, who have few if any parallels in the world. The numberless flat-boats that throng the levees for an immense distance, are peopled and managed by an amphibious race of human beings, whose mode of living is much like that of the alligator, with whom they ironically claim relationship, but who carry under their rough exterior and uncouth manners, a heart as generous and noble, as beats in any human breast. They are the children of the Mississippi, as the Arabs are of the great desert, and, like them, accustomed to encounter danger in every shape. Combining all the most striking peculiarities of the common sailor, the whaleman, the backwoodsman, and the Yankee, without imitating, or particularly resembling any one of them, they are a class entirely by themselves, unique, eccentric, original, a distinct and unmistakeable feature in the floating mass that swarms on the levees, and threads the streets, of the Crescent City. Among them may be found the representatives of nearly all the states. Some are descendants of the Pilgrims, and have carried with them the industrious habits, and the strict moral principles, of their Puritan forefathers, into the wilds of the West. They are all active, enterprising, fearless, shrewd, independent, and self-sufficient, and often aspiring and ambitious, as our halls of legislation, and our highest business circles can testify. They are just the stuff to lay the broad foundations of freedom in a new country--able to clear the forest, and till the soil, in time of peace, to defend it in war, and to govern it at all times. Of the one hundred and thirty thousand souls, who now occupy this capital, about twenty thousand may be estimated as migratory. These are principally males, engaged in the various departments of business. Some of them have families at the North, where they pass the summer. Many are bachelors, who have no home for one half the year, and, if the poets are to be believed, less than half a home for the remainder. As these two classes of migratory citizens, who live at the hotels and boarding houses, embrace nearly, if not quite, one half the business men of the city, it may serve to some extent, to account for the seemingly severe restrictions by which the avenues to good native society are protected. Unexceptionable character, certified beyond mistake, is the only passport to the domestic circle of the Creole. With such credentials their hospitality knows no limits. The resident Americans are less suspicious in admitting you to their hospitality, though not more liberal than their Creole neighbors, when once their confidence is secured. The restrictions thus thrown around society, and the great difficulty which the new comer experiences in securing a share in those social enjoyments to which he has been accustomed in other places, have had an unfavorable effect upon the morals of the place. Having no other resource for pastime, when the hours of business are over, he flies to such public entertainments as the city affords. And if these are not always what they should be, it behooves us to provide better. Public libraries, reading rooms, galleries for the exhibition of the fine arts, lyceums for lectures, and other kindred rational amusements, would do much to establish a new and better order, and to break down those artificial barriers, which separate so many refined and pure minded men from the pleasures and advantages of general society, condemning them to live alone and secluded, in the midst of all that is lovely and attractive in the social relations of life. The character of New Orleans, in respect to health, has been much and unjustly abused. At the north, in ratio to their population, the consumption annually destroys more than the yellow fever of the south. The city of New York averages about thirty a week. Patients with pulmonary complaints, resort to these latitudes for relief, where such diseases are otherwise rarely known. In truth, this capital shows a more favorable bill of mortality, than any seaport town in the United States, except Charleston and Baltimore. There is little to be said in favor of the morals of New Orleans, during the first few years after its cession. Report made them much worse than they were. As the community was composed of some of the worst classes of society, gathered from every region under the sun, nothing very good was to be expected. But circumstances have changed. A system of wholesome police regulations has been introduced and enforced, which has either brought the desperate and the lawless under subjection, or expelled them from the community. By reference to the statistics of crime, in other commercial cities in proportion to the number of inhabitants, the stranger will be convinced that this City has reason to be proud of her standing. Riots here are unknown, robberies seldom occur. Personal security in the public streets, at all hours, is never endangered--and females may venture out after dark, without a protector, and be free from insult and molestation. Foreign influence has entailed upon society here a _code of honor_ which, in some measure, has had a tendency to injure it, but the false notion is fast falling into disrepute. The new state constitution, if adopted, will put an effectual stop to this barbarous practice. Article 130, reads, "Any Citizen of this State who shall, after the adoption of this constitution, fight a duel with deadly weapons, or send a challenge to fight a duel, either within the state, or out of it, or who shall act as second, or knowingly aid and assist in any manner those thus offending, shall be deprived of holding any office of trust or profit, and of enjoying the right of suffrage under this Constitution." The learned professions here, generally, stand preeminently high. The science of medicine may boast of a talent, and a skill, that would confer honor upon any city in the Union--and the few empirics who disgrace the practice, are so well known, that the evil is circumscribed within very narrow limits. The clergy are proverbial for their learning and eloquence--and the same remarks will apply with equal force to the members of the bar. This city, at the present time, possesses no public library. Considering the population, and their ability, this must be regarded as a blot upon the intelligence of its citizens. This is completely a commercial community, however, and money is the universal ambition. Thence springs that acknowledged deficiency in literature and the fine arts, observable to the stranger. But shall it still remain? Is there no Girard--no Astor--among our millionaires, who will leave behind them a monument which shall make their names dearer and more honored in all coming time, than those of heroes and conquerors? After several attempts to establish a library, an association of young men, some years ago, at last succeeded in organizing one; but, for want of proper aid and support from the rich, it lingered on for some time, and was finally sold out by the sheriff! It then consisted of four or five thousand volumes of well selected books. It was purchased by a private gentleman, B. F. French, Esq. for a mere nominal sum. Thus has a work intended for the honor of the city, become, in an evil hour, the monument of its shame! It is soothing however, to learn that, at length, a love of letters and the fine arts is springing up in our midst. Under the head of Lyceums, National Gallery of Paintings, and Public Schools, in this volume, facts illustrative of this assertion may be seen. The Masonic fraternity in New Orleans appear to enjoy all their ancient privileges. There are some ten lodges, besides a grand lodge, and an encampment. Here is a large number of the order of Odd Fellows, as one of Equal Fellows--a Typographical Association, and Mechanics, Hibernian, St. Andrews, German, and Swiss societies. These are all, more or less, of a benevolent nature; and within their own circles, have all been extremely serviceable. The navigation of the Mississippi, even by steam boats, in 1818, was extremely tedious. The Etna is recorded as arriving at Shipping port, a few miles below Louisville, in _thirty two_ days. The Governor Shelby in _twenty two_ days, was considered as a remarkably short passage. An hermaphrodite brig was _seventy one_ days from New Orleans--and a keel boat _one hundred and one_; the latter to Louisville. Now, the time occupied is _five to six_ days. During the business season, which continues from the first of November to July, the levee, for an extent of five miles, is crowded with vessels of all sizes, but more especially ships, from every part of the world--with hundreds of immense floating castles and palaces, called steamboats; and barges and flat-boats innumerable. No place can present a more busy, bustling scene. The loading and unloading of vessels and steamboats--the transportation, by some three thousand drays, of cotton, sugar, tobacco, and the various and extensive produce of the great west, strikes the stranger with wonder and admiration. The levee and piers that range along the whole length of the city, extending back on an average of some two hundred feet, are continually covered with moving merchandise. This was once a pleasant promenade, where the citizen enjoyed his delightful morning and evening walk; but now there is scarcely room, amid hogsheads, bales and boxes, for the business man to crowd along, without a sharp look out for his personal safety. The position of New Orleans, as a vast commercial emporium, is unrivalled--as will be seen by a single glance at the map of the United States. As the depot of the west, and the half-way-house of foreign trade, it is almost impossible to anticipate its future magnitude. Take a view, for instance, of the immense regions known under the name of the Mississippi valley. Its boundaries on the west are the Rocky Mountains, and Mexico; on the south, the Gulf of Mexico; on the east the Alleghany mountains; and, on the north, the lakes and the British possessions. It contains nearly as many square miles, and more tillable ground, than all continental Europe, and, if peopled as densely as England, would sustain a population of five hundred millions--more than half of the present inhabitants of the earth. Its surface is generally cultivable, and its soil rich, with a climate varying to suit all products, for home consumption or a foreign market. The Mississippi is navigable twenty one hundred miles--passing a small portage, three thousand may be achieved. It embraces the productions of many climates, and a mining country abounding in coal, lead, iron and copper ore, all found in veins of wonderful richness. The Missouri stretches thirty nine hundred miles to the Great Falls, among the Flat Foot Indians, and five thousand from New Orleans. The Yellow Stone, navigable for eleven hundred miles, the Platte for sixteen hundred, and the Kanzas for twelve hundred, are only tributaries to the latter river. The Ohio is two thousand miles to Pittsburgh, receiving into her bosom from numerous streams, the products of New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Kentucky, Western Virginia, Tennessee, Indiana and Illinois. The Arkansas, Big Black, Yazoo, Red River, and many others, all pouring their wealth into the main artery, the Mississippi, upon whose mighty current it floats down to the grand reservoir, New Orleans. The Mississippi valley contained over eight millions of inhabitants in 1840, having gained eighty per cent., during the last ten years. The present number cannot be less than ten millions. The last year, the Mississippi was navigated by four hundred and fifty steamboats, many of which are capable of carrying 2,500 bales of cotton, making an aggregate tonnage of ninety thousand. They cost above seven millions of dollars; and to navigate them, required nearly fifteen thousand persons--the estimated expense of their navigation is over thirteen millions of dollars. The increase since, may be calculated at fifty additional boats--which would make an advance in all these items in a ratio of ten per cent. Such statements as these, large as they seem, convey to the reader but a partial idea of the great valley, and of the wide extent of country upon which this city leans, and which guaranties her present and future prosperity. To form a full estimate, he must, besides all this, see her mountains of iron, and her inexhaustible veins of lead and copper ore, and almost boundless regions of coal. The first article mentioned (and the phrase in which it is expressed is no figure of speech) has been pronounced, by the most scientific assayer of France, to be superior to the best Swedish iron. These, and a thousand unenumerated products, beside the well known staples, constitute its wealth; all of which by a necessity of nature, must flow through our Crescent City, to find an outlet into the great world of commerce. With such resources nothing short of some dreadful convulsion of nature, or the more dreadful calamity of war, can prevent New Orleans from becoming, if not the first, next in commercial importance to the first city in the United States--perhaps, in the world. The flourishing towns upon the Mississippi and her tributaries, are merely the depositories for this great mart. In twenty years she must, according to her present increase, contain a population of three hundred thousand, with a trade proportionably extended. With such views, it may be deemed folly to attempt to look forward to the end of the nineteenth century, when this metropolis will in all probability extend back to lake Pontchartrain, and to Carrolton on the course of the river. The swamps, that now only echo to the hoarse bellowing of the alligator, will then be densely built upon, and rendered cheerful by the gay voices of its inhabitants, numbering at least _a million of human beings_. If, like Rip Van Winkle, we may be permitted to come back after the lapse of half a century, with what surprise and astonishment shall we witness the change which the enterprise of man will have wrought. But let us not waste a moment in dreaming about it. Let us be up and doing, to fulfil our part of the mighty achievement. It would not be strange, however, if the present map, which is given to show the rapid growth of the city, by comparison with one drawn in 1728, should then be republished with a similar design, to exhibit the insignificance of New Orleans in 1845! We ask the kindness of the critics of that period, should they deign to turn over these pages, begging them to consider that our humble work was produced as far back as the benighted age of steam! FOOTNOTE: [4] See New Orleans Medical Journal, vol. 1, part 2, July, 1844. PUBLIC BUILDINGS Having noticed, in the preceding sketch, the most prominent features in the history of this interesting section of country, it becomes a duty now to present to the intelligent reader, and more especially to the inquiring traveller, a description of such of the public institutions, buildings, and places of resort, for business and amusement, as may be deemed worthy of his attention. In attaining this object, it was necessary to have recourse to the most carefully digested statements of facts now existing, as well as to collect others from personal inspection. THE UNITED STATES BARRACKS The buildings formerly used for the accommodation of the troops garrisoned in New Orleans, were erected by the French about a century since. These were directed to be sold in 1828, and ten years after were demolished. The act was soon discovered to be an error, and in 1833, the government determined to replace them. A plan was accordingly forwarded to the seat of government and approved. On account of the difficulty of obtaining a suitable site within the incorporated limits, a location was selected, by assistant quarter master Drane, about three miles below the city. The works were begun the 24th of February, 1834, and completed on the 1st of December, 1835, at a cost, including the enclosure of the public grounds, of $182,000. The late Assistant quarter master J. Clark, superintended the operation, aided by Lieutenant J. Wilkinson, who had furnished the plans. The Barracks occupy a parallelogram of about three hundred feet on the river, by nine hundred in depth. The ground in the rear belongs to the general government, to the depth of forty arpents, and can be used for the benefit of the troops. The garrison was intended to consist of four companies of infantry, but ample accommodation exists for a much larger number. The quarters of the commandant occupy the middle of the front; those of the staff and company officers being on either flank. The companies are quartered in a hollow square, which is thrown back far enough to give space for a handsome parade ground. In the rear of these quarters are the hospital, store-house, and corps des garde, and still in rear, and beyond the walls, is the post magazine, as well as other buildings necessary for the comfort and convenience of the troops. In front of the whole is a commodious wharf for the landing of supplies. [Illustration] THE UNITED STATES BRANCH MINT Is situated on what was once called Jackson Square, being nearly the former site of fort St. Charles. It is an edifice of the Ionic order, of brick plastered to imitate granite, having a centre building projecting, with two wings; is strongly built, with very thick walls, and well finished. Our limits will not permit us to go into a detailed description of its interior arrangements; which, however, may be generally spoken of as such as not to discredit the distinguished engineer who planned it. The total length of the edifice is 282 feet, and the depth about 108--the wings being 29 by 81, and the whole three stories in height. It was begun in September, 1835; and the building was perfectly completed at a cost of $182,000. The machinery is elegant and highly finished, and, when in operation, proves an interesting sight to visitors; which, from the gentlemanly urbanity of the officers of the establishment, may be easily enjoyed. The square is surrounded by a neat iron railing on a granite basement. The coinage of 1844--gold, $3,010,000--silver, $1,198,500--making in all $4,208,500. THE CUSTOM HOUSE This establishment is conducted in an old building, quite too small, even if the United States Courts did not occupy a considerable portion of it. The square, in the centre of which it stands, is about 300 feet each on Old Levee, Custom-House, Front-Levee and Canal streets; and, from its peculiarly happy location, is well calculated for public improvement. Considering the great commercial importance of New Orleans, as being scarcely second to any city in the Union, it is a matter of congratulation that the government are now disposed to place her upon a more respectable footing, in regard to offices of this nature; which have been furnished in a princely style to some of the sea-ports that had less need of them. The immense revenue that flows into the treasury department here, demands a suitable edifice for the transaction of the business it creates. The site is the most eligible that can be imagined. The Post-Office, United States Courts, and warehouses for the storage of bonded merchandise, can all have ample accommodation within its limits; and a more desirable location for them cannot be found. An appropriation of $500 was made at the last session of Congress, to secure a suitable plan for the buildings to cover this spot. The plan has been prepared by Mr. Gallier, and is highly approved by those who have examined it. It is to be hoped there will be no unnecessary delay in completing a work, in which the public convenience and economy, as well the accommodation of the mercantile community, is so deeply interested. If Mr. Gallier's plan is adopted, all the above departments will be clustered together in one central spot, with ample room for each, and in a structure that will be at the same time a durable ornament to the city, and an honor to the nation. THE POST OFFICE Is located in the Merchants' Exchange. It has two business fronts, besides a passage way through the building, where letters and packages are received for mailing. The private boxes have their delivery here, where also the publishers of newspapers receive their exchanges and communications. The general delivery for English letters is in Exchange Place, those for letters in the foreign languages, and for the ladies, are on Royal street. The edifice seems to answer the purpose well; and, considering the extent of the establishment, the duties of the office have been managed much to the satisfaction of the public. But we look for something more worthy of the place, when the new Custom House shall rear its noble front to the _father of rivers_. THE STATE HOUSE Formerly the Charity Hospital, and purchased by the state in 1834, is a plain structure, composed of a centre and two detached wings; and is finely situated on the square enclosed by Canal, Baronne, Common and Philippa streets. The main entrance to the square, which is laid off as a pleasure ground, and well kept, is from Canal street. The principal building is occupied by chambers for the senate, and the house--that for the latter being recently constructed. There are also suitable rooms for the different clerks, and offices required by the public business. The chamber for the house of representatives is handsome, but, like some others in more conspicuous places, badly adapted to public speaking. In the right wing of the building is the office of the adjutant general of Louisiana; it is also used as a temporary armory, until the law for the erection of a new one is carried into execution. The left room is occupied by offices for the governor, secretary of state, state treasurer, and civil engineer. The whole was built in 1815. It is in contemplation to erect an edifice more worthy of the state, but when this will be done, or where located, is as yet undetermined. It will probably not be within the precincts of our city, as the late convention provides that the Legislature shall not hold its sessions hereafter within sixty miles of New Orleans. It is doubtless intended that the public servants shall do more work, and less eating, drinking and carousing, than they have heretofore done. [Illustration: THE CATHEDRAL] THE CATHEDRAL Or _Church of St. Louis_, is the principal and centre of three buildings which stand on Chartres street, immediately opposite to the _Place d'Armes_, or Parade Ground. This edifice forcibly strikes the stranger by its venerable and antique appearance. There is perhaps, none in the Union which is on this account more impressive. The foundation of the building was laid in 1792, and it was, to a certain extent, completed in 1794, at the expense of Don Andre Almonaster, perpetual regidor, and Alvarez Real. The architecture of the Cathedral is by no means pure, but is not wanting in effect on this account. The lower story is of the rustic order, flanked at each of the front angles by hexagonal towers, projecting one half of their diameter, showing below Tuscan antes at each angle, and above pilastres of plain mason-work, in the same style, with antique wreaths on the frieze of the entablatures. These towers are crowned by low spires, erected after Latrobe's designs, about 1814. The grand entrance to the Cathedral is in the middle of the front, being a semi-circular arched door, with two clustered Tuscan columns on either side. This entrance is flanked by two smaller doors, similar to the principal one. The second story of the front has the same general appearance, as to the number of columns &c. as the lower one, but is of the Roman Doric order. Above, and corresponding to the main entrance, is a circular window, with niches on either side, above the flanking doors below. On the apex of the pediment of this story rises the chief turret, being in the Tuscan style, and in two parts--the lower being square, about twenty feet in height, with circular apertures on each side; the upper hexagonal, having a belfry, with apertures at the sides for letting out the sound, flanked by antes. The proportions of the order are not observed in this belfry, which was erected about 1824, by Le Riche. The Cathedral has a tenure, to speak in legal phrase, of every Saturday evening offering masses for the soul of its founder, Don Andre. The requirement is faithfully observed, for as the day returns, at set of sun, the mournful sound of the tolling bell recalls the memory of the departed. This building is almost inseparably connected, in the minds of the old residents, with the memory of the venerable Pere Antonio de Sedella, curate of the parish for nearly fifty years. This excellent old man, adored for his universal benevolence, came to Louisiana, then a province, in 1779, and is supposed to have performed nearly one half of the marriage and funeral ceremonies of its inhabitants, until the period of his death, at the ripe age of nearly ninety years, in 1837. This venerated relic of by gone days lies buried at the foot of the altar. [Illustration: ST. PATRICK'S CHURCH] ST. PATRICK'S CHURCH Is situated in Camp street, near Lafayette square. The design is a triumph worthy of the genius of Gothic architecture, whether the dimensions, or the splendor of the structure be considered. The measurement is 93 feet by 164 on the ground; and from the side walk to the summit of the tower, 190. The style is taken from the famous York Minster Cathedral, and executed agreeably to the designs of Messrs. Dakin & Dakin, which were adopted by the trustees of the church. It surpasses every attempt at a similar order on this side of the Atlantic, and when completed, may proudly challenge comparison with any modern parochial edifice in Europe. It cost about $100,000. ST. AUGUSTINE CHURCH This structure, erected in 1841, stands on St. Claude street, corner of Bayou road. It is about 50 feet front by 90 deep. The architect, Mr. Depouilly, has displayed an excellent taste in its construction. The style is of a mixed order, but extremely neat--and in such good keeping, that the interior has the appearance of being much smaller than it actually measures. The decorations are worthy of the sacredness of the place. The colored glass of the windows throws a beautiful mellowed light across the aisles, producing a chastened effect suited to the solemnity of the place. Immediately over the altar is a full length painting of the tutelar saint, which is executed with the bold hand of a master. At the right of this is the Virgin Mary, little inferior to the first, but finished with much greater delicacy of touch. Our Saviour is conspicuously represented in the ceiling, over the centre--around which, on the gallery below, and between the windows, are portraits of the saints, arranged in the panel-work. Take this church altogether, it is one of the neatest houses of devotion in this city. ST. ANTOINE'S, OR THE MORTUARY CHAPEL On account of the great increase in the population of the city, and consequent greater number of interments, objection was made, about the year 1822, to the performance of services for the dead in the Cathedral, it being in a very prominent and public situation. Under these circumstances, the city made a grant of a piece of land at the corner of Conti and Rampart streets, to the foundation of the Church of St. Louis, on condition of their erecting upon the same, a chapel, as a place for the performance of the funeral ceremonies, in conformity to the catholic ritual. In pursuance of this intention, a cross, marking the present site of the altar of the chapel, was placed there with proper ceremonies, on the 10th of October, 1826, and on the following morning the building was begun. Its erection was prosecuted at the expense of the catholic foundation, and completed within a year after its commencement, at a cost of about $16,000. It is a plain but very neat edifice, of the Gothic composite order; and was dedicated to the most holy St. Antony of Padua, as its guardian. All funeral ceremonies of catholics are performed there. [Illustration: CHAPEL OF THE URSULINES] THE CHAPEL OF THE URSULINES An edifice strongly characteristic of our city, and well calculated to cause reflection on the many and sudden changes of dynasty to which New Orleans has been subjected. This building, of a quaint old style of architecture, was erected, according to a Spanish inscription on a marble tablet in the middle of the façade, in 1787, during the reign of Carlos III, (Don Estevan Miro being governor of the province,) by Don Andre Almonaster Y Roxas. It is exceedingly plain and unpretending in its exterior, and chiefly interesting from its associations, and extremely antiquated appearance. [Illustration: CHRIST CHURCH, (EPISCOPAL.)] CHRIST CHURCH, (EPISCOPAL) A fine Ionic building, situated on Canal, at the corner of Bourbon street, was designed by Gallier and Dakin, architects, and its erection begun in the autumn of 1835, under the direction of Mr. D. H. Toogood. It was completed in the summer of 1837, and consecrated during the same year. The cost of the edifice was about $70,000. The form of the ceiling, being a flat dome, is much admired. The Rev. Dr. Hawkes is pastor of this church. ST. PAUL'S CHURCH, (EPISCOPAL) This is a neat frame structure, located on the corner of Camp and Bartholomew streets. The Rev. Mr. Goodrich officiates in this church. THE ANNUNCIATION CHURCH, (EPISCOPAL) Is to occupy a conspicuous place near Annunciation Square. The location was selected with good taste, both in regard to the beauty of the position, and to the great improvements of the neighborhood. The church is to be placed under the pastoral charge of the Rev. Mr. Prescot. [Illustration: THE FIRST PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH] THE FIRST PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH Is an edifice of the Grecian Doric order, finely situated, fronting on Lafayette square--the handsomest public ground in the city. The basement story is of granite; the superstructure being brick, plastered to imitate stone. The building was commenced in November, 1834, and opened for public worship in July, of the following year. It was finished by subscription, at a cost of $55,000. In 1844, this building was considerably enlarged. In the court, in front, a neat obelisk has been erected, as a monument to the memory of the Rev. Sylvester Larned, first Presbyterian pastor of this city, who died 31st August, 1820, at the early age of 24, much and deservedly regretted. Rev. Mr. Scott, is the present pastor. THE SECOND PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH This is a plain and unpretending structure, on the corner of Calliope and Phytanee streets; and like its near neighbor, St. Paul's, evidently erected more for utility than for external display. It is a neat frame building, with only sufficient ornament to give to it the appearance of a place of public worship. Rev. Mr. Stanton is the pastor. THE FIRST CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH Is an edifice of brick, in the plain Gothic style of architecture. It was erected in 1817, on St. Charles street at the corner of Gravier, where formerly stood the store-houses of the Jesuits, and upon a part of the foundations of those buildings. Rev. Mr. Clapp, is the pastor. [Illustration: THE METHODIST EPISCOPAL CHURCH] THE METHODIST EPISCOPAL CHURCH At the corner of Poydras and Carondelet streets, is of the Grecian Doric order, the details of which are copied from the temple of Theseus, at Athens. The height of the steeple is 170 feet from the side walk. This edifice was erected in the year 1836-7, by Messrs. Dakin, and Dakin, architects, at an expense of $50,000. Rev. Mr. Nicholson officiating as pastor. THE FIRST BAPTIST CHURCH Is under the pastoral care of Rev. Mr. Hinton. WESLEYAN CHAPEL This is a plain frame building, on St. Paul near Poydras street, and is devoted to the colored portion of the community. THE OLD URSULINE CONVENT Situated in Conde street, was completed by the French government, in 1733; and is therefore, probably, the most ancient edifice in Louisiana. The architecture is plain, being Tuscan composite, and the smallness of the windows, and the peculiar form of the roof and chimneys, together with the general venerable and time worn aspect of the building, render it, independent of its history, an object of interest to both citizens and strangers. It was occupied by the Ursuline nuns for nearly a century; and only abandoned by them, when, on account of the great rise in the value of real estate around it, they disposed of a part of their property, and removed, in 1824, to the new convent, two miles below the city. It was then used by the state legislature, as a place for their sessions, until their present accommodations were prepared for their reception, in 1834. Since that period it has been inhabited by the Right Rev. Bishop Blanc, and several other of the higher clergy of the diocess. From its great solidity of construction, there is no reason to doubt but that it may stand many years longer, as a monument of "the olden times." THE NEW CONVENT This richly endowed establishment was founded in 1826, and the chapel was completed in 1829. The main building is about 100 feet long, of brick, two stories high, and has two wings, running from the rear, at each end. It is principally occupied as a seminary for the education of young ladies. The average price for instruction and board is $200 per annum. The number of scholars at present is 120. On a line with this building is the nunnery, containing 40 sisters of the Ursuline order. Annexed to the latter edifice is the chapel, a remarkably neat and plain structure. Immediately in front of the latter building is the residence of the priests. There are eighty acres of land, three of which are enclosed and beautifully embellished. The position is pleasant and healthy. It fronts upon the river, two miles below the city, and embraces a charming view of the Mississippi. THE CARMELITE CONVENT Is a frame building, which stands upon ground adjoining the church of St. Augustine, and is occupied by the nuns of this order. They have an excellent school under their care, divided into two apartments--one of which is appropriated to white and the other to free colored children, many of the latter class, have wealthy parents, and pay a high price for their education. [Illustration: THE CYPRESS GROVE CEMETERY] THE CYPRESS GROVE CEMETERY This resting place for the dead is about four miles from the centre of the city upon the right of the upper Shell Road, that leads to lake Pontchartrain, and occupies a ridge, which is supposed once to have been the embankment of the Mississippi. The plat of ground devoted to the cemetery, measures 244 by 2700 feet. The spot was purchased and improved at an expense of $35,000, by the Firemen's Charitable Association. The revenue that arises from interments is exclusively devoted to benevolent purposes--all the business of the association being conducted by its members without any compensation. The front wall and lodges are built in pure Egyptian style, and cost $8,000. The grounds are divided into avenues, and arranged and embellished with an effect appropriate to the solemn associations of the place. The simple and striking motto over the entrance is selected from Pierpont:-- "Here to thy bosom, mother earth, Take back in peace, what thou hast given; And, all that is of heavenly birth, O God, in peace recall to heaven." Some of the tombs are very richly wrought--and, one in particular, erected by a fire company, a memento to a brother who was killed in the performance of his duty, is a specimen of superior skill and workmanship. The nature of the soil admits graves to be sunk six feet without approaching water. They are laid with brick and securely cemented. The tombs above ground (here called ovens, which they somewhat resemble) are faced with marble, built in the best manner. There are four hundred of them, which cost an average of twenty-five dollars each. These are sold at fifty dollars, and the surplus goes into the funds of the society, for charitable purposes. A central avenue, twenty-eight feet in width, called Live Oak Avenue, traverses the whole length of the ground. Cedar and Magnolia avenues, on either side of this, are each twenty feet wide. Next the outer walls, are those named Cypress and Willow, of eighteen feet each. At a distance of every two hundred feet, are transverse avenues. The spaces between these are reserved for the erection of tombs, and may be purchased at a stipulated price, according to the location. These privileges are sold in fee for ever, and the title is held sacred in the eye of the law. CATHOLIC CEMETERIES Of these there are two. The larger ranges between Robertson and Claiborne, and extends from St. Louis to Canal streets, occupying four full squares. The square on St. Louis street is principally appropriated to natives of France and their descendants. There is a great deal of refined sentiment and delicate fancy in some of their memorials of the departed. Tombs are often embellished with fresh flowers, that look as if they received daily attentions. This is a custom not peculiar to the French, but seems to be the natural language of that refined affection, which cherishes the memory and the virtues of the dead, among the dearest and most sacred treasures of the heart. The smaller of these grounds lies on Basin and St. Louis streets. It presents, like the other, many tasteful monuments, that show us where repose the honored and the wealthy of the land. These necessarily attract the notice of strangers--but there is one among them less conspicuous than the rest, the eloquence of whose simple and touching memorial has rarely been surpassed. It is in the side wall, near the northwest corner of the cemetery, surrounded by many more of a similar construction. There is no display--only a simple record, that tells it is occupied by a female fifteen years of age. Beneath this is quite a plain stone, with the inscription "_Ma pauvre fille!_" What an affecting history in those three brief words! It was undoubtedly placed there by an affectionate mother, deploring the untimely death of a beloved daughter. It contains more pathos, and speaks to the heart with more effect, than volumes of labored eulogy, or frantic grief. The proud mausoleum, and the turgid epitaph, sink into insignificance beside this humble burst of maternal love--"_My poor child!_" Illustrative of the false pride with which the Creole population still, unfortunately, regard the practice of duelling, nearly opposite is the following inscription:-- "_Victime de l'honneur._ Aet. 24." THE PROTESTANT CEMETERY This burial place fronts on St. Paul street, and occupies about two city squares. The inscriptions do not date back beyond 1810. It is a spot, however, where the northern and eastern traveller will often recognize familiar names of those who have found graves far from endeared friends and connexions. There is little of the display here that is observed in other grounds. Tombs that, apparently, were commenced with a resolution to show honor to the departed, have been left without a stone to record the name of the neglected tenant. In one of the side walls, is a tomb stone of plain white marble, with only the words, "MY HUSBAND!" engraven upon it. In this vault were deposited the remains of a distinguished tragedian, who fell a victim to the yellow fever, some years since, in this city. It is a delicate souvenir, that bespeaks the true feeling and affection of a desolate widow. On another is the emphatic inscription, "_Poor Caroline!_" ST. PATRICK'S CEMETERY Is situated within sight of the Cypress Grove Cemetery, and having been but recently commenced, has not yet become an object of much attraction. There is quite a spacious Catholic burying ground near Bayou road, more than a mile back of the city, that seems to have been considerably used, but has few monuments of any interest. Besides these, there is a general burying ground at Lafayette. The Jews have a place of interment, also, in that city. CHARITABLE INSTITUTIONS There is probably no city in the United States that has so many benevolent institutions as New Orleans, in proportion to its population. Certainly it has not an equal in those voluntary contributions, which are sometimes required to answer the immediate calls of distress. Here are assembled a mixed multitude, composed of almost every nation and tongue, from the frozen to the torrid zone, and, whether it be the sympathy of strangers, or the influence of the sunny south, their purses open and their hearts respond, like those of brothers, to the demands of charity. To illustrate these assertions and to carry out the plan of this work, a description of the most prominent of these establishments is annexed. THE FEMALE ORPHAN ASYLUM Stands at the intersection of Camp and Phytanee streets, on an angular lot, widening to the rear on Erato street. It has a northerly front on the junction of the two first named streets, and occupies all the grounds that are contained in this irregular space--the rear, however, being reserved as a site for a church, to be erected at some future period. The land was a liberal donation from Madame Foucher, and her brother, Francis Soulet. Previous to the erection of this building, the establishment was conducted in rented tenements, under the direction of the Sisters of Charity; in whose hands it still continues to present a praiseworthy example of neatness and parental care. It commenced in 1836 with _six_ children; and, in 1839, with great exertions, it accommodated _ninety_. [Illustration] The history of this charity seems to trespass on the region of romance. In its struggle, it received an important impulse from the suggestions of a benevolent lady, Mrs. Pogue. In conversation with a female friend of similar feelings, she remarked, "if a fair could be organized for its benefit, and the opulent induced to patronise it, money might be raised to erect the necessary buildings." That friend told the Bishop; who, taking up the hint, announced it from the pulpit. This led to the call of a meeting--where, instead of a small assemblage, the rooms were crowded with the wealth and beauty of the city. It resulted in the collection of over _sixteen thousand dollars_! Thus, to almost a chance expression from the kind heart of woman, New Orleans is mainly indebted for the prosperity of one of the noblest of her humane institutions. From this moment, the Asylum assumed a firm standing. A suitable house was at once commenced. The second municipality gave a thousand dollars, and the legislature at different periods, twelve thousand dollars. In 1840 the whole was completed, and the children, to the number of about one hundred, took possession. Since that time they have averaged one hundred and forty-five annually. They receive the rudiments of a good education. At a suitable age they are apprenticed to persons of character and responsibility; and a vigilance is continued, that guaranties to them the kind treatment, which their isolated position seems to demand. The edifice, built by D. Hayden, cost over forty-two thousand dollars. Though conducted _with the utmost prudence_, the institution is some twenty-five hundred dollars in debt. In a capital like this, where so many of the citizens have princely revenues, and with them a princely liberality, there is little doubt that arrangements will soon be made to relieve it of this embarrassment. It has now about one hundred and sixty children, of whom over thirty are in the nursery. THE MALE ORPHAN ASYLUM The Society for the Relief of Destitute Orphan Boys have their establishment in Lafayette. It went into operation in 1824, and was incorporated the year after. By a calculation of the first sixteen years, it appears that an average of thirty-five have annually participated in its benefits. Although its title would seem to imply, that orphans only are admitted, yet the board are authorized to receive any boy, whose destitute condition requires their protection. THE POYDRAS FEMALE ORPHAN ASYLUM This is one of the oldest establishments of the kind in New Orleans. It was endowed by Julien Poydras, and possesses an immense revenue from valuable improved real estate. They occupy on Julia, from St. Charles to Carondelet streets, and extend back about two-thirds of an immense square. It has for several years had an average of one hundred and twenty children. The excellent system and regulations, in regard both to instruction and health, will not be disparaged by comparison with the best institutions in the world. Possessing so much property and such beautiful grounds, it is to be regretted that more spacious and comfortable buildings are not erected for the accommodation of the inmates. THE CATHOLIC MALE ORPHAN ASYLUM This institution is supported by an association, and by private donations. The establishment occupies a large building fronting the river, and a few squares above the New Convent. About one hundred and seventy children receive the benefits of this charity. LES DAMES DE LA PROVIDENCE This association was formed in 1839. It consists of about one hundred ladies, who each contribute a certain sum monthly as a charitable fund. Its object is to render aid to the sick, the poor and the infirm. The institution was put into operation by the benevolent French ladies of New Orleans; and, were its resources equal to the kind feelings of its members, it would be rendered a means of alleviating much distress among the sick and destitute. THE SAMARITAN CHARITABLE ASSOCIATION This institution was founded during the epidemic of 1837, for the purpose of alleviating the wants of the poor and the sick. They established an office at that period, where some of the members, day and night, were always in readiness to attend the bed-side of disease, and to administer aid to the indigent. The late mayor, and many of the most wealthy citizens are members; and, in time of need, the association is liberally endowed by the spontaneous donations of the generous public. THE FIREMEN'S CHARITABLE ASSOCIATION Was incorporated in 1835, and managed by a board of directors chosen from each company, subject to certain restrictions. The officers, (a president, vice president, secretary and treasurer,) are elected by the board from members of the association, on the first Monday of January, of each year. The object of this society is the relief of its members, who are incapacitated from attending to business from sickness or misfortunes not arising from improper causes. It makes provision also for the benefit of their families--particularly widows and orphans. This is a very laudable association, and every way deserving of the excellent fire department from which it originated. YOUNG MEN'S HOWARD ASSOCIATION This benevolent institution was established in 1837; and its object is the relief of the indigent and sick. Its resources depend entirely upon public contributions--and appeals for aid have always been responded to with alacrity. During the prevalence of the epidemic of 1841, this society collected and distributed over five thousand dollars among the sufferers on that dreadful occasion. It is a noble charity that waits not for calls upon its benevolence; but its members seek for worthy objects in the hidden recesses of misery, and soothe and administer to their wants, with a brotherly solicitude that does honor to the name they have assumed. THE HEBREW BENEVOLENT SOCIETY Although but a short time in existence, has accomplished much good; diffusing charity, not in mere accordance with sectional prejudices, but in that catholic spirit of genuine benevolence, which freely dispenses its benefits alike upon Jew and Christian, and recognizes but one brotherhood in the family of man. THE MILNE ORPHAN ASYLUM This institution was endowed in 1839, by Alexander Milne, a liberal Scotch gentleman, from whom it takes its name. It was established for the education and protection of helpless orphan children of both sexes. HOSPITALS No city in the United States is so well provided with establishments of this kind as New Orleans. Here, the only passport required for admission to the best attendance, is sickness, or an injury. No cold formalities are thrown in the way of the suffering patient. Indeed, it has become a subject of complaint, that access is so easy, and the position so agreeable, that the improvident and the indolent take undue advantage of its benefits. [Illustration: THE CHARITY HOSPITAL] THE CHARITY HOSPITAL The first hospital for indigent persons erected in the city of New Orleans, appears to have been built on the site formed by the west side of Rampart street, between Toulouse and St. Peter streets. It was blown down in 1779; and, being of wood, was entirely destroyed. In 1784, Dr. N. Y. Roxas commenced one of brick on the same position, which he completed at an expense of $114,000 in 1786, and called it the New Charity Hospital of St. Charles. He endowed it with a perpetual revenue of $1500 per annum, by appropriating the rents of the stores at the corner of St. Peter and Levee streets. It continued under the patronage and direction of the family, until March 1811, when it was relinquished to the city by authority of the legislature, the edifice having been previously consumed by fire. It was now subjected to a council of administration, appointed by the governor and city council--(the first six, the latter three.) Since 1813 the council has been appointed by the governor and senate. It consists of eight members, and the governor. Its support has been derived from several sources. A most liberal legacy was left it by that public benefactor Julien Poydras, of real estate, valued at $35,000. Several smaller sums have been received from other benevolent individuals. It has also received aid from the state, directly and indirectly. Pennsylvania made a liberal grant of $10,000, in 18--. In 1812, the council of administration sold to the state the square now occupied by the state house, with the buildings, for $125,000, and purchased the present site, and built their large and commodious structure at the foot of Common street, at an expense of $150,000, containing sufficient room to accommodate four or five hundred patients. This is the building particularly referred to in the heading of this article. Besides being under the charge of the ablest of the medical faculty, the institution has the assistance of the Sisters of Charity, as nurses to the sick, who cannot be excelled in kindness and careful attention. The edifice itself is very imposing, from its immense size. It is substantially built with brick. Suitable supplementary out-buildings for lunatics, and lying-in apartments, are on the same grounds; and the whole is encompassed by a permanent brick wall. To show the great usefulness of this establishment, it is only necessary to state that, during 1844, there were five thousand eight hundred and forty-six patients admitted, seven hundred and thirteen of whom died, and five thousand and fifty-nine were dismissed. Of this number, only one thousand three hundred and sixteen were natives of the United States, and four thousand five hundred and thirty foreigners. This year the yellow fever was not epidemic. The following table, taken from the New Orleans Medical Journal, shows the number of cases of yellow fever admitted into this hospital from Jan. 1, 1822, to Jan. 1, 1844, with the dates of the first and last cases each year, with the discharges and deaths, constituting a term of twenty-two years. TABLE. Year. First Case. Last Case. Adm'd. Dis'g'd. Died. 1822 Sept. 3. Dec. 31. 349 98 239 1823 Sept. 11. 1 1 1824 Aug. 4. Nov. 13. 167 59 108 1825 June 23. Dec. 19. 94 40 59 1826 May 18. Nov. 18. 26 19 5 1827 July 17. Dec. 5. 372 263 109 1828 June 19. Dec. 10. 290 160 130 1829 May 23. Nov. 29. 435 220 215 1830 July 24. Nov. 29. 256 139 117 1831 June 9. Oct. 7. 3 1 2 1832 Aug. 15. Oct. 25. 26 8 18 1833 July 17. Nov. 17. 422 212 210 1834 Aug. 28. Nov. 22. 150 55 95 1835 Aug. 24. Nov. 27. 505 221 284 1836 Aug. 24. Oct. 25. 6 1 5 1837 July 13. Nov. 28. 998 556 442 1838 Aug. 25. Nov. 1. 22 5 17 1839 July 23. Nov. 17. 1086 634 452 1840 July 9. 3 3 1841 Aug. 2. Dec. 8. 1113 520 594 1842 Aug. 4. Nov. 26. 410 214 211 1843 July 10. Dec. 31. 1053 609 487 ---- ---- ---- Total Number, 7787 4034 3803 A discrepancy of 50 4034 ---- ---- 7837 7837 "This discrepancy between the number of admittances, discharges, and deaths," say the editors, "arises from the fact that a good many cases of yellow fever occur, after the patients are admitted into the hospital for other diseases--and some remain to be treated for other diseases, long after having been cured of yellow fever; and, it may be, that some cases are not noted upon the hospital books at all." The proportion of deaths is accounted for by the exposed state of the patient before admission. In private practice they do not average one death to ten. The absence of quarantine regulations in New Orleans, is often remarked by strangers. Acts of legislation have been passed at different times, establishing laws for the protection of the city, which proved of but little service, owing, it is generally admitted, to their not being carried out as it is now known they should have been to test their efficacy, consequently they soon fell into disuse. Much able, and it would seem unanswerable argument has been employed, to prove that this scourge of tropical climates is not contagious; yet, Dr. Carpenter, an eminent and learned member of the medical profession of this city, with great research, has tracked it through all its secret channels of communication, by which at different periods it has been introduced. The recent able essay of Dr. Hort, read before the Physico-Medical Society of this city, and the proceedings and resolutions of that body, had in reference to it, with equal conclusiveness show it to be endemic, or of local origin, and not an imported or contagious disease. When such eminent "doctors disagree" what shall the unlearned and uninitiated do?--we are surely in a dilemma, and hardly know on which horn to hang our own humble judgment--but it would really appear that with a sanitary system, commending itself to the more cautious views of the Atlantic cities, an advantage would be gained, that would far more than balance any diminished trade of our neighbors in the Gulf. Are there not also, many hundreds of active, intelligent, business making citizens, who now fly to the North on the first approach of the sickly season, who, with such guards faithfully maintained about them, would remain through the summer? and are there not thousands more in various parts of the country, who, inspired with confidence by the existence and maintenance of a system of measures which _they_ deem essential to the preservation of the health and lives of the citizens, would throng to our metropolis as the most inviting field of enterprise, and thus multiply our numbers and enlarge our business far more rapidly than it can, or will be done under the present system? If in making these suggestions it should be supposed that we have "defined our position," we shall shelter ourselves under "the generally received opinion," "the prevailing fears of the community"--and the prudential measures of other cities. [Illustration: MAISON DE SANTE] MAISON DE SANTE This noble edifice, emphatically the house of the stranger, was built in 1839, and opened in August of the same year. The full and complete success of the enterprise is written in the grateful memories of the thousands of patients who have resorted to it in the hour of sickness and danger. The prices required secure to every sick person more than the attention and comforts of the house of his childhood. Not a doubt need to cross his mind but that all which science, and the most devoted care can effect, will be done for him; he only goes there to get well, if it be possible in the nature of his case. The names of the attending physicians, Doctors Stone, Kennedy and Carpenter, are a sufficient guaranty for the respectability of this establishment. CIRCUS STREET INFIRMARY This institution, situated between Poydras and Perdido streets, was established by Doctors Campbell and Mackie, in July, 1841. It is neatly furnished, and offers all the comforts and advantages of a private house to the invalid. No contagious diseases are admitted, and kind and skilful nurses are furnished. THE FRANKLIN INFIRMARY Is situated in the Fauxbourg Franklin, in Champs Elysees street, fronting the Pontchartrain rail-road, and about two miles from the city. It is a private hospital, founded by Dr. C. A. Luzemburg. The building, although not large, is accommodated with several out houses, and the grounds are spacious and pleasant. [Illustration: THE UNITED STATES MARINE HOSPITAL] THE UNITED STATES MARINE HOSPITAL Situated at Macdonough, opposite New Orleans, occupies a square, measuring three hundred and fifty feet each way, which is enclosed by a good substantial fence, intended, eventually, to give place to an iron railing. The edifice measures, in front, one hundred and sixty feet, by seventy eight deep--from the rear of which two adjuncts extend fifty feet further back, leaving sufficient room between them for a spacious court, immediately behind the centre of the main building. The whole is laid off into three stories. It is fifty feet from the ground to the eaves, and one hundred and thirty-five to the top of the flag-staff, which surmounts the belvidere. It is built in the Gothic style; and was designed by Mondele and Reynolds, who were the original contractors. It was commenced in 1834, but for want of the necessary appropriations by the government, the work was suspended, and has gone so much to ruin, that it will require $20,000 to repair the damage. James H. Caldwell, Esq., has contracted for the completion of this work. The building, when finished and furnished for receiving patients, will cost $130,000. It will accommodate two hundred and sixty nine persons. The grounds, tastefully laid out, are to be embellished with shrubbery. As seen from the Mississippi, or from a distance, this structure presents a very majestic appearance. It stands in a healthy position, elevated and dry; and from its great height, commands a complete view of the river, city, surrounding country, and a whole forest of masts--affording to poor Jack at once a delightful and a busy prospect, that must have a great tendency to cheer the hours of his convalescence. PUBLIC BUILDINGS [Illustration: THE MUNICIPAL HALL] THE MUNICIPAL HALL This edifice, when completed, will be one of the noblest public buildings of the Second Municipality. It is to occupy the corner of Hevia and St. Charles streets, facing the westerly side of Lafayette Square, a site selected particularly on account of its conspicuous and airy position. Its grand entrance ranges along the latter thoroughfare 90 feet, running back upon the former 208, and presenting an altitude of 54 feet to the eaves, displaying two bold stories above a basement of 11 feet ceiling. This lower apartment is intended for the accommodation of the military, and the police and watch departments. It is intersected from end to end by a corridor twelve, and across, in the centre, by one of fourteen feet wide, the latter giving room for a double flight of stairs, which ascend to the upper story. The same division of passage ways is observed on each floor. The grand entrance from St. Charles street, is by a flight of eighteen blue Quincy-granite steps, of which material the principal front is constructed. At the top of these, at an elevation of fourteen feet, is a platform extending along the whole front, twenty-five feet deep, sustaining, by a range of six pillars in front, and four in the rear, a massy pediment, all of which is of Ionic Grecian construction, and in good keeping with the main fabric. On entering the corridor through this portico, on the right hand, is an apartment seventy-five by thirty-five feet, and, like all the others on this floor, eighteen feet in the ceiling, appropriated to the library of the School Lyceum. In the rear of this, on the same side, are four others for public offices and courts, as are also those on the opposite direction. Ascending to the third story, in front is the great hall, sixty-one by eighty-four feet, and twenty-nine in the ceiling, set apart for the School Lyceum. Immediately in front of this, is a central platform, advancing between two side rooms, over which are two others, similar, all four of which are intended for the accommodation of the apparatus, necessary for this new institution. The main room is furnished with galleries on three sides, arranged in the best manner for the convenience of scholars and spectators. The rooms in the rear, like those in the story below, are devoted to public offices. The walls of this building are to be based upon granite, and the residue of white marble, after the Grecian Ionic order. The whole will cost about $120,000. THE CITY PRISONS These edifices are built of brick, and plastered to imitate granite, they are three stories in height, occupying one hundred and twenty three feet on Orleans and St. Ann streets, by one hundred and thirty-eight feet nine inches between them. They are two in number, and divided by a passage way that is closed to the public. The principal building has its main entrance from Orleans street, through a circular vestibule, closed by strong iron doors. The lower story contains the offices and apartments of the jailor. The second story is divided into large halls for such prisoners as require to be less strictly guarded. The plan of the third story is similar. The whole is surmounted by a belvidere, with an alarm bell. The cost is estimated at $200,000. SECOND MUNICIPALITY WORK-HOUSE This institution was formed in obedience to legislative enactment, under date of the 5th of March, 1841. The buildings were completed and occupied the same year. The site is a portion detached from the northern extremity of the Protestant Episcopal Burying Ground, and the centre of the front is directly facing St. Mary street. The plot is two hundred and ninety feet, front and rear, and two hundred and fifty-five deep--the whole being enclosed by a wall twenty-one feet high, twenty-six inches thick at the base, and eighteen at the top, externally supported throughout by abutments at a distance of every fourteen feet. The entrance is by a strong and well secured gate, into a public passage flanked by offices, over which are rooms assigned to the use of the keepers, for the accommodation of the guard, and such _materiel_ as good order, and the safety of the establishment require. This structure is partially separated from the prison by well constructed gates and partition walls. Within, on each side, engrossing the residue of the immediate front of the grounds, are two buildings. The one on the right is for white females, and that on the left for blacks of both sexes. These tenements are divided from the other parts of the prison by high fences of frame work. Going thence into the principal yard, the building for the male whites is seen on the extreme right. This is of one story, measuring eighty by thirty feet, and is the largest one on the premises. Arranged along near the rear wall, extending to the left, are the work shops. The average number of white prisoners is eighty, not one-seventh of whom are females; and one hundred blacks, a third of these also being females. The prison discipline seems to be of a first rate order; and it is seldom necessary to punish for offences against the rules. Religious service is performed on Sundays, and a physician is in attendance every day. It is a singular fact, that only five persons have died there since it was opened, notwithstanding their former irregular habits. The prisoners are kept at constant labor; and their food, though not luxurious, is of a wholesome nature, which may, when their abstinence from intemperate habits is taken into consideration, account for the excellent state of their health. It would not be hazarding much to say that many here were never before accustomed to so many of the comforts of life--"in all, save these bonds;" for they lodge upon clean and comfortable bedding, surrounded by moscheto bars; and, once a week, at least, can enjoy the luxury of a bath. This is the receptacle of that class of society, both white and black, who are denominated vagrants. They embrace two sorts of individuals--those who have no visible means of obtaining a livelihood, and those who live by committing unlawful depredations upon others. Besides these, colored seamen, while in port, not being suffered by the laws to go at large, are accommodated, for the time being, with an apartment in the Work-house. Slaves are placed here by their masters, for punishment, for safe keeping, and for refusing to perform labor, as well as for the commission of crimes. These last are sent out in gangs, under keepers, to clean the streets, and to perform certain other menial services within the control of the municipal authorities. Nothing could render this establishment more complete, except a classification of its inmates; so that the hardened offenders should be prevented from drawing the young, the thoughtless, and the incipient transgressor, into the vortex of their own viciousness. To the philanthropist, this must be a consideration of the utmost importance. The saying, that "evil communications corrupt good manners," is illustrated even in this place--and here, many who seem upon the very verge of destruction, might be saved from ultimate and utter ruin, by the judicious care and protection of the humane and reflecting magistrate. THIRD MUNICIPALITY WORK-HOUSE This new establishment stands on Moreau street, running from Louisa to Piety streets, and taking within its limits the building formerly used as the Washington market, which has been altered to suit its present purpose. The buildings were prepared under the superintendence of Charles K. Wise, and are well arranged. The prisoners average about one hundred--thirty of whom are females. The regulations are excellent. THE COURT-HOUSE This edifice stands on Chartres street, and to the right of the Cathedral, as it is seen from the Place d'Armes, opposite to which it is situated. The lower story is of the Tuscan order, with a wide portico along the front of the edifice, supported by ten antes, between semi-circular arches. The four in the middle are strengthened in front by Tuscan columns, and those at the angles by two clustered pilastres. The ascent to the second story is through the principal entrance, which is composed of a semi-circular arched door, with antes at the sides, and Doric entablature. It opens into a spacious lobby, through which, by a stone stair-way, of a single flight below, and a double one above, the second floor is reached. The front of the upper story is of the Ionic order, but generally similar to the lower. The entablature is surmounted by a denticulated cornice, and the pediment is relieved by an oblong shield. [Illustration] THE CITY HALL This building stands on the upper side of the Cathedral, on a line with the Court-House described above, both of which were erected the latter part of the preceding century, through the liberality of Don Andre Almonaster. This edifice in all general respects, much resembles the Court-House on the right of the Cathedral, except that the main entrance, under the portico, is of the Tuscan order; and that the stair within is a winding one, leading to the upper story by three flights; also, that the pediment of the front bears the American eagle, with cannon and piles of balls. * * * * * MARKETS The markets are a prominent feature in a description of New Orleans. They are numerous, and dispersed, to suit the convenience of the citizens. The prices of many articles they offer are very fluctuating. Not dearer, however, on an average, than in New York. Stall-fatted meats are not so usual here as at the North, preference being given to the grass-fed. The mutton has no equal in America. Poultry and fish are fine; and vegetables, except potatoes, are abundant, and speak well for the soil that produced them. Fruit, from the West Indies and our own West, is not only plenty, but of the best kind. The regulations are excellent, and are strictly enforced by officers appointed for that purpose. The greatest market day is Sunday, during the morning. At break of day the gathering commences--youth and age, beauty and the not-so-beautiful--all colors, nations and tongues are commingled in one heterogeneous mass of delightful confusion; and, he must be a stranger indeed, who elbows his way through the dense crowd, without hearing the welcome music of his own native language. The traveller, who leaves the city without visiting one of the popular markets on Sunday morning, has suffered a rare treat to escape him. Annexed is a brief descriptive account of them. POYDRAS STREET MARKET Is designed for the accommodation of the inhabitants in the rear portion of the second municipality. It covers a space of ground in Poydras street forty-two feet wide by four hundred and two long--extending from near Baronne to Circus street. It was built in 1837, and cost $40,000. THE VEGETABLE MARKET The ground plan of this building is irregular; having been constructed at different periods. It approaches the Roman Doric order--is supported by brick columns plastered, and covered with a wooden frame roof tiled. It fronts on Old Levee, St. Philip and Ursuline streets, and the river. The design was by J. Pilié, who superintended the work. It was completed in 1830, at an expense of $25,800. THE MEAT MARKET Built in the rusticated Doric order, was completed in 1813, after the designs of J. Piernas, city surveyor. The building is of brick plastered, with a wooden frame roof, covered with slate. It is situated on the Levee, and extends from St. Ann to Main streets; and, from its favorable location, and neat simplicity of architecture, is a striking object to those who approach the city by water. It cost about $30,000. ST. MARY'S MARKET This building fronts on Tchoupitoulas street, and runs to New Levee, a distance of four hundred and eighty-six feet by a width of forty-two feet. It was completed in 1836, in the rusticated Doric order, at a cost of about $48,000. In the vicinity, on the first named street, is a vegetable market--a very neat edifice. * * * * * Besides these, there is a very respectable market at the head of Elysian Fields street, near the Levee; and another in Orleans, between Marais and Villeré streets, near the City Prison. * * * * * [Illustration] EXCHANGE HOTEL, (ST. CHARLES) This magnificent establishment, which, for size and architectural beauty, stands unrivalled, was commenced in the summer of 1835, and finished in the May of 1838, by an incorporated company. The building was designed by, and erected under the superintendence of J. Gallier, architect, at an expense of $600,000, including the ground it stands on, which cost $100,000. It presents fronts on three streets. The principal one on St. Charles street, consists of a projecting portico of six Corinthian columns, which stand upon a granite basement fourteen feet high, with a pediment on the top, and four similar columns on each side of the portico, placed in a range with the front wall; behind which is formed a recess fifteen feet wide and one hundred and thirty-nine long, and floored over with large granite slabs, which, supported on iron beams, serve as a ceiling to that portion of the basement story standing under the portico; and on top affords a delightful promenade under the shade of the portico and side columns. The entrance to the bar room is under this; and the outside steps, leading from the street to the portico, are placed on each side thereof, between it and the front range of the building. In one of the rear angles of the basement is a bathing establishment, consisting of fourteen rooms, elegantly fitted up, with every convenience for hot or cold bathing. On the opposite angle are placed the wine cellars, store-house, and other domestic apartments. All the remaining parts of the basement are divided into stores, which are rented out to various trades-people. The bar room is in the basement, near the centre of the edifice; and is octangular in the plan, seventy feet in diameter, and twenty high; having an interior circular range of Ionic columns, distributed so as to support the weight of the floors and partitions of the upper stories. The architecture of this room is Ionic. That of the saloon, which is immediately over the bar room, is of the Corinthian order, and eighteen feet ceiling. A grand spiral stair-case commences upon the centre of the saloon floor, and is continued up to the dome. Around this stair-case, on each side of the upper stories, a gallery is formed, which gives access to six bedrooms within the octagon, on each of the six upper stories. As the bar room is six feet higher than the other parts of the basement, the entrance to the saloon from the portico is by a flight of marble steps, twelve in number, and thirty-five feet long. On the top of these steps is placed a beautiful marble statue of Washington, presented to the company by John Hagan, Esq. The gentlemen's dining and sitting rooms occupy the whole side of the building on Gravier street. The dining room, with a pantry at the end, is one hundred and twenty-nine feet long by fifty wide, and twenty-two feet high, tastefully finished in the Corinthian order, with two inside ranges of columns, so placed that there is abundant space for four ranges of dining tables, sufficient to accommodate five hundred persons. The ladies' dining room is placed over the bathing apartments, and is fifty-two by thirty-six feet. The kitchen, fifty-eight by twenty-nine feet, is placed in the rear wing of the building, on the same story with, and in the centre between the two dining rooms. The two angles of the principal front contain the ladies' drawing room, and the gentlemen's sitting room, the former forty by thirty-two feet, the latter thirty-eight feet square. There are nine private parlors on the second story, to some of which are attached adjoining bedrooms; and the same number on the upper stories. There are four stories of elegantly furnished and well lighted bedrooms, all around the four sides of the building, with central passages, or corridors, which communicate with the centre and with each other, having three stair-cases opening to the corridors, besides the grand stair-case in the octagon. There are, in the edifice, three hundred and fifty rooms. A dome, of beautiful proportions, after a plan of Dakin, forty-six feet in diameter, surmounts the octagon building, elevated upon an order of fluted columns, which stand eleven feet from the dome, around the outside, and on the dome is elevated an elegant little Corinthian turret. There is a large circular room under the dome, on the floor of which the spiral stair-case terminates, and around the outside of which the circular colonade forms a beautiful gallery eleven feet wide, from whence can be seen the whole city, and all the windings of the river for several miles in each direction. The effect of the dome upon the sight of the visitor, as he approaches the city, is similar to that of St. Paul's, London. No better evidence can be adduced--nor more flattering encomiums presented to the architects, than the fact of the indescribable effect of the sublime and matchless proportions of this building upon all spectators--even the stoical Indian and the cold and strange backwoodsman, when they first view it, are struck with wonder and delight. The view of this structure by moonlight is a sight not easily described. The furnishing of this establishment cost $150,000. [Illustration] THE VERANDAH So called from being covered on its front toward the streets, to a certain height, by a projecting roof and balcony, is situated at the corner of St. Charles and Common streets, diagonally opposite the Exchange Hotel. The building was intended for a family hotel, by its enterprising projector and builder, the late R. O. Pritchard. The great dining room, is, probably, one of the most highly finished apartments in America. The ceiling, especially, is a model; being composed of three elliptic domes for chandeliers. This room measures eighty-five by thirty-two feet, and twenty-seven high. The chimney pieces of the ladies' parlors are fine specimens of sculpture, and the rooms are otherwise handsome. The sleeping apartments are not excelled. The whole was designed and constructed by Dakin & Dakin, architects, in 1836-8, at a cost of $300,000, including the ground. ST. LOUIS HOTEL This building, as a hotel, may be considered as one of the most respectable in New Orleans. It stands nearly in the centre of the French portion of the population; and, in the combination of its brilliant and business-like appearance, is not an inappropriate representative of their national character. In this establishment the _utile et dulci_ are so happily blended, that the accomplished guest can find no cause of complaint. A more particular description of this superb edifice is omitted here, in consequence of its being given under the head of the City Exchange, to which the reader is respectfully referred. HEWLETT'S HOTEL This is a large and well-constructed building, on the corner of Camp and Common streets. It has been long known as a hotel, but, during the last year, has been opened, under new auspices, by the gentleman whose name has become associated with that of the house. The position is airy, healthy and central, and the table is said to be unexcelled. * * * * * The Planters' Hotel, in Canal street, and the National Hotel, in Tchoupitoulas street, are both good houses; and the prices being less, they are sought after by those who wish to economise their expenses. There are several other respectable establishments, of which, like those last named, the limits of these pages will not permit a particular description. * * * * * THE GAS WORKS Occupy a square fronting on St. Mary street four hundred and sixty-seven feet, with a depth of two hundred and thirty-five feet on Gravier and Perdido streets; which is enclosed by a substantial brick wall fourteen feet high. The site was selected by James H. Caldwell, Esq., to whom New Orleans is mainly indebted for this great undertaking, as well as for many others which stand as lasting eulogiums to his memory. In 1834, the original works were put in operation. Mr. Caldwell, at this time, had the exclusive privilege of lighting the city for thirty years. His were the fourth gas works in the Union, and the first west of the mountains. The first wrought-iron roof in this country, was erected over the retort house by Mr. C., and has served as a model for all since built. The largest cast iron tank ever constructed was also put up by him. It is fifty-one feet diameter and eighteen deep, and contains over two hundred thousand gallons of water. In 1835 Mr. Caldwell disposed of this property to the Gas Light and Banking Company; who, finding the buildings insufficient, constructed them anew. The present establishment was planned and erected under the superintendence of David John Rogers, in whose care it still continues to prosper. The works, finished in 1837, cost $150,000. The whole present value is $650,000. These consist of a retort house on Gravier street, one hundred and seventeen by eighty feet, and parallel to which is the purifying house, one hundred and seventeen by fifty-two feet. On the rear is the chimney, constructed to resemble Trajan's pillar, one hundred and seven feet high; and presents a chaste specimen of classical architecture. There are three fifty feet gasometers, arranged along in the centre of the premises, capable of containing thirty thousand cubic feet each, built after the most approved workmanship, and considered to be superior to any others in this country. On Perdido street is a three story dwelling, thirty by seventy-five feet, for the workmen. The coal shed is one hundred and ninety by fifty-two feet. In addition to these are the blacksmith, carpenter, and other shops, necessary for advantageously conducting so extensive a business. The structures are all fire-proof, and every thing is kept in the neatest possible condition. In addition to the works already described, and immediately in front of them, embracing nearly another square, two more gasometers, of equal dimensions, together with the accompanying buildings, have been constructed during 1844-5. These will enable the company to transmit the gas through a distance of one hundred and fifty miles of pipe, sufficient for the accommodation of a half million of persons. The gas is extracted from Pittsburgh coal--after which the coke is sold for fuel, at about half the price that is asked for the original coal. [Illustration] THE WATER WORKS In 1833, a company was incorporated under the title of the "Commercial Bank of New Orleans," the principal object of which was to supply the city with pure water from the Mississippi river. To effect this object, an artificial mound was constructed on the square comprised within Richard, Market, John the Baptist and Religious streets, consisting of seventy thousand cubic yards of earth, taken from the batture (deposit) of the river. The work was completed during 1834-5. The reservoir is constructed on the top of this mound. It is two hundred and fifty feet square, built of brick, and divided into four compartments, measuring each one hundred and eighteen feet in the clear. The walls and bottoms forming the reservoir, are built with brick, and plastered with hydraulic cement. A pavilion of an octagonal form has been erected on the intersection of the partition walls, supported by eight pillars. It is about fifteen feet wide and ten high, and affords quite a commanding and pleasant prospect. The reservoir is supplied with water from the Mississippi river, by plunge pumps, worked by a condensing engine, acting expansively on Bolton and Watt's plan. These pumps were adopted as the most efficacious, on account of the great quantity of matter held in suspension by the water. They are connected to a suction pipe sixteen inches in diameter, and about eight hundred feet long; and to the main, descending into the reservoir, sixteen inches in diameter and six hundred feet long. The cylinder is twenty-five inches in diameter and six feet stroke, and is calculated to raise three millions gallons of water in twenty-four hours. The engine and pump houses are built of brick, and are situated on the lot forming the corner of Tchoupitoulas and Richard streets. The water is distributed through cast iron pipes, capable of sustaining a pressure of water of three hundred feet head. They vary from eighteen to six inches in diameter for the mains--but the greater part of them consist of the larger sizes, which have numerous ramifications of less dimensions. There are two mains from the reservoir; one of eighteen, the other of twelve inches bore, which are gradually reduced in size as the distance becomes greater from the source, or as circumstances may require. In 1836, water was first pumped into the reservoir. It can be delivered in the upper part of the city twenty-one feet, and in the lower sections, twenty-seven feet above the level of the soil. The daily average consumption of water, during the year 1844, was one million gallons; and, from the comparative great capacity of the reservoir, sufficient time is allowed for the water to settle, in one of the four compartments, before it is drawn for the use of the city. Much good might be achieved by a more enlarged operation of these works. The water is capable of being made fit for all domestic purposes, thus obviating the necessity for cisterns, the birthplace of millions of moschetoes, and, possibly the source of much sickness. For the purposes of bathing it is almost indispensable; and, for forming fountains, to cleanse the streets and to purify and cool the air, it may be rendered equally a convenience, a luxury, and an embellishment. ARMORIES A room has been fitted up in Camp street, for which the substantial and well constructed walls of the old Camp street Theatre have been used--a building erected by James H. Caldwell, Esq., in 1822. This apartment, used as an armory for the Washington Battalion, is sixty by one hundred and twenty feet, and twenty-two feet high, and is decidedly one of the largest in New Orleans. Another armory is located at the corner of Perdido and Baronne streets, in the upper part of the Carrolton Rail-Road depôt. Both of these armories are the depositories of arms, all kept in the best order, and disposed in various tasteful forms. THE FIRE DEPARTMENT There are in New Orleans, fifteen engine, three hose, and one hook and ladder--in all nineteen companies. The city may justly boast of the energy and efficiency of this arm of safety. The members are exempt from military and jury duty; and, after a certain term, are enrolled as honorary members, who are free from the performance of further service. The expenses of the department are defrayed by appropriations from the municipalities, and from fines imposed upon delinquent members. The courage and bearing of these companies during a conflagration, are much to be admired. They proceed with that cool and determined spirit that shows a consciousness of their power in subduing the destructive element. An excellent and convenient supply of water, which is always at command, enables them promptly to extinguish the most dangerous fire. MANUFACTURES In New Orleans, have, until recently been but little known. There are now however, several actively employed and well patronised branches of the manufacturing business; which, if not calculated to compete with those in other markets, answer a very good purpose for its own. THE IRON FOUNDRY Of Messrs. Leeds & Co. produces every variety of machinery, that steamboats and manufactories require for extensive operations. It has been established many years, at the corner of Foucher and Delord streets, occupies nearly a whole square, and is on as extensive a scale as any in the country. The business-like and prompt system practiced by the conductors, is known to all who require their aid upon the whole line of the Mississippi and its tributaries. STEAM PLANING MILL Upon Carondelet Walk, has been in successful operation over four years. Lumber is landed from Carondelet Canal, which passes in front of the building. STEAM SAW MILLS Of these there are two; one located in the third municipality, the other five miles below the city, and both upon the banks of the river. They can furnish lumber of almost any description in abundance. ROPE WALKS There are several of these, in different parts of the city, where cordage may be manufactured, to any extent, demanded by the business of the place. Besides these there are several Flour Mills, a Paper Mill, Sugar Refinery, Cotton Factories, &c., all in successful operation. * * * * * THE COTTON PRESSES This is the place of all others, for these extensive buildings, which, generally, occupy a square, and sometimes more. They are numerous and extensive establishments. A brief description of two of the most prominent, will serve for the whole, as they very much resemble each other in their construction. THE LEVEE COTTON PRESS Erected by a company under that name, was completed in 1832, at a cost of $500,000. No architectural effect was aimed at in the façade, which is, however, neat and plain. This establishment can press about 200,000 bales per annum. [Illustration] THE ORLEANS COTTON PRESS This vast establishment fronts on the Mississippi, running back on Roffignac and New Levee streets. The ground occupied is six hundred and thirty-two by three hundred and eight feet, and is nearly covered by the buildings. The whole was built according to designs made by Charles F. Zimpel, begun in 1833, and completed in 1835, at a cost, including the site, of $753,558. The front on the river, although having no pretensions to architectural effect, is still, from its location and extent, quite impressive. This press can store twenty-five thousand bales of cotton; and compresses, on an average, one hundred and fifty thousand bales per annum; but its capacity is much greater. * * * * * BANKS LOUISIANA STATE BANK This building was erected in 1822, at a cost, including the ground, of $55,000. The plan was from Latrobe, and Benjamin Fox the architect. It stands on the corner of Royal and Bienville streets, and presents rather a plain but neat external appearance. It is most substantially built; the lower story is heavily arched, and the banking apartments are completely fire-proof. Capital, $2,000,000. THE MECHANICS' AND TRADERS' BANK Is situated on Canal street, occupying only an ordinary house, compared to some others, and requires no particular description. Capital, $2,000,000. [Illustration] THE CITY BANK Is a building of the Ionic order, situated in Camp, near Canal street, and designed by W. L. Atkinson, architect. Its construction was commenced in 1837, and finished in 1838, under the superintendence of J. Gallier, at a cost of about $50,000. The banking room is admired for its elegant simplicity. Capital, $2,000,000. THE GAS BANK This building, in St. Charles street, between Canal and Common streets, is so closely squeezed in among others, that it has little opportunity to show off the beauty it possesses. It was erected in 1839, under the superintendence of Sidel & Stewart, at an expense of about $25,000, ground $25,000, making $50,000, and is every way well calculated for a banking house. The original capital was $4,000,000, but it was reduced to $180,000, and by request of the stockholders, the banking privileges have been withdrawn by an act of the Legislature of 1845. THE CANAL BANK Has its entrance in the centre of the front on Magazine street, of a substantial granite building which stands on that and the corner of Gravier street. That portion of the edifice is very tastefully arranged after the designs of Dakin, the architect. It was erected in 1845. The residue of the structure is used for stores. Capital, $4,000,000. [Illustration] THE BANK OF LOUISIANA Is a fine Ionic building at the south-west corner of Royal and Conti streets, surrounded by a handsome court. The whole edifice is well arranged, the banking room in particular, is admired for its good architectural effect, being 60 feet square, and of a proportionate height, with a fine gallery above. It was commenced by Bickle, Hamlet and Fox, builders, in 1826, and finished the following year, at a cost of $80,000. Capital, $4,000,000. BANKS' ARCADE Occupies the front of a square on Magazine street, between Gravier and Natchez streets, having a main entrance, from each of those last named, to the Arcade, which divides the building through the whole length--being three stories high, and covered in with glass, to exclude rain and admit the light. In the lower and second stories, are offices of almost all descriptions--and the third is appropriated mostly to sleeping rooms. The bar room, opening on Magazine street, is 100 by 60 feet, and 35 in height. It is handsomely embellished, has a gallery surrounding the upper story, and is a popular place for public meetings. It will accommodate 5,000 people on such occasions. This building stands in the centre of business, and, consequently, is a place of great resort for merchants and others. Erected by Thomas Banks in 1833, Charles Zimple, architect. * * * * * [Illustration] CITY EXCHANGE This magnificent edifice, which is one of the greatest ornaments of the city, fronts on three streets--about 300 feet on St. Louis, and 120 each on Royal and Chartres street--the building being intended by the projectors to combine the convenience of a city exchange, hotel, bank, large ball rooms, and private stores. The principal façade, on St. Louis street, may be generally described as being composed of the Tuscan and Doric orders. The main entrance is formed by six columns of the composite Doric order. Through this portico, access is had to the vestibule of the Exchange, a handsome, though simple hall, 127 by 40 feet. This room is appropriated to general business, and constantly open during waking hours. You pass through this into one of the most beautiful rotundas in America, which is devoted exclusively to business, and is open from noon to three o'clock P. M. This fine room is surrounded by arcades and galleries, always open to the public, (Sundays excepted,) and its general appearance cannot fail to impress upon the mind a most favorable idea of its grandeur and beauty. The dome is most tastefully laid off in compartments, within which the magic pencils of Canova and Pinoli have portrayed allegorical scenes and the busts of eminent Americans, in rich fresco--a style of painting comparatively new in the United States. The floors of the gallery which engird the rotunda, and the winding stairs leading to them, are of iron. By a side entrance on St. Louis street, access is obtained to the second story; the front of which, on this street, is occupied by a suite of ball rooms and their dependencies. The great ball room is magnificent in its size and decorations. The building also has a capacious entrance on Royal street, as a hotel that can accommodate 200 persons. At the corner of Chartres street are the public baths. In the spring of 1840 this building was nearly burnt down--but, in less than two years, it was completely restored to its original splendor. [Illustration] THE COMMERCIAL EXCHANGE This edifice is now being erected upon the south west corner of St. Charles and Perdido streets, fronting one hundred and three feet upon the former, and running one hundred upon the latter. The main part of the building is to be constructed of brick and stuccoed; the upper portion is purely Corinthian the lower entirely Tuscan. The principal entrance on St. Charles street, is by a portico supported by two Ionic pillars, and the same number of pilastres, composed of granite. The vestibule is eleven feet deep, which admits visitors by three separate doors into the exchange saloon, the most spacious apartment of the kind in the United States; it being seventy by one hundred feet, and twenty seven to the ceiling, which is supported by twelve well arranged and substantial pillars. At the rear of this public room are two others, intended for the accommodation of auctioneers, leaving only sufficient space on the left for the necessary offices and access to the second floor. The structure shows three stories in front--on the second of which is the news room, expressly arranged for the occupation of the New Orleans Reading Room. This apartment is fifty-five by eighty-three feet, and thirty-seven to the ceiling; and is lighted by thirty-six windows. A portico, with a recess of eleven feet, occupies the immediate front, supporting the pediment by two Corinthian pillars, and an equal number of pilastres. Two rooms are set apart in connection with this establishment, one for the accommodation of captains of vessels, and one for that of sugar-brokers. On each side of the news-room are ranges of offices, to which admission is obtained by corridors on the inner side. Immediately over these, the third floor is arranged in the same manner. The intention of the company, under whose auspices this exchange is building, is, to furnish to the mercantile community a place solely for the transaction of business, similar to Lloyd's of London. There are to be no liquors sold on the premises. Mr. Gallier is the architect, and builder, and the building and land cost $90,000. [Illustration] THE MERCHANTS' EXCHANGE Fronting on Royal street and Exchange Place, was erected by a joint stock company in 1835-6, from the designs and under the superintendence of Mr. Dakin, architect. Both fronts are of marble, in a plain and bold style. The cost of the erection was $100,000. THE MERCHANTS' READING ROOM Entrance from Royal street and Exchange Place. This reading room occupied a spacious apartment in the second story of the Merchants' Exchange, and is under the patronage and control of the company interested in that building. It is generally supplied with most of the newspapers of the country, and has received a patronage quite equal to the extent of its accommodations. THE NEW ORLEANS READING ROOMS Occupy the second story of a spacious building on the corner of Common and St. Charles streets, opposite the Exchange and Verandah hotels. This is an enterprise started upon the plan of Galignani's, in Paris, and Lloyd's, in London--professing to supply the earliest commercial and general information. The fixtures are arranged with a degree of neatness and convenience that is extremely gratifying to the stranger, who has a spare hour to devote to reading. Here he can peruse the latest papers, not only from almost every section of the United States, but English, French, German, Mexican, Irish, Scotch, and Colonial, together with all the periodicals, to his heart's content. The merchant can see the prices current from nearly every part of the world; arrivals and departures of vessels and of travellers--sales of the great staples and merchandise and their prices, and many such matters of interest to the business man. * * * * * THE PUBLIC SCHOOLS In each parish, have heretofore been placed under the management of a board of five administrators, who reported annually to the secretary of state the condition of those under their direction. This system has been adhered to, till very recently, in the first and third municipalities. In the second a change took place in 1841, which has proved to be so complete a revolution, is attended with such important results to this large portion of the city, and so extended its influence even to the neighboring parishes, that it is referred to with a degree of pleasure which can only be surpassed by our pride in its success. In accordance with an act of the legislature, approved the 14th of February, 1841, authorizing the municipalities of New Orleans to establish public schools, the authorities of the second municipality set themselves at work with a will. They selected twelve of their fellow-citizens as a board of directors for public schools, together with a standing committee on public education, to whom were granted almost unlimited powers. Zealous of acquitting themselves with honor, they at once looked to the fountain head, to New England, where the best schools in the country existed, and secured the aid of Mr. J. A. Shaw, who was perfectly conversant with all the improvements, and placed this efficient gentleman at the head of the department as superintendent. From a despairing beginning, in less than one year, the prospect seemed to be most cheering. Commencing with only thirteen children of each sex, it increased, in two years, to ten hundred and sixty-one in actual attendance--and nearly double that number enrolled. Thus far these schools occupied rooms under the Methodist church in Poydras street, and a new building, called the Washington school, on Magazine, at the corner of Basin street; but since that, the undertaking has been continually extending, until it was found necessary to erect another structure, the Franklin school, on St. Charles street--all of which are now scarcely sufficient to answer the increasing demand for admission. That, which at first was tested as an experiment, has proved to be a successful enterprise, producing an example which promises to have a beneficial influence over the southern method of education. It found strong opposition and prejudice to contend against, but these have subsided--and the children of the rich and the poor are seated side by side, sharing advantages and striving intellectually--the only distinction recognized among them--"teaching one, as well as informing the other, that adventitious wealth confers no superiority over the fortunate competitor, when engaged in a contest of the mind." The third municipality school is under the charge of Mr. Geo. W. Harby. All the branches of a good education are taught here in the English, French and Spanish languages. Although this school is under excellent discipline, and has all the advantages of a classical and gentlemanly teacher, it still has labored under the old régime, and could have educated double the number that have attended it. That nothing stands still is as applicable to the intellectual as to the physical world. Already the spirit of improvement, that has done so much for the second municipality, is busy in the first and third--and though slowly, it is as sure, eventually, to push its way into them as water is to find its own level. Beside the public schools, there are many private seminaries of a high order, and conducted by teachers of ability, where the wealthy, who have objections to those above designated, may send their children for instruction. The education of youth is of the utmost importance to a country--especially to one like this, that should be governed by the intelligence of its citizens. The portals to learning should be thrown wide open, equally to all--for upon knowledge is based the beautiful temple of liberty. Tear away this foundation and the fair edifice must fall. Cherish and support it, and freedom will become as permanent as our rocks, as ever-lasting as our hills. PUBLIC SCHOOL LYCEUM AND SOCIETY LIBRARY The intention of this undertaking, is to establish a library for the benefit of the juvenile class of the second municipality, by the voluntary subscriptions and contributions of the scholars attached to the public schools, and by private donations. To advance this important object, the common council passed an ordinance organizing the establishment, regulating and directing its proceedings, and tendering liberal advantages to encourage success in its operations. When $5000 are subscribed they are pledged to furnish rooms to accommodate the library--and, as soon as it amounts to $15,000, to purchase ground and erect suitable buildings. It also provides that, at a certain period, a chemical and philosophical apparatus shall be purchased, and lectures delivered once a week, during eight months of the year, by the most competent men in the country, on astronomy, geology, chemistry, natural and moral philosophy, navigation, book-keeping, engineering, civil architecture and design, and such other useful branches as may be determined by the directors--who are the same as those of the public schools, with the mayor, recorder and aldermen as _ex-officio_ members. The scholar paying twenty-five cents a month, or three dollars a year, for three years, is constituted a life member, and for ever after may have access to this excellent institution. Such has been the success of this undertaking that a building will soon be provided, and very little time will transpire before it will realize all the advantages that its beginning promised. To Samuel J. Peters, Esq., particularly, is this city indebted for introducing and maturing this measure--and for generous presents, to many other citizens and strangers, who have not permitted their names to come before the world. * * * * * The growing popularity of the "_People's Lyceum_," and of the "_Young Men's Literary Association_," is noticed with no ordinary feelings of gratification. These, commenced and continued by the young, fostered and cherished by all--have become a cheering sight to the eye of the christian, the patriot, and the philanthropist. Established upon judicious principles, tending to give a wholesome direction and salutary stimulus to the mind of their members, the moral influence may be deemed of incalculable consequence to this growing metropolis. History and science are the leading objects of their inquiry, facilitated and encouraged by the delivery of lectures, affording not only instruction but recreation--creating a taste for the rapid acquirement of knowledge--giving a new impulse to the intellectual powers, and to the advancement of literature--all nobly contributing to the refinement and happiness of mankind. These, and others in the course of being established under the auspices of our most eloquent and learned literati, the city may class among the brightest of her jewels. [Illustration] MEDICAL COLLEGE OF LOUISIANA This building is erected on a fine lot of ground, on the corner of Common and Philippa streets, granted to the college by a recent act of the legislature. It was designed by, and completed under the direction of Mr. Dakin, architect, whose reputation is a guaranty for its taste and elegance. The location is retired, and yet near all the public buildings and thoroughfares. The faculty of this institution are gentlemen of superior qualifications, enthusiastic in their zeal to give it the first place among the kindred establishments of the country. The advantages of New Orleans, for acquiring a practical knowledge of medicine and surgery, are superior to any city in the United States, especially for the study of all diseases peculiar to a southern climate. The facilities for prosecuting the study of anatomy and surgery are unrivalled. The school is well furnished with models, plates, casts, and every thing necessary for illustrations. The requisitions for graduation are those adopted by the best colleges. With these advantages presented to southern students, they will see the benefits resulting from an institution built up among them, conducted by gentlemen acquainted by experience with the wants of the country. * * * * * THE NATIONAL GALLERY OF PAINTINGS This establishment occupies rooms, expressly built for its accommodation, at 13 St. Charles street, and was opened in 1844, under the personal inspection of the proprietor, Mr. G. Cooke, who is himself an artist of taste, and well known among the profession. The principal object was, to form a rallying point for the exhibition of the works of celebrated artists, both of foreign and American origin, and to dispose of such as might please the fancy of the public, at a certain fixed price. Here, visitors will have an opportunity of selecting copies and originals from a quarter that may be relied upon, works both of the old masters, and of the best of the modern schools. The proprietor is under obligations to a number of the gentlemen of this city, connoisseurs of painting, for the exhibition of some of the most prominent pieces. From R. D. Shepherd, Esq., he has a picture by Rothmel, representing De Soto discovering the Mississippi. If this artist should leave no other work, his reputation, as a genius of no ordinary ability, will remain as durable as the canvas on which he has portrayed the Spaniard and the "Father of Waters." From James Robb, Esq., whose magnificent collection of modern paintings is better known in other cities than our own, the gallery has received its richest treasures, and most valuable contributions. The chef d'oeuvre is from the pencil of a native artist now at Rome, Leutze; and illustrates this sentence in our Lord's prayer--"deliver us from evil." To speak of this gem in terms equal to its merits, would place it immeasurably above the estimation of the age in which we live. Aware that it may be considered presumption to compare living genius with the justly venerated names of the immortal dead, whose works, on account of their antiquity and intrinsic worth, are doubly valued--yet, at the risk of losing our little reputation in such matters, we venture the assertion that this picture of Leutze's will compare with the most beautiful of the Italian school, and is excelled by none in America, not excepting those of our lamented and talented Alston. This picture alone would make any gallery in Europe attractive, and the public are greatly indebted to Mr. Robb for the opportunity he has afforded them of seeing not only this, but many other brilliant productions. Here, also, is a landscape of no ordinary excellence, by Boddington, an English artist, who has most successfully represented one of his native scenes, in a style of handling peculiarly true and free. Here may be seen four of Doughty's best landscapes, and several fine specimens from the pencils of Cole and Chapman. The portrait of Col. David Crocket, as large as life, in his forest costume, by Chapman, and two large altar pieces, copied from celebrated works in the Vatican--The Entombing of Christ, after Corregio--and The Crucifixion of St. Peter, after Guido--comprise a portion of the more recent additions to the gallery. Among the most attractive performances, are The Wreck of the Medusa, The Roman Forum, and a Sketch of Rome--from the pencil of the proprietor. The first of these is very much admired--but, to the classical visitor, the last two are far more fascinating; calling up, as they do, with all their endearing associations, our happy school-day remembrances. Much more might be said respecting this establishment, but the brevity of these pages will not permit an indulgence of our wishes in a more minute detail. * * * * * It is probably the general impression of strangers, suggested by the limited number and extent of the public galleries of paintings in this city, that there is, among us, an entire deficiency of a proper taste for the fine arts. And we may, ourselves, inadvertently have contributed to such an impression, by representing our citizens as exclusively absorbed in commercial pursuits. It must be received, however, with many abatements. We have our artists, and not a few of them, who are highly talented, and deservedly patronised. There are choice collections of paintings in the possession of several private gentlemen, other than those already alluded to; among which are many valuable productions, not only of the modern but ancient masters, purchased at enormous prices. Among others, those owned by our highly esteemed fellow-citizens, Glendy Burke, H. R. W. Hill, and Joseph M. Kennedy, Esqs., are well worth a visit of the connoisseur and admirer of fine specimens of the arts, to which the known courtesy of the proprietors will cheerfully afford ready access. The only original painting of the famous Wilkie in this country, is in the splendid collection of Mr. Burke. Several fine specimens of original statues are in the possession of James Dick, and John Hagan, Esqs., which are not excelled by any collection in this country. * * * * * THE PRESS "What is it but a map of busy life, Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?" The diurnal press of this country, is not only a mighty political engine, but one of the utmost importance in a commercial and literary point of view. Its increase, within a few years past, like its extending liberty, is without a parallel, and almost beyond belief. Junius, in his peculiar manner, observes, that "they who conceive that our newspapers are no restraint upon bad men, or impediment to the execution of bad measures, know nothing of this country." The force of this remark applies nowhere better than to the Press of the United States. Every enlightened American, who loves the constitution of his country, and correctly estimates its lofty principles, will lend his aid to preserve these invaluable privileges from the violation of power on the one hand, and the equally injurious outrages of popular licentiousness on the other. The press of this city comes in for a portion of the credit that is attached to that of the country--more particularly for its elaborate commercial details and general literature. To embody the spirit of the age; to relieve the grave by the gay; and to embellish the useful by the amusing, is its daily task. The choicest of home and foreign literature is found in the leading issues from the New Orleans press. It is equally interesting to the merchant and the general reader; and it preserves, above all its cotemporaries of other cities, a self-respect that does infinite credit to the gentlemen to whose hands the important trust is confided. There are eight daily papers published in New Orleans--three of which may be rated as of the "mammoth" size; the other five are smaller, but of sufficient dimensions to furnish the ordinary news of the day. They are as follows: The Louisiana Courier is the only evening paper of the city, and is published in French and English. This is the pioneer, before referred to in this work, under the name of "La Moniteur." The Bee, also in French and English, and the Commercial Bulletin, in English, make up the three mammoth sheets. The Picayune, the Tropic, the Jeffersonian Republican, the Native American, and the New Orleans Times, are all in English. The New Orleans Price Current is a very useful publication, issued twice a week. In addition to these, the Catholics and Protestants each have their weekly Journals, and the Medical faculty their bi-monthly Periodicals, edited by the most prominent members of the profession, and devoted to Medicine, and Collateral Sciences. They are intended to bring forth the industry and talents of the profession in the South, and to furnish the most recent information of its progress generally. The subject of Organic Chemistry is that to which, at the present day, the eyes of all thinking members of the profession are directed, and upon which their hope of progress mainly depends,--the relations of chemical action to the functions of organized matter, the application of chemistry to physiology and pathology, are to be treated of as fully as present knowledge extends. Such contributions to the noble science, in which these gentlemen have long been successful laborers, cannot fail to be properly estimated throughout the scientific world. AMUSEMENTS At the commencement of the holidays, the city begins to put on a gay aspect. Visitors, from all parts of the habitable globe, have arrived, either on business or pleasure. A general round of balls, masquerades, soirées and parties begin, and are continued without intermission during the season. Theatres and operas, with their _stars_ and _prima donnas_, circuses and menageries, bell-ringers and serenaders, are in full success--and New Orleans, filled with every description of amusement, from the top of the drama down to Judy and Punch. Strangers are surprised and delighted at the splendor that is carried out in these circles of pleasure. Our present object, however, is merely to describe the most conspicuous places of public resort. ORLEANS THEATRE The site of this building was occupied by an edifice erected for dramatic performances in 1813, somewhat on the plan of the one now existing. This, which was built by a joint stock company, was burnt to the ground in 1816. Mr. John Davis afterwards became the sole proprietor, and began the erection of the present theatre. [Illustration] The building was opened by the first dramatic corps, ever in Louisiana directly from France, in November, 1819. The total cost of the edifice was about $180,000. The lower story is of the Roman Doric order, certainly not a pure specimen. The upper is what may be called the Corinthian composite. The interior and scenic arrangements of the house are excellent for seeing and hearing, having a pit, or parquette, quite elevated and commodious, with grated boxes at the side for persons in mourning; two tiers of boxes, and one of galleries above; the whole being of such a form as to afford the greatest accommodation to the spectators. Nothing can exceed the decorum of the audience, except the brilliancy of the dress circle, which, on certain occasions, is completely filled with the beautiful ladies of our city, in full evening costume. The performances are in the French language, and the stock company always respectable. The orchestra is excellent. Melodramas and operas are perfectly got up at this house. The strict adherence to nature and history, in costume and manners, will never fail to please the man of taste who visits the Orleans theatre. THE NEW ST. CHARLES THEATRE Like the phoenix, literally arose from the ashes of its predecessor. The first house was erected by the sole exertions of James H. Caldwell, Esq., in 1835, at the cost of $250,000, exclusive of the ground. It occupied one hundred and twenty-nine feet front by one hundred and eighty-six deep, and was seventy-six high. It held four thousand people, and was the fourth in size in the world--one at St. Petersburg, in Russia, another at Pescala, in Milan, and the third at San Carlos, in Naples, were those only which excelled it in size. It was destroyed by fire in 1842. That structure was styled "the Temple of the Drama," and the city had good reason to be proud of such an ornament. The present building has a front of seventy-nine feet on St. Charles street, extends back one hundred and forty-nine, and is fifty-three high. The main entrance and front wall are remains of the former establishment; which, from the substantial workmanship, resisted the conflagration so effectually as to be made available the second time. Passing this memento, the spectator finds himself in the vestibule, thirty-four by twenty-three feet, from which a double flight of geometrically formed stairs ascend to the first tier. Here the pit is seen in a semi-circular shape. The centre box is but fifty-one feet from the foot lights, which brings the audience within a convenient distance of the stage. The depth of the front boxes to the rear is twenty-one feet. The proscenium presents an elevation of thirty-nine feet in the clear, by fifty in width. The upper circles of boxes possess the like advantage of the first, in respect to a distinct view of the performances. The fronts of the boxes consist of an open balustrade, producing a novel, and agreeable effect. The dome is ornamented with sunken panels, suitably embellished with emblematic devices. A golden-fringed national drapery falls from the proscenium, displaying an ingeniously contrived allegory in the centre. Four columns sustain an ornamented entablature above, composed of a mixed style of architecture, and copied after those of the celebrated temple of Benares. THE AMERICAN THEATRE Burnt on the 30th of July, 1842, was rebuilt and reopened on the 5th of December following, at a cost of $28,000. The building is ninety by one hundred and fifty feet, and sufficiently elevated for all the purposes of the drama, but irregular in its altitude. The depth of the stage is sixty feet, and the width of the proscenium thirty-eight. The house will accommodate over fifteen hundred persons. It stands near Lafayette square, on Poydras street; and, from its isolated position, presents quite an imposing appearance. THE CIRCUS The company have fitted up the old depôt of the Carrolton rail-road, situated on the corner of Poydras and Baronne streets, as a place for exhibiting feats of horsemanship. As the buildings possess no especial interest beyond these performances, they require no particular description--but as this amusement has an attraction for almost every class of visitors, not to have referred to it might have been deemed an inexcusable oversight. There is a stage attached to this establishment; and farces and the ballet relieve the monotony of the sports of the ring. THE PUBLIC SQUARES Although the public squares in New Orleans are neither numerous, nor upon a very extended scale, they are located with good taste, and are exceedingly convenient. The centres of Canal, Esplanade, Rampart and Basin streets have a very considerable space set apart for embellishments. Shrubbery, and other ornaments, are in progress, and they already begin to assume a beauty that does much credit to the city authorities. Nothing is more conducive to health than these pleasant resorts for wholesome exercise. Here the toil-worn citizen, the wearied scholar, and the confined artizan, may breathe the fresh air, enjoy a delightful morning or evening promenade, and catch an imaginary enjoyment, in miniature, of the blessed country. WASHINGTON SQUARE is in the third municipality; is bounded by the Elysian Fields, Great-Men's, Casa Calvo and Frenchmen streets.--Though admirably situated, owing to the distance it stands from the denser portion of the city, it has not yet received those attentions which, at some future day, will render it a beautiful promenade. PLACE D'ARMES, or _Parade Square_, is still more prominent, and is embellished with fine trees; but, as it is in the centre of the first municipality, with the public buildings on one front and the levee on the other, it is a matter of surprise that it has not been improved in a style worthy of the inhabitants; who, certainly are capable of appreciating the advantages of such delightful grounds. CIRCUS PLACE is below Rampart street, with St. Claude on the rear, and St. Ann and St. Peter streets on its sides. This is the square once known as _Congo Park_; and is the place where the negroes, in olden times, were accustomed to meet to while away the cares of servitude. Many an old inhabitant can remember when he beheld these thoughtless beings dancing "Old Virginia never tire," or some other favorite air, with such a hearty gusto, upon the green sward, that the very ground trembled beneath their feet. Though the loud laugh, and the unsophisticated break-down, and double-shuffle of these primitive days have ceased, the spot yet remains, with all its reminiscences, as original as ever, with its capabilities of improvement still unimpaired. LAFAYETTE SQUARE is decidedly the handsomest in the city. It is in the second municipality, and has St. Charles and Camp streets in front and rear, and several public buildings in its immediate neighborhood. It has a handsome and substantial iron railing around it, based upon well laid blocks of granite; is well laid off in regular walks, and is ornamented with beautiful and rare shrubbery, set out with geometrical accuracy on a raised surface, calculated to make it dry and pleasant. ANNUNCIATION SQUARE, in the same municipality, is the largest, and, consequently, may some day become the most elegant in the city. Orange and Race streets are on its front and rear--and facing are some very tasteful private residences. TIVOLI CIRCLE, as its name would imply, is a circular piece of land laid off as a public ground in Nyade, at the head of St. Charles street, and is intended to be ornamented. THE OLDEN TIME Antiquity! the olden time! the hoary, venerable past! there is something sacred and soul subduing in the very sound of the words. Like the dying echo of the last tones of the departed, it is full of hallowed memories, and cherished associations, that haunt the inner chambers of the imagination, and linger with a mournful tenderness about the better feelings of the heart. But what have _we_ to do with Antiquity! They of the old World, who were grey with time and tottering with decay when, but yesterday, they saw us spring into being, laugh at our sometime boast of Antiquity; and well they may, for it is hardly as well substantiated as that of the simple boy who conceived himself the oldest person in the world, because he could not remember when he was born. Yet even we, in the New World, we, of its second or third generation, whose fathers were present at its birth and baptism, even _we_ begin to talk gravely of the olden time, and to sigh and look sad over the melancholy grandeur of the past! [Illustration: New Orleans in 1728] Well, be it so. In these stirring times, an age is shorter, and sooner achieved, than in those of "the sluggish eld." Time is measured by events, and not by revolutions of the sun--by the progress of the mind, not by the slow sifting sands of the hour glass, and the amazing precocity of these latter days makes many ages out of a single century. But what a vandal spirit is innovation! what a ruthless destroyer is this boasted modern improvement! It sweeps over the land with the energy of a new creation, demolishing and scattering whatever lies in its way, for the mere pleasure of reproducing it in a new and better form. It removes the ancient land marks, obliterates the last traces of ancient power and grandeur, levels mountains, fills up valleys, turns the courses of rivers, and makes all things bend to its iron will. It works such rapid and magical changes in its headlong career, that few of us are able to point out what _has been_, or to predict with certainty what _will be_ to morrow. Let us cherish then, with deeper veneration, the few relics that remain of the days of our fathers. Let us reverence Antiquity such as it is. Let the street commissioner, and the _improver_ of old estates-- Spare that ancient house, Touch not a single brick-- It is almost alone in its sombre dignity, in the midst of younger and gayer edifices, that have swept New Orleans _as it was_, into the shade of oblivion. Antiquity--I mean, if I may be allowed the Irish figure of speech--modern Antiquity, her countenance grave with sorrow, with here and there a furrow upon her yet ample brow, protests against the desecration of all that _was_ dear and sacred. Standing on the verge of annihilation, with "one foot in the grave," and conscious that her days are numbered, her dissolution nigh at hand, she commands, she implores us to save one memento of the past, one legible souvenir of "the days of auld lang syne." And here it is. [Illustration] THE OLD SPANISH BUILDING At the corner of Royal and St. Anne streets, is delineated in the above engraving as it now stands--and long may it remain as a memorial of other times. Thirty years ago--which, comparatively would take us back three centuries in any European city--thirty years ago, one might have seen from that spot, then the centre of the city, long perspective street-scenes of a similar character. INNOVATION has now done her work--has absolutely trodden the city of the last century under her feet. The Casa Blanca, at the corner of Bienville and Old Levee Streets, has also escaped the general demolition. It was once the courtly residence of Bienville, the first governor of Louisiana--the seat of power, and the centre of wealth, beauty and fashion in the province. It is still on its old foundation, standing "alone in its glory," and the spirit of innovation has so far respected its ancient uses, that it is still a treasury of wealth, and a conservatory of the _sweetness_ of our favored clime--a store house of sugar and molasses! [Illustration: Environs of New Orleans] EXCURSIONS In consequence of the level surface of the country in the environs of New Orleans, a great variety of scenery cannot be expected--yet, on the northern shore of lake Pontchartrain, the ground is somewhat higher and rolling, and affords very pleasant positions. Although not formed like the prolific north and west, in hill and dale, cliffs and cascades, alternately varying and beautifying the landscape, yet there are charming rides and rambles in the neighborhood of this city, of which a more minute account will be given under their respective heads, which follow. CARROLTON, a distance of six miles by the rail-road, is an exceedingly pleasant resort. The line, for nearly a third of the way, passes through the suburbs of the city, and is dotted on either side with beautiful residences--the remainder passes through cultivated fields, pleasant pastures, and delightful wood-lands. The road, like the country, is perfectly level, and kept in the finest condition. At the end of the route is situated the village; which is principally composed of tastefully built cottages, constructed in every variety of architecture that suited the individual fancy of the owner. Opposite the rail-road depôt, is one of the handsomest and most extensive public gardens, that is to be found in the vicinity of New Orleans. A race course is near by; and the strolls around are quite cheering to those who fly from the turmoil and dust of the metropolis. THE SHELL ROAD of the Canal and Banking Company, affords an agreeable ride to lake Pontchartrain, also a distance of six miles. The highway runs on the margin of the canal, and is not excelled by any road in the United States. It is the great resort for every species of pleasure vehicle that the city furnishes; and here may be seen, on an afternoon, all grades of society, from the gay sportsman, mounted on his fast trotter, to the sober citizen, who sallies forth on his ambling poney, all of whom appear to realize an equal share of enjoyment. A line of comfortably arranged barges also ply on the canal from the lake, at which place a convenient hotel is established. Half way on this road, between the city and the lake, is the highly celebrated Metairie race track. THE PONTCHARTRAIN RAIL-ROAD, runs to the lake from which it derives its name, from the head of Elysian Fields street, a distance of five miles. It is a very pretty ride. This route communicates with the great northern mail line, which goes by the way of Mobile--and all the steamboats, that traverse the lakes to the various villages and landings that surround it, make this their general starting point. From here, a passage is obtained to Biloxi, which, the reader will recollect, was the first spot settled by the French in this portion of the world; and, from that circumstance, will naturally excite the curiosity of the intelligent wayfarer. At the termination of this rail-road is a first-rate hotel for the accommodation of visitors. Here is good bathing, fishing and shooting; and, beneath the shade of the trees, the breeze from the water is delightfully refreshing. THE MEXICAN GULF RAIL-ROAD, runs from Elysian Fields street, on Good Children street, towards Lake Borgne. There are twenty eight miles of this road now in operation. When finished, it will afford considerable facilities to commerce, besides great benefit to the citizens, conveying them, in about one and a half hours, to the refreshing breeze of the ocean--where fish, oysters and game may be found in abundance. No doubt it will compete with the most favored watering places of Bay St. Louis, Pass Christian, Biloxi, &c. It will also be a great accommodation to the planters in the neighborhood--who already, so far as it goes, have given it good encouragement. This road has recently been purchased of the State, by A. Gordon and Co., who, availing themselves of about 22 miles of the Nashville rail-road iron, are bringing this work to a rapid completion. THE ROAD OF BAYOU ST. JOHN, which follows the sinuosities of that stream, and reaches lake Pontchartrain at the site of the old fort St. John, after travelling the distance of about six miles, presents a very pleasant drive. Returning by the new Shell road before mentioned, it varies the route without adding much to the distance. MACDONOUGH stands on the banks of the river opposite to New Orleans; and the crossing, in the hottest weather, is generally accompanied by a slight breeze, rendered cool and pleasant by the mighty current of the river, which comes from the icy springs of the Alleghanies and the Rocky mountains. The village, of itself, possesses no great beauty--but the country, the beautiful country is all around--and the noise and confusion of the city no longer annoy you. The great attraction at this spot is in visiting the United States marine hospital, one of the handsomest structures in Louisiana, which stands a little above. ALGIERS adjoins, and seems a part of Macdonough. This is the great work-shop of New Orleans, for the building and repairing of vessels. It has its dry docks, and other facilities for the most extensive operations. In business times, it presents a scene of activity that is seldom observed in any other part of these regions, and reminds one of the bustling and enterprise of the North. The period has been when Algiers prescribed the law, _vi et armis_, to the city itself--but the day and the disposition, have happily long since passed away. GRETNA, on the same shore, is nearly two miles further up the river, and stands opposite Lafayette. The whole distance is spotted with comfortable residences, principally inhabited by the owners of the adjoining grounds, and the walk from Algiers to this village is very gratifying to one partial to such exercise. There is a steamboat constantly plying from here to the city, which affords a desirable excursion of nearly three miles, touching at Lafayette in its passage each way. The village has a rural appearance, is regularly laid out, and exhibits some neat tenements. The forest approaches quite near; and, the idea that one may so easily lose himself in the neighboring woods, gives to the place a touch of romance which only the denizens of a crowded city know how to appreciate. From the great number of cattle observed along the shore, it would seem as if there was no necessity of diluting the milk for the New Orleans market, unless the milkmen be tea-total temperance men, and take this method to introduce the inhabitants gradually to a taste for water. THE RACE COURSES. There are three of these in the vicinity of this city. The _Louisiana_, near lake Pontchartrain; the _Metairie_, near the Shell road; and the one at Carrolton. These are as well patronised as any in the country, and, in the racing season, the inhabitants of the neighboring states, from a great distance, flock hither to participate in the sports of the turf. Much praise has been bestowed upon the arrangements on these occasions. Even here, as in many other countries, the ladies, by their presence, have given them countenance and encouragement--and the course usually is "gemmed by the rich beauty of the sunny south." THE BATTLE GROUND, (formerly known as "the Plains of Chalmette,") the very naming of which causes the bosom of an American to swell with patriotic pride, lies five miles below the city. It may be approached either by the Grand Gulf rail-road, or by a good highway along the levee, the new Convent and United States barracks being within full view. But first it may be necessary to look briefly at the historical facts which give celebrity to the spot. Early in December, 1814, the British approached New Orleans, about 8000 strong, by the way of the lakes Borgne and Pontchartrain. Their passage into the lake was opposed by a squadron of gun-boats under Lieut. Jones. After a spirited conflict, in which the killed (500) and the wounded of the enemy exceeded the whole American force, he was compelled to surrender to superior numbers. On the 21st of Dec. four thousand militia arrived from Kentucky and Tennessee, under General Jackson. On the 22nd, the enemy having previously landed, took a position near the Mississippi, eight miles below the city. On the evening of the 23d, the Americans made a furious attack upon their camp, and threw them into disorder, with five hundred of their men killed. The enemy rallied; and Gen. Jackson withdrew his troops, and fortified a strong position six miles below the city, supported by batteries on the west side of the river. Here he was unsuccessfully assailed on the 28th of Dec. and 1st of Jan., the enemy losing two hundred to three hundred men. In the mean time both armies received reinforcements. The decisive battle was fought on the 8th day of Jan. 1815. The American right was on the river, running in a right angle to the wood. A redoubt was raised (which is still visible) strengthened by bales of cotton along the whole line. The enemy were about a half mile lower down, on a parallel line, their head quarters resting on the river, near three large oaks which still mark the spot. The scene is distinct, and this is _the battle ground_. The British commenced the assault at day light. As they approached the works, sixty deep, many were killed by grape shot; but, when they came within musket range, a destructive stream of fire burst forth from the American lines. Our troops were placed in two ranks, the rear loading while the front fired, thus pouring an incessant peal--which, from Kentucky and Tennessee riflemen, was most deadly. While leading on the troops of the enemy, Gen. Pakenham, the chief in command, was killed; Gen. Gibbs, the second in command, was wounded mortally; and Gen. Keene severely. Without officers to direct them, the troops halted, fell back, and soon fled in confusion to their camp. In a little over an hour, two thousand out of eight thousand veterans lay dead upon the field, while the Americans had but seven killed and six wounded--a disproportion unparalleled in the history of warfare. Gen. Lambert, upon whom the command then devolved, after one more unsuccessful attempt to assault, availed himself of a truce of twenty-four hours to bury the dead, made good his retreat--which Gen. Jackson felt no disposition to molest, as he was resolved to hazard none of his advantages. Thus was New Orleans saved from the hands of an invading enemy whose War cry was--"Beauty and Booty." The British lost during the month they were in Louisiana, more than three thousand three hundred and fifty in killed, while the loss of the Americans was not two hundred. The wounded of the enemy must have been much less, on account of the sure aim of the backwoodsmen. The greater portion of our army were plain honest farmers--who knew nothing of battle--they heard that their country was in danger--the country which gave a home to them, and their children, and they flew to its defence,--drove the invaders from their shores, and then returned to their homes to till the ground. It is not a matter of surprise--though the battle is without a parallel in the history of the world--that even "invincibles," were so dreadfully routed by undisciplined backwoodsmen defending their native soil, with their wives and children behind them. A jaunt to these grounds is a sort of pilgrimage, that no stranger will, that no citizen can neglect. Not to have seen the field of this great victory, would be a reflection upon the taste, not to say the patriotism of any who should visit our city. The ground it is true, presents few memorials to remind the patriotic visitor of the deadly strife. There is no proud monument, towering to the sky, to mark the place where the great victory was won. But he beholds the consequences wherever he turns his eye, and he feels them--deeply feels them in every throb of his heart. Those born upon the soil, and those who participated in the struggle, have reason to be proud of the spot, and to cherish the memory of that eventful day. If there is no lofty structure of granite or marble, to perpetuate the glorious achievement, it has a holier, a more enduring memorial in the heart of every true American, which thrills with lofty pride at every allusion to it, as did the ancient Greek at the name of Marathon, or the Spartan at that of Thermopylæ. TRAVELLING ROUTES The facilities which this metropolis affords for reaching any accessible portion of the world, particularly all sections of the union, are not excelled. Steam and sailing ships of the first class, hold commercial intercourse with almost every nation. Steamboats, with accommodations equal to the best regulated hotels, are plying through every river and bayou. Four to five thousand miles can be achieved, in those floating palaces, with perfect ease, and comparative safety. The principal routes between the north and the south are here given, as also the intermediate places, together with those inland most frequented by the traveller and the man of business, and the distances carefully noted as they diverge, in their various directions. Beside the four annexed routes to New York, there are several that lead to favorite watering places, and other points attractive to travellers of leisure, which it would be quite impracticable to lay down in a work of this kind. They can always obtain information of these resorts, from intelligent companions on the road, that will prevent their deviating much from the point they wish to attain. The distances on the river have been corrected agreeably to the latest survey. The other routes conform to the most approved authorities; and, frequently, have been corrected by personal observation, with the utmost care and attention. ROUTE 1.--_From New Orleans to New York, via Pittsburgh, Pa., by Steamboat._ Miles. New Orleans to Carrolton, 6 | Red Church, 20 | 26 Bonne Carre Church, 16 | 42 Jefferson College, 22 | 64 Donaldsonsville, 19 | 83 Louisiana Institute, 12 | 95 St. Gabriel Church, 12 | 107 Plaquemine, 10 | 117 Baton Rouge, 23 | 140 Port Hudson, 25 | 165 Bayou Sara, 11 | 176 Tunica Bend, 27 | 203 Red River, cut off, 33 | 236 Fort Adams, Miss., 11 | 247 Homo Chitta River, Miss., 10 | 257 Ellise Cliffs, Miss., 26 | 283 Natchez, Miss., 18 | 301 Rodney, Miss., 31 | 332 Bruinsburg, Miss., 12 | 344 Grand Gulf, (big black) Miss., 10 | 354 Carthage, Miss., 25 | 379 Warrenton, Miss., 19 | 398 Vicksburg, Miss., 10 | 408 Old River, (Yazoo,) Miss., 12 | 420 Tompkins' Bend, 46 | 466 Providence, La., 15 | 481 Bunch Bend, 19 | 500 Princeton, Miss., 10 | 510 Columbia, Ark., 45 | 555 Bolivar, Miss., 53 | 608 Napoleon, (Arkansas,) 12 | 620 Victoria, 20 | 640 Delta, 66 | 706 Helena, 10 | 716 Sterling, 10 | 726 Peyton, Miss., 12 | 738 Commerce, 33 | 771 Buck Island, 6 | 777 Memphis, Tenn., 21 | 798 Devil's Race Ground, 34 | 832 Randolph, Tenn., 33 | 865 Fulton, Tenn., 11 | 876 Plumb Point, 10 | 886 Ashport, 12 | 898 Needham's Cut-off, 8 | 906 Walker's Bend, 31 | 937 Riddel's Point, 18 | 955 New Madrid, Mo., 10 | 965 Mills' Point, 42 | 1007 Columbus, K., 15 | 1022 Cairo, (Mo'th Ohio R'r.) Il., 18 | 1040 Trinity, 6 | 1046 America, Il., 5 | 1051 Caledonia, Il., 3 | 1054 Fort Massac, Il., 23 | 1077 Paducah, (M. Tenn R'r) K., 8 | 1085 Smithfield, (M. Cum'd) K., 1 | 1097 Golconda, Il., 18 | 1115 Tower Rock, 15 | 1130 Cave in the Rock, 5 | 1135 Battery Rock, 9 | 1144 Shawneetown, Il., 12 | 1156 Raleigh, K., 6 | 1162 Wabash River, 6 | 1168 Carthage, K., 7 | 1175 Mount Vernon, Ia., 13 | 1188 Henderson, K., 28 | 1216 Evanville, Ia., 12 | 1228 Owensboro, K., 36 | 1264 Rockport, 12 | 1276 Troy, Ia., 16 | 1292 Cloverport, 21 | 1313 Stephensport, K., and Rome, Ia., 10 | 1323 Fredonia, 34 | 1357 Leavenworth, 2 | 1359 Mauckport, Ia., 14 | 1373 Brandenburg, 3 | 1376 West Point, K., 18 | 1394 Portland, K., and New Albany, Ia., 20 | 1414 Shippingport, 1 | 1415 Louisville, K., 3 | 1418 Jeffersonville, Ia., 1 | 1419 Westport, K., 19 | 1438 Bethlehem, 6 | 1444 New London, 6 | 1450 Madison, Ia., 7 | 1457 Port William, K., 14 | 1471 Vevay, Ia., and Ghent K., 8 | 1479 Warsaw, K., 11 | 1490 Rising Sun, Ia., 20 | 1510 Bellevue, 2 | 1512 Petersburg, 7 | 1519 Aurora, 2 | 1521 Lawrenceburg, 3 | 1524 North Bend, 7 | 1531 Cincinnati, O., and Covington and Newport, K., 17 | 1548 Columbia, 8 | 1556 Richmond, 13 | 1569 Point Pleasant, 4 | 1573 Macon, 4 | 1577 Neville, 3 | 1580 Mechanicsburg, O., 3 | 1583 Augusta, 7 | 1590 Levana, O., and Dover, K., 2 | 1592 Ripley, O., 3 | 1595 Charleston, K., 5 | 1600 Maysville, K., and Aberdeen, O., 7 | 1607 Manchester, O., 11 | 1618 Vanceburg, K., 16 | 1634 Alexandria, 18 | 1652 Portsmouth, O., 2 | 1654 Concord, O., 8 | 1662 Greenupsburg, K., 13 | 1674 Burlington, O., 23 | 1697 Guyandot, Va., 7 | 1704 Galliopolis, O., 35 | 1739 Point Pleasant, 3 | 1742 Letart's Rapids, 30 | 1772 Belleville, Va., 28 | 1800 Troy, O., 5 | 1805 Belpie and Blennerhassett's Island, 12 | 1817 Parkersburg, Va., 2 | 1819 Vienna, Va., 5 | 1824 Marietta, O., 6 | 1830 Newport, O., 15 | 1845 Sistersville, 27 | 1872 Wheeling, Va., 40 | 1912 Warren, 9 | 1921 Wellsburg, Va., 6 | 1927 Steubenville, 7 | 1934 Welleville, O., 20 | 1954 Georgetown, 7 | 1962 Beaver, 13 | 1974 Economy, 12 | 1986 Middletown, Pa., 8 | 1994 Pittsburgh, Pa., 10 | 2004 Warrenton, by Canal, 47 | 2051 Blairsville, do 28 | 2079 Johnstown, do 29 | 2108 Hollidaysburg, by rail-road, 37 | 2145 Alexandria, by Canal, 26 | 2171 Lewiston, do 57 | 2228 Newport, do 36 | 2264 Harrisburg, do 26 | 2290 Philadelphia, by rail-road, 101 | 2391 Trenton, do 28 | 2419 Brunswick, do 27 | 2446 Jersey City, do 31 | 2477 New York, by steamboat, 1 | 2478 ROUTE 2.--_New Orleans to New York, via St. Louis, Chicago and Buffalo, (see route 1.) to Mouth of the Ohio, Steamboat to St. Joseph._ Miles. Mouth of Ohio, | 1040 Elk Island, 8 | 1048 Dogtooth Island, 8 | 1056 English Island, 15 | 1071 Cape Girardeau, Mo., 12 | 1083 Bainbridge, Mo., and Hamburg, Il., 10 | 1093 Lacouse's Island, 31 | 1124 Kaskaskia River, 15 | 1139 River au Vases, 10 | 1149 St. Genevieve, Mo., 9 | 1158 Fort Chartres Island, 10 | 1168 Rush Island, 10 | 1178 Herculaneum, Mo., 10 | 1188 Harrison, Il., 1 | 1189 Merrimack River, 11 | 1200 Carondelet, Mo., 13 | 1213 St. Louis, Mo., 7 | 1220 Alton, Il., 22 | 1242 Illinois River, 15 | 1257 Monroe, 5 | 1262 Guilford, 10 | 1272 Montezuma, 20 | 1292 Augusta, 15 | 1307 Meridosia, 23 | 1330 Beardstown, 16 | 1346 Havana, 27 | 1373 Pekin, 34 | 1407 Peoria, 7 | 1414 Henry, 10 | 1424 Columbia, 10 | 1434 Lacon, 4 | 1438 Hennepin, 18 | 1456 Chippeway, 16 | 1472 Shippingport, 2 | 1474 Dresden, 46 | 1520 Mount Joliet, 15 | 1535 Lockport, 6 | 1541 Chicago, Il., 29 | 1570 Michigan City, Ind., 52 | 1622 New Buffalo, M., 12 | 1634 St. Joseph, M., 28 | 1662 Detroit, by rail-road, 200 | 1862 Fighting Island, by steamboat 12 | 1874 Amhurstsburg, U. C., do 6 | 1880 Middle Sister Island, do 20 | 1900 North Bass Island, do 10 | 1910 Cunningham's Island, do 10 | 1920 Sandusky, O., do 12 | 1932 Cleaveland, O., do 54 | 1986 Fairport, O., do 30 | 2016 Ashtabula, O., do 32 | 2048 Fairview, Pa., do 28 | 2076 Erie, Pa., do 11 | 2087 Bugett's Town, Pa., do 17 | 2104 Portland, N. Y., do 18 | 2122 Dunkirk, N. Y., do 18 | 2140 Cattaraugus, N. Y., do 13 | 2153 Sturgeon Point, N. Y., do 10 | 2163 Buffalo, N. Y., do 16 | 2179 Williamsville, by rail-road, 10 | 2189 Pembroke, do 16 | 2205 Batavia, do 14 | 2219 Rochester, do 25 | 2244 Canandagua, do 25 | 2269 Geneva, do 16 | 2285 Waterloo, do 7 | 2292 Seneca Falls, do 4 | 2296 Cayuga, do 3 | 2299 Auburn, do 9 | 2308 Skaneatelas do 7 | 2315 Marcellus, do 6 | 2321 Onondaga, do 8 | 2329 Manlius, do 12 | 2341 Oneida, do 18 | 2359 Utica, do 22 | 2381 Herkimer, do 16 | 2397 Little Falls, do 7 | 2404 Caughnawaga, do 33 | 2437 Amsterdam, do 10 | 2447 Schenectady, do 15 | 2462 Albany, do 15 | 2477 New Baltimore, steamboat, 15 | 2492 Kinderhook Landing, do 4 | 2496 Hudson, do 9 | 2505 Catskill, do 5 | 2510 Clermont, do 9 | 2519 Redhook, upper landing, 2 | 2521 Redhook, lower do 3 | 2524 Rhinebeck, do 7 | 2531 Esopus, do 1 | 2532 Hyde Park, do 9 | 2541 Poughkeepsie, do 5 | 2546 New Hamburg, do 8 | 2554 Newburg, do 7 | 2561 Fishkill, do 1 | 2562 New Windsor, do 1 | 2563 Cold Spring, by steamboat, 3 | 2566 West Point, do 3 | 2569 St. Anthony's Nose, do 7 | 2576 Fort Fayette, do 5 | 2581 Stony Point, do 1 | 2582 Haverstraw, do 4 | 2586 Sing Sing, do 3 | 2589 Tarrytown, do 6 | 2595 Phillipstown, do 10 | 2605 Fort Independence, do 4 | 2609 Fort Washington, do 2 | 2611 Fort Lee, do 1 | 2612 Manhattanville, do 2 | 2614 New York, do 8 | 2622 ROUTE 3.--_New Orleans to New York, via Wheeling and Baltimore._ Miles. To Wheeling, by steamboat, (see route 1.) | 1912 Cumberland, by stage, 131 | 2043 Hancocktown, Md., rail-road 39 | 2082 Williamsport, Md., do 27 | 2109 Frederickstown, Md., do 27 | 2136 Poplar, Md., do 20 | 2156 Ellicott's, Md., do 17 | 2173 Baltimore, Md., do 10 | 2183 Havre de Grace, Del., do 31 | 2214 Wilmington, Del., do 36 | 2250 Philadelphia, Pa., do 26 | 2276 New York, (see route 2.) 88 | 2364 ROUTE 4.--_New Orleans to New York, Mail line._ Miles. Point Pontchartrain, by rail-road, 5 | Fort Pike, by steamboat 21 | 26 Bay St. Louis, do 33 | 59 Biloxi, do 31 | 90 Pascagoula, Miss., do 20 | 110 Cedar Point, Al., do 26 | 136 Mobile, Al., do 28 | 164 Junction of Alabama and Tombigbee river, do 65 | 229 Claiborne, do 72 | 301 Black Bluff, do 46 | 347 Dale Town, do 35 | 382 Canton, do 14 | 396 Portland, do 29 | 425 Cahaba, do 21 | 446 Selma, do 18 | 464 Benton, do 35 | 499 Vernon, do 39 | 538 Loch Ranza, do 6 | 544 Washington, do 16 | 560 Montgomery, do 12 | 572 Chehaw, Al., by rail-road, 40 | 612 Covington, Ga., by stage, 155 | 767 Augusta, Ga., by rail-road, 121 | 888 Charleston, S. C., do 136 | 1024 Wilmington, N. C., by steamboat, 220 | 1244 Weldon, N. C., rail-road, 170 | 1414 Richmond, Va., do 124 | 1538 Washington City, do 122 | 1660 Baltimore, Md., do 40 | 1700 New York, (see route 3.) 181 | 1881 ROUTE 5.--_New Orleans to Fort Gibson by steamboat._ Miles. Arkansas river, (see route 1.) 620 | Arkansas, 62 | 682 New Gascony, 71 | 753 Pine Bluff, 25 | 778 Little Rock, 150 | 928 Lewisburg, 66 | 994 Scotia, 50 | 1044 Morrison's Bluff, 33 | 1077 Van Buren, 72 | 1149 Fort Smith, 8 | 1157 Fort Coffee, Mo., 10 | 1167 Fort Gibson, 84 | 1251 ROUTE 6.--_New Orleans to Balize, and Gulf of Mexico, by Steamboat._ Miles. Battle Ground, 5 | English Turn, 6 | 11 Fort St. Leon, 5 | 16 Poverty Point, 18 | 34 Grand Prairie, 27 | 61 Fort St. Philip, 9 | 70 South West Pass, 9 | 79 South Pass, 2 | 81 Pass a' l'Outre, 2 | 83 Balize, 4 | 87 Gulf, 5 | 92 ROUTE 7.--_New Orleans to the Raft on Red River, by Steamboat._ Miles. Mouth of Red River, 236 | Black River, 28 | 264 Bayou Saline, 20 | 284 Alexandria, 56 | 340 Regolet de Bondieu, 18 | 358 Bayou Cane, 36 | 394 Natchitoches, 24 | 418 Bastian's Landing, 40 | 458 The Raft, 40 | 498 ROUTE 8.--_New Orleans to Pittsburg, Miss., by Steamboat._ Miles. Mouth of Yazoo River, Miss., 420 | Satartia, 66 | 486 Liverpool, 5 | 491 Manchester, 25 | 516 Tchula, 88 | 604 Marion, 37 | 641 Mouth of Yalo Busha river, 33 | 674 Cochuma, 38 | 712 Pittsburg, 27 | 739 ROUTE 9.--_New Orleans to Nashville, Tenn., by Steamboat._ Miles. Cumberland river, 1097 | Eddyville, K., 56 | 1153 Canton, 20 | 1173 Dover, Tenn., 30 | 1203 Palmyra, 31 | 1234 Red River, 6 | 1240 Harpeth River, 20 | 1260 Nashville, 40 | 1300 ROUTE 10.--_New Orleans to Florence, Al., by Steamboat._ Miles. Tennessee River, 1085 | Petersville, Tenn., 71 | 1156 Reynoldsburg, 36 | 1192 Perryville, 42 | 1234 Carrollville, 27 | 1261 Coffee, 26 | 1287 Savannah, 9 | 1296 Waterloo, 25 | 1321 Bear Creek, 12 | 1333 Colbert's Ferry, Tenn., 14 | 1347 Florence, Al., 24 | 1371 GENERAL INDEX Academies for Females, 44 Algiers, a description of, 194 Alligators, killed for their skins, 42 American Theatre, erected in 1823, 67 description of, 180 Amusements, 176 Ancient Settlements supposed to have existed, 11 Anecdote of an old Frenchman, 68 early cotton growing, 47 Annunciation Square, 183 Church, 100 Armories, 149 Association, Young Men's Howard, 115 Associations for charitable and other purposes, 110 Asylums of New Orleans, their excellence, ib. Asylum, Catholic Male Orphan, 114 Female do, 110 Male do, 113 Milne do, 116 Poydras Female do, 113 Les dames de la Providence, 114 Attakapas Prairie, 38 Parish, 39 produces abundance of live oak, 33 Atchafalaya lands, 34 Bank of Louisiana, 155 Louisiana State, 153 Canal, 155 City, 154 Mechanics' and Traders', 153 Gas, 154 Banks' Arcade, 156 Bard, Captain, Return of, 16 Bar of New Orleans, 79 Barracks, the United States, 86 Baton Rouge taken, 24 Battle Ground, 196 Bayou St. John Road, 194 Beautiful land bordering the Teche, 33 Bellevue Prairie, 40 Benevolent Society, Hebrew, 116 Best lands, 31 Bienville, made governor, 17 is superseded in 1710, ib. deceives the English captain, 16 is reappointed governor in 1717, 17 founds New Orleans, 1718, 18 sails for France in 1727, 20 is succeeded by Perrier, ib. governor for the third time, ib. resigns in 1741, ib. Biloxi settled by Iberville, 16 Board of Health established in 1841, 71 Boatmen of the Mississippi, 75 Bottom lands, their luxuriance, 30 Boundaries of the State of Louisiana, 28 Territory of Louisiana, 7 Branch Mint of the United States, 88 Branch Bank of the United States, established 1805, 66 Breed of cattle improving, 56 Bricks, why they are not well made, 57 Buildings, the public, 86 Burr, Aaron, 26 Business season, appearance of the levee in the, 81 Calcasieu prairie, 40 Caldwell, James H., his great enterprise, 67 Carmelite Convent, 104 Carondelet appointed governor in 1792, 25 fortifies New Orleans in 1792, 64 his schemes defeated by Gen. Wilkinson, 26 Casa Blanca, 189 Carrolton, 191 Casa Calvo succeeds governor Gayosa de Lemor, 26 is succeeded by Salado, ib. Catholic Cemeteries, 107 Cathedral, 92 Cattle, improvement in the breed, 56 Ceded to the United States, Louisiana, 26 Cemetery, Cypress Grove, 105 Catholic, 107 Protestant, 108 St. Patrick's, 109 Chapel of the Ursulines, 98 St. Antoine's, or the Mortuary, 97 Wesleyan, 103 Charitable Association, the Samaritan, 114 the Firemen's, 115 Charitable institutions, 110 Charity Hospital, 117 Church, Annunciation, 100 St. Augustine, 96 Christ, 99 St. Paul's, 95 St. Patrick's, 95 First Presbyterian, 100 Second do, 101 First Congregational, ib. Methodist Episcopal, 102 First Baptist, ib. Circus, the, 180 Circus Place, 182 Circus street Infirmity, 124 City Exchange, (St. Louis,) 157 Bank, 154 Hall, 134 Improvements, an anecdote, 68 Proper, its extent, ib. Prisons, 129 Clay, of a very pure kind, 57 Clergy, of New Orleans, 79 Climate of Louisiana, 45 College of Louisiana, 43 Jefferson, ib. Franklin, ib. Medical, 168 Colonial system introduced, 17 carried out, 21 Colony transferred to France in 1803, 24 Colorado ascended by La Salle, 15 Comedians first arrived in 1791, 64 become teachers, ib. Commercial advantages of New Orleans, 81 Commercial exchange, 159 prosperity commences in 1795, 25 Comparative speed of navigating the Mississippi, 80 Congregational Church, first, 101 Convent of Ursuline nuns, erected in 1730, 61 its description, 103 Convent, new one erected in 1824, 61 its description, 104 Coast, the, 31 Convent, the Carmelite, 104 at Grand Coteau, 44 Cotton, when first exported, an anecdote, 47 the quantity estimated for 1844, 45 opinions on the fluctuating price of, 48 its consumption in New England, 49 in England, ib. will present prices sustain the planter? 50 the produce of Texas, ib. lands, where the best, 34 Factories, 151 Presses, 152 Court-house, 133 Creoles their character, 73 Crevasse, in 1816, 42 in 1844, at Bonne Carre, ib. Crozat, Antonio, obtains an exclusive privilege, 17 Cuba tobacco seed does well in Louisiana, 54 Cultivation of sugar, 21 of Cotton, 47 of madder, 51 of silk, 53 of hemp, ib. of the vine, 55 of tobacco, 54 of indigo, 55 of orange and fig do, 20 Currency, evil of its depreciation, 19 Custom house, description of it, 89 Custom House, a new one contemplated, 90 Cypress Grove Cemetery, 105 Death of Iberville, 17 de Soto, 10 Delta of the Mississippi, 37 Deposit of red river, 34 Description of United States Barracks, 86 Branch Mint, 88 Description of the Custom House, 89 Post Office, 90 State House, 91 Cathedral, 92 St. Patrick's Church, 95 St. Augustine do, 96 Mortuary Chapel, 97 Annunciation Church, 100 Chapel of the Ursulines, 98 Christ Church, 99 St. Paul's do, ib. First Presbyterian do, 100 Second do do, 101 Methodist Episcopal do, 102 Wesleyan Chapel, 103 old Ursuline Convent, ib. new do, 104 Court-House, 133 City Hall, 134 St. Charles Exchange, 137 Verandah, 141 City Exchange, (St. Louis,) 157 Discovery of the Mississippi, 7 Disputed Territory, 8 Division of the city in 1836, 67 Don Ulloa driven away, 22 Don O'Reilly takes possession, 23 Duelling punished by disfranchise, 78 Education in Louisiana, 43 Elliot, Andrew, 26 "English Turn," whence derived, 16 Exchange Hotel, (St. Charles,) 137 Merchants', 161 (St. Louis,) City, 157 Commercial, 159 Excursions, 191 Extent of the territory of Louisiana, 9 New Orleans, in 1810, 66 the City Proper, 68 Feliciana, West, parish of, 32 Female Orphan Asylum, 110 Fig trees introduced, 20 Fire consumes nine hundred houses in 1778, 62 many buildings in 1796, 65 seven blocks of houses in 1844, 70 Fire department, 149 Firemen's Charitable Association, 115 First steamboat arrives at New Orleans, 27 First Presbyterian Church, 100 Congregational do, 101 Florida invaded by Gov. Galvez, in 1779, 24 Floating Prairies, a great natural curiosity, 35 Flour mill, 151 Fort Charlotte taken, 24 Fountain of Health, 9 Franklin College, 43 Infirmary, 124 Gas Works, a description of them, 144 the city lighted with it in 1834, 70 Gayosa de Lemor made governor, 26 Gayosa de Lemor succeeded by Casa Calvo, 26 German emigrants settle along the coast in 1723, 60 supply the city with vegetables, ib. Grape vines, where to be cultivated, 55 Grazing, the very best lands for it, ib. Gretna, 195 Gypsum, valuable beds found, 56 Health of New Orleans, 77 Hebrew Benevolent Society, 116 Hemp suited to the higher grounds, 53 an immense article of consumption, ib. necessary in time of war, 54 Hernandez de Soto, first discovery of Louisiana, 7 his death, 10 Historical Sketch of New Orleans, 58 Hospitality of the inhabitants of Opelousas, 40 Hospitals, easy access to them, 117 the Charity, ib. Hotel, Exchange, (St. Charles,) 137 the Verandah, 141 St. Louis Exchange, 143 Hewlett's, ib. Planters', ib. National, ib. Hall of Second Municipality, 127 Hurricane devastates New Orleans 1723, 60 Hunt's Merchants' Magazine, article, 48 Iberville enters the Mississippi, 16 establishes the first settlement at Biloxi, ib. founds Natchez, 17 his death, ib. Improvement in New Orleans in 1824, 66 Incorporation of New Orleans in 1805, ib. Indian massacre of the whites at Natchez, 19 Indigo cultivated in 1728, 20 cultivation now much neglected, 55 Infirmary, Circus street, 124 Franklin, ib. Inquisition, its establishment frustrated in 1785, 25 Iron foundry, 150 Jefferson College, 43 Jesuits and Ursuline Nuns arrived in 1727, 60 expelled by Clement XIII., in 1763, 61 their property confiscated, ib. their immense wealth, ib. curious documents of them in archives of first municipality, ib. La Dames de la Providence, 114 Lafayette Square, 182 Lafourche, Bayou, 32 Lakes, inlets, and sounds, 37 La Salle descends the Mississippi to the Gulf, 14 builds a fort at the mouth of Little Miami, ib. sails for France, 15 goes into the bay of St. Bernard, ib. ascends the Colorado, ib. forms a settlement on St. Bernard's bay, ib. is murdered by Dehault, ib. his character and enterprise, ib. Law, John, the Scotch financier, 18 Learned professions, divinity, law, and medicine, 79 Le Moniteur, first paper published in New Orleans, 25 Levee, its extent, 31 crevasse in 1816 and 1844, 42 its appearance in the business season, 81 Cotton Press, 152 Literary Association, Young Men's, 167 Live oak of Attakapas, its abundance, 33 Louisiana, territory of, its discovery, 7 its boundaries, ib. transferred to Spain, 22 retransferred to France in 1803, 26 sold to the United States in 1803, ib. the State of, admitted to the union in 1812, 27 its boundaries, surface and soil, 28 its vast prairies, 30 its improvement in education, 43 College of, ib. mutton unsurpassed, 56 the climate of, 45 State Bank, 153 Medical College, 168 Luxuriance of the bottom lands, 34 Lyceum, Public School, 166 the People's, 167 Madder described, how cultivated, 51 price, duties, and demand for it, ib. Maison de Sante, 123 Male Orphan Asylum, 113 Manufactures, 150 Marine Hospital, United States, 125 Markets of New Orleans, 135 Market, Poydras street, 136 the Vegetable, ib. the Meat, ib. Market, St. Mary's, 137 Marquette descends the Mississippi, 13 Marshes, extensive near the ocean, 38 Masonic Fraternities, 80 Massacre at Natchez, 19 Meat Market, 136 Mechanics' and Traders' Bank, 153 Medical Science, 79 Medical College of Louisiana, 168 Merchants' Exchange, 161 Reading Room, ib. Meteorological Journal, an abstract from the, 72 Methodist Episcopal Church, 102 Mexican Gulf Rail-road, 193 Military strength of New Orleans in 1792, 64 Milne Orphan Asylum, 116 Minerals of Louisiana, 56 Mint, Branch of the United States, 88 Miro succeeds Galvez as governor, 25 carries the colonial system into effect, ib. Mississippi River discovered by De Soto, 10 River made free in 1795, 25 Valley, its vast extent, 83 boatmen, description of them, 74 immensity of its produce, 82-84 Delta of, 37 Moral character of New Orleans, 78 Moscoso's Adventures, 10 Mulberry trees prolific in Louisiana, 53 Municipal Hall, 127 Muskeet grass, excellent for cattle, 55 Mutton, 56 Natchez massacre of the whites, 19 tribe defeated, ib. founded by Iberville, 17 National Hotel, 143 Gallery of Paintings, 169 Natchitoches tobacco, very superior, 54 Nature of the soil of Louisiana, 29 New Orleans founded by Bienville in 1718, 59 a historical sketch of, 58 New Orleans, view of, 58 inundated and abandoned in 1719, 59 again occupied in 1722, ib. visited by a hurricane in 1723, 60 by yellow fever in 1769, 62 divided into wards and lighted in 1792, 64 fortified by Carondelet, ib. its military strength, ib. opened to the United States in 1795, 65 a port of entry and delivery in 1804, 66 incorporated in 1805, ib. its extent in 1810, ib. its appearance from various points, 69 lighted with gas in 1834, 70 state of its morals, 78 its commercial advantages, 81 its anticipated greatness, 84 Reading Rooms, 161-2 Police, 78 travelling routes, 201 Newspaper Press, 173 first published in 1794, 25 Olden Time, 184 Old Ursuline Convent, 103 Opelousas Prairie, 39 hospitality of the inhabitants, 40 Opposition to founding New Orleans, 59 Orange trees introduced, 20 destroyed by frost in 1748, ib. O'Reilly, the Spanish governor, 23 his tyrannical conduct, ib. succeeded by Unzoga, 24 Orleans Cotton Press, 152 Theatre, 176 Orphan Asylums, their excellence, 110 Paintings, National Gallery of, 169 individual collections of, 170 Paving of streets first began, 67 Pensacola taken by the French, 19 People's Lyceum, 167 Physic, Law and Divinity, their progress, 79 Pine woodlands, 30 Place d'Armes, 182 Planing Mill, steam, 151 Plaquemine, 32 Planters' Hotel, 143 Ponce de Leon, 9 Pontchartrain Rail-road, 192 Population in 1732, 20 in 1788, 25 in 1803, 26 of New Orleans in 1723, 59 in 1785, 62 in 1803, 70 in 1810, 66 in 1844, 71 comparative, ib. Police of New Orleans, 78 Post Office, 90 Pottery may be made of Louisiana clay, 57 Poydras Female Orphan Asylum, 113 street Market, 136 Prairies of the State, 30 particularly described, ib. Prairie, Attakapas, 33 38 Opelousas, 39 Bellevue, 40 Prairie, Calcasieu, 40 Prairie, Sabine, 40 Press of New Orleans, 173 Presbyterian Church, First, 100 Second, 101 Project of supplying wholesome water, 148 Prospects of New Orleans, 82 Prosperity of trade in 1810, 66 Protestant Cemetery, 108 Public buildings, 86 libraries much wanted, 79 property transferred to the United States, 65 Public School system, 163 how introduced, ib. Public School Lyceum, 166 Squares, 181 Race Courses, 195 Raft in Red River, 36 Rail-road, Pontchartrain, 192 Carrolton, 191 Mexican Gulf, 193 Reading Room, Merchants', 161 New Orleans, 162 Red River deposit, its nature, 34 raft, 36 Residence of Governor Bienville, 189 Road of Bayou St. John, 194 Rope Walks, 151 Sabine Prairies, 40 Salvado, last Spanish governor, 26 Samaritan Charitable Association, 114 Sauville, the Governor, dies, 17 Saw Mills, steam, 151 School, Convent, 44 Sisters of Charity, ib. School, Ursuline Nuns', 44 Schools, the Public, ib. Second Presbyterian Church, 101 Municipality Work-House, 130 Hall, 127 Sheep of Louisiana, very superior, 56 Lafourche, ib. Shell Road, 192 Silk may be produced in abundance, 53 Society in New Orleans, 73 Soil of Louisiana, 29 State of Louisiana described, 28 State Legislature to be removed, 92 House, 91 Steamboat first arrives from Pittsburgh, 27 Steamboats, early, their trips, 80 extent of present navigation, 83 Steam Planing Mill, 151 Saw Mills, ib. Streets and sidewalks first paved, 67 St. Augustine Church, 96 St. Patrick's do, 95 Cemetery, 109 St. Paul's Church, 99 St. Antoine's, or Mortuary Chapel, 97 St. Charles Exchange Hotel, 137 St. Louis Exchange Hotel, 143 St. Mary's Market, 137 (St. Louis,) City Exchange, 157 St. Charles Theatre, 178 St. Lorenzo, treaty of, 25 St. Bernard bay occupied by La Salle, 15 Sugar introduced by the Jesuits in 1751, 21 crops their present average, ib. Sugar lands, 46 refinery, 151 Suggestion to sugar planters, 46 Surface of Louisiana, 29 Tax upon chimneys to light New Orleans, 64 Teche, excellent lands upon its borders, 33 Territory of Louisiana, its boundaries, 7 its discovery by de Soto, 10 its immense extent, 8 transferred to Spain in 1763, 22 Theatre American 1823, 67 Orleans, 176 St. Charles, 178 "The Coast," its extent and luxuriance, 31 Third Municipality Work-house, 133 Tobacco Cuba, cultivated, 54 from Cuba, fine specimens of seed, ib. raised at Natchitoches, ib. worm how to prevent it, 55 Transfer of Louisiana to Spain, 22 Transfer of Louisiana to the United States in 1803, 26 Travelling Routes, 201 Tyrannical conduct of O'Reilly, 23 United States Marine Hospital, 125 Barracks, 86 Branch Bank, established in 1805, 66 Mint, 88 University of Louisiana, see note, 43 Unzoga succeeds O'Reilly as governor, 24 succeeded by Galvez, ib. Ursuline Convent, the old, 103 Ursuline Chapel, 98 nuns arrived in 1730, 60 erect a new convent in 1824, 104 Vaudreuil marquis de, 20 Variety of the population of New Orleans, 73 Vegetable Market, 136 Verandah, 141 View of New Orleans from various points, 69 Vine, cultivation of the, 55 War between France and Spain, 19 England and France, in 1756, 21 do and Spain, in 1779, 24 do and the United States, 27 Watchmen first established in 1792, 64 Water, a project to supply it without charge, 148 Water Works, supply water from the Mississippi, 70 a description of them, 146 Washington Square, 181 Wesleyan Chapel, 103 Western Company, chartered in 1717, 17 fail, in 1732, 20 West Feliciana, its excellent soil, 32 Wilkinson, Gen., 26 Woods, Col. crosses the Mississippi, 13 Work-house of the Second Municipality, 130 Third do, 133 Yellow fever first introduced in 1769, 62 Yellow Fever, opinions of its transmissibility, 121 No. of cases in Hospital from 1822, to 1844, 120 Young Men's, Howard Association, 115 Literary do, 167 ADVERTISEMENTS. JUST PUBLISHED, BY B. M. NORMAN, 16 CAMP STREET, NEW ORLEANS. NORMAN'S PLAN OF NEW ORLEANS AND ENVIRONS, A COMPLETE MAP OF THE CITY AND VICINITY, IN POCKET FORM. ALSO, ON CARDS, FOR COUNTING ROOMS AND PUBLIC OFFICES. * * * * * NORMAN'S NEW ORLEANS BUSINESS DIRECTORY, For 1845-6. Containing the names, residences and occupations of Merchants and Bankers, Mechanics and Professional men. Classed and arranged alphabetically. * * * * * NEW AND IMPROVED STOCK, PRICES REDUCED. * * * * * NORMAN'S BOOK, STATIONERY, PRINTING AND BINDING-ESTABLISHMENT, No. 16 CAMP STREET, NEW ORLEANS. * * * * * BOOKS, Comprising the works of the best standard authors in the various departments of literature, ANCIENT AND MODERN. CHEAP PUBLICATIONS, AT PUBLISHERS' PRICES. SCHOOL BOOKS. Bibles, Prayer Books, Psalm and Hymn Books. ANNUALS, PICTORIAL AND EMBELLISHED WORKS. CHILDREN'S BOOKS. MAPS, GUIDE BOOKS, AND OTHER WORKS FOR TRAVELLERS. CITY AND COUNTRY DEALERS SUPPLIED, Also Public and Private Libraries, at Publishers' Prices. LITERARY GENTLEMEN, TEACHERS AND THE PUBLIC ARE MOST RESPECTFULLY INVITED TO VISIT THIS ESTABLISHMENT. * * * * * STATIONERY, Consisting of the most approved kinds; adapted to the use of COUNTING ROOMS AND PUBLIC OFFICES. BLANK BOOKS, OF THE MOST APPROVED MANUFACTURE, WITH RECENT IMPROVEMENTS, AND REDUCTION OF PRICES. WARRANTED SUPERIOR. All descriptions of ACCOUNT BOOKS made to order. PAPER AND CARDS. Custom House and Commercial Blanks. ARTIST'S MATERIALS. MERCHANTS', STEAMBOATS' and other CLERKS, ARE RESPECTFULLY INVITED TO CALL AND EXAMINE THE COMPLETE ASSORTMENT. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Typographical errors in spelling and punctuation repaired; variant spellings changed when there was a clear majority. The following variant spellings were retained: "depot" (used for New Orleans) and "depôt" (used for rail-road); "moschetoes" and "mosquitoes"; "enquir" and "inquir" roots (used equally); "Pittsburg" (Miss.) and "Pittsburgh" (Pa.); "Cleaveland" (Ohio) (per Columbia Gazetteer of the World, this was the original name, after its founder Moses Cleaveland); "Zimple" and "Zimpel"; "regime" and "régime." Hyphenation variants changed to majority use (with priority on usage in headings and text, over usage in index or tables); retained when equal (wood-lands and woodlands, re-transferred and retransferred, pre-eminence and preeminently). "steam-boat" and "steam boat" changed to "steamboat" except on p. 27, where "Steam Boat" is used for the first appearance of a new technology. Punctuation after chapter and section headings, and illustration captions (periods, commas, no punctuation) was inconsistent; standardized to no punctuation. Brackets around "see Route" references changed to more frequent parentheses. P. 20, "Vandreuil" corrected to "Vaudreuil." P. 73, Meteorological table has been split for better displaying (text only). P. 84, "inexaustible" changed to "inexhaustible." P. 103, "Diocess" retained; per Oxford English Dictionary (OED) correct for time period. P. 147, "Tchapitoulas" corrected to "Tchoupitoulas." P. 174, "cotemporaries" retained; per OED, this was a common period variant for contemporaries. P. 205, Route 4; "Tombigkbe" changed to "Tombigbee." P. 206, Savannah. Original shows cumulative miles 2196. Transposition repaired. P. 206, Route 10 heading, "Ala." changed to more frequent "Al." P. 213, index; originally left justified "Seven blocks" now indented under "Fire consumes." P. 222, index; originally left justified "Branch Bank" now indented under "United States." The following discrepancies in route tables were retained as shown in the original: P. 202, Smithfield, "1" in original would add up to 1086 cumulative (11 mile discrepancy). P. 203, Greenupsburg, "13" in original would add up to 1675 cumulative (1 mile discrepancy). Georgetown "7" and Beaver "13" appear to be averaged, since each addition does not add up, but their cumulative addition (20 miles from Welleville to Beaver) does add up. 
35156	----	THE SOUTH-WEST. BY A YANKEE. Where on my way I went; ----------A pilgrim from the North-- Now more and more attracted, as I drew Nearer and nearer. ROGERS' ITALY. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. II. NEW-YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS, CLIFF-ST. 1835. [Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1835, by HARPER & BROTHERS, in the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New-York.] CONTENTS. XXIV. Characteristic scenery of the Mississippi--Card playing--Sabbath on board a steamboat--An old sinner--A fair Virginian--Inquisitiveness of Yankee ladies--Southern ladies--A general--Ellis's cliffs--Mines--Atala --Natchez in the distance--Duelling ground--Fort Rosalie--Forests--A traveller's remark. Page 9 XXV. Land at the Levée--African porters--First impression of passing travellers--"Natchez under the Hill"--A dizzy road--A rapid descent --View from the summit--Fine scenery in the vicinity--Reservoir--A tawny Silenus--A young Apollo--Warriors "hors du combat"--Indian females--Mississippian backwoodsman--Mansion House. 17 XXVI. A northerner's idea of the south-west--Natchez and health--"Broadway" of Natchez--Street scenes--Private carriages--Auction store--Sale of a slave--Manner in which slaves view slavery--Shopping--Fashion-- Southern gentlemen--Merchants--Planters--Whip bearers--Planters' families. 27 XXVII First impressions--American want of taste in public buildings-- Agricultural bank--Masonic hall--Natchez academy--Education of Mississippians--Cemetery--Theatre--Presbyterian church--Court-house --Episcopal church--Light-house--Hotels--Planters, Houses and galleries--Jefferson hotel--Cotton square. 36 XXVIII. Society of Natchez--New-England adventurers--Their prospects--The Yankee sisterhood--Southern bachelors--Southern society--Woman--Her past and present condition--Single combats--Fireside pleasures unknown--A change--Town and country--Characteristic discrepancies. 45 XXIX. A Sabbath morning in Natchez--A ramble to the bluff--Louisiana forests--Natchez under the Hill--Slaves--Holidays--Negroes going to church--Negro street coteries--Market day--City hotel--Description of the landing--Rail-way--A rendezvous--Neglected Sabbath-bell. 52 XXX. Reminiscences--An aged pastor--Streets of Natchez on the Sabbath-- Interior of a church--Church music--Pulpit oratory--A New England scene--Peculiar state of society--Wealthy ministers--Clerical planters--Health of Mississippi--Episcopalian church--Catholics-- The French language--Catholic education--Methodists--An alarm bell and slaves. 62 XXXI. Catholic burying-ground--Evening in a grave yard--Sounds of a busy city--Night--Disturbers of the dead--Dishumation of human remains --Mourning cards--A funeral--Various modes of riding--Yankee horsemanship--Mississippian horsemen--Pacers--A plantation road --Residence--The grave--Slaves weeping for their master!--New cemetery. 73 XXXII. National diversities of character--Diversities of language-- Provincialisms--A plantation and negroes--Natchez bar--A youthful judge--Physicians--Clergymen--Merchants, &c. &c.--A southern mania--"Washing"--Tobacco--Value of cotton planting and statistics --An easy "way to wealth." 84 XXXIII. An excursion--A planter's gallery--Neglect of grounds--Taste and economy--Mississippi forests--The St. Catharine--Cotton fields--Worm fences--Hedges--The pride of China--The magnolia tree and flower-- Plantation roads--White cliffs--General view of a plantation. 96 XXXIV. Horticulture--Chateaubriand--A Mississippi garden and plants--A novel scene--Sick slaves--Care of masters for their sick--Shamming --Inertness of negroes--Burial of slaves--Negro mothers--A nursery --Negro village on the Sabbath--Religious privileges of slaves-- Marriages--Negro "passes"--The advantages of this regulation-- Anecdote of a runaway. 113 XXXV. Preparations for a deer hunt--A sailor, a planter, and an author--A deer driver--"Stands" for deer--The hunting ground--The hunt-- Ellis's cliff--Silver mine--An hypothesis--Alluvial formation of the lower valley of the Mississippi--Geological descriptions of the south-west. 132 XXXVI. Geography of Mississippi--Ridges and bottoms--The Mississippi at its efflux--Pine and table lands--General features of the state-- Bayous--Back-water of rivers--Springs--St. Catharine's harp-- Bankston springs--Mineral waters of this state--Petrifactions-- Quartz crystals--"Thunderbolts"--Rivers--The Yazoo and Pearl. 146 XXXVII. Topography--Natchez--Washington--Seltzertown--Greenville--Port Gibson--Raymond--Clinton--Southern villages--Vicksburg--Yeomen of Mississippi--Jackson--Vernon--Satartia--Benton--Amsterdam--Brandon and other towns--Monticello--Manchester--Rankin--Grand Gulf--Rodney --Warrenton--Woodville--Pinckneyville--White Apple village. 159 XXXVIII. Coloured population of the south--Mississippi saddle and horse caparisons--Ride through the city--Chain gang--Lynch law--Want of a penitentiary--Difficulties in consequence--Summary justice--Boating on the Mississippi--Chain gang and the runaway--Suburbs--Orphan asylum--A past era. 182 XXXIX. Slave mart--Scene within--File of negroes--"Trader"--Negro feelings --George and his purchaser--George's old and new wife--Female slaves--The intellect of the negro--A theory--An elderly lady and her slaves--Views of slaves upon their condition--Separation of kindred among slaves. 192 XL. Towns of Mississippi--Naming estates--The influence of towns on the social relations of the planters--Southern refinement--Colleges --Oakland--Clinton--Jefferson--History of the latter--Collegiate system of instruction--Primary departments--Quadrennial classes. 204 XLI. Indian mounds--Their origin and object--Tumuli near Natchez--Skulls and other remains--Visit to the fortifications or mounds at Seltzertown--Appearance and description of the mounds--Their age-- Reflections--History of the Natchez. 215 XLII. Slavery in the south-west--Southern feelings--Increase of slaves --Virginia--Mode of buying slaves, and slave-traders--Mode of transportation by sea--Arrival at the mart--Mode of life in the market--Transportation by land--Privileges of slaves--Conduct of planters toward their negroes--Anecdotes--Negro traders--Their origin. 231 XLIII. Slaves--Classes--Anecdotes--Negro instruction--Police--Natchez fencibles--Habitual awe of the negro for the white man-- Illustrations--Religious slaves--Negro preaching--General view of slavery and emancipation--Conclusion. 247 THE SOUTH WEST. XXIV. Characteristic scenery of the Mississippi--Card-playing-- Sabbath on board a steamboat--An old sinner--A fair Virginian--Inquisitiveness of Yankee ladies--Southern ladies--A general--Ellis's cliffs--Mines--Atala--Natchez in the distance--Duelling ground--Fort Rosalie--Forests--A traveller's remark. The rich and luxuriant character of the scenery, which charms and attracts the eye of the traveller as he ascends the Mississippi from New-Orleans to Baton Rouge, is now changed. A broad, turbid flood, rolling through a land of vast forests, alone meets the eye, giving sublime yet wild and gloomy features to the scene. On looking from the cabin window, I see only a long, unbroken line of cotton trees, with their pale green foliage, as dull and void of interest as a fog-bank. The opposite shore presents the same appearance; and so it is, with the occasional relief of a plantation and a "landing place," comprising a few buildings, the whole distance to Natchez. A wretched cabin, now and then, varies the wild appearance of the banks--the home of some solitary wood-cutter. Therefore, as I cannot give you descriptions of things abroad, I must give you an account of persons on board. There are in the cabin about forty passengers, of both sexes. Two of the most genteel-looking among them, so far as dress goes, I am told, are professed "black-legs;" or, as they more courteously style themselves, "sporting gentlemen."--There is an organized body of these _ci-devant_ gentry upon the river, who have local agents in every town, and travelling agents on board the principal steamboats. In the guise of gentlemen, they "take in" the unwary passenger and unskilful player, from whom they often obtain large sums of money. I might relate many anecdotes illustrative of their mode of operating upon their victims; but I defer them to some future occasion. As the same sportsmen do not go twice in the same boat, the captains do not become so familiar with their persons as to refuse them passage, were they so inclined. It is very seldom, however, when they are known, that they are denied a passage, as gambling is not only permitted but encouraged on most of the boats, by carrying a supply of cards in the bar, for the use of the passengers. Even the sanctity of the Sabbath is no check to this amusement: all day yesterday the tables were surrounded with players, at two of which they were dealing "faro;" at the third playing "brag." And this was on the Sabbath! Indeed the day was utterly disregarded by nearly every individual on board. Travelling is a sad demoralizer. My fellow-passengers seemed to have adopted the sailors' maxim, "no Sunday off soundings." Their religion was laid by for shore use. One good, clever-looking old lady, was busily engaged all the morning hemming a handkerchief; when some one remarked near her, "This time last Sunday we made the Balize."--"Sunday! to-day Sunday!" she exclaimed, in the utmost consternation, "Is to-day Sunday, sir?" "It is indeed, madam." "Oh, me! what a wicked sinner I am! O dear, that I should sew on Sunday!"--and away she tottered to her state-room, amidst the pitiless laughter of the passengers, with both hands elevated in horror, and ejaculating, "Oh me! what a wicked sinner! How _could_ I forget!" In a short time she returned with a Bible; and I verily believe that she did not take her eyes from it the remainder of the day, unless it might be to wipe her spectacles.--Good old soul! she was leaven to the whole lump of our ungodly company. There are several French gentlemen; one important looking personage, who bears the title of general, and seems amply to feel the dignity it confers; three or four Mississippi cotton planters, in large, low-crowned, broad-brimmed, white fur hats, wearing their clothes in a careless, half sailor-like, half gentleman-like air, dashed with a small touch of the farmer, which style of dressing is peculiar to the Mississippi country gentleman. They are talking about negroes, rail-roads, and towing shipping. There is also a travelling Yankee lawyer, in a plain, stiff, black coat, closely buttoned up to his chin, strait trowsers, narrow hat, and gloves--the very antipodes, in appearance, to the _non chalant_, easy, care-for-nothing air of his southern neighbours. A Methodist minister, in a bottle-green frock coat, fancy vest, black stock, white pantaloons and white hat, is sitting apart by the stove, deeply engaged upon the pages of a little volume, like a hymn-book. Any other dress than uniform black for a minister, would, at the north, be deemed highly improper, custom having thus so decided; but here they wear just what Providence sends them or their own taste dictates. There are two or three fat men, in gray and blue--a brace of bluff, manly-looking Germans--a lynx-eyed, sharp-nosed New-York speculator--four old French Jews, with those noble foreheads, arched brows, and strange-expressioned eyes, that look as though always weeping--the well-known and never to be mistaken characteristics of this remarkable people. The remainder of our passengers present no peculiarities worth remarking. So I throw them in, tall and short, little and big, and all sorts and sizes, to complete the motley "_ensemble_" of my fellow-travellers. Among the ladies, besides the aged sinner of the pocket-handkerchief, are a beautiful, dark-eyed, dark-haired Virginian, and an intelligent, young married lady from Vermont, accompanied by her only child, a handsome, spirited boy, between four and five years of age. The little fellow and I soon became great friends; in testimony whereof, he is now teasing me to allow him to scrawl his enormous pot-hooks over my sheet, by way of assisting me in my letter. An apology for his rudeness, by his mother, opened the way for a conversation; during which I discovered that she possessed a highly cultivated mind, great curiosity, as a stranger in a strange land, and her full share of Yankee inquisitiveness. She was always upon the "guard," resolved that nothing worthy of observation should escape her inquiring eye. She was a pure New-England interrogative. So far as it was in my power, it afforded me pleasure to reply to her questions, which, as a stranger to southern scenery, manners and customs, it was very natural she should put to any one. With a southerner I might have journeyed from Montreal to Mexico, without being questioned so often as I have been in this short passage from New-Orleans. But unless we _can_ answer their innumerable questions, (which, by the way, are most usually of a strongly intelligent cast), travelling Yankee ladies are certainly, unless young and pretty, a little annoying. I mean, always, the inquisitive ones; for there are some who are far from being so. When a northerner is not inquisitive, the fact may generally be ascribed to intellectual dullness, or an uncultivated mind: in a southerner, to constitutional indolence and love of quiet, which are enemies to one jot more corporeal or mental exertion than is absolutely requisite to enable them to glide through existence. I do not rank my fellow-traveller in the class of the troublesome inquisitives--though full of curiosity, compared with the "daughters of the sun,"--but she is no more so than any intelligent person should be in a strange, and by no means uninteresting country. "The general" is quite the lion on board. It would amuse you to observe the gaping mouths, fixed eyes, and attentive looks around, when the general speaks. He is the oracle--the _ne plus ultra_ of excellence--the phoenix of generals! By this time you must be wearied with my prosing about persons of whom you know nothing, and are probably waiting for more interesting subjects for description. Thus far, with the exception of one bluff, with a few buildings perched upon its summit, there has been no variety in the monotony of the gloomy forests which overhang the river. Ellis's cliffs, which present the wildest and most romantic scenery upon the Mississippi below St. Louis, are now in sight. They rise proudly from the river, and compared with the tame features of the country, are invested with the dignity of mountains. They exhibit a white perpendicular face to the river, and are about one hundred and fifty feet in height. Gold and silver ore have been lately found in the strata of the cliffs; but not in sufficient purity and quantity to induce the proprietors to excavate in search of them. Here are discovered the first stones--small pebbles of recent formation--that are seen on ascending the river. The surrounding country, which is nearly on a level with the summit of the cliffs, recedes pleasantly undulating from the river, rich with highly cultivated cotton plantations, and ornamented with the elegant residences of the planters. It is said that few countries in the world possess a more beautifully diversified surface--or one more pleasantly distributed in hills and valleys. In the vicinity also, of this romantic spot, Chateaubriand has laid some of the scenes of his wild and splendid fiction "Atala." We are now within twenty miles of Natchez. The river is here very circuitous, making the distance much greater than by land. The shores continue to exhibit the peculiarly gloomy and inhospitable features which, with the occasional exception of a high bluff, plantation or village, they present nearly to the mouth of the Ohio. The loud and startling report of a cannon in the bows of the boat, making her stagger and tremble through every beam, is the signal that our port is in sight--a pile of gray and white cliffs with here and there a church steeple, a roof elevated above its summit, and a light-house hanging on the verge! At the foot of the bluffs are long straggling lines of wooden buildings, principally stores and store-houses; the Levée is fringed with flat boats and steamers, and above all, tower majestically the masts of two or three ships. The whole prospect from the deck presents an interesting scene of commercial life and bustle. But this is not Natchez! The city proper is built upon the summit level, the tops of whose buildings and trees can be seen from the boat, rising higher than the cliff. The ascent from the lower town, or as it is commonly designated, "under the hill", is by an excavated road, of moderate elevation. The whole appearance of the place from the deck is highly romantic. On our left, opposite Natchez, is Vidalia, in Louisiana, a pleasant village of a few houses, built on one street parallel with the river. Here, in a pleasant grove above the town, is the "field of honour," where gentlemen from Mississippi occasionally exchange leaden cards--all in the way of friendship. On our right, a few hundred yards below Natchez, crowning a noble eminence, stand the ruins of Fort Rosalie, celebrated in the early history of this country. Its garrison early in the last century was massacred, by the Natchez tribe, to a single man, who escaped by leaping from the precipice. Here is the principal scene of Chateaubriand's celebrated romance. The position of the fort, in a military point of view, commanding, as it does, a great extent of river and country, is well chosen. Beyond the fort, a peep at rich woods, green hills, and tasteful country-seats, is agreeably refreshing to the eye, so long accustomed to gaze upon melancholy forests, and dead flats covered with cane-brakes. Indeed, the mournful character of the forests along the Mississippi, is calculated to fill the mind with gloom. The long black moss, well known at the north as the "Carolina moss", hangs in immense fringes from every limb, frequently enveloping the whole tree in its sombre garb. The forests thus clothed present a dismal yet majestic appearance. As the traveller gazes upon them his mind partakes of their funereal character, and the imagination is ready to assent to the strong and highly poetical remark of a gentleman on board, with whom I was promenading the "guard," who observed that it would seem that the DEITY was dead, and that nature had clothed herself in mourning. XXV. Land at the Levée--African porters--First impression of passing travellers--"Natchez under the Hill"--A dizzy road --A rapid descent--View from the summit--Fine scenery in the vicinity--Reservoir--A tawny Silenus--A young Apollo --Warriors "hors du combat"--Indian females--Mississippian backwoodsmen--Mansion House. Since the date of my last letter, a period sufficiently long to enable me to make my observations with correctness has elapsed; and from memoranda collected during the interval, I shall prepare this and subsequent letters from this place. We landed last evening at the Levée, amid the excitement, noise, and confusion which always attend the arrival or departure of a steamer in any place. But here the tumult was varied and increased by the incessant jabbering, hauling, pulling, kicking and thumping, of some score or two of ebony-cheeked men and urchins, who were tumbling over each other's heads to get the first trunk. "Trunk, massa--trunk! I take you baggage". "You get out, for a nigger!" exclaimed a tall, strapping fellow, as black as night, to his brother ebony. "I'm the gemman, massa, what care de trunk." "Dis nigger, him know noffing, massa--I'm what's always waits on um gentlemans from de boats!" roared another; and stooping to take one of the handles, the other was instantly grappled by a rival, and both giving a simultaneous jerk, the subject of the contest flew violently from their hands, and was instantly caught up by the first "gemman", and borne off in triumph. This little by-play was acted, with variations, in every part of the cabin, where there was either a gentleman or a trunk to form the subject. On landing, there was yet another trial of the tympanum. "Carriage, massa--mighty bad hill to walk up!" was vociferated on all sides; and "No, no, no!" was no argument with them for a cessation of attack; denial only made them more obstinate; and, like true soldiers, they seemed to derive courage from defeat. Forcing my way through the dingy crowd--for four out of five of them were black, and, "by the same token", as ragged as Falstaff's regiment, of shirtless memory--I followed my athletic pioneer; who, with my heavy baggage poised accurately upon his head, moved as rapidly and carelessly along the thronged Levée as though he carried no weight but his own thick cranium. On looking round me for a moment, on landing, I was far from agreeably impressed with the general appearance of the buildings. This part of the town is not properly Natchez--and strangers passing up and down the river, who have had the opportunity of seeing only this place, have, without dreaming of the beautiful city over their heads, gone on their way, with impressions very inaccurate and unfavourable. These impressions, derived only, but justly, from this repulsive spot, have had a tendency to depreciate the city, and fasten upon it a bad name, which it is very far from meriting. Like the celebrated "Five Points," in New-York, "Natchez under the Hill," as it has been aptly named, has extended its fame throughout the United States, in wretched rhyme and viler story. For many years it has been the nucleus of vice upon the Mississippi. But, for two or three years past, the establishment of respectable mercantile houses, and an excellent hotel, combined with an efficient police, and a spirit of moral reform among the citizens, has, in a great measure, redeemed the place--changed its repulsive character and cancelled its disgraceful name. Though now on the high way of reform, there is still enough of the cloven-hoof visible, to enable the stranger to recognise that its former reputation was well earned. The principal street, which terminates at the ascent of the hill, runs parallel with the river, and is lined on either side with a row of old wooden houses; which are alternately gambling-houses, brothels, and bar-rooms: a fair assemblage! As we passed through the street--which we gained with difficulty from the boat, picking our way to it as we could, through a filthy alley--the low, broken, half-sunken side-walks, were blocked up with fashionably-dressed young men, smoking or lounging, tawdrily arrayed, highly rouged females, sailors, Kentucky boatmen, negroes, negresses, mulattoes, pigs, dogs, and dirty children. The sounds of profanity and Bacchanalian revels, well harmonizing with the scene, assailed our ears as we passed hastily along, through an atmosphere of tobacco smoke and other equally fragrant odours. After a short walk we emerged into a purer air, and in front of a very neat and well-conducted hotel. From near this place, extending along the Levée to the north, commences the mercantile part of the "landing," lined with stores and extensive warehouses, in which is transacted a very heavy business. The whole of this lower town is built upon a reclaimed flat, from one to two hundred yards broad, and half a mile in length; bounded upon one side by the river, and on the other by the cliff or bluff, upon which Natchez stands, and which rises abruptly from the _Batture_, to the height of one hundred and sixty feet. This bluff extends along the river, more or less varied and broken, for several miles; though at no point so abrupt and bold as here, where it bears the peculiar characteristics of the wild scenery of "Dover cliffs." The face of the cliff at Natchez is not a uniform precipice, but, apparently by the provident foresight of nature, broken by an oblique shelf or platform, gradually inclining from the summit to the base. With but a little excavation, a fine road has been constructed along this way, with an inclination sufficiently gentle to enable the heaviest teams to ascend with comparative ease. One side of the road is of course bounded by a perpendicular cliff; the other by empty air and a dizzy precipice: so that the unwary foot-traveller, involved amid the ascent and descent of drays, carriages, horsemen, and porters, enjoys a tolerably fair alternative of being squeezed uncomfortably close against the bluff, or pitched, with a summerset, into some of the yawning chimneys on the flats beneath. For the whole length of this ascent, which is nearly a quarter of a mile, there is no kind of guard for the protection of the passengers. Yet, I have been told, no lives have ever been lost here. One poor fellow, a short time since, having taken a drop too much, and reeling too near the verge, lost his equilibrium, and over he went. But it is hard to kill a drunkard, except with the "pure spirit" itself; and the actor in this "drop scene" being "a gem of sweet Erin," stuck to the sod, and slid comfortably, though rapidly, to the bottom. The next moment he was seen gathering himself up out of a sand-heap, with "By St. Pathrick! but that was a jewel of a lape!--and it's my bright new baiver castor that's smashed by it to smitherins." On arriving at the summit of the hill, I delayed a moment, for the double purpose of taking breath and surveying the scene spread out around me. Beneath lay the roofs of warehouses, stores, and dwellings, scattered over a flat, sandy surface, which was bordered, on the water side, by hundreds of up-country flat-boats, laden with the produce of the rich farming states bordering the Ohio and "Upper Mississippi." Lower down, steamers were taking in and discharging freight; while the mingled sounds of the busy multitude rose like the hum of a hive upon the ear. Immediately opposite me lay two ships, which, with their towering masts, gay flags, and dark hulls, agreeably relieved the otherwise long and unbroken line of boats. To the north the river spreads its noble bosom till lost in the distance; while the continuous line of cliffs, extending along its shore like a giant wall, seem to speak in the language of power, "thus far shalt thou flow and no farther, and here shall thy proud waves be stayed." To the south, the view is confined by the near projection of the obtruding cliffs. Yet the river stretches boldly out many miles on its course toward the sea, till lost to sight within the bosom of the distant forests which bound the southern horizon. To the west, the eye travels over the majestic breadth of the river, here a mile wide, and rests for a moment upon level and richly cultivated fields beyond, a quiet village and noble forests, which spread away to the west like a vast sea of waving foliage, till they blend with the bending sky, forming a level and unbroken horizon. Turning from this scene of grandeur and beauty to the east, Natchez, mantled with rich green foliage like a garment, with its handsome structures and fine avenues, here a dome and there a tower, lies immediately before me. It is the very contrast to its straggling namesake below. The city proper consists of six streets, at right angles with the river, intersected by seven others of the same length, parallel with the stream. The front, or first parallel street, is laid out about one hundred yards back from the verge of the bluff, leaving a noble green esplanade along the front of the city, which not only adds to its beauty, but is highly useful as a promenade and parade ground. Shade trees are planted along the border, near the verge of the precipice, beneath which are placed benches, for the comfort of the lounger. From this place the eye commands one of the most extensive prospects to be found on the Mississippi. To a spectator, standing in the centre of this broad, natural terrace, the symmetrical arrangement of the artificial scenery around him is highly picturesque and pleasing. On his right, to the south, a noble colonnaded structure, whose heavy appearance is gracefully relieved by shrubbery, parterres, and a light latticed summer-house, crowning a gentle eminence in the rear, and half suspended over the precipice, strikes his eye with a fine effect. From this admirable foreground, gently sloping hills, with here and there a white dwelling, half concealed in foliage, spread away into the country. Between this edifice and the forest back ground rise the romantic ruins of Fort Rosalie, now enamelled with a rich coating of verdure. On his left, at the northern extremity of the esplanade, upon the beautiful eminence, gradually yet roundly swelling away from the promenade, stands another private residence, nearly resembling and directly opposite to the other, its lofty colonnades glancing in the sun--a magnificent garden spreading out around it, luxuriant with foliage--diversified with avenues and terraces, and adorned with grottoes and summer-houses. Imagine these handsome residences, flanking the city, and forming the extreme northern and southern terminations of the broad terrace before the town, with the mighty flood of the Mississippi rolling some hundred feet beneath you--the dark forests of Louisiana stretching away to infinity in the west, with Natchez--its streets alive with promenaders, gay equipages and horsemen--immediately before you, and you will form some idea of this beautiful city and its environs from this point. But as the spot upon which the town is built, originally a cluster of green hills, has been, by levelling and filling, converted into a smooth surface, with a very slight inclination to the verge of the cliff, a small portion only of the city is visible. The buildings on the front street face the river, and, with the exception of one or two private houses, with galleries and shrubbery, reminding one of the neat and beautiful residences on the "coast,"[1] possess no peculiar interest. The town is entered from the parade by rude bridges at the termination of each street, spanning a dry, dilapidated brick aqueduct of large dimensions, which has been constructed along the whole front of the city, but is now, from some unknown cause, suffered to fall to ruin. It was probably intended as a reservoir and conductor of the water which, after heavy rains, rushes violently down the several streets of the city. As I was crossing from the bluff to the entrance of one of the principal streets--a beautiful avenue bordered with the luxuriant China tree, whose dark rich foliage, nearly meeting above, formed a continued arcade as far as the eye could penetrate--my attention was arrested by an extraordinary group, reclining in various attitudes under the grateful shade of the ornamental trees which lined the way. With his back firmly planted against a tree, as though there existed a sympathetic affinity between the two, sat an athletic Indian with the neck of a black bottle thrust down his throat, while the opposite extremity pointed to the heavens. Between his left forefinger and thumb he held a corncob, as a substitute for a stopper. By his side, his blanket hanging in easy folds from his shoulders, stood a tall, fine-looking youth, probably his son, his raven hair falling in masses over his back, with his black eyes fixed upon the elder Indian, as a faithful dog will watch each movement of his intemperate master. One hand supported a rifle, while another was carelessly suspended over his shoulder. There was no change in this group while I remained in sight; they were as immoveable as statues. A little in the rear, lay several "warriors" fast locked in the arms of Bacchus or Somnus, (probably both,) their rifles lying beside them. Near them a knot of embryo chiefs were gamboling in all the glorious freedom of "_sans culottes_". At a little distance, half concealed by huge baskets apparently just unstrapped from their backs, filled with the motley paraphernalia of an Indian lady's wardrobe, sat, cross-legged, a score of dark-eyed, brown-skinned girls and women, laughing and talking in their soft, childish language, as merrily as any ladies would have done, whose "lords" lay thus supine at their feet. Half a score of miserable, starved wretches, "mongrel, whelp and hound," which it were an insult to the noble species to term dogs, wandering about like unburied ghosts "seeking what they might devour," completed the novel and picturesque _ensemble_ of the scene. On the opposite side of the way was another of a different character, but not less interesting. Seated in a circle around their bread and cheese, were half a dozen as rough, rude, honest-looking countrymen from the back part of the state, as you could find in the nursery of New-England's yeomanry. They are small farmers--own a few negroes--cultivate a small tract of land, and raise a few bales of cotton, which they bring to market themselves. Their carts are drawn around them forming a barricade to their camp, for here, as is customary among them, instead of putting up at taverns, they have encamped since their arrival. Between them and their carts are their negroes, who assume a "cheek by jowl" familiarity with their masters, while jokes, to season their homely fare, accompanied by astounding horse-laughs, from ivory-lined mouths that might convey a very tolerable idea of the crater of Etna, pass from one group to the other, with perfect good will and a mutual contempt for the nicer distinctions of colour. Crossing the narrow bridge, I entered at once into the body of the city, which is built as compactly within itself and aloof from the suburbs as though it were separated from them by a wall; and in a few moments, after traversing two sides of a well-built square on fine side walks, I arrived at the "Mansion house," an extensive and commodious brick edifice said to be one of the best hotels in the south west--except Bishop's--agreeably impressed with this, my first _coup d'oeil_ of a city, so extensively celebrated for the opulence, taste and hospitality of its inhabitants. FOOTNOTES: [1] The banks of the Mississippi are termed "_the coast_," as far up the river as Baton Rouge. It is usual to say one lives on the _coast_, if he lives on the river shore. XXVI. A northerner's idea of the south-west--Natchez and health --"Broadway" of Natchez--Street scenes--Private carriages --Auction store--Sale of a slave--Manner in which slaves view slavery--Shopping--Fashion--Southern gentlemen-- Merchants--Planters--Whip bearers--Planters' families. To the northerner, to whom every verdant hill is a magazine of health, every mountain torrent and limpid river are leaping and flowing with life, who receives a new existence as the rays of the summer's sun fall upon his brow, and whose lungs expand more freely and whose pulse beats more strongly under the influence of every breeze, Natchez has been, till within a very short period, associated with miasma and marshes over which the yellow fever, like a demon king, held undisputed sway. This idea is not without foundation. Like New-Orleans, this city has been the grave of many young and ambitious adventurers. Pestilence has here literally "walked at noonday." The sun, the source and preserver of life and health, in its path over this devoted city, has "become black as sackcloth," and "the moon that walketh in brightness," shedding her calm and gentle light upon the earth, has been "turned into blood," poisoning the atmosphere with exhalations of death, and converting the green earth into a sepulchre. But this is a record of the past. The angel of vengeance has gone by, leaving health and peace to exercise their gentle dominion over this late theatre of his terrible power. No city in our happy country is more blessed with health than is now, this so often depopulated place. For several years past its catalogue of mortality has been very much smaller than that of many towns in Vermont and Maine, containing the same number of inhabitants. Even that insatiable destroyer, the Asiatic cholera, which has strewn both hemispheres with the bones of its victims, has passed over this city without leaving a trace of his progress, except among the blacks and a few imprudent strangers. Not a citizen fell a victim to it. If any place demanded a dispensation of mercy it was this--if past misfortunes can challenge an exemption from farther infliction. Main-street is the "Broadway" of Natchez. It extends from the river to the eastern extremity of the city, about half a mile in length, dividing the town into nearly equal portions, north and south. This street is to Natchez what Chartres-street is to New-Orleans, though on a much smaller scale. Here are all the banks and most of the dry goods and fancy stores. Here, consequently, is the centre of business, and, to the ladies, that of attraction; although the stores are not turned inside out every morning, to adorn their fronts and create zigzags on the side-walks, to the great edification of the shopmen, who are the operators, and the little comfort of gouty or hurrying pedestrians. In passing up this street, which is compactly built with handsome brick blocks, generally but two stories in height, the stranger is struck with the extraordinary number of private carriages, clustered before the doors of the most fashionable stores, or millineries, rolling through the street, or crossing and recrossing it from those by which it is intersected, nearly every moment, from eleven till two on each fair day. But few of these equipages are of the city: they are from the plantations in the neighbourhood, which spread out from the town over richly cultivated "hill and dale,"--a pleasant and fertile landscape--far into the interior. Walk with me into this street about noon on a pleasant day in December. It is the only one nearly destitute of shade trees; but the few it boasts are shedding their yellow leaves, which sprinkle the broad, regular, and well-constructed side-walks, and the warm sun shines down cheerily and pleasantly upon the promenaders.--Here, at the corner, surrounded by a crowd, is an auction store. Upon a box by the door stands a tall, fine-looking man. But he is _black_; ebony cannot be blacker. Of the congregation of human beings there, he is the most unconcerned. Yet he has a deeper interest in the transactions of the moment than all the rest--for a brief space will determine whom, among the multitude, he is to call master! The auctioneer descants at large upon his merits and capabilities.--"Acclimated, gentlemen! a first-rate carriage-driver--raised by Col. ----. Six hundred dollars is bid. Examine him, gentlemen--a strong and athletic fellow--but twenty-seven years of age." He is knocked off at seven hundred dollars; and with "There's your master," by the seller, who points to the purchaser, springs from his elevation to follow his new owner; while his place is supplied by another subject. These scenes are every-day matters here, and attract no attention after beholding them a few times; so powerful is habit, even in subduing our strongest prejudices. But the following dialogue, overheard by me, between two well-dressed, smart-looking blacks near by, one seated listlessly upon his coach-box, the other holding the bridle of his master's horse--though brief, contains a volume of meaning, in illustrating the opinions and views of the blacks upon the state of their degraded race. "You know dat nigger, they gwine to sell, George?" "No, he field nigger; I nebber has no 'quaintance wid dat class." "Well, nor no oder gentlemens would. But he's a likely chap. How much you tink he go for?"--"I a'n't much 'quainted wid de price of such kind o' peoples. My master paid seven hundred dollar for me, when I come out from ole Wirginney--dat nigger fetch five hun'red dollar I reckon." "You sell for only seben hun'red dollars!" exclaimed the gentleman upon the coach-seat, drawing himself up with pride, and casting a contemptuous glance down upon his companion: "my massa give eight hundred and fifty silver dollars for me. Gom! I tink dat you was more 'spectable nigger nor dat." At this turn of the conversation the negro was struck off at seven hundred, at which the colloquist of the same price became highly chagrined; but, stepping upon the stirrup, and raising himself above the crowd, that he might see "the fool massa what give so much for a miserable good-for-nothing nigger, not wort' his corn," consoled himself with the reflection that the buyer was "a man what made no more dan tirty bale cotton; while my master make tree hun'red, and one of de firs' gemmans too!" Thus, though denied the privileges of his desired "caste," by the estimation of his personal value, he aspired to it by a conclusive argument, in the eye of a negro, viz. his master's wealth and rank in society. Can individuals, who are thus affected at the sale of their fellow-men, and who view their state of bondage in this light, feel deeply their own condition, or be very sensitive upon the subject of equal rights? Yet thus do negroes view slavery. Thus do they converse upon it; and are as tenacious of the limited privileges, (yet to them unlimited, because they know, and can therefore aspire to no other) which, like flowers, are entwined among the links of their moral bondage. There is one, proud that his chain weighs down a few more gold pieces than that of his fellow, while the latter is in no less degree mortified at the deficiency in weight of his own. Do such men "pine in bondage" and "sigh for freedom?" Freedom, of which they know nothing, and cannot, therefore, feel the deprivation; a freedom of which they have heard only, as the orientals of their fabled genii, but to which generally they no more think of aspiring than the subjects of the caliph to the immortality and winged freedom of these imaginary beings. These two negroes I have seen repeatedly since, and am assured that they are as intelligent, well informed, and "respectable," as any of their class; none of whom, allowing a very few exceptions, entertain higher or different views of their state as slaves, or of their rank in the scale of human beings. Do not mistake me: I am no advocate for slavery; but neither am I a believer in that wild Garrisonian theory, which, like a magician's wand, is at once to dissolve every link that binds the slave to his master, and demolish at one blow a system that has existed, still gaining in extent and stability, for centuries. The familiar French proverb, "imagination gallops while the judgment advances only on a walk," is most applicable to these visionary theorists who would build Rome in a day. Opposite to the auction store are a cluster of gay carriages, to and from which fair beings, not quite angels, are "ascending and descending," to look over all the "pretty things" in the richly lined stores. Was there ever a fancy store that ladies were not hovering near? "A new store"--"new goods,"--"less than cost!" What magic words! What visions of silks and satins, gros de Swiss and gros de Naples, challys and shawls, Grecian laces and Paris gloves, with a thousand other charming etceteras, float before their delighted fancies, in every form of grace and ornament that the imagination can picture or a refined taste invent. Ladies are ladies all the world over; and where is the place in which they do not love "to shop?" In this far corner of the south and west, you are prepared to give fashion credit for but few devotees, and those only partial and half-souled worshippers. But you must not forget that these are southerners; and the southerner is never found unfashionable or deficient in taste. The moving galaxy of grace and beauty that floats down Chestnut-street, cannot at any time present more fashionable and elegantly-dressed promenaders than now enliven the street, or than that fair bevy of young ladies clustered round yonder carriage door, all chattering together, with their sweet pleasant voices, to a pale, beautiful, and interesting girl within, apparently an invalid. So far as I can judge, as much of "the ton," in dress and society, prevails here as in Philadelphia, where many residents of the city and country spend a portion of every summer--certainly more than at New-Orleans, which is by far the most unfashionable city in the United States. The gentlemen of Natchez are less particular in their dress, though much more punctilious than they were five or six years since, when there was not to be found what would be termed a "fashionable man," (according to the acceptation of the term in New-York) among the residents of this city. And where is the southern gentleman that ever dressed _fashionably_? They dress well and richly, but seldom fashionably. Their garments hang upon them loosely, as though made for larger men; and they wear them with a sort of free and easy air, enviable but inimitable by the stiffer and more formal northerner. The southerner, particularly the planter, would wear with a native and matchless grace the flowing toga of imperial Rome. Though destitute of that fashionable exterior which the tailor supplies, and for which, in general, they have a most sovereign indifference and contempt, they possess--I mean the genuine, native-born, well-educated southerner--an "_air distingué_," and in the highest degree aristocratic, which is every where the most striking feature of their appearance. That knot of gentlemen issuing from a plain brick building--one of the banks--is composed of bank directors. Their decisions have elevated or depressed the mercury in many an anxious breast. Two or three faces resemble those one often sees in Wall-street, or on Change, in Boston. The resemblance is so striking that one is quite sure at the first glance that he has seen them there. But no; they are merchants of this city--thorough-going commercial men. The resemblance is only that of a species. Merchants resemble each other everywhere. Their features are strongly marked and characteristic. It has been said that a Boston merchant may be known all the world over. It has been proved that a sea-faring life, especially when commenced in early years, has a tendency to produce a physical change in the organ of vision. That a mercantile life, long and intently pursued, has a tendency to stamp a peculiar character upon the features, is equally certain, in the opinion of those whose habits of observation may have led them to such physiognomical investigations. Among the remainder, are two or three in white blanket coats, broad-brimmed white hats, with slender riding-whips in their hands, who will be readily designated as planters. A circumstance that very soon arrests the attention of the stranger, is the number of gentlemen with riding-whips in their hands to be met with in all parts of the city, particularly on days when any public meeting is held. Every third or fourth person is thus, to a northerner, singularly armed. At the north few ride except in gigs. But here all are horsemen; and it is unusual to see a gentleman in a gig or carriage. If his wife rides out, he attends her _à cheval_. Instead of gigs, therefore, which would fill the streets of a northern town, saddle-horses, usually with high pummelled Spanish saddles, and numerous private carriages, in which are the ladies of the family, drawn by long-tailed horses, throng the streets and line the outside of the pave. At least a third of the persons who fill the streets are planters and their families from the country, which every day pours forth its hundreds from many miles around the city, that like a magnet attracts all within its influence. There are several public buildings in this street of which I shall make more particular mention hereafter. My object now is merely to give you some idea of things as, when presented to it in the novel hues of "first impressions," they strike the eye of a stranger. XXVII. First impressions--American want of taste in public buildings --Agricultural bank--Masonic hall--Natchez academy--Education of Mississippians--Cemetery--Theatre--Presbyterian church-- Court-house--Episcopal church--Light-house--Hotels--Planters' Houses and galleries--Jefferson hotel--Cotton square. First impressions, if preserved, before the magnifying medium of novelty through which they are seen becomes dissipated, are far more lively and striking than the half-faded scenes which memory slowly and imperfectly brings up from the past. Yet, if immediately recorded, while the colours are fresh and glowing, there is danger of drawing too much upon the imagination in the description, and exaggerating the picture. On the other hand, if the impressions are suffered to become old and faint, invention is too apt to be called in unconsciously, to fill up and complete the half-forgotten and defective sketch. The medium is safer and more accurate. A period of time sufficiently long should be suffered to elapse, that the mind, by subsequent observation, may be enabled to correct and digest its early impressions, exercise its judgment without a bias, and from more matured experience, be prepared to form its opinions, and make its comparisons with certainty. How far I have attained this desirable medium, the general character and justice of my descriptions must alone determine. The deficient perception of architectural beauty, in the composition of American minds, has frequently, and with some truth, been a subject upon which foreign tourists love to exercise their castigating pens--weapons always wielded fearlessly and pitilessly against every thing on this side of the Atlantic. The very small number of handsome public buildings in the United States, and the total contempt for order or style which, (with but here and there an honourable exception,) they evince, would give a very plausible foundation for this animadversion, did not Americans redeem their reputation in this point, by the pure and correct taste they universally exhibit in the construction of their private residences. Herein, they are not surpassed by any other nation. Natchez, like most of the minor cities of this country, cannot boast of any public buildings remarkable for harmonious conformity to the rules or orders of architecture. They are, nevertheless, well deserving of notice, highly ornamental to the city, and reflect honour upon the public spirit of its citizens. The Agricultural bank is unquestionably the finest structure in the city. It has been erected very recently on the south side of Main-street, presenting a noble colonnaded front, of the modernized Grecian style; being built somewhat after the model of the United States bank at Philadelphia; though brick and stucco are here substituted for marble, and heavy pillars for the graceful column. It is entered from the street by a broad and spacious flight of steps, leading to its lofty portico, from which three large doors give admission into its vast hall, decidedly the finest room south or west of Washington. The whole structure is a chaste and beautiful specimen of architecture. It is partially enclosed by a light, iron railing. To a stranger this edifice is a striking object, and, contrasted with the buildings of less pretension around it, will call forth his warmest admiration. The other banks, of which there are, in all, three, including a branch of the United States bank, are plain brick buildings, undistinguished from the adjoining stores, except by a colder and more unfurnished appearance, and the absence of signs. A short distance above this fine building is the Masonic Hall; a large square edifice, two lofty stories in height. Its front is beautifully stuccoed, and ornamented with white pilasters. The hall is in the second story; a large, plain, vaulted apartment, almost entirely destitute of the splendid furniture and rich decorations which characterise such places at the north. Here masonry, with its imposing forms, ceremonies, and honours, is yet preserved in all its pristine glory. The first story of the building is used as an academy--the only one in this state. It is a well-conducted institution, and its pupils are thoroughly instructed by competent officers, who are graduates of northern colleges, as are most of the public and private instructors of this state. The number of students is generally large. Those who are destined for professional life, after completing their preparatory course here, usually enter some one of the colleges at the north. Yale, Princeton, and Harvard annually receive several from this state; either from this academy or from under the hands of the private tutors, who are dispersed throughout the state, and from whom a great majority of the planters' sons receive their preparatory education. But on the subject of education in this country, I shall speak more fully hereafter. I could not pass by this institution, which reflects so much honour upon the city, without expressing my gratification at its flourishing condition and high character. It is the more gratifying from being unexpected at the south, which, till very lately, has been wholly dependent upon the northern seminaries or private institutions for the education of her sons. To see here an institution that cannot be surpassed by any of the same rank in other states, must not only be pleasing to the friends of education, but particularly so to the citizens of this state, to whom it is ably demonstrated, by the success of this academy, that literature is not an exotic, though its germs may heretofore have been transplanted from another soil. There is a female seminary also in the city, which, though of a very respectable character, is not so celebrated and flourishing as many others in the state. On the south side of the next square is an old "burying-ground," crowning an eminence whose surface is covered with fragments of grave-stones and dismantled tombs. The street is excavated through it to its base, leaving a wall or bank of earth nearly thirty feet in height; upon the verge of which crumbling tombs are suspended, threatening to fall upon the passenger beneath. It has not been used for many years as a place of burial; the present cemetery being about a mile above the city, in a delightful spot among the green hills which cluster along the banks of the river. This old cemetery is a striking but disagreeable feature in the midst of so fair a city. Adjoining it, on the eastern side, and nearly at the extremity of the street and also of the city, stands the theatre; a large, commodious building, constructed of brick, with arched entrances and perfectly plain exterior. The citizens of Natchez are not a play-going community; consequently they take little pride in the possession of a fine theatre. Its interior, however, is well arranged, convenient, and handsomely painted and decorated. Its boards are supplied, for two or three months during every season, by performers from New-Orleans or New-York. Just beyond the theatre is the termination of Main-street, here intersected by another, from which, to the right and left, fine roads extend into the country--one to Washington, a pleasant village six miles distant, formerly the seat of government of the territory and the location of the public offices; but now a retired, unassuming and rural spot, boasting of a well-endowed college and female seminary--of which, more hereafter. Of the other public buildings of Natchez, the Presbyterian church is the finest and most imposing. It stands on a commanding site, overlooking the public square, a pleasant green flat, in the centre of which is the court-house. It is constructed of bricks, which are allowed to retain their original colour; and surrounded by buff-coloured pilasters of stucco work, which is here generally substituted for granite in facings. It is surmounted, at the west end, by a fine tower of successive stories; on one side of which is a clock, conspicuous from the most distant parts of the city and suburbs.--You are aware, probably, that there are in this country no Congregationalists, so called; Presbyterians supply the place of this denomination in the ecclesiastical society of all the south and west. The prevailing denomination, however, in this state, as in all this section of the United States, is that of the Methodists, which embraces men of all classes, including a large proportion of planters. I now merely allude to this and other subjects of the kind, as I intend, in subsequent letters, to treat of them more at large. The court-house is a fine, large, square building, opposite to the church, surmounted by a cupola. It is surrounded by a beautiful, though not spacious, green. On the streets which bound the four sides of it are situated the lawyers' and public offices, which are generally plain, neat, wooden buildings, from one to two stories in height. Should they be denominated from the state of those who occupy them, they would be correctly designated "bachelors' halls." Shade trees half embower them and the court-house in their rich foliage. Opposite to the south side of the square is the county prison; a handsome two story brick building, resembling, save in its grated tier of windows in the upper story, a gentleman's private dwelling. There is a fine Episcopalian church in the south-east part of the town, adding much to its beauty. It is built of brick, and surmounted by a vast dome, which has a rather heavy, overgrown appearance, and is evidently too large for the building. It has a neat front, adorned with a portico of the usual brick pillars. There are not many Episcopalians here; but the few who are of this denomination are, as every where else in the United States, generally of the wealthy and educated class. There is also a Methodist church adjoining the Masonic hall; a plain, neat building, remarkable only for its unassuming simplicity, like all others of this denomination in America. The light-house upon the bluff, at the north-west corner of the city, is well deserving of notice, though not properly ranked under the public buildings of Natchez. It is a simple tower, about forty feet in height, commanding a section of the river, north and south, of about twelve miles. But the natural inquiry of the stranger is, "What is its use?" A light-house on a river bank, three hundred miles from the sea, has certainly no place in the theory of the utilitarian. The use of it its projectors must determine. Were a good telescope placed in its lantern it would make a fine observatory, and become a source of amusement as well as of improvement to the citizens, to whom it is now merely a standing monument, in proof of the proverb, that "wisdom dwelleth not in all men." The hotels are very fine. Parker's, on one of the front squares, near the bluff, is a handsome, costly, and very extensive building, three stories in height, with a stuccoed front, in imitation of granite, and decidedly the largest edifice in the city. Its rooms are large, spacious, and elegantly furnished; suited rather for gentlemen and their families, who choose a temporary residence in town, than for transient travellers and single men, who more frequently resort to the "Mansion-house." This is not so large a structure as the former, though its proprietor is enlarging it, on an extensive scale. It has long been celebrated as an excellent house. Its accommodations for ladies are also very good, their rooms opening into ventilated piazzas, or galleries, as they are termed here, which are as necessary to every house in this country as fire-places to a northern dwelling. These galleries, or more properly verandas, are constructed--not like the New-England piazza, raised on columns half the height of the building, with a flat roof, and surrounded by a railing--but by extending a sloping roof beyond the main building, supported at its verge by slender columns; as the houses are usually of but one story in this country, southerners having a singular aversion to mounting stairs. Such porticoes are easily constructed. No house, particularly a planter's, is complete without this gallery, usually at both the back and front; which furnishes a fine promenade and dining-room in the warm season, and adds much to the lightness and beauty of the edifice. There is another very good hotel here, equivalent to Richardson's, in New-Orleans, or the Elm-street house in Boston, where the country people usually put up when they come in from the distant counties to dispose of their cotton. It fronts on "Cotton-square," as a triangular area, formed by clipping off a corner of one of the city squares, is termed; which is filled every day, during the months of November, December, and January, with huge teams loaded with cotton bales, for which this is the peculiar market place. The "City hotel," lately enlarged and refurnished, is now becoming quite a place of fashionable resort. XXVIII. Society of Natchez--New-England adventurers--Their prospects --The Yankee sisterhood--Southern bachelors--Southern society --Woman--Her past and present condition--Single combats-- Fireside pleasures unknown--A change--Town and country-- Characteristic discrepancies. Until within a very short period, the society of Natchez has exhibited one peculiar characteristic, in the estimation of a northerner, in whose migrating land "seven women," literally fulfilling the prediction, "take hold of one man;" a prediction which has, moreover, been fulfilled, according to the redoubtable and most classical Crockett, in the west; but by no means in this place, or in any of the embryo cities, which are springing up like Jonah's gourd, along the banks of the great "father of waters." The predominance of male population in the countless villages that are dotting the great western valley, rising up amidst the forests, one after another, as stars come out at evening, and almost in as rapid succession, is a necessary consequence of the natural laws of migration. In the old Atlantic and New-England states, the sons, as they successively grow up to manhood, take the paternal blessing and their little patrimony, often all easily packed and carried in a knapsack, but oftener in their heads, and bend their way to the "great west," to seek their fortunes, with them no nursery tale, but a stern and hardly earned reality:--there to struggle--prosper or fail--with blighted hopes go down to early graves, or, building a fire-side of their own, gather around it sons, who, in their declining years, shall, in their turn, go forth from the paternal roof to seek beyond the mountains of the Pacific shore a name, a fire-side, and a home of their own. And such is human life! To this migratory propensity is to be attributed the recent peculiar state of society in this city, and throughout the whole western country. The sons are the founders of these infant emporiums, but the daughters stay at home in a state of single blessedness--blessings (?) to the maternal roof, till some bold aspirants for the yoke of hymen return, after spying out the land, take them under their migratory wings and bear them to their new home. But unluckily for six out of every seven of the fair daughters of the east, the pioneers of the west feel disposed to pass their lives in all the solitary dignity of the bachelor state. Wrapped up in their speculations, their segars and their "clubs," not even a second Sabine device could move them to bend their reluctant necks to the noose. Those, however, who do take to themselves "helpmeets," are more gallant and chivalrous than their Roman predecessors in their mode of obtaining them, not demurring to travel, like Coelebs, many hundred leagues to the land of steady habits, to secure the possession of some one of its lovely flowers. The concentrating of a great number of young gentlemen for a permanent residence in one spot, without a suitable proportion of the gentler sex to enliven and relieve the rougher shades of such an assemblage, must produce a state of society, varying essentially from that in communities where the division is more equal. Hotels, or offices of professional business must be their residences--their leisure hours must be spent in lounging at each other's rooms like college students, (to whose mode of life their's is not dissimilar,) or in the public rooms of the hotels, cafés, or gambling houses. Habits difficult to eradicate are contracted, of dark and fatal consequences to many; and a rude, cavalier bearing is thereby imperceptibly acquired, more congenial with the wild, free spirit of the middle ages, than the refinement of modern times. The bold and rugged outlines natural to the sterner character of man, can only be softened by that refining influence which the cultivated female mind irresistibly exerts upon society. Wherever woman-- "Blessing and blest, where'er she moves," has exercised this gentle sway, the ruder attributes of man have been subdued and blended with the soft and lovely virtues so eminently her own. Second to Christianity, of which it is a striking effect, the exalted rank to which man has elevated woman, from that degrading and tyrannical subjugation to which she has in Pagan nations, in all ages, from the pride and ignorance of her _soi disant_ "lords," been subjected, has contributed more to the mental and personal refinement, dignity and moral excellence of men, than any other agency that has operated with a moral tendency directly upon the human mind. To the absence of this purifying influence, is to be attributed in a very great degree, that loose, immoral, and reckless state of society, peculiar to all border settlements and new towns, originating generally from communities of men. In such places that mysterious, yet indisputable power, exercised by the other sex upon society, is unknown; and men, throwing the reins upon the necks of their passions, plunge into vice and dissipation, unchecked and unrestrained. In such a state the duello had its origin--that blessed relic of that blessed age, when our thick-skulled ancestors broke each other's heads with mace and battle axe, for "faire ladye's love," or mere pleasant pastime--and a similar state of things will always preserve and encourage it. Hence the prevalence of this practice in the newly settled south and west, where the healthful restraint of female society has been till within a few years unknown. But as communities gain refinement through its influence, this mode of "healing honour's wounds," so unwise, unsatisfactory and sinful, gradually becomes less and less popular--till finally it is but a "theme of the past." To this state of disuse and oblivion it is rapidly advancing in this portion of the south-west, which, according to the theory before advanced, is an indication of the growing refinement, and moral and intellectual improvement of the community. Natchez has been, you are well aware, celebrated for the frequency and sanguinary character of its single combats; and this reputation it has once justly merited. Till within a few years, duels were alarmingly frequent. But more recently public opinion has changed, and the practice is now almost abandoned. The society has emerged from its peculiar bachelor cast, to that social and refined character, which constitutes the charm of well organized and cultivated communities. But a short time since, there were not three married men to ten unmarried. The latter predominating, gave the tone to society, which was, as I have before observed, that of a university, so far as habits and manners were concerned. And the resemblance was still greater, as a large majority of the young men were graduates of northern seminaries, or well informed young merchants. The social or domestic circle, so dear to every New-Englander, in which he delights to mingle wherever he reposes after his wanderings, was neglected or unvalued; and the young ladies, of whom there was found here and there one, (for their appearance in this desert of men was with the unfrequency of "Angel's visits,") were compelled to pine neglected, and "To bloom unseen around their lonely hearths, And waste their sweetness on the desert air." Such was the state of society here formerly, varied only, at long intervals, by a public ball at some one of the hotels, got up to kill _ennui_, a plant which, in such a soil, flourishes vigorously. But now "a change has come o'er the spirit of the town." A refined, intellectual, and highly educated class of females, both exotic and natural plants, enrich and diversify the moral features of the former lonely and monotonous scene: and as the vine entwining around the oak relieves with lines of grace and beauty its harsh, rugged outlines, so woman here, as every where, has assumed her brilliant sceptre, waved it over the heterogeneous mass, and "bidden it to live." The society of Natchez, now, is not surpassed by any in America. Originally, and therein differing from most western cities, composed of intelligent and well-educated young men, assembled from every Atlantic state, but principally from New-England and Virginia, it has advanced in a degree proportionate to its native powers. English and Irish gentlemen of family and fortune have here sought and found a home--while the _gentilhomme_ of sunny France, and the dark-browed don of "old Castile," dwell upon the green hills that recede gently undulating from the city; or find, in their vallies, a stranger's unmarbled and unhonoured grave. The citizens of Natchez are, however, so inseparably connected with the neighbouring planters, that these last are necessarily included in the general term "society of Natchez." The two bodies united may successfully challenge any other community to produce a more intelligent, wealthy, and, I may say, _aristocratic_ whole. But I do not much like the term applied to Americans; though no other word will express so clearly that refinement and elegance to which I allude, and which everywhere indicate the opulence and high breeding of their possessors. This is not so manifest, however, in the external appearance of their dwellings, as it is in their mode or style of living. To this their houses, especially the residences of those who have _made_ their wealth, and who yet occupy the same cabins, but little improved, which they originally erected, present a sad contrast. Many of the wealthiest planters are lodged wretchedly; a splendid sideboard not unfrequently concealing a white-washed beam--a gorgeous Brussels carpet laid over a rough-planked floor--while uncouth rafters, in ludicrous contrast to the splendour they look down upon, stretch in coarse relief across the ceiling.--These discrepancies, however, always characteristic of a new country, are rapidly disappearing; and another generation will be lodged, if not like princes, at least, like independent American gentlemen.--Many of these combinations of the old and new systems still exist, however, of a highly grotesque nature; some of the most characteristic of which I may mention more particularly hereafter. XXIX. A Sabbath morning in Natchez--A ramble to the bluff-- Louisiana forests--Natchez under the Hill--Slaves-- Holidays--Negroes going to church--Negro street coteries --Market-day--City hotel--Description of the landing-- Rail-way--A rendezvous--Neglected Sabbath-bell. Yesterday was the Sabbath; one of those still, bright, and sunny days which poetry and religion have loved to challenge as peculiar to that sacred time. To this beautiful conception, fact, aided somewhat by fancy, does not, however, refuse its sanction. A serene and awful majesty has ever appeared to me as peculiarly belonging to the day of rest. It seems blessed with a holier power than is given to the common days of earth: a more hallowed silence then reigns in the air and over nature--a spirit of sanctity, like a "still small voice," breathes eloquently over the heart, from which better feelings and purer thoughts ascend and hold communion with the unseen world. A spell, like a mantle of heavenly texture, seems thrown over all; to break which, by the light notes of merry music, or the sounds of gay discourse, would seem like profanation. Such was this Sabbath morning. The sun arose in the glory of his southern power, "rejoicing to run his race." Bathed in a sea of his own created light, he poured, with lavish opulence, floods of radiance over nature--illuminating, beautifying, and enriching all on which he shone. I had early rambled to the cliff, to get away from the noise and bustle of the hotel, and to enjoy the luxuriant beauty of the morning. The windows of the dwellings, and the roofs and spires of the town, reflected back the rising sun, whose beams glittered from myriads of dew-drops that spangled the green earth, converting its soft verdure into a carpet, studded with innumerable gems. The city itself reposed, as in a deep sleep, on the quiet hills upon which it rested. The majestic Mississippi was spread out before me like a vast sheet of liquid steel--its unruffled bosom, dotted and relieved here and there by a light skiff, or a huge steamer, booming and puffing far away in the distance; while the lofty, mural precipices which frowned menacingly over its eastern shore, were reflected from its depth with the accuracy and distinctness of a sub-marine creation. The Louisianian forests, clothing the interminable plains which stretch away to the west, with an almost perennial green, were crested with golden sun-light, and flashing as they waved in the morning breeze, like a phosphorescent sea of mingled green and light. Nature wore her richest garb, and her every feature was eminently beautiful. There was nothing to impair her loveliness, but that fallen, guilty being, who should be a diadem of glory for her brow, and the brightest ornament of her bosom--MAN! proud and sinful man, desecrating all that is fair and pure wherever he treads--he alone defaced the calm and hallowed character of the scene. From a row of dilapidated yet inhabited dwellings beneath me, at the base of the cliff, sounds of rude merriment, mingled with the tones of loud dispute and blasphemy, rose with appalling distinctness upon the still air, breaking the Sabbath silence of the hour, in harsh discord with its sacredness. The streets of the lower town were alive with boatmen, draymen, buyers and sellers, horsemen and hacks, and scores of negroes, some wrestling, some fighting, others running foot-races, playing quoits or marbles, selling the products of their little gardens, or, with greater probability, their predatory excursions; while from all combined, a confused murmur, not unlike the harmony which floated around Babel, rolled upward to the skies--an incense far from acceptable to Him, who has promulgated amid the thunders of Sinai, "Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy." In "Natchez under the hill," the Sabbath, as a day of rest and public worship, is not observed according to the strictest letter of the old "blue laws." On that day the stores are kept open and generally filled with boatmen and negroes. With the latter this day is a short jubilee, and, with the peculiar skill of their race, they make the most of it--condensing the occupation and the jollity of seven days into one. It is customary for planters in the neighbourhood to give their slaves a small piece of land to cultivate for their own use, by which, those who are industrious, generally make enough to keep themselves and their wives in extra finery and spending money throughout the year. They have the Sabbath given them as a holiday, when they are permitted to leave their plantations and come into town to dispose of their produce, and lay in their own little luxuries and private stores. The various avenues to the city are consequently on that day filled with crowds of chatting, laughing negroes, arrayed in their Sunday's best, and adroitly balancing heavily loaded baskets on their heads, which, from long practice in this mode of conveyance, often become indurated, like a petrification, and as flat as the palm of the hand, distending at the sides, and elongating in proportion to the depression, causing a peculiar conformation of the skull, which would set phrenology at defiance. Others mounted on mules or miserable-looking plough-horses, in whose presence Rosinante himself would have looked sleek and respectable--burthened with their marketable commodities, jog on side by side, with their dames or sweethearts riding "double-jaded"--as the Yankees term the mode--behind them; while here and there market carts returning from the city, (as this is also market morning) or from the intersecting roads, pour in upon the highway to increase the life, variety, and motley character of its crowd. But this unpleasing picture of a Sabbath morning, has brighter tints to redeem the graver character of its moral shades. Of all that picturesque multitude of holiday slaves, two-thirds, the majority of whom are women, are on their way to church, into whose galleries they congregate at the hour of divine service in great numbers, and worship with an apparent devoutness and attention, which beings who boast intellects of a higher order might not disdain to imitate. The female slaves very generally attend church in this country; but, whether to display their tawdry finery, of which they are fond to a proverb, or for a better purpose, I will not undertake to determine. The males prefer collecting in little knots in the streets, where, imitating the manners, bearing, and language of their masters, they converse with grave faces and in pompous language, selecting hard, high-sounding words, which are almost universally misapplied, and distorted, from their original sound as well as sense to a most ridiculous degree--astounding their gaping auditors "ob de field nigger class," who cannot boast such enviable accomplishments--parading through the streets from mere listlessness, or gathering around and filling the whiskey shops, spending their little all for the means of intoxication. Though negroes are proverbially lovers of whiskey, but few are to be found among them who get drunk, unless on Christmas holidays, when the sober ones are most easily numbered; this is owing to the discipline of plantations, the little means they have wherewith to purchase, and last, though not least, the fear of punishment--that "_argumentum ad corporem_," which leaves a stinging conviction behind it, of the painful effects of "old rye" in the abstract upon the body. That a market should be held upon the Sabbath in this city, is a "bend sinister" upon its escutcheon. But this custom is defended, even by those who admit its evil tendency, upon the plea "that meats in this climate will not keep over night."--This is no doubt the case during a great part of the year. A different system of things, in this respect, is desirable; but the reason just mentioned, combined with others, peculiar to a southern state of society, renders any change at present very difficult. There is, on the whole, with the exception alluded to, very little difference between the observance of the Sabbath here, and that in places of the same size in New-England; and the quiet regularity of its Sabbaths, if he could overlook the vast preponderance of coloured population in the streets just before church hour, would forcibly remind the northerner of his own native town. But in the lower town the face of things very sensibly changes, though the difference is less perceptible now than formerly. A few years since, its reputation was every way so exceptionable, that, in a very witty argument, a lawyer of this city demonstrated, that, so far from being a part and portion of the city proper, it was not even a part or portion of the state! Where he ultimately consigned it I did not learn.--It is true the city was not very tenacious of its rights _quoad_ its reprobate neighbour. But more recently, its superior advantages for heavy grocery business have induced many merchants, of high respectability, to remove from the city to this spot, whose presence has given it a better character.--So much has it changed from its former reputation, that where it was once considered disreputable to reside, there are now extensive stores, kept by gentlemen of excellent character, and a fine hotel, lately erected, for the convenience of these merchants, (most of whom, like the society which formerly characterised the city, are bachelors) and for passengers landing from, or waiting for, the steamboats. There is also, I should have remarked in a former letter, a commodious brick hotel on Main-street, in the city, under the superintendence of a young northerner, which, from its location in the very centre of the city, independent of other qualifications, is a convenient and agreeable temporary residence for strangers, with the majority of whom it is a general place of resort. Few towns, whose inhabitants quadruple those of Natchez, can boast such fine, commodious, and well-ordered hotels as this, or a more luxurious _table d'hote_ than is daily spread, between one and two o'clock, in the long dining-halls of most of them. The "Landing," which more popular term has of late superseded the old notorious cognomination, "Natchez under the Hill," properly consists of three dissimilar divisions. The northern is composed mostly of wretched dwellings, low taverns, and drinking shops, where are congregated free negroes, more wretched than their brother bondmen, and poor whites. At the termination of this division are an excellent steam saw-mill and an oil-mill, where oil of a superior quality for lamps is extracted from cotton seed, heretofore a useless article, except for manure, but now disposed of with considerable profit. About the centre of this northern division is suspended a strangely-constructed rail-way, springing from the Levée to the summit of the cliff. It was laid down, or rather built up, a short time since, for the more convenient carriage of cotton to the Landing; but has failed in its object, and is now disused and neglected. Viewed from the Levée, it is a striking feature, rising boldly from the feet of the observer, a mammoth pile of frame-work, at an angle of 45 degrees, and terminating at the height of one hundred and sixty feet, upon the verge of the bluff. The sides are closed up, and a portion is occupied by stores or dwellings, while another part is appropriated for a bowling alley. The noise of the iron-wheeled cars rolling down the steep track, with the roar of thunder, over the heads of the players, must have been a novel accompaniment to the sound of their own balls. The southern division of the Landing consists of one short street, parallel with the river, over which it hangs on one side, while the houses on the other are overhung by a spur of the cliff, which, like an avalanche, threatens every moment to slide and overwhelm it. This street is lined with dancing-houses, tippling-shops, houses of ill-fame, and gambling-rooms.--Here may always be heard the sound of the violin, the clink of silver upon the roulette and faro-tables, and the language of profanity and lewdness: and the revellers, so far from being interrupted by the intervention of the Sabbath, actually distinguish it by a closer and more persevering devotion to their unhallowed pursuits and amusements. The remaining division of the Landing, which lies between the other two, is a short street, extending from the base of the cliff to the Levée, a great part of which it comprises, and along an intersecting street, which skirts the foot of the bluff as far as the rail-way: here are congregated store-houses, boarding-houses, and bachelors' halls--which many of the merchants keep over their own stores, hiring or buying some old black woman to officiate as the representative of Monsieur Ude--the commodious hotel before alluded to, conducted by a "Green Mountain boy," and wholesale and retail grocery and dry goods stores. Neither of these kinds of goods is made, by itself, the sole stock of a dealer, either here or on the hill; but with the various articles in every kind of commercial dealing they pile their shelves and fill their warehouses; the whole forming a mixed assortment, appropriately adapted to the peculiar wants of their country, town, and steamboat customers. These stores are all kept open upon the Sabbath, on which day there is often more business done than on any other. The blacks, who have no other opportunity of making their little purchases, crowd around the counters--the boatmen trade off their cargoes, and the purchasers store them--steamers are constantly arriving and departing, lading and unlading--and the steam ferry-boat makes its oft-repeated trip from shore to shore--all giving a life, bustle, and variety to the scene, of a very unsabbath-like character. The merchants plead the necessity of supplying steamers. This is readily admitted; but it has given rise to a train of unforeseen evils, which have little relation to this basis of the custom. The numerous drinking shops in the other parts of the Landing are, on that day, as much at least, if not more than on other days, filled with a motley assemblage of black, white, and yellow, drinking and carousing. Nearly two hundred feet below me, as I stood upon the bluff, and within the huge shadow of the cliff, stretched a long, low building, over which proudly waved the star-spangled banner, and to whose inhabitants the sun, already high in the heavens, had not yet risen. From this building issued the sound of bestial revelry, drowning the hum of business and the shouts of boyish merriment. The coarse gray clothing (a shame to our army) of most of those lounging about the door, designated it, in conjunction with the flag over their heads, as a rendezvous--even had not the martial eloquence of a little, half-tipsy, dapper man in a gray doublet, whose voice now and then reached my ear in the intervals of the uproarious proceedings--expatiating to a gaping crowd of grinning Africans--nightcapped or bare-headed white females, in slattern apparel and uncombed locks--two or three straight, blanketed, silent Indians--noisy boys and ragged boatmen--upon the glories of a soldier's life, sufficiently indicated its character. "The sound of the church-going bell" pealed idly over their heads, unheard, or if heard, disregarded; and to the crowds which the eye of an observer could take in from his elevation upon the bluff, the divine institution of the Sabbath is invalid. XXX. Reminiscences--An aged pastor--Streets of Natchez on the Sabbath--Interior of a church--Church music--Pulpit oratory --A New-England scene--Peculiar state of society--Wealthy ministers--Clerical planters--Health of Mississippi-- Episcopalian church--Catholics--The French language-- Catholic education--Methodists--An alarm bell and slaves. After a long voyage, the sound of a Sabbath bell, borne over the waves from a white tower, far inland among the green hills of my native land, awed, like a voice from heaven, every spirit on board of our ship, from the commander to the rudest mariner, striking a chord long untouched in many hearts, and awakening associations of innocence and childhood, of home and heaven. As one after another, each clear-toned peal rolled solemnly over the sea, every footfall was involuntarily hushed, the half uttered jest or oath was arrested on the tongue--the turbulent spirit was quieted and subdued--every rough weather-beaten visage was softened, and for the remainder of that day--long, long after its dying notes had floated like spiritual music over our ship, and died away in the distant "fields of the ocean,"--each one on board felt himself a better man. Sensations nearly allied to these were awakened in my breast, as I stood upon the cliff, the Sabbath morning preceding the date of my last letter, contrasting the calm rich beauty of nature, with the dark scenes of vice, misery and impiety beneath me, by the sudden pealing of the church bell, ringing out its loud melody over the city, awakening the slumbering echoes from "Tomb and tower, cliff and forest glade," and calling man to the worship of his Maker. My thoughts, by a natural association, went backward many a long year, and dwelt upon a sweet sequestered valley, far away among the northern hills, with its chaste temple, whose snow-white slender spire, like the finger of undying hope, pointed man to his home in heaven, where, in early boyhood, we were first taught to worship the Great Being who made us; to the venerable figure of that silver-headed man of God, whose eloquence, at one time sublime, and full of majesty and power, would strike his hearers with holy dread--at another, soft, persuasive, and artless as the language of a child, diffuse a holy devotion throughout their bosoms, or melt them into tears; whose audience listened with their hearts, rather than with their ears--so masterly was the intellect, made God-like by religion, which could ring what changes it would, upon the susceptible chords of human sensibility. My reverie of the past, however, was soon interrupted by the rattling of carriages, as they rolled over the noble esplanade between me and the city, from the roads which extend north and south along the banks of the river, on their way to church. I prepared to follow their example. From my position I could look into one of the principal streets of the town, now rapidly filling with well-dressed people, numerous private equipages, and horsemen in great numbers. I soon fell in with the living current, and in a few minutes arrived at the Presbyterian church, situated in the centre and highest part of the city. The approach was literally blockaded by carriages from the suburbs and neighbouring plantations. The congregation was large, attentive, and so far as I could judge, as exteriorly fashionable as in Boston or New-York. The interior of the building is plain, and vaulted. A handsome pulpit stands opposite the entrance, over which is a gallery for the coloured people. The pulpit is deficient in a sounding-board, that admirable contrivance for condensing the voice, which, in an apartment of vast dimensions, has too great expansion. There was neither organ nor any other instrumental aid to the church music, which, though exclusively vocal, was uncommonly fine--the clergyman himself leading. But the effect was much lessened by the want of that volume and power, which it would gain, were the singers, who are now dispersed over the house in their respective pews, collected into a choir, and placed in the gallery, as is generally customary elsewhere. The discourse was unexceptionable; possessing more originality than is usually found at the present day in compositions of that nature, embellished with considerable beauties of language, and pronounced in a forcible, unimpassioned, yet impressive style of oratory, which I should like to see more adopted in the sacred desk, as eminently fitter for the solemnity of the house of God, than that haranguing declamatory style of headlong eloquence so often displayed in the pulpit. As I delayed for a minute under the portico of the church, after the services were over, watching, with a stranger's eye, the members of the congregation as they issued from the church and filed off through the several streets to their residences, I felt that I had not, since leaving New-England, beheld a scene which reminded me so forcibly and pleasantly of home. I have, in a former letter, alluded to the prevalence of the Presbyterian church government in Mississippi, to the preclusion of Congregationalists. There is not a resident minister of the latter denomination in this state or in Louisiana. There are only about twenty-four Presbyterian churches in the state, comprising between eight and nine hundred communicants in all; a less number than now composes the late Dr. Payson's church in Portland. The church in Natchez includes about one hundred members, which is the largest number in any one church in the whole state, with two exceptions; one of which is, a Scotch community, about fifty miles in the country east from this city; most of whom, or their fathers before them, emigrating from the land of primitive manners, still retain their national characteristics of simplicity and piety; and that stern, unyielding spirit and Christian devotedness which distinguished the Scottish Presbyterians of "olden time," of whom, though planted in the bosom of an American forest, they are worthy and original representatives. They are a plain, moderately independent, farming community, and sincerely and rigidly devoted to the duties of Christian worship. They have an aged pastor over them, to whom they are devotedly attached; and who is to them, who regard him with the affection of children, indeed a "shepherd and father in Israel." They live like a little band of exiled Waldenses, unsophisticated in their manners, pure and severe in their religion. The Gaelic is spoken among them, and also by many of the other settlers in that portion of the state, who reside in the vicinity of Pearl river; by them also the old popular Gaelic songs are sung, in their original purity and spirit. In the vicinity of this settlement the Presbyterians annually hold a camp meeting. A Presbyterian camp meeting is at least a novelty at the north. The majority of the ministers of this state are graduates of Princeton college. They form, as do the educated clergy every where, a class of well-informed, intelligent men; though too few in number, and generally placed over congregations too much scattered throughout a large and thinly inhabited extent of country, to command or exercise that peculiar influence upon society which, in more densely populated countries, is so universally possessed by them; and whose elevating, purifying, and moral effect is so readily acknowledged by all classes. So long as this state of society, now peculiar to the south, continues, ministerial influence, in its unadulterated and evangelical power, can hold but limited sway over the heart of the community. Divines are too often looked upon, not as representatives of the Saviour, but merely as intelligent, clever gentlemen, popular and esteemed as they make themselves more or less agreeable and social. A distinguished clergyman in England--where, as you know, the surplice is too often assumed, without any other qualification for the sacred office than the talisman "interest," was termed "a clever, noble fellow," by the neighbouring gentry, for his skill in hunting, and the other lordly sports of English country gentlemen. The manners, customs, amusements, and way of life, of the native born, wealthy, educated planters, have struck me as very similar to those of English gentlemen of wealth and leisure: and it is certain that, generally, many of them would be very apt, like them, to appreciate a clergyman as much for his social qualifications, as for those naturally associated with, and with which he is invested by, his clerical honours. Here, the Presbyterian clergy, unlike those in the northern states, are generally wealthy. With but a few exceptions, they have, after a short residence in this country, become planters, some of whom have noble annual incomes. After retiring to their plantations they do not--and I mention it with pleasure--altogether resign their ministerial duties. Some of them preach in destitute churches, from time to time; while others regularly officiate to congregations of their own slaves. One of these clerical planters has erected a neat church upon his plantation, in which he officiates to an assembly of his slaves three Sabbaths in every month; where the worship is conducted with the same regularity, decorum, and dignity, as in other congregations. Some leave the entire management of their estates to overseers, and regularly perform their official duties. But it is difficult for a clergyman to own a rich plantation, without becoming a thorough-going cotton planter. The occupation, with all its ramifications, if not incompatible with his holy office, must necessarily be more or less injurious to the individual, and present a broad target for the shafts of the confessed worshipper of Mammon. The bugbear reputation of this country for mortality, has long deterred young ministers from filling the places occasionally deserted by their former occupants; many of whom, if they do not resign their office, pass the long summers at the north.--But as no country can well be healthier than this has been, for the last six or seven years, this "health plea" can no longer be offered as an excuse. Indeed, so singularly healthy is this portion of the south-west, that were I required to give it a name, with reference to some one striking characteristic, I should at once call it "Buenos Ayres."[2] Such, briefly, is the state and condition of the Presbyterian church in this state; which, aside from its form of government, in its formula of faith, and in the rank in society of its members, is equivalent to the Congregational churches in the north. The peculiar structure of southern society is neither prepared for, nor will it admit of, the exercise of that ecclesiastical influence to which I have above alluded. It is composed, primarily, of wealthy individuals, living aloof from each other on their respective plantations, isolated like feudal chieftains, who, of old, with the spirit of ascetics, frowned defiance at each other, from their castellated rocks: though, do not understand me that planters partake of their belligerent spirit. On the contrary, the reverse is most true of them--for "hospitality" and "southern planter" are synonymous terms. Though there are not more hospitable men in the world than southern gentlemen--though no men can render their houses more agreeable to the stranger--though none are more fascinating in their manners, or more generous in heart--yet they are deficient in that social, domestic feeling, which is the life, excellence, and charm of New-England society, which renders it so dear to every wanderer's heart, and casts around the affections a spell that no power but death can injure or destroy. The Episcopalian church comprises an infinitely smaller body of members: the few who are of this church, however, are generally opulent planters, merchants, and professional men, with their families. There is but one church of this denomination in the state, which is in this city. I attended worship here the last Sabbath. The house was fashionably but thinly filled. The interior of the house is plain, though relieved, near the termination of the southern aisle, by a black marble slab, fixed in the wall, to the memory of the Rev. Dr. Porter, late pastor of the church. The pulpit, which is a miniature forum, is chaste and elegant, and its drapery rich and tastefully arranged. The choir was full and powerful, whose effect was increased by a fine-toned organ, the only one in the state; but whose rich and striking melody must be a powerful pleader, to the ears of amateurs of good church music, for their more general introduction. The eloquence of the speaker was engaging, mild, and gentlemanly. The latter term is very expressive of his manner, and conciliating pulpit address.--Though not striking as an orator, his thoughts were just and pertinent. He "Mysterious secrets of a high concern And weighty truths-- Explained by unaffected eloquence." Contrary to the prevalent opinion at the north, Roman Catholic influence in this state is entirely unknown. Formerly there was a Romish church in this city, ill endowed and seldom supplied with an officiating priest. This was accidentally destroyed by fire a year or two since; and there is now no church of that denomination in the state, and hardly a sufficient number of Catholics to organize one, did they possess either the spirit or inclination. Such is the peculiar turn of mind of Mississippians, that they never can be catholicised. The contiguity of this state to Louisiana, with its French-Roman population, has probably given rise to the opinion above stated, which is as erroneous and unfounded in fact, as is one also very current among northerners, and originating from the same local relation. Obtaining their knowledge of this, among other countries, from Morse's or Cumming's Geography, or other imperfect sources, they have the impression that the French and Spanish languages are much spoken here; whereas they are probably less used here, in mere colloquial intercourse, than in many of the Atlantic states. Maine adjoins Canada; yet who gives Major Downing's fellow-countrymen the credit of speaking French in their daily transactions? It is true that many planters and citizens of Mississippi send their sons to the Catholic seminary at St. Louis, or Bardstown, in Kentucky, and their daughters to the French convents in Louisiana; but this cannot be advanced as any proof of the prevalence of the religion of Rome here, as the same thing is done in New-England, where stand the very pillars of the orthodox faith; and it is done much less frequently now than in former years. The prevailing Christian denomination, as I have before remarked, is that of the Methodists. The excess of their numbers over that of the two other denominations, Presbyterians and Episcopalians, is very great; but having no table of ecclesiastical statistics by me, to which I can refer for greater accuracy, I cannot state correctly the proportions which they bear to each other.--This denomination embraces all ranks of society, including many of the affluent and a majority of the merely independent planters, throughout the state.--Some of the assemblages here, in the Methodist churches, would remind the stranger rather of a fashionable New-York audience, than a congregation of plain people, soberly arrayed, such as he is accustomed to behold in a Methodist church in New-England. Indeed, the Methodists here are generally a widely different class of people from those which compose a northern congregation of the same denomination. I will conclude my remarks upon the Sabbath, as observed in this city, which was the subject of my last letter, and from which I have so long digressed, by an allusion to a precautionary and wise municipal regulation for freeing the city, before sunset on the Sabbath, of its army of holiday negroes. At the hour of four the Court-house bell rings out an alarum, long and loud, warning all strange slaves to leave the city. Then commences a ludicrous scene of hurrying and scampering, from the four corners of the town; for wo be to the unlucky straggler, who is found after a limited period within the forbidden bounds! The penalty of forty stripes, save one, is speedily inflicted, by way of a lesson in the science of discretion. For a lesson, thus administered, few have little relish; and the subjects thereof, with their heads--the negro's _omnibus_--loaded with their little articles--a pound of this and a pound of that--are, all and singular, soon seen following their noses, with all commendable speed, along the diverging highways, keeping quick time to the tune of "over the hills and far away," to their respective plantations. FOOTNOTES: [2] See a meteorological table and medical report in the appendix--Note C. XXXI. Catholic burying-ground--Evening in a grave-yard--Sounds of a busy city--Night--Disturbers of the dead--Dishumation of human remains--Mourning cards--A funeral--Various modes of riding--Yankee horsemanship--Mississippian horsemen--Pacers --A plantation road--Residence--The grave--Slaves weeping for their master!--New cemetery. In a former letter I have alluded to the old cemetery in the centre of this city, strewed with dismantled tombs, monuments and fragments of grave-stones, fenceless and shadeless; a play-ground for the young academicians, from the adjacent seminary, and a common for the epicurean cow, it stands covering the sides and summit of a pleasantly rounded hill, a monument and a testimony of the characteristic negligence and indifference of Americans for the repositories of their dead. A few evenings since, as the sun was sinking beneath the level horizon, which was delineated by a line of green foliage, accurately traced along the impurpled western sky, I ascended the slight eminence, upon whose verdant bosom reposes this "city of the dead." Every step through this repository of human ashes, over sunken graves and shattered marble, once reared by the hand of affection or ostentation, forcibly recalled the littleness and vanity of man. The dead slumbered beneath my feet in a marble sleep--cold, silent, and forgotten! From the streets of the city, which on every side closed in this future resting place of its living, the clear laugh, and ringing shout of troops of merry children at their sports, the playful prattle of a group of loitering school girls, the rattling of whirling carriages, from whose windows glanced bright and happy faces, the clattering of horses, the loud conversation of their riders, the tramp of pedestrians along the brick _trottoirs_, the monotonous song of the carman, the prolonged call of the teamster, and the sharp reiterated ringing of his long whip, all mingled confusedly, struck harshly in the clear evening air upon the ear, breaking the silence that should repose over such a scene, and dissipating at once those reflections, which a ramble among the lonely dwellings of the dead is calculated to engender. As I lingered upon the hill, the gradually deepening shadows of evening fell over the town, and subsiding with the day, these sounds, by no means a "concord of enchanting ones," ceased one after the other, and the subdued hum of a reposing city floated over the spot, a strange requiem for its sepultured and unconscious inhabitants. The full moon now rose above the tops of the majestic forest trees, which tower along the eastern suburbs of the city, and poured a flood of mellow light from a southern sky, upon the mouldering ruins encircling the brow of the solitary hill, and glanced brightly upon the roof and towers of the now nearly silent city, which reflected her soft radiance with the mild lustre of polished silver. As I stood contemplating the scene, and yielding to its associations, my attention was drawn to a couple of men ascending the hill from the street. As they approached the crest of the hill, I observed that one of them was equipped with a spade and mattock, and that the other--whose black face glistened in the moonlight like japan, betraying him as a son of Afric--had his head surmounted by a small box. "Resurrectionists," thought I. They stopped not far from me, and the black setting down his box, immediately commenced digging. After observing them for a few minutes I advanced to the spot, and on an inquiry learned that they were disinterring the remains of a gentleman, and those of several members of his family, who had lain buried there for more than thirty years, for the purpose of removing them for re-interment in the new burying-ground north of the town. This cemetery is now wholly disused, and a great number of the dead have been taken up and removed to the new one, but the greater portion still rest, where they were first laid, fresh from among the living; for in all probability the majority who lie there, have neither existing name or friends to preserve their bones from desecration. I was gratified to see that there existed, after so long a period, some remaining affection for the dead displayed in the scene before me. But it is an isolated instance, and does not palliate the neglect which is manifested toward the "unknown, unhonoured, and forgotten," whose bones still moulder there, to be "levelled over," when the increase of the city shall compel the living to construct their habitations over those of the dead. As I watched the progress of exhumation, as the grave was emptied by the brawny arms of the muscular slave, of load after load of the dark loam, my eye was attracted by a white object glistening upon the thrown-up heap by the side of the grave. I raised it from the damp soil--it was a finger-bone! The next shovel full glittered with the slender, brittle fragments of what once was _man_! Not a trace of the coffin remained, or of the snow-white, scolloped shroud. The black now threw aside his spade, and stooping down into the grave, lifted to his companion a round, glaring, white shell, which was once the temple of the immortal intellect--the tenement of mind! A few corroded bones and the half-decayed skull--all that remained of the "human form divine"--were hastily heaped into the box, the grave was refilled, and the desecrators of the repose of the dead departed, as they came, soon to forget the solemn lesson, which their transient occupation may have taught them. As I turned away from the humiliating scene I had just beheld, with a melancholy heart, and a gloom of sorrow drawn over my feelings, I could not but forcibly recall the words of the preacher--"that which befalleth the sons of men, befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them; as the one dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they have all one breath; so that man hath no preeminence above the beast; for all is _vanity_. All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again." The Spanish and Roman Catholic custom of sending printed mourning cards to the relatives and friends of the deceased, is adopted in this country. On the death of an individual these tickets are immediately issued and sent throughout the city and neighbourhood--left indiscriminately, by the carriers, with friends and strangers, at private houses or in hotels and bar-rooms. While standing yesterday at the door of the hotel, one of these cards was placed in my hands by a mulatto slave, who, with his hands full of them, was distributing them about the town. It was a beautifully watered sheet, surrounded with a deep mourning body; in the centre of which were two or three lines of invitation, "to assist, (_aider_, as the French say) in the funeral ceremony;" and worded like those often seen inserted in the daily papers of a large city. The use of these cards is an established custom, and seldom if ever deviated from. It is at least a feeling one, and not unworthy of general imitation. In company with some gentlemen from the hotel, I attended this funeral, actuated wholly by a stranger's curiosity; for, as well as others of the party, I was a total stranger to the family of the deceased, who resided a few miles in the country. Our cavalcade (for we were all mounted upon those long-tailed, ambling ponies, to which southerners are so partial) consisted of six--two Yankees, three southerners, and an Englishman. The first rode, as most Yankees do, awkwardly; for Yankees, at home, are gig-drivers, not horsemen. Giving too much heed to the poising of their very erect bodies, they left their legs to take care of themselves; but when their attention was drawn, for a moment, to these members, they would rock upon their saddles, the very images of "tottering equilibriums," as Capt. Hall would term them; and fortunate were they in recovering their nearly forfeited seats again.--These horses, which advance by first lifting two legs on one side and then changing to the other, do not suit brother Jonathan's notions of a riding horse. So he applies whip and spur, and breaks away into a long gallop. Then indeed he is in his element. An Arabian, on being asked what was the best seat in the world, replied, "The back of a fleet courser." If the querist had applied to Jonathan, he would have said, "A galloping nag." Whenever you see a stranger galloping at the south, you will seldom err in guessing him to be a Yankee. Our English friend rode cockney fashion; that is, not much unlike a clothes-pin, or a pair of compasses, astride a line. Stiff and erect as a Hungarian hussar, he curvetted along the smooth roads, till he had worked his slight-framed, spirited animal into a fever of excitement, which flung the foam over his rider, as he tossed his head, swelled his curved neck, and champed his bit in rage, in vain efforts to spring away, free from his thraldom; but the rider fingered the slight bridle-rein with the ease and skill of a master. The southerners of the party rode like all southerners, admirably, inimitably. They appeared as much at home and at ease in their saddles, as in a well-stuffed arm-chair after dining generously. The Mississippian sits his horse gracefully, yet not, as the riding-master would say, scientifically. He never seems to think of himself, or the position of his limbs. They yield, as does his whole body, pliantly and naturally to the motions of the animal beneath him, with which his own harmonize so perfectly and with such flexibility, that there seems to be but one principle actuating both. He glides easily along upon his pacer, with the bridle thrown upon its neck, or over the high pummel of his handsome Spanish saddle; talking as unconcernedly with his companions, as though lounging, arm in arm with them, along the streets. He seldom goes out of a pace. If he is in haste, he only paces the faster. Of every variety of gaited animals which I have seen, the Mississippian pacer is the most desirable. I shall, however, have occasion to allude hereafter to southern equestrianism more particularly, and will return from my digression to the funeral. We arrived at the entrance gate of the plantation after a delightful ride of half an hour, along a fine though dusty road, (for with this impalpable soil it is either paste or powder) bordered with noble forests of oak, black gum, the hoary-coated sycamore, and the rich-leaved, evergreen magnolia, among and around which the grape vine entwined and hung in graceful festoons. Through natural vistas in the wood occasional glimpses could be obtained of white villas, not unfrequently large and elegant, half hidden in the centre of plantations, or among the thick woods which crowned the swelling hills on every side. The road was, like most of the roads here, a succession of gentle ascents and descents, being laid out so as to intersect transversely parallel ridges, themselves composed of isolated hills, gently blending and linking into each other. The country was luxuriant, undulating, and picturesque. The general character of the scenery struck me as remarkably English. The resemblance would be still more striking, did not the taste or convenience of the planters lead them to select the site of their dwellings in the centre of their plantations, or in the depths of their forests, without any reference to the public road, (from which they are most universally concealed) which is always the northern farmer's guide in such a case, thereby giving a solitary character to the road scenery, and detracting much from the general beauty of the country. The residence to which we were riding was invisible from the road. We passed through a large gateway, the gate of which, one of our Yankee brethren, who had galloped forward, tried in vain to open, nearly tumbling from his horse in the attempt, but which one of our southern friends paced up to, and scarcely checking his horse, opened with the merest effort in the world. Winding our way rapidly along a circuitous carriage-way, at one time threading the mazes of the forest, at another, coursing through a cotton field, whitened as though snow had fallen in large flakes and thickly sprinkled its green surface--now following the pebbly bed of a deep bayou, with overhanging, precipitous banks, and now skirting the borders of some brawling rivulet, we arrived in sight of the "house of mourning." The dwelling, like most in Mississippi, was a long, wooden, cottage-like edifice, with a long piazza, or gallery, projecting from the roof, and extending along the front and rear of the building. This gallery is in all country-houses, in the summer, the lounging room, reception room, promenade and dining room. The kitchen, "gin," stables, out-houses, and negro-quarters, extended some distance in the rear, the whole forming quite a village--but more African than American in its features. We were rather too late, as the funeral procession was already proceeding to the grave-yard, which was, as on most plantations, a secluded spot not far from the dwelling, set apart as a family burying-ground. I was struck with the appearance of the procession. Six mounted gentlemen in black, preceded the hearse as bearers. A broad band of white cambric encircled their hats, and streamed away behind in two pennons nearly a yard in length. A broad white sash of similar materials was passed over the right shoulder, from which a pennon of black ribbon fluttered, and was knotted under the left side, while the ends were allowed to hang nearly to the feet. The hearse was a huge black chest, opening at the end for the admission of the coffin, which, as I discovered at the grave, was richly covered with black silk velvet, and studded with a border of gilt nails. Its top was not horizontal, as you are accustomed to see them, but raised in the middle like a roof. The hearse was followed by several private carriages, gigs, of which a northern procession would consist, being not much used in this country. An irregular procession, or rather crowd of slaves in the rear of all, followed with sorrowful countenances the remains of their master, to his last, long home. When the heavy clods rattled upon the hollow sounding coffin, these poor wretches, who had anxiously crowded around the grave, burst into one simultaneous flood of tears, mingled with expressions of regret, sorrow and affection. A group of slaves lamenting over the grave of their master! Will not our sceptical countrymen regard this as an anomaly in philanthropy? Half a dozen slaves then shovelled for a few moments from the fresh pile of earth upon the coffin, and a mound soon rose, where, but a few moments before, yawned a grave! An appropriate prayer was offered over the dead, and the procession dispersed at the burial-place. Such is a plantation-burial! In this manner are consigned to the narrow house, four fifths of the population of this state. The city and town cemeteries are but little resorted to, for a large proportion of those who breathe their last in town, unless they are friendless, or strangers, are borne to some solitary family burial-place in the country for sepulture: there are few families in the towns of Mississippi who have not relatives residing on plantations in the country. The grave-yard of Natchez, situated as I have formerly observed, a little less than a mile north from the town, on the river road, covers an irregular surface among several small wooded hills, and is surrounded by cotton fields, from which it has been redeemed for its present use. It evinces neither beauty of location, nor taste in the arrangement of its tombs, of which there are but two or three remarkable for elegance or neatness. Its avenues are overgrown with the rank, luxuriant grass, peculiar to grave-yards, varied only here and there by clusters of thorns and briars. The wild and naked features of the spot are occasionally relieved by a shade tree planted by some kindly hand over the grave of a friend; but this occasional testimony of respect will not redeem the cemetery from that negligence and want of taste in this matter with which Americans have been, with too much justice, universally charged by foreigners. In observing the names upon the various head-stones, I noticed that the majority of those who slept beneath, were strangers, mostly from New-England, but many from Europe. Many of them were young. It is thus that the scourge of the south has ever reaped rich, teeming harvests from the north. But those days of terror, it is to be hoped, are for ever past, and that henceforth health will smile over the green hills of this pleasant land, which pestilence has so long blasted with her frowns. XXXII. National diversities of character--Diversities of language-- Provincialisms--A plantation and negroes--Natchez bar--A youthful judge--Physicians--Clergymen--Merchants, &c. &c.--A southern mania--"Washing"--Tobacco--Value of cotton planting and statistics--An easy "way to wealth." There are many causes, both moral and physical, which concur to render the inhabitants of the south dissimilar to those of the north. Some of these may be traced to climate, more to education and local relations, and yet more to that peculiar state of things which necessarily prevails in a planting country and all newly organized states. The difference is clearly distinguishable through all its grades and ramifications, and so strongly marked as to stamp the southern character with traits sufficiently distinctive to be dignified with the term national. A plantation well stocked with hands, is the _ne plus ultra_ of every man's ambition who resides at the south. Young men who come to this country, "to make money," soon catch the mania, and nothing less than a broad plantation, waving with the snow white cotton bolls, can fill their mental vision, as they anticipate by a few years in their dreams of the future, the result of their plans and labours. Hence, the great number of planters and the few professional men of long or eminent standing in their several professions. In such a state of things no men grow old or gray in their profession if at all successful. As soon as the young lawyer acquires sufficient to purchase a few hundred acres of the rich alluvial lands, and a few slaves, he quits his profession at once, though perhaps just rising into eminence, and turns cotton planter. The bar at Natchez is composed, with but few exceptions, entirely of young men. Ten years hence, probably not four out of five of these, if living, will remain in their profession. To the prevalence of this custom of retiring so early from the bar, and not to want of talent, is to be attributed its deficiency of distinguished names. There is much talent now concentrated at this bar, and throughout the state. But its possessors are young men; and this mania for planting will soon deprive the state of any benefit from it in a professional point of view. As the lawyers are young, the judges cannot of course be much stricken in years. The northerner, naturally associates with the title of "Judge," a venerable, dignified personage, with locks of snow, a suit of sober black, and powdered queue, shoe-buckles, and black silk stockings. Judge my surprise at hearing at the public table a few days since, a young gentleman, apparently not more than four or five and twenty, addressed as "judge!" I at first thought it applied as a mere "_soubriquet_," till subsequently assured that he was really on the bench. Physicians make money much more rapidly than lawyers, and sooner retire from practice and assume the planter. They, however, retain their titles, so that medico-planters are now numerous, far out-numbering the regular practitioners, who have not yet climbed high enough up the wall to leap down into a cotton field on the other side. Ministers, who constitute the third item of the diplomaed triad, are not free from the universal mania, and as writing sermons is not coining money, the plantations are like the vocative in Latin pronouns. They, however, by observing the command in Gen. ix. 1, contrive ultimately to reach the same goal. The merchant moves onward floundering through invoices, ledgers, packages, and boxes. The gin-wright and overseer, also have an eye upon this Ultima Thule, while the more wealthy mechanics begin to form visions of cotton fields, and talk knowingly upon the "staple." Even editors have an eye that way! Cotton and negroes are the constant theme--the ever harped upon, never worn out subject of conversation among all classes. But a small portion of the broad rich lands of this thriving state is yet appropriated. Not till every acre is purchased and cultivated--not till Mississippi becomes one vast cotton field, will this mania, which has entered into the very marrow, bone and sinew of a Mississippian's system, pass away. And not then, till the lands become exhausted and wholly unfit for farther cultivation. The rich loam which forms the upland soil of this state is of a very slight depth--and after a few years is worn away by constant culture and the action of the winds and rain. The fields are then "thrown out" as useless. Every plough-furrow becomes the bed of a rivulet after heavy rains--these uniting are increased into torrents, before which the impalpable soil dissolves like ice under a summer's sun. By degrees, acre after acre, of what was a few years previous beautifully undulating ground, waving with the dark green, snow-crested cotton, presents a wild scene of frightful precipices, and yawning chasms, which are increased in depth and destructively enlarged after every rain. There are many thousand acres within twenty miles of the city of Natchez, being the earliest cultivated portions of the country, which are now lying in this condition, presenting an appearance of wild desolation, and not unfrequently, of sublimity. This peculiar feature of the country intrudes itself into every rural prospect, painfully marring the loveliest country that ever came from the hand of nature. Natchez itself is nearly isolated by a deep ravine, which forms a natural moat around the town. It has been formed by "washing," and though serpentine and irregular in its depth, it is cut with the accuracy of a canal. It is spanned by bridges along the several roads that issue from the town. From the loose and friable nature of this soil, which renders it so liable to "wash," as is the expressive technical term here, the south-west portion of this state must within a century become waste, barren, and wild, unless peradventure, some inventing Yankee, or other patentee may devise a way of remedying the evil and making the wilderness to "blossom like the rose." A thick bluish green grass, termed Bermuda grass, is used with great success to check the progress of a _wash_ when it has first commenced.[3] It is very tenacious of the soil, takes firm and wide root, grows and spreads rapidly, and soon forms a compact matted surface, which effectually checks any farther increase of the ravines, or "bayous," as these deep chasms are usually termed; though bayou in its original signification is applied to creeks, and deep glens, with or without running water. When this state was first settled, tobacco was exclusively cultivated as the grand staple. But this plant was found to be a great exhauster of the soil; cotton rapidly superseded its culture, and it was shortly banished from the state, and found a home in Tennessee, where it is at present extensively cultivated. It has not for many years been cultivated here. Planters have no room for any thing but their cotton, and corn, on their plantations, and scarcely are they willing to make room even for the latter, as they buy a great part of their corn, annually, from the Kentucky and Indiana flat boats at the "Landing." Among northerners, southern planters are reputed wealthy. This idea is not far from correct--as a class they are so; perhaps more so than any other body of men in America. Like our Yankee farmers they are tillers of the soil. "But why" you may ask, "do they who are engaged in the same pursuits as the New-England farmer, so infinitely surpass him in the reward of his labours?" The northern farmer cannot at the most make more than three per cent. on his farm. He labours himself, or pays for labour. He _must_ do the first or he cannot live. If he does the latter, he can make nothing. If by hard labour and frugal economy, the common independent Yankee farmer, such as the traveller meets with any where in New-England, lays up annually from four to seven hundred dollars, he is a thriving man and "getting rich." His daughters are attractive, and his sons will have something "handsome" to begin the world with. But the southern farmer can make from fifteen to thirty per cent. by his farm. He works on his plantation a certain number of slaves, say thirty, which are to him what the sinewy arms of the Yankee farmer are to himself. Each slave ought to average from seven to eight bales of cotton during the season, especially on the new lands. An acre will generally average from one to two bales. Each bale averages four hundred pounds, at from twelve to fifteen cents a pound. This may not be an exact estimate, but it is not far from the true one. Deducting two thousand and five hundred dollars for the expenses of the plantation, there will remain the net income of eleven thousand dollars. Now suppose this plantation and slaves to have been purchased on a credit, paying at the rate of six hundred dollars apiece for his negroes, the planter would be able to pay for nearly two-thirds of them the first year. The second year, he would pay for the remainder, and purchase ten or twelve more; and the third year, if he had obtained his plantation on a credit of that length of time, he would pay for that also, and commence his fourth year with a valuable plantation, and thirty-five or forty slaves, all his own property, with an increased income for the ensuing year of some thousands of dollars. Henceforward, if prudent, he will rank as an opulent planter. Success is not however always in proportion to the outlay or expectations of the aspirant for wealth. It is modified and varied by the wear and tear, sickness and death, fluctuations of the market, and many other ills to which all who adventure in the great lottery of life are heirs. In the way above alluded to, numerous plantations in this state have been commenced, and thus the wealth of a great number of the opulent planters of this region has originated. Incomes of twenty thousand dollars are common here. Several individuals possess incomes of from forty to fifty thousand dollars, and live in a style commensurate with their wealth. The amount is generally expressed by the number of their negroes, and the number of "bales" they make at a crop. To know the number of either is to know accurately their incomes. And as this is easily ascertained, it is not difficult to form a prompt estimate of individual wealth. To sell cotton in order to buy negroes--to make more cotton to buy more negroes, "ad infinitum," is the aim and direct tendency of all the operations of the thorough-going cotton planter; his whole soul is wrapped up in the pursuit. It is, apparently, the principle by which he "lives, moves, and has his being." There are some who "work" three and four hundred negroes, though the average number is from thirty to one hundred. "This is all very fine," you say, "but the slaves!--there's the rub." True; but without slaves there could be no planters, for whites will not and cannot work cotton plantations, beneath a broiling southern sun.--Without planters there could be no cotton; without cotton no wealth. Without them Mississippi would be a wilderness, and revert to the aboriginal possessors. Annihilate them to-morrow, and this state and every southern state might be bought for a song. I am not advocating this system; but destroy it--and the southern states become at once comparative ciphers in the Union. Northerners, particularly Yankees, are at first a little compunctious on the subject of holding slaves. They soon, however, illustrate the truth contained in the following lines, but slightly changed from their original application. With half-averted eyes they at first view slavery as "A monster of such horrid mien, That to be hated needs but to be seen: But seen too oft, familiar with her face, They soon endure--and in the end embrace." Many of the planters are northerners. When they have conquered their prejudices, they become thorough, driving planters, generally giving themselves up to the pursuit more devotedly than the regular-bred planter. Their treatment of their slaves is also far more rigid. Northerners are entirely unaccustomed to their habits, which are perfectly understood and appreciated by southerners, who have been familiar with Africans from childhood; whom they have had for their nurses, play-fellows, and "bearers," and between whom and themselves a reciprocal and very natural attachment exists, which, on the gentleman's part, involuntarily extends to the whole dingy race, exhibited in a kindly feeling and condescending familiarity, for which he receives gratitude in return. On the part of the slave, this attachment is manifested by an affection and faithfulness which only cease with life. Of this state of feeling, which a southern life and education can only give, the northerner knows nothing. Inexperience leads him to hold the reins of government over his novel subjects with an unsparing severity, which the native ruler of these domestic colonies finds wholly unnecessary. The slave always prefers a southern master, because he knows that he will be understood by him. His kindly feelings toward, and sympathies with slaves, as such, are as honourable to his heart as gratifying to the subjects of them. He treats with suitable allowance those peculiarities of their race, which the unpractised northerner will construe into idleness, obstinacy, laziness, revenge, or hatred. There is another cause for their difference of treatment to their slaves. The southerner, habituated to their presence, never fears them, and laughs at the idea. It is the reverse with the northerner: he fears them, and hopes to intimidate them by severity. The system of credit in this country is peculiar. From new-year's to new-year's is the customary extension of this accommodation, and the first of January, as planters have then usually disposed of their crops, is a season for a general settlement throughout every branch of business. The planters have their commission merchants in New-Orleans and Natchez, who receive and ship their cotton for them, and make advances, if required, upon succeeding crops. Some planters export direct to Liverpool and other ports, though generally they sell or consign to the commission merchants in Natchez, who turn cotton into gold so readily, that one verily would be inclined to think that the philosopher's stone might be concealed within the bales. A planter often commences with nothing, or merely an endorser--buys land and negroes, and, in the strong phraseology of Crockett, "goes ahead." In a few years he becomes opulent. Others, however, (as was the case with the old settlers especially) and young men at the present time, with little means, commence with a piece of wild land, and five or six, or perhaps not more than two negroes--and go on strengthening and increasing, adding acre to acre, negro to negro, bale to bale, till wealth crowns their labours. Many of the oldest and wealthiest planters began in this manner, when they had to dispute possession of the soil with the Spaniard, the wild beast of the forest, or wilder Indian. They are now reaping the rewards of their youthful toil, in the possession of sons and daughters, lands and influence, and all the luxuries and enjoyments which wealth commands. Their sons, more fortunate in their youth than their sires, receive, from the paternal bounty, plantations and negroes, and at once, without previous toil or care, assume the condition of the refined and luxurious planter. So you perceive that a Yankee farmer and a southern planter are birds of a very different feather.[4] Now in this sad, idolatrous world, where Mammon is worshipped on millions of altars, the swelling hills and noble forests of the south must certainly be "where men ought to worship." If the satirical maxim, "man was made to make money," is true, of which there can be no question--the mint of his operations lies most temptingly between the "Father of waters" and the arrowy Pearl. And men seem to feel the truth of it--or of the maxim of Bacon, that "territory newly acquired and not settled, is a matter of burthen rather than of strength;" for they are spreading over it like a cloud, and occupying the vast tracts called "the Purchase," recently obtained from the Indians, previous to their removal to the west. The tide of emigration is rapidly setting to the north and east portions of the state. Planters, who have exhausted their old lands in this vicinity, are settling and removing to these new lands, which will soon become the richest cotton growing part of Mississippi. Parents do not now think of settling their children on plantations near Natchez, but purchase for them in the upper part of the state. Small towns, with "mighty names," plucked from the ruins of some long since mouldered city of classic fame and memory, are springing up here and there, like mushrooms, amidst the affrighted forests. Sixteen new counties have lately been created in this portion of the state, where so recently the Indian tracked his game and shrieked his war-whoop; and as an agricultural state, the strength and sinew of Mississippi must be hereafter concentrated in this fresher and younger portion of her territory. FOOTNOTES: [3] The necessary properties of grasses suited to this climate differ from those required in higher latitudes. They should have deep running roots if erect, to withstand the scorching heat of the sun, or their stems should lie prostrate and cover the ground. This is the peculiarity of grasses in the West Indies and Egypt. The grass peculiar to them, and well adapted to this country--the cynosurus Ægyptus--grows in South Carolina and Georgia, and is highly esteemed. Among the small variety of grasses cultivated here, is the Washita winter grass, perennial, and the Natchez winter grass, an annual. The latter is a phalaris, not known at the north. It is a rich grass and very succulent. There is a variety of this grass termed striped grass, cultivated in yards at the north, which is unknown here, and which from its peculiar properties is excellent to bind banks, and would be of great service on plantations where there are bayous. The Bermuda grass has large succulent leaves and runners, and is better adapted to this climate than any other. Lucerne and esparcette have the same properties, but have never been tried. The white clover of Kentucky, known by the name of Buffalo clover, is also admirably adapted, upon the above principles, to this soil and climate. Hay as an article of culture is unknown here. White clover is abundant upon the commons. There are several grasses peculiar to this country unknown at the north; but they are never transplanted from the fields and woods, and are scarcely known and never cultivated. There is properly but _one plant_ in the south, if planters are to draw up the botanical catalogue, and that is the _cotton plant_! [4] I have lying before me a letter, bearing date July 1, 1806, from a distinguished German botanist; in which, at the close of an article upon the plants of this country, he inquires of Wm. Dunbar, Esq. to whom the letter is addressed, "if the cotton plant has ever been tried in Mississippi? _It seems to promise much!_" Mississippi planters of the present day will certainly coincide with this gentleman in his opinion. XXXIII. An excursion--A planter's gallery--Neglect of grounds--Taste and economy--Mississippi forests--The St. Catherine--Cotton fields--Worm fences--Hedges--The pride of China--The magnolia tree and flower--Plantation roads--White cliffs--General view of a plantation. A few days since, in company with a northern friend, I made an excursion to an extensive plantation two hours' ride from the city. We left the hotel at an early hour, exchanging our mattresses--the universal southern bed--for more luxurious seats in elastic Spanish saddles, upon delightfully cradling pacers, and proceeded through one of the principal streets, already alive with pedestrians and horsemen; for, in a southern climate, evening and morning constitute the day--the day itself being a "noon of indolence," where ice and shade are the only blessings to be devoutly wished. Ambling along at an easy gait toward the great southern road, leading to New-Orleans, we passed, just on the confines of the country, the residence of the Presbyterian clergyman, and one of the most charming retreats I have yet seen in the vicinity of Natchez, whose suburbs are peculiarly rich in tasteful country seats. Our eyes lingered over the luxuriant shrubbery clustering about the edifice, entwining around its columns and peeping in at the windows. Clumps of foliage, of the deepest green, were enamelled with flowers of the brightest hues; and every tree was an aviary, from which burst the sweetest melody. What a spot for the student! Among flowers and vines and singing birds! What a freshness must they fling around his heart! What a richness must clothe even the language of sermons composed in such pleasant shades--the cool wind loaded with fragrance, leaping from among the trees upon the brow, and playing refreshingly among the hair! Leaving, to the right, the romantic fort Rosalie, rearing its green parapets in strong relief against the sky--a prominent object amid the slightly elevated surface of the surrounding country--we turned into one of those pleasant roads which wind in all directions through the rich scenery of this state. The first mile we passed several neat dwellings, of the cottage order; one of which, with a gallery in front, and surrounded by a smooth, green slope, was the residence of the Episcopalian clergyman. It was a chaste and pretty mansion, though not so luxuriantly embowered as the abode of the clergyman above alluded to. A huge colonnaded structure, crowning an abrupt eminence near the road, struck our eyes with an imposing effect. It was the abode of one of the wealthiest planters of this state; who, like the majority of those whose families now roll in their splendid equipages, has been the maker of his fortune. The grounds about this edifice were neglected; horses were grazing around the piazzas, over which were strewed saddles, whips, horse blankets, and the motley paraphernalia with which planters love to lumber their galleries. On nearly every piazza in Mississippi may be found a wash-stand, bowl, pitcher, towel, and water-bucket, for general accommodation. But the southern gallery is not constructed, like those at the north, for ornament or ostentation, but for use. Here they wash, lounge, often sleep, and take their meals.--Here will the stranger or visiter be invited to take a chair, or recline upon a sofa, settee, or form, as the taste and ability of the host may have furnished this important portion of a planter's house. I once called on a planter within an hour's ride of Natchez, whose income would constitute a fortune for five or six modest Yankees. I entered the front yard--a green level, shaded with the relics of a forest--the live oak, sycamore, and gum trees--through a narrow wicket in a white-washed paling, the most common fence around southern dwellings. In the front yard were several sheep, colts, calves, two or three saddle and a fine pair of carriage-horses, negro children, and every variety of domestic fowl. The planter was sitting upon the gallery, divested of coat, vest, and shoes, with his feet on the railing, playing, in high glee, with a little dark-eyed boy and two young negroes, who were chasing each other under the bridge formed by his extended limbs. Three or four noble dogs, which his voice and the presence of his servant, who accompanied me to the house, kept submissive, were crouching like leopards around his chair. A litter of young bull-headed pups lay upon a blanket under a window opening into a bed-room, white with curtains and valances; while a domestic tabby sat upon the window-sill, gazing musingly down upon the rising generation of her hereditary foes, perhaps with reflections not of the most pleasing cast. A hammock, suspended between an iron hook driven into the side of the house and one of the slender columns which supported the sloping roof of the gallery, contained a youth of fourteen, a nephew of the planter, fast locked in the embraces of Morpheus; whose _aid-de-camp_, in the shape of a strapping negress, stood by the hammock, waving over the sleeper a long plume of gorgeous feathers of the pea-fowl--that magnificent bird of the south, which struts about the ground of the planter, gratifying the eye with the glorious emblazonry upon his plumage by day, and torturing the ear with his loud clamours by night. A pair of noble antlers was secured to one of the pillars, from whose branches hung broad-brimmed hats, bridles, a sheep-skin covering to a saddle, which reposed in one corner of the piazza, a riding whip, a blanket coat or capote, spurs, surcingle, and part of a coach harness. A rifle and a shot-gun with an incredibly large bore, were suspended in beckets near the hall entrance; while a couple of shot-pouches, a game-bag, and other sporting apparatus, hung beside them. Slippers, brogans, a pillow, indented as though recently deserted, a gourd, and a broken "cotton slate," filled up the picture, whose original, in some one or other of its features, may be found in nearly every planter's dwelling in this state. There are many private residences, in the vicinity of Natchez, of an equally expensive character with the one which furnished the above description, whose elegant interiors, contrasting with the neglected grounds about them, suggest the idea of a handsome city residence, accidentally dropped upon a bleak hill, or into the midst of a partially cleared forest, and there remaining, with its noble roof grasped by the arms of an oak, and its windows and columns festooned by the drooping moss, heavily waving in the wind. Thus are situated many of the planters' dwellings, separated from the adjacent forests by a rude, white-washed picket, enclosing around the house an unornamented green, or grazing lot, for the saddle and carriage-horses, which can regale their eyes at pleasure, by walking up to the parlour windows and gazing in upon handsome carpets, elegant furniture, costly mantel ornaments, and side-boards loaded with massive plate; and, no doubt, ruminate philosophically upon the reflection of their figures at full-length in long, richly-framed mirrors. Very few of the planters' villas, even within a few miles of Natchez, are adorned with surrounding ornamental shrubbery walks, or any other artificial auxiliaries to the natural scenery, except a few shade trees and a narrow, gravelled avenue from the gate to the house. A long avenue of trees, ornamenting and sheltering the approach to a dwelling, is a rare sight in this state, though very frequently seen in Louisiana. Yet, in no region of the south can fine avenues of beautiful trees be made with such facility as in Mississippi. No state surpasses this in the beauty, variety, and rapid growth of its ornamental shade trees; the laurel, sycamore, locust, oak, elm, and white bay, with the "pride of China,"--the universal shade tree in the south-west--arrive here at the most perfect maturity and beauty. Every plantation residence is approached by an avenue, often nearly a mile in length; yet so little attention is paid to this species of ornament and comfort, in a climate where shade is a synonym for luxury, that scarcely one of them is shaded, except where, in their course through a forest, nature has flung the broad arms of majestic trees across the path. The peculiarity of the dwellings of planters, evinced in hiding the prettiest cottage imaginable under the wild, gnarled limbs of forest trees, fringed with long black moss, like mourning weeds, which hangs over the doors and windows in melancholy grandeur, may be traced, very naturally, to the original mode of life of most of the occupants, who, though now opulent, have arisen, with but few exceptions, from comparative obscurity in the world of dollars. Originally occupying log huts in the wilderness, their whole time and attention were engaged in the culture of cotton; and embellishment, either of their cabins or grounds, was wholly disregarded. When they became the lords of a domain and a hundred slaves; for many retain their cabins even till then--ostentation, as they saw the elegancies of refined society displayed around them--necessity, for fear of being entombed in the ruins of their venerable log palaces--or a desire for greater comfort--razed the humble cabin, and reared upon its site the walls of an expensive and beautiful fabric. Here the planter stops. The same causes which originally influenced him to neglect the improvement of his grounds, still continue to exist; and though he may inhabit a building that would grace an English park, the grounds and scenery about it, with the exception of a paling enclosing a green yard, are suffered to remain in their pristine rudeness. Thus far, and with few exceptions, no farther, have the wealthiest planters advanced. Here they have taken a stand; and a motive cause, equal to that which led to the first step from the cabin to the more elegant mansion, must again operate, or the finest villas in Mississippi will, for many years to come, be surrounded, on one or more sides, with the native forests, or stand in unpicturesque contiguity with ploughed fields, cattle-pens, and the several interesting divisions of a farm-yard. You will judge, from this state of things, that the Mississippi planters are not a showy and stylish class, but a plain, practical body of men, who, in general, regard comfort, and conformity to old habits, rather than display and fashionable innovations; and who would gaze with more complacency upon an acre of their domain, whitened, like a newly-washed flock, with cotton, than were it spread out before them magnificent with horticulture, or beautifully velveted with green. Still planters are not destitute of taste; it is their principle to make it yield to interest. "What a fine park you might have around your house," once remarked an English gentleman to a planter in this state, as he surveyed the finely undulating fields here and there sprinkled with an oak, extending on every side around the dwelling. "Very true," replied the southron, "but these few acres yield me annually from ten to twelve bales of cotton: this would be too great a sacrifice for the mere gratification of the eye." "Still very true," replied the Englishman, "but this sense could be gratified without any sacrifice. Your plantation consists of eight or nine hundred acres, and not one half is under cultivation; a portion of that now uncultivated might be substituted for this." To this the planter answered, that the soil about his house would produce more to the acre than the other, by at least one bale in every ten, having been long under cultivation; and that merely as a matter of taste, though no one admired a fine park or lawn more than himself, he could not devote it to this object. This principle of the land economist, so devoutly reverenced, will long preclude that desirable union of taste and interest, which is the combined result of wealth attained and enjoyed. The last state men cannot be said to be in, who, however wealthy, never relax their exertions in adding to their incomes; which is, and ever will be the case with the planter, and indeed every other man, so long as he can, by his efforts, annually increase his revenue ten or twenty thousand dollars. To the immense profit which every acre and the labour of every slave yield the planter, and to no other cause, is to be referred the anomalous result manifested in neglecting to improve their estates: for an acre, that will yield them sixty dollars per annum, and a slave, whose annual labour will yield from two to five hundred dollars, are, by the laws which regulate the empire of money, to be appropriated to the service of interest, to the entire exclusion of the claims of taste. About a mile from Natchez, we passed, close by the road-side, a family cemetery, whose white paling was bursting with shrubbery. No mausoleum gratefully relieving the eye, rose amid the luxuriant foliage, enshrining the affection of the living or the memory of the dead. On the opposite side of the road stood a handsome mansion, though without that noble expanse of lawn which is the finest feature in the grounds of an English country residence. Instead of a lawn, a small unimproved court-yard intervened between the house and the road. Winding round an extensive vegetable garden, attached to the house, which is the only dwelling for more than ten miles immediately on the road, we travelled for an hour, either over a pleasantly rolling country, with extensive cotton fields, spreading away on either hand; or beneath forest trees, which, in height and majesty, might vie with the "cedars of Lebanon." There is a grandeur in the vast forests of the south, of which a northerner can form no adequate conception. The trees spring from the ground into the air, noble columns, from fifty to a hundred feet in height, and, expanding like the cocoa, fling abroad their limbs, which, interlocking, present a canopy almost impervious to the sun, and beneath which wind arcades of the most magnificent dimensions. The nakedness of the tall shafts is relieved by the luxuriant tendrils of the muscadine and woodbine twining about them, in spiral wreaths, quite to their summit, or hanging in immense festoons from tree to tree. In these woods horsemen can advance without obstruction, so spacious are the intervals between the trees, so high the branches above them, and so free from underwood is the sward. Of such forest-riding the northerner knows nothing, unless his lore in tales of Italian banditti may have enabled him to form some idea of scenes with which his own country refuses to gratify him. So much do the northern and southern forests differ, that a fleet rider will traverse the latter with more ease than the woodman can the former. Cut from the shaft of a southern forest tree, a section forty or fifty feet in length, and plant the mutilated summit in the earth, and its stunted appearance would convey to a Mississippian a tolerably correct idea of a forest tree in New-England; or add to the low trunk of a wide spreading northern oak, the column abstracted from its southern rival, and northerners would form from its towering altitude, a tolerable idea of a forest tree in Mississippi. Hang from its heavy branches huge tassels of black Carolina moss, from two to six feet in length--suspend from limb to limb gigantic festoons of vines, themselves but lesser trees in size, and clothe its trunk with a spiral vestment of leaves, as though a green serpent were coiled about it, and you will have created a southern tree in its native majesty. Imagine a forest of them lifting their tops to heaven and yourself bounding away upon a fleet horse beneath its sublime domes, with a noble stag, flying down its glades like a winged creature, while the shouts of hunters, the tramp of horses, and the baying of hounds echo through its solemn corridors, and then you will have some faint idea of the glory of a southern forest and the noble character of its enjoyments.[5] Between three and four miles from Natchez we crossed the St. Catharine, a deeply bedded and narrow stream, winding through a fertile tract of country in a very serpentine course, for nearly thirty leagues before it empties into the Mississippi, twenty miles below Natchez. This stream is celebrated in the early history of this state, and still possesses interest from the Indian traditions with which it is associated. In numerous villages, formerly scattered along its banks, and spread over the beautiful hills among which it meanders, but not a vestige of which now remains, it is supposed, on the authority both of oral and written history, that more than two hundred thousand Indians but a few degrees removed from the refinements of civilized life, dwelt peaceably under their own vine and fig-tree. But where are they now? "Echo answers--Where!" Between five and six miles from town the road passed through the centre of one of the most extensive plantations in the county. For more than a mile on either side, an immense cotton field spread away to the distant forests. Not a fence, except that which confined the road, (always degraded, in the parlance of the country, when running between two fences, to a "lane,") was to be seen over the whole cultivated surface of a mile square. The absence of fences is a peculiarity of southern farms. As their proprietors cultivate but one article as a staple, there is no necessity of intersecting their lands by fences, as at the north, where every farm is cut up into many portions, appropriated to a variety of productions. To a northern eye, a large extent of cultivated country, without a fence, or scarcely a dwelling, would present a singular appearance; but a short residence in the south will soon render one familiar with such scenery where no other meets the eye. The few fences, however, that exist on plantations, for defining boundaries, confining public roads, and fencing in the pasture lands--which, instead of broad green fields as in New-England, are the woods and cane-brakes--are of the most unsightly kind. With a gently undulating surface and a diversity of vale and wood scenery unrivalled, the natural loveliness of this state is disfigured by zigzag, or Virginia fences, which stretch along the sides of the most charming roads, surround the loveliest cottages, or rudely encroach upon the snowy palings that enclose them, and intersect the finest eminences and fairest champaigns. The Yankee farmer's stone and rail fences are bad enough, but they are in character with the ruder features of his country; but the worm fences and arcadian scenery of the south are combinations undreamed of in my philosophy. These crooked lines of deformity obtruding upon the eye in every scene--the numerous red banks and chasms caused by the "wash," and Congo and Mandingo nymphs and swains, loitering around every fountain, rambling through the groves, or reclining in the shades, are in themselves sufficient to unruralise even "Araby the blest." Yet with all these harsh artificial features, there is a picturesqueness--a quiet beauty in the general aspect of the scenery, not unfrequently strengthened into majesty, so indelibly stamped upon it by nature that nothing less than a rail-road can wholly deface it. On the plantation alluded to above, through which lay our road, I noticed within the fence a young hedge, which, with an unparalleled innovation upon the prescriptive right of twisted fences, had recently been planted to supersede them. In a country where the "chickasaw rose," which is a beautiful hedge thorn, grows so luxuriantly, it is worthy of remark that the culture of the hedge, so ornamental and useful as a field-fence, is altogether neglected. Planters would certainly find it eventually for their interest, and if generally adopted, the scenery of this state would rival the loveliest sections of rural England. Delaware, without any striking natural beauties, by clustering green hedges around her wheat-fields and farm-houses, has created an artificial feature in her scenery which renders her naturally tame aspect extremely rural, if not beautiful. The hedge, however, will not be introduced into this state to the exclusion of the rail-fence, until the pine woods, dwindled here and there to a solitary tree, refuse longer to deform in the shape of rails, a country they were originally intended to beautify. The "quarters" of the plantation were pleasantly situated upon an eminence a third of a mile from the road, each dwelling neatly white-washed and embowered in the China tree, which yields in beauty to no other. This, as I have before remarked, is the universal shade tree for cabin and villa in this state. It is in leaf about seven months in the year, and bears early in the spring a delicate and beautiful flower, of a pale pink ground slightly tinged with purple. In appearance and fragrance it resembles the lilac, though the cluster of flowers is larger and more irregularly formed. These after loading the air with their fragrance for some days, fall off, leaving green berries thickly clustering on every branch. These berries become yellow in autumn, and long after the seared leaf falls, hang in clusters from the boughs, nor finally drop from them until forced from their position by the young branches and leaves in the succeeding spring. The chief beauty of this tree consists in the richness and arrangement of its foliage. From a trunk eight or ten feel in height, the limbs, in the perfect tree, branch irregularly upward at an angle of about 45° or 50°. From these, which are of various lengths, slender shoots extend laterally, bearing at their extremities a thick tuft of leaves. These slender branches radiate in all directions, each also terminating in fine feathery tufts, which, being laid one over the other like scales on armour, present an almost impenetrable shield to the rays of the sun. These young shoots throughout the season are constantly expanding their bright parasols of leaves, and as they are of a paler hue than the older leaves, which are of a dark purple green, the variegated effect, combined with the singularly beautiful arrangement of the whole, is very fine. The rapid growth of this tree is remarkable. A severed limb placed in the ground, in the winter, will burst forth into a fine luxuriant head of foliage in the spring. From a berry slightly covered with soil, a weed, not unlike the common pig-weed, in the rapidity of its growth and the greenness of its stalk, shoots up during the summer four or five feet in height. During the winter its stalks harden, and in the spring, in a brown coat, and with the dignity of a young tree, it proudly displays its tufts of pale, tapering leaves. In three or four summers more it will fling its limbs over the planter's cottage--and cast upon the ground a broad and delightful shade. Divest a tree of the largest size of its top, and in the spring the naked stump will burst forth into a cloud of foliage. Such is the tree which surrounds the dwellings and borders the streets in the villages of the south-west--the "vine" and the "fig tree" under which every man dwells. About two leagues from Natchez the road entered an extensive forest, winding along upon a ridge thickly covered with the polished leaved magnolia tree (M. grandiflora)--the pride of southern forests. This tree is an evergreen, and rises from the ground often to the height of seventy feet, presenting an exterior of evergreen leaves, and large white flowers. Its leaves appearing like "two single laurel-leaves rolled into one," are five or six inches in length, of a dark green colour, the under side of a rich brown, and the upper beautifully glazed, and thick like shoe leather. The flower is magnificent. In June it unfolds itself upon the green surface of the immoveable cone in fine relief. When full blown it is of a great size; some of them cannot be placed in a hat without crushing them. Its petals are a pure white, shaped and curved precisely like a quarter-section of the rind of an orange, and nearly as thick, and perfectly smooth and elastic. They are frequently used by boarding-school misses to serve as _billets doux_, for which, from their fragrance and unsullied purity, they are admirably fitted. They are so large that I have written upon one of them with a lead pencil in ordinary handwriting, a stanza from Childe Harold. It must be confessed that the writing as well as the material is of a very ephemeral kind; but for this reason the material is perhaps the more valuable when pressed into the service of Don Cupid. They are so fragrant that a single flower will fill a house with the most agreeable perfume; and the atmosphere for many rods in the vicinity of a tree in full flower is so heavily impregnated, that a sensation of faintness will affect one long remaining within its influence. The remainder of our ride was through a fine forest, occasionally opening into broad cotton fields. Once on ascending a hill we caught, through a vista in the woods over broad fields, a glimpse of the cypress forests of Louisiana, spread out like a dark sea to the level horizon. The Mississippi rolled through the midst unseen. As we rode on we passed roads diverging to the right and left from the highway, leading to the hidden dwellings of the planters. A large gate set into a rail fence usually indicates the vicinity of a planter's residence in the south--but the plantation roads here turned into the forests, through which they romantically wound till lost in their depths. Any of these roads would have conducted us to the villa of some wealthy planter. There can be little ostentation in a people who thus hide their dwellings from the public road. Jonathan, on the other hand, would plant his house so near the highway as to have a word from his door with every passenger. Deprive him of a view of the public road, and you deprive him of his greatest enjoyment--the indulgence of curiosity. About nine miles from town the forest retreated from the road, and from the brow of a hill, the brown face of a cliff rose above the tops of the trees about a league before us. To the eye so long accustomed to the unvarying green hue of the scenery--the rough face of this cliff was an agreeable relief. It was one of the white cliffs alluded to in a former letter. Shortly after losing sight of this prominent object, we turned into a road winding through the woods, which conducted us for a quarter of an hour down and up several precipitous hills, across two deep bayous, through an extensive cotton field in which the negroes were industriously at work without a "driver" or an "overseer," and after winding a short distance bordered by young poplars round the side of a hill, passed through a first, then a second gateway, and finally brought us in front of the dwelling house of our host, and the termination of our interesting ride. FOOTNOTES: [5] The forests of Mississippi consist of oak, ash, maple, hickory, sweet gum, cypress, (in the bottoms) yellow poplar, holly, black and white flowering locusts, pecan, and pine on the ridges, with a countless variety of underwood, ivy, grape vines, (vitis silvestris) papaw, spice-wood, and innumerable creepers whose flexile tendrils twine around every tree. XXXIV. Horticulture--Chateaubriand--A Mississippi garden and plants --A novel scene--Sick slaves--Care of masters for their sick --Shamming--Inertness of negroes--Burial of slaves--Negro mothers--A nursery--Negro village on the Sabbath--Religious privileges of slaves--Marriages--Negro "passes"--The advantages of this regulation--Anecdote of a runaway. In America, where vegetation is on a scale of magnificence commensurate with her continental extent--it is remarkable that a taste for horticulture should be so little cultivated. In the southern United States, nature enamels with a richness of colouring and a diversity of materials which she has but sparingly employed in decorating the hills and valleys of other lands. The grandeur of the forests in the south, and the luxuriance of the shrubs and plants, have no parallel. But southerners tread the avenues, breathe the air, and recline under the trees and in the arbours of their paradise, thankfully accepting and enjoying their luxurious boon, but seldom insinuating, through the cultivation of flowers, that nature has left her work imperfect. There are, it is true, individual exceptions. One of the finest private gardens in the United States, which has suggested these remarks, is in the south, and within two hours ride of Natchez. But as a general rule, southerners, with the exception of the cultivation of a few plants in a front yard, pay little regard to horticulture. So in New-England, a lilac tree between the windows, a few rose bushes and indigenous plants lining the walk, and five or six boxes or vases containing exotics standing upon the granite steps on either side of the front door, constitute the sum of their flower plants and the extent to which this delightful science is carried. The severity of northern winters and the shortness of the summers, may perhaps preclude perfection in this pleasing study, but not excuse the present neglect of it. The English, inhabiting a climate but a little milder, possess a strong and decided horticultural taste--England itself is one vast garden made up of innumerable smaller ones, each, from the cluster of shrubbery around the humblest cottage to the magnificent park, that spreads around her palaces, displaying the prevailing national passion. Though southerners do not often pursue horticulture as a science, yet they are passionately fond of flowers. At the south, gentlemen, without the charge of coxcombry or effeminacy, wear them in the button-holes of their vests--fair girls wreathe them in their hair, and children trudge to school loaded with bouquets. The south is emphatically the land of flowers; nature seems to have turned this region from her hand as the _chef d'oeuvre_ of her skill. Here, in the glowing language of Chateaubriand, are seen "floating islands of Pistia and Nenuphar, whose yellow roses spring up like pavilions; here magnificent savanas unfold their green mantles, which seem in the distance to blend their verdure with the azure of the skies. Suspended on the floods of the Mississippi, grouped on rocks and mountains and dispersed in valleys, trees of every odour, every shape, every hue, entwine their variegated heads, and ascend to an immeasurable height; bignonias, vines, and colocynths, wind their slender roots around their trunks, creep to the summit of their branches, and passing from the maple to the tulip tree and alcea, form a thousand bowers and verdant arcades; stretching from tree to tree they often throw their fibrous arms across rivers and erect on them arches of foliage and flowers. Amidst these fragrant clusters, the proud magnolia raises its immoveable cone, adorned with snowy roses, and commanding the whole forest, meets with no other rival than the palm-tree, whose green leaves are softly fanned by refreshing gales." The race here now is for wealth; in good time the passion will change, and men, tired of contesting for the prize in the game of life, which they have won over and over again, will seek a theatre on which to display their golden laurels; and where are men more fond of displaying their wealth than on their persons, equipage, and dwellings? Horticulture, the taste in such cases earliest cultivated, will then shed its genial influence over the valley of the south-west, and noble mansions and tasteful cottages, around which forests now gloomily frown, or rude fields spread their ploughed surfaces, will be surrounded by noble grounds enriched by the hand of taste from the lavish opulence of the forests and savanas. The garden alluded to at the commencement of this letter, is situated upon the plantation, an excursion to which was the subject of my last. As this is said to be the finest garden in Mississippi, to which all others more or less approximate, in the character of their plants, style, and general arrangement, I would describe it, could my pen do adequate justice to the taste of its proprietor, or the variety and beauty of the plants and flowers. Among them--for I will mention a few--which represented every clime, were the cape myrtle, with its pure and delicately formed flower, the oak geranium, the classical ivy, and the fragrant snow-drop. The broad walks were, as usual in southern gardens, bordered by the varnished lauria mundi, occasionally relieved by the cape jessamine, slender althea, and dark green arbor vitæ. The splendidly attired amaryllis, the purple magnolia, the Arabian and night-blooming jessamines, the verbenum, or lemon-scented geranium, with the majestic aloe, that hoary monarch of the garden, which blooms but once in a century, the broad-leaved yarra, or caco, the fragrant snow-drop, and the sweet-scented shrub and oleander, with countless other shrubs and flowers, breathing forth the sweetest fragrance, gratified the senses, and pleased the eye wherever it was turned. There spread the cassia, a creeping plant, bearing a pink flower, and admirably adapted to bind the soil of this region, to prevent its "washing," by the texture of its thickly matted shoots, its tenacity to the soil, and the density of its foliage, all which combined, render it a secure shield laid over the surface of the ground; box-trees, in luxuriant, dark green cones, two or three feet high, were interspersed among the loftier shrubs at the angles of the several avenues, which were lined with diminutive hedges of this thickly-leaved plant. In the centre of the main avenue, which, on account of the inclination of the garden, was a terraced walk, terminating in an artificial pond, was a large diamond-shaped bed of violets enamelled with blue and green, from which arose a cloud of fragrance that floated over the whole garden, gathering rich tributes from a hundred flowers of the sweetest perfume and loveliest hues. Around this pond, were crescents of shrubs and trees, among which the melancholy weeping willow drooped its graceful tendrils over the water.[6] Beyond this little lake, the primeval forests, which on every side bounded the prospect, rose majestically on the summit of a high hill, in front, affording a striking contrast to the Hesperian elegancies spread around the observer. Arbours of the lauria mundi, and pleasant alcoves invited to repose or meditation; and thickly shaded walks, wound on either side of the principal walk which they occasionally intersected, in graceful serpentine lines, bordered by the eglantine, or Scotch rose, the monthly rose--the flower-pot plant of the north--which here grows in luxuriant hedges, from six to ten feet high. The moss, and wild rose, the last a native, in which the creative power of horticulture annually unfolds new beauties, the dwarf cape jessamine, the Washita willow, with its pretty flower, the laurustina, hypiscus, and citronelle, or fragrant lemon grass, the tea-tree, three feet high, with orange and lemon trees, bending under their golden fruit, and a guava tree, the only one in fruit in the state, clustering with its delicious apple, presented on every side the most delightful offerings to the senses. But I must beg your indulgence for intruding upon you a botanical catalogue of plants in a southern garden, which Pomona, envying the fair divinity presiding there, might sigh to make her empire. Besides this exception to my general philippic in the former part of this letter, against the practical floral taste of Mississippians, there are a few others sufficiently beautiful to atone for the prevailing deficiency of which I have spoken. Clifton, an elegant villa near Natchez, and one of the finest residences in the state, for the beauty of its grounds, and the extent of the prospect from its lofty galleries, boasts a garden of almost unrivalled beauty, and rich in the number and variety of its shrubs and plants. There are three or four other gardens, buried like gems in the centre of old plantations, which, in horticultural wealth and display, nearly rival those above mentioned. I record these instances with pleasure, as indicating the existence of that fine taste, in the germ at least, which refinement, opulence, and leisure, will in time unfold and ripen into maturity. While standing upon the gallery in the evening, enjoying the various busy scenes and confused sounds peculiar to a plantation at the close of day, my attention was drawn to a lugubrious procession, consisting of seven or eight negroes approaching the house from the "quarters," some with blankets thrown like cloaks over their shoulders, their heads bandaged, and moving with a listless gait of inimitable helplessness. One after another they crawled up and presented themselves, before the open passage in the gallery. Seeing such a sad assembly I approached them with curiosity, while their master, notified of their arrival, came out to examine into the state of this his walking hospital. Of all modifications of the "human face divine," that of the sick negro is the most dolorous. Their miserable, abject, hollow-eyed look has no parallel. The negro is not an Adonis in his best estate. But he increases his natural ugliness by a laxity of the muscles, a rolling of the eye and a dropping of the under jaw, when ill, which give his face a most ludicrously wo-begone appearance. The transparent jet-black hue of his skin altogether disappears, leaving the complexion a dingy brown or sallow, which in no slight degree increases the sadness of his physiognomy. Those who are actually ill generally receive every attention that humanity--not "interest"--dictates. It has been said that interest is the only friend of the slave; that without this lever applied to the feelings of the master, he would never be influenced to care for his slaves either in health or in sickness. However true this may be in individual instances, a vast number of cases have come within my knowledge, which have convinced me that as a general censure this charge is unmerited. Planters, particularly native planters, have a kind of affection for their negroes, incredible to those who have not observed its effects. If rebellious they punish them--if well behaved they not unfrequently reward them. In health they treat them with uniform kindness, in sickness with attention and sympathy. I once called on a native planter--a young bachelor, like many of his class, who had graduated at Cambridge and travelled in Europe--yet northern education and foreign habits did not destroy the Mississippian. I found him by the bed side of a dying slave--nursing him with a kindness of voice and manner, and displaying a manly sympathy with his sufferings honorable to himself and to humanity. On large plantations hospitals are erected for the reception of the sick, and the best medical attendance is provided for them. The physicians of Natchez derive a large proportion of their incomes from attending plantations. On some estates a physician permanently resides, whose time may be supposed sufficiently taken up in attending to the health of from one to two hundred persons. Often, several plantations, if the "force" on each is small, unite and employ one physician for the whole. Every plantation is supplied with suitable medicines, and generally to such an extent, that some room or part of a room in the planter's house is converted into a small apothecary's shop. These, in the absence of the physician in any sudden emergency, are administered by the planter. Hence, the health of the slaves, so far as medical skill is concerned, is well provided for. They are well fed and warmly clothed in the winter, in warm jackets and trowsers, and blanket coats enveloping the whole person, with hats or woolen caps and brogans. In summer they have clothing suitable to the season, and a ragged negro is less frequently to be met with than in northern cities. The attendance which the sick receive is a great temptation for the slaves to "sham" illness. I was dining not long since in the country where the lady--a planter's daughter, and the wife and mother of a planter--sent from the table some plates of rich soup and boiled fowl to "poor sick Jane and her husband," as she observed in her reply to one who inquired if any of her "people" were unwell. A portion of the dessert was also sent to another who was convalescent. Those who are not considered ill enough to be sent to the hospital, are permitted to remain in their houses or cabins, reporting themselves every evening at the "great hus," as they term the family mansion. The sombre procession alluded to above, which led to these remarks, consisted of a few of these invalids, who had appeared at the gallery to make their evening report. On being questioned as to their respective conditions, a scene ensues that to be appreciated, must be observed. "What ails you, Peter?" "Mighty sick, master."[7] "Show me your tongue:" and out, inch by inch, projects a long tongue, not unlike the sole of his shoe in size and colour, accompanied by a groan from the very pit of the stomach. If the negro is actually ill, suitable medicine is prescribed, which his master or the physician compels him to swallow in his presence. For, sick or well, and very fond of complaining, they will never take "doctor's stuff," as they term it, but, throwing it away as soon as they are out of sight, either go without any medicine, or take some concoction in repute among the old African beldames in the "quarters," by which they are sickened if well, and made worse if ill, and present themselves for inspection the next evening, by no means improved in health. They are fond of shamming, or "skulking," as sailors term it, and will often voluntarily expose themselves to sickness, in order to obtain exemption from labour. There is no animal so averse to labour, even to the most necessary locomotion, as the African. His greatest enjoyment seems to be a state of animal inactivity. Inquire of any ordinary field negro why he would like to be free, if he ever happened to indulge the wish, and he will reply, "because me no work all day long." It is well known that the "lazzaroni" of Italy, the gauchos who infest Buenos Ayres, and the half-bloods swarming in the streets of all South American cities, will never labour, unless absolutely obliged to do so for the purpose of sustaining existence, and then only for the temporary supply. I once applied to a half-naked gaucho, who, with his red _capote_ wound about his head, was dozing in the sun on the _plaza_, to carry a portmanteau. Slowly raising the heavy lids of his large glittering eyes, he took two pieces of money, of small value, from the folds of his red sash, and held them up to my view, murmuring, with a negative inclination of his head--"Tengo dos reales, señor:" thereby implying, "I will take mine ease while my money lasts--no more work till this is gone." By such a feeling is this class of men invariably governed. Individuals of them I have known to work with great industry for a day or two, and earn a few dollars, when they would cease from their usual labour, and, until their last penny was expended, no remuneration would prevail on them to carry a trunk across the square. From my knowledge of negro character at the south, however elevated it may be at the north, I am convinced that slaves, in their present moral condition, if emancipated, would be lazzaroni in every thing but colour. Sometimes a sham patient will be detected; although, to make their complaints the more specious, they frequently discolour the tongue. This species of culprit is often punished by ridicule and exposure to his fellows, whose taunts on such occasions embody the purest specimens of African wit. Not unfrequently these cheats are punished by a dose from the medicine chest, that effectually cures them of such indispositions. Latterly, since steaming has been fashionable, a good steaming has been known to be an equally effective prescription. When a negro dies, his remains are placed in a coffin and decently interred. Labour is often entirely suspended on the plantation, and the slaves are assembled in their Sunday clothes to attend the funeral. Divine service is sometimes performed in the little chapel on the plantation, at which not only the slaves but the members of the white family are present. A Presbyterian clergyman recently informed me that he had been sent for by a native planter, to attend the funeral of one of his slaves and preach his funeral sermon. He went, though twelve miles distant from his residence, and remarked that he was never present on a more interesting occasion. On most plantations females are allowed a month's cessation from field labour, before and after confinement. But it cannot be denied that on some plantations nothing but actual confinement releases them from the field; to which the mother soon after returns, leaving an infant a few days old at the "quarters," which she is permitted to visit three or four times in the day. Sometimes, when a little older, infants are brought into the field, under the care of an old nurse, to save the time which the mothers would otherwise consume in walking to and from the "quarters." Once, on riding through a plantation, I noticed, under a China tree, which shaded the shelter-house--a rude building, in the centre of extensive cotton fields, in which negroes seek shelter on the approach of a storm--a group of infants and children, whose parents I discovered at work more than half a mile distant. Several little fellows, not two years old, and as naked as young frogs, were amusing themselves in rolling over the grass, heedless of the occasional warning of their _gouvernante_, "Take care de snake."--Slung from a limb in a blanket reposed two others, very snugly, side by side, mumbling corn bread; while, suspended from the tree, in a rude cradle, were three or four more of this band of nurslings, all in a pile, and fast asleep. I am indebted to this scene for a correct application of the nursery song, which I had never before been able exactly to understand, commencing-- "Rock a bye, baby, upon the tree top, When the wind blows the cradle will rock; When the bough breaks the cradle will fall, And down tumbles baby, cradle and all." These little candidates for "field honours," are useless articles on a plantation during the first five or six years of their existence. They are then made to take the first lessons in the elementary part of their education. When they have learned their manual alphabet tolerably well, they are placed in the field to take a spell at cotton-picking. The first day in the field is their proudest day. The young negroes look forward to it, with as much restlessness and impatience as school-boys to a vacation. Black children are not put to work so young as many children of poor parents at the north. It is often the case that the children of the domestic servants become pets in the house, and the playmates of the white children of the family. No scene can be livelier or more interesting to a northerner, than that which the negro quarters of a well regulated plantation present, on a Sabbath morning, just before church hour. In every cabin the men are shaving and dressing--the women, arrayed in their gay muslins, are arranging their frizzly hair, in which they take no little pride, or investigating the condition of their children's heads--the old people neatly clothed are quietly conversing or smoking about their doors, and those of the younger portion, who are not undergoing the infliction of the wash-tub, are enjoying themselves in the shade of the trees or around some little pond, with as much zest as though "slavery" and "freedom" were synonymous terms. When all are dressed and the hour arrives for worship, they lock up their cabins, and the whole population of the little village proceeds to the chapel, where divine worship is performed, sometimes by an officiating clergyman, and often by the planter himself, if a church member. The whole plantation is also frequently formed into a Sabbath class, which is instructed by the planter or some member of his family; and often such is the anxiety of masters that they should perfectly understand what they are taught--a hard matter in the present state of African intellect--that no means calculated to advance their progress are left untried. I was not long since shown a manuscript catechism, drawn up with great care and judgment by a distinguished planter, on a plan admirably adapted to the comprehension of negroes. The same gentleman, in conjunction with two or three neighbouring planters, employs a Presbyterian clergyman, formerly a missionary among the Choctaws at the Elliott station before their dispersion, to preach to the slaves, paying him a salary for his services. On those plantations which have no chapel, and no regular worship on the Sabbath, negroes are permitted to go to the nearest town to church; a privilege they seldom know how to appreciate, and prefer converting their liberty into an opportunity for marketing or visiting. Experience, however, has convinced planters that no indulgence to their slaves is so detrimental as this, both to the moral condition of the slave, and the good order of the plantation, for there is no vice in which many of them will not become adepts, if allowed a temporary freedom from restraint, one day in seven. Hence this liberty, except in particular instances, is denied them on some estates; to which they are confined under easy discipline during the day, passing the time in strolling through the woods, sleeping, eating, and idling about the quarters. The evenings of the Sabbath are passed in little gossipping circles in some of the cabins, or beneath the shade of some tree in front of their dwellings, or at weddings. The negroes are usually married by the planter, who reads the service from the gallery--the couple with their attendants standing upon the steps or on the green in front. These marriages, in the eye of the slave, are binding. Clergymen are sometimes invited to officiate by those planters who feel that respect for the marriage covenant, which leads them to desire its strict observance, where human legislation has not provided for it. On nuptial occasions the negroes partake of fine suppers, to which the ladies add many little delicacies, and handsome presents of wearing apparel to the married pair. When the negroes desire a clergyman to perform the ceremony for them, planters seldom refuse to comply with their request. When negroes leave the plantation, for whatever purpose, whether to attend church, class meeting or market, visit their husbands, wives, or sweethearts, or are sent on errands, they must carry with them a written permission of absence from their master, stating the object for which his slave leaves his plantation, the place or places to which he is going, and the time to which his absence is limited. This written authority is called a "pass," and is usually written somewhat after this form: "Oakland--June--18-- "Pass J---- to Natchez and back again by sunset," or "E---- has permission to visit his wife on Mr. C----'s plantation, to be absent till 9 o'clock." In such fluctuating property as slaves, it often happens that husband, wife, and children may all belong to different owners; and as negroes belonging to different plantations intermarry, such a provision, which is a state law, is necessary to preserve discipline, and embrace within the eye or knowledge of the master, every movement of his slave. Were slaves allowed to leave the estates without the knowledge of their masters, during a certain portion of every week, an immense body of men in the aggregate, consisting of a few from every plantation in the state, would be moving among the plantations, at liberty to plan and execute any mischief they might choose to set on foot. If negroes leave the plantation without a "pass," they are liable to be taken up by any white person who suspects them to be runaways, and punishment is the consequence. The law allows every white man in town or country this kind of supervision over negroes; and as there are always men who are on the lookout for runaways, for the purpose of obtaining the reward of several dollars for each they can bring back to his master, the slave, should he leave the plantation without his "pass"--the want of which generally denotes the runaway--is soon apprehended. You will see that this regulation is a wise legal provision for the preservation both of private and public security. An anecdote connected with this subject was recently related to me by a planter whose slave was the hero. "A gentleman," said he, "met one of my negroes mounted on horseback, with a jug in his hand, riding toward Natchez." Suspecting him from appearances to be a runaway, he stopped him and asked for his "pass." The slave unrolled first one old rag--an old rag is a negro's substitute for a pocket--and then another without success. "I 'spec' me loss me pass, master." "Whom do you belong to?" "Mr. ----," giving the wrong person. "Where are you going?" "To Natchez, get whiskey, master." At the moment, my brand upon the horse struck the eye of the gentleman; "You are a runaway, boy--you belong to Mr. D----." Instantly the negro leaped from his horse, cleared the fence, and fled through the woods like a deer toward home. The gentleman on arriving at his own house, sent a servant to me with the horse which the runaway had deserted. I immediately assembled the whole force of the plantation and not one of the negroes was missing; the culprit having managed to arrive at the plantation before I could receive any intimation of his absence. I tried a long time to make the guilty one confess, but in vain. So at last, I tried the effect of a _ruse_. "Well, boys, I know it is one of you, and though I am not able to point out the rogue, my friend who detected him will recognize him at once. So you must walk over to his house. Fall in there--march!" "They proceeded a short distance, when I ordered a halt. "Mind, boys, the guilty one shall not only be punished by me, but I will give every 'hand' on the plantation the liberty of taking personal satisfaction, for compelling them to take a walk of three miles.--So, march!" They moved on again for about a quarter of a mile, when they came to a full stop--deliberated a few moments and then retraced their steps. "Hie! what now?" "Why, master, Bob say he de one." Bob, who it seems had confessed to his fellow-slaves as the best policy, now stepped forward, and acknowledged himself to be the runaway." FOOTNOTES: [6] The weeping willow is less luxuriant in this climate than in latitude 40°. It is not however cultivated in this state as it is in Pennsylvania, where it arrives at the greatest perfection. There is a willow which grows on the banks of the Mississippi, whose roots become as dry as tinder, after the periodical swell has subsided, but which vegetates afresh as soon as it is watered by the next inundation. This property of dying and returning again to vegetative existence, is not peculiar to this willow; other plants possess the same singular property, though this exceeds all others in magnitude. The plants of that description known to botanists, are all water mosses except two species of ducksmeat--the "lemna minor" and the "lemna gibba." These are but minute vegetables floating on the surface of stagnant water, without taking root in the pond. They may be dried in the hot sun and then kept in a deal box for two or three years, after which they will revive, if placed in spring, river or rain water. There is at the north a kind of natural paper, resembling the coats or strata of a wasp's nest in colour and consistency, which is formed of the sediment of ponds, that become dry in hot weather. If a piece of this paper-like substance be put in a glass of fresh water and exposed to light, it loses its dirty-white colour in a few minutes and assumes a lively green. This sudden and unexpected change is occasioned by a number of aquatic mosses, constituting a part of the materials of the paper or sediment in question, and belonging to the genus "Conferra;" for these minute vegetables may be said to be in the state of suspended animation, while they remain dry; but the presence of water restores them to their natural functions by its animating virtue. So long retaining the principle of life, these curious plants, as well as the two species above mentioned, may be transported to any distant country in a torpid condition, where they might again be animated. The same remark will apply to the Mississippi willow which suggested these observations. [7] The negro seldom is heard to say "massa;" they generally say _master_, distinctly. XXXV. Preparation for a deer hunt--A sailor, a planter, and an author--A deer driver--"Stands" for deer--The hunting ground --The hunt--Ellis's cliff--Silver mine--An hypothesis-- Alluvial formation of the lower valley of the Mississippi-- Geological descriptions of the south-west. The morning after my arrival at the plantation, which suggested the subject of my last letter, two gentlemen, with their guns and dogs, arrived at the house, to proceed from thence, according to a previous arrangement, on a deer hunt. This noble and attractive game abounds in the "bottoms" and river hills in this region; though the planters, who are in general passionately fond of hunting, are fast thinning their numbers. The branching antlers of a stag, as in the old oaken halls of England, are found fixed, in some conspicuous station, in almost every planter's habitation--trophies of his skill, and testimonials of his attachment to the chase. Having prepared our hunting apparatus, and assembled the dogs, which, from their impatient movements, evidently needed no intimation of our design, we mounted our horses, and, winding through the cotton fields, entered a forest to the south, and proceeded, in fine spirits, toward the "drive," four or five miles below, as the hunting station is technically termed by deer hunters. There were, exclusive of a servant, four in our party. One of them, my host, formerly an officer in the navy, having, some years since, left the service, and settled himself down as a cotton planter, presented in his person the anomalous union, in Mississippi, of the sailor and farmer: for in this state, which has little intercourse directly with the sea, sailors are rare birds. Till recently a ship could not be seen by a Mississippian without going to New-Orleans, or elsewhere out of the state: but since Natchez became a port of entry, and ships have ascended here, the citizens who flocked in from all the country round, to gaze upon them, are a little more _au fait_ to this branch of nautical knowledge. It would be difficult to say which predominates in this gentleman, the bluff and frank bearing of the sailor, or the easy and independent manner of the planter. In the management of his plantation, the result of his peculiar economy has shown, that the discipline with which he was familiar in the navy, with suitable modifications, has not been applied unsuccessfully to the government of his slaves. What a strange inclination sailors have for farming! Inquire of any New-England sea-captain the ultimatum of his wishes, after leaving the sea--for sailors in general follow the sea as the means of securing them a snug berth on shore--and he will almost invariably reply--"a farm." Another of our party was a planter, a native of Mississippi, and the son of a gentleman whose philosophic researches have greatly contributed to the advancement of science. He was a model of a southern planter--gentlemanly, companionable, and a keen hunter. The government of his plantation, which is one of the finest in the state, is of a parental rather than an imperious character. He rules rather by kindness than severity, and his slaves obey from the principle of a desire to please, rather than from fear. And the result of his discipline has fully overthrown the sweeping assertion, which it is the fashion to repeat and believe, that "the more kindly slaves are treated the worse they are." A favourite theory of philanthropists, in relation to master and slave, is more practically illustrated on the estate of this gentleman, than the most sanguine of its framers could have anticipated. As I have, in a former letter, alluded to that branch of the domestic economy of this plantation, relating to the religious privileges of the slaves, and shall again have occasion to refer to its discipline, I will pursue the subject here no farther. The third individual of our party was a gentleman originally from New-Jersey; a state which has contributed many valuable citizens to Mississippi. But he had been too long in the south to preserve his identity as a Jersey man. The son of a distinguished barrister, he had been a lawyer himself; but, like all professional men, who have remained here a short time, he had taken his third degree as a cotton planter. He is a gentleman of fine taste and a chastened imagination; and besides some beautiful tales, contributed to the periodicals, he is the author of that delightful story, the "Fawn's leap," published in the Atlantic Souvenir of 1830. The literary world will have reason to feel regret, in which the subject of my remark will, no doubt, be far from sympathising, that fortune has placed him among her _protegés_. He possesses an independent property, and resides on an estate called "Woodbourne," eight or nine miles from Natchez. With true Mississippi taste, he has placed his handsome villa in the midst of a forest; but the majestic beauty of the lofty trees, as surveyed from the gallery, and the solemn grandeur of the primeval forests which inclose his dwelling on all sides, struck me, at the moment, as far superior to any display of art in ornamental grounds, and nearly unhinged my predilection for artificial scenery. In this charming retirement, and in the quiet enjoyment of private life, he has laid aside the gown of the author to assume the capote of the planter, and become an indefatigable devotee to the lordly pleasures of the chase. Few men, who hunt merely _en amateur_, and especially, few literary men, can boast that they have killed twenty-seven deer, and been at the death of fifty-two--yet this gentleman can do so with truth: and a row of notches, cut in his hunting-horn, which I found suspended from an antler in the gallery of the house we had just left, recorded the fact. Besides this gentleman, there are but few individuals who are known out of this state as cultivators of literature. Mississippi is yet too young to boast of her authors, although she is not deficient in men of talent and learning. But the members of the learned professions are too much involved in schemes of wealth to have leisure or inclination for the cultivation of general literature. Half way through the forest into which we entered on leaving the plantation, we came to a rude dwelling, inhabited by a ruder old hunter, who was to officiate as "driver." He accompanied us with his dogs for a while, and then turned aside into the woods to surround the deer in their place of resort and drive them toward the river, between which and them we were to take our "stands," for the purpose of intercepting them, as they dashed by to the water. For if alarmed while feeding upon the high grounds back front the Mississippi, they at once bound off to the shelter of the swamps or bottoms near the river--and the skilful hunter, whose experience teaches him by what paths they will seek to gain the lowlands where the hounds cannot follow them, takes his stand with his rifle behind some tree by which he is tolerably sure the deer will pass, and as the noble and terrified animal bounds past him, he levels the deadly rifle with unerring aim, and buries a bullet in his heart. Emerging from the forest a mile or two above our hunting ground, we came suddenly upon an amphitheatre of naked hills nearly surrounded by forests of dark pine. Winding through romantic defiles thickly bordered with cedars, we gradually ascended to the summit of the highest of this cluster of treeless hills, when all at once the Mississippi, rolling onward to the sea, burst upon our sight in all its majesty. There is a grand and desolate character in those naked cliffs which hang in huge terraces over the river, to the perpendicular height of three hundred feet. The view from their summits is one of the most sublime and extensive in the south-west. To the north and south the broad river spreads away like a long serpentine lake, its western shore presenting a plain, clothed even to the horizon with a boundless forest, with a plantation here and there breaking the uniformity of its outlines, near the water's edge. After a farther ride of a mile, over a hilly road through woods alternately exposing and hiding the river, we arrived at the "deer-stand,"--a long ridge nearly parallel with the river, and covered with a very open forest with a low "bottom," between the ridge and the water, and an extensive "drive," or forest frequented by deer, extending two miles inland. Our "driver" with the whole pack, had turned off into the "drive" some time before, and having examined the ground, we took our "stands" about a hundred yards apart, each behind a large tree commanding an opening, or avenue, through which the deer were expected to pass. Several of these "stands," and many more than we could occupy, were on the ridge, all of which should have been occupied to insure a successful issue to our sport. A few moments after we had taken our stands, and while listening for the least token of the "driver's" presence in the depths of the forest--the distant baying of dogs, in that peculiar note with which they open when they have roused their game, fell faintly upon our ears. The chorus of canine voices, however, soon grew louder and more violent--and as they awoke the echoes of the forests, and came down upon us like a storm--my heart leaped and the blood coursed merrily in my veins. All at once the deep voices of the hounds ceased as though they were at fault; but after a few moments' pause, a staunch old hunter opened again far to the right, and again the whole pack were in pursuit in full cry, and the crashing of trees and underbrush directly in front of us about a quarter of a mile in the wood, with the increased roar of the pack, warned us to be ready. The next moment the noise moved away to the right, and all at once, with a crash and a bound, a noble stag, with his head laid back upon his shoulders, crossed our line at the remotest stand, and disappeared in the thick woods along the river. The dogs followed like meteors. Away to the left another crashing was heard, and a beautiful doe leaped across the open space on the ridge, and was lost in the thicket. The sounds of affrighted deer, passing through the forest at a great distance, were occasionally heard, but these soon died away and we only heard the wild clamour of the dogs, which the driver, who was close at their heels, in vain essayed to recall by sounding his horn long and loud, and sending its hoarse notes into the deepest recesses of the wood. After a great deal of trouble, by whipping, coaxing, and driving, nearly all the dogs were again collected, as it was in vain to pursue the deer to their retreats. Some of the old hunters slowly coming in at the last, laid themselves down by us panting and half dead with fatigue. By and by the driver again started into the "drive" with the dogs; but an engagement for the evening, precluding my participation in a renewal of the spirit-stirring scene, I reluctantly left my agreeable party who were out for the day, and proceeded homeward. They returned late at night with, I believe, a single deer as the reward of their patience and unwearied spirits, two most important virtues in a thorough-bred deer hunter. Uncommon nerve and great presence of mind are also indispensable qualifications. "Once," remarked a hunting gentleman to me, "while waiting at my stand the approach of a buck, which some time before seeing him I had heard leaping along in immense bounds through the thicket--his sudden appearance in an open space about a hundred yards in front, bearing down directly toward me at fearful speed, so awed and unnerved me for the moment, that although my rifle was levelled at his broad breast, I had not the power to pull the trigger, and before I could recover myself the noble creature passed me like the wind." Yet this gentleman was a tried hunter, and on other occasions had brought down deer as they came toward him at full speed, at the distance of from sixty to a hundred yards. On my return from the hunting ground, I lingered on the romantic cliff we had crossed in the morning, delighted at once more beholding scenery that reminded me of the rude features of my native state. Dismounting from my horse, which I secured to the only tree upon the cliff, I descended, after many hair-breadth escapes a ravine nearly two hundred feet in depth, which conducted me to the water side and near the mouth of the beautiful St. Catharine, which, after a winding course of more than eighty miles, empties itself into the Mississippi through an embouchure ten yards wide, and as accurately defined as the mouth of a canal. Near this spot is a silver mine lately re-discovered, after the lapse of a third of a century. Its history, I believe, is this. Some thirty or forty years ago, a Spaniard who had been a miner in Mexico, passing down the Mississippi, discovered ore which he supposed to be silver. He took a quantity of it into his pirogue, and on arriving at a planter's house on the banks of the river in Louisiana, tested it as correctly as circumstances would admit, and was satisfied that it was pure silver. He communicated the discovery to his host, gave him a few ingots of the metal and took his departure. What became of him is not known. The host from year to year resolved to visit the spot, but neglected it, or was prevented by the intrusion of more pressing employments, till four or five years since. He then communicated the discovery to a Mexican miner, an American or an Englishman, who stopped at his house, and to whom, on hearing him speak of mines, he showed the masses he had received so many years before from the Spaniard. The man on examining them and ascertaining the metal to be pure silver, became at once interested in the discovery, obtained the necessary information to enable him to find the spot, and immediately ascended the river. On arriving at the cliffs he commenced his search, and after a few days discovered the vein, in one of the lowest strata of the cliffs. He found it difficult, however, to engage the neighbouring planters in his scheme of working it, for what planter would exchange his cotton fields for a silver mine? Yet they treated him with attention, and seconded his efforts by lending him slaves. More than a hundred weight of the ore was obtained, and sent on to Philadelphia to undergo the process of fusion. It probably is not rich enough for amalgamation, as it contains a superior bulk of iron pyrites, blende, lead and earthy matter. The amount of pure silver procured from the ore has not been ascertained, the result of the process not having yet been made known. I obtained several pieces, which make a very pretty show in a cabinet, and this is probably the highest honour to which it will be exalted, at least till the surface of the earth refuses longer to bear ingots of silver, in the shape of the snowy cotton boll. The peculiar features of these cliffs are a series of vast concavities, or inverted hollow cones, connected with each other by narrow gorges, whose bottoms are level with the river, and surrounded by perpendicular and overhanging walls of earth, often detached, like huge pyramids, and nearly three hundred feet in height. There are five clusters of these cliffs in this state, all situated on the eastern shore of the Mississippi, from forty to one hundred miles apart, of which this is the most important in height and magnitude, as well as in grandeur and variety of scenery. They are properly the heads or terminations of the high grounds of the United States--the _antennæ_ of the Alleghanies.[8] The hypothesis that they were promontories in past ages, with the waves of the Mexican Gulf breaking at their bases, has had the support of many scientific men. This opinion carries with it great probability, when the peculiar qualities of the Mississippi are considered in relation to its "forming effects." These effects are a consequence of the general truth of the proposition, that every mechanical destruction will be followed by a mechanical formation; hence the masses separated by the waters of the Mississippi, will be again deposited on the surface of the land, or its shores, about its mouth, and on the bottom of the sea. You are aware that one twelfth of the bulk of this vast volume of water is earth, as ascertained by its depositing that proportion in the bottom of a glass filled with the water. During the flood the proportion is greater, and the earthy particles are as dense as the water can hold in suspension. The average velocity of the current below the Missouri, is between one and two miles an hour, and it is calculated that it would require four months to discharge the column of water embraced between this point and its delta. Bearing constantly within its flood a mass of earth equal to one twelfth of its whole bulk, it follows that it must bear toward the sea, every four years, more than its cubical bulk of solid earth. Now where is this great column of earth deposited? Has it been rolling onward for centuries, without any visible effects? This will not be affirmed, and experience proves the contrary in the hourly mechanical depositions of the ochreous particles of this river, in its noble convexities, its extensive bottoms, and the growing capes at its mouth. But a small portion of the turbid mixture has been deposited in the bed of the river, particularly in its southern section, as moving water will not deposit at any great depth.[9] Now when the general appearance and geological features of the South-West, including the south part of Mississippi and nearly the whole of Louisiana, are observed with reference to the preceding statements, the irresistible conviction of the observer is, that the immense plain now rich with sugar and cotton fields, a great emporium, numerous villages and a thousand villas, was formed by the mechanical deposits of the Mississippi upon the bed of the ocean, precisely as they are now building up fields into the Mexican Gulf. Do not understand me that the present fertile surface of this region was the original bed of the ocean, but that it rose out of it, as the coral islands come up out of the sea, by the gradual accumulation of deposits. The appearance of these inland promontories or cliffs, which suggested these remarks, and the fact that the highlands of the south-west, all terminate along the southern border of this region, from fifty to one hundred miles from the sea, leaving a broad alluvial tract between, and presenting a well defined _inland_ sea-board, go far to strengthen the opinion I have adopted. The chain of cliffs along the eastern shore of the Mississippi, have a parallel chain opposite to them on the other side of the great savana, skirted by the Mississippi, about forty miles distant. This savana or valley gradually widens to the south until near the mouth of the river, where it is increased to one hundred and forty or fifty miles in breadth. It is this great valley which is of mechanical formation, and its present site was in all probability covered by the waters of a bay similar to the Chesapeake, extending many leagues above Natchez to the nearest approximation of the cliffs on either side, where alone must have been an original mouth of this great river. Where the spectator, in looking westward from these bluffs; now beholds an extensive and level forest, in ages past rolled the waters of the Mexican sea--and where he now gazes upon a broad and placid river flowing onward to mingle with the distant ocean, the very waves of that ocean rolled in loud surges, dashed against the lofty cliffs, and kissed the pebbles at his feet. FOOTNOTES: [8] There are five more cliffs above this state, between it and the mouth of the Ohio; and one on the western shore of the Mississippi at Helena, Arkansas. [9] The following extract from a private letter in the author's possession, bearing date New Orleans 28th April, 1804, contains some interesting facts, relative to the depth of the lower Mississippi, and other characteristics of this river, which were obtained by the writer from actual observation. "In Nov. 1800, when there was scarcely any perceptible current, in company with Mr. Benj. Morgan and Capt. Roger Crane, I set off from just above the upper gate of this city and sounded the river, at every three or four boats' length, until we landed opposite to M. Bernody's house on the right bank of the river. The depth of water increased pretty regularly; viz. 10, 12, 13, 15, 17, 19, and 20 fathoms. The greatest depth was found at about 120 yards from Bernody's shore. This operation was accurately performed; and as the river rises about twelve feet on an average at this place, the depth at high water will be twenty two fathoms. A M. Dervengé, whose father was chief pilot in the time of the French, informed me that his father often told him that a little way below the English Turn there was fifty fathoms of water; and M. Laveau Trudo said that about the upper Plaquemine, there was sixty fathoms, or three hundred and sixty feet. In the year 1791, during five days that I lay at the Balize, I learned from M. Demaron Trudo, who was then commandant of that place, that there was about three feet difference between the high and low waters. From the best information I have been able to collect, there is a declension of eight or nine feet from the natural banks of the river at this city, to the banks upon which is the site of the house where the Spanish commandant lived before they removed up to Plaquemine, at the distance of about three leagues from the sea. There is a gradual slope or descent of the whole southern region of the Mississippi river, from the river Yazoo, in lat. 32° 30' N. to the ocean or Gulf of Mexico. The elevation of the bluff at Natchez is about 200 feet; at St. Francisville, seventy miles lower, it is a little more than 100 feet; at Baton Rouge, about thirty miles lower, it is less than 40 feet, at New Orleans, according to the above statement eight feet, and at the Balize less than two feet. This vast glacis, at a similar angle of inclination, extends for some leagues into the Gulf of Mexico, till lost in the natural bed of the ocean. The river, whose current is said to be the most rapid at the period when it is about to overflow its banks, runs in its swiftest vein or portion about five miles an hour. I allude to the line of upper current, and not to the mass, which moves much slower than the surface. The average velocity of the river when not in flood is not above two miles an hour. This is easily ascertained, by the progression and regular motion of its swells, and not by its apparent motion. In November, 1800, as before observed, the motion of the stream was so sluggish as to be scarcely perceptible. A vessel that then lay opposite the Government House, advanced against it with a light breeze. I was told by a respectable lady, Mdme. Robin, who lives about six leagues below the city, that the water of the river was so brackish that she was obliged to drink other water, and that there were an abundance of porpoises, sharks, mullet, and other sea-fish, even above her plantation, nearly one hundred miles from the Gulf. The citizens thought the water brackish opposite the town. It looked quite green like sea-water, and when held to the light was quite clear. Although I did not think it brackish, I found it vapid and disagreeable. This is a phenomenon of rare occurrence, and not satisfactorily accounted for." XXXVI. Geography of Mississippi--Ridges and bottoms--The Mississippi at its efflux--Pine and table lands--General features of the state--Bayous--Back-water of rivers--Springs--St. Catharine's harp--Bankston springs--Mineral waters of this state-- Petrifactions--Quartz crystals--"Thunderbolts"--Rivers--The Yazoo and Pearl. Though not much given to theorising, I have been drawn into some undigested remarks in my last letter, upon a theory, which is beginning to command the attention of scientific men, to which the result of geological researches daily adds weight, and to which time, with correct observations and farther discoveries, must add the truth of demonstration. This letter I will devote to a subject, naturally arising from the preceding, perhaps not entirely without interest--I mean the physical geography and geology of this state. In the limits of a letter it is impossible to treat this subject as the nature of it demands, yet I will endeavour to go so far into its detail, as to give you a tolerable idea of the general features of the region. Besides the cliffs, or great head-lands, alluded to in my last letter, frowning, at long intervals, over the Mississippi, serrated ridges, formed of continuous hills projecting from these points, extend in various directions over the state. These again branch into lower ridges, which often terminate near the river, between the great bluffs, leaving a flat space from their base to the water, from a third of a mile to a league in breadth. These flats, or "bottoms," as they are termed in western phraseology, are inundated at the periodical floods, increasing, at those places, the breadth of the river to the dimensions of a lake. The forest-covered savana, nearly forty miles across, through which the Mississippi flows, and which is bordered by the mural high lands or cliffs alluded to in my last letter, is also overflowed at such seasons; so that the river then becomes, in reality, the breadth of its valley. The grandeur of such a spectacle as a river, forty miles in breadth, descending to the ocean between banks of lofty cliffs, too far distant to be within each other's horizon, challenges a parallel. But, as this vast plain is covered with a forest, the lower half of which only is inundated, the width of the river remains as usual to the eye of the spectator on the cliffs, who will have to call in the aid of his imagination to realize, that in the bosom of the vast forest outspread beneath him rolls a river, to which, in breadth, the noble stream before him is but a rivulet. The interior hills, or ridges, mentioned above, are usually covered with pine; which is found only on such eminences, and in no other section of the south or west, except an isolated wood in Missouri, for more than fifteen hundred miles. The surface of the whole state is thus diversified with hills, with the exception of an occasional interval on the borders of a stream, or a few leagues of prairie in the north part of the state, covered with thin forests of stunted oaks. These hills rise and fall in regular undulations, clothed with forests of inconceivable majesty, springing from a rich, black loam, peculiarly fitted to the production of cotton; though, according to a late writer on this plant, "it flourishes with equal luxuriance in the black alluvial soil of Alatamaha and in the glowing sands of St. Simon's."[10] The general features of this state have suggested the idea of an immense ploughed field, whose gigantic furrows intersect each other at various angles.--Imagine the hills, formed by these intersections, clothed with verdure, whitened with cotton fields, or covered with noble woods, with streams winding along in the deep ravines, repeatedly turning back upon their course, in their serpentine windings, before they disembogue into the Mississippi on the west, or the Pearl on the east, and you will have a rude though generally correct idea of the bolder features of this state. A "plain," or extensive level expanse, which is not a marsh, forms, consequently, no part of its scenery, hill and hollow being its stronger characteristics. For a hilly country it presents one striking peculiarity. The surface of the forests, viewed from the bluffs, or from some superior elevation in the interior, presents one uniform horizontal level, with scarcely an undulation in the line to break the perspective. Particularly is this observable about a mile from Natchez, from the summit of a hill on the road to the village of Washington. Here an extensive forest scene lies east of the observer, to appearance a perfect level. But as he travels over hill and through ravine, anticipating a delightful prairie to lie before him, over which he may pace, (or _canter_, if he be a northerner) at his ease, he will find that the promised plain, like the _mirage_ before the fainting Arabian, for ever eludes his path. There is another remarkable feature in this country, peculiar to the whole region through which the lower Mississippi flows which I can illustrate no better than by resorting to the idea of a ploughed field. As many of these intersecting furrows, or ravines, terminate with the ridges that confine them, near the river, with whose medium tides they are nearly level, they are inundated by the periodical effluxes, which, flowing up into the land, find a passage through other furrows, and discharge into some stream, that suddenly overflows its banks; or winding sluggishly through the glens, cut deep channels for themselves in the argillaceous soil, and through a chain of ravines again unite with the Mississippi, after having created, by their surplus waters, numerous marshes along their borders, and leaving around their course innumerable pools of stagnant water, which become the home of the lazy alligator,[11] and the countless water-fowls which inhabit these regions. These inlets are properly bayous. They radiate from the Mississippi, in the state of Louisiana, in countless numbers, forming a net-work of inlets along its banks for fifty miles on either side, increasing in numbers and size near its mouth; so that, for many leagues above it, an inextricable tissue of lakes and inlets, or bayous, form communications and passes from the river to the Gulf,[12] "accessible," says Flint, "by small vessels and bay-craft, and impossible to be navigated, except by pilots perfectly acquainted with the waters." The entrance of some of these bayous, which are in the vicinity of Natchez, is fortified against the effluxes of the river by _levées_, constructed from one highland to another; and by this means the bottom lands in the rear are protected from the overflow, and, when cultivated, produce fine crops of cotton. Inundations are also caused when the Mississippi is high, by its waters flowing up into the small rivers and creeks, whose natural level is many feet below the high water mark, till they find a level.--The water of these streams is consequently forced back upon itself, and, rising above its banks, overflows all the adjacent country. This "back-water," as it is termed, is more difficult to be resisted by levées than the effluxes of the bayous; and for the want of some successful means of opposing its force, some of the finest "bottom lands" in the state remain uncultivated, and covered with water and forest. The smaller rivers and streams in this state are wild and narrow torrents, wholly unlike those placid streams which flow through New-England, lined with grassy or rocky banks, and rolling over a stony bottom, which can be discerned from many feet above it, through the transparent fluid. Here the banks of the streams are precipices, and entirely of clay or sand, and cave in after every rain, which suddenly raises these torrents many feet in a few minutes; and such often is their impetuosity, that if their banks are too high to be inundated, they cut out new channels for themselves; and a planter may, not improbably, in the morning after a heavy rain, find an acre or more added to his fields from an adjoining estate; to be repaid, in kind, after another rain. In the dry season the water of these streams--which, with the exception of three or four of the large ones, are more properly conduits for the rain water that falls upon the hills, than permanent streams--is tolerably clear, though a transparent sheet of water larger than a spring, whether in motion or at rest, I have not seen in this state. After a rain they become turbid, like the Mississippi, impetuous in their course, and dangerous to travellers. Few of these streams are covered with bridges, as their banks dissolve, during a rain, almost as rapidly as banks of snow--so light is the earth of which they are composed--and the points from which bridges would spring are soon washed away. The streams are therefore usually forded; and as their beds are of the finest sand, and abound in quicksands, carriages and horses are often swallowed up in fording them, and lives are not unfrequently lost. The roads throughout the state, with the exception of these fords, are very good, winding through fine natural scenery, past cultivated fields, and pleasant villages. In the neighbourhood of these streams, on the hills, and in the vales throughout the state, springs of clear cold water abound. There is a deep spring on the grounds attached to Jefferson College in this state, whose water is so transparent, that to the eye, the bottom appears to be reflected through no other medium than the air. The water is of a very mild temperature in the winter, and of an icy coolness in the summer. The spring is in a deep glen, surrounded by lofty trees, one of which, from its shape, branching from the root into two trunks, and uniting again in an extraordinary manner by a transverse limb, thirty feet from the ground, is called "St. Catharine's Harp," and is one among the natural curiosities of that vicinity. In the interior of the state are several mineral springs, which of late years have become very fashionable resorts for those who do not choose, like the majority of Mississippians, to spend their summers and money at the Kentucky, Virginian, or New-York springs. The waters of most of these springs are chalybeate, with a large proportion of sulphuric acid combined with the iron. The most celebrated are the Brandywine, romantically situated in a deep glen in the interior of the state, and the Bankston springs, two hour's ride from the capital. The constituent qualities of the waters, as ascertained by a recent chemical analysis, are sulphate of magnesia, sulphate of soda and sulphur, which exist in such a state of combination as to render the waters not disagreeable to the taste, yet sufficiently beneficial to the patient. They are said to act favourably upon most of the diseases of the climate, such as affections of the liver, bowels, cutaneous and chronic diseases, congestive and bilious fevers, debility, and numerous other ills "that flesh is heir to." The location is highly romantic and healthy. In the words of another--"the circumjacent country is for several miles covered with forests, of which pine is the principal growth; its surface is elevated and undulating, entirely free from stagnant waters, and other local causes of disease. The site of the springs is not inferior in beauty to any spot in the southern country. They are situated in a narrow plane, surrounded, on one side by an almost perpendicular bluff from which they flow, on the other, by a gentle declivity, dividing itself into two twin ridges; which, after describing a graceful curve, unite again at a point on which stands the principal building, one hundred feet in length, and on either of these ridges, is built a row of new and comfortable apartments. Through the centre of the grove, a path leads from the principal building to the spring, forming at all hours of the day, a delightful promenade. The water at the fountain, is exceedingly cool and exhilarating. A dome supported by neat columns, rises above the fountain, which, with the aid of the surrounding hills and overhanging forest, renders it at all times impervious to the sun. The roads, which during the summer season are always good, communicate in various directions with Port Gibson, Vicksburg, Jackson, Clinton, and Raymond, affording at all times good society. The forest abounds with deer and other game, the chase of which will afford a healthy amusement to those who may be tempted to join in it." The mineral waters in the state are chiefly sulphurous and chalybeate, with the exception, I believe, of one or two of the saline class. In the vicinity of these springs, and also on most of the water courses in the state, and, with but an exception or two, in these places alone, are found the only stones in the state. Rock is almost unknown. I have not seen even a stone, within fifteen miles of Natchez, larger than the third part of a brick, and those that I have seen were found in the pebbly bed of some stream. There is a stratum of pebbles from one to three feet thick extending through this state. It is variously waved, sometimes in a plane, and at others forming various angles of inclination, and at an irregular depth from the surface, according to the thickness of the superimposed masses of earth which are composed of clay, loam, and sand. This stratum is penetrated and torn up by the torrents, which strew their beds with the pebbles. There is no rock except a species of soft sand-stone south of latitude 32° north, in this state, except in Bayou Pierre, (the stony bayou) and a cliff at Grand Gulf, forty miles above Natchez. This last is composed of common carbonate of lime and silex, but the quantity of each has not been accurately determined. The sand-stone alluded to above, is in the intermediate state between clay and stone, in which the process of petrifaction is still in progress. In the north-east portion of the state, this species of stone, whose basis is clay, is found in a more matured state of petrifaction. Perfect gravel is seldom met with here, even in the stratum of pebbles before mentioned. These resemble in properties and colour, the clay so abundant in this region; a great proportion of the gravel is composed of a petrifaction of clay and minute shells, of the mollusca tribe. I have found in the dry bed of the St. Catharine's, pebbles, entirely composed of thousands of the most delicately formed shells, some of which, of singularly beautiful figures, I have not before met with. Concave spiral cones, the regular discoid volute, cylinders, a circular shell, a tenth of an inch in diameter, formed by several concentric circles, and a delicate shell formed by spiral whorls, with fragments of various other minute shells, principally compose them. The variety of shells in this state is very limited. All that have been found here have their surfaces covered with the smooth olive-green epidermis, characteristic of fresh water shells, and are all very much eroded. Agates of singular beauty have also been discovered, and minute quartz crystals are found imbedded in the cavities of pebbles composed of alumina and grains of quartz. Mica and feldspar I have not met with. About two years ago, on the plantation of Robert Field, Esq. in the vicinity of the white cliffs, a gentleman picked up from the ground a large colourless rock crystal, with six sided prisms and a pyramidal termination of three faces. Curiosity led him to examine the spot, and after digging a few minutes beneath the surface, he found three more, of different sizes, two of them nearly perfect crystals, but the third was an irregular mass of colourless transparent quartz. This is the only instance of the discovery of this mineral in the state, and how these came to be on that spot, which is entirely argillaceous and at a great distance from any rocks or pebbles, is a problem. Pure flint is not found in this state, yet the plough-share turns up on some plantations, numerous arrow-heads, formed of this material, and there is also a species of stone, artificially formed, in size and shape precisely resembling the common wedge for cleaving wood, with the angles smoothly rounded. They are found all over the south-western country, and the negroes term them "thunder bolts;" but wiser heads have sagely determined their origin from the moon. Planters call them spear-heads, for which they were probably constructed by the aborigines. The stone of which they are made is not found in this country. Some of them I believe are composed of mica and quartz. Many of them are a variety of the mica and of a brown colour, sometimes inclining to green, and highly polished. I have seen some on a plantation near Natchez, of an iron black colour resembling polished pieces of black marble. The several strata which compose this state are an upper layer of rich black loam from one to three feet thick, the accumulation of centuries, and a second stratum of clay several feet in thickness, beneath which are various substrata of loam and sand, similar to that which constitutes the islands and "bottoms" of the Mississippi. With the exception of the Yazoo, which flows through a delightful country rich in soil and magnificent with forests, along whose banks the Mississippians are opening a new theatre for the accumulation of wealth, and where villages spring up annually with the yearly harvest--and the Pearl--a turbid and rapid torrent whose banks are lined with fine plantations and beautiful villages--this state boasts no rivers of any magnitude; and these, when compared with the great Mississippi, are but streams; and in their chief characteristics they nearly resemble it. But I have gone as far into geology as the limits of a letter writer will permit. A volume might be written upon the physical features of this country, without exhausting a subject prolific in uncommon interest, or half surveying a field, scarcely yet examined by the geologist.[13] FOOTNOTES: [10] It has been said that cotton will thrive as well in a sandy soil, with a _sea_ exposure, as in a rich loam in the interior. [11] The alligator is found on the shores of the lower Mississippi, in bayous and at the mouths of creeks. It is seldom seen far above 32° north latitude. There has been much dispute as to the identity of the crocodile and alligator, nor are naturalists yet united in their opinions upon this point. The opinion that they belong to the same species is supported by the systema natura, as it came from the hand of Linneus, but it is positively contradicted in the last edition of this work, published by Professor Gmelin. [12] "The experienced savage or solitary voyager, descending the Mississippi for a thousand miles, paddles his canoe through the deep forests from one bluff to the other. He moves, perhaps, along the inundated forests of the vast interval through which the Mississippi flows, into the mouth of White river. He ascends that river a few miles, and by the Grand Cut-off moves down the flooded forest into Arkansas. From that river he finds many _bayous_, which communicate readily with Washita and Red river; and from that river, by some one of its hundred bayous, he finds his way into the Atchafalaya and the Teche; and by this stream to the Gulf of Mexico, reaching it more than twenty leagues west of the Mississippi. At that time this is a river from thirty to a hundred miles wide, all overshaded with forests, except an interior strip of little more than a mile in width, where the eye reposes upon the open expanse of waters visible between the forests, which is the Mississippi proper." [13] A bed of lime-stone has been recently discovered on the shore at Natchez below high water mark, two hundred feet lower than the summit level of the state of Mississippi. There are some extraordinary petrifactions in the north part of this state, among which is the fallen trunk of a tree twenty feet in length, converted into solid rock. The outer surface of the bark, which is in contact with the soil, is covered as thickly as they can be set, with brilliant brown crystals resembling garnets in size and beauty. Thin flakes of the purest enamel, the size of a guinea and irregularly shaded, have been found in the ravines near Natchez. In the same ravines mammoth bones are found in great numbers, on the caving in of the sides after a heavy rain. XXXVII. Topography--Natchez--Washington--Seltzertown--Greenville--Port Gibson--Raymond--Clinton--Southern villages--Vicksburg--Yeomen of Mississippi--Jackson--Vernon--Satartia--Benton--Amsterdam-- Brandon and other towns--Monticello--Manchester--Rankin--Grand Gulf--Rodney--Warrenton--Woodville--Pinckneyville--White Apple village. In my last letter I alluded to the geological features of Mississippi, the peculiarities of its soil and rivers, or streams, and the characteristics of its scenery. In this I will give you a brief topographical description of the state, embracing its principal towns and villages. Were I confined to the details of the tourist, in my sketches, you might follow me step by step over hill and dale, through forest and "bottom," to the several places which may form the subject of the first part of this letter. But a short view of them, only, comes within my limits as a letter-writer. For the more minute information I possess upon this subject I am indebted to a gentleman,[14] whose scientific and historical researches have greatly contributed to the slender stock of information upon this state--its resources, statistics, and general peculiarities. Although I have said a great deal of Natchez, under this head something may be communicated upon which I have not touched in my remarks upon that city. Natchez is one hundred and fifty-five miles from New-Orleans by land, and two hundred and ninety-two by water. It contains a population of about three thousand, the majority of whom are coloured. The influx of strangers--young merchants from the north, who have within the last four years, bought out nearly all the old standing merchants--numerous mechanics, and foreign emigrants--is rapidly increasing the number, and in five years, if the rail-road already surveyed from this city to the capital, a distance of one hundred and nine miles, is brought into operation, it will probably contain twice the present number of souls. Under the Spanish government vessels came up to Natchez; and in 1803 there was, as appears by a publication of Col. Andrew Marschalk, of Mississippi, a brisk trade kept up between this and foreign and American ports which suddenly ceased, after a few years' continuance, on account of the obstacles interposed by the Spaniards. In 1833, this trade was revived by some enterprising gentlemen of Natchez, and cotton is now shipped directly to the northern states and Europe, from this port, instead of being conveyed by steamboats to New-Orleans and there reshipped. There are two oil mills in this city worked by steam. The oil is manufactured from cotton-seed, which heretofore was used as manure. This oil is said to be superior to sperm oil, and the finest paint oil. Similar manufactories are established in New-Orleans, and I think, also, in Mobile. The material of which this oil is made is so abundant that it will in all probability in a very few years supersede the other oils almost entirely. The "cake" is in consistency very much like that of flax-seed. It is used, in equal parts with coal, for fuel, and burns with a clear flame, and a fire so made is equally warm as one entirely of coal. A Bethel church is to be erected this year under the hill, the erection of which on this noted spot, will be the boldest and most important step Christianity has taken in the valley of the Mississippi. There are four occasionally officiating Methodist ministers here, one of the Presbyterian, and one of the Episcopalian denominations. There are eighteen physicians and surgeons, and sixteen lawyers, the majority of whom are young men. There is a weekly paper, with extensive circulation, and three others are about to be established. There are five schools or seminaries of learning--three private, and two public--a flourishing academy for males, and a boarding-school for young ladies, under the care of very able teachers. There are also a hospital and poor-house, and a highly useful orphan asylum. There are no circulating libraries in the city, nor I believe in the state. There are three banks one of which--the Planter's bank--has branches in seven different towns in the state. Steamboats were first known at Natchez in 1811-12. Washington, six miles north-east from Natchez, with a charming country between, through which winds one of the worst carriage-roads in the west, not even excepting the delightful rail-roads from Sandusky to Columbus, in Ohio, is a corporation one mile square, containing about four hundred inhabitants, of all sizes and colours. It contains a fine brick hospital and poor-house in one building, two brick churches, one of the Baptist, and the other of the Methodist denomination. The first has recently settled a preacher, the other has long had a stationed minister, who regularly officiates in the desk. There is a Presbyterian clergyman residing in the place, whose church is five miles distant in the country, in a fine grove on one of the highest elevations in the state. The inhabitants of the village are principally Methodists, a majority of which sect will be found in nearly every village in the south-west. Jefferson College, the oldest and best endowed collegiate institution in the state, is pleasantly situated at the head of a green on the borders of the village. It is now flourishing; but has for several years been labouring under pecuniary embarrassments, which are now, by a generous provision of Congress, entirely removed, and with a fund of nearly two hundred thousand dollars, it bids fair to become a useful and distinguished institution. There is also a female seminary in a retired part of this village, which was handsomely endowed by Miss Elizabeth Greenfield, of Philadelphia, a member of the society of Friends, from whom it is denominated the Elizabeth Academy. It is one of the first female institutions in this state, and under the patronage of the Methodist society. Washington is one of the oldest towns in the state, was formerly the seat of government, under the territorial administration, and once contained many more inhabitants than any other place except Natchez, in the territory. It was nearly depopulated by the yellow fever in 1825, from the effects of which it has never recovered. The public offices, with the exception of the Register's and Receiver's offices, are removed to Jackson. The town possesses no resources, and is now only remarkable for its quiet beauty, the sabbath-like repose of its streets, and its pure water, and healthy location, upon the plane of an elevated table land, rising abruptly from the St. Catharine's, which winds pleasantly along by one side of the village with many romantic haunts for the student and "walks" for the villagers, upon its banks. There is a post office in the village, through which a triweekly mail passes to and from Natchez. The route of the rail-road will be through this place, when it will again lift its head among the thriving villages of the Great Valley. Seltzertown, containing a tavern and a blacksmith's shop (which always form the nucleus of an American village) is six miles from Washington and twelve from Natchez. It is remarkable only for the extensive scenery around it, and the remarkable Indian fortifications or temples in its vicinity. These will form the subject of another letter. Greenville, on the road from Natchez, passing through the two former places, is twenty-one miles from that city. It is delightfully situated in a little green vale, through which winds a small stream. The plain is crossed by the rail-road, which here becomes a street, bordered by two rows of dilapidated houses, overgrown with grass and half buried in venerable shade trees. From the prison with its dungeons fallen in, and its walls lifting themselves sullenly above the ruins by which they are enclosed, to the tavern with its sunken galleries, and the cobbler's shop with its doorless threshold, all were in ruins, a picture of rural desolation exhibiting the beau ideal of the "deserted village." Greenville was formerly a place of some importance, but other towns have grown up in more eligible spots, for which this has been deserted by its inhabitants. One does not meet with a lovelier prospect in this state, than that presented to the eye on descending from the hill south and west of the valley, into the quiet little vale beneath, just before the going down of the sun. The air of peace and quiet which reigns around the traveller, will perhaps remind him of the valley whose description has so delighted him while lingering over the elegant pages of Rasselas. Forty-two miles from Natchez is Port Gibson, one of the most flourishing and beautiful towns in the south. It is only second to Natchez in the beauty of its location, the regularity of its streets, the neatness of its dwellings, and the number and excellence of its public buildings. It is but seven miles by land from the Mississippi, with which it communicates by a stream, called Bayou Pierre, navigable for keel and flat boats, and, in high floods, for steamboats, quite to the village. It is very healthy, and has seldom been visited by epidemics. It contains about one thousand souls. The citizens were once distinguished for their dissipation, if not profligacy; but they are now more distinguished for their intelligence and morality as a community. There is no town in the south which possesses so high a standard of morals as Port Gibson. This reformation is the result of the evangelical labours of the Presbyterian clergyman of that place; who, with untiring industry and uncommon energy, combined with sterling piety, in a very few years performed the work and produced the effect of an age. There are a Presbyterian and a Methodist church in the town, with their respective clergymen. It contains also a branch bank, court-house, gaol, post-office, and one of the finest hotels in the state. A weekly paper, called the "Correspondent," and very ably edited, is published here. The society of the village and neighbourhood is not surpassed by any in the state. There are some very pretty country seats in the vicinity, the abodes of planters of intelligence and wealth; and the country around is thickly wooded, with fine plantations interspersed; and the general features of the scenery, though tame, are beautiful. The road from Natchez to Port Gibson is through a rich planting country, pleasantly undulating, with alternate forest and field scenery on either hand. But beyond Port Gibson the country assumes a more rugged aspect, and is less beautiful. The road, for the first few miles, winds among woods and cotton fields; but, after crossing Bayou Pierre, at a ford, called "Grindstone Ford," where the first rock is seen, in coming north from the Mexican Gulf, the forest is for many miles unbroken. I cannot express the strange delight I experienced as the iron heels of my horse first rung upon the broad rocky pavement, when ascending the bank of this stream from the water. No one but a northerner, the bases and crests of whose native hills are of granite, and who has passed two years or more in the stoneless soil of this region, can duly appreciate such emotions from such a cause. For forty-seven miles from Port Gibson, the road winds through a "rolling" country, two-thirds of which is enveloped in the gloom of the primeval forests, and then enters the little village of Raymond, situated in an open space among the lofty forest trees which enclose it on all sides. Raymond has been planted and matured to a handsome village, with a fine court-house, several hotels, and neat private dwellings, within five years. The society, like that of most new towns in this state, is composed of young men, merchants, lawyers, and physicians, the majority of whom are bachelors. The village is built around a pleasant square, in the centre of which is the court-house, one of the finest public buildings in this part of the state. It contains about four hundred inhabitants, not one fifth of whom are females. Beyond Raymond the country is less hilly, spreading more into table lands, which in many places are marshy. A ride of eight miles through a rudely cultivated country, in whose deep forests the persecuted deer finds a home, often bounding across the path of the traveller, will terminate at Clinton, formerly Mount Salus, one of the prettiest and most flourishing villages in the state. It is situated upon a cluster of precipitous hills, contains some good buildings, and is a place of much business, which a rail-road, now in projection to the Mississippi, will have a tendency greatly to increase. There is a Methodist church in the village, and a small society of Presbyterians. The most flourishing female seminary in the state is located in the immediate vicinity, under the superintendence of a lady, formerly well known in the literary world of New-York, as the authoress of one or two works, and a contributor to the columns of the "Mirror" when in its infancy. There is also a college in this place, but it is not of long standing or very flourishing. The system adopted in this country, of combining an academy with a college, though the state of education may require some such method, will always be a clog to the advancement of the latter. There is a Spanish proverb, "manacle a giant to a dwarf and he must stoop," which may have yet a more extensive application, and the truth of which this system is daily demonstrating. Here are a land office and a printing office, which issues a weekly paper. There are many enterprising professional men and merchants in the village from almost every state in the Union, but they are generally bachelors, and congregate at the hotels, so that for the number of inhabitants the proportion of families and dwellings is very small. When a number of high-spirited young men thus assemble in a little village, a code of honour, woven of the finest texture and of the most sensitive materials, will naturally be established. This code will have for its basis--feeling. It will be constantly appealed to, and its adjudications sacredly observed. To the decisions of such a tribunal, may be traced the numerous _affaires d'honneur_ which have occurred in the south during the last twenty years, most of which originated in villages composed principally of young gentlemen. There is something striking to the eye of a northerner, on entering one of these south-western villages. He will find every third building occupied by a lawyer or a doctor, around whose open doors will be congregated knots of young men, _en deshabille_, smoking and conversing, sometimes with animation, but more commonly with an air of indifference. He will pass by the stores and see them sitting upon the counters or lounging about the doors. In the streets and bar-rooms of the hotels, they will cluster around him, fashionably dressed, with sword canes dangling from their fingers. Wherever he turns his eyes he sees nothing but young fellows. Whole classes from medical and law schools, or whole counting-houses from New-York or Boston, seem to have been transported _en masse_ into the little village through which he is passing. An old man, or a gray hair, scarcely relieves his vision. He will be reminded, as he gazes about him upon the youthful faces, of the fabled village, whose inhabitants had drunk at the fountain of rejuvenescence. Women he will find to resemble angels, more than he had believed; for "few and far between," are their forms seen gliding through the streets, blockaded by young gentlemen, and "few" are the bright eyes that beam upon him from galleries and windows. If he stays during the evening, he may pass it in the noisy bar-room, the billiard-room, or at a wine-party. If he remains a "season," he may attend several public balls in the hotel, where he will meet with beautiful females, for whom the whole country, with its villages and plantations for twenty miles round, has been put under contribution. One of the most fashionable assemblies I have attended in the south-west, I was present at, one or two winters since, in the village of Clinton. This village contains about four hundred inhabitants, and is thirty-five miles from Vicksburg, its port, on the Mississippi. Vicksburg is about two miles below the Walnut hills, one of the bluffs of the Mississippi, and five hundred from the Balize. It contains nearly two thousand inhabitants. Thirty thousand bales of cotton, about one eighth of the whole quantity shipped by the state at large, are annually shipped from this place. In this respect it is inferior only to Natchez and Grand Gulf, the first of which ships fifty thousand. There is a weekly paper published here, of a very respectable character, and well edited, and another is in contemplation. There are also a bank, with two or three churches, and a handsome brick court-house, erected on an eminence from which there is an extensive view of the Mississippi, with its majestic steamers, and humbler flat boats, "keels" and "arks," and of the vast forests of the Louisiana shore, which every where, when viewed from the Mississippi side of the river, exhibits the appearance of an ocean whose surface, even to the level horizon, is thickly covered with the tops of trees in full foliage, like the golden isles of sea weed floating in the southern seas. There is no town in the south-west more flourishing than Vicksburg. It is surrounded by rich plantations, and contains many public-spirited individuals; whose co-operation in public enterprises is opening new avenues of wealth for the citizens, and laying a broad and secure foundation for the future importance of the town. It is already a powerful rival of Natchez: but the two places are so distant from each other, that their interests will always revolve in different circles. The situation of this town, on the shelving declivity of a cluster of precipitous hills, which rise abruptly from the river, is highly romantic. The houses are scattered in picturesque groups on natural terraces along the river, the balcony or portico of one often overhanging the roof of another. Merchandise destined for Clinton is landed here, and hauled over a hilly country to that place, a distance of thirty-five miles. Cotton is often conveyed to Vicksburg, and other shipping places, from a distance of one hundred miles in the interior. The cotton teams, containing usually ten bales, are drawn by six or eight yoke of oxen, which accomplish about twenty miles a day in good weather. The teamsters camp every night, in an enclosure formed by their waggons and cattle, with a bright fire burning; and occasionally their bivouacs present striking groups for the pencil. The majority of these teamsters are slaves; but there are many small farmers who drive their own oxen, often conveying their whole crop on one waggon. These small farmers form a peculiar class, and include the majority of the inhabitants in the east part of this state. With the awkwardness of the Yankee countryman, they are destitute of his morals, education, and reverence for religion. With the rude and bold qualities of the chivalrous Kentuckian, they are destitute of his intelligence, and the humour which tempers and renders amusing his very vices. They are in general uneducated, and their apparel consists of a coarse linsey-woolsey, of a dingy yellow or blue, with broad-brimmed hats; though they usually follow their teams bare-footed and bare-headed, with their long locks hanging over their eyes and shoulders, giving them a wild appearance. Accost them as they pass you, one after another, in long lines, cracking their whips, which they use instead of the goad--perhaps the turn-out of a whole district, from the old, gray-headed hunter, to the youngest boy that can wield the whip, often fifteen and twenty feet in length, including the staff--and their replies will generally be sullen or insulting. There is in them a total absence of that courtesy which the country people of New-England manifest for strangers. They will seldom allow carriages to pass them, unless attended by gentlemen, who often have to do battle for the highway. Ladies, in carriages or on horseback, if unattended by gentlemen, are most usually insulted by them. They have a decided aversion to a broad-cloth coat, and this antipathy is transferred to the wearer. There is a species of warfare kept up between them and the citizens of the shipping ports, mutually evinced by the jokes and tricks played upon them by the latter when they come into market; and their retaliation, when their hour of advantage comes, by an encounter in the back woods, which they claim as their domain. At home they live in log-houses on partially cleared lands, labour hard in their fields, sometimes owning a few slaves, but more generally with but one or none.--They are good hunters, and expert with the rifle, which is an important article of furniture in their houses. Whiskey is their favourite beverage, which they present to the stranger with one hand, while they give him a chair with the other. They are uneducated, and destitute of the regular administration of the gospel. As there is no common school system of education adopted in this state, their children grow up as rude and ignorant as themselves; some of whom, looking as wild as young Orsons, I have caught in the cotton market at Natchez, and questioned upon the simple principles of religion and education which every child is supposed to know, and have found them wholly uninformed. This class of men is valuable to the state, and legislative policy, at least, should recommend such measures as would secure religious instruction to the adults, and the advantages of a common education to the children, who, in thirty years, will form a large proportion of the native inhabitants of Mississippi. About three miles from Clinton, on the main road to the capital, is situated "New Forest," a cotton plantation, owned and recently improved by two enterprising young gentlemen from Hallowell, in Maine. They are the sons of one of the most eminent and estimable medical gentlemen in New-England; whose pre-eminent success in the management of an appalling and desolating epidemic, a few years since, acquired for him a proud and distinguished name, both at home and abroad.--New Forest is spread out upon the elevated ridges which separate the waters of the Chitalusa, or Big Black, and Pearl rivers; and pleasantly situated in one of the richest and healthiest counties, on a line with the projected rail-road, and in the immediate neighbourhood of the capital of the state--it will soon become one of the most valuable and beautiful "homesteads" to be seen in the south. Besides the proprietors of this estate, there are several other young gentlemen from Maine, residing in Mississippi, who, with the characteristic energy and perseverance of northerners, are steadily advancing to wealth and distinction. Jackson, the capital of the state, is in latitude 32° 17', and in longitude 13° 07' west of Washington. It is one hundred and eight miles north-east of Natchez, and forty-five miles east of Vicksburg, on the Mississippi. It lies on the right bank of Pearl river; which, after a southerly course, and dividing the state into two nearly equal parts, empties into Lake Borgne, in the Gulf of Mexico. This river is navigable two hundred miles from its mouth, and steamboats have been as far as Jackson. But the torrent is rapid, and the obstructions to navigation are very numerous. There are many pleasant and thriving villages on its banks, and a rich country of plantations spreads away on either side. The great rail-road from New-Orleans to Nashville will run near and parallel with this river for a great distance, and will monopolize, for the former market, all that branch of the cotton trade which is now attached to the ports on the Mississippi above mentioned. Jackson was but recently selected as the seat of government of this state. Its site was chosen for its central position alone, without any reference to its resources, or any other aids to future importance, than it might derive from being the state capital. It is built upon a level area, half a mile square, cut out from the depth of the forest which surrounds it. It is a quarter of a mile from the Pearl, which is concealed by the forests; a steep, winding path through which leads to the water side, where the turbid current darts by, a miniature resemblance of the great river rolling to the west of it. There are a branch bank in this place, and a plain, two-storied brick edifice, occupied by the legislature and courts of justice. Three newspapers are published here, which, like all others in this state, are of a warmly political character. A handsome state house is now in the progress of erection, and many private and public buildings are going up in various parts of the town. There is a steam saw-mill near the village, for water privileges are unknown in this region of impetuous streams; and several other avenues of wealth and public benefit are opening by the enterprising citizens.--During the intervals of the sessions of the legislature and supreme court, Jackson is a very uninteresting village; but during the sessions of these bodies, there is no town in the state which, for the time, presents so lively and stirring a scene. Vernon is a pleasant village situated on a rapid and navigable stream, which often winds through wild and romantic scenery. Steamboats ascend to this place during part of the year. It is rapidly improving and filling with many young men, some of whom, possessing both talent and industry, are natives of this state. It is worthy of remark that those communities composed principally of young Mississippians, are distinguished by much less dissipation and adherence to the code of honour formerly alluded to, than such as are formed of young men principally from the northern and Atlantic southern states. The young Mississippian is not the irascible, hot-headed, and quarrelsome being he has been represented, although naturally warm-hearted and full of generous feelings, and governed by a high sense of honour. He is seldom a beau or a buck in the city--acceptation of those terms, but dresses plainly--as often in pantaloons of Kentucky jean, a broad brimmed white hat, brogans and a blanket coat, as in any other style of vesture. Nevertheless he knows how to be well-dressed, and the public assemblies of the south-west boast more richly attired young gentlemen than are often found in the assembly-rooms of the Atlantic cities. He is educated to become a farmer--an occupation which requires and originates plainness of manners--and not to shine in the circles of a city. He prefers riding over his own, or his father's estate, wrapped in his blanket coat, to a morning lounge in Broadway enveloped in a fashionable cloak. He would rather walk booted and spurred upon the "turf," the "exchange" of southern planters, than move, shod in delicate slippers, over the noiseless carpet of the drawing-room. His short handled riding-whip serves him better than the slender rattan--his blanketed saddle is his cabriolet--the road between his plantation and a cotton market, his "drive"--and the noble forests on his domain--the home of the stag and deer--he finds when he moves through their deep glades, with his rifle in his hand, better suited to his tastes than the "mall," or Hyde Park, and he will be ready to bet a bale of cotton that the sport which they afford him is at least an equivalent to shooting cock-sparrows from a thorn bush on a moor. Satartia is on the left side of the river Yazoo, fourteen miles from Vernon and thirty-five by land from Vicksburg. The village is pleasantly situated near the water, contains ten or fifteen stores, a tavern, and several dwelling houses, with a post-office. From ten to twelve thousand bales of cotton are annually shipped here. It promises to be one of the largest shipping ports in north Mississippi. Benton, on the Yazoo, twenty-two miles to the north of Vernon, is a growing place, and issues a weekly newspaper. The rich country around is rapidly settling, and in the course of twenty years it will be one of the wealthiest portions of this state. Amsterdam, within steamboat navigation, on a deep creek, sixteen miles from Vicksburg, is a thriving town. Columbia, on the east bank of the Pearl, is accessible by steamboats, and Columbus, on the Tombeckbee, some hundred miles above Mobile, is a flourishing town. There is here a printing press which issues a weekly paper. Steamboats occasionally ascend to this place from Mobile. There are besides, east of the Pearl river, Brandon, so called in honour of the ex-governor; Winchester, Westville, Pearlington, and Shieldsborough--the latter in the southern extremity of the state on Lake Borgne, within forty miles of New-Orleans--most of which are thriving villages. One of the most flourishing towns on the Pearl is Monticello, about ninety miles east of Natchez. Manchester, on the Yazoo, has been but recently settled. It is very flourishing, contains many stores and dwellings, and ships from twelve to fifteen thousand bales of cotton annually. It is seventy-six miles from the mouth of the Yazoo, on the Mississippi. Twenty-five miles from this village is Rankin, within three miles of steamboat navigation, and rapidly rising into importance. There are many other villages in this new region yet in embryo, but which must grow with the country into wealth and distinction. Grand Gulf, about forty-five miles above Natchez, on the Mississippi, situated on a natural terrace, receding to a wooded crescent of hills on the north and east, and just above a dangerous eddy which gives the name to the town, is the third town of commercial importance in the state. It was settled five years ago, and the present year about forty-five thousand bales of cotton were shipped from this port. It contains about nine hundred inhabitants. A rail-road is projected to Port Gibson eight miles back from the river, and to the interior, which will benefit both places. Within sight of the village, and a short distance above it, is the only cliff of rocks in this region. Mississippians and Louisianians should do pilgrimage there. In the vicinity of this town Aaron Burr surrendered to General Mead, and the detachment ordered out to arrest him. Rodney is a pleasant town twenty miles above Natchez, on the river. It is a place of commercial importance, and ships annually many thousand bales of cotton. Its inhabitants are enterprising and intelligent. Warrenton, nine miles below Vicksburg, is the only other village between Natchez and the latter place. The most important settlement south of Natchez is Woodville, a beautiful village, built around a square, in the centre of which is a handsome court-house. Various streets diverge from this public square, and are soon lost in the forests, which enclose the village. There are some eminent lawyers who reside here, and the neighbourhood is one of the wealthiest and most polished in the state. Governor Poindexter resided till recently at a neat country seat a short ride from Woodville, striking only for its quiet cottage-like beauty. Dr. Carmichael, president of the board of medical censors of this state, and formerly a surgeon in the revolutionary army, and the late Governor Brandon, reside also in the neighbourhood, but still more distant in the country. One of the most eminent lawyers of this place is a native of Portland, who has also distinguished himself as an occasional contributor to the annuals. One of the first lawyers in Vicksburg, if not in the state, is a native of Maine, and a graduate of Bowdoin. He is this year a candidate for congress; though with that juvenility, which characterises southern athlete in every intellectual arena, he scarcely yet numbers thirty summers. There are three churches in Woodville; a Methodist, Episcopalian, and Baptist. A weekly paper is published here, conducted with talent and editorial skill. The court-house, which is a substantial and handsome structure of brick, contains a superior clock. A market-house and a gaol are also numbered among the public buildings. There is a branch of the Planters' bank here, and an academy for boys and another for girls, established within a mile of the village, are excellent schools. Woodville is about eighteen miles from the Mississippi. Its port is Fort Adams, formerly mentioned. A rail-road is in contemplation, between Woodville and St. Francisville, La. twenty-nine miles distant, on the river, which will render the communication easy and rapid to New-Orleans. This village contains about eight hundred inhabitants, and is one of the healthiest in Mississippi. During a period of eighteen months--according to Mr. Vose, to whose accurate and elaborate researches I am indebted for much of my information upon the topography of this state--out of one hundred and forty-four men, of whom he kept an account for that length of time, only three died, and two of these were killed. Fayette, a very neat and pleasant village, containing a handsome court-house and church, is twenty-five miles east of Natchez. It is the most rural and New-England like village, except Port Gibson, in the state. Meadville, to the south, is a small retired place, containing a post-office. Kingston, on the road from Natchez to Woodville, originally settled by a colony from New-Jersey, is a small village, containing a church, post-office, two or three stores, and several dwelling-houses. This and Pinckneyville, a few miles south of Woodville, the latter merely a short street, lined by a few dwelling-houses and stores, are the only places south of Natchez, besides those already mentioned, of any importance. The site of White Apple village, the capital of the Natchez tribe, and the residence of "Great Sun," chief of the chiefs of that interesting nation, is pointed out to the traveller, on the river road to Woodville from Natchez. A few mounds, with the usual remains of spear and arrow heads, beads, and broken pottery only exist, to mark the spot. Fragments of gold lace and Spanish weapons have been found in the neighbourhood, with many other traces of the march of the Spanish army through this country. I will conclude my long letter with an allusion to the only remaining place of any importance.--About eighteen miles to the east of Woodville are the "Elysian Fields!" "Shade of Achilles," you exclaim, "are the Elysü Campi of thy ghostly wanderings discovered in a Mississippian forest?" Nevertheless they are here, and the great problem is solved. Some have placed these regions in the sun, some in the moon, and others in the middle region of the air; and others again in the centre of the earth, in the vicinity of Tartarus, and probably in the neighbourhood of the "incognita terra" of Capt. Symmes. By many, and this was the vulgar opinion, they were supposed to lie among the Canary isles: but, march of mind! more modern and wiser heads have discovered their position nearly on the confines of Louisiana and Mississippi. Here the traveller will behold beautiful birds with gorgeous plumage--for splendidly enamelled birds enrich, with their brilliant dyes, the forests of the south--and his ear will drink in the sweetest melody from the feathered myriads--such as would have tempted even "pius Æneas" to linger on his way: but this, alas! is all that his imagination will recognize of Elysium. Trojan chiefs he will find metamorphosed into Mandingo negroes, who, in lieu of managing "war-horses," and handling arms, are guiding, with loud clamour, the philosophic mule, or wielding the useful hoe. Nymphs gathering flowers, "themselves the fairer," he will find changed into Congo sylphs, whose zoneless waists plainly demonstrate the possibility of the quadrature, who with skilful fingers gather the milk-white cotton from the teeming stalks. A few buildings, of an ordinary kind, and a post-office, surrounded by cotton fields and woods, make up the sum of this celestial abode for departed heroes. FOOTNOTES: [14] Henry Vose, Esq., of Woodville. XXXVIII. Coloured population of the south--Mississippi saddle and horse caparisons--Ride through the city--Chain gang--Lynch law--Want of a penitentiary--Difficulties in consequence-- Summary justice--Boating on the Mississippi--Chain gang and the runaway--Suburbs--Orphan asylum--A past era. For the tourist to give sketches of the south without adverting to the slave population, would be as difficult, as for the historian to write of the early settlement of America without alluding to the aborigines. I shall, therefore, in this and two or three subsequent letters, discursively, as the subject is suggested to me, introduce such notices of the relative and actual condition of the slaves in this state, as may have a tendency to correct any prejudices, which as a New-Englander you may have imbibed, and set you right upon a subject, which has been singularly misrepresented. With slavery in the abstract, my remarks have nothing to do. Southerners and northerners think alike here--but I wish to present the subject before you precisely, as during a long residence in Mississippi it has constantly been presented to me--not to give you _ex parte_ facts, and those from the darkest side of the picture--recording the moan here, and omitting the smile there--remembering the sound of the lash, and forgetting that of the violin--painting the ragged slave, and passing by his gayly-dressed fellow--but to state facts impartially and fearlessly, leaving you to draw your own conclusions. Aware of the nature of the ground, upon which I am about to venture, I trust that I shall approach a subject upon which the sons of the chivalresque south are naturally so sensitive--involving as it does, a right so sacred as that of property--without those prejudices with which a northerner might be supposed fore-armed. Among the numerous important subjects with which the public mind within a few years past has been agitated, no one has been so obscured by error, and altogether so little understood as this. In my letters from New-Orleans, there was but little allusion to this subject, as I then possessed very slight and imperfect knowledge of it. But the broad peculiarities of slavery, and the general traits of African character differ not materially, whether exhibited on the extensive sugar fields of Louisiana, or on the cotton plantations of Mississippi. The relative situations, also, of the slaves are so much alike, that a dissertation upon slavery as it exists in one state, can with almost equal precision be applied to it as existing in the other. All my remarks upon this subject, however, are the result only of my observations in the state of Mississippi. "Will you ride with me into the country?" said a young planter as we rose from the _table d'hote_ of the Mansion house. "I am about purchasing a few negroes, and a peep into a slave-mart may not be uninteresting to you." I readily embraced the opportunity thus presented of visiting a southern slave market; and in a few minutes our horses were at the door--long-tailed pacers with flowing manes and slender limbs. One of them was caparisoned with the deep concave Spanish saddle I have so often mentioned, with a high pummel terminating in a round flat head--and covered with blue broad-cloth, which hung nearly to the stirrup, and, extending in one piece far behind, formed ample housings. The other horse bore an ordinary saddle, over which was thrown a light blue merino blanket several times folded, and secured to the saddle by a gayly-woven surcingle. Southerners usually ride with a thick blanket, oftener white than coloured, thus bound over their saddles, forming a comfortable cushion, and another placed between the saddle and the back of the horse. These blankets are considered indispensable in this climate. They are not always of the purest white, and the negroes, whose taste in this as well as in many other things might be improved, usually put them on awry, with a ragged corner hanging down in fine contrast with the handsome saddle, and in pleasant companionship with the cloth skirts of the rider. These little matters, however, the southerner seldom notices. If well mounted, which he is always sure to be, the "keeping" of the _ensemble_ is but a secondary affair. The saddle blankets are often unstrapped by the rider, in case of rain, and folded about him after the manner of the Choctaws. This custom of wearing blankets over the saddle originated with the old pioneers, who carried them to sleep on, as they camped in the woods. Crossing Cotton Square--the chief market place for cotton in the city--we in a few minutes entered upon the great northern road leading to Jackson, the capital of this state, and thence to Washington, the seat of the general government. Near the intersection of this road with the city streets, a sudden clanking of chains, startled our horses, and the next instant a gang of negroes, in straggling procession, followed by an ordinary looking white man armed with a whip, emerged from one of the streets. Each negro carried slung over his shoulder a polished iron ball, apparently a twenty-four pounder, suspended by a heavy ox chain five or six feet in length and secured to the right ancle by a massive ring. They moved along under their burthen as though it were any thing but comfortable--some with idealess faces, looking the mere animal, others with sullen and dogged looks, and others again talking and laughing as though "Hymen's chains had bound them." This galley-looking procession, whose tattered wardrobe seemed to have been stolen from a chimney-sweep, was what is very appropriately termed the "Chain gang," a fraternity well known in New-Orleans and Natchez, and valued for its services in cleaning and repairing the streets. In the former city however there is one for whites as well as blacks, who may be known by their parti-coloured clothing. These gangs are merely moving penitentiaries, appropriating that amount of labour, which at the north is expended within four walls, to the broader limits of the city. In Natchez, negro criminals only are thus honoured--a "coat of tar and feathers" being applied to those white men who may require some kind of discipline not provided by the courts of justice. This last summary process of popular justice, or more properly excitement, termed "Lynch's law," I believe from its originator, is too much in vogue in this state. In the resentment of public as well as private wrongs, individuals have long been in the habit of forestalling and improving upon the decisions of the courts, by taking the execution of the laws into their own hands. The consequence is, that the dignity of the bench is degraded, and justice is set aside for the exhibition of wild outbreaks of popular feeling. But this summary mode of procedure is now, to the honour of the south, rapidly falling into disuse, and men feel willing to yield to the dignity of the law and acquiesce in its decisions, even to the sacrifice of individual prejudices. That "border" state of society from which the custom originated no longer exists here--and the causes having ceased which at first, in the absence of proper tribunals, may have rendered it perhaps necessary thus to administer justice, the effect will naturally cease also--and men will surrender the sword of justice to the public tribunals, erected by themselves. The want of a penitentiary has had a tendency to keep this custom alive in this state longer than it would otherwise have existed. When an individual is guilty of any offence, which renders him amenable to the laws, he must either be acquitted altogether or suffer death. There is no intermediate mode of punishment, except the stocks, whipping, branding and cropping--the last two are seldom resorted to now as legal punishments, and the others are regarded as too light an expiation for an offence which merited a seven years' imprisonment. Therefore when a criminal is acquitted, because his guilt is not quite sufficient to demand the sacrifice of his life, but enough to confine him to many years' hard labour in a state's prison--popular vengeance, if the nature of his guilt has enlisted the feelings of the multitude--immediately seizes upon him, and the poor wretch expiates his crime, by one of the most cruel systems of justice that human ingenuity has ever invented. When a criminal is here condemned to death, whose sentence in other states would have been confinement for a limited period, there is in public feeling sometimes a reaction, as singularly in the other extreme. Petitions for his pardon are circulated, and, with columns of names appended, presented to the governor, for here there can be no commutation of a sentence of death.--There must be a free, unconditional pardon or the scaffold. Sometimes a criminal under sentence of death is pardoned by the governor, thinking his crime not sufficiently aggravated to be atoned for by his life, which may often be the case in a state where eleven crimes are punishable with death.[15] In such instances the criminal, unless escorted beyond the reach of popular resentment, receives from the multitude a commutation of his sentence, which, through the tender mercies of his judges, is more dreadful than death itself. Death indeed has in two or three instances terminated the sufferings of these victims of public feeling; sometimes they have been placed upright in a skiff with their arms pinioned behind them, and a jug of whiskey placed at their feet, and thus thrown upon the mercy of the Mississippi, down which under a burning sun, naked and bare-headed they are borne, till rescued by some steamer, cast upon the inhospitable shores, or buried beneath the waves. This act, inhuman as it may appear, does not indicate a more barbarous or inhuman state of society than elsewhere. It is the consequence of a deficiency in the mode and means of punishment. Was there but one sentence passed upon all criminals in sober New-England, and that sentence, death, humanity would lead to numerous acquittals and pardons, while popular feeling, when it felt itself injured, refusing to acquiesce in the total escape of the guilty, would take upon itself to inflict that punishment which the code had neglected to provide. A penitentiary in this state would at once do away this custom, which however necessary it may appear in the opinion of those who adhere to it, can never be defended. The "chain gang," which led to this digression, consists of insubordinate negroes and slaves, who, having run away from their masters, have been taken up and confined in jail, to await the reclamation of their owners; during the interval elapsing between their arrest and the time of their liberation by their masters, they are daily led forth from the prison to work on the streets, under the charge of an overseer. This punishment is considered very degrading, and merely the threat of the Calaboose, or the "ball and chain," will often intimidate and render submissive the most incorrigible. "Hi! Bill--dat you in ball and chain?" said, as we passed by, a young slave well dressed and mounted on his master's fine saddle-horse; "I no tink you eber runaway--you is a disgrace to we black gentlemen--I neber 'sociate wid you 'gain." Bill, who was a tall, good-looking mulatto, the coachman of a gentleman near town, and of course, high in the scale of African society--seemed to feel the reproof, and be sensible of his degradation; for he hung his head moodily and in silence. The other prisoners, however, began to vituperate the young horseman, who was glad to escape from their Billingsgate missiles, by quickening his speed. When a runaway is apprehended he is committed to jail, and an advertisement describing his person and wearing apparel, is inserted in the newspaper for six months, if he is not claimed in the interim; at the expiration of which period he may be sold at auction, and the proceeds, after deducting all expenses, go to the use of the county. Should the owner subsequently claim and prove his property, the amount paid into the treasury, on account of the sale, is refunded to him. An owner, making his claim before the six months have expired, and proving his property before a justice of the peace, is allowed to take him away on producing a certificate to that effect from the justice, and paying the expenses incurred in the apprehension and securing of his slave. All runaways, or suspected runaways, may lawfully be apprehended, and carried before a justice of the peace, who at his discretion may either commit them to jail, or send them to the owner, and the person by whom the arrest was made, is entitled to six dollars for each, on delivering him to his master. The road, for the first mile after leaving town, passed through a charming country, seen at intervals, and between long lines of unpainted, wretched looking dwellings, occupied as "groggeries," by free negroes, or poor emigrants. The contrast between the miserable buildings and their squalid occupants, and the rich woodlands beyond them on either side, among whose noble trees rose the white columns and lofty roofs of elegant villas, was certainly very great, but far from agreeable. On a hill a short distance from the road the "Orphan Asylum" was pointed out to me, by my companion, as a monument of the benevolence and public spirit of the ladies of Natchez. Shortly after the prevalence of a great epidemic in this city, seventeen years ago, which left many children orphans, and destitute, a few distinguished ladies formed themselves into a society for their aid, obtained bountiful subscriptions, for on such occasions hearts and purses are freely opened, gathered the parentless children scattered throughout the city, and placed them in this asylum, where all destitute orphans have since found a home. The institution is now in a flourishing state, and is under the patronage of several ladies of great respectability. Some distance beyond the asylum, to the left, a fine view of groves and green hills, presenting a prospect strikingly resembling English park scenery, terminated in the roofs and columns of a "southern palace" rising above rich woods and evergreen foliage--the residence of the family of a late distinguished officer under the Spanish _regime_. These massive structures, with double colonnades and spacious galleries, peculiar to the opulent southern planter, are numerous in the neighbourhood of Natchez, but they date back to the great cotton era, when fortunes were made almost in a single season. Magnificence was then the prevailing taste, and the walls of costly dwellings rose, as the most available means of displaying to the public eye the rapidly acquired wealth of successful speculators. But times are now somewhat changed. The rage for these noble and expensive structures has passed away, and those which are now seen, rear themselves among magnificent groves--monuments only of the past, when the good old customs of Virginia characterized the inhabitants. These were for the most part gentlemen of education, or officers of the army--for those were military times. This was the day of dinner parties and courtly balls--an era to which the gentlemen, who participated in them, now look back with a sigh. Perhaps no state--not even Virginia herself, which Mississippi claims as her mother country--could present a more hospitable, chivalrous, and high-minded class of men, or more cultivated females than this, during the first few years, subsequent to its accession to the Union. FOOTNOTES: [15] The capital crimes of this state are, murder, arson, robbery, rape, burglary, stealing a slave, stealing or selling a free person for a slave, forgery, manslaughter, second offence--horse stealing, second offence--accessories, before the fact, to rape, arson, robbery and burglary. XXXIX. Slave mart--Scene within--File of negroes--"Trader"--Negro feelings--George and his purchaser--George's old and new wife--Female slaves--The intellect of the negro--A theory-- An elderly lady and her slaves--Views of slaves upon their condition--Separation of kindred among slaves. Having terminated my last letter with one of my usual digressions, before entering upon the subject with which I had intended to fill its pages, I will now pursue my original design, and introduce you into one of the great slave-marts of the south-west. A mile from Natchez we came to a cluster of rough wooden buildings, in the angle of two roads, in front of which several saddle-horses, either tied or held by servants, indicated a place of popular resort. "This is the slave market," said my companion, pointing to a building in the rear; and alighting, we left our horses in charge of a neatly dressed yellow boy belonging to the establishment. Entering through a wide gate into a narrow court-yard, partially enclosed by low buildings, a scene of a novel character was at once presented. A line of negroes, commencing at the entrance with the tallest, who was not more than five feet eight or nine inches in height--for negroes are a low rather than a tall race of men--down to a little fellow about ten years of age, extended in a semicircle around the right side of the yard. There were in all about forty. Each was dressed in the usual uniform of slaves, when in market, consisting of a fashionably shaped, black fur hat, roundabout and trowsers of coarse corduroy velvet, precisely such as are worn by Irish labourers, when they first "come over the water;" good vests, strong shoes, and white cotton shirts, completed their equipment. This dress they lay aside after they are sold, or wear out as soon as may be; for the negro dislikes to retain the indication of his having recently been in the market. With their hats in their hands, which hung down by their sides, they stood perfectly still, and in close order, while some gentlemen were passing from one to another examining for the purpose of buying. With the exception of displaying their teeth when addressed, and rolling their great white eyes about the court--they were so many statues of the most glossy ebony. As we entered the mart, one of the slave merchants--for a "lot" of slaves is usually accompanied, if not owned, by two or three individuals--approached us, saying "Good morning, gentlemen! Would you like to examine my lot of boys?[16] I have as fine a lot as ever came into market."--We approached them, one of us as a curious spectator, the other as a purchaser; and as my friend passed along the line, with a scrutinizing eye--giving that singular look, peculiar to the buyer of slaves as he glances from head to foot over each individual--the passive subjects of his observations betrayed no other signs of curiosity than that evinced by an occasional glance. The entrance of a stranger into a mart is by no means an unimportant event to the slave, for every stranger may soon become his master and command his future destinies. But negroes are seldom strongly affected by any circumstances, and their reflections never give them much uneasiness. To the generality of them, life is mere animal existence, passed in physical exertion or enjoyment. This is the case with the field hands in particular, and more so with the females than the males, who through a long life seldom see any other white person than their master or overseer, or any other gentleman's dwelling than the "great hus," the "white house" of these little domestic empires in which they are the subjects. To this class a change of masters is a matter of indifference;--they are handed from one to another with the passiveness of a purchased horse. These constitute the lowest rank of slaves, and lowest grade in the scale of the human species. Domestic and city slaves form classes of a superior order, though each constitutes a distinct class by itself. I shall speak of these more fully hereafter. "For what service in particular did you want to buy?" inquired the "trader" of my friend, "A coachman." "There is one I think may suit you, sir," said he; "George, step out here." Forthwith a light-coloured negro, with a fine figure and good face, bating an enormous pair of lips, advanced a step from the line, and looked with some degree of intelligence, though with an air of indifference, upon his intended purchaser. "How old are you, George?" he inquired. "I don't recollect, sir, 'zactly--b'lieve I'm somewere 'bout twenty-dree." "Where were you raised?" "On master R----'s farm in Wirginny." "Then you are a Virginia negro." "Yes, master, me full blood Wirginny." "Did you drive your master's carriage?" "Yes, master, I drove ole missus' carage, more dan four year." "Have you a wife?" "Yes, master, I lef' young wife in Richmond, but I got new wife here in de lot. I wishy you buy her, master, if you gwine to buy me." Then came a series of the usual questions from the intended purchaser. "Let me see your teeth--your tongue--open your hands--roll up your sleeves--have you a good appetite? are you good tempered?" "Me get mad sometime," replied George to the last query, "but neber wid my horses." "What do you ask for this boy, sir?" inquired the planter, after putting a few more questions to the unusually loquacious slave. "I have held him at one thousand dollars, but I will take nine hundred and seventy-five cash." The bargain was in a few minutes concluded, and my companion took the negro at nine hundred and fifty, giving negotiable paper--the customary way of paying for slaves--at four months. It is, however, generally understood, that if servants prove unqualified for the particular service for which they are bought, the sale is dissolved. So there is in general perfect safety in purchasing servants untried, and merely on the warrant of the seller. George, in the meanwhile, stood by, with his hat in his hand, apparently unconcerned in the negotiations going on, and when the trader said to him, "George, the gentleman has bought you; get ready to go with him," he appeared gratified at the tidings, and smiled upon his companions apparently quite pleased, and then bounded off to the buildings for his little bundle. In a few minutes he returned and took leave of several of his companions, who, having been drawn up into line only to be shown to purchasers, were now once more at liberty, and moving about the court, all the visiters having left except my friend and myself. "You mighty lucky, George" said one, congratulating him, "to get sol so quick." Oh, you neber min', Charly," replied the delighted George; "your turn come soon too." "You know who you' master be--whar he live?" said another. "No, not zactly; he lib on plantation some whar here 'bout." After taking leave of his companions, George came, hat in hand, very respectfully, to his purchaser, and said, "Young master, you never be sorry for buy George; I make you a good servant. But--beg pardon, master--but--if master would be so good as buy Jane--" "Who is Jane?"--"My wife, since I come from Wirginny. She good wife and a good girl--she good seamstress an' good nurse--make de nice shirts and ebery ting." "Where is she, George?" "Here she be, master," said he, pointing to a bright mulatto girl, about eighteen, with a genteel figure and a lively countenance, who was waiting with anxiety the reply of the planter. Opposite to the line of males was also a line of females, extended along the left side of the court. They were about twenty in number, dressed in neat calico frocks, white aprons and capes, and fancy kerchiefs, tied in a mode peculiar to the negress, upon their heads. Their whole appearance was extremely neat and "tidy." They could not be disciplined to the grave silence observed by the males, but were constantly laughing and chattering with each other in suppressed voices, and appeared to take, generally, a livelier interest in the transactions in which all were equally concerned. The planter approached this line of female slaves, and inquired of the girl her capabilities as seamstress, nurse, and ironer. Her price was seven hundred and fifty dollars. He said he would take her to his family; and if the ladies were pleased with her, he would purchase her. The poor girl was as much delighted as though already purchased; and, at the command of the trader, went to prepare herself to leave the mart. Some other negroes were purchased, several of whom appeared merely powerful combinations of bone and muscle, and the only idea suggested to the mind, in gazing upon them, was of remarkable physical energy. In the dull eye and fleshy mouth there was no expression indicative of intellect. It is the popular opinion, both at the north and south, that the negro is inferior in intellect to the white man. This opinion is not, however, founded upon just experience. The African intellect has never been developed. Individuals, indeed, have been educated, whose acquirements certainly reflect honour upon the race. Uneducated negroes have also exhibited indications of strong intellectual vigour. And because, in both instances, the negro has shown himself still inferior to the white man, he is unhesitatingly pronounced an inferior being, irremediably so, in the estimation of his judges, by the operation of organic laws. That the African intellect, in its present state, is inferior to that of the European, is undeniable: but that, by any peculiarity in his organized system, a necessary inferiority ensues, will not so readily be admitted. Physiologists have agreed, that physical peculiarities may be communicated from generation to generation; and it is no less certain that mental talents may thus be transmitted also. Dr. King, in speaking of the fatality which attended the house of Stuart, says, "If I were to ascribe their calamities to another cause" (than evil fate), "or endeavour to account for them by any natural means, I should think they were chiefly owing to a certain obstinacy of temper, which appears to have been hereditary, and inherent in all the Stuarts, except Charles the second." The Brahmins are much superior in intellect to all the other castes in Hindostan; and it is mentioned, says Combe, by the missionaries, as an ascertained fact, that the children of the Brahmins are naturally more acute, intelligent, and docile, than those of the inferior castes, age and other circumstances being equal. "Parents," says Dr. Gregory, "frequently live again in their offspring. It is certain that children resemble their parents, not only in countenance and in the form of the body, but in mental dispositions and in their virtues and vices. The haughty "gens Claudia" transmitted the peculiar mental character of its founder through six centuries, and in the tyrannical Nero again lived the imperious Appius Claudius." If this theory be correct, there is something more to be done before African intellect can be fairly developed. If culture will expand the intellect of the untutored negro--take one of the present generation for instance--according to this theory, which experience proves to be true, it is certain that he will transmit to his offspring an intellectual organization, so to speak, superior to that which was transmitted to himself by his parent; the mind of the offspring will be a less rude soil for mental cultivation than was his father's; and when his education is commenced, he will be one step in the scale of intellect in advance of his parents at the same period. When he arrives at maturity, he will, under equal circumstances, be mentally superior to his progenitors at the same period of their lives. His offspring will be superior to himself, and their offspring yet a grade higher in the scale of intelligence, and standing, perhaps, upon the very line drawn between human and angelic intellect. His mind will bear comparison with that of the white man; and, morally and intellectually, he will stand beside him as his equal. This is mere theory, but it is theory based upon the operation of laws whose general principles cannot be controverted: and when the negro, by the emancipation of his species, has opportunity for the culture of his own mind--which, if he is disposed to neglect, the philanthropist will not be--a few generations will leave no traces of those mental shackles, which, like chains loaded upon the body, have so long borne him down to a level with the brute. Till time proves this original equi-mental organization of the white man and the negro, which opinion fact has been strengthening for two or three generations in individual instances, it is due, both to philanthropy and justice, to suspend the sentence which condemns him as a being less than man. Shortly before leaving the slave mart--a handsome carriage drove up, from which alighted an elderly lady, who, leaning on the arm of a youth, entered the court. After looking at and questioning in a kind tone several of the female slaves, she purchased two, a young mother and her child, and in a few minutes afterward, at the solicitation of the youth, purchased the husband of the girl, and all three, with happy faces--happier, that they were not to be separated--flew to get their little parcels, and rode away with their mistress,--the wife and child sitting within the carriage on the front seat--and the man on the coach-box beside the coachman. We soon after mounted our horses, and with George and his wife walking on before us with elastic steps, returned to town. The slave market, which is the subject of this letter, I have since frequently visited, as well as four or five others in the vicinity of Natchez, where several hundred slaves of all ages, colours, and conditions, of both sexes, were exposed for sale. I have conversed with a great number of them, from the liveliest to the most sullen, and my impression, which is daily strengthened by a more intimate knowledge of their species, is, that the negro is not dissatisfied with his condition--that it is seldom or never the subject of his thoughts--that he regards it as his destiny, as much as a home about the poles is the Laplander's; nor does he pine after freedom more than the other after the green hills and sunny skies of Italy. They find themselves first existing in this state, and pass through life without questioning the justice of their allotment, which, if they think at all, they suppose a natural one. Had the American slave once enjoyed freedom, these circumstances would be changed. But there is probably not one among them, except some venerable African, who has realized what it is to be free. So long as he has had any consciousness, he is conscious of having been a slave, and he fulfils his duties as such, without stopping from time to time to put the question to himself, "Is this my original destiny? Was my first ancestor created a slave?" With as much propriety might the haughty white man query if more exalted physical beauty and perfection were not once his, and whether man was not originally winged! There are, of course, individual exceptions to this general remark, but in the present darkened state of negro intellect, these exceptions are very few. During the time they remain in the mart for sale, few men pass their time with more apparent contentment. There are two extensive markets for slaves, opposite to each other, on the road to Washington, three miles from Natchez. These I have passed at least once a week for more than a year, and I have always seen the slaves either dancing to the sound of the violin, played by one of their number, playing at marbles, quoits, practising gymnastics, lounging, sleeping in the sun, or idling about the door, while their masters, the "slave traders," regardless of them, were playing at cards or backgammon, smoking or sitting about the door conversing together, or with a buyer; their presence not producing the least restraint upon the noisy merriment around them. But when a purchaser stops and desires to look at the "lot," the slaves at once leave their several amusements, and draw up into a line, for inspection and purchase; and when the stranger leaves, taking with him one or more of their number, to whom they bid a cheerful good-bye, they return to their former pursuits wholly unimpressed by the event that has just taken place. Negroes, when brought into market, are always anxious to be sold; and to be sold first is a great desideratum, for in their estimation it is an evidence of their superiority. "None but poor nigger stay for be sol' last." Hence, when a purchaser enters, they strive to appear before him to the best advantage, and by their manner assiduously invite attention to themselves. There are but two things which at all depress the mind of the slave in market; these are, the possibility of obtaining a bad master, and that of being separated from their relations. The first, however, seldom troubles them, and the degree in which they are governed by this apprehension depends wholly upon their former treatment. With individuals who have been blessed with a partial master it may weigh much, but with the generality of slaves it is a light consideration. The latter apprehension is in a great measure lessened by a certainty of being sold together to the same individual, if possible. It is a rule seldom deviated from, to sell families and relations together, if practicable, and if not, at least to masters residing in the neighbourhood of each other. A negro trader, in my presence, refused to sell a negro girl, for whom a planter offered a high price, because he would not also purchase her sister--"for," said the trader, "they are much attached to each other, and when their mother died I promised her I would not part them." Relatives, except husband and wife, often prefer being sold to different masters in the same neighbourhood. This is to be attributed to the roving propensity of their race, which induces them to prefer a separation of this nature, for a pretence to visit from one plantation to another on Sabbaths and Christmas holydays, at which season the slaves have a temporary freedom for several days. Then the highways, lanes, and streets, in town and country, are filled with gay parties on foot or on plough-horses, caparisoned for the occasion, as happy as the total absence of care, thoughtlessness of to-morrow, plenty of whiskey, and a cessation of all labour, can make them. FOOTNOTES: [16] Male slaves of any age under forty are always denominated boys. XL. Towns of Mississippi--Naming estates--The influence of towns on the social relations of the planters--Southern refinement --Colleges--Oakland--Clinton--Jefferson--History of the latter --Collegiate system of instruction--Primary departments-- Quadrennial classes. The towns and villages of Mississippi, as in European states, are located perfectly independent of each other, isolated among its forests, and often many leagues apart, leaving in the intervals large tracts of country covered with plantations, and claiming no minuter subdivision than that of "county." Natchez, for instance, is a corporation one mile square, but from the boundaries of the city to Woodville, the next incorporated town south, there is an interval of thirty-eight miles. It is necessary for the planters who reside between towns so far asunder, to have some more particular address, than the indefinite one arising from their vicinity to one or other of these towns. Hence has originated the pleasing custom of naming estates, as in England; and names so given are always regarded by the planters themselves, and by the community, as an inseparable part of their address. These names are generally selected with taste, such as "Monmouth," "Laurel-hill," "Grange," "Magnolia grove," "The Forest," "Cottage," "Briars," "Fatherland," and "Anchorage"--the last given by a retired navy officer to his plantation. The name is sometimes adopted with reference to some characteristic of the domain, as "The Oaks," "China grove," "New Forest," &c., but more frequently it is a mere matter of fancy. Towns in this state have usually originated from the location of a county seat, after the formation of a new county. Here the court-house is placed, and forms the centre of an area which is soon filled with edifices and inhabitants. If the county lies on the river, another town may arise, for a shipping port, but here the accumulation of towns usually ceases. A county seat, and a cotton mart, are all that an agricultural country requires. The towns in this state are thus dispersed two or three to each county, nor so long as this is a planting country, will there be any great increase to their number, although in wealth and importance they may rival, particularly the shipping ports, the most populous places in the valley of the west. In these towns are the banks, the merchants, the post offices, and the several places of resort for business or pleasure that draw the planter and his family from his estate. Each town is the centre of a circle which extends many miles around it into the country, and daily attracts all within its influence. The ladies come in their carriages "to shop," the gentlemen, on horseback, to do business with their commission merchants, visit the banks, hear the news, dine together at the hotels, and ride back in the evening. The southern town is properly the "Exchange" for the neighbouring planters, and the "Broadway" for their wives and daughters. And as no plantation is without a private carriage, the number of these gay vehicles, filling the streets of the larger towns on pleasant mornings in the winter, is surprising. I have counted between thirty and forty private carriages in the streets of Natchez in one morning. In a small country village, I once numbered seventeen, standing around a Methodist chapel. Showy carriages and saddle horses are the peculiar characteristics of the "moving spectacle" in the streets of south-western towns. Every village is a nucleus of southern society, to which the least portion is generally contributed by itself. When a public ball is given by the bachelors, in one of these towns--for private parties are scarcely known--the tickets of invitation fly into the retirement of the plantations, within the prescribed circle, often to the distance of thirty miles. Thus families, who reside several leagues apart, on opposite sides of the town, and who might otherwise never associate, unless on "change," or in "shopping," meet together, like the inhabitants of one city. This state of things unites, in a social bond, the intelligent inhabitants of a large extent of country, who are nearly equally wealthy, and creates a state of society in the highest degree favourable to hospitality and social feeling. These social "circles" often revolve within one another, and sometimes enlarge, until they embrace several towns. The Mississippians are remarkable for their "locomotivity;" an organ which they have plainly developed, if we reason, as phrenologists sometimes do, from effect to cause--and whose existence is manifest from their propensity annually to depopulate their state, by taking northern tours during the summer months. During the season of gayety, in the winter months, the public assemblies and private coteries of Natchez are unsurpassed by those of any other city, in the elegance, refinement, or loveliness of the individuals who compose them. If you will bear in mind, that the southern females of wealth are usually educated in the most finished style, at the first female seminaries in the north, and, until recently, not seldom in Europe; and recollect the personal beauty, sprightliness, and extreme refinement of the southern lady, you will not be surprised that elegant women grace the private circles, and shine in the gay assemblies of southern cities. But fashion and refinement are not confined to Natchez. In nearly every county reside opulent planters, whose children enjoy precisely the same advantages as are afforded in the city. Drawn from the seclusion of their plantations, their daughters are sent to the north; whence they return, in the course of time, with cultivated minds and elegant manners. Hence every village can draw around it a polished circle of its own; for refinement and wealth do not always diminish here, as in New-England, in the inverse ratio of distance from a metropolis--and elegant women may often be found blooming in the depths of forests far in the interior. Less attention is paid to the mental or personal cultivation of the male youth of this state, than to that of the females. Many of them are partially educated at home; and, by the time they attain the age at which northern boys enter college, become assistants on the plantation, which they expect one day to inherit; or, at the age of nineteen or twenty, receive from their parents land and negroes, and commence planting for themselves. At the age of twenty-one or two they frequently marry. Many planters are opposed to giving their sons, whom they destine to succeed them as farmers, a classical education. A common practical education they consider sufficient for young gentlemen who are to bury themselves for life in the retirement of a plantation. But Mississippi, in this age and at this juncture, from the peculiar construction of her political and social laws, demands an educated youth.--The majority of the planters are able to educate their children in a superior manner; and if they do this, they will elevate the rising generation high in the scale of society, and give Mississippi an honourable rank among the republics of America. Although education is not indigenous, and is too frequently a secondary consideration in the minds of many, children in the towns are probably as well educated as they would be at the north, under similar circumstances, for no village is without private schools. But the education of young children on plantations is much neglected. Many boys and girls, whose parents reside five or ten miles from any town or academy, and do not employ tutors, grow up to the age of eight or ten, unable either to read or write. Some planters, who have but one or two children, and do not think it worth while to employ a tutor for so small a number, thoughtless of the injury their children may sustain, suffer them to grow up at home, almost ignorant even of the alphabet, till of an age to be sent away to a boarding-school, or an academy, where they first learn to read. In such a state of things, it is not uncommon to meet with very interesting and intelligent children wholly ignorant of those childish studies, and that story-book information, which throw such a charm over their little society, invigorating the intellectual faculties, and laying a foundation for a superstructure of mind. Often several families will unite and employ a tutor; constructing, for the purpose, a school-house, in a central position among their plantations. But those who look forward to a high rank in American and European society for their children, employ private tutors in their own houses, even if they have but one child. Some gentlemen send their children, when quite young, to the north, and visit them every summer. Two-thirds of the planters' children of this state are educated out of it. There is annually a larger sum carried out of the state, for the education of children at the north, and in the expenses of parents in making them yearly visits there, than would be sufficient to endow an institution at intervals of four or five years. There are three colleges in Mississippi; but Mississippians have so long been in the habit of sending their children away, when it was necessary, that they still adhere to the custom, when there is no farther occasion for it; and the consequence is, that their own institutions are neglected, and soon fall into decay, while the money which they send for the support of northern colleges, would elevate their own to high literary distinction and usefulness. Oakland college, twenty-five miles from Natchez, near Rodney, is a flourishing institution under Presbyterian patronage. It is of recent foundation, and has yet no permanent buildings; but handsome college edifices are about to be erected for the accommodation of the students. Its situation is rural and very healthy. Its funds are respectable, and under the presidency of the Rev. J. Chamberlin, a gentleman of learning and piety, it is rapidly rising into eminence. It already has about one hundred students, and its professors are men of talent and industry, one of whom is a son of the late Dr. Payson of Portland. It is thus that young northerners work their way to distinction in the south and west. There is another college at Clinton, of which I have before spoken, and also an academy at Natchez, ranking as high as a south-western college, under the superintendence of J. H. B. Black, Esq. of New-Jersey. Jefferson college, in the village of Washington, six miles from Natchez, is the oldest and best endowed institution in the state. It was founded by private subscription in 1802, and subsequently received a grant of a township of unsaleable land from Congress, exchanged two years since for a more eligible tract, which sold for a very large sum. The income of the college is now about eight thousand dollars, arising from a fund of more than one hundred and fifty thousand. The building is a large, three-story brick edifice, handsomely finished, and capable of containing one hundred students. The location is highly beautiful, in a grove of majestic oaks, and at the head of a fine green parade, which lies, with a magnificent oak in its centre, between it and the village. A primary department is connected with it; and a pleasant brick building, half surrounded with galleries, on the opposite side of the "green," is appropriated to this branch of the institution. The primary department, which includes a moiety of the students, is under the able superintendence of professor Crane, a native of New-Jersey, and recently from West Point. The history of this institution will confirm what I have stated in my remarks upon education. Since its organization until very recently, it has laboured under pecuniary difficulties, with which it was unable to contend; for a great part of the time it has been without pupils or teachers; and its halls have occasionally been used for private schools. It obtained no celebrity as a college until 1829-30, when Mr. Williston, the author of "Eloquence in the United States," and "Williston's Tacitus," was chosen its president, and the institution was placed under military organization, after the plan adopted by capt. Alden Partridge. The novelty of this mode drew a great number of pupils within its walls. The following year ill health compelled president Williston to resign, and he was succeeded by major Holbrook, formerly principal of the seminary in Georgetown, D. C. During his presidency there were above one hundred and fifty cadets connected with the institution, and it was more flourishing in every respect than any other in the south-west. But the new president, seized with the mania for cotton-planting, which infects all who reside here for any length of time, devoted a portion of his attention to agricultural pursuits, and the patrons of the college, perhaps regarding this additional vocation as incompatible with that of instructing, withdrew their sons, one after another, the novelty of a military education having worn off, and fell into the old mode of keeping them at home on their plantations, or sending them to Kentucky, the great academy for Mississippi youth, to complete their education. During the summer the president died, and the institution again became disorganized. In 1833, capt. Alden Partridge was invited by the board of trustees to assume the presidency, but after remaining a few months, returned to the north, unable to restore it to its former flourishing condition. The college halls became again, and for the sixth time since their foundation, nearly deserted. In the spring of 1834, the board invited two professors to take charge of the college until they could decide upon the choice of a president. The present year, C. B. Dubuisson, Esq. of Philadelphia, one of these professors, was unanimously elected president, and was inaugurated on the 6th of July, 1835. Under the new president, who is a finished scholar and a very amiable and energetic man, the college has become very flourishing, and is rapidly advancing to permanent literary distinction. Professor Symmes, a graduate of the University of Virginia, and an able scholar, is professor of mathematics. Under these two gentlemen, and the professor in the primary department, planters may now have their sons as well educated as at the north. They are beginning to think so. But if they would more generally adopt the opinion, that their sons can be educated at the south by northern professors as well as at the north, the literary institutions of this country would not have to struggle for existence, scarcely able to rise above the rank of an academy. In connexion with the disinclination which southerners have to educating their sons at home, and their disposition to depreciate their native institutions, there exists another cause, with a direct tendency to check their advancement. It is the system of education pursued in their colleges, which, in a great degree, is the result of necessity. Until within a few years, there have been no good preparatory schools in this state, where youth could fit themselves for admission into college. Now, to form the lowest class in a college, it is necessary that those who are to compose it--however large or small their number--should have gone through a prescribed series of preparatory studies. But where there has been no opportunity for pursuing this preparatory course, as here in the south-west, the college must open its doors to unprepared youth, to the great injury of its classes, or, in the absence of other means, provide measures for fitting them for admission. These measures all colleges here are at present taking, by the establishment of primary departments; until the pupils of these departments are qualified for promotion, the college classes remain vacant; and thus, though nominally a college, the institution is, for the time being, an academy, or preparatory school for _itself_. This is the present state of the colleges here, and none of them have advanced so far as to open the junior class. Jefferson College indeed has been, with the exception of its condition under military discipline a few years since, no more than a preparatory department since its organization. It is now rising into the dignity of a college, although the quadrennial course, which in our notions is inseparable from a collegiate education, is not intended by the board to form a part of their system. The method adopted in the University of Virginia, in relation to the routine of studies and succession of classes, will be partially pursued. In the present state of things, this is no doubt the preferable course to follow; but it is to be feared that the college will never be eminent or very permanent, until established on the good old basis of our northern institutions. If this system were adopted, and a professor appointed to fill the chair in each department of science, whether there were students or not--and the freshman class opened, even by the admission of a single scholar--the institution, with its immense fund, would stand upon an immovable foundation. The classes would increase every year in size, and at the end of the fifth series, or in twenty years, a class of seniors would receive their degrees, whom even aristocratic Harvard would not disdain to acknowledge as her foster children. XLI. Indian mounds--Their origin and object--Tumuli near Natchez --Skulls and other remains--Visit to the fortifications or mounds at Seltzertown--Appearance and description of the mounds--Their age--Reflections--History of the Natchez. The Indian mounds, those gigantic mausolea of unhistoried nations, will ever present a subject of absorbing interest to the reflecting mind. Elevating their green summits amid the great forests of the west--mysterious links of the unknown past--they will stand imperishable through time, encircled by the cities and palaces of men, silent but impressive monitors of their grasping ambition. These sepulchres are scattered every where throughout the valley of the Mississippi--itself a mighty cemetery of mighty tombs. In the pathless forests, and on the banks of the rivers of the south-west, they are still more thickly strewed than in the north valley, indicating a denser population. It was recently suggested to me, by a gentleman of antiquarian tastes, that the Indians of the southern valley, by whom these mounds were constructed, and who were a mild and inoffensive people, far advanced in civilization, were, in remote ages, invaded by a horde of northern tribes from the Atlantic shores--as were the effeminate states of southern Europe by the Goths and Vandals--who drove out the original possessors, and took possession of their delightful country; while the fugitive inhabitants crossed the Mississippi, and, moving to the west and south, laid the foundation of the empire of Mexico. This theory is not improbable, and it is supported by many established facts. It is certain that the rude tribes found in this country, by De Soto and his followers, remnants of which still exist, cannot be identified with those by whom these tumuli were erected. Among them there exists not even a tradition of the formation of these mounds. There have been many curious hypotheses advanced in reference to their object. Some have supposed that they were constructed, after a great battle, of the numerous bodies of the slain; others, that they were the customary burial-places of the Indians, gradually accumulating in a series of years, until, terminating in a cone, they were covered with earth, and deserted for new cemeteries, to be in like manner abandoned in their turn. Others, by a train of analogous reasoning, founded upon the prevailing custom of other aboriginal tribes, have supposed them to be fortifications; and others again believe them temples; or, like the pyramids of Egypt, structures connected with the mysteries of the religion of their builders. But their true origin, like that of their grander prototypes on the plains of Memphis, must for ever be lost in conjecture. In the vicinity of Natchez, and within three hours' ride of the city, in various directions, are twelve or fifteen of these mounds. Some of them have been partially excavated; and besides many vessels, weapons of war, and ordinary human remains, skeletons of men of a large size have been found in them. On the estate of a gentleman two miles from Natchez, and in the loveliest vale in this region, there are three, situated equidistant from each other, along the bank of the St. Catharine. One of these was recently excavated by Dr. Powell, a distinguished phrenologist of the west; from which he obtained several earthen vessels, neatly made, various fragments, and besides other bones, three perfect skulls--one the most beautiful head I ever beheld, of a young Choctaw girl; another, the skull of a man of the same tribe; and the third, a massive and remarkably formed skull of a Natchez. I have since examined two of these mounds, but was not able to add any thing important to the discoveries of Dr. Powell. The perfect decomposition which has taken place in one of them, would indicate a much greater age than is generally attributed to them. I laid bare a perpendicular face of this mound, ten feet square, and the spade struck but one hard substance, which proved to be the lower jaw, containing seven or eight teeth, of some wild animal, and a few splinters of corroded human bones that crumbled between the fingers. I could easily discern several strata, in this exposed surface, alternately of common earth and a black friable loam, resembling powder to the eye, but soft like paste in the fingers. These black strata were veined with light brown or dingy white streaks, of a firmer consistence. The location of this mound, its height, not exceeding twenty feet, the uniform decomposition, and the regular series of strata, lead to the conclusion, that it was constructed at one time, probably after a battle, of the bodies of men whose deaths took place at the same period, laid in layers, one above another, as the modern slain are buried, by only reversing the process, in deep pits. The skulls found by Dr. Powell in the mound opened by him, were very perfect specimens. The head of the Choctaw differs not materially from those of Europeans, when considered phrenologically, although its developements of the organs of animal feelings are more prominent than those of the intellectual faculties. The head is generally smaller than that of the European, but the general contour is nearly the same. The skull of the Natchez is remarkable in every respect. It is large, like the German head, very angular, with bold developements. It is shaped artificially in infancy,--a peculiarity only of the skulls of the males--so that the top of the forehead forms the apex of a cone. The compressure necessary to produce this shape has entirely destroyed the organs of veneration, of benevolence, and of the reasoning powers. My examination of this skull was for a moment only, and very superficial, so that I did not ascertain the particular deficiency or developement of any special organ. The heads of the females of this extinct tribe, I am informed by those who have examined them, are very fine, displaying in their graceful, undulating outline, the _beau ideal_ of the human cranium. There is a mound about five miles from Natchez, upon the plantation of a gentleman, whose taste or ambition has influenced him to erect his dwelling upon its summit. A strange dwelling-place for the living, over the sepulchres of the dead! Eleven miles from the city there is another mound, or a collection of mounds, which, in the beauty of its location, the elevation of its summit, and the ingenuity displayed in its construction, either as a fortress or a temple, is entitled to an important rank among these mysterious structures of the western valley. A few days since I left Natchez with a northern gentleman, for the purpose of visiting this mound. Three miles from town we passed the race-course, situated in a delightful intervale. This is the finest "course" in the south, passing round a perfectly level plain in a circle of one mile, whose centre is slightly convex, so that the spectators can obtain a full view of the horses while running. Ladies, on extraordinary occasions, attend the races, although it is not customary. But to south-western gentlemen the race-course is a place of resort of the most alluring character. On the St. Catharine race-course, now alluded to, on great race days, the chivalry of Mississippi will be found assembled in high spirits, and full of the peculiar excitement incident to the occasion. Home is, perhaps, the proper scene for studying the planter's character; but it will never be perfectly understood until he is seen, booted and spurred, with his pocket-book in one hand, and bank bills fluttering in the other, moving about upon the turf. Three miles from the race-ground, about which is gathered a little village, sometimes called St. Catharinesville, we entered the pretty and rural town of Washington. The whole village was embowered in the foliage of China trees, which thickly lined both sides of the main street. Turning down a street to the left, which led to the college, we alighted there after a short ride over the green, as it was the intention of the president and one or two of the professors to accompany us to the mound. We were shown the college library, comprised in a few shelves filled with volumes of the statutes; and the cabinet, where, besides a few interesting geological specimens, were some bones of a mammoth, or mastodon, found in the neighbourhood. In the course of an hour we all mounted our horses, and, entering the village, rode down its quiet and shaded streets, and emerged on the brow of the hill or ridge on which the town is built; and shortly after crossed the pebbly bed of the St. Catharine's, which, in its serpentine windings, crosses nearly every road in the neighbourhood of Natchez. Beyond this stream, from an eminence over which the road wound, we had a fine view of the village on the opposite hill, with its college, lifting its roof among the towering oaks; its dwellings, with their light galleries and balconies, half hidden among the shade trees; the female academy, with its green lawn, a high colonnaded private edifice, overtopping the trees, and its neat unassuming churches. After a pleasant ride of five miles, through forest and plantation scenery, over a country pleasantly undulating, we arrived at the summit of a hill, just after passing a neat brick cottage, surrounded by a parterre, and half hidden in the woods; so that it would not have been observed, but for the wide gate on the road-side--often the only indication, as I have before remarked, of the vicinage of a planter's residence. From this hill we were gratified with an extensive prospect of a richly wooded and partially cultivated extent of country, occasionally rising into precipitous hills, crowned with forest trees. About a mile to the north, on our left, in the centre of a large cotton plantation, surrounded by an amphitheatre of hills, stood a singular cluster of eminences, isolated from those encircling them, whose summits were destitute of verdure or trees. These were the goal of our excursion--the celebrated tumuli of Mississippi. Descending the hill, we passed through a gate, opening into a narrow lane, bordered on either side with thick clumps of trees, and the luxuriant wild shrubbery which grows by the streams and along the roads throughout the south; and after winding through ravines and crossing bayous, we arrived at the "gin" of the plantation; a large building resembling a northern hay-press, where some negroes were at work; one of whom, with a readiness always characteristic of the negro slave, immediately came out to take charge of our horses. Declining his aid, as we had no authority for appropriating his services--a liberty as to which some planters are very punctilious--we hitched our horses to the rail fence. Had the proprietor of the estate been present, we should have solicited the aid of some of his slaves in excavating: but since then I have met with the venerable planter, who, with great politeness, has offered me every facility for making whatever researches or excavations curiosity might suggest. We ascended the steep sides of the mound with some difficulty, as they were inclined but a few degrees from the perpendicular. On gaining the summit, thirty-five feet from the base, we saw, extended before us, an elliptical area, whose plane was three or four feet lower than the verge of the mound. To the right, at the eastern extremity of the area, rose a super-mound, fifteen feet high; and on the opposite extremity, to the east, stood another, rising thirty feet from the floor of the area or summit of the great mound we had just ascended, and sixty feet from the level of the surrounding plantation. From the summit of this second mound the eye embraced an irregular amphitheatre, confined by elevated forests, half a league in diameter, whose centre was the mound, from which, on nearly every side, the ground descended, almost imperceptibly, with a few obstructions, to the foot of the surrounding hills. This peculiarity of its location, so favourable for a military position, would indicate such to have been the object of its constructors. The whole structure, so far as an opinion can be formed from a careful survey of its general features, was originally a conical hill, now changed to its present shape by human labour; which nature, in a wayward mood, placed, like Joseph's sheaf, conspicuous, and aloof from the hills that surround it on every side. From its present aspect, the mound, if originally a natural hill, must have been forty or fifty feet high, of an oblong form, its greatest diameter being from east to west, with very precipitous sides. It consists now of a single conspicuous elevation, oval in shape, and presenting, on every side, indentations and projections, not unlike the salient angles of military works, serving to strengthen the opinion that it was a fortification. Its summit is perfectly flat, comprising an area of four acres, surrounded by a kind of balustrade, formed by the projection of the sides of the mound two or three feet higher than the area. The two super-mounds before mentioned stand at either extremity of the summit, in a direction east and west; a position indicating design, and confirming the views of those who believe the structure to be a temple. The Indians, by whom the mound is supposed to have been erected, were, like the Peruvians, worshippers of the sun and of fire, and maintained a perpetual sacrifice of the latter upon their altars. If this was a temple, the two super-mounds were its altars; on one of which, toward the east, burned the sacrifice of fire, to welcome the rising sun, of which it was a pure and beautiful emblem; while the bright flame upon the altar toward the west, mingled with his last expiring beams. Between these two superior mounds are four others of inferior height, two of which border the northern verge of the area, and two the southern, although not exactly opposite to the former. Thus the area upon the summit is surrounded by six tumuli, of various elevations. The largest of them, to the west, before mentioned, is flat on the top, which contains about one-fourth of an acre. Its external sides slope, as do the outside surfaces of the other five, gradually down to the base of the great mound upon which it is constructed. The whole work is surrounded by the remains of a ditch; from which, and from the sides of the chief mound, the earth must have been taken to form those upon the summit. The material of which the whole is constructed, is the same alluvial earth as that composing the sides of the ditch and the surrounding plain. Neither stone nor brick forms any portion of the material of the work, nor is the former found any where in the vicinity. In the centre of the elevated area is the mouth of a subterranean passage, leading, with an easy inclination, to a spring without the mound, on the north side of the plain. It is now fallen in, and choked with briers, vines, and young trees. There are traces also of another avenue, conducting to the south side, and opening into the country. Against the two eastern angles of the mound, at its base, are two smaller mounds, ten feet high, which might be taken for bastions by one who regarded the work as a fortification. In the early settlement of this country, the mound was covered with fruit-trees of a large size, whose age indicated uninterrupted possession of their places for centuries. It is now divested of its trees, and under cultivation. It is to be regretted that the axe or plough should ever have desecrated a monument so sacred to the antiquary. There is every evidence that formerly this position was one of great importance. Remains of excavated roads, passing through the adjacent forests, and converging to this mound as their common centre, still exist, in which large trees are growing, whose age--more than two hundred years--gives an approximation to the date when these roads were disused, and when, probably, the spot to which they centred, ceased to be regarded either as a shrine for the Indian pilgrim--a national temple--or the centre of their military strength. Human remains of very large size have been discovered in its vicinity, and also fragments of pottery, weapons, pipes, and mortar-shaped vessels, covered with ornamental tracery and hieroglyphics, evincing a high degree of advancement in the arts. If their dwellings and apparel were made with the same skill which is displayed in the utensils and weapons discovered in these mounds, their fabricators will be regarded, so far as this criterion extends, as having possessed a high degree of civilization. In surveying this mound from the plain, the mind is impressed with the idea of the vast amount of human labour expended in thus piling it up--mound upon mound--like Pelion upon Ossa. Thousands of human emmets have toiled to rear this hill--their busy hum filled the air, and every spot around us was trodden by their nimble feet. The question is naturally suggested to the mind, while gazing upon the huge pile, "For what was it constructed?"--and imagination, surveying the sad history of the departed nations, who once inhabited this pleasant land, might answer that a prophetic warning of their total annihilation influenced these people to erect a national tomb. And are they not their tombs? Are not these the only evidences that they ever have been--and are they not the receptacles of their national remains? The footstep of the labourer is now stayed for ever! his voice is hushed in death! The shout of the hunter--the cry of the warrior--the voice of love, are heard no more. "The Natchez tribe of Indians," says a beautiful writer, to whom I have before alluded, and who involves in his historical sketch a touching narrative, "who inhabited the luxuriant soil of Mississippi, were a mild, generous, and hospitable people. The offspring of a serene climate, their character was marked by nothing ferocious; and beyond the necessity of self-defence, or the unavoidable collisions with neighbouring tribes, by nothing martial. Their government, it is true, was most despotic; and, perhaps, the history of no other nation north of the equator presents a parallel; and yet no charge of an unnecessary, or unwarrantable exercise of this great power, is made against them, even by their historians, who were also the countrymen of their oppressors. Their king, or chief, was called "THE SUN," and the exalted station which he held, was designated by a representation of that luminary worn upon his breast. He united also with his civic function, the priestly power and supremacy--and thus entrenched behind the ramparts of physical force, and wielding the terrors of superstition, he was absolute master of the lives and property of his subjects. His equal, in dignity and power, was his queen, under the title of "THE WIFE OF THE SUN." Thus, then, living in undisturbed repose, and in the innocent enjoyment of the bounties of nature, there came in an evil hour to their peaceful shores, a party of French emigrants, who, about the end of the seventeenth or beginning of the eighteenth century, navigated the Mississippi in quest of wealth and territory. They were received with all the cordiality and affection that these guiltless and inoffensive beings could bestow. The choicest gifts of the beneficent Creator had been showered upon them with a lavish hand, and with a spirit, somewhat allied to his who had conferred them, they cheerfully tendered to the houseless wanderers a participation in the blessings they themselves enjoyed. These substantial pledges of amity and good feeling were received with apparent gratitude by the emigrants; but their immediate wants supplied, they were again thrown back upon their evil passions, that for a moment had been quelled by misfortune, and perpetrated acts of injustice and cruelty which excited the indignation of their benefactors. Driven almost to frenzy, by repeated acts of aggression, they attempted a re-establishment of their rights, but were eventually subdued, and basely massacred. The French, upon their arrival, affected to treat upon terms of reciprocity for the products of the soil; perceiving, however, the unsuspicious temper of these generous Indians, they threw off the mask, and urged novel and extravagant demands; even extending to the fields which supported their wives and children--and not until they were driven in ignominy from them into the depth of the wilderness, were their shameless oppressors satisfied. At this period commenced the league against the French, which embraced all the tribes lying on the east, and to the failure of which, through the unmerited compassion of their queen, they owed their defeat and extermination. Messengers were despatched to different quarters, and a general massacre of the common enemy was agreed upon. A day was appointed, but being unacquainted with the art of writing, or the use of numbers, the period was designated by a bundle of sticks, every stick representing a day; each of the confederated chiefs prepared a bundle corresponding in number with those of his associates, one of which was to be burned daily; and the committing of the last to the flames, was to be the signal for the attack. "The wife of the sun," still attached to the French by many recollections, being the strangers whom she had protected and loved--trembling at the torrents of blood which must flow, and forgetting the wrongs which had been heaped upon her country, determined to preserve them, and intimated to their commander the necessity of caution; by some singular incredulity he despised and neglected the counsel thus tendered to him. Frustrated in her purpose of saving those within the limits of her own tribe, she determined, by the anticipation of their fate, to preserve the majority scattered throughout other tribes. Having free access to the temple, she removed several of the sticks there deposited, and the warriors, on repairing thither, finding but one symbol remaining, prepared for the dreadful business on which they had resolved. They then consigned the last stick to the fire, and supposing that the united nations were all engaged in the same bloody work, fell upon the French, and cut them off almost to a man.[17] Perrein, the commander, with a few more, escaped, and collecting a few of his countrymen, prevailed upon the neighbouring tribes, by threats or promises, to abandon and betray the devoted Natchez; and in one day consigned them to the sword, sparing neither age, sex, nor condition; he burnt their houses, laid waste their fields, and desolation soon marked the spot, once the retreat of an unoffending, peaceful, and happy people. The few who escaped, fled for protection to a neighbouring tribe, then, and now, known as the Chickasaws; a brave, warlike, and independent nation. Their conduct toward these wretched outcasts should be remembered to their immortal honour; they received them with open arms, and resisted with unshaken firmness, the earnest and repeated demands of the French for their delivery; and to such an extent did they carry their magnanimity, that they preferred hazarding a doubtful contest, when their own existence was at stake, to a violation of the pledges of hospitality and protection, which they had made to a few persecuted strangers. Three times, with souls bent upon vengeance against the remnant of their ancient foes, and with no less bloody purposes against their defenders, did the French carry war to the Chickasaw boundary, and three times were they driven back with ignominy and loss--nor did they ever obtain their object. The poor Natchez shared the hospitality of their protectors until their necessities and sorrows were alike relieved by death; their bones repose in a land unknown to their fathers; their spirits may be again mingled in the beautiful regions which they believe to be prepared by the Great Spirit for the fearless warrior, the successful hunter, and the faithful and hospitable Indian, beyond the great lakes. Such is the story of the Natchez--such their melancholy end--such the kindness and benevolence extended to the white man in distress--and such the ingratitude, perfidy, and cruelty, with which these favours were repaid. Of the distinguished female, whose humanity and mercy proved so unexpectedly fatal to her race, we hear no more--but it is highly probable, that in the indiscriminate massacre which took place, neither her strong claims to the gratitude of the French, nor her merciful and forbearing disposition, nor her honours, titles, and dignities, nor even her sex, could protect her; but that she fell an undistinguished victim, among her slaughtered people." FOOTNOTES: [17] The attack was made on Fort Rosalie, at Natchez, in 1729, the head quarters of the French. XLII. Slavery in the south-west--Southern feelings--Increase of slaves--Virginia--Mode of buying slaves, and slave-traders --Mode of transportation by sea--Arrival at the mart--Mode of life in the market--Transportation by land--Privileges of slaves--Conduct of planters toward their negroes--Anecdotes --Negro traders--Their origin. In my desultory sketches of the white and negro population of the south-west, my intention has not been to detail minutely their social relations and domestic economy. To convey a general idea of their condition alone enters into my present plan. Having enlarged upon that of the white population, I will devote a portion of the following pages to a brief sketch of a variety of the human species, which has ever presented an interesting field for the efforts of the philanthropist. The origin of slavery is lost: but there is no doubt that it prevailed, in the early post-diluvian ages, among all the infant nations of the earth.[18] Sacred history assures us of its existence shortly after the flood; and divine economy, in regulating the political and domestic state of the Jews, permitted its existence. But Jewish, and all ancient slavery, was a species of warlike retribution against enemies taken in battle. Civilization and Christianity had not then established the modern treatment and disposal of prisoners. Then they were held in bondage by their conquerors during life; now their detention is but for a limited time; then, they were individual, now they are national, property. Christianity, in this enlightened age, has taught conquerors to mitigate their severity toward the conquered; and national policy has found it most expedient to make other disposition of them than holding them in bondage. But the establishment and preservation of slavery in the south-west, are more immediately the objects of my remarks. If any people can repudiate with justice the charge of originating it, the Mississippians can do so. The Spaniards introduced it here; the first American settlers of this state found slaves attached to its soil, after the Spaniards resigned the country to the government of the United States, and they received them as a portion of the possessions, which fell into their hands by treaty or purchase. Finding them here they retained them--for the slavery question, like many others in those days of innocence, had not been agitated--or they might have sent them after their Spanish masters. There was, of course, nothing more natural and easy than the increase of this property. The process of generation was too slow, however, and men commenced purchasing, not free men from slave ships, but Africans who were already slaves. Virginia, where the lands were worn out, and slaves were numerous, and almost useless, afforded them facilities for purchasing; emigrants from that and other slave-holding states also brought great numbers with them, and in a few years this species of property had accumulated to a great extent. Planters' sons, and all new planters, must be supplied from the same fountain--losses by death and elopement must be made up, till, almost imperceptibly, slavery became firmly established here, and is now a state institution; and Virginia, with the Carolinas and Georgia, and recently Kentucky, has become the great mart for slave purchasers from the south-west. The increased demand for slaves led many farmers in Virginia, whose lands were unavailable, to turn their attention to raising slaves, if I may so term it, for the south-western market. Hence a nursery for slaves has been imperceptibly forming in that state, till now, by a sort of necessity, a vast amount of its capital is involved in this trade, the discontinuance of which would be as injurious in a pecuniary point of view, to those who raise them, as the want of the facilities which the trade affords, would be to the planter. Thus Virginia has become the field for the purchaser, and the phrase--"he is gone to Virginia to buy negroes," or "niggers," as is the elegant and equally common phraseology, is as often applied to a temporarily absent planter, as "he is gone to Boston to buy goods," to a New-England country merchant. Negroes are transported here both by sea and land. Alexandria and Norfolk are the principal depots of slaves, previous to their being shipped. To these cities they are brought from the surrounding country, and sold to the slave-trader, who purchases them for about one-half or one-third less than he expects to obtain for them in the southern market. After the resident slave-dealer has collected a sufficient number, he places them under the care of an agent. They are then shipped for New-Orleans, with as comfortable accommodations as can be expected, where one or two hundred are congregated in a single merchant vessel. I have seen more than one hundred landing from a brig, on the Levée, in New-Orleans, in fine condition, looking as lively and hearty as though a sea voyage agreed well with them. They are transferred, if destined for the Mississippi market, to a steamboat, and landed at Natchez. The debarkation of a hundred slaves, of both sexes and all ages, is a novel spectacle to a northerner. Landing on the Levée, they proceed, each with his bundle, under the charge of their temporary master or conductor, toward the city, in a long straggling line, or sometimes in double files, in well-ordered procession, gazing about them with curiosity and wonder upon the new scenes opening before them, as they advance into the city, and speculating upon the advantages afforded as their home, by the beautiful country to which they find themselves transplanted. Nothing seems to escape their attention, and every few steps offer subjects for remark or laughter; for the risible muscles of the negro are uncommonly excitable. On arriving on the "Hill," in view of the city, and obtaining a glimpse of the fine country spread out around them, their delight is very great. Full of the impression, which they early imbibe, that the south is emphatically the grave of their race, and daily having it held up before their imaginations at home, _in terrorem_, to keep them in the line of duty, if insubordinate, they leave home, as they proudly and affectionately term Virginia, with something of the feelings of the soldier, allotted to a "forlorn hope." It cannot be denied that many have died shortly after being brought into this country; but this was owing to indiscretion, in transporting them at the wrong season of the year--in the spring, after a winter spent at the north; or in autumn, during the prevalence, in former years, of the epidemics, which once were almost annual visitants of this country. Experience has taught those who introduce slaves, in late years, to bring them quite late in autumn. Hence, the two great causes of mortality being removed, the effects have, in a great measure, ceased; and slaves, when they arrive here, and gaze with surprise upon the athletic figures and gray heads of their fellows, who meet them at every step, as they advance into the city--find that they can live even in the south, and grow old on other plantations than those in "Ol' Wirginny." "I see no dead nigger yet, Jef."--"No--nor no coffin pile up neider in de street,"--said another of a gang of negroes passing through the streets, peering on all sides for these ominous signs of this "fatal" climate, as they trudged along to their quarters in the slave-market. This too common opinion of master and slave must soon be exploded, for it has now no foundation in fact. Passing through the city in procession, sometimes dressed in a new uniform, purchased for them in New-Orleans, but often in the brown rags in which they left Virginia, preceded by a large wagon, carrying the surplus baggage; they are marched beyond the city limits, within which, till recently, they were publicly sold, the marts being on nearly every street. Arriving at their quarters, which are usually old unoccupied buildings, and often tents or booths, pitched upon the common, beside some stream of water, and under the shade of trees, they resort, in the first place, to a general ablution, preparatory to being exposed for sale. The toilet arrangements of one hundred negroes, just from a long voyage, are a formidable affair. Both the rivers, Alpheus and Peneus, would hardly suffice for the process. Two or three days are consumed in it; after which, all appear in new, comfortable, uniform dresses, with shining faces, and refreshed after the fatigue of travel. They are now ready for inspection and sale. To this important period, the day of sale, they cheerfully look forward, manifesting not a little emulation to be "sol' fust." The interim between their arrival and sale--for they are not sold at auction, or all at once, but singly, or in parties, as purchasers may be inclined to buy--is passed in an _otium cum dignitate_ of a peculiarly African character, involving eating, drinking, playing, and sleeping. The interval of ease enjoyed in the slave-market is an oasis of luxury in their existence, which they seldom know how to appreciate, if we may judge from the wishful manner in which they gaze upon gentlemen who enter the mart, as though anxious to put a period to this kind of enjoyment, so congenial to their feelings and temperament. Probably two-thirds of the first slaves came into this state from Virginia; and nearly all now introduced, of whom there are several thousands annually, are brought from that state. Kentucky contributes a small number, which is yearly increasing; and since the late passage of the slave law in Missouri, a new market is there opened for this trade. It is computed that more than two hundred thousand dollars' worth of slaves will be purchased in Missouri this season, for the Natchez market. A single individual has recently left Natchez with one hundred thousand dollars, for the purpose of buying up negroes in that state to sell in Mississippi. The usual way of transporting slaves is by land, although they are frequently brought round by sea; but the last is the most expensive method, and therefore, to "bring them through," is accounted preferable. This is done by forming them into a caravan at the place where they are purchased, and conducting them by land through the Indian nations to this state. The route is for the most part through a continuous forest, and is usually performed by the negroes, on foot, in seven or eight weeks. Their personal appearance, when they arrive at Natchez, is by no means improved, although they are usually stouter and in better condition than when they leave home, for they are generally well fed, and their health is otherwise carefully attended to, while on the route. Arrived within two or three miles of Natchez, they encamp in some romantic spot near a rivulet, and like their brethren transported by sea, commence polishing their skins, and arraying themselves in the coarse but neat uniform, which their master has purchased for them in Natchez. A few Sabbaths ago, while standing before a village church in the country, my attention was drawn to a long procession at the extremity of the street, slowly approaching like a troop of wearied pilgrims. There were several gentlemen in company, some of them planters, who gazed upon the singular spectacle with unusual interest. One sooty brown hue was cast over the whole horde, by the sombre colour of their tattered garments, which, combined with the slow pace and fatigued air of most of those who composed it, gave to the whole train a sad and funereal appearance. First came half a dozen boys and girls, with fragments of blankets and ragged pantaloons and frocks, hanging upon, but not covering their glossy limbs. They passed along in high spirits, glad to be once more in a village, after their weary way through the wilderness; capering and practising jokes upon each other, while their even rows of teeth, and the whites of their eyes--the most expressive features in the African physiognomy--were displayed in striking contrast to their ebony skins. These were followed by a tall mulatto, with high cheek-bones, and lean and hungry looks, making rapid inroads into a huge loaf of bread, whose twin brother was secured under his left arm. A woman, very black, very short, and very pursy, who breathed like a porpoise, and whose capacity for rapid movement was equal to that of a puncheon, trudged along behind, evidently endeavouring to come up with the mulatto, as her eye was fixed very resolutely on the spare loaf; but its owner strode forward deliberately and with perfect impunity. She was followed by another female, bearing an infant in her arms, probably born in the wilderness. Close behind her came a covered wagon, from which she had just descended to walk, drawn by two fine horses, and loaded with young negroes, who were permitted to ride and walk alternately on the journey. Behind the wagon, at a long distance, came an old patriarch, at least eighty years of age, bent nearly double with the weight of years and infirmity. By his side moved an old negress, nearly coeval with him, who supported her decrepit form by a staff. They were the venerable progenitors of the children and grandchildren who preceded them. This aged couple, who were at liberty to ride when they chose, in a covered wagon behind them, were followed by a mixed crowd of negroes of all ages, and of both sexes, with and without staff, hatless and bare-footed. The office of the negro's hat is a mere sinecure--they love the warm sun upon their heads--but they like to be well shod, and that with boots, for the lower region of their limbs about the ancles is very sensitive. Behind these came a wretched cart, covered with torn, red-painted canvass, and drawn by a mule and a horse;--Sancho Panza's mule and Rosinante--I mean no insult to the worthy knight or his squire--if coupled together, would have made precisely such a pair. This vehicle contained several invalids, two of whom were reclining on a matrass laid along the bottom. Around it were many young slaves of both sexes, talking and marching along in gleeful mood. Two or three old people followed, one of whom, who walked with both hands grasping a long staff, stopped as he passed us, and with an air of affecting humility, and with his venerable forehead bowed to the earth, addressed us, "hab massas got piece 'bacca' for ol' nigger?" An old gentleman standing by, whose locks were whitened with the snows of sixty winters, having first obtained leave to do so from the owner of the drove, who, mounted on a fine blooded horse, rode carelessly along behind them, gave the old slave all he had about him, which, fortunately for the petitioner, happened to be a large quantity, and for which he appeared extremely grateful. Several other negroes, walking along with vigorous steps, and another white conductor, with a couple of delicately limbed race-horses, enveloped in broidered mantles, and ridden by bright-eyed little mulatto boys, and two or three leashes of hounds, led by a slave, completed the train. They had been seven weeks on the road, through the "nation," as the southern wilderness is here termed--travelling by easy stages, and encamping at night. Old people are seldom seen in these "droves." The young and athletic usually compose them. But as in this instance, the old people are sometimes allowed to come with the younger portion of their families, as a favour; and if sold at all, they are sold with their children, who can take care of them in their old age, which they well do--for negroes have a peculiarly strong affection for the old people of their own colour. Veneration for the aged is one of their strongest characteristics. Nor are planters indifferent to the comfort of their gray-headed slaves. I have been much affected at beholding many exhibitions of their kindly feeling toward them. They always address them in a mild and pleasant manner--as "Uncle," or "Aunty"--titles as peculiar to the old negro and negress, as "boy" and "girl," to all under forty years of age. Some old Africans are allowed to spend their last years in their houses, without doing any kind of labour; these, if not too infirm, cultivate little patches of ground, on which they raise a few vegetables--for vegetables grow nearly all the year round in this climate--and make a little money to purchase a few extra comforts. They are also always receiving presents from their masters and mistresses, and the negroes on the estate, the latter of whom are extremely desirous of seeing the old people comfortable. A relation of the extra comforts, which some planters allow their slaves, would hardly obtain credit at the north. But you must recollect that southern planters are men--and men of feeling--generous and high minded, and possessing as much of the "milk of human kindness," as the sons of colder climes--although they may have been educated to regard that as right, which a different education has led northerners to consider wrong. "What can you do with so much tobacco?" said a gentleman--who related the circumstance to me--on hearing a planter, whom he was visiting, give an order to his teamster to bring two hogsheads of tobacco out to the estate from the "Landing." "I purchase it for my negroes; it is a harmless indulgence, which it gives me pleasure to afford them." "Why are you at the trouble and expense of having high-post bedsteads for your negroes?" said a gentleman from the north, while walking through the handsome "quarters," or village for the slaves, then in progress on a plantation near Natchez--addressing the proprietor. "To suspend their "bars" from, that they may not be troubled with musquitoes." "Master, me would like, if you please, a little bit gallery, front my house." "For what, Peter?" "Cause, master, de sun too hot" (an odd reason for a negro to give,) "dat side, and when he rain we no able to keep de door open." "Well, well, when the carpenter gets a little leisure you shall have one." A few weeks after I was at the plantation, and riding past the quarters one Sabbath morning, beheld Peter, his wife, and children, with his old father, all sunning themselves in their new gallery. "Missus, you promise me a Chrismus gif'." "Well, Jane, there is a new calico frock for you." "It werry pretty, missus," said Jane, eyeing it at a distance without touching it, "but me prefer muslin, if you please; muslin de fashion dis Chrismus." "Very well, Jane, call to-morrow and you shall have a muslin." These little anecdotes are unimportant in themselves, but they serve to illustrate what I have stated above, of the kindness and indulgence of masters to their slaves. I could add many others, of frequent occurrence; but these are sufficiently numerous for my purpose. Probably of the two ways of bringing slaves here, that by land is preferable; not only because attended with less expense, but by gradually advancing them into the climate, it in a measure precludes the effect which a sudden transition from one state to the other might produce. All slaves, however, are not brought here by negro traders. Many of the planters prefer going on and purchasing for themselves, for which purpose it is not unusual for them to take on from twenty to forty and fifty thousand dollars, lay the whole out in slaves, and either accompany them through the wilderness themselves on horseback, or engage a conductor. By adopting this method they purchase them at a much greater advantage, than at second-hand from the professional trader, as slaves can be bought for fifty per cent. less there, than after they are once brought into this market. The number of slaves introduced into the south-western market is annually increasing. Last year more than four thousand were brought into the state, one-third of whom were sold in the Natchez market. The prices of slaves vary with the prices of cotton and sugar. At this time, when cotton brings a good price, a good "field hand" cannot be bought for less than eight hundred dollars, if a male; if a female, for six hundred. "Body servants" sell much higher, one thousand dollars being a common price for them. Good mechanics sometimes sell for two thousand dollars, and seldom for less than nine hundred. Coachmen are high, and house servants are worth at all times, from ten to thirty per cent. more than field negroes. The usual price for a good seamstress, or nurse, is from seven hundred to one thousand dollars. Children are valued in proportion to their ages. An infant adds one hundred dollars to the price of the mother; and from infancy the children of the slaves increase in value about one hundred dollars for every three years, until they arrive at mature age. All domestic slaves, or "house servants," which class includes coachmen, nurses, hostlers, gardeners, footmen, cooks, waiting-maids, &c., &c.--all indispensable to the _menage_ of a wealthy planter--are always in great demand, and often sell at the most extravagant prices. Some of these, born and raised in this climate, (acclimated as they are termed,) often sell for eighteen hundred and two thousand dollars apiece, of either sex. But these are exceptions, where the slave possesses some peculiarly valuable trait as a domestic. Negro traders soon accumulate great wealth, from the immense profit they make on their merchandise. Certainly such a trade demands no trifling consideration. If any of the worshippers of Mammon earn their gold, it is the slave-dealer. One of their number, who is the great southern slave-merchant, and who, for the last fifteen years, has supplied this country with two-thirds of the slaves brought into it, has amassed a fortune of more than a million of dollars by this traffic alone. He is a bachelor, and a man of gentlemanly address, as are many of these merchants, and not the ferocious, Captain Kidd looking fellows, we Yankees have been apt to imagine them. Their admission into society, however, is not recognised. Planters associate with them freely enough, in the way of business, but notice them no farther. A slave trader is, nevertheless, very much like other men. He is to-day a plain farmer, with twenty or thirty slaves, endeavouring to earn a few dollars from worn-out land, in some old "homestead" among the Alleghanies; which, with his slaves, he has inherited from his father. He is in debt, and hears that he can sell his slaves in Mississippi for twice their value in his own state. If there is no harm in selling them to his next neighbour, and coming to Mississippi without them, he feels that there can be no harm--nay, justice to his creditors requires that he should place them in the highest market--in bringing them into this state, and selling them here. He rises in the morning, gathers his slaves, prepares his wagons and horses, takes one or two of his sons, or hires a neighbour, who may add a few of his own to the stock, to accompany him; and, by and by, the caravan moves slowly off toward the south and west. Seven or eight weeks afterward, a drove of negroes, weary and worn, from a long journey, are seen within two or three miles of Natchez, turning from the high road, to pitch their tents upon the green sward, beneath some wide-spreading tree. It is the caravan from the Alleghanies. The ensuing morning a bright array of white tents, and busy men moving among them, excites the attention of the passer-by. The figure of the old Virginia farmer, mingling among his slaves, attracts the notice of a stranger. "Who is that old gentleman?" he inquires of the southerner with whom he is riding in company. "A negro trader," is the reply. This is the first step of the trader. He finds it profitable; and if his inclinations prompt him, he will return home, after selling his slaves, and buy, with ready money, from his neighbours, a few here and a few there, until he has a sufficient number to make another caravan, with which he proceeds a second time to the south-western market. He follows this trade from season to season, and does it conscientiously. He reasons as I have above stated; and if there is no harm in selling the first, there is none in selling the last. This is the metal of which a slave trader is moulded. The humane characteristics of the trade will be, of course, regulated by the tempers and dispositions of the individuals who engage in it. FOOTNOTES: [18] "Slavery, at a very early period after the flood, prevailed, perhaps in every region of the globe. In Asia it is practised to this day. The savage nations of Africa have at no period been exempted from it. In Germany, and other countries of Europe, slaves were generally attached to the soil, as in Russia and Poland at the present day. They were generally employed in tending cattle, and in conducting the business of agriculture."--_Tacitus de moribus Germanorum._ "Among the ancient Germans, according to the same author, it was not uncommon for an ardent gamester to stake his personal liberty on a throw of the dice. The latter species of slaves were alone considered as materials of commerce. In England, now so tenacious of the rights of man, a species of slavery, similar to that among the ancient Germans, subsisted even to the end of the sixteenth century, as appears from a commission issued by Queen Elizabeth in 1574. Colliers and salters were not totally emancipated from every vestige of slavery till about the year 1750. Before that period the sons of colliers could follow no business but that of their fathers, nor could they seek employment in any other mines than in those to which they were attached by birth." _Encyclopedia Britan._ XLIII. Slaves--Classes--Anecdotes--Negro instruction--Police--Natchez fencibles--Habitual awe of the negro for the white man-- Illustrations--Religious slaves--Negro preaching--General view of slavery and emancipation--Conclusion. There are properly three distinct classes of slaves in the south. The first, and most intelligent class, is composed of the domestic slaves, or "servants," as they are properly termed, of the planters. Some of these both read and write, and possess a great degree of intelligence: and as the negro, of all the varieties of the human species, is the most imitative, they soon learn the language, and readily adopt the manners, of the family to which they are attached. It is true, they frequently burlesque the latter, and select the high-sounding words of the former for practice--for the negro has an ear for euphony--which they usually misapply, or mis-pronounce. "Ben, how did you like the sermon to-day?" I once inquired of one, who, for pompous language and high-sounding epithets, was the Johnson of negroes.--"Mighty obligated wid it, master, de 'clusive 'flections werry distructive to de ignorum." In the more fashionable families, negroes feel it their duty--to show their aristocratic breeding--to ape manners, and to use language, to which the common herd cannot aspire. An aristocratic negro, full of his master's wealth and importance, which he feels to be reflected upon himself, is the most aristocratic personage in existence. He supports his own dignity, and that of his own master, or "_family_," as he phrases it, which he deems inseparable, by a course of conduct befitting coloured gentlemen. Always about the persons of their masters or mistresses, the domestic slaves obtain a better knowledge of the modes of civilized life than they could do in the field, where negroes can rise but little above their original African state. So identified are they with the families in which they have been "raised," and so accurate, but rough, are the copies which they individually present, of their masters, that were all the domestic slaves of several planters' families transferred to Liberia, or Hayti, they would there constitute a by no means inferior state of African society, whose model would be found in Mississippi. Each family would be a faithful copy of that with which it was once connected: and should their former owners visit them in their new home, they would smile at its resemblance to the original. It is from this class that the friends of wisely-regulated emancipation are to seek material for carrying their plans into effect. The second class is composed of town slaves; which not only includes domestic slaves, in the families of the citizens, but also all negro mechanics, draymen, hostlers, labourers, hucksters, and washwomen, and the heterogeneous multitude of every other occupation, who fill the streets of a busy city--for slaves are trained to every kind of manual labour. The blacksmith, cabinet-maker, carpenter, builder, wheelwright,--all have one or more slaves labouring at their trades. The negro is a third arm to every working man, who can possibly save money enough to purchase one. He is emphatically the "right-hand man" of every man. Even free negroes cannot do without them: some of them own several, to whom they are the severest masters. "To whom do you belong?" I once inquired of a negro whom I had employed. "There's my master," he replied; pointing to a steady old negro, who had purchased himself, then his wife, and subsequently his three children, by his own manual exertions and persevering industry. He was now the owner of a comfortable house, a piece of land, and two or three slaves, to whom he could add one every three years. It is worthy of remark, and serves to illustrate one of the many singularities characteristic of the race, that the free negro, who "buys his wife's freedom," as they term it, from her master, by paying him her full value, ever afterward considers her in the light of property. "Thomas, you are a free man," I remarked to one who had purchased himself and wife from his master, by the profits of a poultry yard and vegetable garden, industriously attended to for many years, in his leisure hours and on Sundays. "You are a free man; I suppose you will soon have negroes of your own." "Hi! Hab one now, master." "Who, Tom?"--"Ol' Sarah, master." "Old Sarah! she is your wife." "She my nigger too; I pay master five hun'red dollar for her." Many of the negroes who swarm in the cities are what are called "hired servants." They belong to planters, or others, who, finding them qualified for some occupation in which they cannot afford to employ them, hire them to citizens, as mechanics, cooks, waiters, nurses, &c., and receive the monthly wages for their services. Some steady slaves are permitted to "hire their own time;" that is, to go into town and earn what they can, as porters, labourers, gardeners, or in other ways, and pay a stipulated sum weekly to their owners, which will be regulated according to the supposed value of the slave's labour. Masters, however, who are sufficiently indulgent to allow them to "hire their time," are seldom rigorous in rating their labour very high. But whether the slave earn less or more than the specified sum, he must always pay that, and neither more nor less than that to his master at the close of each week, as the condition of this privilege. Few fail in making up the sum; and generally they earn more, if industrious, which is expended in little luxuries, or laid by in an old rag among the rafters of their houses, till a sufficient sum is thus accumulated to purchase their freedom. This they are seldom refused, and if a small amount is wanting to reach their value, the master makes it up out of his own purse, or rather, takes no notice of the deficiency. I have never known a planter refuse to aid, by peculiar indulgences, any of his steady and well-disposed slaves, who desired to purchase their freedom. On the contrary, they often endeavour to excite emulation in them to the attainment of this end. This custom of allowing slaves to "hire their time," ensuring the master a certain sum weekly, and the slave a small surplus, is mutually advantageous to both. The majority of town servants are those who are hired to families by planters, or by those living in town who own more than they have employment for, or who can make more by hiring them out than by keeping them at home. Some families, who possess not an acre of land, but own many slaves, hire them out to different individuals; the wages constituting their only income, which is often very large. There are indeed few families, however wealthy, whose incomes are not increased by the wages of hired slaves, and there are many poor people, who own one or two slaves, whose hire enables them to live comfortably. From three to five dollars a week is the hire of a female, and seventy-five cents or a dollar a day for a male. Thus, contrary to the opinion at the north, families may have good servants, and yet not own one, if they are unable to buy, or are conscientious upon that ground, though there is not a shade of difference between hiring a slave, where prejudices are concerned, and owning one. Those who think otherwise, and thus compound with conscience, are only making a distinction without a difference. Northern people, when they come to this country, who dislike either to hire or purchase, often bring free coloured, or white servants (helps) with them. The first soon marry with the free blacks, or become too lofty in their conceptions of things, in contrasting the situation of their fellows around them, with their own, to be retained. The latter, if they are young and pretty, or even old and ugly, assume the fine lady at once, disdaining to be servants among slaves, and Hymen, in the person of some spruce overseer, soon fulfils their expectations. I have seen but one white servant, or domestic, of either sex, in this country, and this was the body servant of an Englishman who remained a few days in Natchez, during which time, John sturdily refused to perform a single duty of his station. The expense of a domestic establishment at the south, would appear very great in the estimation of a New-Englander. A gardener, coachman, nurse, cook, seamstress, and a house-maid, are indispensable. Some of the more fashionable families add footmen, chamber-maids, hostler, an additional nurse, if there be many children, and another seamstress. To each of these officials is generally attached a young neophyte, while one constantly stumbles over useless little negroes scattered all about the house and court-yard. Necessary as custom has made so great a number of servants, there seems to be much less domestic labour performed in a family of five, such perfect "eye-servants" are they, than in a northern family, with only one "maid of all work." There are some Yankee "kitchen girls"--I beg their ladyships' pardon for so styling them--who can do more house-work, and do it better, than three or four negro servants, unless the eye of their mistress is upon them. As nearly all manual labour is performed by slaves, there must be one to each department, and hence originates a state of domestic manners and individual character, which affords an interesting field of contemplation to the severer northerner. The city slaves are distinguished as a class, by superior intelligence, acuteness, and deeper moral degradation. A great proportion of them are hired, and, free from restraint in a great degree, compared with their situations under their own masters, or in the country, they soon become corrupted by the vices of the city, and in associating indiscriminately with each other, and the refuse of the white population. Soon the vices of the city, divested of their refinement, become their own unmasked. Although they may once have ranked under the first class, and possessed the characteristics which designate the decent, well-behaved domestic of the planter, they soon lose their identity. There are of course exceptions to these characteristics, as also in the other classes. Some of these exceptions have come within my knowledge, of a highly meritorious character. The third and lowest class consists of those slaves, who are termed "field hands."[19] Many of them rank but little higher than the brutes that perish, in the scale of intellect, and they are in general, as a class, the last and lowest link in the chain of the human species. Secluded in the solitude of an extensive plantation, which is their world, beyond whose horizon they know nothing--their walks limited by the "quarters" and the field--their knowledge and information derived from the rude gossip of their fellows, straggling runaways, or house servants, and without seeing a white person except their master or overseer, as they ride over the estate, with whom they seldom hold any conversation--they present the singular feature of African savages, disciplined to subordination, and placed in the heart of a civilized community. Mere change of place will not change the savage. Moral and intellectual culture alone, will elevate him to an equality with his civilized brethren. The African transplanted from the arid soil of Ebo, Sene-Gambia, or Guinea, to the green fields of America, without mental culture, will remain still the wild African, though he may wield his ox-whip, whistle after his plough, and lift his hat, when addressed, like his more civilized fellows. His children, born on the plantation to which he is attached, and suffered to grow up as ignorant as himself, will not be one degree higher in the scale of civilization, than they would have been had they been born in Africa. The next generation will be no higher advanced; and though they may have thrown away the idols of their country, and been taught some vague notions of God and the Christian religion, they are in almost every sense of the word Africans, as rude, and barbarous, but not so artless, as their untamed brethren beyond the Atlantic. This has been, till within a few years, the general condition of "field hands" in this country, though there have been exceptions on some plantations highly honourable to their proprietors. Within a few years, gentlemen of intelligence, humanity, and wealth, themselves the owners of great numbers of slaves, have exerted themselves and used their influence in mitigating the condition of this class. They commenced a reformation of the old system, whose chief foundation was unyielding rigour, first upon their own plantations. The influence of their example was manifest by the general change which gradually took place on other estates. This reformation is still in progress, and the condition of the plantation slave is now meliorated, so far as policy will admit, while they remain in their present relation. But still they are, and by necessity, always will be, an inferior class to the two former. It is now popular to treat slaves with kindness; and those planters who are known to be inhumanly rigorous to their slaves, are scarcely countenanced by the more intelligent and humane portion of the community. Such instances, however, are very rare; but there are unprincipled men everywhere, who will give vent to their ill feelings, and bad passions, not with less good-will upon the back of an indented apprentice, than upon that of a purchased slave. Private chapels are now introduced upon most of the plantations of the more wealthy, which are far from any church; Sabbath-schools are instituted for the black children, and Bible-classes for the parents, which are superintended by the planter, a chaplain, or some of the female members of the family. But with all these aids they are still, as I have remarked, the most degraded class of slaves; and they are not only regarded as such by the whites, but by the two other classes, who look upon them as infinitely beneath themselves. It is a difficult matter to impress upon their minds moral or religious truths. They generally get hold of some undefined ideas, but they can go no farther. Their minds seem to want the capacity to receive intellectual impressions, nor are they capable of reasoning from the simplest principles, or of associating ideas. A native planter, who has had the management of between two and three hundred slaves, since he commenced planting, recently informed me, that if he conveyed an order to any of his "field hands," which contained two ideas, he was sure it would not be followed correctly. "Dick," said he to one of them, "go to the carriage-house, and you will find a side-saddle and a man's saddle there. Put one of them on the roan horse; but don't put on the ladies' saddle, mind you." "Yes, master," said Dick, lifting his cap very respectfully, and then posted off to the carriage-house; whence he returned in a few minutes with the roan caparisoned for a lady. The last idea seems to thrust out the first. I have frequently tried experiments to ascertain how far this was true of them in general, and have convinced myself, that it is very hard for the uneducated, rude field negro to retain more than a single impression at a time. A gentleman, who has been a leading planter for the last twenty years, and who has nearly one hundred slaves, of all ages, told me, that, finding the established catechism too hard for his slaves, he drew one up in manuscript himself, as simply as he thought it could be done. But a few lessons convinced him that he must make another effort, on a plan still more simple: and he accordingly drew up a series of questions, each containing one idea, and no more; for every question involving two had always puzzled them. Every question he also made a _leading_ one: this he found to be absolutely necessary. "Yet," he observed, "after all my efforts, for many years past, to imbue the minds--not of the children only, but of the parents, who were all included in my list of catechumens--with the plainest rudiments of Christianity, I do not think that I have one on my estate, who comprehends the simplest principle connected with the atonement." One of these negroes, after a long course of drilling, was asked, "In whose image were you made?" "In de image ob de debil, master," was his prompt reply. The restrictions upon slaves are very rigorous in law, but not in fact. They are forbidden to leave their estates without a written "pass," or some letter or token, whereby it may appear that they are proceeding by authority. This is a wise regulation, to which I have before alluded; and if its spirit was properly entered into by the community, it would be the best means for public security that could be adopted. Patrols are organized in the several counties and towns, whose duty it is to preserve order, and apprehend all negroes without passes. This body of men consists of four or five citizens, unarmed, unless with riding whips, headed by one of their number as captain. They are appointed monthly by a justice of the peace, and authorized to visit negro cabins, "quarters," and all places suspected to contain negroes, or unlawful assemblies of slaves; and all whom they may find strolling about, without a "pass," they are empowered to punish upon the spot, with "any number of lashes not exceeding fifteen," or take them to prison. They go out on duty once a week in the towns and villages; but it is considered a bore, and performed reluctantly. But there is no deficiency of energy and activity in case of any actual alarm. Soon after the South-Hampton tragedy, during the Christmas holydays, the public mind was excited by a vague rumour that this drama was to be reacted here, as it was known that some of the negroes, supposed to be engaged in it, had been brought out and sold in this state. During this excitement the patrols were very vigilant. On the high roads they were increased to one hundred armed and mounted men. But this alarm was groundless, and very soon subsided. The fencibles--a volunteer military corps in Natchez, composed of the first young gentlemen of the city, and now commanded by the late chancellor of the state--the best disciplined and finest looking body of men west of the Alleghanies, constitute the military police of that city. They are also the "firemen;" and a more efficient phalanx to battle with a conflagration, cannot be found, even in New-York or Boston. Patrols go out merely to preserve the peace of the neighbourhood from any disturbance from drunken negroes, rather than to guard against insurrectionary movements. Though the south has little to apprehend from her coloured population, yet many bold plans, indicating great genius in their originators, have been formed by slaves for effecting their freedom. But farther than mere plans, or violent acts, of short continuance, they will hardly be able to advance. The negro is wholly destitute of courage. He possesses an animal instinct, which impels him, when roused, to the performance of the most savage acts. He is a being of impulse, and cowardice is a principle of his soul, as instinctive as courage in the white man. This may be caused by their condition, and without doubt it is. But whatever may be the cause, the effect exists, and will ever preclude any apprehension of serious evil from any insurrectionary combination of their number. The spirit of insubordination will die as soon as the momentary excitement which produced it has subsided; and negroes never can accomplish any thing of a tragic nature, unless under the influence of extraordinary temporary excitement. The negro has a habitual fear of the white man, which has become a second nature; and this, combined with the fearless contempt of the white man for him, in his belligerent attitude, will operate to prevent any very serious evil resulting from their plans. A northerner looks upon a band of negroes, as upon so many _men_. But the planter, or southerner, views them in a very different light; and armed only with a hunting whip or walking-cane, he will fearlessly throw himself among a score of them, armed as they may be, and they will instantly flee with terror. There is a peculiar tone of authority, in which an angry master speaks to his slaves, which, while they are subordinate, cowers them, and when they are insubordinate, so strong is the force of habit, it does not lose its effects. The very same cause which enables him to keep in subjection fifty or a hundred negroes on his estate, through the instrumentality of his voice, or mere presence, operates so soon as the momentary intoxication of insurrectionary excitement is over--if it does not check its first exhibition--to bring them into subjection. Nor do I speak unadvisedly or lightly, when I say that a band of insurgent slaves will be more easily intimidated and defeated by half the number of planters, with whips or canes, and their peculiarly authoritative voices, than by an equal number of northern soldiers armed _cap à pie_. Fear, awe, and obedience in relation to his master, are interwoven into the very nature of the slave. They are the main-spring of all his actions; a part and portion of himself, and no extraneous circumstances can enable him to rise superior to their influence. I could relate many facts illustrative of what I have stated above, respecting the influence of habitual or natural obedience upon the negro. The runaway will sometimes suffer himself to be taken by a white boy not a third of his size. Recently, about midnight, a lady saw, by the light of the moon, a tall negro enter her gallery. She immediately arose, observed him through the window more distinctly as he was peering about with a light step, and satisfied that he was a negro, she threw up the window, and cried "stop, sir! stop!" in the tone of authority peculiar to all who have had any thing to do with negroes. He at first started, and made a motion to run, but on a repetition of the command he submissively obeyed, and suffered himself to be taken by the lady's coachman, whom she called up--the runaway, as he proved to be, standing till he came and bound him, without moving a limb. This conduct betrayed no uncommon nerve or resolution in the lady, for southern ladies would laugh at the idea of being afraid of a negro. The readiness of the black coachman to arrest his fellow slave, goes far also toward illustrating the views which the slaves themselves entertain of their condition. But this is illustrated still more forcibly by the following incident. I was sitting, not long since, on the portico of a house in the country, engaged in conversation, when an old negro entered the front gate, leading by the arm a negro boy about sixteen years of age. "Ah," said the gentleman with whom I was talking, "there is my runaway!" The old man approached the steps, which led to the portico, and removing his hat, as usual with slaves on addressing a white person, said, "master, I done bring John home. I cotch him skulkin 'bout in Natchy: I wish master sell him where ol' nigger nebber see him more, if he runaway 'gain: he disgrace he family; his ol' mammy cry 'nough 'bout it when she hearn it." This couple were father and son. A "good negro," in the usual acceptation of the term, feels that there is a kind of disgrace attached to himself and family, if any one of them becomes a runaway. A negro lad, who had absconded for a few days' play, was apprehended and led by his overseer through the streets on his way home, not long ago, when an old negro wash-woman standing by, exclaimed on seeing him, "La, me! who 'tink he 'gin so young to act bad!" I will relate an instance of their readiness to arrest each other. "Missus, dere's a runaway back de garden," said hastily a young negress, as a party were sitting down to the tea table of a lady at whose house I was visiting. "Let me go catch him," "let me go missus," said the waiters, and they could hardly be kept in the hall. Permission was given for one to go, who in a few minutes returned, leading up to the hall-door a stout half-naked negro whom he had caught prowling about the premises. "Here de nigger, missus," said he exultingly, as though he himself belonged to another race and colour. Negroes are very sensitive. They are easily excited, and upon no subject so much so perhaps, as religion. They are, particularly the females, of a very religious temperament, strongly inclining to superstition. Unable to command their feelings, they give vent to the least emotion in the loudest clamours. They are thereby persuaded that they are converted, and apply for admission into the church in great numbers. Many of them are perhaps truly pious. But the religion of most of them is made up of shouting, which is an incontrovertible argument or proof, with them, of conversion. This shouting is not produced generally by the sermon, for few are able to understand a very plain discourse, of which every sentence will contain words wholly incomprehensible to them. But they always listen with great attention, and so they would do were the sermon delivered in any other tongue. A few of the more intelligent and pious negroes, who can understand most of the sermon, perhaps become affected, and unable, like their better disciplined masters, to control their feelings, give vent to them in groans and shouts. Those about them catch the infection, and spread it, till the whole negro portion of the audience in the gallery, becomes affected ostensibly by religious feeling, but really by a kind of animal magnetism, inexplicable and uncontrollable. The majority of the religious slaves are of the Methodist denomination, some of which sect may be found on every plantation in the country, but few of them are practical Christians. They are apt to consider the name as the thing. But I have met with individual exceptions, which reflect honour upon their race, and which I now recall with pleasure. One of the most touching and eloquent prayers I have ever heard, I recently listened to from the lips of an old negro, (who sometimes preached to his fellow slaves,) as he kneeled by the pallet of a dying African, and commended in an appeal,--which for beautiful simplicity and pathos, is seldom equalled--his departing spirit to his God. I have observed that they are seldom influenced by the principles of religion in their individual conduct. Many, who are regarded by their brother Africans as "shining lights," drink ardent spirits freely and without compunction. "Ben, why do you drink whiskey?" I inquired of an old "member," who was very fond of indulging in this favourite southern potation for all classes.--"It no sin master--don't de Bible say, what enter into de mouth no defile de man?" This was unanswerable. I asked another, "why he swore?" "Cause, master, nigger no keep de debil down he throat, when oxen so bad." Negro preaching has obtained here formerly, but the injudicious course taken at the north by those who are friendly to the cause of emancipation, but who do not evince their good feelings in the wisest manner, has led planters to keep a tighter rein upon their slaves. And negro preaching, among the removal of other privileges which they once enjoyed, is now interdicted. It is certainly to be regretted that the steps taken by those who desire to do away slavery, should have militated against their views, through their own unadvised measures, and placed the subject of their philanthropic efforts in a less desirable state than formerly. The more I see of slavery, the more firmly I am convinced that the interference of our northern friends, in the present state of their information upon the subject, will be more injurious than beneficial to the cause. The physician, like Prince Hohenloe, might as reasonably be expected to heal, with the Atlantic between himself and his patient's pulse, or to use a juster figure, an individual, wholly ignorant of a disease, might as well attempt its cure, as for northerners, however sincere their exertions, or however pure their intentions may be, under existing circumstances, to meliorate the condition of the coloured population of the south. When the chains of the slave are broken in pieces, it must be by a southern hand--and thousands of southern gentlemen are already extending their arms, ready to strike the blow. And when experience shall tell them the time is at hand, then, "Thy chains are broken, Africa, be free!" shall be shouted from the south to the north; and wind waves Shall waft the tidings to the land of slaves, Proclaim on Guinea's coast, by Gambia's side, As far as Niger rolls his eastern tide, "Thy chains are broken, Africa, be free!" I will conclude my remarks upon this interesting subject, with some valuable reflections from another pen. "It avails but little to deprecate now," says the able writer whom I quote, "and even to denounce with holy zeal, the iniquity of those who first established the relations of master and slave in the then colonies of Great Britain, but now United States of America. These relations have been sanctioned by law and long usage, and interwoven with the institutions of the two countries: they cannot be cancelled at once by any law, founded on justice and equity, which should place at once either or both of the parties in a less advantageous position, than the one which they held when connected by the tie of master and slave. However opposed to slavery in the abstract, and alive to its numerous evils in practice; and with whatever zeal we may advocate emancipation, we ought ever, in this, as in all other kinds of reform, political as well as moral, to act with that wise discretion, which should make the present work a means of future and permanent good. It should be steadily borne in mind, therefore, that immediate, unconditional emancipation, while it is detrimental to the master, does no immediate good to the manumitted slave. It is not the boon, so much as a beginning, a hope, and a promise of future good to the African; it is simply one of the means, a most important and paramount one, indeed, for acquiring the blessings of rational liberty; but it is not the blessing itself. It becomes, therefore, the bounden duty, on every principle of equity and religion, of those who, either of their own free will, or by menaces to the master, give emancipation to the slave, to carry out what they have begun, to realize what they have promised, to fulfil the hopes which they have raised. Failing to do this, and simply content with severing the relations between master and slave, they become, themselves, the most cruel tyrants, the most unjust men. They have hurried on, by their blind zeal, a crisis, which they are either unable, or unwilling, or know not how, to turn to the best account, for the cause of humanity, civilization, and religion. Previous--and essential preliminaries, to any attempt at emancipation, either by direct advocacy of the measure in particular quarters, or by legislative enactments, where such are constitutional and legal--a full inquiry ought to be instituted under the following heads:-- I. The actual condition of the slaves, which will include the kind and amount of labour which they are bound to perform, the treatment which they experience when at work, and the degree of attention paid to their physical wants and moral nature, as to lodging, clothing, food, amusements, and instruction. II. The immediate effects of unconditional emancipation, on the coloured freeman. Under this head should be investigated his capability, under the circumstances, of providing for himself and family; and of his acting the part of a good neighbour, and a useful, productive citizen. III. The compatibility of the whites and blacks, the former masters and slaves, and their descendants respectively, living together after emancipation in the same community, with due regard to the feelings, interests, dispositions, and wants of each class. IV. The measures to be adopted for the interests of each, in case of such incompatibility being evident and impossible to be overcome. The first branch of inquiry results favourably to the cause of humanity, as far as the West Indies are concerned. The state of the slave population in the United States is even still more favourable in the main: and if the comparisons instituted between the slaves in the islands and the operatives in England, have resulted in favour of the superior comforts of the former, I feel very sure that, when made between the latter and the American slaves, they will exhibit these in a still more advantageous position. All this, however, while it diminishes the fears of the philanthropist, ought not to relax his efforts for a future and gradual melioration. It simply illustrates things as they are, and does not positively show how they should be. The facts hitherto collected under the second branch of inquiry, are not encouraging. The third head presents a very unsatisfactory aspect to the friends of emancipation, and of the negro race. The problem has not been solved; or if partially so, it goes to show, that there is an incompatibility between the two races, and that both are sufferers by their sojourn in the same land, even though both should be free nominally, and, in the eye of the law, equal. A glance at the condition of the free states of the union, as they are called, in this respect, exhibits the proofs of this condition of things. And so long as these startling anomalies exist--freedom without its enjoyments, equality without its social privileges--we really do not see how the people of the free states can pretend, with any show of propriety or justice, even had they the power by law and constitution, to meddle with the relations between master and slave, in the slave-holding states. They have the right, which all men ought to have, of discussing freely any and every important question in ethics, jurisprudence, and political economy, but not to give their conclusion a direct and offensive application to those portions of their fellow-citizens or fellow-men, to whom they have not yet furnished a clear and satisfactory example, and rule of conduct in the case specially adverted to. Still more do the difficulties of the subject increase, if the last branch of inquiry has not been satisfactorily carried out--if the necessity of separation of the two races, be denied; or, if admitted, the means of accomplishing it be opposed and reviled, as either impracticable or unjust. I am myself in favour of emancipation; but this is a conclusion which it seems to us ought to be carried into effect, only after a due consideration of the premises, and with a full knowledge of the remoter consequences, and ability to make these consequences correspond with the claims of justice and peace in the beginning; and the best and permanent interests of the two races, ultimately. Have those who advocate immediate and unconditional emancipation weighed well these several branches of inquiry on this momentous subject? It is to be feared, indeed, by their language and conduct, that they have not. They should beware, while they are denouncing the slave-holder, that they do not themselves incur a still more fearful responsibility, and make themselves answerable for jeoparding, if not actually dissolving, the Union, and encouraging civil, perhaps servile war, with all its horrors and atrocities." FOOTNOTES: [19] "Field hands"--"Force"--"Hands"--"People," and "Niggers," are terms applied to the purchased labourers of a plantation; but "Slaves"--never. "Boys" is the general term for the men, and "women," for females. It is common to address a negro forty years of age as "boy." If much older he is called "daddy," or "uncle;" but "mister," or "man"--never. The females, in old age, become "aunty," "granny," or "old lady." APPENDIX. NOTE A.--_Title-page--Mississippi._ Desirous of embodying in the appendix to this work, whatever of an interesting nature relates to the South-west, the author has compiled, principally from the American Almanac for 1835, the following STATISTICAL TABLES of Mississippi, presenting that growing state in a variety of interesting views:-- MISSISSIPPI. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Latitude of Natchez, 31° 34' North. Longitude in degrees 91 24' 42" West. _h._ _m._ _s._ Longitude in time, 6 5 38.8 Distance from Washington, 1146 miles. -----------------------------------+----------------------------------- Relative size of Mississippi, 9. | Extent in square miles, 45,760. -----------------------------------+----------------------------------- NUMBER OF INHABITANTS TO A SQUARE MILE. -----------------------+-----------------------+----------------------- In 1810. | In 1820. | In 1830. -----------------------+-----------------------+----------------------- .9 | 1.6 | 3 -----------------------+-----------------------+----------------------- RELATIVE POPULATION. -----------------------+-----------------------+----------------------- In 1810. | In 1820. | In 1830. -------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+------- Free | Slave | Total | Free | Slave | Total | Free | Slave | Total -------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+------- 20 | 9 | 19 | 24 | 10 | 21 | 24 | 10 | 22 -------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+------- RATE OF INCREASE OF FREE AND SLAVE POPULATION. -----------------------+-----------------------+----------------------- From 1800 to 1810. | From 1810 to 1820. | From 1820 to 1830. -------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+------- Free | Slave | Total | Free | Slave | Total | Free | Slave | Total -------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+------- 334 | 389.7 | 356 | | | | 66.4 | 100 | 81 -------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+------- POPULATION IN 1810. -------------+-------------+---------------------------+--------------- Free | Slaves | No. of free to 1 slave | Total -------------+-------------+---------------------------+--------------- 23,264 | 17,088 | 1.35 | 40,352 -------------+-------------+---------------------------+--------------- In 1820. -------------+-------------+---------------------------+--------------- 42,634 | 32,814 | 1.29 | 75,488 -------------+-------------+---------------------------+--------------- In 1830. -------------+-------------+---------------------------+--------------- 70,962 | 65,659 | 1.08 | 136,621 -------------+-------------+---------------------------+--------------- IMPORTS AND EXPORTS IN THE YEAR ENDING -----------------------------------+----------------------------------- Value of Imports | Value of Exports -----------------------------------+----------------------------------- | -----------------------------------+----------------------------------- Tonnage, 925 Tons. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- GOVERNMENT. _Salary._ HIRAM G. RUNNELS, governor; (term of office expires Nov. 1835.) $2,500 DAVID DICKSON, secretary of state, 1,200 JAMES PHILLIPS, state treasurer, 1,200 JOHN H. MALLORY, auditor of public accounts, 1,200 GEN. BRISCOE, president of the senate:--ADAMAM L. BIRGAMAN, speaker of the house of representatives. The legislature meets, once in two years, on the 4th Monday in November. JUDICIARY. _High Court of errors and appeals._ _Salary._ WILLIAM L. SHARKEY, presiding judge, $2,000 COTESWORTH P. SMITH, judge, 2,000 DAVID W. WRIGHT, judge, 2,000 MATTHEW D. PATTON, attorney general, 1,000 This court, which has no jurisdiction, except what properly belongs to a court of errors and appeals, holds two sessions annually, at Jackson, commencing on the first Monday in January and July. _Superior court of chancery._ EDWARD TURNER, chancellor, _Salary_ $2,000 This court, which has jurisdiction over all matters, pleas, and complaints whatsoever, belonging to or cognizable in a court of equity, holds two sessions annually, beginning on the first Monday in January and July. _Circuit court._ 1st district, ALEXANDER MONTGOMERY, judge, 2d district, JAMES SCOTT, judge, 3d district, A. M. KEEGAR, judge, 4th district, judge, 5th district, J. J. H. MORRIS, judge, 6th district, JAMES F. TROTTER, judge. The state is divided into six districts or circuits, and one judge, and a district attorney are chosen by the electors of each district; and a circuit court is held in each county twice every year. It has original jurisdiction in civil cases in which the sum in controversy exceeds $50. BANKS. Exhibition of their state on the 7th of January, 1834, as laid before Congress, June 24, 1834. ----------------------------+--------------+--------------+----------- | Capital | Bills | NAME. | stock paid | in | Specie. | in. | circulation. | ----------------------------+--------------+--------------+----------- Planters' bank, Natchez, |$2,666,805 45 | 1,510,426 15 | 113,220 47 Estimated situation of b'ks | | | from which no returns | | | were received. | | | Agricultural bank of } | | | Miss. Natchez. } | 1,000,000 00 | 590,000 00 | 43,000 00 State bank of Mississippi,} | | | Natchez. } | | | |------------- |------------- |----------- Total |$3,666,805 45 | 2,100,426 15 | 156,220 47 ----------------------------+--------------+--------------+----------- Statement of the banks, as given by a correspondent, under date of August 10, 1834. -------------+----------+------------+----------------------------- NAME. | Place. | Capital. | Branches of Planters' bank. -------------+----------+------------+----------------------------- | | | { Vicksburg, $500,000 | | | { Port Gibson, 500,000 Planters' } | | | { Woodville, 500,000 bank, } | Natchez, | $4,000,000 | { Manchester, 300,000 | | | { Monticello, 200,000 | | | { Columbus, 200,000 | | | { Jackson, 100,000 | | | | | | Total of brn's, $2,300,000 | | | Agricultural}| | | bank. }| Natchez, | $4,000,000 | | | --------- | | Total | 7,000,000 | -------------+----------+------------+----------------------------- The capitals of the branches constitute a part of the ($4,000,000) capital of the Planters' bank. A rail-road is being surveyed this summer from Natchez to Jackson, for which a charter will be granted at the next meeting of the legislature. SUMMARY. The governor of Mississippi is elected by the people. Term begins November, 1833--expires November, 1835. Duration of the term two years. Salary $2,500. Senators, 11. Term of years, three. Representatives 36. Term of years, one. Total, senators and representatives, 47. Pay per day, $3. Electors of president and vice-president are chosen by general ticket. Seat of government, Jackson. Time of holding elections, in May. Time of meeting of the legislature, fourth Monday in November, biennially. Mississippi admitted into the union in 1817. NOTE B. _Page 27._ For the following meteorological table, the author is indebted to the politeness of Henry Tooley Esq. a scientific gentleman who has been a resident of Natchez the third of a century, and who has during the greater part of his life kept a daily register of the weather. The exposure of his thermometer was unexceptionable, and always the same. The tables in the author's possession from various other sources, date back to the year 1799, affording an uninterrupted series of meteorological observations in this climate, down to the present period. An abstract from these tables would be too elaborate for a work of this nature, and would not, indeed, convey any farther important information upon this climate, than is contained in the accompanying abstract from the tables of Dr. Tooley, for the past ten years. The general temperature, though varying much from day to day, is so regular, one year with another, that a meteorological table for any one period of ten years will answer, with slight variations, for almost any other term of the same duration. The thermometer was examined at 5 A. M. and at 4 P. M. for the extremes. ANNUAL RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS MADE AT NATCHEZ IN N. Lat. 31° 34' Long. 91° 24' 42" W. ----+-------------+-------+------+-------+-------+----------------------------- | |5 A.M. |4 P.M.|5 A.M. |4 P.M. | Number of days | +-------+------+-------+-------+-----+------+-----+----+----- Year| Mean temp | Warmest | Coldest |Clear|Cloudy|Rainy|Snow|Sleet ====+======+======+=======+======+=======+=======+=====+======+=====+====+===== 1825|60 |81-1/6|71-1/12|81-1/3|49-1/2 |63-5/12| 178 | 88 | 99 | | ----+------+------+-------+------+-------+-------+-----+------+-----+----+----- 1826|63-1/2|75 |74-1/3 |80-3/4|48-1/4 |64-9/12| 134 | 120 | 110 | 1 | ----+------+------+-------+------+-------+-------+-----+------+-----+----+----- 1827|63-1/2|74 |74-5/6 |73-1/3|51-1/3 |66-1/4 | 151 | 126 | 88 | | ----+------+------+-------+------+-------+-------+-----+------+-----+----+----- 1828|64 |76 |64-1/3 |77-1/6|53-1/2 |65-3/4 | 133 | 121 | 112 | | ----+------+------+-------+------+-------+-------+-----+------+-----+----+----- 1829|54 |65 |72-2/3 |76-1/3|48-1/12|61-2/3 | 116 | 124 | 134 | 1 | ----+------+------+-------+------+-------+-------+-----+------+-----+----+----- 1830|62-1/3|74 |72-1/4 |80-3/4|48-1/2 |66-7/12| 161 | 121 | 77 | 2 | 1 ----+------+------+-------+------+-------+-------+-----+------+-----+----+----- 1831|57 |69-1/2|71-1/4 |77-1/2|44-1/2 |60-1/3 | 187 | 141 | 34 | 3 | ----+------+------+-------+------+-------+-------+-----+------+-----+----+----- 1832|61-5/6|74-1/2|68-1/8 |84-1/3|47 |64-7/12| 185 | 146 | 23 | 2 | ----+------+------+-------+------+-------+-------+-----+------+-----+----+----- 1833|60-1/2|72 |71-1/12|78-1/2|48-1/2 |65 | 177 | 138 | 50 | | ----+------+------+-------+------+-------+-------+-----+------+-----+----+----- 1834|60-1/2|73-1/4|73-9/12|82-1/3|47 |65 | 166 | 151 | 46 | 2 | ----+------+------+-------+------+-------+-------+-----+------+-----+----+----- to | | | | | | | | | | | June| | | | | | | | | | | 1835|21-1/3|26-1/4|28-1/2 |30-1/6|15 |22-2/3 | 62 | 69 | 18 | 2 | ----+------+------+-------+------+-------+-------+-----+------+-----+----+----- 1835. ------+-------------+---------------+----------------+----+----+----+----+----- | Mean | | | | | | | Months| temp | Warm | Cold |Cl'r|Cl'y|Rain|Snow|Sleet ------+-------------+---------------+----------------+----+----+----+----+----- Jan. |46-2/3|57 |69 |64 |32 |48 | 12 | 16 | 3 | | Feb. |36-1/3|50 |59 |61 |10 |28 | 13 | 11 | 3 | 1 | Mar. |46 |65-2/3|68 |74 |32 |50 | 14 | 11 | 5 | 1 | April,|57-2/3|65 |71 |75 |46 |64 | 9 | 18 | 3 | | May, |69-2/3|77-1/3|76 |88 |60 |82 | 14 | 13 | 4 | | June, | | | | | | | | | | | |------|------|-------|-------|-------|--------|----|----|----|----|----- |21-1/3|26-1/4|28-7/12|30-1/6 |15 |22-1/3 | 62 | 69 | 18 | 2 | ------+------+------+-------+-------+-------+--------+----+----+----+----+----- Mean temp. obtained by adding mean of months together, and then dividing by the number of months. 1834. ------+-------------+---------------+----------------+----+----+----+----+----- Jan. |29-2/3|50 |67 |74 |14 |27 | 5 | 12 | 11 | 2 | 1 Feb. |52-2/3|65 |72 |73 |32 |52 | 13 | 14 | 1 | | Mar. |47 |67 |69 |78 |39 |62 | 9 | 17 | 5 | | April,|61 |76 |67 |83 |49 |74 | 17 | 11 | 2 | | May, |66 |89-1/2|76 |93 |54 |63 | 14 | 12 | 5 | | June, |76-2/3|87 |80 |93 |71 |87 | 15 | 15 | | | July, |77 |89-2/3|82 |83 |74 |91 | 21 | 10 | | | Aug. |77-2/3|90-1/2|83 |98 |73 |89 | 18 | 12 | 1 | | Sept. |69-1/3|70 |77 |77 |57 |77 | 13 | 10 | 7 | | Oct. |66-1/2|75-1/2|76 |87 |41 |56 | 19 | 9 | 3 | | Nov. |55-1/3|63-2/3|69 |77 |31 |51 | 10 | 15 | 5 | | Dec. |47-1/2|55-2/3|67 |72 |35 |52 | 12 | 14 | 5 | | |------|------|-------|-------|-------|--------|----|----|----|----|----- |60-1/2|73-1/4|73-9/12|82-1/3 |47-1/12|65-1/12 |166 |151 | 45 | 2 | 1 ------+------+------+-------+-------+-------+--------+----+----+----+----+----- 1833. ------+-------------+---------------+----------------+----+----+----+----+----- Jan. |53-1/2|37-1/2|68 |74 |31 |51 | 9 | 17 | 5 | | Feb. |46-3/4|60 |59 |72 |38 |56 | 11 | 9 | 8 | | Mar. |51 |66 |64 |71 |25 |37 | 13 | 5 | 13 | | April,|63 |76 |73 |65 |55 |66 | 13 | 16 | 1 | | May, |70 |82 |76 |84 |66 |73 | 15 | 13 | 3 | | June, |75 |87 |80 |92 |65 |84 | 18 | 11 | 1 | | July, |63-2/3|89-2/3|81 |93 |69 |89 | 22 | 9 | | | Aug. |74 |89-1/2|80 |93 |69 |88 | 19 | 12 | | | Sept. |74 |86-1/3|79 |94 |62 |81 | 15 | 12 | 3 | | Oct. |58 |69-2/3|68 |70 |37 |56 | 18 | 8 | 5 | | Nov. |49 |63 |69 |71 |30 |45 | 15 | 11 | 4 | | Dec. |48-1/3|58 |61 |62 |36 |53 | 9 | 15 | 7 | | |------|------|-------|-------|-------|--------|----|----|----|----|----- |60-1/2|72 |71-1/12|78-5/12|48-7/12|64-11/12|177 |138 | 50 | | ------+------+------+-------+-------+-------+--------+----+----+----+----+----- The author has been favoured with the following medical report drawn up by a physician of Natchez, who has had long experience in the diseases of this climate. MEDICAL REPORT. Return of deaths within the city of Natchez, from 1st June 1822, to first June 1835--including thirteen years: The population of Natchez is ordinarily between three and four thousand--lessened, probably, in the summer season, from 500 to 1000. With this number of residents, the mortality cannot be regarded as very large. On the contrary, few places of equal magnitude, either north or south, can boast a greater degree of general health than this city. Since the year 1825, it will be perceived, it has been growing gradually healthier--with the exception of the last two or three years,--when, owing in a great measure to the severity of the winter season, a great proportion of the sickness and mortality has occurred in the winter and spring months. Indeed take a period of seven years--from 1825 to 1833, and we challenge any southern or western city, with the same amount of population, to show a less number of deaths--especially in the summer season, than the city of Natchez. The bill of mortality has been considerably augmented of late, by that appalling and sweeping epidemic, which increased in strength, and doubled its roll of victims in proportion as it travelled south--together with small pox and intemperance--for both of which nature has provided specific remedies--but which certain classes continue still to avoid, and will hence continue to suffer and die in spite of Jenner and the temperance societies, as long as incredulity shall exist, and distilleries pour forth their floods of poison in the land. Most of those with the last mentioned diseases, it would seem, have been inmates of the public hospital. On an average, about 1/5 to 1/4 of the deaths annually occur from bilious remittent, congestive and typhus fever. The yellow fever, be it known, has not appeared here as an epidemic for the last five or six years, and may be regarded as quite extinct in the city. Owing to the careless and imperfect manner in which the returns have generally been made--and this we are sorry to say, is too often the case--a large portion of the deaths are from unknown diseases--as to which in regard to the age of the subjects, and the colour, which in this country is somewhat important, we are left generally in the dark. By giving the subject some considerable attention, however, we have been enabled to preserve a degree of accuracy in the proportion, and the general result, we believe, is nearly, if not specifically correct. The whole number of deaths by fever, during 13 years, is 511; cholera 107, consumption 100, intemperance 58, small pox 45, infantile 49, dysentery 30, delirium tremens 23, drowned 10, murder 10, old age 10, suicide 4, unknown 205. The remainder, which we purposely omit, are by ordinary diseases, which are not peculiar to any clime or season. We have examined a meteorological table, kept with a considerable degree of accuracy for the last 10 years: but it presents nothing peculiar--and its details are too minute and comprehensive for our present object. We notice, however, a greater proportion of "cloudy and rainy" days than could be expected in this "sunny clime," while the average degree of heat is by no means greater than in latitudes somewhat farther north. The greatest range of heat is 98, and the greatest cold 10°.--This we are inclined to believe, is not strictly correct, as we have twice, within a few years, seen the thermometer as low as 10° in the neighbourhood of New Orleans. DEATHS IN EACH MONTH. Months and years, 1822|1823|1824|1825|1826|1827|1828|1829|1830|1831|1832|1833|1834|1835 | | | | | | | | | | | | | January, | 7| 4| 5| 7| 5| 4| 7| 5| 4| 5| 4| 14| 17 February, | 4| 10| 7| 6| 2| 7| 4| 6| 5| 6| 5| 16| 16 March, | 8| 5| 1| 3| 4| 3| 7| 6| 8| 3| 11| 30| 18 April, | 12| 6| 3| 4| 4| 5| 7| 2| 6| 5| 8| 22| 25 May, | 11| 6| 5| 9| 3| 6| 6| 3| 11| 9| 16| 19| 32 June, 9| 15| 8| 6| 7| 3| 9| 5| 4| 6| 3| 27| 44| July, 33| 15| 19| 4| 11| 4| 5| 3| 7| 5| 4| 9| 27| August, 29| 102| 14| 17| 9| 5| 2| 6| 16| 4| 3| 11| 14| September, 28| 155| 13| 33| 10| 6| 12| 19| 9| 4| 9| 15| 17| October, 22| 56| 8| 48| 5| 26| 9| 21| 10| 5| 13| 30| 20| November, 12| 8| 5| 15| 4| 16| 9| 16| 7| 4| 10| 10| 26| December, 6| 7| 4| 4| 12| 8| 3| 2| 5| 12| 8| 13| 20| ---+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+---- Total, 139| 400| 102| 148| 87| 86| 74| 103| 80| 74| 75| 159| 269|108- | | | | | | | | | | | | |1904 Males, 119| 315| 80| 128| 62| 76| 56| 80| 55| 57| 55| 124| 193| 79- | | | | | | | | | | | | |1479 Females, 20| 85| 22| 20| 25| 10| 18| 23| 25| 17| 20| 35| 76| 29- | | | | | | | | | | | | | 425 NOTE C--_Page 90_. For the following valuable paper upon the cultivation of cotton, the author is indebted to the kindness of Dr. J. W. Monett, of Mississippi, already well known to the medical world by his treatises published at the north upon the prevailing epidemics of this climate. THE COTTON CROP. "Having finished or relinquished the miscellaneous business of winter, such as clearing, building, ditching, and splitting rails, the hands are actively employed in making preparation for another crop. The first thing to be attended to, is the repairing of all the fences, with the light force, such as boys and women; while the strong hands are employed in chopping, and log-rolling in the new grounds. These operations are commenced generally about the middle of February, and continued two or three weeks, unless the farm is mostly new; in which case the clearing of the new ground continues four or five weeks until it is time to plant corn, generally from the first to the twentieth of March. During all this time several ploughs, in a well opened place, are kept constantly running (unless prevented by rain), in "listing up" corn and cotton ground. The distance between the ridges for cotton varies according to the strength of the soil, and the consequent size to which the plant grows. In the rich bottoms the distance between the middle or tops of the ridges must be from five to seven feet; while in the thin upland soil, a space of three or four feet is amply sufficient. In the latter soil, the cotton plant attains the height of three or four feet, and branches laterally about half that distance. But in the rich alluvial lands, the stalk not unfrequently shoots up to six and eight feet, and branches so as to interlock with the other rows six or eight feet apart. Early in April, and sometimes even in the last days of March, the cotton-planting commences. To open the ridges, a narrow plough is run by one horse along the middle of the ridge, so as to open a narrow shallow furrow, in the mellow ground first ploughed. Immediately behind the opening plough, follows the sower, with his sack of cotton-seed suspended from his neck, walking at the same pace with the plough-man before. At every step or two he throws the seed so as to strew it four or five feet ahead in the furrow, at each dash of the hand. The quantity sown is often unnecessarily large, being frequently twenty times more numerous than the stalks permitted to remain growing. This profusion of seed is sown for the purpose of obtaining a "good stand," after allowing for defective seeds as well as some which may not be covered, and others that may be covered too deep, and also for many plants that may sicken and die after they have vegetated and come above the ground. This latter circumstance frequently occurs: a stand may be amply sufficient when first up, but from drought, excessive rain, or chilling winds, one half in the rows, and sometimes whole acres together, die with the "rust," "sore skin," or "yellow fever." After the sower another hand follows closely with a light horse harrow, drawn over the furrow, for the purpose of covering the seed. This throws in the loose earth over the seed, and covers them so lightly that often one-third of them are still visible, yet this covering is sufficient, for no seeds require less covering than cotton-seed. They will sprout and take root, when left on the surface of the ground, if a slight shower follows. On a large plantation where there are, say, fifty effective hands, there will probably be three or four sets of hands engaged at the same time in planting; each set, however, not in any way interfering with the other; but all pushing on with a constant brisk motion. As a medium task, each set, of three hands, will very easily plant ten acres, but oftener fifteen in old well broken land. During the planting season, or between the first of April and the middle of May, there are always from one to three wet or rainy spells, continuing from one to four days each, so that the planting is necessarily interrupted. This, however, is an advantage which none complain of, as it facilitates and expedites the vegetation of the seed already planted; while it causes the several portions of the crop to vary eight or ten days in age, and thereby renders the working more convenient. Twenty planting days are sufficient to put in the whole cotton crop, or at least as much as can be properly tended and secured. On the rich bottom lands, when the growth of the cotton is very luxuriant, it is desirable to finish planting always before the first of May; but in the hills, especially where the soil is thin, and the cotton plant attains but a small comparative size, it is preferable to plant between the fifteenth of April and the twentieth of May. Cotton thus planted in thin soil, will mature and open as soon as that which has been planted three weeks sooner in bottom lands. When the earth is moist and warm, cotton-seed will sprout, and be up in about five or six days; but if the soil be dry it takes much longer--or until there is rain sufficient to saturate the loose earth: for the seed, being covered with a thick coat of coarse wool, is not so readily, as some other seeds, acted upon by slight moisture. As the plant first comes out of the ground, it has somewhat the appearance of a young bean, or of the okra plant, being composed at first of two lobate leaflets, which continue, gradually enlarging, until about the end of the first week, when a leaf or two begins to put out between the lobules. The young cotton-plant is extremely tender, and sensible to the most moderate degrees of cold: the slightest frost cuts it off--while it withers and dies from the effects of a few hours of chilling winds. From the profusion of seed planted, the cotton plant of course comes up very thick and crowded in the row; in which condition it is allowed to remain a week or ten days, and often of necessity much longer, when it is thinned out, or as it is called, "scraped." During scraping time there is one constant rush, and every hand that can use a hoe is brought into the field. The process of scraping commences by running a light furrow close on each side of the row of young cotton, with the share of the plough next it, so as to throw the dirt from the cotton and trim off the scattering plants: the space left unbroken between these two furrows is about eight or ten inches wide, ready for the hoes. If there are many hoe-hands there are several ploughs "barring off" as it is called. The hoe hands follow close upon the ploughs, each hand upon a separate row, and with hoes sharp, and set particularly for "scraping." Experienced cotton hands run over the rows with great rapidity, and evince great dexterity in striking out all to a single stalk, which is left at the distance, from its next neighbour, of at least the width of the hoe; and in bottom land, at double that distance. Thus, in thin land, the stalks are desired to be ten or twelve inches apart, and in the rich lands about eighteen or twenty inches, in the row. The cotton plant thus thinned out, continues to grow slowly until the hot weather of June sets in, when it begins to grow rapidly, putting out a blossom at each new joint formed on the branches. This successive florescence continues until frost puts a stop to the growth of the plant, which is generally in October. The pericarp or boll of cotton, from the first bloom, is generally matured in eight or ten weeks, when it begins to crack at the four seams in the bolls, until the four valves spread wide open, remaining attached only at the base or extremity next the _stem_. When the valves are thus open, the cotton with the seed, to which it adheres in a kind of cluster, hangs down from one to four inches. From June until October, the cotton exhibits a successive and continued florescence, while the plant is loading itself with green bolls, from the size of a young peach, having just dropped its blossom, to that of a small hen's egg. About the last of August the matured bolls begin to burst or open their valves and suspend their cotton; and from that time the plant exhibits at the same time, blossoms, and bolls of every size, and every stage of maturity. Toward fall, when the heat of the sun is constant and intense, the bolls will mature and open in six weeks from the blossom. After the first "scraping out," the cultivation is carried on much in the same manner as in the cultivation of corn, until about the first of August, when it ceases, and the crop is laid by. The same kind of cultivation that would make good corn would make good cotton. In this however there is a difference of opinion: some will hill, or heap the earth up in high ridges with both corn and cotton, while others will keep the soil loose and level about both; the latter is decidedly the proper mode for either. When the blossom is first unfolded, which generally occurs in the night, in form it resembles the white hollyhock, but is smaller, and is of a faint yellowish white colour, which it retains until about noon; the heat of the sun then being intense, the corolla partially closes, not unlike the four-o'clock-flower, and at the same time its hue is changed to a delicate rose, or lilac. On the following day the flowers become more deeply tinged; toward the close of the second evening they are of a deep crimson, or violet hue. During the succeeding night, and morning, that is, about forty-eight hours after they first open, they always drop off while of a deep violet colour, leaving the young capsule or boll. The blossoms generally open, as well as fall off, during the night, and early in the morning. Thus a cotton field in July, August, September, and October, exhibits the singular appearance of a continued crop of opening, closing, and falling blossoms, with an almost equal mixture of white, lilac, and purple flowers; while each morning the ground is seen covered with the latter, and the branches replenished with the white. As the ploughing generally ceases and the crop is "laid by" about the last of July, when the plant is large and brittle, there is but little done in the field during the first three weeks in August, except that a few light hands are kept employed in cutting, or pulling up the "tie-vines" which are sometimes very troublesome: the tie-vine is nothing more or less than the morning-glory, so carefully cultivated in gardens at the north, for the purpose of shading arbours and summer houses. Toward the last of August, or as soon as there is sufficient open cotton for a hand to pick fifteen or twenty pounds during the day, the light force, consisting of women and children, is put to picking for a week or ten days; when there being sufficient cotton opened, to make a full day's work, all hands are engaged without exception. Then begins another push, which continues until the whole crop is gathered and housed. During "picking time" which continues where full crops are made until the first of December, and in river lands, until the first of January, the hands are regularly roused, by a large bell or horn, about the first dawn of day, or earlier so that they are ready to enter the field as soon as there is sufficient light to distinguish the bolls. As the dews are extremely heavy and cool, each hand is provided with a blanket coat or wrapper, which is kept close around him until the dew is partially evaporated by the sun. Without this protection they would be completely wet from head to feet, in a very short time; and as they would be in the field at least two hours before the sun's rays would be felt, they would be perfectly chilled, if no worse consequence attended. The hands remain in the field until it is too dark to distinguish the cotton, having brought their meals with them. For the purpose of collecting the cotton, each hand is furnished with a large basket, and two coarse cotton bags about the size of a pillow case, with a strong strap to suspend them from the neck or shoulders. The basket is left at the end of a row, and both bags taken along: when one bag is as full as it can well be crammed, it is laid down in the row, and the hand begins to fill the second in the same way. As soon as the second is full, he returns to the basket, taking the other bag as he passes it, and empties both into the basket, treading it down well, to make it contain his whole day's work. The same process is repeated until night; when the basket is taken upon his head and carried to the scaffold-yard, to be weighed. There the overseer meets all hands at the scales, with the lamp, slate, and whip. On the left hand margin of the slate is pasted a strip of paper, with the name of each written in fair large hand. As soon as their baskets are set upon the ground, the weighing commences. Each basket is carefully weighed, and the nett weight of cotton set down upon the slate, opposite the name of the picker. The negroes stand round, to remove and replace the baskets as they are weighed; and occasionally the countenance of an idler may be seen to fall. Then is the time for the overseer to watch close or he may be greatly imposed upon by the cunning and lazy, who are apt, in the crowd, to prevent their baskets from being weighed, by substituting a heavier one which has been passed, or they may fill up their baskets from one already weighed. Sometimes a negro, known to be lazy, will have heavy weight and will probably extort from the overseer expressions of praise and encouragement, unless he examines the basket, when perchance he may find one of his sacks full of moist earth snugly covered up at the bottom; such tricks as these will be continually practised upon an overseer, who is careless or "soft;" a quality or character, which none can more readily and properly appreciate than the negro. It is not an uncommon occurrence for an overseer, who is even vigilant, amid the crowd of negroes and baskets, with only one lamp, held close to the scales and slate, to weigh some of the heavier baskets several times, their exact weight being changed by taking out, or putting in a few pounds; while the lighter ones pass entirely unnoticed. No inconvenience arises to any one from such incidents, except that the crop is not gathered in as good time as it might otherwise have been, and a portion consequently is wasted. After the weighing is over, and the baskets are emptied, or turned bottom upward, upon the scaffolds, the overseer takes the slate, and examines the weights attached to each name. Those who are found to have brought in less than their usual quantity, unless for good reasons, are called in the order of their names: the individual advances, and if his reasons are insufficient, he is ordered to lie down upon his face, with his back exposed; when he receives ten, twenty, or fifty stripes with the whip, according to his deserts. In this way the overseer goes over the list, punishing only those who have idled away their time. No one knows that he is to be punished until his name is called, when he has an opportunity of giving his reasons for his imperfect day's work. As to the quantity which a hand can pick in a day, there is a great difference; some will pick only from 75 to 100 lbs., others from 150 to 200 lbs., while some extraordinary pickers can pick as high as 4 or 500 lbs. in one day. But to pick these last weights requires such brisk and incessant motion, that it could not be done two days in succession without danger of life or health; and is only attempted for a wager, or such like reason. The average weight picked by all the hands on a place, will seldom exceed 150 or 160 lbs., in good picking. Children from ten to fifteen years of age generally pick nearly as much as grown hands. The scaffolds for drying cotton are mostly temporary, being made anew every summer, of common boards or plank. Upon these the cotton is suffered to lie spread out to the sun, at least one day to dry; while some old or decrepit hand stays at the scaffold, to turn and spread it, as well as to pick out leaves and trash. It may not be improper to make a remark or two relative to whipping. This is generally performed with as much care and humanity as the nature of the case will admit. A person standing at the distance of two hundred yards, being unacquainted with the mode, and hearing the loud sharp crack of the whip upon the naked skin, would almost tremble for the life of the poor sufferer. But what would be his surprise, after hearing fifty or one hundred stripes thus laid on, to go up and examine the poor fellow, and find the skin not broken, and not a drop of blood drawn from him! Yet this is the way in which the whip is generally used here upon slaves: very few planters would permit them to be whipped on the bare back with a raw-hide, or cow-skin, as it is called. Though, as in every thing else, there is a great difference in the degree of severity exercised by different masters: yet we must take the general rule, as applicable to the great class of planters. The common overseer's whip consists of a stout flexible stalk, large at the handle, tapering rapidly to the distance of about eighteen inches, and thence continued with cord or leather; the whole is covered with a leather plat, which continues tapering into, and forms the lash--the whole together being about three feet and a half long. To the end of the lash is attached a soft, dry, buckskin cracker, about three eighths of an inch wide and ten or twelve inches long, which is the only part allowed to strike, in whipping on the bare skin. So soft is the cracker, that a person who has not the sleight of using the whip, could scarcely hurt a child with it. When it is used by an experienced hand it makes a very loud report, and stings, or "burns" the skin smartly, but does not bruise it. One hundred lashes well laid on with it, would not injure the skin as much as ten moderate stripes with a cow-skin. But to return from this digression:--Every day, when the weather will admit, beholds a repetition of the ceremony of picking, weighing, and drying, as before detailed. Those who have gins, as all planters should have, generally keep the stand running during the picking season, so as to gin out the cotton as fast as it is picked. If there are forty or fifty good pickers, it requires one stand to be kept running constantly to keep up with them. In such cases, during wet weather, when the hands cannot pick cotton, the ablest of them are kept baling the cotton which has been ginned since the last rain, or within the last eight or ten days. When there are not more than twenty, or twenty-five, the gin will be able to keep up, by ginning the last three days in the week, in addition to all rainy weather; and the able-bodied hands will be able to do all the pressing and baling during the wet days. Gin, in the common acceptation, signifies the house and all the machinery required to separate the _lint_ from the seed, and to press it into large bales, weighing generally from 400 to 500 pounds. The house is a large enclosed roof, resting upon blocks or posts, which support it at about eight or nine feet from the ground. The common area covered is about forty by sixty feet, the rafters resting upon plates, and the plates upon flooring beams, or joists, upon which the floor is laid. About the distance of one-third the length of the house, two gearing beams are laid across, for supporting the machinery. These rest upon the top of the blocks, or on posts framed into them. On the ground floor is the horse-path for drawing the main wheel and counter wheel; the last of which carries a broad band, which passes over and turns the cylinder and brush of the gin-stand alone. The large plantations are adopting steam engines, and erect for the purpose very large and expensive buildings, in which are placed two, three, or four stands. A gin-stand is a frame, in which runs a wooden cylinder with an iron shaft running through it; this cylinder is encircled at every inch by a very thin circular saw, with sharp hooked teeth, upon which the seed cotton is thrown, running through parallel grates. The teeth of the saws catch and carry through the lint from the seed. Just behind the cylinder is a fly-wheel brush--that is, a fan, with a brush on its extreme circumference; this brush, running considerably faster than the cylinder, takes off the cotton from the teeth, and blows it back. The space or room above is divided into two apartments; one for the stand and seed cotton, and the other for ginned cotton; the latter of which will contain cotton for twenty or thirty bales. A good gin-stand, with sixty or sixty-five saws, running constantly from daybreak in the morning until eight or nine o'clock at night, will gin out as much as will make three or four bales. At the other end of the house, and immediately under the room containing ginned cotton, is the press. It consists of two large wooden screws, twelve or sixteen inches in diameter, with reversed threads cut on each end to within eighteen inches or two feet of the middle, through which there is a mortice for the lever. These screws stand perpendicularly, and about ten feet apart, and work into a large heavy beam above, and into another firmly secured below. The upper moves up or down (when the screws are turned), between four strong upright posts, framed together, two on each side, so as to come down strait and steady when pressing. The lower sides of the press are composed of very strong batten doors; when the beam is brought sufficiently low, a spring is struck, and they fly open; when they are removed, leaving the naked bale standing on its edge under the press. A piece of bagging, cut to the proper size and shape, was put in the bottom of the press-box, before filling in the cotton, and another on top, immediately under the follower. These two pieces are brought together in such manner as to cover the cotton neatly, and there sewed with twine. The rope passed under and over it, through the grooves left in the bed-sill and in the follower, by means of a windlass, is drawn extremely tight and tied with double loop knots. When all is finished, the screws are turned backward, the beam rises, and the bale is rolled out. Notwithstanding there are seven bands of strong rope around it, the bale will swell and stretch the rope, until its breadth is at least two or three inches more than when in the press. To press and bale expeditiously requires at least four or five hands and one horse. When the box has been sufficiently filled, generally eight or nine feet deep, the men bring down the beam by turning the screws with hand levers as long as they can turn them; then a large lever is placed in the screw, with a strong horse attached to one end, and a few turns of the screws by the horse bring the beam down to the proper point, within thirty or thirty-four inches of the sill. The requisite number of hands will put up and bale with a common press about ten or twelve bales a day, by pushing. After the bales are properly put up, the next thing is to mark and number them on one end. For this purpose a plate of copper, with the initials, or such mark as is fancied, cut in it, is applied to the end of the bale and the letters and figures painted through it with black marking ink. The next trouble is to haul them to market, or the nearest landing for boats; sometimes this is a very troublesome and difficult task, especially in wet weather, when the roads, from the immense quantity of heavy hauling, in getting the crops to market, are much cut up, and often almost impassable. The planter who is careful to take all proper advantages of season and weather, will have his cotton hauled early in the fall, as fast as it is ginned, when the roads are almost certainly good. The quantity of cotton produced to the acre, varies with the quality of the soil and the season. The best kind of river and alluvial lands, when in a complete state of cultivation, and with a good season, will produce on an average from 1500 to 2000 lbs. of cotton in the seed per acre; while new land of the same quality will not yield more than 1200 or 1400 lbs. per acre. The highlands, where the soil is fertile, will yield under the most favourable circumstances about 1400 lbs., while those lands which have been many years in cultivation, where the soil is thin, will not yield more than from 800 to 1000 lbs. per acre; and some not more than 600 lbs. As a general rule 1300 or 1400 lbs. of seed cotton, will, when ginned out, make a bale of 400 lbs. or more. This is according to the correct weight of the daily picking in the cotton book; although after being weighed, it must lose some weight by drying. The quantity of cotton raised and secured by good management most commonly averages about five or six bales to the hand: and the quantity, among the mass of planters, more frequently falls below, than rises above this estimate. Some, with a few choice hands, may sometimes average nine or ten bales to the hand by picking until January. When the crop is all secured, which, as we observed before, varies from the first of December until some time in January, according to the season, hands, and extent of the crop, the hands are employed during the winter in clearing, chopping logs in the field, splitting rails, or ditching, if necessary. About the middle of February they resume preparations for "another crop." NOTE D.--_Page 258._ A recent writer, in speculating upon the possible result of an insurrectionary movement in the south, says, in the course of his remarks,-- "Here, where the whites so far outnumber the blacks, as to render such a struggle hopeless on their part, there is little or nothing to apprehend; but in the south, where the case is reversed, the consequences will probably be what they were in St. Domingo--the extermination or expatriation of the whites, the loss of tens of hundreds of thousands of lives, and hundreds or perhaps of millions of property." In reply, and in confutation of this opinion, Gen. Houston of Natchez, addressed a very sensible and well-written paper to the editor of the New-York Courier and Enquirer, in which he says-- "There are but two states in the Union where the slaves are equal in numbers to the whites, and in these they have a bare majority; in other states they have but a third and in others a fourth or fifth. Now is there any man who supposes that an equal number of negroes, unacquainted with arms, undisciplined, without combination, without officers, without a rifle or a musket, or a single cartridge, can in any way be formidable to an equal number of whites, well armed and equipped, well supplied with all the necessaries of war, well organized, and well officered? The notion is absurd. I will go farther; take a body of negroes, furnish them with arms, equipments, and every thing necessary for war; let them have twelve months to combine, to train, and to acquire a knowledge of the use of arms, and my life on it, they would be nothing more at the end of the time than an ignorant disorderly rabble, who could not form a line of battle, a thousand of them would not stand the charge of a single volunteer corps, they would disperse at the first volley of musketry, and a body of white men would feel debased to compete with such foes. "There is no southern state that apprehends any injury from its slaves--that seeks protection from any power on earth--not one of them values the Union one particle as the means of guarding them on that score. "There are no people on earth better supplied with arms, more accustomed to their daily use, and I may say more ready to use them, than the people of the south. Go into any house in Mississippi, Alabama, South Carolina, Kentucky, Virginia, Tennessee, or any other southern state, and you will generally see a good rifle and fowling-piece; and every neighbourhood has its men who can throw a deer running at full speed at the distance of one hundred yards. Do such men seek protection or apprehend danger from an inferior number of unarmed, ignorant and enslaved negroes? Most assuredly not. "Experience has shown that the militia of the United States are frequently able to combat successfully with the regular troops of Europe. And many a well-fought field has shown that the militia of the southern states are equal to any in the Union, I will not be invidious and say superior. If such is the case, what lessons do the wars and experience of Europe teach us? There it is a received maxim that ten thousand disciplined troops are superior to an army of forty thousand undisciplined peasantry, even when they are equally supplied with arms. And to this maxim history shows but few exceptions, as in Switzerland and the Tyrolese mountains, where the peasantry are much favoured by the mountains and defiles, are inured to hardships, trained in the chase and in the use of arms. "Have not the peasantry of Europe more acquaintance with arms, more means of acquiring them and other necessaries for war, more military information, more means of combination, and more intelligence, than the negroes of the south? Most assuredly they have, and yet they are generally held in subjection by a comparatively small body of men. I merely glance at this, but could, if time and space permitted, give many striking illustrations. "If the south are so safe, it may be asked why are they so sensitive on this subject? I will answer:--they are sensitive from motives of interest and humanity. "He who makes my negroes dissatisfied with their situation, makes them less useful to me, and puts me under the necessity of dealing more rigorously with them. "Throughout the whole south it is considered disgraceful not to clothe and feed negroes well, or to treat them cruelly, and there are very few who have the hardihood to brave public sentiment. And on many plantations, when they are orderly and obedient, they have many indulgences and privileges, such as to raise and sell poultry, &c.: to cultivate a small piece of ground and sell the products; and time is allowed them for such purposes. But if negroes become disorderly, discontented, and disobedient, the necessity requires that they should either be set at large at once, or their privileges curtailed, and discipline made more rigorous till they are brought into complete subjection; there is no middle course. Again--if negroes become dissatisfied, disobedient and rebellious, there is a possibility that they may do damage in a single neighbourhood, and destroy the lives of a few women and children--the consequence of which would be that then whites would be under the necessity of putting great numbers of the misguided wretches to death. Such was the case at Southampton. This we would avoid, both from motives of interest and humanity, not that we apprehend any more serious injury, and you may rest assured that if the negroes were to rebel and do any considerable injury, the havoc and destruction made amongst them would be dreadful; and it would be difficult to prevent its extending to those who were innocent. "Those, therefore, who are instrumental in making the negro dissatisfied with his condition, make it much worse, for they constrain his owner to be more rigorous in his treatment, and they tempt him to rebellion, which must lead to death and extermination." THE END. +---------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the | | original document have been preserved. | | | | Typographical errors corrected in the text: | | | | Page ix eflux changed to efflux | | Page vii tawney changed to tawny | | Page ix Vickburg changed to Vicksburg | | Page 13 journied changed to journeyed | | Page 14 phenix changed to phoenix | | Page 27 northener's changed to northerner's | | Page 33 Chesnut changed to Chestnut | | Page 73 Mississipian changed to Mississippian | | Page 80 atttempt changed to attempt | | Page 86 diploma'd changed to diplomaed | | Page 98 couching changed to crouching | | Page 115 ther changed to their | | Page 115 Suspened changed to Suspended | | Page 124 medidine changed to medicine | | Page 160 enterprizing changed to enterprising | | Page 164 huses changed to houses | | Page 173 appaling changed to appalling | | Page 174 handome changed to handsome | | Page 179 athletæ changed to athlete | | Page 179 Vickburg changed to Vicksburg | | Page 186 labor changed to labour | | Page 210 necesssary changed to necessary | | Page 223 ballustrade changed to balustrade | | Page 247 XXXIX. changed to XLIII. | | Page 247 Elibeth changed to Elizabeth | | Page 264 controul changed to control | | Page 276 METEROLOGICAL changed to METEOROLOGICAL | | Page 278 somwhat changed to somewhat | | Page 279 meterological changed to meteorological | | Page 287 decrepid changed to decrepit | +---------------------------------------------------+ 
35133	----	THE SOUTH-WEST. BY A YANKEE. Where on my way I went; ------------A pilgrim from the North-- Now more and more attracted, as I drew Nearer and nearer. ROGERS' ITALY. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. NEW-YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS, CLIFF-ST. 1835. [Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1835, by HARPER & BROTHERS, in the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New-York.] TO THE HON. JOHN A. QUITMAN, EX-CHANCELLOR OF MISSISSIPPI, THESE VOLUMES ARE RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR. INTRODUCTION. The succeeding pages grew out of a private correspondence, which the author, at the solicitation of his friends, has been led to throw into the present form, modifying in a great measure the epistolary vein, and excluding, so far as possible, such portions of the original papers as were of too personal a nature to be intruded upon the majesty of the public;--while he has embodied, so far as was compatible with the new arrangement, every thing likely to interest the general reader. The author has not written exclusively as a traveller or journalist. His aim has been to present the result of his experience and observations during a residence of several years in the South-West. This extensive and important section of the United States is but little known. Perhaps there is no region between the Mississippi river and the Atlantic shores, of which so little accurate information is before the public; a flying tourist only, having occasionally added a note to his diary, as he skirted its forest-lined borders. New-York, Sept. 1835. CONTENTS. I. A state of bliss--Cabin passenger--Honey-hunting--Sea-life--Its effects--Green horns--Reading--Tempicide--Monotony--Wish for excitement--Superlative misery--Log--Combustible materials--Cook and bucket--Contrary winds--All ready, good Sirs--Impatient passengers--Signal for sailing--Leave-takings--Sheet home--Under weigh. Page 13 II. A tar's headway on land--A gentleman's at sea--An agreeable trio --Musical sounds--Helmsman--Supper Steward--A truism--Helmsman's cry--Effect--Cases for bipeds--Lullaby--Sleep. 20 III. Shakspeare--Suicide or a 'foul' deed--A conscientious table-- Fishing smacks--A pretty boy--Old Skipper, Skipper junior, and little Skipper--A young Caliban--An alliterate Man--Fisherman-- Nurseries--Navy--The Way to train up a Child--Gulf Stream-- Humboldt--Crossing the Gulf--Ice ships--Yellow fields--Flying fish--A game at bowls--Bermuda--A post of observation--Men, dwellings, and women of Bermuda--St. George--English society-- Washing decks--Mornings at sea--Evenings at sea--A Moonlight scene--The ocean on fire--Its phosphorescence--Hypotheses 25 IV. Land--Abaco--Fleet--Hole in the Wall--A wrecker's hut--Bahama vampyres--Light houses--Conspiracy--Wall of Abaco--Natural Bridge--Cause--Night scene--Speak a packet ship--A floating city--Wrecker's lugger--Signal of distress--A Yankee lumber brig--Portuguese Man of War. 42 V. A calm--A breeze on the water--The land of flowers--Juan Ponce de Leon--The fountain of perpetual youth--An irremediable loss to single gentlemen--Gulf Stream--New-Providence--Cuba--Pan of Matanzas--Blue hills of Cuba--An armed cruiser--Cape St. Antonio --Pirates--Enter the Mexican Gulf--Mobile--A southern winter--A farewell to the North and a welcome to the South--The close of the voyage--Balize--Fleet--West Indiaman--Portuguese polacre--Land ho! --The land--Its formation--Pilot or "little brief authority"-- Light house--Revenue cutter--Newspapers--"The meeting of the waters"--A singular appearance--A morning off the Balize--The tow-boat 55 VI. The Mississippi--The Whale--Description of tow-boats--A package--A threatened storm--A beautiful brigantine--Physiognomy of ships-- Richly furnished cabin--An obliging Captain--Desert the ship-- Getting under weigh--A chain of captives--Towing--New-Orleans--A mystery to be unraveled. 64 VII. Louisiana--Arrival at New-Orleans--Land--Pilot stations--Pilots --Anecdote--Fort--Forests--Levée--Crevasses--Alarms--Accident-- Espionage--A Louisianian palace--Grounds--Sugar-house--Quarters --An African governess--Sugar-Cane--St. Mary--"English Turn"-- Cavalcade--Battle-ground--Music Sounds of the distant city--Land in New-Orleans--An _amateur_ sailor. 73 VIII. Bachelor's comforts--A valuable valet--Disembarked at the Levée --A fair Castilian--Canaille--The Crescent city--Reminiscence of school days--French cabarets--Cathedral--Exchange--Cornhill--A chain of light--A fracas--Gens d'Armes--An affair of honour-- Arrive at our hotel 87 IX. Sensations on seeing a city for the first time--Capt. Kidd-- Boston--Fresh feelings--An appreciated luxury--A human medley --School for physiognomists--A morning scene in New-Orleans-- Canal street--Levée--French and English stores--Parisian and Louisianian pronunciation--Scenes in the market--Shipping--A disguised rover--Mississippi fleets--Ohio river arks--Slave laws. 96 X. First impressions--A hero of the "Three Days"--Children's ball-- Life in New-Orleans--A French supper--Omnibuses--Chartres street at twilight--Calaboose--Guard house--The vicinage of a theatre-- French cafés--Scenes in the interior of a café--Dominos--Tobacco smokers--New-Orleans society. 108 XI. Interior of a ball room--Creole ladies--Infantile dancers--French children--American children--A singular division--New-Orleans ladies--Northern and southern beauty--An agreeable custom--Leave the assembly room--An olio of languages--The Exchange--Confusion of tongues--Temples of Fortune. 117 XII. The Goddess of fortune--Billiard rooms--A professor--Hells--A respectable banking company--"Black-legs"--Faro described-- Dealers--Bank--A novel mode of franking--Roulette table--A supper in Orcus--Pockets to let--Dimly lighted streets--Some things not so bad as they are represented. 127 XIII. A sleepy porter--Cry of fire--Noise in the streets--A wild scene at midnight--A splendid illumination--Steamers wrapped in flames --A river on fire--Firemen--A lively scene--Floating cotton-- Boatmen--An ancient Portuguese Charon--A boat race--Pugilists--A hero 137 XIV. Canal-street--Octagonal church--Government house--Future prospects of New-Orleans--Roman chapel--Mass for the dead-- Interior of the chapel--Mourners--Funeral--Cemeteries--Neglect of the dead--English and American grave yards--Regard of European nations for their dead--Roman Catholic cemetery in New-Orleans--Funeral procession--Tombs--Burying in water-- Protestant grave-yard. 145 XV. An old friend--Variety in the styles of building--Love for flowers--The basin--Congo square--The African bon-ton of New-Orleans--City canals--Effects of the cholera--Barracks-- Guard-houses--The ancient convent of the Ursulines--The school for boys--A venerable edifice--Principal--Recitations--Mode of instruction--Primary department--Infantry tactics--Education in general in New-Orleans. 158 XVI. Rail-road--A new avenue to commerce--Advantages of the rail-way --Ride to the lake--The forest--Village at the lake--Pier-- Fishers--Swimmers--Mail-boat--Cafés--Return--An unfortunate cow --New-Orleans streets. 171 XVII. The legislature--Senators and representatives--Tenney--Gurley --Ripley--Good feeling among members--Translated speeches-- Ludicrous situations--Slave law--Bishop's hotel--Tower--View from its summit--Bachelor establishments--Peculiar state of society. 178 XVIII. Saddle horses and accoutrements--Banks--Granite--Church-members --French mode of dressing--Quadroons--Gay scene and groups in the streets--Sabbath evening--Duelling ground--An extensive cotton press--A literary germ--A mysterious institution--Scenery in the suburbs--Convent--Catholic education. 186 XIX. Battle-ground--Scenery on the road--A peaceful scene--American and British quarters--View of the field of battle--Breastworks --Oaks--Packenham--A Tennessee rifleman--Anecdote--A gallant British officer--Grape-shot--Young traders--A relic--Leave the ground--A last view of it from the Levée. 196 XX. Scene in a bar room--Affaires d'honneur--A Sabbath morning--Host --Public square--Military parades--Scenes in the interior of a cathedral--Mass--A sanctified family--Crucifix--Different ways of doing the same thing--Altar--Paintings--The Virgin--Females devotees. 207 XXI. Sabbath in New-Orleans--Theatre--Interior--A New-Orleans audience --Performance--Checks--Theatre d'Orleans--Interior--Boxes-- Audience--Play--Actors and actresses--Institutions--M. Poydras-- Liberality of the Orleanese--Extracts from Flint upon New-Orleans. 219 XXII. A drive into the country--Pleasant road--Charming villa--Children at play--Governess--Diversities of society--Education in Louisiana--Visit to a sugar-house--Description of sugar-making, &c.--A plantation scene--A planter's grounds--Children--Trumpeter --Pointer--Return to the city. 229 XXIII. Leave New-Orleans--The Mississippi--Scenery--Evening on the water --Scenes on the deck of a steamer--Passengers--Plantations-- Farm-houses--Catholic college--Convent of the Sacred Heart--Caged birds--Donaldsonville--The first highland--Baton Rouge--Its appearance--Barracks--Scenery--Squatters--Fort Adams--Way passengers--Steamer. 245 THE SOUTH WEST. I. A state of bliss--Cabin passenger--Honey-hunting--Sea-life --Its effects--Green horns--Reading--Tempicide--Monotony-- Wish for excitement--Superlative misery--Log--Combustible materials--Cook and bucket--Contrary winds--All ready, good Sirs--Impatient passengers--Signal for sailing--Under weigh. To be a "Cabin passenger" fifteen or twenty days _out_, in a Yankee merchantman, is to be in a state as nearly resembling that of a half-assoilzied soul in purgatory, as flesh and blood can well be placed in. A meridian sun--a cloudless sky--a sea of glass, like a vast burning reflector, giving back a twin-heaven inverted--a dry, hot air, as though exhaled from a Babylonian furnace, and a deck, with each plank heated to the foot like a plate of hot steel--with the "Horse latitudes," for the scene, might, perhaps, heighten the resemblance. Zimmerman, in his excellent essay upon Solitude, has described man, in a "state of solitary indolence and inactivity, as sinking by degrees, like stagnant water, into impurity and corruption." Had he intended to describe from experience, the state of man as "Cabin passenger" after the novelty of his new situation upon the heaving bosom of the "dark blue sea," had given place to the tiresome monotony of never-varying, daily repeated scenes, he could not have illustrated it by a more striking figure. This is a state of which you are happily ignorant. Herein, ignorance is the height of bliss, although, should a Yankee propensity for peregrinating stimulate you to become wiser by experience, I will not say that your folly will be more apparent than your wisdom. But if you continue to vegetate in the lovely valley of your nativity, one of "New-England's yeomanry," as you are wont, not a little proudly, to term yourself--burying for that distinctive honour your collegiate laurels beneath the broad-brim of the farmer--exchanging your "gown" for his frock--"Esq." for plain "squire," and the Mantuan's Georgics for those of the Maine Farmer's Almanac--I will cheerfully travel for you; though, as I shall have the benefit of the wear and tear, rubs and bruises--it will be like honey-hunting in our school-boy days, when one fought the bees while the other secured the sweet plunder. This sea life, to one who is not a sailor, is a sad enough existence--if it may be termed such. The tomb-stone inscription "Hic jacet," becomes prematurely his own, with the consolatory adjunct _et non resurgam_. A condition intermediate between life and death, but more assimilated to the latter than the former, it is passed, almost invariably, in that proverbial inactivity, mental and corporeal, which is the well-known and unavoidable consequence of a long passage. It is a state in which existence is burthensome and almost insupportable, destroying that healthy tone of mind and body, so necessary to the preservation of the economy of the frame of man.--Nothing will so injure a good disposition, as a long voyage. Seeds of impatience and of indolence are there sown, which will be for a long period painfully manifest. The sweetest tempered woman I ever knew, after a passage of sixty days, was converted into a querulous Xantippe; and a gentleman of the most active habits, after a voyage of much longer duration, acquired such indolent ones, that his usefulness as a man of business was for a long time destroyed; and it was only by the strongest application of high, moral energy, emanating from a mind of no common order, that he was at length enabled wholly to be himself again. There is but one antidote for this disease, which should be nosologically classed as _Melancholia Oceana_, and that is employment. But on ship-board, this remedy, like many other good ones on shore, cannot always be found. A meddling, bustling passenger, whose sphere on land has been one of action, and who pants to move in his little circumscribed orbit at sea, is always a "lubberly green horn," or "clumsy marine," in every tar's way--in whose eye the "passenger" is only fit to thin hen-coops, bask in the sun, talk to the helmsman, or, now and then, desperately venture up through the "lubber's hole" to look for _land_ a hundred leagues in mid ocean, or, cry "sail ho!" as the snowy mane of a distant wave, or the silvery crest of a miniature cloud upon the horizon, flashes for an instant upon his unpractised vision. A well-selected library, which is a great luxury at sea, and like most luxuries very rare, does wonders toward lessening this evil; but it is still far from constituting a _panacea_. I know not how it is, unless the patient begins in reality to suspect that he is taking _reading_ as a prescription against the foe, and converting his volumes into pill boxes--which by and by gets to be too painfully the truth--but the appetite soon becomes sated, the mind wearied, and the most fascinating and favourite authors "pall upon the sense" with a tiresome familiarity. Reading becomes hateful, for the very reason that it has become necessary. Amusements are exhausted, invented, changed, varied, and again exhausted. Every thing upon which the attention fixes itself, vainly wooing something novel, soon becomes insipid. Chess, back-gammon, letter-writing, journalizing, smoking, eating, drinking, and sleeping, may at first contribute not a little to the discomfiture of old Time, who walks the _sea_ shod with leaden sandals. The last three enumerated items, however, generally hold out to the last undisabled. But three Wellingtons could not have won Waterloo unsupported; nor, able and doughty as are these bold three--much as they prolong the combat--manfully as they fight, can they hold good their ground for ever; the obstinate, scythe-armed warrior, with his twenty-four body guards following him like his shadow, will still maintain the broadest portion of his diurnal territory, over which, manoeuvre as they may, these discomfited worthies cannot extend their front. Few situations are less enviable, than that of the worn voyager, as day after day "drags its slow length along," presenting to his restless, listless eyes, as he stretches them wearily over the leaden waste around him--the same unbroken horizon, forming the periphery of a circle, of which his vessel seems to be the immovable and everlasting centre--the same blue, unmeaning skies above--the same blue sea beneath and around--the same gigantic tracery of ropes and spars, whose fortuitous combinations of strange geometrical figures he has demonstrated, till they are as familiar as the diagrams on a turtle's back to an alderman; and the same dull white sails, with whose patches he has become as familiar as with the excrescences and other innocent defects upon the visages of his fellow-sufferers. On leaving port, I commenced a journal, or rather, as I am in a nautical atmosphere, a "log," the choicest chips of which shall be hewn off, basketed in fools-cap, and duly transmitted to you. Like other chips they may be useful to kindle the fire withal. "What may not warm the feelings may--the toes," is a truism of which you need not be reminded: and if you test it practically, it will not be the first time good has been elicited from evil. But the sameness of a sea-life will by no means afford me many combustible incidents. Somebody has said "the will is equal to the deed, if the deed cannot be." Now I have the will to pile a hecatomb, but if I can pile only a couple of straws, it will be, of course, the same thing in the abstract. Mine, perchance, may be the fate of that poor journalist who, in a voyage across the Atlantic, could obtain but one wretched item wherewith to fill his journal--which he should have published, by the way. What a rare sort of a book it would have been! So soon read too! In this age when type-blotted books are generative, it would immortalize the author. Tenderly handed down from one generation to another, it would survive the "fall of empires, and the crash of worlds." "At three and a quarter P. M., ship going two and a half knots per hour, the cook lost his bucket over-board--jolly boat lowered, and Jack and Peter rowed after it." "Half-past three, P. M.--Cook has got his bucket again--and a broken head into the bargain." To one who has never "played with Ocean's mane," nor, borne by his white-winged coursers, scoured his pathless fields, there may be, even in the common-place descriptions of sea-scenes, something, which wears the charm of novelty. If my hasty sketches can contribute to your entertainment "o' winter nights," or, to the gratification of your curiosity, they will possess an influence which I do not promise or predict for them. Unfavourable winds had detained our ship several days, and all who had taken passage were on the "tiptoe of expectation" for the signal for sailing. Trunks, boxes, chests, cases, carpet-bags, and all the paraphernalia of travelling equipage, had long been packed, locked, and shipped--and our eyes had hourly watched the fickle gyrations of a horizontal gilt figure, which surmounted the spire of a neighbouring church, till they ached again. Had the image been Eolus himself, it could not have commanded more devoted worshippers. A week elapsed--and patience, which hitherto had been admirably sustained, began to flag; murmurings proceeded from the lips of more than one of the impatient passengers, as by twos and threes, they would meet by a kind of sympathetic affinity at the corners of the streets, where an unobstructed view could be obtained of some church-vane, all of which, throughout our city of churches, had taken a most unaccommodating fancy to kick their golden-shod heels at the Northern Bear. At precisely twenty minutes before three of the clock, on the afternoon of the first of November instant, the phlegmatic personage in the gilt robe, very obligingly, after he had worn our patience to shreds by his obstinacy, let his head and heels exchange places. At the same moment, ere he had ceased vibrating and settled himself steadily in his new position, the welcome signal was made, and in less than half an hour afterward, we were all, with bag and baggage, on board the ship, which rode at her anchor two hundred fathoms from the shore. The top-sails, already loosed, were bellying and wildly collapsing with a loud noise, in the wind; but bounding to their posts at the command of their superior officer, the active seamen soon extended them upon the spars--immense fields of swelling canvass; and our vessel gracefully moved from her moorings, and glided through the water with the lightness of a swan. As we moved rapidly down the noble harbour, which, half a century since, bore upon its bosom the hostile fleet of the proud island of the north, the swelling ocean was sending in its evening tribute to the continent, in vast scrolls, which rolled silently, but irresistibly onward, and majestically unfolded upon the beach--or, with a hoarse roar, resounded along the cliffs, and surged among the rocky throats of the promontory, impressing the mind with emotions of sublimity and awe. II. A tar's headway on land--A gentleman's at sea--An agreeable trio--Musical sounds--Helmsman--Supper--Steward--A truism-- Helmsman's cry--Effect--Cases for bipeds--Lullaby--Sleep. The motion was just sufficiently lively to inspirit one--making the blood frolic through the veins, and the heart beat more proudly. The old tars, as they cruised about the decks, walked as steadily as on land. This proves nothing, you may say, if you have witnessed Jack's pendulating, uncertain--"right and left oblique" advance on a shore cruise. Our tyros of the sea, in their venturesome projections of their persons from one given point in their eye to another, in the hope of accomplishing a straight line, after vacillating most appallingly, would finally succeed "haud passibus æquis" in reaching the position aimed for, fortunate if a lee-lurch did not accommodate them with a dry bed in the "lee scuppers." Of all laughter-exciting locomotives which most create sensations of the ludicrously serious, commend me to an old land-crab teaching its young one to "go _ahead_"--a drunkard, reeling homeward through a broad street on a Saturday night--and a "gentleman passenger" three days at sea in his strange evolutions over the deck. Stretched before me upon the weather hen-coop, enveloped in his cloak, lay one of our "goodlie companie." If his sensations were such as I imagined them to be, he must have felt that the simplest chicken under him wore the stoutest heart. On the lee hen-coop reposed another passenger in sympathy with his fellow, to whose feelings I felt a disposition to do equal justice. Abaft the wheel, coiled up in the rigging, an agreeable substitute for a bed of down, lay half obscured within the shadow of the lofty stern, another overdone toper--a victim of Neptune, not of the "jolly god"--but whose sensations have been experienced by many of the latter's pupils, who have never tasted other salt water than their own tears. It has been said or sung by some one, that the "ear is the road to the heart." That it was so to the stomach, I already began to feel, could not be disputed; and as certain "guttural sounds" began to multiply from various quarters, with startling emphasis, lest I should be induced to sympathize with the fallen novitiates around me, by some _overt_ act, I hastily glided by the helmsman, who stood alone like the sole survivor of a battle-field--his weather-beaten visage illuminated at the moment with a strange glare from the "binnacle-lamp" which, concealed within a case like a single-windowed pigeon house, and open in front of him, burned nightly at his feet. The next moment I was in the cabin, now lighted up by a single lamp suspended from the centre of the ceiling, casting rather shade than light upon a small table--studiously arranged for supper by the steward--that non-descript _locum tenens_ for valet--waiter--chambermaid--shoe-black--cook's-mate, and swearing-post for irascible captains to vent stray oaths upon, when the wind is ahead--with a flying commission for here, there, and nowhere! when most wanted. But the supper! ay, the supper. Those for whom the inviting display was made, were, I am sorry to say it, most unhesitatingly "floored" and quite _hors du combat_. What a deal of melancholy truth there is in that aphorism, which teaches us that the "brave must yield to the braver!" As I stood beside the helmsman, I could feel the gallant vessel springing away from under me, quivering through every oaken nerve, like a high-mettled racer with his goal but a bound before him. As she encountered some more formidable wave, there would be a tremendous outlay of animal-like energy, a momentary struggle, a half recoil, a plunging, trembling--_onward_ rush--then a triumphant riding over the conquered foe, scattering the gems from its shivered crest in glittering showers over her bows. Then gliding with velocity over the glassy concave beyond, swaying to its up-lifting impulse with a graceful inclination of her lofty masts, and almost sweeping the sea with her yards, she would majestically recover herself in time to gather power for a fresh victory. Within an hour after clearing the last head-land, whose lights, level with the plain of the sea, gleamed afar off, twinkling and lessened like stars, with which they were almost undistinguishably mingled on the horizon--we had exchanged the abrupt, irregular "seas" of the bay, for the regular, majestically rolling billows of the ocean. I had been for some time pacing the deck, with the "officer of the watch" to recover my sea-legs, when the helmsman suddenly shouted in a wild startling cry, heard, mingling with the wind high above the booming of the sea, the passing hour of the night watch.--"Four bells."--"Four bells," repeated the only one awake on the forecastle, and the next moment the ship's bell rung out loud and clear--wildly swelling upon the gale, then mournfully dying away in the distance as the toll ceased, like the far-off strains of unearthly music-- "----Died the solemn knell As a trumpet music dies, By the night wind borne away Through the wild and stormy skies." There is something so awful in the loud voice of a man mingling with the deep tones of a bell, heard at night upon the sea, that familiar as my ear was with the sounds--the blood chilled at my heart as this "lonely watchman's cry" broke suddenly upon the night. When he again told the hour I was safely stowed away in a comfortable berth, not so large as that of Goliah of Gath by some cubits, yet admirably adapted to the sea, which serves most discourteously the children of Somnus, unless they fit their berths like a modern M. D. his sulkey, lulled to sleep by the rattling of cordage, the measured tread of the watch directly over me, the moanings, _et cætera_, of sleepless neighbours, the roaring of the sea, the howling of the wind, and the gurgling and surging of the water, as the ship rushed through it, shaking the waves from her sides, as the lion scatters the dew from his mane, and the musical rippling of the eddies--like a glassichord, rapidly run over by light fingers--curling and singing under the keel. III. Shakspeare--Suicide or a 'fowl' deed--A conscientious fable --Fishing smacks--A pretty boy--Old Skipper, Skipper junior, and little Skipper--A young Caliban--An alliterate Man-- Fishermen--Nurseries--Navy--The Way to train up a Child-- Gulf Stream--Humboldt--Crossing the Gulf--Ice-ships--Yellow fields--Flying fish--A game at bowls--Bermuda--A post of observation--Men, dwellings, and women of Bermuda--St. George--English society--Washing decks--Mornings at sea-- Evenings at sea--A Moonlight scene--The ocean on fire--Its phosphorescence--Hypotheses. "Let's whip these stragglers o'er the seas again," was the gentle oratory of the aspiring Richard, in allusion to the invading Bretagnes.-- "Lash hence these overweening rags of France." The interpreter of the heart's natural language--Shakspeare, above all men, was endowed with human inspiration. His words come ripe to our lips like the fruit of our own thoughts. We speak them naturally and unconsciously. They drop from us like the unpremeditated language of children--spring forth unbidden--the richest melody of the mind. Strong passion, whether of grief or joy while seeking in the wild excitement of the moment her own words for utterance, unconsciously enunciates _his_, with a natural and irresistible energy. There is scarcely a human thought, great or simple, which Shakspeare has not spoken for his fellow-men, as never man, uninspired, spake; which he has not embodied and clothed with a drapery of language, unsurpassable. So-- "Let's whip _this_ straggler o'er the seas again," I have very good reason to fear, will flow all unconsciously from your lips, as most applicable to my barren letter; in penning which I shall be driven to extremity for any thing of an interesting character. If it must be so, I am, of all epistlers, the most innocent. Ship, air, and ocean equally refuse to furnish me with a solitary incident. My wretched "log" now and then records an event: such as for instance, how one of "the Doctor's" plumpest and most deliriously _embonpoint_ pullets, very rashly and unadvisedly perpetrated a summerset over-board, after she had been decapitated by that sable gentleman, in certainly the most approved and scientific style. None but a very silly chicken could have been dissatisfied with the unexceptionable manner in which the operation was performed. But, both feathered and plucked bipeds, it seems, it is equally hard to please. For the last fourteen days we have been foot-balls for the winds and waves. Their game may last as many more; therefore, as we have as little free agency in our movements as foot-balls themselves, we have made up our minds to yield our fretted bodies as philosophically as may be, to their farther pastime. The sick have recovered, and bask the hours away on deck in the beams of the warm south sun, like so many luxurious crocodiles. To their good appetites let our table bear witness. Should it be blessed with a conscience, it is doubly blessed by having it cleared thrice daily by the most rapacious father-confessors that ever shrived penitent; of which "gentlemen of the _cloth_" it boasts no less than eight. The first day we passed through a widely dispersed fleet of those short, stump-masted _non-descripts_, with swallow-tailed sterns, snubbed bows, and black hulls, sometimes denominated fishing smacks, but oftener and more euphoniously, "Chebacco boats," which, from May to October, are scattered over our northern seas. While we dashed by them, one after another, in our lofty vessel, as, close-hauled on the wind, or "wing and wing," they flew over the foaming sea, I could not help smiling at the ludicrous scenes which some of their decks exhibited. One of them ran so close to us, that we could have tossed a potato into the "skipper's" dinner-pot, which was boiling on a rude hearth of bricks placed upon the open deck, under the _surveillance_ of, I think, the veriest mop-headed, snub-nosed bit of an urchin that I ever saw. "Keep away a little, or you'll run that fellow down," suddenly shouted the captain to the helmsman; and the next moment the little fishing vessel shot swiftly under our stern, just barely clearing the spanker boom, whirling and bouncing about in the wild swirl of the ship's wake like a "Massallah boat" in the surf of Madras. There were on board of her four persons, including the steersman--a tall, gaunt old man, whose uncovered gray locks streamed in the wind as he stooped to his little rudder to luff up across our wake. The lower extremities of a loose pair of tar-coated duck trowsers, which he wore, were incased, including the best part of his legs, in a pair of fisherman's boots, made of leather which would flatten a rifle ball. His red flannel shirt left his hairy breast exposed to the icy winds, and a huge pea-jacket, thrown, Spanish fashion, over his shoulders, was fastened at the throat by a single button. His tarpaulin--a little narrow-brimmed hat of the pot-lid tribe, secured by a ropeyarn--had probably been thrown off in the moment of danger, and now hung swinging by a lanyard from the lower button-hole of his jacket. As his little vessel struggled like a drowning man in the yawning concave made by the ship, he stood with one hand firmly grasping his low, crooked rudder, and with the other held the main sheet, which alone he tended. A short pipe protruded from his mouth, at which he puffed away incessantly; one eye was tightly closed, and the other was so contracted within a network of wrinkles, that I could just discern the twinkle of a gray pupil, as he cocked it up at our quarter-deck, and took in with it the noble size, bearing, and apparel of our fine ship. A duplicate of the old helmsman, though less battered by storms and time, wearing upon his chalky locks a red, woollen, conical cap, was "easing off" the foresheet as the little boat passed; and a third was stretching his neck up the companion ladder, to stare at the "big ship," while the little carroty-headed imp, who was just the old skipper _razeed_, was performing the culinary operations of his little kitchen under cover of the heavens. Our long pale faces tickled the young fellow's fancy extremely. "Dad," squalled the youthful reprobate, in the softest, hinge-squeaking soprano--"Dad, I guess as how them ar' chaps up thar, ha'nt lived on salt grub long."--The rascal--we could have minced him with his own fish and potatoes. "Hold your yaup, you youngster you," roared the old man in reply.--The rest of the beautiful alliteration was lost in the distance, as his smack bounded from us, carrying the young _sans-culotte_ out of reach of the consequences of his temerity. To mention _salt grub_ to men of our stomachs' capacity, at that moment! He merited impaling upon one of his own cod-hooks. In ten minutes after, we could just discern the glimmer of the little vessel's white sails on the verge of the distant horizon, in whose hazy hue the whole fleet soon disappeared. These vessels were on a tardy return from their Newfoundland harvests, which, amid fogs and squalls, are gathered with great toil and privation between the months of May and October. The fishermen constitute a distinct and peculiar class--not of society, but of men. To you I need not describe them. They are to be seen at any time, and in great numbers, about the wharves of New-England sea-ports in the winter season--weather-browned, long-haired, coarsely garbed men, with honesty and good nature stamped upon their furrowed and strongly marked features. They are neither "seamen" nor "countrymen," in the usual signification of these words, but a compound of both; combining the careless, free-and-easy air of the one, with the awkwardness and simplicity of the other. Free from the grosser vices which characterize the foreign-voyaged _sailor_, they seldom possess, however, that religious tone of feeling which distinguishes the ruder _countryman_. Marblehead and Cape Cod are the parent nurseries of these hardy men. Portland has, however, begun to foster them, thereby adding a new and vigorous sinew to her commercial strength. In conjunction with the whale fisheries, to which the cod are a sort of introductory school, these fisheries are the principal nurseries of American seamen. I have met with many American ships' crews, one-half or two-thirds of which were composed of men who had served their apprenticeship in the "fisheries." The youth and men whom they send forth are the bone and muscle of our navy. They have an instinctive love for salt water. Every one who is a parent, takes his sons, one after another, as they doff their petticoats, if the freedom of their limbs was ever restrained by such unnecessary appendages, and places them on the deck of his fishing smack; teaches them to call the ropes by their names, bait, fling, and patiently watch the deceptive hook, and dart the harpoon, or plunge the grains--just as the Indian is accustomed to lead his warrior-boys forth to the hunting grounds, and teach them to track the light-footed game, or heavier-heeled foe--wing, with unerring aim, the fatal arrow, or launch the deadly spear. The three succeeding days we were delayed by calms, or contending with gales and head winds. On the morning of the seventh day "out," there was a general exclamation of surprise from the passengers as they came on deck. "How warm!" "What a suffocating air!" "We must have sailed well last night to be so far south!" They might well have been surprised if this change in the temperature had been gained by regular "southing." But, alas, we had barely lessened our latitude twenty miles during the night. We had entered the Gulf Stream! that extraordinary natural phenomenon of the Atlantic Ocean. This immense circle of tepid water which revolves in the Atlantic, enclosing within its periphery, the West India and Western Islands, is supposed by Humboldt to be occasioned "by the current of rotation (trade winds) which strikes against the coasts of Veraguas and Honduras, and ascending toward the Gulf of Mexico, between Cape Caloche and Cape St. Antoine, issues between the Bahamas and Florida." From this point of projection, where it is but a few miles wide, it spreads away to the northeast in the shape of an elongated slightly curved fan, passing at the distance of about eighty miles from the coast of the southern states, with a velocity, opposite Havana, of about four miles an hour, which decreases in proportion to its distance from this point. Opposite Nantucket, where it takes a broad, sweeping curve toward Newfoundland, it moves generally only about two miles an hour. Bending from Newfoundland through the Western Islands, it loses much of its velocity at this distance from its radiating point, and in the eastern Atlantic its motion is scarcely perceptible, except by a slight ripple upon the surface. This body of water is easily distinguishable from that of the surrounding blue ocean by its leaden hue--the vast quantity of pale-yellow gulf-weed, immense fields of which it wafts from clime to clime upon its ever-rolling bosom, and by the absence of that phosphorescence, which is peculiar to the waters of the ocean. The water of this singular stream is many degrees warmer than the sea through which it flows. Near Cuba the heat has been ascertained to be as great as 81°, and in its course northward from Cuba, it loses 2° of temperature for every 3° of latitude. Its warmth is easily accounted for as the production of very simple causes. It receives its original impulse in the warm tropical seas, which, pressed toward the South American shore by the wind, meet with resistance and are deflected along the coast northward, as stated above by Humboldt, and injected into the Northern Atlantic Ocean--the vast column of water having parted with very little of its original caloric in its rapid progress. We crossed the north-western verge of "The Gulf" near the latitude of Baltimore, where its breadth is about eighty miles. The atmosphere was sensibly warmer here than that of the ocean proper, and the water which we drew up in the ship's bucket raised the mercury a little more than 8°. Not knowing how the mercury stood before entering the Gulf, I could not determine accurately the change in the atmosphere; but it must have been very nearly as great as that in the denser fluid. Veins of cool air circled through its atmosphere every few minutes, as welcome and refreshing to our bared foreheads as the sprinkling of the coolest water. When vessels in their winter voyages along our frigid coasts become coated with ice, so as to resemble almost precisely, though of a gigantic size, those miniature glass ships so often seen preserved in transparent cases, they seek the genial warmth of this region to "thaw out," as this dissolving process is termed by the sailors. We were nearly three days in crossing the Gulf, at a very acute angle with its current, which period of time we passed very pleasantly, for voyagers; as we had no cold weather to complain of, and a variety of objects to entertain us. Sea, or Gulf-weed, constantly passed us in acres, resembling immense meadows of harvest wheat, waving and undulating with the breeze, tempting us to walk upon it. But for the ceaseless roll and pitching of our ship, reminding us of our where-about, we might, without much trouble, have been cheated into the conviction that it was real _terra firma_. Flocks of flying fish suddenly breaking from a smooth, swelling billow, to escape the jaws of some voracious pursuer, whose dorsal fin would be seen protruding for an instant afterward from the surface, flitted swiftly, with a skimming motion, over the sea, glittering in the sun like a flight of silver-winged birds; and then as suddenly, with dried wings, dropped into the sea again. One morning we found the decks sprinkled with these finned aerial adventurers, which had flown on board during the night. Spars, covered with barnacles--an empty barrel marked on the head N. E. Rum, which we slightly altered our course _to speak_--a hotly contested _affaire d'honneur_, between two bantam-cocks in the weather-coop--a few lessons in splicing and braiding sennet, taken from a good-natured old sailor--a few more in the art of manufacturing "Turks' Heads," not, however, _à la Grec_--and other matters and things equally important, also afforded subjects of speculation and chit-chat, and means of passing away the time with a tolerable degree of comfort, and, during the intervals of eating and sleeping, to keep us from the blues. A gallant ship--a limitless sea rolled out like a vast sheet of mottled silver--"goodlie companie"--a warm, reviving sun--a flowing sheet, and a courteous breeze, so gently breathing upon our sails, that surly Boreas, in a gentler than his wonted mood, must have sent a bevy of Zephyrs to waft us along--are combinations which both nautical amateurs and ignoramuses know duly how to appreciate. From the frequency of "squalls" and "blows" off Hatteras, it were easy to imagine a telegraphic communication existing between that head-land and Bermuda, carried on by flashes of lightning and tornadoes; or a game at bowls between Neptune and Boreas, stationed one on either spot, and hurling thunderbolts over the sea. This region, and that included between 25° and 23° north latitude termed by sailors the "horse latitudes," are two of the most unpleasant localities a voyager has to encounter on his passage from a New-England sea-port to New-Orleans or Havana. In one he is wearied by frequent calms, in the other, exposed to sea sickness, and terrified by almost continual storms. On the eighth day out, we passed Bermuda--that island-sentinel and spy of Britain upon our shores. The position of this post with regard to America, forcibly reminds me--I speak it with all due reverence for the "Lion" of England--of a lap-dog sitting at a secure distance and keeping guard over an eagle _volant_. How like proud England thus to come and set herself down before America, and like a still beautiful mother, watch with a jealous eye the unfolding loveliness of her rival daughter--build up a battery d'espionage against her shores, and seek to hold the very key of her seas. The Bermudas or "Summer islands" so called from Sir George Summer, who was wrecked here two centuries since--are a cluster of small coral reefs lying nearly in the form of a crescent, and walled round and defended from the sea by craggy rocks, which rear their fronts on every side like battlements:--They are situated about two hundred and twenty leagues from the coast of South Carolina, and nearly in the latitude of the city of Charleston. The houses are constructed of porous limestone, not unlike lava in appearance. This material was probably ejected by some unseen and unhistoried volcanic eruption, by which the islands themselves were in all probability heaved up from the depths of the ocean. White-washed to resist the rain, their houses contrast beautifully with the green-mantled cedars and emerald carpets of the islands. The native Bermudians follow the sea for a livelihood. They make good sailors while at sea; but are dissipated and indolent when they return to their native islands, indulging in drinking, gaming, and every species of extravagance. The females are rather pretty than otherwise; with good features and uncommonly fine eyes. Like all their sex, they are addicted to dress, in which they display more finery than taste. Dancing is the pastime of which they are most passionately fond. In affection and obedience to their "lords," and in tenderness to their children, it is said that they are patterns to all fair ones who may have taken those, seldom _audibly-spoken_, vows, "to love, honour, and obey"--oft times unuttered, I verily believe, from pure intention. St. George, the principal town in the islands, has become a fashionable military residence. The society, which is English and extremely agreeable, is varied by the constant arrival and departure of ships of war, whose officers, with those of the army, a sprinkling of distinguished civilians, and clusters of fair beings who have winged it over the sea, compose the most spirited and pleasant society in the world. Enjoying a remarkably pure air, and climate similar to that of South Carolina, with handsomely revenued clergymen of the Church of England, and rich in various tropical luxuries, it is a desirable foreign residence and a convenient and pleasant haven for British vessels sailing in these seas. This morning we were all in a state of feverish excitement, impatient to place our eyes once more upon land. Visions of green fields and swelling hills, pleasantly waving trees and cool fountains--groves, meadows, and rural cottages, had floated through our waking thoughts and mingled with our dreams. "Is the land in sight, Captain?" was the only question heard from the lips of one and another of the expectant passengers as they rubbed their sleepy eyes, poked their heads from their half-opened state-room doors, or peeped from their curtained berths. Ascending to the deck, we beheld the sun just rising from the sea in the splendor of his oriental pomp, flinging his beams far along the sky and over the waters, enriching the ocean with his radiance till it resembled a sea of molten gold, gilding the dew-hung spars, and spreading a delicate blush of crimson over the white sails. It was a morning of unrivalled beauty. But thanks to nautical housewifery, its richness could not be enjoyed from the decks. At sea, the moment the sun rises, and when one feels in the humor of quitting his hot state-room and going on deck, the officer of the watch sings out in a voice that goes directly to the heart--"Forard there--wash decks!" Then commences an elemental war rivalling Noah's deluge. _That_ was caused by the pouring down of rain in drops--_thié_ by the out-pouring of full buckets. From the moment this flood commences one may draw back into his narrow shell, like an affrighted snail, and take a morning's nap:--the deck, for an hour to come, is no place for animals that are not web-footed. Fore and aft the unhappy passenger finds no way of escaping the infliction of this purifying ceremony. Should he be driven aloft, there "to banquet on the morning," he were better reposing on a gridiron or sitting astride a handsaw. If below, there the steward has possession, sweeping, laying the breakfast table and making-up berths, and the air, a hundred times breathed over, rushes from the opening state-rooms threatening to suffocate him--he were better engulfed in the bosom of a stew-pan. To stand, cold, wet, and uncomfortable upon the damp decks till the sun has dried both them and him is the only alternative. If after all the "holy stone" should come in play, he may then quietly jump over-board. The evenings, however, amply compensate for the loss of the fine mornings. The air, free from the dust, floating particles and exhalations of the land, is perfectly transparent, and the sky of a richer blue. The stars seem nearer to you there; and the round moon pours her unclouded flood of light, down upon the sea, with an opulence and mellowness, of which those who have only seen moonlight, sleeping upon green hills, cities and forests, know nothing. On such nights, there cannot be a nobler, or prouder spectacle, as one stands upon the bows, than the lofty, shining pyramid of snow-white canvass which, rising majestically from the deck, lessens away, sail after sail, far into the sky--each sheet distended like a drum-head, yet finely rounded, and its towering summit, as the ship rises and falls upon the billows, waving like a tall poplar, swaying in the wind. In these hours of moonlit enchantment, while reclining at full length upon the deck, and gazing at the diminished point of the flag-staff, tracing devious labyrinths among the stars, the blood has danced quicker through my veins as I could feel the ship springing away beneath me like a fleet courser, and leaping from wave to wave over the sea. At such moments the mind cannot divest itself of the idea that the bounding ship is instinct with life--an animated creature, careering forward by its own volition. To this are united the musical sighing of the winds through the sails and rigging--the dashing of the sea and the sound of the rushing vessel through the water, which sparkles with phosphorescent light, as though sprinkled with silver dust. A dark night also affords a scene to gratify curiosity and charm the eye. A few nights since, an exclamation of surprise from one of the passengers called me from my writing to the deck. As, on emerging from the cabin, I mechanically cast my eyes over the sea, I observed that at first it had the appearance of reflecting the stars from its bosom in the most dazzling splendour, but on looking upward to gaze upon the original founts of this apparently reflected light, my eyes met only a gloomy vault of clouds unillumined by a solitary star. The "scud" flew wildly over its face and the heavens were growing black with a gathering tempest. Yet beneath, the sea glittered like a "lake of fire." The crests of the vast billows as they burst high in the air, descended in showers of scintillations. The ship scattered broken light from her bows, as though a pavement of mirrors had been shivered in her pathway. Her track was marked by a long luminous train, not unlike the tail of a comet, while gleams of light like lighted lamps floating upon the water, whirled and flashed here and there in the wild eddies of her wake. The spray which was flung over the bows glittered like a sprinkling of diamonds as it fell upon the decks, where, as it flowed around the feet, it sparkled for some seconds with innumerable shining specks. And so intense was the light shining from the sea that I was enabled to read with ease the fine print of a newspaper. A bucket plunged into the sea, which whitened like shivered ice, on its striking it, was drawn up full of glittering sea-water that sparkled for more than a minute, after being poured over the deck, and then gradually losing its lustre, finally disappeared in total darkness. Many hypotheses have been suggested by scientific men to account for this natural phenomenon. "Some have regarded it," says Dr. Coates, "as the effect of electricity, produced by the friction of the waves; others as the product of a species of fermentation in the water, occurring accidentally in certain places. Many have attributed it to the well-known phosphorescence of putrid fish, or to the decomposition of their slime and exuviæ, and a few only to the real cause, the voluntary illumination of many distinct species of marine animals. "The purpose for which this phosphorescence is designed is lost in conjecture; but when we recollect that fish are attracted to the net by the lights of the fisherman, and that many of the marine shellfish are said to leave their native element to crawl around a fire built upon the beach, are we not warranted in supposing that the animals of which we have been speaking, are provided with these luminous properties, in order to entice their prey within their grasp?" IV. Land--Abaco--Fleet--Hole in the Wall--A wrecker's hut-- Bahama vampyres--Light houses--Conspiracy--Wall of Abaco-- Natural Bridge--Cause--Night scene--Speak a packet ship--A floating city--Wrecker's lugger--Signal of distress--A Yankee lumber brig--Portuguese Man-of-War. "Land ho!" shouted a voice both loud and long, apparently from the clouds, just as we had comfortably laid ourselves out yesterday afternoon for our customary _siesta_. "Where away?" shouted the captain, springing to the deck, but not so fast as to prevent our tumbling over him, in the head-and-heels projection of our bodies up the companion-way, in our eagerness to catch a glimpse, once more, of the grassy earth; of something at least stationary. "Three points off the weather bow," replied the man aloft. "Where is it?"--"which way?" "I see it"--"Is that it captain--the little hump?" were the eager exclamations and inquiries of the enraptured passengers, who, half beside themselves, were peering, straining, and querying, to little purpose. It was Abaco--the land first made by vessels bound to New Orleans or Cuba, from the north. With the naked eye, we could scarcely distinguish it from the small blue clouds, which, resting, apparently, on the sea, floated near the verge of the southern horizon. But with the spy glass, we could discern it more distinctly, and less obscured by that vail of blue haze, which always envelopes distant objects when seen from a great distance at sea, or on land. As we approached, its azure vail gradually faded away, and it appeared to our eyes in its autumnal gray coat, with all its irregularities of surface and outline clearly visible. Slightly altering our course, in order to weather its southern extremity, we ran down nearly parallel with the shores of the island that rose apparently from the sea, as we neared it, stretching out upon the water like a huge alligator, which it resembled in shape. Sail after sail hove in sight as we coasted pleasantly along with a fine breeze, till, an hour before the sun went down, a large wide-spreading fleet could be discerned from the deck, lying becalmed, near the extreme southern point of Abaco, which, stretching out far into the sea, like a wall perforated with an arched gateway near the centre, is better known by the familiar appellation of "The Hole in the Wall." "There is a habitation of some sort," exclaimed one of the passengers, whose glass had long been hovering over the island. "Where--where?" was the general cry, and closer inspection from a dozen eyes, detected a miserable hut, half hidden among the bushes, and so wild and wretched in appearance, that we unanimously refused it the honor of "----A local habitation and a name!" It was nevertheless the first dwelling of man we had seen for many a day; and notwithstanding our vote of non-acceptance, it was not devoid of interest in our eyes. It was evidently the abode of some one of those demi sea-monsters, called "Wreckers," who, more destructive than the waves, prey upon the ship-wrecked mariner. The Bahamas swarm with these wreckers who, in small lugger-sloops, continually prowl about among the islands, "When the demons of the tempest rave," like birds of ill omen, ready to seize upon the storm-tossed vessel, should it be driven among the rocks or shoals with which this region abounds. At midnight, when the lightning for a moment illumines the sky and ocean, the white sail of the wrecker's little bark, tossing amid the storm upon the foaming billows, will flash upon the eyes of the toiling seamen as they labour to preserve their vessel, striking their souls with dread and awakening their easily excited feelings of superstition. Like evil spirits awaiting at the bed-side the release of an unannealed soul, they hover around the struggling ship through the night, and, flitting away at the break of morning, may be discovered in the subsiding of the tempest, just disappearing under the horizon with a sailor's hearty blessing sent after them. That light-houses have not been erected on the dangerous head-lands and reefs which line the Bahama channel, is a strange oversight or neglect on the part of the governments of the United States and England, which of all maritime nations are most immediately concerned in the object. Suitable light-houses on the most dangerous points, would annually save, from otherwise inevitable destruction, many vessels and preserve hundreds of valuable lives. The profession of these marauders would be, in such a case, but a sinecure; provided they would allow the lights to remain. But, unless each tower were converted into a well-manned gun-battery the piratical character of these men will preclude any hope of their permanent establishment. Men of their buccaneering habits are not likely to lie quietly on their oars, and see their means of livelihood torn from them by the secure navigation of these waters. They will sound, from island to island, the tocsin for the gathering of their strength, and concentrate for the destruction of these enemies to their _honest calling_, before they have cast their cheering beams over these stormy seas a score of nights. As we approached the Hole in the Wall, the breeze which we had brought down the channel, stole in advance and set in motion the fleet of becalmed vessels, which rolled heavily on the long, ground-swell, about a league ahead of us. The spur or promontory of Abaco, around which we were sailing, is a high, wall-like ridge of rock, whose surface gradually inclines from the main body of the island to its abrupt termination about a quarter of a league into the sea. As we sailed along its eastern side we could not detect the opening from which it derives its name. The eye met only a long black wall of rock, whose rugged projections were hung with festoons of dark purple sea-weed, and around whose base the waters surged, with a roar heard distinctly by us, three miles from the island. On rounding the extremity of the head-land, and bearing up a point or two, the arch in the Cape gradually opened till it became wholly visible, apparently about half the altitude of, and very similar in appearance to the Natural bridge in Virginia. The chasm is irregularly arched, and broader at thirty feet from the sea than at its base. The water is of sufficient depth, and the arch lofty enough, to allow small fishing vessels to pass through the aperture, which is about one hundred feet in length through the solid rock. There is a gap which would indicate the former existence of a similar cavity, near the end of this head-land. A large, isolated mass of rock is here detached from the main wall, at its termination in the sea, which was undoubtedly, at some former period, joined to it by a natural arch, now fallen into the water, as, probably, will happen to this within a century. These cavities are caused by the undermining of the sea, which, dashing unceasingly against the foundations of the wall, shatters and crumbles it by its constant abrasion, opens through it immense fissures, and loosens large fragments of the rock, that easily yield and give way to its increased violence; while the upper stratum, high beyond the reach of the surge, remains firm, and, long after the base has crumbled into the sea, arches over like a bridge the chasm beneath. By and by this falls by its own weight, and is buried beneath the waves. As the shades of night fell over the sea, and veiled the land from our eyes, we had a fresh object of excitement in giving chase to the vessels which, as the sun went down among them, were scattered thickly along the western horizon far ahead of us--ships, brigs, and schooners, stretching away under all sail before the evening breeze to the south and west. We had lost sight of them after night had set in, but at about half past eight in the evening, as we all were peering through the darkness, upon the _qui vive_ for the strangers, a bright light flashed upon our eyes over the water, and at the same moment the lookout forward electrified us with the cry---- "A ship dead ahead, sir!" The captain seized his speaking-trumpet, and sprang to the bows; but we were there before him, and discovered a solitary light burning at the base of a dark pyramid, which towered gloomily in the obscurity of the night. The outline of the object was so confused and blended with the sky, that we could discern it but indistinctly. To our optics it appeared, as it loomed up in the night-haze, to be a ship of the largest class. The spy glass was in immediate requisition, but soon laid aside again. Let me inform you that "DAY and NIGHT" marked upon the tube of a spy-glass, signifies that it may be used in the day, and kept in the beckets at night. We had been gathered upon the bowsprit and forecastle but a few seconds, watching in silence the dark moving tower on the water before us, as we approached it rapidly, when we were startled by the sudden hail of the stranger, who was now hauling up on our weather bow-- "Ship-ahoy!" burst loudly over the water from the hoarse throat of a trumpet. "Ahoy!" bellowed our captain, so gently back again through the ship's trumpet, that the best "bull of Bashan" might have envied him his roar. "What ship's that?" "The Plato of Portland," with a second bellow which was a very manifest improvement upon the preceding. "Where bound?" "New-Orleans!" Now came our turn to play the querist. "What ship's that?" "The J. L., eleven days from New-York, bound to New-Orleans." "Ay, ay--any news?" "No, nothing particular." We again moved on in silence; sailing in company, but not always in sight of each other, during the remainder of the night. A delightful prospect met our eyes, on coming on deck the morning after making the Hole in the Wall. The sea was crowded with vessels, bearing upon its silvery bosom a floating city. By some fortuitous circumstance, a fleet of vessels, bearing the flags of various nations, had arrived in the Bahama channel at the same time, and now, were amicably sailing in company, borne by the same waves--wafted by the same breeze, and standing toward the same point. Our New-York friend, for whom, on casting our eyes over the lively scene we first searched, we discovered nearly two leagues from us to the windward, stretching boldly across the most dangerous part of the Bahama Banks, instead of taking, with the rest of the fleet, the farther but less hazardous course down the "Channel"--if a few inches more of water than the Banks are elsewhere covered with, may with propriety be thus denominated. A little to the south of us, rocking upon the scarcely rising billows, was a rough clumsy looking craft, with one low, black mast, and amputated bowsprit, about four feet in length, sustaining a jib of no particular hue or dimensions. Hoisted upon the mast, was extended a dark red painted mainsail, blackened by the smoke, which, issuing from a black wooden chimney amidships, curled gracefully upward and floated away on the breeze in thin blue clouds. A little triangular bit of red bunting fluttered at her mast head; and, towed by a long line at her stern, a little green whale-boat skipped and danced merrily over the waves. Standing, or rather reclining at the helm--for men learn strangely indolent postures in the warm south--with a segar between his lips, and his eye fixed earnestly upon the J. L., was a black-whiskered fellow, whose head was enveloped in a tri-coloured, conical cap, terminated by a tassel, which dangled over his left ear. A blue flannel shirt, and white flowing trowsers, with which his body and limbs were covered, were secured to his person by a red sash tied around the waist, instead of suspenders. Two others similarly dressed, and as bountifully bewhiskered, leaned listlessly over the side gazing at our ship, as she dashed proudly past their rude bark. A negro, whose charms would have been unquestionable in Congo, was stretched, apparently asleep, along the main-boom, which one moment swung with him over the water, and the next suspended him over his chimney, whose azure incense ascended from his own altar, to this ebony deity, in clouds of grateful odour. "What craft do you call that?" inquired one of the passengers of the captain. "What? It's a wrecker's lugger.--Watch him now!" At the moment he spoke, the lugger dropped astern of us, came to a few points--hauled close on the wind, and then gathering headway, bounded off with the speed of the wind in the direction of the New-York packet ship, which the wrecker's quicker and more practised eye had detected displaying signals of distress. Turning our glasses in the direction of the ship, we could see that she had grounded on the bank, thereby affording very ample illustration of the truth of the proverb, "The more haste the less speed." About the middle of the forenoon the wind died away, and left us becalmed within half a mile of a brig loaded with lumber. The remaining vessels of the fleet were fast dispersing over the sea--this Yankee "fruiterer" being the only one sailing within a league of us. These lumber vessels, which are usually loaded with shingles, masts, spars, and boards, have been long the floating mines of Maine. But as her forests disappear, which are the veins from whence she draws the ore, her sons will have to plough the earth instead of the ocean. Then, and not till then, will Maine take a high rank as an agricultural state. The majority of men who sail in these lumber vessels are both farmers and sailors; who cultivate their farms at one season, fell its timber and sail away with it in the shape of boards and shingles to a West India mart at another. Jonathan is the only man who knows how to carry on two trades at one time, and carry them on successfully. For their lumber, which they more frequently _barter_ away than sell, they generally obtain a return cargo of molasses, which is converted by our "sober and moral" fellow-countrymen into liquid gunpowder, in the vats of those numerous distilleries, which, like guide-posts to the regions of death, line the sea skirts of New-England! The smooth bottom, above which we were suspended, through the deceptive transparency of the water, appeared, though eighteen feet beneath us, within reach of the oar. But there were many objects floating by upon the surface, which afforded us more interest than all beneath it. Among these was the little nautilus which, gaily dancing over the waves, like a Lilliputian mariner, "Spreads his thin oar and courts the rising gale." This beautiful animal sailed past us in fleets wafted by a breeze gentler than an infant's breathing. We endeavoured to secure one of them more beautiful than its fellows, but like a sensitive plant it instantly shrunk at the touch, and sunk beneath the surface; appearing beneath the water, like a little, animated globule tinged with the most delicate colours. This singular animal is termed by the sailors, "The Portuguee' man-o'-war," from what imaginary resemblance to the war vessels of His Most Christian Majesty I am at a loss to determine; unless we resort for a solution of the mystery to a jack-tar, whom I questioned upon the subject-- "It's cause as how they takes in all sail, or goes _chuck_ to bottom, when it 'gins to blow a spankin' breeze,"--truly a fine compliment to the navarchy of Portugal! This animal is a genus of the mollusca tribe, which glitters in the night on the crest of every bursting wave. In the tropical seas it is found riding over the gently ruffled billows in great numbers, with its crystalline sail expanded to the light breeze--barks delicate and tiny enough for fairy "Queen Mab." Termed by naturalists _pharsalia_, from its habit of inflating its transparent sail, this splendid animal is often confounded with the _nautilus pompilius_, a genus of marine animals of an entirely distinct species, and of a much ruder appearance, whose dead shells are found floating every where in the tropical seas, while the living animal is found swimming upon the ocean in every latitude. Dr. Coates, in describing the Portuguese man-of-war (pharsalia) says, that "it is an oblong animated sack of air, elongated at one extremity into a conical neck, and surmounted by a membraneous expansion running nearly the whole length of the body, and rising above into a semi-circular sail, which can be expanded or contracted to a considerable extent at the pleasure of the animal. From beneath the body are suspended from ten to fifty, or more little tubes, from half an inch to an inch in length, open at their lower extremity, and formed like the flower of the blue bottle. These I cannot but consider as proper stomachs, from the centre of which depends a little cord, never exceeding the fourth of an inch in thickness, and often forty times as long as the body. "The group of stomachs is less transparent, and although the hue is the same as that of the back, they are on this account incomparably less elegant. By their weight and form they fill the double office of a keel and ballast, while the cord-like appendage, which floats out for yards behind, is called by seamen "the cable." With this organ, which is supposed by naturalists, from the extreme pain felt, when brought in contact with the back of the hand, to secrete a poisonous or acrid fluid, the animal secures his prey." But in the opinion of Dr. C. naturalists in deciding upon this mere hypothesis have concluded too hastily. He says that the secret will be better explained by a more careful examination of the organ itself. "The cord is composed of a narrow layer of contractile fibres, scarcely visible when relaxed, on account of its transparency. If the animal be large, this layer of fibres will sometimes extend itself to the length of four or five yards. A spiral line of blue, bead-like bodies, less than the head of a pin, revolves around the cable from end to end, and under the microscope these beads appear covered with minute prickles so hard and sharp that they will readily enter the substance of wood, adhering with such pertinacity that the cord can rarely be detached without breaking. "It is to these prickles that the man-of-war owes its power of destroying animals much its superior in strength and activity. When any thing becomes impaled upon the cords, the contractile fibres are called into action, and rapidly shrink from many feet in length to less than the same number of inches, bringing the prey within reach of the little tubes, by one of which it is immediately swallowed. "Its size varies from half an inch to six inches in length. When it is in motion the sail is accommodated to the force of the breeze, and the elongated neck is curved upward, giving to the animal a form strongly resembling the little glass swans which we sometimes see swimming in goblets. "It is not the form, however, which constitutes the chief beauty of this little navigator. The lower part of the body and the neck are devoid of all colours except a faint iridescence in reflected lights, and they are so perfectly transparent that the finest print is not obscured when viewed through them. The back becomes gradually tinged as we ascend, with the finest and most delicate hues that can be imagined; the base of the sail equals the purest sky in depth and beauty of tint; the summit is of the most splendid red, and the central part is shaded by the gradual intermixture of these colours through all the intermediate grades of purple. Drawn as it were upon a ground-work of mist, the tints have an aerial softness far beyond the reach of art." V. A calm--A breeze on the water--The land of flowers--Juan Ponce de Leon--The fountain of perpetual youth--An irremediable loss to single gentlemen--Gulf Stream--New- Providence--Cuba--Pan of Matanzas--Blue hills of Cuba--An armed cruiser--Cape St. Antonio--Pirates--Enter the Mexican Gulf--Mobile--A southern winter--A farewell to the North and a welcome to the South--The close of the voyage--Balize-- Fleet--West Indiaman--Portuguese polacre--Land ho!--The land --Its formation--Pilot or "little brief authority"--Light- house--Revenue cutter--Newspapers--"The meeting of the waters"--A singular appearance--A morning off the Balize-- The tow-boat. During the period we lay becalmed under a burning sun, which, though entering its winter solstice retained the fervour of summer fire, we passed the most of our time in the little cockle-shell of a yawl, (as though the limits of our ship were not confined enough) riding listlessly upon the long billows or rowing far out from the ship, which, with all her light sails furled, rolled heavily upon the crestless billows, suggesting the anomalous idea of power in a state of helplessness. An hour before sunset our long-idle sails were once more filled by a fine breeze, which, ruffling the surface of the ocean more than a league distant, we had discerned coming from the Florida shore, some time before it reached us; and as it came slowly onward over the sea, we watched with no little anxiety the agitated line of waves which danced merrily before it, marking its approach. A faintly delineated gray bank lining the western horizon, marked the "land of flowers" of the romantic Ponce de Leon. Can that be Florida! the _Pasqua de Flores_ of the Spaniards--the country of blossoms and living fountains, welling with perpetual youth! were our reflections as we gazed upon the low marshy shore. Yet here the avaricious Spaniard sought for a mine more precious than the diamonds and gold of the Incas! a fountain whose waters were represented to have the wonderful property of rejuvenating old age and perpetuating youth! Here every wrinkled Castilian Iolas expected to find a Hebé to restore him to the bloom and vigour of Adonis! But alas, for the bachelors of modern days, the seeker for fountains of eternal youth wandered only through inhospitable wilds, and encountered the warlike Seminoles, who, unlike the timorous natives of the newly discovered Indies, met his little band with bold and determined resolution. After a long and fruitless search, he returned to Porto Rico, wearied, disappointed, and no doubt with his brow more deeply furrowed than when he set out upon his singularly romantic expedition. While we glided along the Florida shore, which was fast receding from the eye, a sudden boiling and commotion of the sea, which we had remarked some time before we were involved in it, assured us that we had again entered the Gulf Stream, where it rushes from the Mexican Sea, after having made a broad sweep of eighteen hundred miles, and in twenty days after emerging from it in higher latitudes. Our course was now very sensibly retarded by the strong current against which we sailed, though impelled by a breeze which would have wafted us, over a currentless sea, nine or ten miles an hour. In the afternoon the blue hills of Cuba, elevated above the undulating surface of the island, and stretching along its back like a serrated spine, reared themselves from the sea far to the south; and at sunset the twin hills of Matanzas, for which sailors' imaginations have conjured up not the most pleasing appellation--could be just distinguished from the blue waves on the verge of the ocean; and receding from the sea, with an uneven surface, the vast island rose along the whole southern horizon, not more than four or five leagues distant. The Florida shore had long before disappeared, though several vessels were standing toward it, bound apparently into Key West, between which and Havana we had seen an armed schooner, under American colours, hovering during the whole afternoon. Cape St. Antonio, the notorious rendezvous of that daring band of pirates, which, possessing the marauding without the chivalrous spirit of the old buccaneers, long infested these seas, just protruded above the rim of the horizon far to the south-east. We soon lost sight of it, and in the evening, altering our course a little to avoid the shoals which are scattered thickly off the southern and western extremity of Florida, ran rapidly and safely past the Tortugas--the Scylla and Charybdis of this southern latitude. We already begin to appreciate the genial influence of a southern climate. The sun, tempered by a pleasant wind, beams down upon us warm and cheerily--the air is balmy and laden with grateful fragrance from the unseen land--and though near the first of December, at which time you dwellers under the wintry skies of the north, are shivering over your grates, we have worn our summer garments and palm-leaf hats for some days past. If this is a specimen of a southern winter, where quietly to inhale the mellow air is an elysian enjoyment--henceforth sleighing and skating will have less charms for me. We are at last at the termination of our voyage upon the _sea_. In three days at the farthest we expect to land in New-Orleans. But three days upon the waveless Mississippi to those who have been riding a month upon the ocean, is but a trifle. After an uncommonly long, but unusually pleasant passage of thirty-one days, we anchored off the Balize[1] last evening at sun set. The tedious monotony of our passage since leaving Cuba, was more than cancelled by the scenes and variety of yesterday. We had not seen a sail for four or five days, when, on ascending to the deck at sunrise yesterday morning, judge of my surprise and pleasure at beholding a fleet of nearly fifty vessels surrounding us on every side, all standing to one common centre; in the midst of which our own gallant ship dashed proudly on, like a high mettled courser contending for the victory. To one imprisoned in a companionless ship on the broad and lonely ocean so many days, this was a scene, from its vivid contrast, calculated to awaken in the bosom emotions of the liveliest gratification and pleasure. A point or two abaft our beam, within pistol shot distance, slowly and majestically moved a huge, British West Indiaman, her black gloomy hull wholly unrelieved by brighter colours, with her red ensign heavily unfolding to the breeze in recognition of the stars and stripes, floating gracefully at our peak. Farther astern, a taunt-rigged, rakish looking Portuguese polacca (polaque) carrying even in so light a breeze a "bone in her teeth," glided swiftly along, every thing set from deck to truck. We could distinctly see the red woollen caps and dark red faces of her crew, peering over the bow, as they pointed to, and made remarks upon our ship. Early in the morning, about a league ahead of us, we had observed a heavy sailing Dutch ship, as indeed all Dutch ships are; about eleven o'clock we came up with, and passed her, with the same facility as if she had been at anchor. On all sides of us vessels of nearly every maritime nation were in sight; and in conjectures respecting them, and in admiring their variety of construction and appearance, we passed most of the day, elated with the prospect of a speedy termination to our voyage. Before we had completed dinner, the cry of "Land ho!" was heard from the main-top, and in the course of half an hour we saw from the deck, not exactly _land_, but an apology for it, in the form and substance of an immense marsh of tall, wild grass, which stretched along the horizon from west to east _ad infinitum_. This soil, if you may term it such, is formed by the accumulation and deposition of ochreous matter discharged by the Mississippi, whose turbid waters are more or less charged with terrene particles, so much so, that a glass filled with its water appears to deposit in a short time a sediment nearly equal to one-twelfth of its bulk. The matter discharged by the river, condensed and strengthened by logs, trees, grass, and other gross substances, is raised above the ordinary tide waters, upon which a soil is formed of mingled sand and marl, capable of producing the long grass, which not only lines the coast in the vicinity of this river, but extends many miles into the interior, where it unites with the cypress swamps which cover the greater part of the unreclaimed lowlands of Louisiana. We coasted along this shore till about three in the afternoon, when the light-house at the South-East passage, the chief _embouchure_ of the Mississippi, appeared in sight but a few miles ahead; passing this, we received a pilot from a fairy-like pilot-boat, which, on delivering him, bounded away from us like a swift-winged albatross. About four o'clock the light-house at the South-West passage lifted its solitary head above the horizon. The breeze freshening, we approached it rapidly, under the guidance of the pilot, who had taken command of our ship. When nearly abreast of the light-house, a fierce little warlike-looking revenue cutter ran alongside of us, and lowering her boat, sent her lieutenant on board, to see that "all was straight." He cracked a bottle of wine with the captain, and leaving some late New-Orleans papers, took his departure. For the next half hour the quarter-deck appeared like a school-room--buzz, buzz, buzz! till the papers were read and re-read, advertisements and all, and all were satisfied. About six in the evening we cast anchor at the mouth of the South-West pass, in company not only with the fleet in which we had sailed during the day, but with a large fleet already at anchor, waiting for tide, pilots, wind, or tow-boats. In approaching the mouth of the river, we observed, to us, a novel and remarkable appearance--the meeting of the milky, turbid waters of the Mississippi, with the pale green of the ocean. The waters of the former, being lighter than the latter, and not readily mingling with it, are thrown upon the surface, floating like oil to the depth of only two or three feet. A ship passing through this water, leaves a long, dark wake, which is slowly covered by the uniting of the parted waters. The line of demarkation between the yellowish-brown water of the river, and the clear green water of the sea, is so distinctly defined, that a cane could be laid along it. When we first discovered the long white line, about two miles distant, it presented the appearance of a low sand beach. As we reached it, I went aloft, and seating myself in the top-gallant cross-trees, beheld one of the most singular appearances of which I had ever formed any conception. When within a few fathoms of the discoloured water, we appeared to be rushing on to certain destruction, and when our sharp keel cut and turned up the sluggish surface, I involuntarily shuddered; the next instant we seemed suspended between two seas. Another moment, and we had passed the line of division, ploughing the lazy and muddy waves, and leaving a dark transparent wake far astern. We are hourly expecting our tow-boat--the Whale. When she arrives we shall immediately, in the company of some other ships, move up for New-Orleans. The morning is delightful, and we have the prospect of a pleasant sail, or rather _tow_, up the river. A hundred snow-white sails are reflecting the rays of the morning sun, while the rapid dashing of the swift pilot-boats about us, and the slower movements of ships getting under weigh to cross the bar, and work their own way up to the city--together with the mingling sounds of stern commands, and the sonorous "heave-ho-yeo!" of the labouring seamen, borne upon the breeze, give an almost unparalleled charm and novelty to the scene. Our Whale is now in sight, spouting, not _jets d'eau_, but volumes of dense black smoke. We shall soon be under weigh, and every countenance is bright with anticipation. Within an hour we shall be floating upon the great artery of North America, "prisoners of hope" and of _steam_, on our way to add our little number to the countless thousands who throng the streets of the Key of the Great Valley through which it flows. FOOTNOTES: [1] French BALISE, Spanish, VALIZA, a _beacon_; once placed at the mouth of the river, but now superseded by a light-house. Hence the term "Balize" applied to the mouth of the Mississippi. PART II. VI. The Mississippi--The Whale--Description of tow-boats--A package--A threatened storm--A beautiful brigantine-- Physiognomy of ships--Richly furnished cabin--An obliging Captain--Desert the ship--Getting under weigh--A chain of captives--Towing--New-Orleans--A mystery to be unraveled. Upon the mighty bosom of the "Father of Waters", our gallant ship now proudly floats. The Mississippi! that noble river, whose magnificent windings I have traced with my finger upon the map in my school-boy days, wishing, with all the adventurous longing of a boy, that I might, like the good fathers Marquette and Hennepin, leap into an Indian's birch canoe, and launching from its source among the snows and untrodden wilds of the far north, float pleasantly away under every climate, down to the cis-Atlantic Mediterranean; where, bursting from its confined limits, it proudly shoots into that tideless sea through numerous passages, like radii from one common centre. My wishes are now, in a measure, about to be realized. The low, flat, and interminable marshes, through the heart of which we are rapidly advancing--the ocean-like horizon, unrelieved by the slightest prominence--the sullen, turbid waves around us, which yield but slowly and heavily to the irresistible power of steam--all familiar characteristics of this river--would alone assure me that I am on the Mississippi. My last letter left us in the immediate expectation of being taken in tow by the "Whale," then coming rapidly down the South-West passage, in obedience to the hundred signals flying at the "fore" of as many vessels on every side of us. In a few minutes, snorting and dashing over the long ground-swell, and flinging a cloud of foam from her bows, she ran alongside of us, and sent her boat on board. While the little skiff was leaping from wave to wave to our ship, we had time to observe more attentively than when in motion, the singular appearance of this _unique_ class of steamboats. Her engine is of uncommon power, placed nearer the centre of the hull than in boats of the usual construction; her cabin is small, elevated, and placed near the engine in the centre of the boat. With the exception of the engine and cabin, she is "flush" from stem to stern; one quarter of her length abaft the cabin, and the same portion forward of the boilers being a broad platform, which extends quite around the boat, forming a very spacious guard on either side. The after part of this guard is latticed for the purpose of carrying off the water with facility when thrown back from the wheels. They seldom or never take passengers up to the city. The usual price for towing is, I think, about one dollar _per_ ton. Hence the expense is very great for vessels of large burthen; and rather than incur it, many ships, after being towed over the bar, which, at this season, cannot be crossed otherwise, work their own way up to town, which, with a fair wind, may be effected in twenty-four hours, the distance being but one hundred and five miles; but it not unfrequently takes them ten or fifteen days. Our captain informs me that he once lay thirty-six days in the river before he could reach New-Orleans--but fortunately, owing to the state of the market, on his arrival, he realized two hundred per cent. more on his cargo than he would have done had he arrived a month earlier. The jolly-boat from the steamer was now along side, and the officer in the stern sheets tossed a small package on our quarter-deck; and then, with the velocity of an uncaged bird, his little green cockle-shell darted away from us like a dolphin. The next moment he stood upon the low deck of the steamer. "Go ahead!" loudly was borne over the water, and with a plunge and a struggle, away she dashed from us with her loud, regular _boom_, _boom_, _boom_! throwing the spray around her head, like the huge gambolling monster from which she derives her name. With her went our hopes of speedy deliverance from our present durance. With faces whose complicated, whimsically-woful expression Lavater himself could not have analyzed, and as though moved by one spirit, we turned simultaneously toward the captain, who leaned against the capstan, reading one of the letters from the package just received. There was a cloud upon his brow which portended no good to our hopes, and which, by a sympathetic feeling, was attracted to, and heavily settled upon our own. We turned simultaneously to the tow-boat: she was rapidly receding in the distance. We turned again to watch our probable fate in the captain's face. It spoke as plainly as face could speak, "gentlemen, _no_ tow-boat." We gazed upon each other like school-boys hatching a conspiracy. Mutual glances of chagrin and dissatisfaction were bandied about the decks. After so long a passage, with our port almost in sight, and our voyage nearly ended, to be compelled to remain longer in our close prison, and creep like a "Wounded snake, dragging its slow length along," winding, day after day, through the sinuosities of this sluggish Mississippi, was enough to make us ship-wearied wretches verily, "To weep our spirits from our eyes." It was a consummation we had never wished. There was evidently a rebellion in embryo. The storm was rapidly gathering, and the thunders had already begun "to utter their voices." The whole scene was infinitely amusing. There could not have been more _feeling_ exhibited, had an order come down for the ship to ride a Gibraltar quarantine. The captain, having quietly finished the perusal of his letters, now changed at once the complexion of affairs. "I have just received advices, gentlemen, from my consignees in the city, that the market will be more favourable for my cargo fifteen days hence, than now; therefore, as I have so much leisure before me, I shall decline taking the tow-boat, and sail up to New-Orleans. I will, however, send my boat aboard the brig off our starboard quarter, which will take steam, and try to engage passage for those who wish to leave the ship." There was no alternative, and we cheerfully sacrificed our individual wishes to the interests of Captain Callighan, whose urbanity, kindness and gentlemanly deportment, during the whole passage out, had not only contributed to our comfort and happiness, but won for him our cordial esteem and good feelings.[2] In a few minutes one of our quarter-boats was alongside, bobbing up and down on the short seas, with the buoyancy of a cork-float. The first officer, myself, and another passenger, leaped into her; and a few dozen long and nervous strokes from the muscular arms of our men, soon ran us aboard the brig, whose anchor was already "apeak," in readiness for the Whale. As we approached her, I was struck with her admirable symmetry and fine proportions--she was a perfect model of naval architecture. Though rather long for her breadth of beam, the sharp construction of her bows, and the easy, elliptical curve of her sides, gave her a peculiarly light and graceful appearance, which, united with her taunt, slightly raking taper masts, and the precision of her rigging, presented to our view a nautical _ensemble_, surpassing in elegance any thing of the kind I had ever before beheld. We were politely received at the gangway by the captain, a gentlemanly, sailor-like looking young man, with whom, after introducing ourselves, we descended into the cabin. I had time, however, to notice that the interior of this very handsome vessel corresponded with the exterior. The capstan, the quarter-rail stanchions, the edge of the companion-way, and the taffrail, were all ornamented and strengthened with massive brass plates, polished like a mirror. The binnacle case was of ebony, enriched with inlaying and carved work. A dazzling array of steel-headed boarding pikes formed a glittering crescent half around the main-mast. Her decks evinced the free use of the "holy-stone," and in snowy whiteness, would have put to the blush the unsoiled floors of the most fastidious Yankee housewife. Her rigging was not hung on pins, but run and coiled "man-o'-war fashion," upon her decks. Her long boat, amidships, was rather an ornament than an excrescence, as in most merchantmen. Forward, the "men" were gathered around the windlass, which was abaft the foremast, all neatly dressed in white trousers and shirts, even to the sable "Doctor" and his "sub," whose double banks of ivories were wonderingly illuminative, as they grinned at the strangers who had so unceremoniously boarded the brig. As I descended the mahogany stair-case, supported by a highly polished balustrade cast in brass, my curiosity began to be roused, and I found myself wondering into what pleasure-yacht I had intruded. She was evidently American; for the "stars and stripes" were floating over our heads. Independent of this evidence of her nation, her bright, golden sides, and peculiar American _expression_ (for I contend that there is a national and an individual expression to every vessel, as strongly marked and as easily defined as the expression of every human countenance,) unhesitatingly indicated her country. My curiosity was increased on entering the roomy, richly wrought, and tastefully furnished cabin. The fairest lady in England's halls might have coveted it for her _boudoir_. Here were every luxury and comfort, that wealth and taste combined could procure. A piano, on which lay music books, a flute, clarionet, and a guitar of curious workmanship, occupied one side of the cabin; on the other stood a sofa, most temptingly inviting a loll, and a centre table was strewed with pamphlets, novels, periodicals, poetry, and a hundred little unwritten elegancies. The transom was ingeniously constructed, so as to form a superb sideboard, richly covered with plate, but more richly _lined_, as we subsequently had an opportunity of knowing, to our hearts' content. Three doors with mirrored panelling gave egress from the cabin, forward, to two state rooms and a dining-room, furnished in the same style of magnificence. My companions shared equally in my surprise, at the novelty of every thing around us. I felt a disposition to return to our ship, fearing that our proposition to take passage in the brig might be unacceptable. But before I had come to a decision, Mr. F., our first officer, with true sailor-like bluntness, had communicated our situation and wishes. "Certainly," replied the captain, "but I regret that my state-rooms will not accommodate more than five or six; the others will have to swing hammocks between decks; if they will do this, they are welcome." Although this compliance with our request was given with the utmost cheerfulness and alacrity, I felt that our taking passage with him would be inconvenient and a gross intrusion; and would have declined saying, that some other vessel would answer our purpose equally well. He would not listen to me but in so urgent a manner requested us to take passage with him, that we reluctantly consented, and immediately returned to our ship to relate our success, and transfer our baggage to the brig. Fortunately, but five of our party, including two ladies, were anxious to leave the ship; the remainder choosing rather to remain on board, and go up to town in her, as the captain flattered them with the promise of an early arrival should the wind hold fair. In less than ten minutes we had bidden farewell, and wished a speedy passage to our fellow-passengers, who had so rashly refused to "give up the ship" and were on our way with "bag and baggage" to the brig, which now and then rose proudly upon a long sea, and then slowly and gracefully settled into its yielding bosom. We had been on board but a short time when the Whale, which had already towed four ships and a brig, one at a time, over the bar, leaving each half a league up the passage, came bearing down upon us. In an incredibly short time she brought to ahead of us, and in less than five minutes had our brig firmly secured to her by two hawsers, with about fifty fathoms play. In the course of half an hour, we arrived where the five other vessels, which were to accompany us in tow, were anchored. More than two hours were consumed in properly securing the vessels to the tow-boat. Our brig was lashed to her larboard, and the huge British Indiaman, mentioned in my last letter, to her starboard side. Two ships sociably followed, about a cable's length astern, and a Spanish brig and a French ship, about one hundred yards astern of these, brought up the rear. These arrangements completed, the command to "go ahead" was given, and slowly, one after the other, the captive fleet yielded to the immense power of the high-pressure engine. Gradually our motion through the water became more and more rapid, till we moved along at the rate of seven knots an hour. The appearance our convoy presented, was novel and sublime. It was like a triumph! The wind though light, was fair, and every vessel was covered with clouds of snowy canvass. The loud, deep, incessant booming from the tow-boat--the black and dense masses of smoke rolling up and curling and wreathing around the lofty white sails, then shooting off horizontally through the air, leaving a long cloudy galaxy astern, contributed greatly to the novelty of this extraordinary scene. We are now within twenty miles of the city of Frenchmen and garlic soups, steamboats and yellow fever, negroes and quadroons, hells and convents, soldiers and slaves, and things, and people of every language and kindred, nation and tribe upon the face of the earth. From this place you will receive my next letter, wherein perchance you may find a solution of the mystery thrown around our beautiful vessel. FOOTNOTES: [2] Our ship was not a line-packet: they never delay. VII. Louisiana--Arrival at New-Orleans--Land--Pilot stations --Pilots--Anecdote--Fort--Forests--Levée--Crevasses--Alarms --Accident--Espionage--A Louisianian palace--Grounds-- Sugar-house--Quarters--An African governess--Sugar cane-- St. Mary--"English Turn"--Cavalcade--Battle ground--Music --Sounds of the distant city--Land in New-Orleans--An _amateur_ sailor. We are at last in New-Orleans, the queen of the South-west--the American Waterloo, whose Wellington, "General Jackson"--according to the elegant ballad I believe still extant in the "Boston picture-books," ---- "quick did go With Yankee(?) troops to meet the foe; We met them near to New-Orleans And made their blood to flow in streams." New-Orleans! the play-thing of monarchs. "Swapped," as boys swap their penknives. Discovered and lost by the French--possessed by the gold-hunting Spaniard--again ceded to the French--exchanged for a kingdom with the man who traded in empires, and sold by him, for a "plum" to our government! We arrived between eight and nine last evening, after a very pleasant run of twenty-eight hours from the Balize, charmed and delighted of course with every thing. If we had landed at the entrance of Vulcan's smithy from so long a sea-passage, it would have been precisely the same--all would have appeared "_couleur de rose_." To be _on land_, even were it a sand bank, is all that is requisite to render it in the eyes of the new landed passenger, a Paradise. During the first part of our sail up the river, there was nothing sufficiently interesting in the way of incident or variety of scenery, to merit the trouble either of narration or perusal. Till we arrived within forty-five or fifty miles of New-Orleans, the shores of the river presented the same flat, marshy appearance previously described. With the exception of two or three "pilot stations," near its mouth, I do not recollect that we passed any dwelling. These "stations" are situated within a few miles of the mouth of the river, and are the residences of the pilots. The one on the left bank of the river, which I had an opportunity of visiting, contained about sixteen or eighteen houses, built upon piles, in the midst of the morass, which is the only apology for land within twenty leagues. One third of these are dwelling houses, connected with each other for the purpose of intercourse, by raised walks or bridges, laid upon the surface of the mud, and constructed of timber, logs, and wrecks of vessels. Were a hapless wight to lose his footing, he would descend as easily and gracefully into the bosom of the yielding loam, as into a barrel of soft soap. The intercourse with the shore, near which this miserable, isolated congregation of shanties is imbedded, is also kept up by a causeway of similar construction and materials. The pilots, of whom there are from twelve to twenty at each station, are a hardy, rugged class of men. Most of them have been mates of merchantmen, or held some inferior official station in the navy. The majority of them, I believe, are English, though Americans, Frenchmen and Spaniards, are not wanting among their number. The moral character of this class of men, generally, does not stand very high, though there are numerous instances of individuals among them, whose nautical skill and gentlemanly deportment reflect honour upon their profession. It is by no means an unusual circumstance for the commander of a ship, on entering a harbour, to resign, _pro tem._, the charge of his vessel to a pilot, whom a few years before, while a petty officer under his command, he may have publicly disgraced and dismissed from his ship for some misdemeanor. In eighteen hundred and twenty-seven, when off Maldonado, ascending the La Plata, a Spanish pilot came on board a ship of war; and as he stalked aft from the gangway, with the assumed hauteur of littleness in power, the penetrating eye of one of the lieutenants was fixed upon his countenance with a close and scrutinizing gaze. The eye of the pilot fell beneath its stern expression for a moment; but he again raised it, and stealing a quick, furtive, and apparently recognising glance at the officer, his dark brown face changed suddenly to the hue of death, and with a fearful cry, he sprang with the activity of a cat into the mizen rigging; but before he could leap over the quarter, the officer had seized a musket from a marine, and fired: the ball struck him near the elbow the instant he had cleared the rigging. A heavy splash was heard in the water, and as those on deck flew to the stern, a dark spot of blood upon the water was the only evidence that a human being had sunk beneath. While they were engaged in looking upon the spot where he had plunged, and wondering, without knowing the cause, at this summary method of proceeding on the part of the lieutenant, a cry, "there he is," was heard and repeated by fifty voices, naval discipline to the contrary notwithstanding, and about twenty fathoms astern, the black head of the pilot was seen emerging from the waves--but the next instant, with a horrible Spanish curse, he dived from their sight, and in a few minutes, appeared more than a hundred yards astern. It appeared that during the well-known piratical depredations, a few years previous, in the vicinity of Key West and Cape St. Antonio, this officer had the command of a shore expedition against the pirates. During the excursion he attacked a large band of them in their retreats, and, after a long and warmly contested conflict, either slew or took the whole party prisoners. Among those was the redoubtable pilot, who held the goodly office of second in command among those worthy gentlemen. But as they proceeded to their schooner, which lay half a league from the shore, the rover, not liking the prospect which his skill in "second sight" presented to his fancy, suddenly, with a powerful effort, threw off the two men between whom he was seated, and leaping, with both arms pinioned behind him, over the head of the astonished bow oarsman, disappeared "instanter;" and while a score of muskets and pistols were levelled in various directions, made his appearance, in a few minutes, about a furlong astern, and out of reach of shot. It was thought useless to pursue him in a heavy barge, and he effected his escape. This said swimmer was recognised by the lieutenant in the person of the pilot; and as the recognition was mutual, the scene I have narrated followed. At sunrise, the morning after leaving the Balize, we passed the ruins, or rather the former location, (for the traces are scarcely perceptible) of the old Spanish fort Plaquemine, where, while this country was under Spanish government, all vessels were obliged to heave to, and produce their passports for the inspection of the sage, big-whiskered Dons, who were there whilom domesticated. Toward noon, the perpetual sameness of the shores, (they cannot be termed _banks_) of the river, were relieved by clumps of cypress and other trees, which gradually, as we advanced, increased into forests, extending back to a level horizon, as viewed from the mast-head, and overhanging both sides of the river. Though so late in the season, they still retained the green freshness of summer, and afforded an agreeable contrast to the dry and leafless forests which we had just left at the north. At a distance, we beheld the first plantation to be seen on ascending the river. As we approached it, we discovered from the deck the commencement of the embankment or "Levée," which extends, on both sides of the river, to more than one hundred and fifty miles above New-Orleans. This _levée_ is properly a dike, thrown up on the verge of the river, from twenty-five to thirty feet in breadth, and two feet higher than high-water mark; leaving a ditch, or fossé, on the inner side, of equal breadth, from which the earth to form the levée is taken. Consequently, as the land bordering on the river is a dead level, and, without the security of the levée, overflowed at half tides, when the river is full, or within twenty inches, as it often is, of the top of the embankment, the surface of the river will be _four feet higher_ than the surface of the country; the altitude of the inner side of the levée being usually six feet above the general surface of the surrounding land. This is a startling truth; and at first leads to reflections by no means favorable in their results, to the safety, either of the lives or property of the inhabitants of the lowlands of Louisiana. But closer observation affords the assurance that however threatening a mass of water four feet in height, two thousand five hundred in breadth, and of infinite length, may be in appearance, experience has not shown to any great extent, that the residents on the borders of this river have in reality, more to apprehend from an inundation, so firm and efficacious is their levée, than those who reside in more apparent security, upon the elevated banks of our flooding rivers of the north. It cannot be denied that there have been instances where "crevasses" as they are termed here, have been gradually worn through the levée, by the attrition of the waters, when, suddenly starting through in a wiry stream, they rapidly enlarge to torrents which, with the force, and noise, and rushing of a mill-race, shoot away over the plantations, inundating the sugar fields, and losing themselves in the boundless marshes in the rear. But on such occasions, which however are not frequent, the alarm is given and communicated by the plantation bells, and before half an hour elapses, several hundred negroes, with their masters, (who all turn out on these occasions, as at a fire,) will have gathered to the spot, and at the expiration of another half-hour, the breach will be stopped, the danger past, and the "Monarch of rivers," subdued by the hand of man, will be seen again moving, submissively obedient, within his prescribed limits, sullenly, yet majestically to the ocean. During the afternoon, we passed successively many sugar plantations, in the highest state of cultivation. Owing to the elevation of the levée, and the low situation of the lands, we could see from the deck only the upper story of the planters' residences upon the shore; but from the main top, we had an uninterrupted view of every plantation which we passed. As they very much resemble each other in their general features, a description of one of them will be with a little variation applicable to all. Fortunately for me, a slight accident to our machinery, which delayed us fifteen or twenty minutes, in front of one of the finest plantations below New-Orleans, enabled me to put in practice a short system of _espionage_ upon the premises, from the main top, with my spy-glass, that introduced me into the very _sanctum_ of the enchanting ornamental gardens, in which the palace-like edifice was half-embowered. The house was quadrangular, with a high steep Dutch roof, immensely large, and two stories in height; the basement or lower story being constructed of brick, with a massive colonnade of the same materials on all sides of the building. This basement was raised to a level with the summit of the levée, and formed the ground-work or basis of the edifice, which was built of wood, painted white, with Venetian blinds, and latticed verandas, supported by slender and graceful pillars, running round every side of the dwelling. Along the whole western front, festooned in massive folds, hung a dark-green curtain, which is dropped along the whole length of the balcony in a summer's afternoon, not only excluding the burning rays of the sun, but inviting the inmates to a cool and refreshing _siesta_, in some one of the half dozen network hammocks, which we discovered suspended in the veranda. The basement seemed wholly unoccupied, and probably was no more than an over-ground cellar. At each extremity of the piazza was a broad and spacious flight of steps, descending into the garden which enclosed the dwelling on every side. Situated about two hundred yards back from the river, the approach to it was by a lofty massive gateway which entered upon a wide gravelled walk, bordered by dark foliaged orange trees, loaded with their golden fruit. Pomegranate, fig, and lemon trees, shrubs, plants and exotics of every clime and variety, were dispersed in profusion over this charming _parterre_. Double palisades of lemon and orange trees surrounded the spot, forming one of the loveliest and most elegant rural retirements, that imagination could create or romantic ambition desire. About half a mile in the rear of the dwelling, I observed a large brick building with lofty chimneys resembling towers. This was the sugar-house, wherein the cane undergoes its several transmutations, till that state of _perfection_ is obtained, which renders it marketable. On the left and diagonally from the dwelling house we noticed a very neat, pretty village, containing about forty small snow-white cottages, all precisely alike, built around a pleasant square, in the centre of which, was a grove or cluster of magnificent sycamores. Near by, suspended from a belfry, was the bell which called the slaves to and from their work and meals. This village was their residence, and under the shade of the trees in the centre of the square, we could discern troops of little ebony urchins from the age of eight years downward, all too young to work in the field, at their play--under the charge of an old, crippled _gouvernante_, who, being past "field service," was thus promoted in the "home department." This plantation was about one mile and a half in depth from the river, terminating, like all in lower Louisiana, in an impenetrable cypress swamp; and about two miles in breadth by the levée. About one half was waving with the rich long-leafed cane, and agreeably variegated, exhibiting every delicate shade from the brightest yellow to the darkest green. A small portion of the remainder was in corn, which grows luxuriantly in this country, though but little cultivated; and the rest lay in fallow, into which a portion of every plantation is thrown, alternately, every two years. By the time I had completed my observations, spying the richness, rather than "the nakedness" of the land, the engineer had arranged the machinery and we were again in motion; passing rapidly by rich gardens, spacious avenues, tasteful villas, and extensive fields of cane, bending to the light breeze with the wavy motion of the sea. Just before sunset we passed the site of the old fort St. Mary, and in half an hour after, swept round into the magnificent curve denominated the "English Turn."[3] As we sailed along, gay parties, probably returning from and going to, the city, on horseback, in barouches and carriages, were passing along the level road within the levée; their heads and shoulders being only visible above it, gave to the whole cavalcade a singularly ludicrous appearance--a strange bobbing of heads, hats and feathers, suggesting the idea of a new genus of locomotives amusing themselves upon the green sward. Much to our regret, we did not arrive opposite the "battle ground" till some time after sunset. But we were in some measure remunerated for our disappointment, by gazing down upon the scene of the conflict from aloft, while as bright and clear a moon as ever shed its mellow radiance over a southern landscape, poured its full flood of light upon the now quiet battle field. I could distinguish that it was under cultivation, and that princely dwellings were near and around it; and my ear told me as we sailed swiftly by, that where shouts of conflict and carnage once broke fiercely upon the air, now floated the lively notes of cheerful music, which were wafted over the waters to the ship, falling pleasantly upon the ear. The lights and habitations along the shore now became more frequent. Luggers, manned by negroes, light skiffs, with a solitary occupant in each, and now and then a dark hulled vessel, her lofty sails, reflecting the bright moon light, appearing like snowy clouds in the clear blue sky, were rapidly and in increasing numbers, continually gliding by us. By these certain indications we knew that we were not far from the goal so long the object of our wishes. We had been anticipating during the morning an early arrival, when the panorama of the crescent city should burst upon our view enriched, by the mellow rays of a southern sun, with every variety of light and shade that could add to the beauty or novelty of the scene. But our sanguine anticipations were not to be realized. The shades of night had long fallen over the town, when, as we swiftly moved forward, anxiously trying to penetrate the obscurity, an interminable line of lights gradually opened in quick succession upon our view; and a low hum, like the far off roaring of the sea, with the heavy and irregular tolling of a deep mouthed bell, was borne over the waves upon the evening breeze, mingling at intervals with loud calls far away on the shore, and fainter replies still more distant. The fierce and incessant baying of dogs, and as we approached nearer, the sound of many voices, as in a tumult;--and anon, the wild, clear, startling notes of a bugle, waking the slumbering echoes on the opposite shore, succeeded by the solitary voice of some lonely singer, blended with the thrumming notes of a guitar, falling with melancholy cadence upon the ear--all gave indications that we were rapidly approaching the termination of our voyage. In a few minutes, as we still shot onward, we could trace a thousand masts, penciled distinctly with all their network rigging upon the clear evening sky. We moved swiftly in among them; and gradually checking her speed, the tow-boat soon came nearly to a full stop, and casting off the ship astern, rounded to and left us along side of a Salem ship, which lay outside of a tier "six deep." When the bustle and confusion of making fast had subsided, we began our preparations to go on shore. So anxious were we once more to tread "terra firma," that we determined not to wait for a messenger to go half a mile for a carriage, but to walk through the gayly lighted streets to our hotel in Canal-street, more than a mile distant. So after much trouble in laying planks, for the surer footing of the ladies, from gangway to gangway, we safely reached, after crossing half a dozen ships, the firm, immoveable Levée. I will now briefly relate the little history of our truly elegant brig, as I partially promised to do in my last, and conclude this long, long letter. Her commander was formerly an officer of the United States navy. He is a graduate of Harvard University, and presents in his person the admirable union of the polished gentleman, finished scholar, and practical seaman. Inheriting a princely fortune from a bachelor uncle, he returned to Massachusetts, his native state, and built according to his own taste the beautiful vessel he now commands. He has made in her one voyage to India, and two up the Mediterranean, and is now at this port to purchase a cargo of cotton for the European market. His officers are gentlemen of education and nautical science; his equals and companions in the cabin, though his subordinates on the deck. If the imagination of the lonely sailor, as he mechanically paces his midnight watch, creates an Utopia in the wide ocean of futurity, if there be a limit to the enjoyment of a refined seaman's wishes, or a "ne plus ultra," to his ambition, they must all be realized and achieved, by the sole command and control of a vessel so correctly beautiful as the D----; so ably officered and manned, so opulent with every luxury, comfort, and convenience, and free as the winds to go and come over the "dark blue sea," obedient alone to the uncontrolled will and submissive to the lightest pleasure of her absolute commander. FOOTNOTES: [3] Tradition saith, that some British vessels of war pursuing some American vessels up the river, on arriving at this place gave up the pursuit as useless, and _turned_ back to the Balize. Another tradition saith that John Bull chasing some American ships up the river, thought, in his wisdom, when he arrived at this bend, that this was but another of the numerous outlets of the hydra-headed Mississippi, and supposing the Yankee ships were taking advantage of it to escape to the sea--he _turned_ about and followed his way back; again, determined, as school boys say, to "head them!" VIII. Bachelor's comforts--A valuable valet--Disembarked at the Levée--A fair Castilian--Canaille--The Crescent city-- Reminiscence of school days--French cabarets--Cathedral-- Exchange--Cornhill--A chain of light--A fracas--Gens d'Armes --An affair of honour--Arrive at our hotel. How delightfully comfortable one feels, and how luxuriantly disposed to quiet,--after having been tossed, and bruised, and tumbled about, _sans ceremonie_, like a bale of goods, or a printer's devil, for many long weary days and nights upon the slumberless sea--to be once more cosily established in a smiling, elegant little parlour, carpeted, curtained, and furnished with every tasteful convenience that a comfort loving, home-made bachelor could covet. In such a pleasant sitting-room am I now most enviably domesticated, and every thing around me contributes to the happiness of my situation. A cheerful coal-fire burns in the grate--(for the day is cloudy, misty, drizzly, foggy, and chilly, which is the best definition I can give you, as yet, of a wet December's day in New-Orleans,)--diffusing an agreeable temperature throughout the room, and adding, by contrast with the dark gloomy streets, seen indistinctly through the moist glass, to the enjoyment of my comforts. I am now seated by my writing-desk at a table, drawn at an agreeable distance from the fire-place--and fully convinced that a man never feels so comfortably, as when ensconced in a snug parlour on a rainy day. A statue of dazzling ebony, by name Antoine, to which the slightest look or word will give instant animation, stands in the centre of the room, contrasting beautifully in colour with the buff paper-hangings and crimson curtains. He is a slave--about seventeen years of age, and a bright, intelligent, active boy, nevertheless--placed at my disposal as _valet_ while I remain here, by the kind attention of my obliging hostess, Madame H----. He serves me in a thousand capacities, as post-boy, cicerone, &c. and is on the whole, an extremely useful and efficient attaché. Our party having safely landed on the Levée, nearly opposite Rue Marigny, we commenced our long, yet in anticipation, delightful walk to our hotel. We had disembarked about a quarter of a league below the cathedral, from the front of which, just after we landed, the loud report of the evening gun broke over the city, rattling and reverberating through the long massively built streets, like the echoing of distant thunder along mountain ravines. On a firm, smooth, gravelled walk elevated about four feet, by a gradual ascent from the street--one side open to the river, and the other lined with the "Pride of China," or India tree, we pursued our way to Chartres-street, the "Broadway" of New-Orleans. The moon shone with uncommon brilliancy, and thousands, even in this lower faubourg, were abroad, enjoying the beauty and richness of the scene. Now, a trio of lively young Frenchmen would pass us, laughing and conversing gayly upon some merry subject, followed by a slow moving and stately figure, whose haughty tread, and dark _roquelaure_ gathered with classic elegance around his form in graceful folds, yet so arranged as to conceal every feature beneath his slouched _sombrero_, except a burning, black, penetrating eye,--denoted the exiled Spaniard. We passed on--and soon the lively sounds of the French language, uttered by soft voices, were heard nearer and nearer, and the next moment, two or three duenna-like old ladies, remarkable for their "embonpoint" dimensions, preceded a bevy of fair girls, without that most hideous of all excrescences, with which women see fit to disfigure their heads, denominated a "bonnet"--their brown, raven or auburn hair floating in ringlets behind them. There was one--a dark-locked girl--a superb creature, over whose head and shoulders, secured above her forehead by a brilliant which in the clear moon burned like a star, waved the folds of a snow-white veil in the gentle breeze, created by her motion as she glided gracefully along. She was a Castilian; and the mellow tones of her native land gave richness to the light elegance of the French, as she breathed it like music from her lips. As we passed on, the number of promenaders increased, but scarcely a lady was now to be seen. Every other gentleman we met was enveloped in a cloud, not of bacchanalian, but tobacconalian incense, which gave a peculiar atmosphere to the Levée. Every, or nearly every gentleman carried a sword cane, apparently, and occasionally the bright hilt of a Spanish knife, or dirk, would gleam for an instant in the moon-beams from the open bosom of its possessor, as, with the lowering brow, and active tread of wary suspicion, he moved rapidly by us, his roundabout thrown over the left shoulder and secured by the sleeves in a knot under the arm, which was thrust into his breast, while the other arm was at liberty to attend to his segar, or engage in any mischief to which its owner might be inclined. This class of men are very numerous here. They are easily distinguished by their shabby appearance, language, and foreign way of wearing their apparel. In groups--promenading, lounging, and sleeping upon the seats along the Levée--we passed several hundred of this _canaille_ of Orleans, before we arrived at the "Parade," the public square in front of the cathedral. They are mostly Spaniards and Portuguese, though there are among them representatives from all the unlucky families which, at the building of Babel, were dispersed over the earth. As to their mode and means of existence, I have not as yet informed myself; but I venture to presume that they resort to no means beneath the dignity of "caballeros!" After passing the market on our right, a massive colonnade, about two hundred and fifty feet in length, we left the Levée, and its endless tier of shipping which had bordered one side of our walk all the way, and passing under the China-trees, that still preserved their unbroken line along the river, we crossed Levée-street, a broad, spacious esplanade, running along the front of the main body or block of the city, separating it from the Levée, and forming a magnificent thoroughfare along the whole extensive river-line. From this high-way streets shoot off at right angles, till they terminate in the swamp somewhat less than a league back from the river. I have termed New-Orleans the crescent city in one of my letters, from its being built around the segment of a circle formed by a graceful curve of the river at this place. Though the water, or shore-line, is very nearly semi-circular, the Levée-street, above mentioned, does not closely follow the shore, but is broken into two angles, from which the streets diverge as before mentioned. These streets are again intersected by others running parallel with the Levée-street, dividing the city into squares, except where the perpendicular streets meet the angles, where necessarily the "squares" are lessened in breadth at the extremity nearest the river, and occasionally form pentagons and parallelograms, with _oblique_ sides, if I may so express it. After crossing Levée-street, we entered Rue St. Pierre, which issues from it south of the grand square. This square is an open green, surrounded by a lofty iron railing, within which troops of boys, whose sports carried my thoughts away to "home, sweet home," were playing, shouting and merry making, precisely as we used to do in days long past, when the harvest-moon would invite us from our dwellings to the village green, where many and many a joyful night we have played till the magic voice of our good old Scotch preceptor was heard from the door of his little cottage under the elms, "Laads, laads, it's unco time ye were in bed, laads," warning us to our sleepy pillows. The front of this extensive square was open to the river, bordered with its dark line of ships; on each side were blocks of rusty looking brick buildings of Spanish and French construction, with projecting balconies, heavy cornices, and lofty jalousies or barricaded windows. The lower stories of these buildings were occupied by retailers of fancy wares, vintners, segar manufacturers, dried fruit sellers, and all the other members of the innumerable occupations, to which the volatile, ever ready Frenchman can always turn himself and a _sous_ into the bargain. As we passed along, these shops were all lighted up, and the happy faces, merry songs, and gay dances therein, occasionally contrasted with the shrill tone of feminine anger in a foreign tongue, and the loud, fierce, rapid voices of men mingling in dispute, added to the novelty and amusement of our walk. I enumerated ten, out of seventeen successive shops or _cabarets_, upon the shelves of which I could discover nothing but myriads of claret and Madeira bottles, tier upon tier to the ceiling; and from this fact I came to the conclusion, that some of the worthy citizens of New-Orleans must be most unconscionable "wine-bibbers," if not "publicans and sinners," as subsequent observation has led me to surmise. On the remaining side of this square stood the cathedral, its dark moorish-looking towers flinging their vast shadows far over the water. The whole front of the large edifice was thrown into deep shade, so that when we approached, it presented one black mingled mass, frowning in stern and majestic silence upon the surrounding scene. Leaving this venerable building at the right, we turned into Chartres-street, the second parallel with the Levée, and the most fashionable, as well as greatest business street in the city. As we proceeded, _cafés_, confectioners, fancy stores, millineries, parfumeurs, &c. &c., were passed in rapid succession; each one of them presenting something new, and always something to strike the attention of strangers, like ourselves, for the first time in the only "foreign" city in the United States. At the corner of one of the streets intersecting Chartres-street--Rue St. Louis I believe--we passed a large building, the lofty basement story of which was lighted with a glare brighter than that of noon. In the back ground, over the heads of two or three hundred loud-talking, noisy gentlemen, who were promenading and vehemently gesticulating, in all directions, through the spacious room--I discovered a bar, with its peculiar dazzling array of glasses and decanters containing "spirits"--not of "the vasty deep" certainly, but of whose potent spells many were apparently trying the power, by frequent libations. This building--of which and its uses more anon--I was informed, was the "French" or "New Exchange." After passing Rue Toulouse, the streets began to assume a new character; the buildings were loftier and more modern--the signs over the doors bore English names, and the characteristic arrangements of a northern dry goods store were perceived, as we peered in at the now closing doors of many stores by which we passed. We had now attained the upper part of Chartres-street, which is occupied almost exclusively by retail and wholesale dry goods dealers, jewellers, booksellers, &c., from the northern states, and I could almost realize that I was taking an evening promenade in Cornhill, so great was the resemblance. As we successively crossed Rues Conti, Bienville and Douane, and looked down these long straight avenues, the endless row of lamps, suspended in the middle of these streets, as well as in all others in New-Orleans, by chains or ropes, extended from house to house across, had a fine and brilliant effect, which we delayed for a moment on the flag-stone to admire, endeavouring to reach with our eyes the almost invisible extremity of this line of flame. Just before we reached the head of Chartres-street, near Bienville, in the immediate vicinity of which is the boarding house of Madame H----, where we intended to take rooms, our way was impeded by a party of gentlemen in violent altercation in English and French, who completely blocked up the "trottoir." "Sir," said one of the party--a handsome, resolute-looking young man--in a calm deliberate voice, which was heard above every other, and listened to as well--"Sir, you have grossly insulted me, and I shall expect from you, immediately--before we separate--an acknowledgment, adequate to the injury." "Monsieur," replied a young Frenchman whom he had addressed, in French, "Monsieur, I never did insult you--a gentleman never insults! you have misunderstood me, and refuse to listen to a candid explanation." "The explanation you have given sir," reiterated the first speaker, "is not sufficient--it is a subterfuge;" here many voices mingled in loud confusion, and a renewed and more violent altercation ensued which prevented our hearing distinctly; and as we had already crossed to the opposite side of the street, having ladies under escort, we rapidly passed on our way, but had not gained half a square before the clamour increased to an uproar--steel struck steel--one, then another pistol was discharged in rapid succession--"guards!" "gens d'armes, _gens d'armes_," "guards! guards!" resounded along the streets, and we arrived at our hotel, just in time to escape being run down, or run through at their option probably, by half a dozen gens d'armes in plain blue uniforms, who were rushing with drawn swords in their hands to the scene of contest, perfectly well assured in our own minds, that we had most certainly arrived at NEW-ORLEANS! Though affairs of the kind just described are no uncommon thing here, and are seldom noticed in the papers of the day--yet the following allusion to the event of last evening may not be uninteresting to you, and I will therefore copy it, and terminate my letter with the extract. "An affray occurred last night in the vicinity of Bienville-street, in which one young gentleman was severely wounded by the discharge of a pistol, and another slightly injured by a dirk. An "_affaire d'honneur_" originated from this, and the parties met this morning. Dr. ---- of New-York, one of the principals, was mortally wounded by his antagonist M. Le---- of this city." IX. Sensations on seeing a city for the first time--Capt. Kidd --Boston--Fresh feelings--An appreciated luxury--A human medley--School for physiognomists--A morning scene in New- Orleans--Canal-street--Levée--French and English stores-- Parisian and Louisianian pronunciation--Scenes in the market --Shipping--A disguised rover--Mississippi fleets--Ohio river arks--Slave laws. I know of no sensation so truly delightful and exciting as that experienced by a traveller, when he makes his _debut_ in a strange and interesting city. These feelings have attended me before, in many other and more beautiful places; but when I sallied out the morning after my arrival, to survey this "Key of the Great Valley," I enjoyed them again with almost as much zest, as when, a novice to cities and castellated piles, I first gazed in silent wonder upon the immense dome which crowns Beacon Hill, and lingered to survey with a fascinated eye the princely edifices that surround it. I shall ever remember, with the liveliest emotions, my first visit to Boston--the first "CITY," (what a charm to a country lad in the appellation) I had ever seen. It was a delightful summer's morning, when, urged forward by a gentle wind, our little, green-painted, coasting packet entered the magnificent harbour, which, broken and diversified with its beautiful islands, lay outspread before us like a chain of lakes sleeping among hills. With what romantic and youthful associations did I then gaze upon the lonely sea-washed monument, as we sailed rapidly by it, where the famous pirate, "Nick," murdered his mate; and a little farther on, upon a pleasant green island, where the bloody "Robert Kidd" buried treasures that no man could number, or find!--With what patriotism, almost kindled into a religion, did I gaze upon the noble heights of Dorchester as they lifted their twin summits to the skies on our left, and upon the proud eminence far to the right, where Warren expired and liberty was born! I well remember with what wild enthusiasm I bounded on shore ere the vessel had quite reached it, and with juvenile elasticity, ran, rather than walked, up through the hurry and bustle that always attend Long Wharf. With what veneration I looked upon the spot, in State-street, where the first American blood was shed by British soldiers! With what reverence I paced "Old Cornhill"--and with what deep respect I gazed upon the venerable "Old South," the scene of many a revolutionary incident! The site of the "Liberty Tree"--the "KING'S" Chapel, where LIONEL LINCOLN was married--the wharf, from which the tea was poured into the dock by the disguised citizens, and a hundred other scenes and places of interesting associations were visited, and gave me a pleasure that I fear can never so perfectly be felt again. For then, my feelings were young, fresh and buoyant, and my curiosity, as in after life, had never been glutted and satiated by the varieties and novelties of our variegated world. Even the "cannon-ball" embedded in the tower of Brattle-street church, was an object of curiosity; the building in which Franklin worked when an apprentice, was not passed by, unvisited; and the ancient residence of "Job Pray" was gazed upon with a kind of superstitious reverence. I do not pretend to compare my present feelings with those of that happy period. Although my curiosity may not be so eager as then, it is full as persevering; and though I may not experience the same lively gratification, in viewing strange and novel scenes, that I felt in boyhood, I certainly do as much rational and intellectual pleasure; and obtain more valuable and correct information than I could possibly gain, were I still guided by the more volatile curiosity of youth. In spite of our fatigue of the preceding evening, and the luxury of a soft, firm bed, wherein one could sleep without danger of being capsized by a lee-lurch--a blessing we had not enjoyed for many a long and weary night--we were up with the sun and prepared for a stroll about the city. Our first place of destination was the market-house, a place which in almost every commercial city is always worthy the early notice of a stranger, as it is a kind of "House of Representatives" of the city to which it belongs, where, during the morning, delegates from almost every family are found studying the interests of their constituents by judicious negotiations for comestibles. If the market at New-Orleans represents that city, so truly does New-Orleans represent every other city and nation upon earth. I know of none where is congregated so great a variety of the human species, of every language and colour. Not only natives of the well known European and Asiatic countries are here to be met with, but occasionally Persians, Turks, Lascars, Maltese, Indian sailors from South America and the Islands of the sea, Hottentots, Laplanders, and, for aught I know to the contrary, Symmezonians. Now should any philanthropic individual, anxious for the advancement of the noble science of physiognomy, wish to survey the motley countenances of these goodly personages, let him on some bright and sunny morning bend his steps toward the market-house; for there, in all their variety and shades of colouring they may be seen, and _heard_. If a painting could affect the sense of hearing as well as that of sight, this market multitude would afford the artist an inimitable original for the representation upon his canvass of the "confusion of tongues." As we sallied from our hotel to commence our first tour of sight seeing, the vast city was just waking into life. Our sleepy servants were opening the shutters, and up and down the street a hundred of their drowsy brethren were at the same enlightening occupation. Black women, with huge baskets of rusks, rolls and other appurtenances of the breakfast table, were crying, in loud shrill French, their "stock in trade," followed by milk-criers, and butter-criers and criers of every thing but tears: for they all seemed as merry as the morning, saluting each other gayly as they met, "Bo' shoo Mumdsal"--"Moshoo! adieu," &c. &c., and shooting their rude shafts of African wit at each other with much vivacity and humor. We turned down Canal-street--the broadest in New-Orleans, and destined to be the most magnificent. Its breadth I do not know, correctly, but it is certainly one half wider than Broadway opposite the Park.--Through its centre runs a double row of young trees, which, when they arrive at maturity, will form the finest mall in the United States, unless the _esplanade_--a beautiful mall at the south part of the city, should excel it. From the head of Canal-street we entered Levée-street, leaving the custom house, a large, plain, yellow stuccoed building upon our right, near which is a huge, dark coloured, unshapely pile of brick, originally erected for a _Bethel church_ for seamen, but never finished, and seldom occupied, except by itinerant showmen, with their wonders. Levée-street had already begun to assume a bustling, commerce-like appearance. The horse-drays were trundling rapidly by, sometimes four abreast, racing to different parts of the Levée for their loads--and upon each was mounted a ragged negro, who, as Jehu-like he drove along, standing upright and unsupported, resembled "Phaeton in the suds"--rather than "Phaeton the god-like." The stores on our left were all open, and nearly every one of them, for the first two squares, was occupied as a clothing or hat store, and kept by Americans; that is to say, Anglo Americans as distinguished from the Louisianian French, who very properly, and proudly too, assume the national appellation, which we of the English tongue have so haughtily arrogated to ourselves. As we approached the market, French stores began to predominate, till one could readily imagine himself, aided by the sound of the French language, French faces and French goods on all sides, to be traversing a street in Havre or Marseilles. Though I do not pretend to be a critical connoisseur in French, yet I could discover a marked and striking difference between the language I heard spoken every where and by all classes, in the streets, and the Parisian, or trans-Atlantic French. The principal difference seems to be in their method of contracting or clipping their words, and consequently varying, more or less, the pronunciation of every termination susceptible of change. The vowels _o_ and _e_ are more open, and the _a_ is flatter than in the genuine French, and often loses altogether its emphatic fulness; while _u_, corrupted from its difficult, but peculiarly soft sound, is almost universally pronounced as full and plain as _oo_ in moon. This difference is of course only in pronunciation; the same literature, and consequently the same words and orthography, being common both to the creole and European. The sun had already risen, when I arrived, after a delightful walk, at the "marché."--This is a fine building consisting of a long, lofty roof, supported by rows of columns on every side. It is constructed of brick, and stuccoed; and, either by intention or an effect of the humid atmosphere of this climate, is of a dingy cream colour. A broad passage runs through the whole length of the structure, each side of which is lined with stalls, where some one, of no particular colour, presides; and before every pillar, the shining face of a blackee may be seen glistening from among his vegetables. As I moved on through a dense mass of negroes, mulattoes, and non-descripts of every shade, from "sunny hue to sooty," all balancing their baskets skilfully upon their heads, my ears were assailed with sounds stranger and more complicated than I ever imagined could be rung upon that marvellous instrument the human tongue. The "langue des halles"--the true "Billingsgate" was not only here perfected but improved upon; the gods and goddesses of the London mart might even take lessons from these daughters of Afric, who, enthroned upon a keg, or three-legged stool, each morning hold their _levée_, and dispense their esculent blessings to the famishing citizens. During the half hour I remained in the market, I did not see one white person to fifty blacks. It appears that here servants do all the marketing, and that gentlemen and ladies do not, as in Boston, Philadelphia, and elsewhere, visit the market-places themselves, and select their own provision for their tables. The market-place in Philadelphia is quite a general resort and promenade for early-rising gentlemen, and it is certainly well worth one's while to visit it more than once, not only for the gratification of the palate and the eye, by the inviting display of epicurean delicacies, but to become more particularly acquainted with the general habits and manners of the country people, who always constitute the greater portion of the multitude at a market. Among them are individuals from every little hamlet and village for ten or fifteen miles around the city, and by studying these people, a tolerably good idea may be formed by a stranger of the manners and customs of the inhabitants, (that is, the farming class) of the vicinity. But here, there is no temptation of the kind to induce one to visit the market in the city more than once. He will see nothing to gratify the spirit of inquiry or observation, in the ignorant, careless-hearted slaves, whose character presents neither variety nor interest. However well they may represent their brethren in the city and on the neighbouring sugar plantations, they cannot be ranked among the class of their fellow-beings denominated citizens, and consequently, are not to be estimated by a stranger in judging of this community. So far as regards the intrinsic importance of this market, it is undoubtedly equal to any other in America. Vegetables and fruits of all climates are displayed in bountiful profusion in the vegetable stalls, while the beef and fish-market is abundantly supplied, though necessarily without that endless variety to be found in Atlantic cities. In front, upon the water, were double lines of market and fish-boats, secured to the Levée, forming a small connecting link of the long chain of shipping and steamboats that extend for a league in front of the city. At the lower part of the town lie generally those ships, which having their cargoes on board, have dropped down the river to await their turn to be towed to sea. Fronting this station are no stores, but several elegant private dwellings, constructed after the combined French and Spanish style of architecture, almost embowered in dark, evergreen foliage, and surrounded by parterres. The next station above, and immediately adjoining this, is usually occupied by vessels, which, just arrived, have not yet obtained a berth where they can discharge their cargoes; though not unfrequently ships here discharge and receive their freight, stretching along some distance up the Levée to the link of market-boats just mentioned. From the market to the vicinity of Bienville-street, lies an extensive tier of shipping, often "six deep," discharging and receiving cargo, or waiting for freight. The next link of the huge chain is usually occupied by Spanish and French coasting vessels,--traders to Mexico, Texas, Florida, &c. These are usually polaccas, schooners, and other small craft--and particularly black, rakish craft, some of them are in appearance. It would require but little exercise of the imagination, while surveying these truculent looking clippers, to fancy any one of them, clothed in canvass and bounding away upon the broad sea, the "_Black flag_" flying aloft, the now gunless deck bristling with five eighteens to a side; and her indolent, smoking, dark faced crew exchanging their jack-knives for sabres and pistols. There was an instance of recent occurrence, where a ship was boarded and plundered by a well-armed and strongly manned schooner, in company with which, under the peaceful guise of a merchantman she had been towed down the river six days previous. Next to this station (for as you will perceive, the whole Levée is divided into _stations_ appropriated to peculiar classes of shipping,) commences the range of steamboats, or steamers, as they are usually termed here, rivaling in magnitude the extensive line of ships below. The appearance of so large a collection of steamboats is truly novel, and must always strike a stranger with peculiar interest. The next station, though it presents a more humble appearance than the others, is not the least interesting. Here are congregated the primitive navies of Indiana, Ohio, and the adjoining states, manned (I have not understood whether they are _officered_ or not) by "real Kentucks"--"Buck eyes"--"Hooshers"--and "Snorters." There were about two hundred of these craft without masts, consisting of "flat-boats," (which resemble, only being much shorter, the "Down East" gundalow, (gondola) so common on the rivers of Maine,) and "keel-boats," which are one remove from the flat-boat, having some pretensions to a keel; they somewhat resemble freighting canal-boats. Besides these are "arks," most appropriately named, their _contents_ having probably some influence with their god-fathers in selecting an appellation, and other non-descript-craft. These are filled with produce of all kinds, brought from the "Upper country," (as the north western states are termed here) by the very farmers themselves who have raised it;--also, horses, cattle, hogs, poultry, mules, and every other thing raiseable and saleable are piled into these huge flats, which an old farmer and half a dozen Goliaths of sons can begin and complete in less than a week, from the felling of the first tree to the driving of the last pin. When one of these arks is completed, and "every beast that is good for food" by sevens and scores, male and female, and every fowl of the air by sevens and fifties, are entered into the ark,--then entereth in the old man with his family by "males" only, and the boat is committed to the current, and after the space of many days arriveth and resteth at this Ararat of all "Up country" Noahs. These boats, on arriving here, are taken to pieces and sold as lumber, while their former owners with well-lined purses return home as deck passengers on board steamboats. An immense quantity of whiskey from Pittsburg and Cincinnati, besides, is brought down in these boats, and not unfrequently, they are crowded with slaves for the southern market. The late excellent laws relative to the introduction of slaves, however, have checked, in a great measure, this traffic here, and the Mississippi market at Natchez has consequently become inundated, by having poured into it, in addition to its usual stock, the Louisianian supply. I understand that the legislature of this rich and enterprising state is about to pass a law similar to the one above mentioned, which certainly will be incalculably to her advantage. The line of flats may be considered the last link of the great chain of shipping in front of New-Orleans, unless we consider as attached to it a kind of dock adjoining, where ships and steamers often lie, either worn out or undergoing repairs. From this place to the first station I have mentioned, runs along the Levée, fronting the shipping, an uninterrupted block of stores, (except where they are intersected by streets,) some of which are lofty and elegant, while others are clumsy piles of French and Spanish construction, browned and blackened by age. X. First impressions--A hero of the "Three Days"--Children's ball--Life in New-Orleans--A French supper--Omnibuses-- Chartres-street at twilight--Calaboose--Guard-house--The vicinage of a theatre--French cafés--Scenes in the interior of a café--Dominos--Tobacco-smokers--New-Orleans society. The last three days I have spent in perambulating the city, hearing, seeing, and visiting every thing worthy the notice of a Yankee, (and consequently an inquisitive) tourist. As I shall again have occasion to introduce you among the strange and motley groups, and interesting scenes of the Levée, I will not now resume the thread of my narrative, broken by the conclusion of my last letter, but take you at once into the "terra incognita" of this city of contrarieties. The evening of my visit to the market, through the politeness of Monsieur D., a young Frenchman who distinguished himself in the great "Three Days" at Paris, and to whom I had a letter of introduction, was passed amid the gayety and brilliancy of a French assembly-room. The building in which this ball was held, is adjacent to the Theatre d'Orleans, and devoted, I believe, exclusively to public parties, which are held here during the winter months, or more properly, "the season," almost every night. The occasion on which I attended, was one of peculiar interest. It was termed the "Children's ball;" and it is given at regular intervals throughout the gay months. I have not learned the precise object of this ball, or how it is conducted; but these are unimportant. I merely wish to introduce to you the dazzling crowd gathered there, so that you may form some conception of the manner and appearance of the lively citizens of this lively city, who seem disposed to remunerate themselves for the funereal and appalling silence of the long and gloomy season, when "pestilence walketh abroad at noon-day," by giving way to the full current of life and spirits. Adopting, literally, "Dum vivimus vivamus," for their motto and their "rule of faith and practice," they manage during the winter not only to make up for the privations of summer, but to execute about as much dancing, music, laughing, and dissipation, as would serve any reasonably disposed, staid, and sober citizens, for three or four years, giving them withal from January to January for the perpetration thereof. After taking a light supper at _home_, as I already call my hotel, which consisted of claret, macaroni, cranberries, peaches, little plates of fresh grapes, several kinds of cakes and other bonbons, spread out upon a long polished mahogany table, resembling altogether more the display upon a confectioner's counter than the _table d'hote_ of a hotel, in company with Monsieur D. I prepared to walk to the scene of the evening's amusement. But on gaining the street we observed the "omnibus" still at its stand at the intersection of Canal and Chartres streets. The driver, already upon his elevated station, with his bugle at his lips, was sounding his "signal to make sail," as we should say of a ship; and thereupon, being suddenly impressed with the advantages the sixteen legs of his team had over our four, in accomplishing the mile before us, we without farther reflection, sprang forthwith into the invitingly open door at the end of the vehicle, and the next instant found ourselves comfortably seated, with about a dozen others, "in omnibus." There are two of these carriages which run from Canal-street through the whole length of Chartres-street, by the public square, and along the noble esplanade between the Levée and the main body of the city, as far as the rail-road; the whole distance being about two miles. The two vehicles start simultaneously from either place, every half-hour, and consequently change stands with each other alternately throughout the day. They commence running early in the morning, and are always on the move and crowded with passengers till sun-down. For a "bit" (twelve-and-a-half cents) as it is denominated here, one can ride the whole distance, or if he choose, but a hundred yards--it is all the same to the knight of the whip, who mounted on the box in front, guides his "four-in-hand" with the skill of a professor. As we drove through the long, narrow and dusky street, the wholesale mercantile houses were "being" closed, while the retail stores and fancy shops, were "being" brilliantly lighted up. Carriages, horsemen, and noisy drays, with their noisier draymen, were rapidly moving in all directions, while every individual upon the "trottoirs" was hurrying, as though some important business of the day had been forgotten, or not yet completed. All around presented the peculiar noise and bustle which always prevail throughout the streets of a commercial city at the close of the day. Leaving our omniferous vehicle with its omnifarious cargo--among whom, fore and aft, the chattering of half a dozen languages had all at once, as we rode along, unceasingly assailed our ears--at the head of Rue St. Pierre, we proceeded toward Orleans-street. Directly on quitting the omnibus we passed the famous Calaboos, or Calabozo, the city prison, so celebrated by all seamen who have made the voyage to New-Orleans, and who, in their "long yarns" upon the forecastle, in their weary watches, fail not to clothe it with every horror of which the Calcutta black hole, or the Dartmoor prison--two horrible bugbears to sailors--could boast. Its external appearance, however, did not strike me as very appealing. It is a long, plain, plastered, blackened building, with grated windows, looking gloomy enough, but not more so than a common country jail. It is built close upon the street, and had not my companion observed as we passed along, "That is the Calaboos," I should not probably have remarked it. On the corner above, and fronting the "square," is the guard-house, or quarters of the gens d'armes. Several of them in their plain blue uniforms and side arms, were lounging about the corner as we passed, mingling and conversing with persons in citizens' dress. A glance _en passant_ through an open door, disclosed an apparently well-filled armory. A few minutes walk through an obscure and miserably lighted part of Rues St. Pierre and Royale, brought us into Orleans-street, immediately in the vicinity of its theatre. This street for some distance on either side of the assembly-room, was lighted with the brightness of noon-day; not, indeed, by the solitary lamps which, "few and far between," were suspended across the streets, but by the glare of reflectors and chandeliers from coffee-houses, restaurateurs, confectionaries and fancy stores, which were clustered around that nucleus of pleasure, the French theatre. We were in the French part of the city; but there was no apparent indication that we were not really in France. Not an American ("Anglo") building was to be seen, in the vicinity, nor scarcely an American face or voice discoverable among the numerous, loud-talking, chattering crowd of every grade and colour, congregated before the doors of the ball-room and cafés adjoining. Before ascending to the magnificent hall where the gay dancers were assembled, we repaired to an adjoining café, _à la mode_ New-Orleans, with a pair of Monsieur D.'s friends--whom we encountered in the lobby while negotiating for tickets--to overhaul the evening papers, and if need there should be, recruit our spirits. A French coffee-house is a place well worth visiting by a stranger, more especially a Yankee stranger. I will therefore detain you a little longer from the brilliant congregation of beauty and gallantry in the assembly room, and introduce you for a moment into this café and to its inmates. As the coffee houses here do not differ materially from each other except in size and richness of decoration, though some of them certainly are more fashionable resorts than others, the description of one of them will enable you perhaps to form some idea of other similar establishments in this city. Though their usual denomination is "coffee-house," they have no earthly, whatever may be their spiritual, right to such a distinction; it is merely a "_nomme de profession_," assumed, I know not for what object. We entered from the street, after passing round a large Venetian screen within the door, into a spacious room, lighted by numerous lamps, at the extremity of which stood an extensive bar, arranged, in addition to the usual array of glass ware, with innumerable French decorations. There were several attendants, some of whom spoke English, as one of the requirements of their station. This is the case of all _employés_ throughout New-Orleans; nearly every store and place of public resort being provided with individuals in attendance who speak both languages. Around the room were suspended splendid engravings and fine paintings, most of them of the most licentious description, and though many of their subjects were classical, of a voluptuous and luxurious character. This is French taste however. There are suspended in the Exchange in Chartres-street--one of the most magnificent and public rooms in the city--paintings which, did they occupy an equally conspicuous situation in Merchant's Hall, in Boston, would be instantly defaced by the populace. Around the room, beneath the paintings, were arranged many small tables, at most of which three or four individuals were seated, some alternately sipping negus and puffing their segars, which are as indispensable necessaries to a Creole at all times, as his right hand, eye-brows, and left shoulder in conversation. Others were reading newspapers, and occasionally assisting their comprehension of abstruse paragraphs, by hot "coffee," alias warm punch and slings, with which, on little japanned salvers, the active attendants were flying in all directions through the spacious room, at the beck and call of customers. The large circular bar was surrounded by a score of noisy applicants for the liquid treasures which held out to them such strong temptations. Trios, couples and units of gentlemen were promenading the well sanded floor, talking in loud tones, and gesticulating with the peculiar vehemence and rapidity of Frenchmen. Others, and by far the majority, were gathered by twos and by fours around the little tables, deeply engaged in playing that most intricate, scientific, and mathematical of games termed "Domino." This is the most common game resorted to by the Creoles. In every café and cabaret, from early in the morning, when the luxurious mint-julep has thawed out their intellects and expanded their organ of combativeness, till late at night, devotees to this childish amusement will be found clustered around the tables, with a tonic, often renewed and properly sangareed, at their elbows. Enveloped in dense clouds of tobacco-smoke issuing from their eternal segars--those inspirers of pleasant thoughts,--to whose density, with commendable perseverance and apparent good will, all in the café contribute,--they manoeuvre their little dotted, black and white parallelograms with wonderful pertinacity and skill. The whole scene forcibly reminds one, if perchance their fame hath reached him, of a brace of couplets from a celebrated poem (a choral ode I believe) composed upon the ship-wreck of its author. The lines are strikingly applicable to the present subject by merely substituting "café" for "cabin," and negus-drinkers for "hogsheads and barrels." "The café filled with thickest smoke, Threat'ning every soul to choke: Negus-drinkers crowding in, Make a most infernal din." There are certainly one hundred coffee-houses in this city--how many more, I know not,--and they have, throughout the day, a constant ingress and egress of thirsty, time-killing, news-seeking visiters. As custom authorises this frequenting of these popular places of resort, the citizens of New-Orleans do not, like those of Boston, attach any disapprobation to the houses or their visiters. And as there is, in New-Orleans, from the renewal of one half of its inhabitants every few years, and the constant influx of strangers, strictly speaking no exclusive _clique_ or aristocracy, to give a tone to society and establish a standard of propriety and respectability, as among the worthy Bostonians, one cannot say to another, "It is not genteel to resort here--it will injure your reputation to be seen entering this or that café." The inhabitants have no fixed criterion of what is and what is not "respectable," in the northern acceptation of the term. They are neither guided nor restrained from following their own inclinations, by any laws of long established society, regulating their movements, and saying "thus far shalt thou go, and no farther." Consequently, every man minds his own affairs, pursues his own business or amusement, and lets his neighbours and fellow-citizens do the same; without the fear of the moral lash (not law) before his eyes, or expulsion from "caste" for doing that "in which his soul delighteth." Thus you see that society here is a perfect democracy, presenting variety and novelty enough to a stranger, who chooses to mingle in it freely, and feels a disposition impartially to study character. But a truce to this subject for the present, as I wish to introduce you into the presence of the fair democrats, whose fame for beauty is so well established. Forcing our way through the press around the door, we entered the lobby, from which a broad flight of steps conducted us to a first, and then a second platform, through piles of black servants in attendance upon their masters and mistresses in the ball-room. At the second landing our tickets were received, and we toiled on with difficulty toward the hall door, with our hats (which the regulations forbid our wearing even in the entrance) elevated in the air, for if placed under the arm they would have been flattened in the squeeze to the very respectable similitude of a platter, as one unlucky gentleman near me had an opportunity of testing, to his full conviction. We were soon drawn within the current setting into the ball-room, and were borne onward by the human stream over which a score or two of chapeaux waved aloft like signals of distress.--But I have already spun out my letter to a sufficient length, and lest you should cry "hold, Macduff," I will defer your introduction to the _beau monde_ of New-Orleans till my next. XI. Interior of a ball-room--Creole ladies--Infantile dancers --French children--American children--A singular division-- New-Orleans ladies--Northern and southern beauty--An agreeable custom--Leave the assembly-room--An olio of languages--The Exchange--Confusion of tongues--Temples of Fortune. I have endeavoured to give you, in my hastily written letters, some notion of this city--its streets, buildings, inhabitants and various novelties, as they first struck my eye; and I apprehend that I have expanded my descriptions, by minuteness of detail, to a greater length than was necessary or desirable. But the scenes, individuals, and circumstances I meet with in my erranting expeditions through the city, are such as would attract, from their novelty, the attention of a traveller from the North, and, consequently, a description of them is neither unworthy a place in his letters, nor too inconsiderable to detain the attention of an inquisitive northern reader, vegetating "at home." On entering, from the dimly lighted lobby, the spacious and brilliant hall, illuminated with glittering chandeliers, where the beauty, and fashion, and gallantry of this merry city were assembled, I was struck with the spirit, life, and splendour of the scene. From alcoves on every side of the vast hall, raised a few steps from the floor, and separated from the area for dancing by an estrade of slender columns which formed a broad promenade quite around the room, bright eyes were glancing over the lively scene, rivalling in brilliancy the glittering gems that sparkled on brow and bosom. There were at least five hundred persons in the hall, two-thirds of whom were spectators. On double rows of settees arranged around the room, and bordering the area, were about one hundred ladies, exclusive of half as many, seated in the alcoves. In addition to an almost impenetrable body of gentlemen standing in the vicinity of the grand entrance, the promenade above alluded to was filled with them, as they lounged along, gazing and remarking upon the beautiful faces of the dark-eyed Creoles,[4] as their expressive and lovely features were lighted up and instinct with the animation of the moment; while others, more enviable, were clustered around the alcoves--most of which were literally and truly "bowers of beauty,"--gayly conversing with their fair occupants, as they gracefully leaned over the balustrade. There were several cotillions upon the floor, and the dancers were young masters and misses--I beg their pardon--young gentlemen and ladies, from four years old and upward--who were bounding away to the lively music, as completely happy as innocence and enjoyment could make them. I never beheld a more pleasing sight. The carriage of the infantile gentlemen was graceful and easy: and they wound through the mazes of the dance with an air of manliness and elegance truly French. But the tiny demoiselles moved with the lightness and grace of fairies. Their diminutive feet, as they glided through the figure, scarcely touched the floor, and as they sprang flying away to the livelier measures of the band, they were scarcely visible, fluttering indistinctly like humming birds' wings. They were dressed with great taste in white frocks, but their hair was so arranged as completely to disfigure their heads. Some of them, not more than eight years of age, had it dressed in the extreme Parisian fashion; and the little martyrs' natural deficiency of long hair was amply remedied by that sovereign mender of the defects of nature, Monsieur le friseur. The young gentlemen were dressed also in the French mode; that is, in elaborately embroidered coatees, and richly wrought frills. Their hair, however, was suffered to grow long, and fall in graceful waves or ringlets (French children always have beautiful hair) upon their shoulders; very much as boys are represented in old fashioned prints. This is certainly more becoming than the uncouth round-head custom now prevalent in the United States, of clipping the hair short, as though boys, like sheep, needed a periodical sheering; and it cannot be denied that they both--sheep and boys--are _equally_ improved in appearance by the operation. Turning from the bright and happy faces of the children, we met on every side the delighted looks of their parents and guardians, or elder brothers and sisters, who formed a large portion of the spectators. As I promenaded arm in arm with Monsieur D. through the room, I noticed that at one end of the hall many of the young misses (or their guardians) were so unpardonably unfashionable as to suffer their hair to float free in wild luxuriance over their necks, waving and undulating at every motion like clouds; and many of the cheerful joyous faces I gazed upon, forcibly reminded me of those which are to be met with, trudging to and from school, every day at home. "These are the American children," observed my companion; "one half of the hall is appropriated to them, the other to the French." "What!" I exclaimed, "is there such a spirit of rivalry, jealousy, or prejudice, existing between the French and American residents here, that they cannot meet even in a ball-room without resorting to so singular a method of expressing their uncongeniality of feeling, as that of separating themselves from each other by a line of demarcation?" "By no means," he replied; "far from it. There is, I believe, a universal unanimity of feeling among the parties. There is now no other distinction, whatever may have existed in former days, either known or admitted, than the irremediable one of language. This distinction necessarily exists, and I am of opinion ever will exist in this city in a greater or less degree. It is this which occasions the separation you behold; for, from their ignorance of each other's language,--an ignorance too prevalent here, and both inexcusable and remarkable, when we consider the advantages mutually enjoyed for their acquisition,--were they indiscriminately mingled, the result would be a confusion like that of Babel, or a constrained stiffness and reserve, the natural consequence of mutual inability to converse,--instead of that regularity and cheerful harmony which now reign throughout the crowded hall." During our promenade through the room I had an opportunity of taking my first survey of the gay world of this city, and of viewing at my leisure the dark-eyed fascinating Creoles, whose peculiar cast of beauty and superb figures are everywhere celebrated. Of the large assembly of ladies present,--and there were nearly two hundred, "maid, wife, and widow,"--there were many very pretty, if coal-black hair, regular features, pale, clear complexions, intelligent faces, lighted up by "Eyes that flash and burn Beneath dark arched brows," and graceful figures, all of which are characteristic of the Creole, come under this definition. There were others who would be called "handsome" anywhere, except in the Green Mountains, where a pretty face and a red apple, a homely face and a lily, are pretty much synonymous terms. A few were eminently beautiful; but there was one figure, which, as my eye wandered over the brilliant assembly, fixed it in a moment. I soon learned that she was the most celebrated belle of New-Orleans. I have certainly beheld far more beauty among the same number of ladies in a northern ball-room, than I discovered here. Almost every young lady in New-England appears pretty, with her rosy cheeks, intelligent face, and social manners. The style of beauty at the south is of a more passive kind, and excitement is requisite to make it speak to the eye; but when the possessor is animated, then the whole face, which but a few moments before was passionless and quiet, becomes radiant and illuminated with fire and intelligence; and the indolent repose of the features becomes broken by fascinating smiles, and brilliant flashes from fine dark eyes. Till this change is produced, the face of the southern lady appears plain and unattractive; and the promenader through a New-Orleans assembly-room, where there was no excitement, if such could be the case, would pronounce the majority of the ladies decidedly wanting in beauty; but let him approach and enter into conversation with one of them, and he would be delighted and surprised at the magical transformation, "From grave to gay, from apathy to fire." It is certain, that beauty of features and form is more general in New-England; though in grace and expression, the south has the superiority. The difference is usually attributed to climate; but this never has been demonstrated, and the cause is still inexplicable. You are probably aware that the human form, more particularly the female, is here matured three or four years sooner than at the north. At the age of thirteen or fourteen, before their minds are properly developed, their habits formed, or their passions modified, the features of young girls become regular, their complexions delicate, and their figures attain that _tournure_ and womanly grace, though "beautifully less" in their persons, found only in northern ladies, at the age of seventeen or eighteen. The beauty of the latter, though longer in coming to maturity, and less perfect, is more permanent and interesting than the infantile and bewitching loveliness of the former. In consequence of this early approach to womanhood, the duration of their personal loveliness is of proportional limitation. Being young ladies at an age that would entitle them to the appellation of children in colder climates, they must naturally retire much sooner than these from the ranks of beauty. So when northern ladies are reigning in the full pride and loveliness of their sex--every feature expanding into grace and expression--southern ladies, of equal age, are changing their premature beauty for the faded hues of premature old age. The joyous troops of youthful dancers, before ten o'clock arrived, surrendered the floor to the gentlemen and ladies, who, till now, had been merely spectators of the scene, and being resigned into the hands of their nurses and servants in waiting, were carried home, while the assembly-room, now converted into a regular ball-room, rang till long past the "noon of night" with the enlivening music, confusion, and revelry of a complete and crowded rout. Introductions for a partner in the dance were not the "order of the day," or rather of the night. A gentleman had only to single out some lady among the brilliant assemblage, and though a total stranger, solicit the honour of dancing with her. Such self-introductions are of course merely _pro tem._, and, like fashionable intimacies formed at Saratoga, never after recognised. Still, to a stranger, such absence of all formality is peculiarly pleasant, and, though every face may be new to him, he has the grateful satisfaction of knowing that he can make himself perfectly at home, and form innumerable delightful acquaintances for the evening, provided he chooses to be sociable, and make the most of the enjoyments around him. We left the hall at an early hour on our return to the hotel. Crowds of mulatto, French and English hack-drivers were besieging the door, shouting in bad French, worse Spanish, and broken English-- "Coachee, massas! jontilhomme ridee!" "Caballeros, voulez vous tomer mé carriage?" "Wooly woo querie to ride sir?" "Fiacre Messieurs!" "By St. Patrick jintilmen--honie, mounseers, woulee voo my asy riding coach?"--et cetera, mingled with execrations, heavy blows, exchanged in the way of friendship, laughter, yells and Indian whoops, composing a "concord of sweet sounds" to be fully appreciated only by those who have heard similar concerts. We, however, effected our escape from these pupils of Jehu, who, ignorant of our country, in a city where all the nations of the earth are represented, wisely addressed us in a Babelic medley of languages, till we were out of hearing. Returning, as we came through Rues Royale and St. Pierre, past the quarter of the "gens d'armes," we entered Chartres-street, which was now nearly deserted. Proceeding through this dark, narrow street on our way home, meeting now and then an individual pursuing his hasty and solitary way along the echoing pavé, we arrived at the new Exchange alluded to in my first letter, which served the double purpose of gentlemen's public assembly-room and _café_. As we entered from the dimly lighted street, attracted by the lively crowd dispersed throughout the spacious room, our eyes were dazzled by the noon-day brightness shed from innumerable chandeliers. Having lounged through the room, filled with smokers, newspaper-readers, promenaders, drinkers, &c. &c., till we were stunned by the noise of the multitude, who were talking in an endless variety of languages, clattering upon the ear at once, and making "confusion worse confounded," my polite friend suggested that we should ascend to "the rooms," as they are termed. As I wished to see every thing in New-Orleans interesting or novel to a northerner, I readily embraced the opportunity of an introduction into the penetralium of one of the far-famed temples which the goddess of fortune has erected in this, her favourite city. We ascended a broad flight of steps, one side of which exhibited many lofty double doors, thrown wide open, discovering to our view an extensive hall, in which stood several billiard tables, surrounded by their "mace and cue" devotees. But as my letter is now of rather an uncharitable length, I will defer till my next, farther description of the deeds and mysteries and unhallowed sacrifices connected with these altars of dissipation. FOOTNOTES: [4] There is at the North a general misconception of the term "CREOLE." A friend of mine who had visited Louisiana for his health, after a residence of a few months gained the affections of a very lovely girl, and married her. He wrote to his uncle in Massachusetts, to whose large estate he was heir-expectant, communicating the event, saying that he "had just been united to an amiable _Creole_, whom he anticipated the pleasure of introducing to him in the Spring." The old gentleman, on receiving the letter, stamped, raved, and swore; and on the same evening replied to his nephew, saying, that as he had disgraced his family by marrying a _Mulatto_, he might remain where he was, as he wished to have nothing to do with him, or any of his woolly-headed, yellow skinned brats, that might be, henceforward. My friend, however, ventured home, and when the old gentleman beheld his lovely bride, he exclaimed, "The d--l, nephew, if you call this little angel a _Creole_, what likely chaps the real ebony Congos must be in that country." The old gentleman is not alone in his conception of a _Creole_. Where there is one individual in New England correctly informed, there are one hundred who, like him, know no distinction between the terms _Creole_ and _Mulatto_. "Creole" is simply a synonym for "native." It has, however, only a local, whereas "native" has a general application. To say "He is a _Creole_ of Louisiana," is to say "He is a _native_ of Louisiana." Contrary to the general opinion at the North, it is seldom applied to coloured persons, _Creole_ is sometimes, though not frequently, applied to Mississippians; but with the exception of the West-India Islands, it is usually confined to Louisiana. XII. The Goddess of fortune--Billiard-rooms--A professor-- Hells--A respectable banking company--"Black-legs"-- Faro described--Dealers--Bank--A novel mode of franking --Roulette-table--A supper in Orcus--Pockets to let-- Dimly lighted streets--Some things not so bad as they are represented. My last letter left me on my way up to "the rooms" over the Exchange, where the goddess of fortune sits enthroned, with a "cue" for her sceptre, and a card pack for her "magna charta," dispensing alternate happiness and misery to the infatuated votaries who crowd in multitudes around her altars. Proceeding along the corridor, we left the billiard-room on our left, in which no sound was heard (though every richly-carved, green-covered table was surrounded by players, while numerous spectators reclined on sofas or settees around the room) save the sharp _teck! teck!_ of the balls as they came in contact with each other, and the rattling occasioned by the "markers" as they noted the progress of the game on the large parti-coloured "rosaries" extended over the centre of the tables. Lingering here but a moment, we turned an angle of the gallery, and at the farther extremity came to a glass door curtained on the inner side, so as effectually to prevent all observation of the interior. Entering this,--for New-Orleans,--so carefully guarded room, we beheld a scene, which, to an uninitiated, ultra city-bred northerner, would be both novel and interesting. The first noise which struck our ears on entering, was the clear ringing and clinking of silver, mingled with the technical cries of the gamblers, of "all set"--"seven red"--"few cards"--"ten black," &c.--the eager exclamations of joy or disappointment by the players, and the incessant clattering of the little ivory ball racing its endless round in the roulette-table. On one side of the room was a faro-table, and on the opposite side a roulette. We approached the former, which was thronged on three sides with players, while on the other, toward the wall, was seated the dealer of the game--the "gentleman professeur." He was a portly, respectable looking, jolly-faced Frenchman, with so little of the "black-leg" character stamped upon his physiognomy, that one would be far from suspecting him to be a gambler by profession. This is a profession difficult to be conceived as the permanent and only pursuit of an individual. Your conception of it has probably been taken, as in my own case, from the fashionable novels of the day; and perhaps you have regarded the character as merely the creation of an author's brain, and "the profession" _as_ a profession, existing nowhere in the various scenes and circumstances of life. There are in this city a very great number of these _infernos_, (_anglicè_ "hells") all of which--with the exception of a few private ones, resorted to by those gentlemen who may have some regard for appearances--are open from twelve at noon till two in the morning, and thronged by all classes, from the lowest blackguard upward. They are situated in the most public streets, and in the most conspicuous locations. Each house has a bank, as the amount of funds owned by it is termed. Some of the houses have on hand twenty thousand dollars in specie; and when likely to be hard run by heavy losses, can draw for three or four times that amount upon the directors of the "bank company." The establishing of one of these banks is effected much as that of any other. Shares are sold, and many respectable moneyed men, I am informed, become stockholders; though not ambitious, I believe, to have their names made public. It is some of the best stock in the city, often returning an enormous dividend. They are regularly licensed, and pay into the state or city treasury, I forget which, annually more than sixty thousand dollars. From six to twelve well-dressed, genteel looking individuals, are always to be found in attendance, to whom salaries are regularly paid by the directors; and to this salary, and this occupation, they look for as permanent a support through life as do members of any other profession. It is this class of men who are emphatically denominated "gamblers and black legs." The majority of them are Frenchmen, though they usually speak both French and English. Individuals, allured by the hope of winning, are constantly passing in and out of these houses, in "broad noon," with the same indifference to what is termed "public opinion," as they would feel were they going into or out of a store. Those places which are situated in the vicinity of Canal-street and along the Levée, are generally of a lower order, and thronged with the _canaille_ of the city, sailors, Kentucky boatmen, crews of steamboats, and poor Gallic gentlemen, in threadbare long-skirted coats and huge whiskers. The room we were now visiting was of a somewhat higher order, though not exclusively devoted to the more genteel adventurers, as, in the very nature of the thing, such an exclusion would be impossible. But if unruly persons intrude, and are disposed to be obstreperous, the conductors of the rooms, of course, have the power of expelling them at pleasure. Being merely spectators of the game, we managed to obtain an advantageous position for viewing it, from a vacant settee placed by the side of the portly dealer, who occupied, as his exclusive right, one side of the large table. Before him were placed in two rows thirteen cards; the odd thirteenth capping the double file, like a militia captain at the head of his company, when marching "two by two;" the files of cards, however, unlike these martial files of men, are _straight_. You will readily see by the number, that these cards represent every variety in a pack. The dealer, in addition, has a complete pack, fitting closely in a silver box, from which, by the action of a sliding lid, he adroitly and accurately turns off the cards in dealing. The players, or "betters," as they are termed, place their money in various positions as it respects the thirteen cards upon the table, putting it either on a single card or between two, as their skill, judgment, or fancy may dictate. As I took my station near the faro-board, the dealer was just shuffling the cards for a new game. There were eleven persons clustered around the table, and as the game was about to commence, arm after arm was reached forth to the prostrate cards, depositing one, five, ten, twenty, or fifty dollars, according to the faith or depth of purse of their owners. On, around, and between the cards, dollars were strewed singly or in piles, while the eyes of every better were fixed immoveably, and, as the game went on, with a painful intensity, upon his own deposit, perhaps his last stake. When the stakes were all laid, the dealer announced it by drawling out in bad English, "all saat." Then, damping his forefinger and thumb, by a summary process--not quite so elegant as common--he began drawing off the cards in succession. The card taken off does not count in the game; the betters all looking to the one turned up in the box to read the fate of their stakes. As the cards are turned, the winners are paid, the money won by the bank swept off with a long wand into the reservoir by the side of the banker, and down go new stakes, doubled or lessened according to the success of the winners--again is drawled out the mechanical "all set," and the same routine is repeated until long past midnight, while the dealers are relieved every two or three hours by their fellow-partners in the house. At the right hand of the dealer, upon the table, is placed what is denominated "the bank," though it is merely its representative. This is a shallow, yet heavy metal box, about twenty inches long, half as many wide, and two deep, with a strong network of wire, so constructed as to cover the box like a lid, and be secured by a lock. Casting my eye into this receptacle through its latticed top, I noticed several layers of U.S. bank notes, from five to five hundred dollars, which were kept down by pieces of gold laid upon each pile. About one-fifth of the case was parted off from the rest, in which were a very large number of gold ounces and rouleaus of guineas. The whole amount contained in it, so far as I could judge, was about six thousand dollars, while there was more than three thousand dollars in silver, piled openly and most temptingly upon the table around the case, in dollars, halves, and quarters, ready for immediate use. From policy, five franc pieces are substituted for dollars in playing; but the winner of any number of them can, when he ceases playing, immediately exchange them at the bank for an equal number of dollars. It often happens that players, either from ignorance or carelessness, leave the rooms with the five franc pieces; but should they, five minutes afterward, discover their neglect and return to exchange them, the dealer exclaims with an air of surprise-- "Saar! it will be one mistake, saar. I nevair look you in de fas before, saar!" Thousands of dollars are got off annually in this manner, and a very pretty interest the banks derive from their ingenious method of _franking_. Having seen some thousands of dollars change hands in the course of an hour, and, with feelings somewhat allied to pity, marked the expression of despair, darkening the features of the unfortunate loser, as he rushed from the room with clenched hands and bent brow, muttering indistinctly within his teeth fierce curses upon his luck; and observed, with no sympathizing sensations of pleasure, the satisfaction with which the winners hugged within their arms their piles of silver, we turned from the faro, and crossed the room to the roulette table. These two tables are as inseparable as the shark and the pilot fish, being always found together in every gambling room, ready to make prey of all who come within their influence. At faro there is no betting less than a dollar; here, stakes as low as a quarter are permitted. The players were more numerous at this table than at the former, and generally less genteel in their appearance. The roulette table is a large, long, green-covered board or platform, in the centre of which, placed horizontally upon a pivot, is a richly plated round mahogany table, or wheel, often inlaid with ivory and pearl, and elaborately carved, about two feet in diameter, with the bottom closed like an inverted box cover. Around this wheel, on the inner border, on alternate little black and red squares, are marked numbers as high as thirty-six, with two squares additional, in one a single cipher, in the other two ciphers; while on the green cloth-covered board, the same numbers are marked in squares. The dealer, who occupies one side of the table, with his metal, latticed case of bank notes and gold at his right hand, and piles of silver before him, sets the wheel revolving rapidly, and adroitly spins into it from the end of his thumb, as a boy would snap a marble, an ivory ball, one quarter the size of a billiard ball. The betters, at the same instant, place their money upon such one of the figures drawn upon the cloth as they fancy the most likely to favour them, and intently watch the ball as it races round within the revolving wheel. When the wheel stops, the ball necessarily rests upon some one of the figures in the wheel, and the fortunate player, whose stake is upon the corresponding number on the cloth, is immediately paid his winning, while the stakes of the losers are coolly transferred by the dealer to the constantly accumulating heap before him; again the wheel is set revolving, the little ball rattles around it, and purses are again made lighter and the bank increased. As we were about to depart, I noticed in an interior room a table spread for nearly a dozen persons, and loaded with all the substantials for a hearty supper. The dealers, or conductors of the bank, are almost all bachelors, I believe, or ought to be, and keep "hall" accordingly, in the same building where lies their theatre of action, in the most independent and uproarious style. After the rooms are closed, which is at about two in the morning, they retire to their supper table, inviting all the betters, both winners and losers, who are present when the playing breaks up, to partake with them. The invitations are generally accepted; and those poor devils who in the course of the evening have been so unfortunate as to have "pockets to let," have at least the satisfaction of enjoying a good repast, _gratis_, before they go home and hang themselves.[5] Having satisfied our curiosity with a visit to this notable place, we descended into the Exchange, which was now nearly deserted; a few gentlemen only were taking their "night caps" at the bar, and here and there, through the vast room, a solitary individual was pacing backward and forward with echoing footsteps. Leaving the now deserted hall, which at an earlier hour had resounded with the loud and confused murmur of a hundred tongues, and the tramping of a busy multitude, we proceeded to our hotel through the silent and dimly lighted streets,[6] without being assassinated, robbed, seized by the "_gens d'armes_," and locked up in the guard-house, or meeting any other adventure or misadventure whatever; whereat we were almost tempted to be surprised, remembering the frightful descriptions given by veracious letter-writers, of this "terrible city" of New-Orleans. FOOTNOTES: [5] Exertions have been made from time to time by the citizens of Louisiana for the suppression of gambling, but their efforts have until recently, been unavailing. During the last session of the legislature of Louisiana, however, a bill to suppress gambling-houses in New-Orleans, passed both houses, and has become a law. One of the enactments provides that the owners or occupants of houses in which gambling is detected, are liable to the penalties of the law. For the first offence, a fine of from one to five thousand dollars; for the second, from ten to fifteen thousand, and confinement in the penitentiary from one to five years, at the discretion of the court. Fines are also imposed for playing at any public gaming table, or any banking game. The owners of houses where gaming tables are kept, are liable for the penalty, if not collected of the keeper; unless they are able to show that the crime was committed so privately that the owner could not know of it. It also provides for the recovery of any sums of money lost by gaming. To make up the deficiency in the revenue arising from the abolition of gaming-houses, a bill has been introduced into the legislature providing for the imposition of a tax on all passengers arriving at, or leaving New-Orleans, by ships or steamboats. [6] Since the above paragraph was penned, the huge swinging lamps have been superseded by gas lights, which now brilliantly illuminate all the principal streets of the city. XIII. A sleepy porter--Cry of fire--Noises in the streets--A wild scene at midnight--A splendid illumination--Steamers wrapped in flames--A river on fire--Firemen--A lively scene--Floating cotton--Boatmen--An ancient Portuguese Charon--A boat race-- Pugilists--A hero. At the commendable hour of one in the morning, as was hinted in my last letter, we safely arrived at our hotel, and roused the slumbering porter from his elysian dreams by the tinkling of a little bell pendant over the private door for "single gentlemen,--_belated_;" and ascended through dark passages and darker stairways to our rooms, lighted by the glimmer of a solitary candle fluttering and flickering by his motion, in the fingers of the drowsy "guardian of doors," who preceded us. We had finished our late supper, and, toasting our bootless feet upon the burnished fender, were quietly enjoying the agreeable warmth of the glowing coals, and relishing, with that peculiar zest which none but a smoker knows, a real Habana,--when we were suddenly startled from our enjoyment by the thrilling, fearful cry, of "Fire! fire!" which, heard in the silence of midnight, makes a man's heart leap into his throat, while he springs from his couch, as if the cry "To arms--to arms!" had broken suddenly upon his slumbers. "Fire! fire! fire!" rang in loud notes through the long halls and corridors of the spacious hotel, startling the affrighted sleepers from their beds, and at the same instant a fierce, red glare flashed through our curtained windows. The alarm was borne loudly and wildly along the streets--the rapid clattering of footsteps, as some individual hastened by to the scene of the disaster, followed by another, and another, was in a few seconds succeeded by the loud, confused, and hurried tramping of many men, as they rushed along shouting with hoarse voices the quick note of alarm. We had already sprung to the balcony upon which the window of our room opened. For a moment our eyes were dazzled by the fearful splendour of the scene which burst upon us. The whole street,--lofty buildings, towers, and cupolas--reflected a wild, red glare, flashed upon them from a stupendous body of flame, as it rushed and roared, and flung itself toward the skies, which, black, lowering, and gloomy, hung threateningly above. Two of those mammoth steamers which float upon the mighty Mississippi, were, with nearly two thousand bales of cotton on board, wrapped in sheets of fire. They lay directly at the foot of Canal-street; and as the flames shot now and then high in the air, leaping from their decks as though instinct with life, this broad street to its remotest extremity in the distant forests, became lurid with a fitful reddish glare, which disclosed every object with the clearness of day. The balconies, galleries, and windows, were filled with interested spectators; and every street and avenue poured forth its hundreds, who thundered by toward the scene of conflagration. I have a mania for going to fires. I love their blood-stirring excitement; and, as in an engagement, the greater the tumult and danger, the greater is the enjoyment. I do not, however, carry my "incendiary passion" so far as to be vexed because an alarm that turns me out of a warm bed proves to be only a "false alarm," but when a fire does come in my way, I heartily enjoy the excitement necessarily attendant upon the exertions made to extinguish it. You will not be surprised, then, that although I had not had "sleep to my eyes, nor slumber to my eyelids," I should be unwilling to remain a passive and distant spectator of a scene so full of interest. Our hotel was a quarter of a mile from the fire, and yet the heat was sensibly felt at that distance. Leaving my companion to take his rest, I descended to the street, and falling into the tumultuous current setting toward the burning vessels, a few moments brought me to the spacious platform, or wharf, in front of the Levée, which was crowded with human beings, gazing passively upon the fire; while the ruddy glare reflected from their faces, gave them the appearance, so far as complexion was concerned, of so many red men of the forest. As I elbowed my way through this dense mass of people, who were shivering, notwithstanding their proximity to the fire, in the chilly morning air, with one side half roasted, and the other half chilled--the ejaculations-- "Sacré diable!" "Carramba!" "Marie, mon Dieu!" "Mine Got vat a fire!" "By dad, an its mighty waarm"--"Well now the way that ar' cotton goes, is a sin to Crockett!"--fell upon the ear, with a hundred more, in almost every _patois_ and dialect, whereof the chronicles of grammar have made light or honourable mention. As I gained the front of this mass of human beings, that activity which most men possess, who are not modelled after "fat Jack," enabled me to gain an elevation whence I had an unobstructed view of the whole scene of conflagration. The steamers were lying side by side at the Levée, and one of them was enveloped in wreaths of flame, bursting from a thousand cotton bales, which were piled, tier above tier, upon her decks. The inside boat, though having no cotton on board, was rapidly consuming, as the huge streams of fire lapped and twined around her. The night was perfectly calm, but a strong whirlwind had been created by the action of the heat upon the atmosphere, and now and then it swept down in its invisible power, with the "noise of a rushing mighty wind," and as the huge serpentine flames darted upward, the solid cotton bales would be borne round the tremendous vortex like feathers, and then--hurled away into the air, blazing like giant meteors--would descend heavily and rapidly into the dark bosom of the river. The next moment they would rise and float upon the surface, black unshapely masses of tinder. As tier after tier, bursting with fire, fell in upon the burning decks, the sweltering flames, for a moment smothered, preceded by a volcanic discharge of ashes, which fell in showers upon the gaping spectators, would break from their confinement, and darting upward with multitudinous large wads of cotton, shoot them away through the air, filling the sky for a moment with a host of flaming balls. Some of them were borne a great distance through the air, and falling lightly upon the surface of the water, floated, from their buoyancy, a long time unextinguished. The river became studded with fire, and as far as the eye could reach below the city, it presented one of the most magnificent, yet awful spectacles, I had ever beheld or imagined. Literally spangled with flame, those burning fragments in the distance being diminished to specks of light, it had the appearance, though far more dazzling and brilliant, of the starry firmament. There were but two miserable engines to play with this gambolling monster, which, one moment lifting itself to a great height in the air, in huge spiral wreaths, like some immense snake, at the next would contract itself within its glowing furnace, or coil and dart along the decks like troops of fiery serpents, and with the roaring noise of a volcano. There are but few "fires" in New-Orleans, compared with the great number that annually occur in northern cities. This is owing, not wholly to the universally prevalent style of building with brick, but in a great measure to the very few fires requisite for a dwelling house in a climate so warm as this. Consequently there is much less interest taken by the citizens in providing against accidents of this kind, than would be felt were conflagrations more frequent. The miserably manned engines now acting at intervals upon the fire, presented a very true exemplification of the general apathy. To a New-Yorker or Bostonian, accustomed to the activity, energy, and military precision of their deservedly celebrated fire companies, the mob-like disorder of those who pretended to work the engines at this fire, would create a smile, and suggest something like the idea of a caricature. After an hour's toil by the undisciplined firemen, assisted by those who felt disposed to aid in extinguishing the flame, the fire was got under, but not before one of the boats was wholly consumed, with its valuable cargo. The inner boat was saved from total destruction by the great exertions of some few individuals, "who fought on their own hook." The next morning I visited the scene of the disaster. Thousands were gathered around, looking as steadily and curiously upon the smouldering ruins as if they had possessed some very peculiar and interesting attraction. The river presented a most lively scene. A hundred skiffs, wherries, punts, dug-outs, and other non-descript craft, with equally euphonic denominations, were darting about in all directions, each propelled by one or two individuals, who were gathering up the half saturated masses of cotton, that whitened the surface of the river as far as the eye could reach. Several unlucky wights, in their ambitious eagerness to obtain the largest piles of this "snow-drift," would lose their equilibrium, and tumble headlong with their wealth of cotton into the water. None of them, however, were drowned, their mishaps rather exciting the merriment of their companions and of the crowds of amused spectators on shore, than creating any apprehensions for their safety. The misfortune of one shrivelled-up old Portuguese, who had been very active in securing a due proportion of the cotton, occasioned no little laughter among the crowd on the Levée. After much fighting, quarreling, and snarling, he had filled his little boat so completely, that his thin, black, hatchet-face, could only be seen protruding above the snowy mass in which he was imbedded. Seizing his oars in his long bony hands, he began to pull for the shore with his prize, when a light wreath of blue smoke rose from the cotton and curled very ominously over his head. All unconscious, he rowed on, and before he gained the shore, the fire burst in a dozen places at once from his combustible cargo, and instantly enveloped the little man and his boat in a bright sheet of flame; with a terrific yell he threw himself into the water, and in a few moments emerged close by the Levée, where he was picked up, with no other personal detriment than the loss of the little forelock of gray hair which time had charitably spared him. In one instance, two skiffs, with a single individual in each, attracted attention by racing for a large tempting float of cotton, which drifted along at some distance in the stream. Shouts of encouragement rose from the multitude as they watched the competitors, with the interest similar to that felt upon a race-course. The light boats flew over the water like arrows on the wing. They arrived at the same instant at the object of contest, one on either side, and the occupants, seizing it simultaneously, and without checking the speed of their boats, bore the mass of cotton through the water between them, ploughing and tossing the spray in showers over their heads. Gradually the boats stopped, and a contest of another kind began. Neither would resign his prize. After they had remained leaning over the sides of their boats for a moment, grasping it and fiercely eyeing each other, some words were apparently exchanged between them, for they mutually released their hold upon the cotton, brought their boats together and secured them; then, stripping off their roundabouts, placed themselves on the thwarts of their boats in a pugilistic attitude, and prepared to decide the ownership of the prize, by an appeal to the "law of _arms_." The other cotton-hunters desisted from their employment, and seizing their oars, pulled with shouts to the scene of contest. Before they reached it, the case had been decided, and the foremost of the approaching boatmen had the merit of picking from the water the conquered hero, who, after gallantly giving and taking a dozen fine rounds, received an unlucky "settler" under the left ear, whereupon he tumbled over the side, and was fast sinking, when he was taken out, amid the shouts of the gratified spectators, with his hot blood effectually cooled, though not otherwise injured. The more fortunate victor deliberately lifted the prize into the boat, and fixing a portion on the extremity of an oar, set it upright, and rowed to shore amid the cheers and congratulations of his fellows, who now assembling in a fleet around him, escorted him in triumph. XIV. Canal-street--Octagonal church--Government house--Future prospects of New-Orleans--Roman chapel--Mass for the dead --Interior of the chapel--Mourners--Funeral--Cemeteries-- Neglect of the dead--English and American grave yards-- Regard of European nations for their dead--Roman Catholic cemetery in New-Orleans--Funeral procession--Tombs--Burying in water--Protestant grave-yard. Canal-street, as I have in a former letter observed, with its triple row of young sycamores, extending throughout the whole length, is one of the most spacious, and destined at no distant period, to be one of the first and handsomest streets in the city. Every building in the street is of modern construction, and some blocks of its brick edifices will vie in tasteful elegance with the boasted granite piles of Boston. Yesterday, after a late dinner, the afternoon being very fine, I left my hotel, and without any definite object in view, strolled up this street. The first object which struck me as worthy of notice was a small brick octagon church, enclosed by a white paling, on the corner of Bourbon-street. The entrance was overgrown with long grass, and the footsteps of a worshipper seemed not to have pressed its threshold for many an unheeded Sunday. In its lonely and neglected appearance, there was a silent but forcible comment upon that censurable neglect of the Sabbath, which, it has been said, prevails too generally among the citizens of New-Orleans. In front of this church, which is owned, I believe, by the Episcopalians, stands a white marble monument, surmounted by an urn, erected in memory of the late Governor Claiborne. With this solitary exception, there are no public monuments in this city. For a city so ancient, (that is, with reference to cis-Atlantic antiquity) as New-Orleans, and so French in its tastes and habits, I am surprised at this; as the French themselves have as great a mania for triumphal arches, statues, and public monuments, as had the ancient Romans. But this fancy they seem not to have imported among their other nationalities; or, perhaps, they have not found occasions for its frequent exercise. The government house, situated diagonally opposite to the church, and retired from the street, next attracted my attention. It was formerly a hospital, but its lofty and spacious rooms are now convened into public offices. Its snow-white front, though plain, is very imposing; and the whole structure, with its handsome, detached wings, and large green, thickly covered with shrubbery in front, luxuriant with orange and lemon trees, presents, decidedly, one of the finest views to be met with in the city. These two buildings, with the exception of some elegant private residences, are all that are worth remarking in this street, which, less than a mile from the river, terminates in the swampy commons, every where surrounding New-Orleans, except on the river side. Not far beyond the government house, the Mall, which ornaments the centre of Canal-street, forms a right angle, and extends down Rampart-street to Esplanade-street, and there making another right angle, extends back again to the river, nearly surrounding the "city proper" with a triple row of sycamores, which, in the course of a quarter of a century, for grandeur, beauty, and convenience, will be without a parallel. The city of New-Orleans is planned on a magnificent scale, happily and judiciously combining ornament and convenience. Let the same spirit which foresaw and provided for its present greatness, animate those who will hereafter direct its public improvements, and New-Orleans, in spite of its bug-bear character and its unhealthy location, will eventually be the handsomest, if not the largest city in the United States. Following the turning of the Mall, I entered Rampart-street, which, with its French and Spanish buildings, presented quite a contrast to the New-England-like appearance of that I had just quitted. There are some fine buildings at the entrance of this street, which is not less broad than the former. On the right I passed a small edifice, much resembling a Methodist meeting-house, such as are seen in northern villages, which a passing Frenchman, lank and tall, in answer to my inquiry, informed me was "L'eglise Evangelique, Monsieur," with a touch of his chapeau, and a wondrous evolution of his attenuated person. This little church was as neglected, and apparently unvisited as its episcopalian neighbour. A decayed, once-white paling surrounded it; but the narrow gate, in front of the edifice, probably constructed to be opened and shut by devout hands, was now secured by a nail, whose red coat of rust indicated long and peaceable possession of its present station over the latch. Comment again, thought I, as I passed on down the street, to where I had observed, not far distant, a crowd gathered around the door of a large white-stuccoed building, burthened by a clumsy hunch-backed kind of tower, surmounted by a huge wooden cross. On approaching nearer, I discovered many carriages extended in a long line up the street, and a hearse with tall black plumes, before the door of the building, which, I was informed, was the Catholic chapel. Passing through the crowd around the entrance, I gained the portico, where I had a full view of the interior, and the ceremony then in progress. In the centre of the chapel, in which was neither pew nor seat, elevated upon a high frame or altar, over which was thrown a black velvet pall, was placed a coffin, covered also with black velvet. A dozen huge wax candles, nearly as long and as large as a ship's royal-mast, standing in candlesticks five feet high, burned around the corpse, mingled with innumerable candles of the ordinary size, which were thickly sprinkled among them, like lesser stars, amid the twilight gloom of the chapel. The mourners formed a lane from the altar to the door, each holding a long, unlighted, wax taper, tipped at the larger end with red, and ornamented with fanciful paper cuttings. Around the door, and along the sides of the chapel, stood casual spectators, strangers, and negro servants without number. As I entered, several priests and singing-boys, in the black and white robes of their order, were chanting the service for the dead. The effect was solemn and impressive. In a few moments the ceremony was completed, and four gentlemen, dressed in deep mourning, each with a long white scarf, extending from one shoulder across the breast, and nearly to the feet, advanced, and taking the coffin from its station, bore it through the line of mourners, who fell in, two and two behind them, to the hearse, which immediately moved on to the grave-yard with its burthen, followed by the carriages, as in succession they drove up to the chapel, and received the mourners. The last carriage had not left the door, when a man, followed by two little girls, entered from the back of the chapel, and commenced extinguishing the lights:--he, with an extinguisher, much resembling in size and shape an ordinary funnel, affixed to the extremity of a rod ten feet long, attacking the larger ones, while his youthful coadjutors operated with the forefinger and thumb upon the others. In a few moments every light, except two or three, was extinguished, and the "Chapel of the Dead" became silent and deserted. To this chapel the Roman Catholic dead are usually brought before burial, to receive the last holy office, which, saving the rite of sepulture, the living can perform for the dead. These chapels are the last resting-places of their bodies, before they are consigned for ever to the repose of the grave. To every Catholic then, among all temples of worship, these chapels--his _last home_ among the dwelling-places of men--must be objects of peculiar sanctity and veneration. Burial-grounds, even in the humblest villages, are always interesting to a stranger. They are marble chronicles of the past; where, after studying the lively characters around him, he can retire, and over a page that knows no flattery, hold communion with the dead. The proposition that "care for the dead keeps pace with civilization" is, generally, true.--The more refined and cultivated are a people, the more attention they pay to the performance of the last offices for the departed. The citizens of the United States will not certainly acknowledge themselves second to any nation in point of refinement. But look at their cemeteries. Most of them crown some bleak hill, or occupy the ill-fenced corners of some barren and treeless common, overrun by cattle, whose preference for the long luxuriant grass, suffered to grow there by a kind of prescriptive right, is matter of general observation. Our neglect of the dead is both a reproach and a proverb. Look at England; every village there has its rural burying-ground, which on Sundays is filled with the well-dressed citizens and villagers, who walk among the green graves of parents, children, or friends, deriving from their reflections the most solemn and impressive lesson the human heart can learn. In America, on the contrary, the footsteps of a solitary individual, the slow and heavy tramp of a funeral procession, or the sacrilegious intrusion of idle school-boys--who approach a grave but to deface its marble--are the only disturbers of the graveyard's loneliness. But even England is behind France. There every tomb-stone is crowned with a chaplet of roses, and every grave is a variegated bed of flowers. Spain, dark and gloomy Spain! is behind all. Whoever has rambled among her gloomy cemeteries, or gazed with feelings of disgust and horror, upon the pyramids of human sculls, bleaching in those Golgothas, the _Campos santos_ of Monte Video, Buenos Ayres, and South America generally, need not be reminded how little they venerate what once moved--the image of God! The Italians singularly unite the indifference of the Spaniards with the affection of the French in their respect for the dead. Compare the "dead vaults" of Italia's cities, with the pleasant cemeteries in her green vales! Without individualising the European nations, I will advert to the Turks, who, though not the most refined, are a sensitive and reflecting people, and pay great honours to their departed friends, as the mighty "City of the Dead" which encompasses Constantinople evinces. But the cause of this respect is to be traced, rather to their Moslem creed, than to the intellectual character, or refinement of the people. To what is to be attributed the universal indifference of Americans to honouring the dead, by those little mementos and marks of affection and respect which are interwoven with the very religion of other countries? There are not fifty burial-grounds throughout the whole extent of the Union, which can be termed beautiful, rural, or even neat. The Bostonians, in the possession of their lonely and romantic Mount Auburn, have redeemed their character from the almost universal charge of apathy and indifference manifested by their fellow countrymen upon this subject. Next to Mount Auburn, the cemetery in New-Haven is the most beautifully picturesque of any in this country. In Maine there is but one, the burial-place in Brunswick, deserving of notice. Its snow-white monuments glance here and there in bold relief among the dark melancholy pines which overshadow it, casting a funereal gloom among its deep recesses, particularly appropriate to the sacred character of the spot. I intended to devote this letter to a description of my visit to the Roman Catholic burying-ground of this city, the contemplation of which has given occasion to the preceding remarks, and from which I have just returned; but I have rambled so far and so long in my digression, that I shall have scarcely time or room to express all I intended in this sheet. But that I need not encroach with the subject upon my next, I will complete my remarks here, even at the risk of subjecting myself to--with _me_--the unusual charge of _brevity_. Leaving the chapel, I followed the procession which I have described, for at least three quarters of a mile down a long street or road at right angles with Rampart-street, to the place of interment. The priests and boys, who in their black and white robes had performed the service for the dead, leaving the chapel by a private door in the rear of the building, made their appearance in the street leading to the cemetery, as the funeral train passed down, each with a black mitred cap upon his head, and there forming into a procession upon the side walk, they moved off in a course opposite to the one taken by the funeral train, and soon disappeared in the direction of the cathedral. Two priests, however, remained with the procession, and with it, after passing on the left hand the "old Catholic cemetery," which being full, to repletion is closed and sealed for the "Great Day," arrived at the new burial-place. Here the mourners alighted from their carriages, and proceeded on foot to the tomb. The priests, bare-headed and solemn, were the last who entered, except myself and a few other strangers attracted by curiosity. This cemetery is quite out of the city; there being no dwelling or enclosure of any kind beyond it. On approaching it, the front on the street presents the appearance of a lofty brick wall of very great length, with a spacious gateway in the centre. This gateway is about ten feet deep; and one passing through it, would imagine the wall of the same solid thickness. This however is only apparent. The wall which surrounds, or is to surround the four sides of the burial-ground, (for it is yet uncompleted,) is about twelve feet in height, and ten in thickness. The external appearance on the street is similar to that of any other high wall, while to a beholder within, the cemetery exhibits three stories of oven-like tombs, constructed _in_ the wall, and extending on every side of the grave-yard. Each of these tombs is designed to admit only a single coffin, which is enclosed in the vault with masonry, and designated by a small marble slab fastened in the face of the wall at the head of the coffin, stating the name, age, and sex of the deceased. By a casual estimate I judged there were about eighteen hundred apertures in this vast pile of tombs. This method, resorted to here from necessity, on account of the nature of the soil, might serve as a hint to city land-economists. When I entered the gateway, I was struck with surprise and admiration. Though destitute of trees, the cemetery is certainly more deserving, from its peculiarly novel and unique appearance, of the attention of strangers, than (with the exception of that at New-Haven, and Mount Auburn,) any other in the United States. From the entrance to the opposite side through the centre of the grave-yard, a broad avenue or street extends nearly an eighth of a mile in length; and on either side of this are innumerable isolated tombs, of all sizes, shapes, and descriptions, built above ground. The idea of a Lilliputian city was at first suggested to my mind on looking down this extensive avenue. The tombs in their various and fantastic styles of architecture--if I may apply the term to these tiny edifices--resembled cathedrals with towers, Moorish dwellings, temples, chapels, palaces, _mosques_--substituting the cross for the crescent--and structures of almost every kind. The idea was ludicrous enough; but as I passed down the avenue, I could not but indulge the fancy that I was striding down the Broadway of the capital of the Lilliputians. I mention this, not irreverently, but to give you the best idea I can of the cemetery, from my own impressions. Many of the tombs were constructed like, and several were, indeed, miniature Grecian temples; while others resembled French, or Spanish edifices, like those found in "old Castile." Many of them, otherwise plain, were surmounted by a tower supporting a cross. All were perfectly white, arranged with the most perfect regularity, and distant little more than a foot from each other. At the distance of every ten rods the main avenue was intersected by others of less width, crossing it at right angles, down which tombs were ranged in the same novel and regular manner. The whole cemetery was divided into squares, formed by these narrow streets intersecting the principal avenue. It was in reality a "City of the Dead." But it was a city composed of miniature palaces, and still more diminutive villas. The procession, after passing two-thirds of the way up the spacious walk, turned down one of the narrower alleys, where a new tomb, built on a line with the others, gaped wide to receive its destined inmate. The procession stopped. The coffin was let down from the shoulders of the bearers, and rolled on wooden cylinders into the tomb. The mourners silently gathered around; every head was bared; and amid the deep silence that succeeded, the calm, clear, melancholy voice of the priest suddenly swelled upon the still evening air, in the plaintive chant of the last service for the dead. "Requiescat in pace!" was slowly chanted by the priest,--repeated in subdued voices by the mourners, and echoing among the tombs, died away in the remotest recesses of the cemetery. The dead was surrendered to the companionship of the dead--the priest and mourners moved slowly away from the spot, and the silence of the still evening was only broken by the clinking of the careless mason, as he proceeded to wall up the aperture in the tomb. As night was fast approaching, I hastened to leave the place; and, taking a shorter route than by the principal avenue, I came suddenly upon a desolate area, without a tomb to relieve its dank and muddy surface, dotted with countless mounds, where the bones of the moneyless, friendless stranger lay buried. There was no stone to record their names or country. Fragments of coffins were scattered around, and new-made graves, half filled with water, yawned on every side awaiting their unknown occupants; who, perchance, may now be "laying up store for many years" of anticipated happiness. Such is the nature of the soil here, that it is impossible to dig two feet below the surface without coming to water. The whole land seems to be only a thin crust of earth, of not more than three feet in thickness, floating upon the surface of the water. Consequently, every grave will have two feet or more of water in it, and when a coffin is placed therein, some of the assistants have to stand upon it, and keep it down till the grave is re-filled with the mud which was originally thrown from it, or it would float. The citizens, therefore, having a very natural repugnance to being drowned, after having died a natural death upon their beds, choose to have their last resting-place a dry one; and hence the great number of tombs, and the peculiar features of this burial-place. Returning, I glanced into the old Catholic cemetery, in the rear of the chapel before alluded to. It was crowded with tombs, though without displaying the systematic arrangement observed in the one I had just left. There is another burying-place, in the upper faubourg, called the Protestant cemetery. Here, as its appellation indicates, are buried all who are not of "Holy Church." There are in it some fine monuments, and many familiar names are recorded upon the tomb-stones. Here moulder the remains of thousands, who, leaving their distant homes, buoyant with all the hopes and visions of youth, have been suddenly cut down under a foreign sun, and in the spring time of life. When present enjoyment seemed prophetic of future happiness, they have found here--a stranger's unmarbled grave! A northerner cannot visit this cemetery, and read the familiar names of the multitudes who have ended their lives in this pestilential climate, without experiencing emotions of the most affecting nature. Here the most promising of our northern young men have found an untimely grave: and, as she long has been, so New-Orleans continues, and will long continue to be, the charnel-house of the pride and nobleness of New-England. XV. An old friend--Variety in the styles of building--Love for flowers--The basin--Congo square--The African bon-ton of New-Orleans--City canals--Effects of the cholera--Barracks --Guard-houses--The ancient convent of the Ursulines--The school for boys--A venerable edifice--Principal--Recitations --Mode of instruction--Primary department--Infantry tactics --Education in general in New-Orleans. A quondam fellow-student, who has been some months a resident of this city, surprised and gratified me this morning with a call. With what strong--more than brotherly affection, we grasp the hand of an old friend and fellow-toiler in academic groves! No two men ever meet like old classmates a year from college! After exchanging congratulations, he kindly offered to devote the day to the gratification of my curiosity, and accompany me to all those places invested with interest and novelty in the eye of a stranger, which I had not yet visited. On my replying in the negative to his inquiry, "If I had visited the rail-way?" we decided on making that the first object of our attention. Though more than a mile distant, we concluded, as the morning was uncommonly fine, to proceed thither on foot, that we might, on the way, visit the venerable convent of the Ursulines, the old Spanish barracks, and one or two other places of minor interest. Sallying from our hotel, we crossed to the head of Chartres-street, and threaded our way among the busy multitude, who, moving in all directions, on business or pleasure, thronged its well-paved side-walks. On both sides of the way, for several squares, the buildings were chiefly occupied by wholesale and retail dry goods dealers, who are mostly northerners; so that a Yankee stranger feels himself quite at home among them; but before he reaches the end of the long, narrow street, he might imagine himself again a stranger, in a city of France. The variety of the streets, here, is almost as great as the diversity of character among the people. New-Orleans seems to have been built by a universal subscription, to which every European nation has contributed a street, as it certainly has citizens. From one, which to a Bostonian looks like an old acquaintance, you turn suddenly into another that reminds you of Marseilles. Here a street lined with long, narrow, grated windows, in dingy, massive buildings, surrounded by Moorish turrets, urns, grotesque ornaments of grayish stone and motley arabesque, would bring back to the exiled Castilian the memory of his beloved Madrid. In traversing the next, a Parisian might forget that the broad Atlantic rolled between him and the boasted city of his nativity. Here is one that seems to have been transplanted from the very midst of Naples; while its interesting neighbour reminds one of the quaker-like plainness of Philadelphia. There are not, it is true, many which possess decidedly an individual character; for some of them contain such a heterogeneous congregation of buildings, that one cannot but imagine their occupants, in emigrating from every land under heaven, to have brought their own houses with them. The most usual style of building at present, is after the Boston school--if I may so term the fashion of the plain, solid, handsome brick and granite edifices, which are in progress here, as well as in every other city in the union; a style of architecture which owes its origin to the substantial good taste of the citizens of the goodly "city of notions." The majority of structures in the old, or French section of New-Orleans, are after the Spanish and French orders. This style of building is not only permanent and handsome, but peculiarly adapted, with its cool, paved courts, lofty ceilings, and spacious windows, to this sultry climate; and I regret that it is going rapidly out of fashion. Dwellings of this construction have, running through their centre, a broad, high-arched passage, with huge folding-doors, or gates, leading from the street to a paved court in the rear, which is usually surrounded by the sleeping-rooms and offices, communicating with each other by galleries running down the whole square. In the centre of this court usually stands a cistern, and placed around it, in large vases, are flowers and plants of every description. In their love for flowers, the Creoles are truly and especially French. The glimpses one has now and then, in passing through the streets, and by the ever-open doors of the Creoles' residences, of brilliant flowers and luxuriantly blooming exotics, are delightfully refreshing, and almost sufficient to tempt one to a "petit larceny." You may know the residence of a Creole here, even if he resides in a Yankee building, by his mosaic-paved court-yard, filled with vases of flowers. On arriving at Toulouse-street, which is the fifth intersecting Chartres-street, we turned into it, and pursued our way to the basin, in the rear of the city, which I was anxious to visit. A spectator in this street, on looking toward either extremity, can discover shipping. To the east, the dense forest of masts, bristling on the Mississippi, bounds his view; while, at the west, his eye falls upon the humbler craft, which traverse the sluggish waters of Lake Pontchartrain. This basin will contain about thirty small vessels. There were lying along the pier, when we arrived, five or six miserable-looking sloops and schooners, compared to which, our "down easters" are packet ships. These ply regularly between New-Orleans and Mobile, and by lading and discharging at this point, have given to this retired part of the city quite a business-like and sea-port air. The basin communicates with the lake, four miles distant, by means of a good canal. A mile below the basin, a rail-way has been lately constructed from the Mississippi to the lake, and has already nearly superseded the canal; but of this more anon. Leaving the basin, we passed a treeless green, which, we were informed by a passer-by, was dignified by the classical appellation of "Congo Square." Here, our obliging informant gave us to understand, the coloured "ladies and gentlemen" are accustomed to assemble on gala and saints' days, and to the time of outlandish music, dance, not the "Romaika," alas! but the "Fandango;" or, wandering in pairs, tell their dusky loves, within the dark shadows, not of jungles or palm groves, but of their own sable countenances. As the Congoese _élite_ had not yet left their kitchens, we, of course, had not the pleasure of seeing them move in the mystic dance, upon the "dark fantastic toe," to the dulcet melody of a Congo _banjo_. From the centre of this square, a fine view of the rear of the Cathedral is obtained, nearly a mile distant, at the head of Orleans-street, which terminates opposite the square. In this part of the town the houses were less compact, most of them of but one story, with steep projecting roofs, and graced by _parterres_; while many of the dwellings were half embowered with the rich green foliage of the fragrant orange and lemon trees. At the corner of rues St. Claude and St. Anne, we passed a very pretty buff-coloured, stuccoed edifice, retired from the street, which we were informed was the Masonic lodge. There are several others, I understand, in various parts of the city. A little farther, on rue St. Claude, in a lonely field, is a small plain building, denominated the College of Orleans, which has yet obtained no literary celebrity. Opposite to this edifice is the foot of Ursuline-street, up which we turned, in our ramble over the city, and proceeded toward the river. It may appear odd to you, that we should _ascend_ to the river; but such is the case here. You are aware, from the descriptions in one of my former letters, that the surface of the Mississippi, at its highest tide, is several feet higher than the surrounding country; and that it is restrained from wholly inundating it, only by banks, or _levées_, constructed at low stages of the water. Nowhere is this fact so evident as in New-Orleans. For the purpose of cleansing the city, water is let in at the heads of all those streets which terminate upon the river, by aqueducts constructed through the base of the Levée, and this artificial torrent rushes _from_ the river down the gutters, on each side of the streets, with as much velocity as, in other places, it would display in seeking to mingle with the stream. Sometimes the impetus is sufficient to carry the dirty torrents quite across the city into the swamps beyond. But when this is not the case, it must remain in the deep drains and gutters along the side-walks, impregnated with the quintessence of all the filth encountered in its Augean progress, exhaling its noisome effluvia, and poisoning the surrounding atmosphere. All the streets in the back part of the city are bordered on either side with a canal of an inky-coloured, filthy liquid, (water it cannot be termed) from which arises an odour or incense by no means acceptable to the olfactory sensibilities. The streets running parallel with the river, having no inclination either way, are, as a natural consequence of their situation, redolent of these Stygian exhalations. Why New-Orleans is not depopulated to a man, when once the yellow fever breaks out in it, is a miracle. From the peculiarity of its location, and a combination of circumstances, it must always be more or less unhealthy. But were the police, which is at present rather of a military than a civil character, regulated more with a view to promote the comfort and health of the community, the evil might be in a great measure remedied, and many hundred lives annually preserved. On ascending Ursuline-street, we remarked what I had previously noticed in several other streets, upon the doors of unoccupied dwellings, innumerable placards of "Chambre garnie," "Maison à louer," "Appartement à louer," &c. On inquiry, I ascertained that their former occupants had been swept away by the cholera and yellow fever, which have but a few weeks ceased their ravages. Four out of five houses, which we had seen advertised to let, in different parts of the city, were French, from which I should judge that the majority of the victims were Creoles. The effects of the awful reign of the pestilence over this devoted city, have not yet disappeared. The terrific spirit has passed by, but his lingering shadow still casts a funereal gloom over the theatre of his power. The citizens generally are apparelled in mourning; and the public places of amusement have long been closed. The old Ursuline convent stands between Ursuline and Hospital streets, and opposite to the barracks, usually denominated the "Old Spanish Barracks." Crossing rue Royale, we first visited those on the south side of Hospital-street. On inquiring of an old, gray-headed soldier, standing in front of a kind of guard-house, if the long, massive pile of brick, which extended from the street more than two hundred feet to the rear, "were the barracks?" he replied, with genuine Irish brogue, "Which barracks, jintlemen?" Ignorant of more than one place of the kind, we repeated the question with emphasis. "Why yes, yer 'onours, its thim same they are, an' bad luck to the likes o' them." We inquired "if the regiment was quartered here?" "The rigiment is it, jintlemen! och, but it's not here at all, at all; divil a rigiment has been in it (the city meaning) this many a month. The sogers, what's come back, is quarthered, ivery mother's son o' them, in the private hoose of a jintleman jist by." "Why did they leave the city?" "For fear o' the cholery, sure. But there's a rigiment ixpicted soon, and they'll quarther here, jintlemen; and we're repeerin' the barracks to contain thim, till the new ones is ericted; 'cause these is not the illigant barracks what's goin' to be ericted, sure." Finding our Milesian so communicative, we questioned him farther, and obtained much interesting information. From the street, the barracks, which are now unoccupied, present the appearance of a huge arcade, formed by a colonnade of massive brick pillars, running along its whole length. Some portion of the front was stuccoed, giving a handsome appearance to that part of the building. The whole is to be finished in the same manner, and when completed, the structure will be a striking ornament to New-Orleans: probably a rival of the "splendid new edifice" about to be erected in a lower part of the city. Though called the "Spanish Barracks," I am informed that they were erected by the Duke of Orleans, when he governed this portion of the French possessions. Immediately opposite to the barracks, in the convent yard, are two very ancient wooden guard-houses, blackened and decayed with age, about thirty feet in height, looking very much like armless windmills, or mammoth pigeon-houses. The convent next invited our notice. It has, till within a few years, been very celebrated for its school for young ladies, who were sent here from all the southern part of the Union, and even from Europe. A few years since, a new convent was erected two miles below the city, whither the Ursuline ladies have removed; and where they still keep a boarding-school for young ladies, which is highly and justly celebrated. The old building is now occupied by the public schools. Desirous of visiting so fine a specimen of cis-Atlantic antiquity, and at the same time to make some observation of the system of education pursued in this city, we proceeded toward the old gateway of the convent, to apply for admittance. We might have belaboured the rickety gate till doomsday, without gaining admittance, had not an unlucky, or rather, lucky stroke which we decided should be our last, brought the old wicket rattling about our ears, enveloping us in clouds of dust, as it fell with a tremendous crash upon the pavement. At this very alarming _contre temps_, we had not time to make up our minds whether to beat a retreat, or encounter the assault of an ominously sounding tongue, which thundered "mutterings dire," as with anger in her eye, and wonder in her mien, the owner rushed from a little porter's lodge, which stood on the right hand within the gate, "To see what could in nature be the matter, To crack her lugs with such a ponderous clatter." We succeeded in appeasing the ire of the offended janitress, and proceeded across a deserted court covered with short grass, to the principal entrance of the convent, which stands about seventy feet back from the street. This edifice presents nothing remarkable, except its size, it being about one hundred feet in front, by forty deep. Its aspect is venerable, but extremely plain, the front being entirely destitute of ornament or architectural taste. It is stuccoed, and apparently was once white, but it is now gray with rust and age. It may be called either a French or Spanish building, for it equally evinces both styles of architecture; presenting that anomaly, characteristic of those old structures which give a fine antiquated air to that part of the city. Massive pilasters with heavy cornices, tall, deep windows, huge doorways, and flat roofs, are the distinguishing features of this style of building. Never more than two, the dwellings are usually but one very lofty story in height, and covered with a light yellow stucco, in imitation of dingy-white, rough hewn marble. In internal arrangement and decorations, and external appearance, they differ but little from each other. As we passed under the old, sunken portal, the confused muttering of some hundred treble tongues, mingled, now and then, with a deep bass grumble of authority, burst upon our ears, and intimated our proximity to the place where "young ideas are taught to shoot." Wishing to gratify our curiosity by rambling through the convent's deserted halls and galleries, before we entered the rooms whence the noise proceeded, we ascended a spacious winding stairway; but there was nothing to be seen in the second story, except deserted rooms, and we ascended yet another stair-case to a low room in the attic, formerly the dormitory of the nunnery. While on our return to the first floor, a gentleman, M. Priever, who was, as we afterward ascertained, principal of the public schools of the city, encountered us on the stairs, and politely invited us to visit the different school-rooms within the building. We first accompanied him to the extremity of a long gallery, where he ushered us into a pleasant room, in which a dozen boys were sitting round a table, translating Latin exercises into French. This class, he informed us, he had just taken from the primary school below stairs, to instruct in the elementary classics. From this gentleman we ascertained that there were in the city two primary schools, one within the convent walls, and the other a mile distant, in the northern faubourg. From these two schools, when properly qualified, the pupils are removed into the high, or classic school, kept within the convent. He observed that he had the supervision of these three schools--the high, and two primary--though each had its own particular teacher. The principals of the two convent schools are gentlemen distinguished both for urbanity and literary endowments. In the classical school, pupils can obtain almost every advantage which a collegiate course would confer upon them. The French and Spanish languages form a necessary part of their education; and but few young men resort to northern colleges from New-Orleans. It is the duty of the principal often to visit the primary schools--select from their most promising pupils, those qualified to enter the high school--form them into classes by daily recitations in his own room, (in which employment he was engaged when we entered,) and then pass them over to the teacher of the school they are prepared to enter. With Mons. P. we visited the classical school, where fifty or sixty young gentlemen were pursuing the higher branches of study. The instructer was a Frenchman, as are all the other teachers. In this, and the other departments, the greater portion of the students also are of French descent; and probably about one-third, in all the schools, are of American parentage. Mons. P. informed me that the latter usually acquired, after being in the school six weeks, or two months, sufficient French for all colloquial purposes. He observed that the majority of the scholars, in all the departments, spoke both languages (French and English,) with great fluency. After hearing two or three classes translate Greek and Latin authors into French, and one or two embryo mathematicians demonstrate Euclid, in the same tongue, we proceeded to the opposite wing of the building, and were ushered into the rattle, clangor, and confusion of the primary department. We were politely received by Mons. Bigot, a Parisian, a fine scholar, and an estimable man. You have visited infant schools for boys, I believe; recall to mind the novel and amusing scenes you there beheld, and you will have an idea of this primary school. The only difference would be, that here the pupils are rough, tearing boys, from fifteen years of age to three. Here, as in the former, they marched and counter-marched, clapped their hands, stamped hard upon the floor, and performed various evolutions for the purpose of circulating the blood, which by sitting too long is apt to stagnate, and render them, particularly in this climate, dull and sleepy. We listened to some of their recitations, which were in the lowest elementary branches, and took our leave under infinite obligations to the politeness and attention of the gentlemanly superintendents. Besides these, there are private schools for both sexes. The majority of the young ladies are educated by the Ursulines at the convent, in the lower faubourg. Some of the public schools are exclusively for English, and others exclusively for French children. Many pupils are also instructed by private tutors, particularly in the suburbs. XVI. Rail-road--A new avenue to commerce--Advantages of the rail-way--Ride to the lake--The forest--Village at the lake--Pier--Fishers--Swimmers--Mail-boat--Cafés--Return --An unfortunate cow--New-Orleans streets. In a preceding letter, I have alluded to an intended visit to the rail-way; near which, on my way thither, my last letter left me, in company with B., after having paid a visit to the Ursuline convent. On leaving Ursuline-street, which terminates at the river, we proceeded a short distance, to the rail-road, along the Levée, which was lined with ships, bearing the flags of nearly all the nations of the earth. The length of this rail-way is about five miles, terminating at Lake Pontchartrain. Its advantages to New-Orleans are incalculable. It has been to the city literally "an avenue of wealth" already. The trade carried on through this medium, bears no mean proportion to the river commerce. Ports, heretofore unknown to Orleans, as associated with traffic, carry on, now, a regular and important branch of trade with her. By it, a great trade is carried on with Mobile and other places along the Florida coast, and by the same means, the mails are transported with safety and rapidity. The country between New-Orleans and the nearest shore of the lake, is low, flat, marshy, and covered with a half-drowned and stunted forest. The lake, though near the city, formerly was inaccessible. Vessels laden with their valuable cargoes might arrive at the termination of the lake within sight of the city, but the broad marsh extending between them and the far-off towers of the wished-for mart, might as well have been the cloud-capped Jura, for any means of communication it could afford. But the rail-way has overcome this obstacle: coasting vessels, which traverse the lake in great numbers, can now receive and discharge their cargoes at the foot of the rail-way, upon a long pier extending far out into the lake. The discharged cargoes are piled upon the cars and in twenty minutes are added to the thousand shiploads, heaped upon the Levée; or, placed upon drays, are trundling to every part of the city. When we arrived at the rail-way, the cars for passengers, eight or ten in number, were standing in a line under a long roof, which covers the end of the rail-way. A long train of baggage or cargo-cars were in the rear of these, all heavily laden. The steam-car, puffing and blowing like a bustling little man in a crowd, seemed impatient to dart forward upon the track. We perceived that all was ready for a start; and barely had time to hasten to the ticket-office, throw down our six "bits" for two tickets, and spring into the only vacant seats in one of the cars, before the first bell rang out the signal for starting. All the cars were full; including two or three behind, appropriated to coloured gentlemen and ladies. Again the bell gave the final signal; and obedient thereto, our fiery leader moved forward, smoking like a race-horse, slowly and steadily at first--then, faster and faster, till we flew along the track with breathless rapidity. The rail-road, commencing at the Levée, runs for the first half mile through the centre of a broad street, with low detached houses on either side. A mile from the Levée we had left the city and all dwellings behind us, and were flying through the fenceless, uninhabited marshes, where nothing meets the eye but dwarf trees, rank, luxuriant undergrowth, tall, coarse grass, and vines, twisting and winding their long, serpentine folds around the trunks of the trees like huge, loathsome water-snakes. By the watch, we passed a mile-stone every three minutes and a half; and in less than nineteen minutes, arrived at the lake. Here, quite a village of handsome, white-painted hotels, cafés, dwellings, store-houses, and bathing rooms, burst at once upon our view; running past them, we gradually lessened our speed, and finally came to a full stop on the pier, where the rail-road terminates. Here we left the cars, which came thumping against each other successively, as they stopped; but the points of contact being padded, prevented any very violent shock to the occupants. The pier, constructed of piles and firmly planked over, was lined with sloops and schooners, which were taking in and discharging cargo, giving quite a bustling, business-like air to this infant port. Boys, ragged negroes, and gentlemen amateurs, were fishing in great numbers farther out in the lake; others were engaged in the delicate amusement of cray-fishing, while on the right the water was alive with bathers, who, disdaining the confined limits enclosed by the long white bathing-houses, which stretched along the south side of the pier, and yielding to the promptings of a watery ambition, were boldly striking out into the sluggish depths. To the east, the waters of the lake and sky met, presenting an ocean horizon to the untravelled citizens, who can have no other conception of the reality without taking a trip to the Balize. Light craft were skimming its waveless surface, under the influence of a gentle breeze, in all directions. A steamer, bearing the United States mail from Mobile, was seen in the distance, rolling out clouds of black smoke, and ploughing and dashing on her rapid way to the pier. Retracing our steps to the head of the pier, we entered a very handsome _café_, or hotel, crowded with men. The eternal dominos were rattling on every table, glasses were ringing against glasses, and voices were heard, in high-toned conversation, in all languages, with mingled oaths and laughter; the noise and confusion were sufficient, without a miracle, to make a deaf man hear. All these persons, probably, were from the city, and had come down to the lake to amuse themselves, or kill an hour. The opposite _café_ was equally crowded; while the billiard-rooms adjoining were filled with spectators and players. Clouds of tobacco-smoke enveloped the multitude, and the rooms rung with "Sacré bleu!" "Mon Dieu!" "Diable!" and blunt English oaths of equal force and import. The first bell for the return had rung, and the passengers rushed to the cars, which were soon filled; the signal for starting was given, and the locomotive again led the van, with as much apparent importance as that with which the redoubtable and twice immortal Major Downing might be supposed to precede his gallant "rigiment of down easters." We had passed two-thirds of the distance when we were alarmed by a sudden and tremendous shouting from the forward car. The cry was echoed involuntarily along the whole train, and every head was instantly darted from the windows. The cause of the alarm was instantly perceptible. Less than a quarter of a mile ahead, a cow was lying very quietly and composedly, directly in the track of the flying cars. The shouts of the frightened passengers on discovering her, either petrified her with utter fear--for such yellings and whoopings were never heard before on this side Hades--or did not reach her, for she kept her position with the most complacent _nonchalance_. The engineer instantly stopped the locomotive, but though our momentum was diminished, it was too late to effect his object; in thirty seconds from the first discovery of the cow, the engine passed over the now terrified animal, with a jump--jump--and a grinding crash, and with so violent a shock as nearly to throw the car from the track; the next, and the next car followed--and the poor animal, the next instant, was left far behind, so completely severed, that the rear cars passed over her without any perceptible shock. In a few minutes afterward, we arrived at the city, having been one minute longer in returning than in going to the lake. The rail-way has become, if not a very fashionable, at least a very general resort, for a great portion of the inhabitants of New-Orleans, particularly on Sabbaths and holydays. Lake Pontchartrain, the destination of all who visit the rail road for an excursion of pleasure, is, to New-Orleans, what Gray's Ferry was in the olden time to the good citizens of Philadelphia; or Jamaica pond is, at present, to the most worthy citizens of the emporium of notions; or what "Broad's" is to the gay citizens of Portland.[7] When we alighted from the car, the omnibus was at its stand at the head of the rail-way; so, jumping into it, with twenty others, the horn was blown with an emphasis, the whip was cracked with a series of inimitable flourishes, and in fifteen minutes after leaving the car, we were safely deposited near our hotel. If our jolting ride home, through the rough, deep-guttered streets, did not increase our appetite for the good things awaiting us at the _table d'hote_, it at least demonstrated to us the superiority of rail-ways over unpaved streets, which every now and then are intersected, for the sake of variety, with a gutter of no particular width, and a foot and a half deep, more or less, by the "lead." FOOTNOTES: [7] The following sketch of the scenery and resources of Lake Pontchartrain is extracted from one of the New-Orleans papers, and is valuable for its general observations, and the correctness of its description of this theatre of summer amusement for the pleasure-seeking Orleanese:-- "Seven years ago there was but one steamboat plying the lakes in the vicinity of New-Orleans. There are now nine constantly departing from, and arriving at, the foot of the rail-road. They are generally crowded with passengers going to, and returning from the numerous villages which have sprung up in the woods that skirt the shores of Lake Borgne and Lake Pontchartrain, happy in the enjoyment of such facilities of escape from the heat and insalubrity of the city, and the anxious cares of business. "This is the season for relaxation everywhere. It is, and should be, especially in New-Orleans, where the business of a year, by circumstances, is forced to be crowded into a few months, and where the people, during the season of business, are distinguished beyond any other for a devoted and untiring application to their affairs. If we may not here set apart a little time, and a little money, for amusement in summer, we know not where a claim for recreation and refreshment may be put forth. The fare on board the steam packets is extremely moderate, the accommodations good and convenient, the passages very agreeable, and the accommodations at the various public houses which line the shores, though not equalling the luxury and sumptuousness of the city houses, are sufficient for health and comfort. The moderate sums demanded from the passengers, and low price of board at the houses, enable young men to spend a month of leisure, at little, if any more cost, than the expenses of a month's residence in the city. The treat which they provide, in fish, fresh from the water, and in oysters from their banks, more than compensates for any difference in the meats of the market. Among the best houses on the borders of the lakes, are those, we believe, at Madisonville and Pascagoula, the first the nearest to, and the latter the farthest from the city; but in beauty of situation and scenery, all other spots are surpassed by that of the village at the bay of Beloxi, where, as yet, no house of public accommodation has been established. The curve of the bay is the line of beauty, the waves of old Ocean wash its margin, and his refreshing and invigorating airs whistle through the woods. There is a quiet and repose in the scene, not witnessed anywhere else along the voyage across the lakes. The neat, but scattering cottages lie seemingly imbedded among the rich and dark foliage of the back ground, and you fancy the inhabitants may be taking a Rip Van Winkle nap, of twenty years, a nap filled with dreams of the sweetest and most agreeable nature. We understand that there is yet land, fronting on the bay, which may be entered at the minimum price affixed by the government. In addition to the poetical attractions of the bay of Beloxi, we might add the substantial ones of--milk in abundance at a bit a quart--fish and wild fowl, (the latter just beginning to appear) plenty and cheap--and oysters at a bit a hundred. "We are informed that the citizens of Mobile contemplate the erection of a splendid hotel on Dauphin Island, at the entrance of Mobile bay, immediately by which the steamboats pass on their way between Mobile bay and New-Orleans; and as the Mobilians seldom seriously contemplate any thing without carrying it into execution, we expect that in another year a common ground will be furnished, where the citizens of the two cities of the south-west may meet for their common amusement. The situation is healthful and agreeable, and we _hope_, as well as expect, that the project will be consummated." XVII. The legislature--Senators and representatives--Tenney-- Gurley--Ripley--Good feeling among members--Translated speeches--Ludicrous situations--Slave law--Bishop's hotel --Tower--View from its summit--Bachelor establishments-- Peculiar state of society. During my accustomed peregrinations around the city yesterday, I dropped into the hall of the legislature, which was in session in the government house,--that large, handsome edifice, erected on Canal-street, alluded to in a former letter. The senate and house of representatives were literally _both_ upper houses, being convened on the second floor of the building. The rooms are large and sufficiently comfortable, though devoid of any architectural display. The number of senators is seventeen; of representatives, fifty. The majority, in both houses, are Creoles: there being, as I was informed, nine, out of the seventeen senators, French, and a small French majority in the house. The residue are _citizenized_ northerners, and individuals from other states, who embody no mean portion of the political talents and statesman-like qualities of the legislature. Among many, to whom I had the pleasure of an introduction, and whose public characters are well and honourably known, I will mention Mr. Tenney, a native of New-Hampshire, and an alumnus of Dartmouth college. He has, like many other able and enterprising sons of New-England, struggled with no little distinction through all the vicissitudes of a young lawyer's career, till the suffrages of his adopted fellow-citizens have elevated him to the honourable station of senator, in the legislature of the state which he has chosen for his home. There are other northerners also, who, though in different stations, have arrived at distinction here. Their catalogue is not large, but it is brilliant with genius. The honourable career of the accomplished and lamented Gurley is well known to you. He was a man eminently distinguished, both for his public and social virtues; and in his death his adopted state has lost one of the brightest stars of her political constellation. And Ripley too, though shining in a southern sky, sheds a distinguished lustre over the "land of the north"--the country of his birth. There is generally a large amount of business brought before this legislature, and its sessions seldom terminate before March or April. In their transactions, as a legislative body, there is a total absence of those little, though natural prejudices, which might be presumed to exist among members, so different from each other in education, language, and peculiarity of thought. If a bill is introduced by an American, the French members do not feel a disposition to oppose its passage on that account; nor, when it is brought in by a Frenchman, do they support it more eagerly or unanimously for that reason. A spirit of mutual cordiality, as great as can be looked for in a political assembly, pervades their whole body, to the entire exclusion of local prejudices. Neither is there an exclusive language used in their legislative proceedings. It is not necessary that the American members should speak French, or _vice versa_, though it would be certainly more agreeable were it universally understood by them; as all speeches made by Frenchmen, are immediately translated into English, while those made by the Americans are repeated again, by the translator, to the French part of the house, in their own language. This method not only necessarily consumes a great deal of time, and becomes excessively tedious to all parties, but diminishes, as do all translations, the strength, eloquence, and force of a speech; and, of course, lessens the impression. It is not a little amusing, to study the whimsical contortions of a Frenchman, while, with shrugging shoulders and restless eyes, he listens to, and watches the countenance of, some American party opponent, who may have the floor. The latter thunders out his torrent of eloquence, wherein the nicest epithets are not, perhaps, the most carefully chosen, in his zeal to express his political gall against his Gallic opponent; while monsieur fidgets about in happy ignorance, till the honourable member concludes,--when he jumps up, runs his open hand, chin, and nose, almost in the face of the interpreter, "_arrectis auribus_," and chafing like a lion; and before the last sentence is hurriedly completed, flings down his gantlet,--throws his whole soul into a rush of warm eloquence, beneath the edifying sound of which, his American antagonist feels that it is now his time to look foolish, which he does with a most commendable expression of mock _sang froid_, upon his twitching, try-to-be philosophic features. The president of the senate and speaker of the house are Frenchmen: it is expected, however, that gentlemen filling these stations will readily speak French and English. By an act of a former legislature, slaves from other states could not be sold in this state, nor even those belonging to Louisiana, unless they were owned here previous to the passage of the law. The penalties for a violation of this law were fine and imprisonment to the vender, and the forfeiture of the slave, or his value. The law occasioned greater inconvenience to the citizens of the state, than its framers had foreseen. It again became a subject-matter for legislation, and a large portion of the members advocated its repeal. This was the subject of discussion when I was present, and the question of repeal was ably and warmly supported by Mr. Tenney, who is one of the state senators. Though he is doubtful whether the repeal will be effected this session, he is sanguine that it will be carried during the next annual assembly of the legislature.[8] Leaving the government house, with its assembled wisdom, I repaired to my hotel, where I was to await the arrival of a friend, who had invited me to accompany him in a ride a few miles below the city on the banks of the river. I believe, in all my letters, I have yet been silent respecting this hotel; I will, however, while waiting for my equestrian friend, remedy that deficiency; for true to your wish, I will write of all and every thing worthy of notice; and I am half of your mind, that whatever is worthy the attention of a tourist, merits the passing record of his pen. "Bishop's hotel," so designated from its landlord, has been recently constructed, and is one of the largest in the Union. The Tremont possesses more architectural elegance; and Barnum's, the pride of Baltimore, is a handsomer structure. In the appearance of Bishop's, there is nothing imposing, but its height. It has two fronts, one on Camp, the other on Common-street. It is uniformly, with the exception of an angular tower, five stories in height; its bar-room is more than one hundred feet in length, and universally allowed to be the most splendid in America. The dining room, immediately over it, on the second floor, is of the same size; in which from two hundred and fifty to three hundred dine daily, of whom, probably, not twenty are French. The table is burthened with every luxury which can be procured in this luxurious climate. The servants are numerous, and with but two or three exceptions, slaves. They are willing, active, and intelligent. In this important point, Bishop's hotel is every way superior to the Tremont. There "pampered menials," whose every look and manner speak as plainly as anything but the tongue can speak, "if you desire anything of us, sir, be mighty civil, or you may whistle for it, for be assured, sir, that _we_ are every whit as good as _you_." The insolence of these servants is already proverbial. But white servants, any where, and under any circumstances, are far from agreeable. In this point, and it is by no means an unimportant one, Bishop's is unequivocally superior to the Boston palace. With the coloured servant it is in verity, "Go, and he goeth--Come, and he cometh--Do this, and he doeth it." The sleeping apartments are elegantly furnished, and carpeted, and well ventilated. There are two spacious drawing-rooms, contiguous to the magnificent dining hall, where lounging gentlemen can feel quite at home; and one of these contains a piano for the musical. From the top of the tower, which is one of the most elevated stations in the city, there is, to repay the fatigue of climbing the "weary, winding way," to the summit--a fine panoramic view of the whole city, with its sombre towers, flat roofs, long, dark, narrow streets, distant marshes, and the majestic Mississippi, sweeping proudly away to the north, and to the south, alive with dashing steamers, and glancing with white sails. The horizon, on every side, presents the same low, level, unrelieved line, that for ever meets the eye, which way soever it turns in the lower regions of the Mississippi. A day or two after I arrived here, I ascended to the top of this tower. The morning was brilliant, and the atmosphere was so pure, that distant objects seemed to be viewed through the purest crystalline medium. I would recommend every stranger, on his arrival at New-Orleans, to receive his first general impression of the city, from this eminence. He will regret, however, equally with others, that the pleasure he derives from the prospect cannot be enhanced by the aid of a good telescope, or even a common ship's spy-glass in either of which articles, the "lookout" is singularly deficient; but the enterprise, good taste, and obliging manner of Mr. Bishop have contributed in all else, throughout his extensive establishment, to the comfort, content, and amusement, of his numerous guests. A peculiarity in this hotel, and in one or two others here, is the exclusion of ladies from among the number of boarders; it is, properly, a bachelor establishment. There are, however, hotels of high rank in the city, where ladies and families are accommodated. They are kept by ladies, and often agreeably unite, with the public character of a hotel, the pleasures and advantages of social society. The boarding-house of Madame Wilkinson, widow of the late Gen. Wilkinson, a lady distinguished for her talents and accomplishments; that of Madame Herries, the widow of a titled foreigner, I believe, in Canal-street, and one or two others kept in good style, in Chartres-street, are the principal in the city. Richardson's, a large hotel on Conti-street, is a bachelor establishment, where the up-country merchants usually put up, when they arrive in the city to purchase goods; though many of them, from choice or economy, remain as boarders or lodgers on board the steamers which bring them to New-Orleans, and on which, with their goods, they return to their homes. Young unmarried men here, usually have single furnished rooms, where they lodge, breakfast, and sup, dining at some hotel. There are, in some of the streets, long blocks of one story houses, with but one or two rooms in each, built purposely to be let out to bachelors. Indeed, there are neither hotels nor boarding-houses enough to accommodate one-tenth part of this class of forlorn bipeds. This independent way of living, in practice among so large a portion of the citizens and sojourners, in this city of anomalies, necessarily produces a peculiarity of character and habits among its observers, which has its natural and deteriorating effect upon the general state of society. FOOTNOTES: [8] The law has recently been repealed. XVIII. Saddle horses and accoutrements--Banks--Granite--Church- members--French mode of dressing--Quadroons--Gay scene and groups in the streets--Sabbath evening--Duelling ground--An extensive cotton-press--A literary germ--A mysterious institution--Scenery in the suburbs--Convent--Catholic education. I intended in my last letter, to give you some account of an equestrian excursion along the banks of the river, and of a visit to the new Ursuline convent, two miles below the city; but a long digression about hotels and bachelors brought me to the end of my letter before I could even mention the subject. I will now fulfil my intention, in this letter, which will probably be the last you will receive from me, dated at New-Orleans. Mounting our horses, at the door of the hotel, which were accoutred with clinking curbs, flashing martingales, and high-pummelled Spanish saddles, covered with blue broadcloth, the covering and housings being of one piece, as is the fashion here, we proceeded by a circuitous route to avoid the crowded front streets, toward the lower faubourg. In our ride, we passed the banks of the city, most of which are in Bienville-street or its vicinity. With but one exception, there is nothing in their external appearance to distinguish them from the other ordinary buildings, by which they are surrounded. The one referred to, whose denomination I do not recollect, is decidedly one of the handsomest structures in the south. It is lofty and extensive, with an imposing front and handsome columns, and stuccoed, so as to resemble the finest granite. And so perfect is the resemblance, that one can only assure himself that it is a deception, by reflecting that this beautiful material is used here little except in ornamental work; it being imported in small quantities from a great distance, by water, and its transportation being attended with too much expense to admit of its general adoption, as a material for building. The episcopal and presbyterian churches we also passed; both are plain buildings. Under the latter, an infant school is kept, which has been but lately organized, and is already very flourishing. It is under the care of northerners, as are most schools in this place, which are not French. Of the permanent population of this city--which does not exceed fifty-one or two thousand, of whom thirty thousand are coloured--between fifteen and sixteen thousand are Catholics, and nearly six thousand Protestants; among whom are about seven hundred communicants. The Catholic communicants number about six thousand and five hundred. There are ten Protestant churches, over which preside but seven or eight clergymen. Though the number of the former so much exceeds that of the latter, there are in this city in all, but six churches and chapels of the Catholic denomination, in which about twenty-five priests regularly officiate. There is here but one church to every three thousand and two hundred inhabitants, the estimate, for the most religious nations, being a church and clergyman for about every one thousand of the population. As we rode along, I was struck with the appearance of the peculiar dress worn by the French inhabitants. The gentlemen, almost without exception, wear pantaloons of blue cottonade, coarse and unsightly in its appearance, but which many exquisites have recently taken a fancy to adopt. Their coats are seldom well fashioned; narrow, low collars, large flat buttons, hardly within hail of each other, and long, narrow skirts being the _bon-ton_. Their hats are all oddly shaped, and between the extremity of their pantaloons and their ill-shaped shoes, half a yard of blue striped yarn stocking shocks the fastidious eye. The ladies dress with taste, but it is French taste; with too much of the gew-gaw to please the plain republican, and, "by the same token," correct taste of a northerner. Many fine women, with brunette complexions, are to be seen walking the streets with the air of donnas. They wear no bonnets, but as a substitute, fasten a veil to the head; which, as they move, floats gracefully around them. These are termed "quadroons," one quarter of their blood being tinged with African. I have heard it remarked, that some of the finest looking women in New-Orleans are "quadroons." I know not how true this may be, but they certainly have large fine eyes, good features, magnificent forms, and elegantly shaped feet. If a stranger should feel disposed to judge, whether the British watch-word, "Beauty and Booty," was based on a sufficient consideration, let him promenade the streets at twilight, and he will be convinced of the propriety of its first item. Then, windows, balconies, and doors, are alive with bright eyes, glancing scarfs, gay, bonnetless girls, playing children, and happy groups of every age. Street after street, square after square, will still present to him the same delightful scene of happy faces, and merry voices. The whole fair population seem to have abandoned their houses for the open air. How the bachelors of New-Orleans thread their way at sunset, through these brilliant groups of dark, sparkling eyes, without being burned to a cinder, passeth my comprehension. Every Sunday evening there is an extra turn out, when the whole city may be found promenading the noble Levée. This is an opportunity, which no stranger should omit, to observe the citizens under a new aspect. A ramble through the various streets, a few twilights successively, and a promenade on the Levée, on a Sabbath evening, will bring all the fair Creoles of the city, in review before him, and if that will not repay him for his trouble, let him go play "dominos!" In our ride, we passed the commercial library. Its collection is valuable but not large. By the politeness of Monsieur D. I received a card for admittance during my stay; and I have found it an agreeable _oasis_ of rest, after rambling for hours about the city. Its advantages in a place like this, where there are no circulating libraries, are very great. Passing the rail-way, in the vicinity of which is the Gentilly road, the famous duelling ground, we arrived at the "cotton press," a short distance below, on the left, fronting the river. It is a very extensive brick building with wings, having a yard in the rear, capable of containing fifty thousand bales of cotton. There is a rail-way, extending from the river to the press, on which the cotton is conveyed from the steamers, passing under a lofty arched way through the centre of the building, to the yard. All the cotton brought down the river, in addition to its original compression by hand, as it is baled up on the plantations, is again compressed by steam here, which diminishes the bale cubically, nearly one third. A ship can consequently take many more bales, than if the cotton were not thus compressed. There are, also, one or two more steam cotton-presses in the upper part of the city, which I have not had an opportunity of visiting. After passing this last building we overtook a cart loaded with negroes, proceeding to the country. To our inquiry, one of them answered,--while the others exhibited ivory enough to sheathe a ship's bottom, "We Wirginny niggurs, Massas: new massa, he juss buy us, and we be gwine to he plantation. Plenty sugar dere, massa!" They all appeared contented and happy, and highly elated at their sweet anticipations. Say not that the slavery of the Louisiana negroes is a _bitter_ draught. An old, plain, unassuming, and apparently deserted building, a little retired from the road and half-hidden in shrubbery, next attracted our attention. Over its front was a sign informing us that it was the "Lyceum pour les jeunes gens." We could not learn whether it had teacher or pupil, but from appearances we inferred that it was minus both. A padre, in the awkward black gown peculiar to his order, which is seldom laid aside out of doors, passed just at this time; and to our inquiries respecting the lyceum, though framed, _me judice_, in very respectable _lingua Franca_, he deigned us no other reply than a pleasant smile, and a low-toned, sonorous "Benedicite." With others, we were equally unsuccessful. One, of whom we inquired, and who appeared as though he might find an amber-stone among a heap of pebbles, if he were previously informed that it was the colour of whiskey--replied, "Why, I dont cozactly know, stranngers, seeing I aint used to readin', overmuch, but to my eye, it looks consarnedly like a tavern-sign." "Why do you think so, my man?" "Why, you see, I can't, somehow, make out the first part; but the last word spells gin, as slick as a tallow whistle--I say, strannger, ye haint got nothin o' no small-sized piccaiune about ye, have ye?"--We threw our intelligent informant, who was no doubt some stray prodigal son from old Kentuck or down east--though his ignorance of the art of reading belied his country--the required fee for his information, and continued our ride. We were now quite out of the city; the noble Mississippi rolled proudly toward the sea on our right, its banks unrelieved by a single vessel:--while on our left, embowered in shrubbery, public and private buildings lined the road, which wound pleasantly along the level borders of the river. Shortly after leaving the Lyceum, we noticed on our left, at some distance from the road, a large building, of more respectable appearance and dimensions than the last. A sign here too informed us, whatever our ingenious literary sign-reader might have rendered it, that _there_ was the "College Washington." Our information respecting this institution was in every respect as satisfactory as that which we had obtained concerning the Lyceum. Not an individual urchin, or grave instructer, was to be seen at the windows, or within the precincts. Its halls were silent and deserted. I have made inquiries, since I returned, of old residents, respecting it. No one knows any thing of it. Some may have heard there was such a college. Some may even have seen the sign, in passing: but the majority learned for the first time, from my inquiries, that there was such an institution in existence. So we are all equally wise respecting it. Passing beautiful cottages, partially hidden in foliage, tasteful villas, and deserted mansions, alternately, our attention was attracted by a pretty residence, far from the road, at the extremity of an extensive grass-plat, void of shrub or any token of horticultural taste. Had the grounds been ornamented, like all others in the vicinity, with shrubbery, it would have been one of the loveliest residences on the road; but, as it was, its aspect was dreary. We were informed that it was the residence of the British consul; but he seems to have left his national passion for ornamental gardening, shrubbery walks, and park-like grounds, at home; denying himself their luxurious shade and agreeable beauty, in a climate where, alone, they are really necessary for comfort--where the cool covert of a thickly foliaged tree is as great a luxury to a northerner, as a welling fountain in the desert to the fainting Arab. In a short ride from the residence of the consul, we arrived opposite to the Ursuline convent, a very large and handsome two-story edifice, with a high Spanish roof, heavy cornices, deep windows, half concealed by the foliage of orange and lemon trees, and stuccoed, in imitation of rough white marble. Three other buildings, of the same size, extended at the rear of this main building, forming three sides of the court of the convent, of which area this formed the fourth, each building fronting within upon the court, as well as without. There are about seventy young ladies pursuing a course of education here--some as boarders, and others as day scholars. The boarders are kept very rigidly. They are permitted to leave the convent, to visit friends in the city, if by permission of parents, but once a month. None are allowed to see them, unless they first obtain written permission, from the parents or guardians of the young ladies. As my friend had an errand at the convent, we called. Proceeding down a long avenue to the portal on the right side of the grounds, we entered, and applied our riding whips to the door for admission. We were questioned by an unseen querist, as to our business there, as are all visiters. The voice issued from a tin plate, perforated with innumerable little holes, and resembling a colander fixed in the wall, on one side of the entrance. If the visiters give a good account of themselves, and can show good cause why they should speak with any of the young ladies, they are told to open the door at the left; whereupon, they find themselves in a long, dimly-lighted apartment, without any article of furniture, except a backless form. Three sides of this room are like any other--but, the fourth is open to the inner court, and latticed from the ceiling to the floor, like a summer-house. Approaching the lattice, the visiter, by placing his eye to the apertures, has a full view of the interior, and the three inner fronts of the convent. A double cloister extends above and below, and around the whole court; where the young ladies may be seen walking, studying, or amusing themselves. She, for whom the visiter has inquired, now approaches the grate demurely by the side of one of the elderly ladies of the sisterhood; and the visiter, placing his lips to an aperture, as to the mouth of a speaking trumpet, must address her, and thus carry on his conversation; while the elder nun stands within earshot, that peradventure she may thereby be edified. The young ladies are here well and thoroughly educated;--even dancing is not prohibited, and is taught by a professor from the city. The religious exercises of the convent are of course Roman Catholic; but no farther than the daily routine of formal religious services, are the tenets of their faith inculcated upon the minds of the pupils. Some Protestant young ladies, allured by the romantic and imposing character of the Catholic religion, embrace it: but a few years after leaving the convent, are generally sufficient to efface their new faith and bring them back to the religion of their childhood. But the instances are very rare in which a Protestant becomes a _religieuse_, or leaves the convent a Catholic: though a great portion of the young ladies under the charge of the Ursuline sisterhood are of Protestant parentage. The remainder of our ride was past orange gardens and French villas, so like all we had passed nearer the city, that they presented no variety; after riding a mile below the convent, we turned our horses' heads back to the city, and in less than an hour arrived at our hotel just in time to sit down to one of Bishop's sumptuous dinners. XIX. Battle-ground--Scenery on the road--A peaceful scene-- American and British quarters--View of the field of battle --Breastworks--Oaks--Packenham--A Tennessee rifleman-- Anecdote--A gallant British officer--Grape-shot--Young traders--A relic--Leave the ground--A last view of it from the Levée. I have just returned from a visit to the scene of American resolution and individual renown--the battle-ground of New-Orleans. The Aceldama, where one warrior-chief drove his triumphal car over the grave of another--the field of "fame and of glory" from which the "hero of two wars" plucked the chaplet which encircles his brow, and the _éclat_ which has elevated him to a throne!-- The field of battle lies between five and six miles below the city, on the left bank, on the New-Orleans side of the river. The road conducting us to it, wound pleasantly along the Levée; its unvarying level relieved by delightful gardens, and pleasant country seats--(one of which, constructed like a Chinese villa, struck me as eminently tasteful and picturesque)--skirting it upon one side, and by the noble, lake-like Mississippi on the other, which, beating upon its waveless bosom a hundred white sails, and a solitary tow-boat leading, like a conqueror, a fleet in her train--rolled silently and majestically past to the ocean. When, in our own estimation, and, no doubt, in that of our horses, we had accomplished the prescribed two leagues, we reined up at a steam saw-mill, erected and in full operation on the road-side, and inquired for some directions to the spot--not discerning in the peaceful plantations before us, any indications of the scene of so fierce a struggle as that which took place, when England and America met in proud array, and the military standards of each gallantly waved to the "battle and the breeze." Although, on ascending the river in the ship, I obtained a moonlight glance of the spot, I received no impression of its _locale_ sufficiently accurate to enable me to recognise it under different circumstances. An extensive, level field was spread out before us, apparently the peaceful domain of some planter, who probably resided in a little piazza-girted cottage which stood on the banks of the river. But this field, we at once decided, could not be the battle-field--so quiet and farm-like it reposed. "There," was our reflection, "armies can never have met! there, warriors can never have stalked in the pride of victory with "---- garments rolled in blood!" Yet peaceful as it slumbered there, that domain had once rung with the clangor of war. It _was_ the battle-field! But silence now reigned "---- where the free blood gushed When England came arrayed-- So many a voice had there been hushed; So many a footstep stayed." In reply to our inquiries, made of one apparently superintending the steam-works, we received simply the tacit "Follow me gentlemen!" We gladly accommodated the paces of our spirited horses to those of our obliging and very practical informant, who alertly preceded us, blessing the stars which had given us so unexpectedly a cicerone, who, from his vicinity to the spot must be _au fait_ in all the interesting minutiæ of so celebrated a place. Following our guide a few hundred yards farther down the river-road, we passed on the left hand a one story wooden dwelling-house situated at a short distance back from the road, having a gallery, or portico in front, and elevated upon a basement story of brick, like most other houses built immediately on the river. This, our guide informed us, was "the house occupied by General Jackson as head-quarters: and there," he continued, pointing to a planter's residence two or three miles farther down the river, "is the mansion-house of General, (late governor, Villeré) which was occupied by Sir Edward Packenham as the head-quarters of the British army." "But the battle-ground--where is that sir?" we inquired, as he silently continued his rapid walk in advance of us. "There it is," he replied after walking on a minute or two longer in silence, and turning the corner of a narrow, fenced lane which extended from the river to the forest-covered marshes--"there it is, gentlemen,"--and at the same time extended his arm in the direction of the peaceful plain, which we had before observed,--spread out like a carpet, it was so very level--till it terminated in the distant forests, by which and the river it was nearly enclosed. Riding a quarter of a mile down the lane we dismounted, and leaving our horses in the road, sprang over a fence, and in a few seconds stood upon the American breast-works! "When," said a mercurial friend lately, in describing his feelings on first standing upon the same spot--"when I leaped upon the embankment, my first impulse was to give vent to my excited feelings by a shout that might have awakened the mailed sleepers from their sleep of death." Our emotions--for strong and strange emotions will be irresistibly excited in the breast of every one, "to war's dark scenes unused," on first beholding the scene of a sanguinary conflict, between man and man, whether it be grisly with carnage, pleasantly waving with the yellow harvest, or carpeted with green--our emotions, though perhaps equally deep, exhibited themselves very differently. For some moments, after gaining our position, we stood wrapped in silence. The wild and terrible scenes of which the ground we trod had been the theatre, passed vividly before my mind with almost the distinctness of reality, impressing it with reflections of a deep and solemn character. I stood upon the graves of the fallen! Every footfall disturbed human ashes! Human dust gathered upon our shoes as the dust of the plain! My thoughts were too full for utterance. "On the very spot where I stand"--thought I, "some gallant fellow poured out the best blood of his heart! Here, past me, and around me, flowed the sanguinary tide of death!--The fierce battle-cry--the bray of trumpets--the ringing of steel on steel--the roar of artillery hurling leaden and iron hail against human breasts--the rattling of musketry--the shouts of the victor, and the groans of the wounded, were here mingled--a whirlwind of noise and death!" "Under those two oaks, which you see about half a mile over the field, Sir Edward was borne, by his retreating soldiers, to die"--said our guide, suddenly interrupting my momentary reverie. I looked in the direction indicated by his finger, and my eyes rested upon a venerable oak, towering in solitary grandeur over the field, and overshadowing the graves of the slain, who, in great numbers, had been sepultured beneath its shadow. How many eyes were fixed, with the fond recollection of their village homes amid clustering oaks in distant England, upon this noble tree--which, in a few moments, amid the howl of war, were closed for ever in the sleep of the dead! Of how many last looks were its branches the repositories! How many manly sighs were wafted toward its waving summit from the breast of many a brave man, who was never more to behold the wave of a green tree upon the pleasant earth! It has been stated that Sir Edward Packenham fell, and was buried under this oak, or these oaks, (for I believe there are two,) but I have been informed, since my return from the field, by a gentleman who was commander of a troop of horse in the action, that when the British retreated, he saw from the parapet the body of General Packenham lying alone upon the ground, surrounded by the dead and wounded, readily distinguishable by its uniform; and, that during the armistice for the burial of the dead, he saw his body borne from the field by the British soldiers, who afterward conveyed it with them in their retreat to their fleet. The rampart of earth upon which we stood, presented very little the appearance of having ever been a defence for three thousand breasts; resembling rather one of the numerous dikes constructed on the plantations near the river, to drain the very marshy soil which abounds in this region, than the military defences of a field of battle. It was a grassy embankment, extending, with the exception of an angle near the forest--about a mile in a straight line from the river to the cypress swamps in the rear; four feet high, and five or six feet broad. At the time of the battle it was the height of a man, and somewhat broader than at present, and along the whole front ran a _fossé_, containing five feet of water, and of the same breadth as the parapet. This was now nearly filled with earth, and could easily be leaped over at any point. The embankment throughout the whole extent is much worn, indented and, occasionally, levelled with the surface of the plain. Upon the top of it, before the battle, eight batteries were erected, with embrasures of cotton bales, piled transversely. Under cover of this friendly embankment, the Americans lay _perdus_, but not idle, during the greater portion of the battle. A daring Tennessean, with a blanket tied round him, and a hat with a brim of enormous breadth, who seemed to be fighting "on his own hook," disdaining to raise his rifle over the bank of earth and fire, in safety to his person, like his more wary fellow soldiers, chose to spring, every time he fired, upon the breastwork, where, balancing himself, he would bring his rifle to his cheek, throw back his broad brim, take sight and fire, while the enemy were advancing to the attack, as deliberately as though shooting at a herd of deer; then leaping down on the inner side, he would reload, mount the works, cock his beaver, take aim, and crack again. "This he did," said an English officer, who was taken prisoner by him, and who laughingly related it as a good anecdote to Captain D----, my informant above alluded to--"five times in rapid succession, as I advanced at the head of my company, and though the grape whistled through the air over our heads, for the life of me I could not help smiling at his grotesque demi-savage, demi-quaker figure, as he threw back the broad flap of his castor to obtain a fair sight--deliberately raised his rifle--shut his left eye, and blazed away at us. I verily believe he brought down one of my men at every shot." As the British resolutely advanced, though columns fell like the tall grain before the sickle at the fire of the Americans, this same officer approached at the head of his brave grenadiers amid the rolling fire of musketry from the lines of his unseen foes, undaunted and untouched. "Advance, my men!" he shouted as he reached the edge of the _fossé_--"follow me!" and sword in hand he leaped the ditch, and turning amidst the roar and flame of a hundred muskets to encourage his men, beheld to his surprise but a single man of his company upon his feet--more than fifty brave fellows, whom he had so gallantly led on to the attack, had been shot down. As he was about to leap back from his dangerous situation, his sword was shivered in his grasp by a rifle ball, and at the same instant the daring Tennessean sprang upon the parapet and levelled his deadly weapon at his breast, calmly observing, "Surrender, strannger--or, I may perforate ye!" "Chagrined," said the officer, at the close of his recital, "I was compelled to deliver to the bold fellow my mutilated sword, and pass over into the American lines." "Here," said our guide and cicerone, advancing a few paces up the embankment, and placing his foot emphatically upon the ground, "_here_ fell Renie." This gallant man, with the calf of his leg shot away by a cannon-ball, leaped upon the breast-works with a shout of exultation, and was immediately shot through the heart, by an American private. Packenham, the favourite _elêve_ of Wellington, and the "beau ideal" of a British soldier, after receiving a second wound, while attempting to rally his broken columns, fell directly in front of our position, not far from where Renie received his death-wound. In the disorder and panic of the first retreat of the British, he was left bleeding and forsaken among the dead and dying. Not far from this melancholy spot, Gibbes received his mortal wound; and near the place where this gallant officer fell, one of the staff of the English general was also shot down. The whole field was fruitful with scenes of thrilling interest. I should weary you by individualizing them. There was scarcely a spot on which I could cast my eyes, where a soldier had not poured out his life-blood. "As I stood upon the breast-works," said Captain Dunbar, "after the action, the field of battle before me was so thickly strewn with dead bodies, that I could have walked fifty yards over them without placing my foot upon the ground." How revolting the sight of a field thus sown must be to human nature! Man must indeed be humbled at such a spectacle. We walked slowly over the ground, which annually waves with undulating harvests of the rich cane. Our guide was intelligent and sufficiently communicative without being garrulous. He was familiar with every interesting fact associated with the spot, and by his correct information rendered our visit both more satisfactory and agreeable than it otherwise would have been. "Here gentilhommes, j'ai findé some bullet for you to buy," shouted a little French mulatto at the top of his voice, who, among other boys of various hues, had followed us to the field, "me, j'ai trop--too much;" and on reaching us, this double-tongued urchin turned his pockets inside out and discharged upon the ground a load of rusty grape shot, bullets, and fragments of lead--his little stock in trade, some, if not all of which, I surmised, had been manufactured for the occasion. "Did you find them on the battle-ground, garçon?" "Iss--oui, Messieurs, me did, de long-temps." I was about to charge him with having prepared his pockets before leaving home, when Mr. C. exhibited a grape shot that he had picked from the dark soil in which it was half buried. I bought for a piccaiune,[9] the smallest currency of the country, the "load of grape," and we pursued our walk over the field, listening with much interest to the communications of our guide, conjuring up the past scenes of strife and searching for balls; which by and by began to thicken upon us so fast, that we were disposed to attribute a generative principle to grape-shot. We were told by our cicerone that they were found in great numbers by the ploughmen, and disposed of to curious visiters. On inquiring of him if false ones were not imposed upon the unsuspecting, he replied "No--there is no need of that--there is an abundance of those which are genuine." "I'm got half a peck on um to hum, mysef, I'se found," exclaimed a little negro in a voice that sounded like the creaking of a shoe, bolting off at the same time for the treasure, like one of his own cannon-balls. What appalling evidence is this abundance of leaden and iron hail strewed over the field, of the terrible character of that war-storm which swept so fearfully over it. Flattened and round balls, grape of various sizes, and non-descript bits of iron were the principal objects picked up in our stroll over the ground. The night was rapidly approaching--for we had lingered long on this interesting spot--and precluded our visit to the oaks, to which it had been our intention to extend our walk; and as we turned to retrace our steps with our pockets heavy with metal, something rang to the touch of my foot, which, on lifting and cleansing it from the loam, we discovered to be the butt-piece of a musket. As this was the most valuable relic which the field afforded, C. was invested with it, for the purpose of placing it in the museum or Codman's amateur collection, for the benefit of the curious, when he returns to that land of curious bipeds, where such kind of mementos are duly estimated. Twilight had already commenced, as, advancing over the same ground across which the gallant Packenham led his veteran army, we fearlessly leaped the fossé and, unresisted, ascended the parapet. Hastening to free our impatient horses from their thraldom, we mounted them, and--not forgetting a suitable douceur, by way of "a consideration" to our obliging cicerone--spurred for the city. As we arrived at the head of the lane and emerged again upon the high-way, I paused for an instant upon the summit of the Levée to take a last view of the battle-ground which lay in calm repose under the gathering twilight--challenging the strongest exercise of the imagination to believe it ever to have borne other than its present rural character, or echoed to other sounds than the whistle of the careless slave as he cut the luxuriant cane, the gun of the sportsman, or the melancholy song of the plough-boy. FOOTNOTES: [9] Properly, _piccaillon_, but pronounced as in the text. Called in New England a "four pence half penny," in New-York a "sixpence," and in Philadelphia a "fip." XX. Scenes in a bar-room--Affaires d'honneur--A Sabbath morning --Host--Public square--Military parades--Scenes in the interior of a cathedral--Mass--A sanctified family--Crucifix --Different ways of doing the same thing--Altar--Paintings-- The Virgin--Female devotees. The spacious bar-room of our magnificent hotel, as I descended to it on Sabbath morning, resounded to the footsteps of a hundred gentlemen, some promenading and in earnest conversation--some hastening to, or lounging about the bar, that magnet of attraction to thirsty spirits, on which was displayed a row of rapidly disappearing glasses, containing the tempting, green-leaved, mint-julep--while, along the sides of the large room, or clustered around the tall, black columns, which extended through the centre of the hall, were others, some _tête à tête_, and others again smoking, and sipping in quiet their morning potation. A few, with legs _à la Trollope_, upon the tables, were reading stray papers, and at the farther extremity of the hall, standing around a lofty desk, were ranks of merchants similarly engaged. My northern friend, with whom I had planned a visit to the cathedral, met me at the door of the hotel, around which, upon the side-walk, was gathered a knot of fashionably dressed, cane-wearing young men, talking, all together, of a duel that had taken place, or was about to "come off," we could not ascertain exactly which, from the few words heard in passing to the street. This, by the by, is a frequent theme of conversation here, and too often based upon facts to be one of light moment.[10] The morning was cloudless and beautiful. The air was mild, and for the city, elastic and exhilarating. The sun shone down warm and cheerfully, enlivening the spirits, and making all things glad with its brightness. The whole city had come forth into the streets to enjoy it; and as we passed from Camp-street across Canal, into Chartres-street, all the gay inhabitants, one would verily believe, had turned out as to a gala. The long, narrow streets were thronged with moving multitudes, and flashing with scarfs, ribbons, and feathers. Children, with large expressive eyes, and clustering locks, their heads surmounted with tasselled caps and fancy hats, arrayed in their "brightest and best," bounded along behind their more soberly arrayed, but not less gay parents, followed by gaudily dressed slaves, who chattered incessantly with half-suppressed laughter to their acquaintances on the opposite trottoir. Clerks, just such looking young men as you will meet on Sabbath mornings in Broadway, or Cornhill--released from their six days' confinement--lounged by us arm in arm, as fine as the tailor and hair-dresser could make them. Crowds, or gangs of American and English sailors, mingling most companionably, on a cruise through the city, rolled jollily along--the same careless independent fellows that they are all the world over. I have observed that in foreign ports, the seamen of these once hostile nations link together like brothers. This is as it should be. The good feeling existing generally among all classes of Americans toward the mother country, must be gratifying both to reflecting Americans and to Englishmen. These sons of Neptune were all dressed nearly alike in blue jackets, and full white trowsers, with black silk handkerchiefs knotted carelessly around their necks, and confined by some nautical breast-pin, in the shape of a foul anchor, a ship under her three top-sails, or plain gold hearts, pierced by arrows. Sailors are very sentimental fellows on shore! In direct contrast to these frank-looking, open-browed tars, who yawed along the side-walk, as a landsman would walk on a ship's deck at sea, we passed, near the head of Bienville-street, a straggling crew of some Spanish trader, clothed in tarry pantaloons and woollen shirts, and girt about with red and blue sashes, bucanier fashion, with filthy black whiskers, and stealthy glowing eyes, who glided warily along with lowering brows. The unsailor-like French sailor--the half horse and half alligator Kentucky boatman--the gentlemanly, carelessly-dressed cotton planter--the pale valetudinarian, from the north, whose deep sunken eye told of suicidal vigils over the midnight lamp--a noble looking foreigner, and a wretched beggar--a troop of Swiss emigrants, from the grand sire to the infant, and a gang of Erin's toil-worn exiles--all mingled _en masse_--swept along in this living current; while, gazing down upon the moving multitude from lofty balconies, were clusters of bright eyes, and sunny faces flashed from every window. As we approached the cathedral, a dark-hued and finely moulded quadroon, with only a flowing veil upon her head, glided majestically past us. The elegant olive-browned Louisianese--the rosy-cheeked maiden from _La belle riviere_--the Parisian gentilhomme--a dignified, light-mustachoed palsgrave, and a portly sea-captain--the haughty Englishman and prouder southerner--a blanketed Choctaw, and a negro in uniform--slaves and freed-men of every shade, elbowed each other very familiarly as they traversed in various directions the crowded side-walks. Crossing rue St. Louis, we came in collision with a party of gens d'armes with drawn swords in their hands, which they used as walking canes, leading an unlucky culprit to the calaboose--that "black-hole" of the city. Soldiers in splendid uniforms, with clashing and jingling accoutrements, were continually hurrying past us to parade. At the corner of Toulouse-street we met a straggling procession of bare-headed, sturdy-looking priests, in soiled black surplices and fashionable boots, preceded by half a dozen white-robed boys, bare-legged and dirty. By this dignified procession, among which the crowd promiscuously mingled as they passed along, and whose august approach is usually notified by the jingling of the "sacring bell," was borne the sacred "host." They hastily passed us, shoved and jostled by the crowd, who scarcely gave way to them as they hastened on their ghostly message. These things are done differently in Buenos Ayres or Rio Janeiro, where such a procession is escorted by an armed guard, and a bayonet thrust, or a night in a Spanish prison, is the penalty for neglecting to genuflect, or uncover the heretical head. As we issued from Chartres-street--where all "nations and kingdoms and tongues" seemed to have united to form its pageant of life--upon the esplanade in front of the cathedral, we were surprised by the sound of martial music pealing clearly above the confusion of tongues, the tramp of feet, and the rattling of carriages. On and around the noble green, soldiers in various uniforms, some of them of a gorgeous and splendid description, were assembling for parade. Members of the creole regiment--the finest body of military men I ever beheld, with the exception of a Brazilian regiment of blacks--were rapidly marshalling in the square. And mounted hussars, with lofty caps and in glittering mail, were thundering in from the various streets, their spurs, chains and sabres, ringing and jingling warlike music, as they dashed up to the rendezvous. At the head of this noble square, so variegated and tumultuous with its dazzling mimicry of war, rose in solemn and imposing grandeur the venerable cathedral, lifting its heavy towers high above the emmet-crowd beneath. Its doors, in front of which was extended a line of carriages, were thronged with a motley crowd, whose attention was equally divided between the religious ceremonies within the temple and the military display without. We forced our way through the mass, which was composed of strangers like ourselves--casual spectators--servants--hack-drivers --fruit sellers, and some few, who, like the publican, worshipped "afar off." It was the celebration of the Eucharist. Within, crowds were kneeling upon the pavement under the corridor and along the aisles--some in attitudes of the profoundest humility and awe. Others were kneeling, as nominal Protestants stand in prayer, without intention or feeling of humility; but merely assuming the posture as a matter of form. Among these last were many young Frenchmen, whose pantaloons were kept from soiling by white handkerchiefs as they kneeled, playing with their watch-guards, twirling their narrow-brimmed silk hats, or gazing idly about over the prostrate multitude. Here and there kneeled a fine female figure; and dark eyes from artfully arranged veils wandered every where but over the missal, clasped in unconscious fingers. At the base of a massive column two fair girls, kneeling side by side, were laughingly whispering together. But there were also venerable sires with locks of snow, and aged matrons, and manly forms of men, and graceful women, maidens and children, who bowed with their faces to the ground in deep devotion. As we entered, the solemn peal of an organ, mingled with the deep toned voices of the priests chanting the imposing mass, rolled over the prostrate assembly; at the same moment the host was elevated and the multitude, bowing their foreheads to the pavement, profoundly adored this Roman _schechinah_, or _visible_ presence of the Saviour. Having, with some difficulty, worked our way through the worshippers, who, after the solemn service of the consecration of the bread and wine was finished, arose from their knees, we gained an eligible situation by one of the pillars which support the vaulted roof, and there took our post of observation. A marble font of holy water stood near us on our right hand, into which all true Catholics who entered or departed from the church, dipped the tip of a finger, with the greatest possible veneration; and therewith--the while moving their lips with a brief, indistinctly-heard prayer--crossed themselves upon both the forehead and the breast. This ceremony was also performed by proxy. A very handsome French lady entered the church, while we leaned against the column, and advancing directly to the font, dipped her ungloved finger into the consecrated laver, made the sign of the cross first upon her own fine forehead, and then turning, stooped down and crossed affectionately and prayerfully the pure, olive brows of two beautiful little girls who followed her, and the forehead of an infant borne in the arms of a slave; who, dipping her tawny fingers in the water, blessed her own black forehead; and then all passed up the aisle toward the altar--a sanctified family! How like infant baptism, this beautiful and affecting little scene of a mother thus blessing in the sincerity of her heart, her innocent offspring! White, black, and yellow--the rich and the poor, the freeman and slave, all dipped in the same font--were all blessed by the same water. A beautiful emblem of the undistinguishing blood of the Saviour of the world! Not far from this holy vessel, behind a table or temporary altar, sat a man with a scowling brow and a superstitious eye, coarsely dressed, without vest or cravat. Before him lay a large salver strewed in great profusion with pieces of silver coin from a _bit_ to a dollar. On the centre, and only part of the waiter not piled with money, lay a silver crucifix. At the moment this display caught our eyes, and before we had time to form any conjectures as to its object, a mulatress gave us the desired explanation. Crossing from the broad aisle of the church, she reverently approached the spot and kneeling before the altar, added a quarter of a dollar to the glittering pile, and bending over, kissed first the feet, then the knees, hands, and wounded side of the image, while real tears flowed down her saffron cheeks. Elevating her prostrate form, she passed to the font, dipped her finger in the holy water and disappeared amid the crowd at the door. A gay demoiselle tripping lightly past us, bent on one knee before the waiter, threw down upon it a heavy piece of silver, and, less humble than the one who had preceded her, imprinted a kiss upon the metal lips of the image and glided from the cathedral. She was followed by a lame negro, darker than Othello, uglier and more clumsy than Caliban, who for a piccaiune, which tinkled upon the salver, had the privilege of saluting the senseless image from head to foot in the most devotional and lavish manner. A little child, led by its nurse, followed, and timidly, at the direction of its coloured governess, kissed the calm and expansive forehead of the sculptured idol. During the half hour we remained, there was a continual flow of the current of devotees to this spot, in their way to and from the high altar. But I observed that ten blacks approached the crucifix for every white! This altar with its enriched salver is merely a Roman Catholic "contribution-box,"--a new way of doing an old thing. Some of the Protestant churches resound with a sacred hymn, or the voice of the clergyman reading a portion of the liturgy or discipline, calculated to inspire charitable feelings, while the contribution-box or bag makes its begging tour among the pews. In the cathedral the same feelings are excited by an appeal to the senses through the silent exhibition of the sufferings of the Redeemer. With one, the ear is the road to the heart, with the other, the eye; but if it is only reached, it were useless to quibble about the medium of application. I lingered long after the great body of the congregation had departed. Here and there, before a favourite shrine--the tutelary guardian of the devotee--kneeled only a solitary individual. Close by my side, before the pictured representation of a martyrdom, bent a female form enveloped in mourning robes, her features concealed in the folds of a rich black veil. Far off, before the distant shrine of the Virgin Mother, knelt a very old man engaged in inaudible prayer, with his head pressed upon the cold stone pavement. Slowly and reflectingly I paced the deserted aisles toward the high altar, which stood in the midst of a splendid and dazzling creation of gold and silver, rich colouring, architectural finery, and gorgeous decorations, burning tapers, and candlesticks like silver pillars; the whole extending from the pavement to the ceiling, and all so mingled and confused in the religious gloom of the church, that I was unable to analyse or form any distinct idea of it. But the _coup d'oeil_ was unrivalled by any display I had ever seen in an American temple. At the lower termination of the side aisles of the cathedral, stood dark mahogany confessionals, with blinds at the sides--reminding one of sentry boxes. These, however, were deserted and apparently seldom occupied. Sins must be diminished here, or penitents have grown more discreet than in former times! In a little while the cathedral, save by a poor woman kneeling devoutly before a wretched picture, which I took to be a representation of the martyrdom of saint Peter, became silent and deserted. While gazing upon the image of the Virgin Mary, arrayed like a prima donna, and profusely decorated with finery, standing pensively within an isolated niche, to the left of the grand altar, a slight noise, and the simultaneous agitation of a curtain, drew my attention to the entrance of a trio of young ladies, through a side door hitherto concealed behind the arras, preceded by an elderly brown-complexioned lady, of the most duenna-like physiognomy and bearing. Without noticing the presence of a stranger and a heretic--for I was gazing most undevoutly and heretically upon the jewelled image before me as they entered--they dipped the tips of their fingers in a font of holy water which stood by the entrance--passed into the centre aisle in front of the great crucifix, and kneeling in a cluster upon a rich carpet, spread upon the pavement over the crypts of the distinguished dead, by a female slave who attended them, were at once engaged in the most absorbing devotion. After a short period they arose--bowed sweepingly to the crucifix, genuflected most gracefully with a sort of familiar nod of recognition before the shrine of the Virgin, and moistening the ends of their fingers again in the marble basin, quietly disappeared. I was now alone in the vast building. Though the current of human life flowed around its walls, with a great tumult of mingled sounds, yet only a noise, like the faintly heard murmuring of distant surf, penetrated its massive walls, and broke a silence like that of the grave which reigned within. The illustrious dead slept beneath the hollow pavement, which echoed to my footfall like a vaulted sepulchre. The ghastly images of slaughtered men looked down upon me from the walls, with agony depicted on their pale and unearthly countenances, seen indistinctly through the dim twilight of the place. The melancholy tapers burned faintly before the deserted shrines, increasing, rather than illuminating the gloom of the venerable temple. Gradually, under the combined influence of these gloomy objects, I felt a solemnity stealing over me, awed and depressed by the tomb-like repose that reigned around. Suddenly the clear light of noon-day flashed in through the drawn curtain, and another worshipper entered. Turning to take a last glance at the interior of this imposing fabric, so well calculated to excite the religious feelings of even a descendant of the Puritans, I drew aside the curtain, and the next moment was involved in the life, bustle, and tumult of the streets of a large city, whose noise, confusion, and bright sunshine contrasted strangely with the perfect stillness and "dim religious light" of the cathedral. FOOTNOTES: [10] The rage for duelling is at such a pitch, that a jest or smart repartee is sufficient excuse for a challenge, in which powder and ball are the arguments. The Court of honour has proved unsuccessful in its operation, and no person, it is said, has yet dared to stem the current of popular opinion. The accuracy of the Creoles, with the pistol, is said to be astonishing, and no youngster springing into life, is considered entitled to the claims of manhood, until made the mark of an adversary's bullet. In their shooting galleries, the test of their aim is firing at a button at ten or twelve paces distance, suspended by a wire, which, when struck, touches a spring that discloses a flag. There are but few who miss more than once in three times. An appointment for a duel is talked of with the _nonchalance_ of an invitation to a dinner or supper party. XXI. Sabbath in New-Orleans--Theatre--Interior--A New-Orleans audience--Performance--Checks--Theatre d'Orleans--Interior --Boxes--Audience--Play--Actors and actresses--Institutions --M. Poydras--Liberality of the Orleanese--Extracts from Flint upon New-Orleans. "Do you attend the _Theatre d'Orleans_ to night?" inquired a young Bostonian, forgetful of his orthodox habits--last Sabbath evening, twirling while he spoke a ticket in his fingers--"you know the maxim--when one is in Rome"-- "I have not been here quite long enough yet to apply the rule," said I; "is not the theatre open on other evenings of the week?" "Very seldom," he replied, "unless in the gayest part of the season--though I believe there is to be a performance some night this week; I will ascertain when and accompany you." You are aware that the rituals, or established forms of the Roman church, do not prohibit amusements on this sacred day. The Sabbath, consequently, in a city, the majority of whose inhabitants are Catholics, is not observed as in the estimation of New-Englanders, or Protestants it should be. The lively Orleanese defend the custom of crowding their theatres, attending military parades, assembling in ball-rooms, and mingling in the dangerous masquerade on this day, by wielding the scriptural weapon--"the Sabbath was made for man--not man for the Sabbath;" and then making their own inductions, they argue that the Sabbath is, literally, as the term imports, a day of rest, and not a day of religious labour. They farther argue, that religion was bestowed upon man, not to lessen, but to augment his happiness--and that it ought therefore to infuse a spirit of cheerfulness and hilarity into the mind--for cheerfulness is the twin-sister of religion. Last evening, as I entered my room, after a visit to two noble packet ships just arrived from New-York, which as nearly resemble "floating palaces" as any thing not described in the Arabian tales well can--I discovered, lying upon my table, a ticket for the American or Camp-street theatre, folded in a narrow slip of a play-bill, which informed me that the laughable entertainment of the "Three Hunchbacks," with the interesting play of "Cinderella," was to constitute the performance of the night: Cinderella, that tale which, with Blue Beard, the Forty Thieves, and some others, has such charms for children, and which, represented on the stage, has the power to lead stern man, with softened feelings, back to infancy. In a few moments afterward my Boston friend, who had left the ticket in my room, came in with another for the French theatre, giving me a choice between the two. I decided upon attending both, dividing the evening between them. After tea we sallied out, in company with half of those who were at the supper-table, on our way to the theatre. The street and adjacent buildings shone brilliantly, with the glare of many lamps suspended from the theatre and coffee houses in the vicinity. A noisy crowd was gathered around the ticket-office--the side-walks were filled with boys and negroes--and the curb-stone was lined with coloured females, each surrounded by bonbons, fruit, nuts, cakes, pies, gingerbread, and all the other et cetera of a "cake-woman's commodity." Entering the theatre, which is a plain handsome edifice, with a stuccoed front, and ascending a broad flight of steps, we passed across the first lobby, down a narrow aisle, opened through the centre of the boxes into the pit or _parquette_, as it is here termed, which is considered the most eligible and fashionable part of the house. This is rather reversing the order of things as found with us at the north. The pews, or slips--for the internal arrangement, were precisely like those of a church--were cushioned with crimson materials, and filled with bonnetless ladies, with their heads dressed _à la Madonna_. We seated ourselves near the orchestra. The large green curtain still concealed the mimic world behind it; and I embraced the few moments of delay previous to its rising, to gaze upon this Thespian temple of the south, and a New Orleans audience. The "parquette" was brilliant with bright eyes and pretty faces; and upon the bending galaxy of ladies which glittered in the front of the boxes around it, I seemed to gaze through the medium of a rainbow. There were, it must be confessed, some plain enough faces among them; but, at the first glance of the eye, one might verily have believed himself encircled by a gallery of houris. The general character of their faces was decidedly American; exactly such as one gazes upon at the Tremont or Park theatre; and I will henceforward eschew physiognomy, if "I guess" would not have dropped more naturally from the lips of one half who were before me, while conversing, than "I reckon." There were but few French faces among the females; but, with two or three exceptions, these were extremely pretty. Most of the delicately-reared Creoles, or Louisianian ladies, are eminently beautiful. A Psyche-like fascination slumbers in their dark, eloquent eyes, whose richly fringed lids droop timidly over them--softening but not diminishing their brilliance. Their style of beauty is _unique_, and not easily classed. It is neither French nor English, but a combination of both, mellowed and enriched under a southern sky.--They are just such creatures as Vesta and Venus would have moulded, had they united to form a faultless woman. The interior of the house was richly decorated; and the panelling in the interior of the boxes was composed of massive mirror-plates, multiplying the audience with a fine effect. The stage was lofty, extensive, and so constructed, either intentionally or accidentally, as to reflect the voice with unusual precision and distinctness. The scenery was in general well executed: one of the forest scenes struck me as remarkably true to nature, both in colouring and design. While surveying the gaudy interior, variegated with gilding, colouring, and mirrors, the usual cry of "Down, down?--Hats off," warned us to be seated. The performance was good for the pieces represented. The company, with the indefatigable Caldwell at its head, is strong and of a respectable character. When the second act was concluded we left the house; and passing through a parti-coloured mob, gathered around the entrance, and elbowing a gens d'armes or two, stationed in the lobby _in terrorem_ to the turbulent-- we gained the street, amidst a shouting of "Your check, sir! your check! --Give me your check--Please give me your check!--check!--check!--check!" from a host of boys, who knocked one another about unmercifully in their exertions to secure the prizes, which, to escape a mobbing, we threw into the midst of them; and jumping into a carriage in waiting, drove off to the French theatre, leaving them embroiled in a _pêle mêle_, in which the sciences of phlebotomy and phrenology were "being" tested by very practical applications. After a drive of half a league or more through long and narrow streets, dimly lighted by swinging lamps, we were set down at the door of the Theatre d'Orleans, around which a crowd was assembled of as different a character, from that we had just escaped, as would have met our eyes had we been deposited before the _Theatre Royale_ in Paris. The street was illuminated from the brilliantly lighted cafés and cabarets, clustered around this "nucleus" of gayety and amusement. As we crossed the broad _pavé_ into the vestibule of the theatre, the rapidly enunciated, nasal sounds of the French language assailed our ears from every side. Ascending the stairs and entering the boxes, I was struck with the liveliness and brilliancy of the scene, which the interior exhibited to the eye. "Magnificent!" was upon my lips--but a moment's observation convinced me that its brilliancy was an illusion, created by numerous lights, and an artful arrangement and lavish display of gilding and colouring. The whole of the interior, including the stage decorations and scenic effect, was much inferior to that of the house we had just quitted. The boxes--if caverns resembling the interior of a ship's long-boat, with one end elevated three feet, and equally convenient, can be so called--were cheerless and uncomfortable. There were but few females in the house, and none of these were in the pit, as at the other theatre. Among them I saw but two or three pretty faces; and evidently none were of the first class of French society in this city. The house was thinly attended, presenting, wherever I turned my eyes, a "beggarly account of empty boxes." I found that I had chosen a night, of all others, the least calculated to give me a good idea of a French audience, in a cis-Atlantic French theatre. After remaining half an hour, wearied with a tiresome _ritornello_ of a popular French air--listening with the devotion of a "Polytechnique" to the blood-stirring Marseillaise hymn--amused at the closing scene of a laughable comédie, and edified by the first of a pantomime, and observing, that with but one lovely exception, the Mesdames _du scêne_ were very plain, and the Messieurs very handsome, we left the theatre and returned to our hotel, whose deserted bar-room, containing here and there a straggler, presented a striking contrast to the noise and bustle of the multitude by which it was thronged at noon-day. In general, strangers consider the _tout ensemble_ of this theatre on Sabbath evenings, and on others when the élite of the New-Orleans society is collected there, decidedly superior to that of any other in the United States. Beside the theatres there are other public buildings in this city, deserving the attention of a stranger, whose institution generally reflects the highest eulogium upon individuals, and the public. The effects of the benevolence of the generous M. Poydras, will for ever remain monuments of his piety and of the nobleness of his nature. Generation after generation will rise up from the bosom of this great city and "call him blessed." The charitable institutions of this city are lights which redeem the darker shades of its moral picture. Regarded as originators of benevolence, carried out into efficient operation, the Orleanese possess a moral beauty in their character as citizens and men, infinitely transcending that of many other cities ostensibly living under a higher code of morals. In the male and female orphan asylums, which are distinct institutions, endowed by the donations of M. Poydras--in a library for the use of young men, and in her hospitals and various charitable institutions, mostly sustained by Roman Catholic influence and patronage, whose doors are ever open to the stranger and the moneyless--the poor and the lame--the halt and the blind--and unceasingly send forth, during the fearful scourges which lay waste this ill-fated city, angels of mercy in human forms to heal the sick--comfort the dying--bind up the broken-hearted--feed the hungry, and clothe the naked--in these institutions--the ever living monuments of her humanity--New-Orleans, reviled as she has been abroad, holds a high rank among the cities of Christendom. An original and able writer, with one or two extracts from whom I will conclude this letter, in allusion to this city says--"the French here, as elsewhere, display their characteristic urbanity and politeness, and are the same gay, dancing, spectacle-loving people, that they are found to be in every other place. There is, no doubt, much gambling and dissipation practised here, and different licensed gambling houses pay a large tax for their licenses. Much has been said abroad about the profligacy of manners and morals here. Amidst such a multitude, composed in a great measure of the low people of all nations, there must of course be much debauchery and low vice. But all the disgusting forms of vice, debauchery and drunkenness, are assorted together in their own place. Each man has an elective attraction to men of his own standing and order. "This city necessarily exercises a very great influence over all the western country. There is no distinguished merchant, or planter, or farmer, in the Mississippi valley, who has not made at least one trip to this place. Here they see acting at the French and American theatres. Here they go to see at least, if not to take a part in, the pursuits of the "roulette and temple of Fortune." Here they come from the remote and isolated points of the west to behold the "city lions," and learn the ways of men in great towns; and they necessarily carry back an impression, from what they have seen, and heard. It is of inconceivable importance to the western country, that New-Orleans should be enlightened, moral, and religious. It has a numerous and respectable corps of professional men, and issues a considerable number of well edited papers. "The police of the city is at once mild and energetic. Notwithstanding the multifarious character of the people, collected from every country and every climate, notwithstanding the multitude of boatmen and sailors, notwithstanding the mass of the people that rushes along the streets is of the most incongruous materials, there are fewer broils and quarrels here than in almost any other city. The municipal and the criminal courts are prompt in administering justice, and larcenies and broils are effectually punished without any just grounds of complaint about the "law's delay." On the whole we conclude, that the morals of those people, who profess to have any degree of self-respect, are not behind those of the other cities of the Union. "Much has been said abroad, in regard to the unhealthiness of this city; and the danger of a residence here for an unacclimated person has been exaggerated. This circumstance, more than all others, has retarded its increase. The chance of an unacclimated young man from the north, for surviving the first summer, is by some considered only as one to two. Unhappily, when the dog-star is in the sky, there is but too much probability that the epidemic will sweep the place with the besom of destruction. Hundreds of the unacclimated poor from the north, and more than half from Ireland, fall victims to it. But the city is now furnished with noble water works; and is in this way supplied with the healthy and excellent water of the river. Very great improvements have been recently made and are constantly making, in paving the city, in removing the wooden sewers, and replacing them by those of stone. The low places, where the waters used to stagnate, are drained, or filled up. Tracts of swamp about the town are also draining, or filling up; and this work, constantly pursued, will probably contribute more to the salubrity of the city, than all the other efforts to this end united." XXII. A drive into the country--Pleasant road--Charming villa --Children at play--Governess--Diversities of society-- Education in Louisiana--Visit to a sugar-house--Description of sugar-making, &c.--A plantation scene--A planter's grounds--Children--Trumpeter--Pointer--Return to the city. This is the last day of my sojourn in the great emporium of the south-west. To-morrow will find me threading the majestic sinuosities of the Mississippi, the prisoner of one of its mammoth steamers, on my way to the state whose broad fields and undulating hills are annually whitened with the fleece-like cotton, and whose majestic forests glitter with the magnificent and silvery magnolia--where the men are chivalrous, generous, and social, and the women so lovely, ---- "that the same lips and eyes They wear on earth will serve in Paradise." A gentleman to whom I brought a letter of introduction called yesterday--a strange thing for men so honoured to do--and invited me to ride with him to his plantation, a few miles from the city. He drove his own phaeton, which was drawn by two beautiful long-tailed bays. After a drive of a mile and a half, we cleared the limits of the straggling, and apparently interminable faubourgs, and, emerging through a long narrow street upon the river road, bounded swiftly over its level surface, which was as smooth as a bowling-green--saving a mud-hole now and then, where a crevasse had let in upon it a portion of the Mississippi. An hour's drive, after clearing the suburbs, past a succession of isolated villas, encircled by slender columns and airy galleries, and surrounded by richly foliaged gardens, whose fences were bursting with the luxuriance which they could scarcely confine, brought us in front of a charming residence situated at the head of a broad, gravelled avenue, bordered by lemon and orange trees, forming in the heat of summer, by arching naturally overhead, a cool and shady promenade. We drew up at the massive gateway and alighted. As we entered the avenue, three or four children were playing at its farther extremity, with noise enough for Christmas holidays; two of them were trundling hoops in a race, and a third sat astride of a non-locomotive wooden horse, waving a tin sword, and charging at half a dozen young slaves, who were testifying their bellicose feelings by dancing and shouting around him with the noisiest merriment. "Pa! pa!" shouted the hoop-drivers as they discovered our approach--"Oh, there's pa!" re-echoed the pantalette dragoon, dismounting from his dull steed, and making use of his own chubby legs as the most speedy way of advancing, "oh, my papa!"--and, sword and hoops in hand, down they all came upon the run to meet us, followed helter-skelter by their ebony troop, who scattered the gravel around them like hail as they raced, turning summersets over each other, without much diminution of their speed. They came down upon us altogether with such momentum, that we were like to be carried from our feet by this novel charge of _infantry_ and laid _hors du combat_, upon the ground. The playful and affectionate congratulations over between the noble little fellows and their parent, we walked toward the house, preceded by our trundlers, with the young soldier hand-in-hand between us, followed close behind by the little Africans, whose round shining eyes glistened wishfully--speaking as plainly as eyes could speak the strong desire, with which their half-naked limbs evidently sympathized by their restless motions, to bound ahead, contrary to decorum, "wid de young massas!" Around the semi-circular flight of steps, ascending to the piazza of the dwelling,--the columns of which were festooned with the golden jasmine and luxuriant multiflora,--stood, in large green vases, a variety of flowers, among which I observed the tiny flowerets of the diamond myrtle, sparkling like crystals of snow, scattered upon rich green leaves--the dark foliaged Arabian jasmine silvered with its opulently-leaved flowers redolent of the sweetest perfume,--and the rose-geranium, breathing gales of fragrance upon the air. From this point the main avenue branches to the right and left, into narrower, yet not less beautiful walks, which, lined with evergreen and flowering shrubs, completely encircled the cottage. At the head of the flight of steps which led from this Hesperean spot to the portico, we were met by a little golden-haired fairy, as light in her motion as a zephyr, and with a cheek--not alabaster, indeed, for that is an exotic in the south--but like a lily, shaded by a rose leaf, and an eye of the purest hue, melting in its own light. With an exclamation of delight she sprang into her father's arms. I was soon seated upon one of the settees in the piazza,--whose front and sides were festooned by the folds of a green curtain--in a high frolic with the trundlers, the dismounted dragoon and my little winged zephyr. You know my _penchant_ for children's society. I am seldom happier than when watching a group of intelligent and beautiful little ones at play. For those who can in after life enter _con amore_, into the sports of children, tumble with and be tumbled about by them, it is like living their childhood over again. Every romp with them is death to a score of gray hairs. Their games, moreover, present such a contrast to the rougher contests of bearded children in the game of life, where money, power, and ambition are the stake, that it is refreshing to look at them and mingle with them, even were it only to realize that human nature yet retains something of its divine original. The proprietor of the delightful spot which lay spread out around me--a lake of foliage--fringed by majestic forest trees, and diversified with labyrinthyne walks,--had, the preceding summer, consigned to the tomb the mother of his "beautiful ones." They were under the care of a dignified lady, his sister, and the widow of a gentleman formerly distinguished as a lawyer in New-England. But like many other northern ladies, whose names confer honour upon our literature, and whose talents elevate and enrich our female seminaries of education, she had independence enough to rise superior to her widowed indigence; and had prepared to open a boarding school at the north, when the death of his wife led her wealthier brother to invite her to supply a mother's place to his children, to whom she was now both mother and governess. The history of this lady is that of hundreds of her country-women. There are, I am informed, many instances in the south-west, of New-England's daughters having sought, with the genuine spirit of independence, thus to repair their broken fortunes. The intelligent and very agreeable lady of the late President H., of Lexington, resides in the capacity of governess in a distinguished Louisianian family, not far from the city. Mrs. Thayer, formerly an admired poet and an interesting writer of fiction, is at the head of a seminary in an adjoining state. And in the same, the widow of the late president of its college is a private instructress in the family of a planter. And these are instances, to which I can add many others, in a country where the occupation of instructing, whether invested in the president of a college or in the teacher of a country school, is degraded to a secondary rank. In New-England, on the contrary, the lady of a living collegiate president is of the élite, decidedly, if not at the head, of what is there termed "good society." Here, the same lady, whether a visiter for the winter, or a settled resident, must yield in rank--as the laws of southern society have laid it down--to the lady of the planter. The southerners, however, when they can secure one of our well-educated northern ladies in their families, know well how to appreciate their good fortune. Inmates of the family, they are treated with politeness and kindness; but in the soirée, dinner party, or levée, the governess is thrown more into the back-ground than she would be in a gentleman's family, even in aristocratic England; and her title to an equality with the gay, and fashionable, and wealthy circle by whom she is surrounded, and her challenge to the right of _caste_, is less readily admitted. But this illiberal jealousy is the natural consequence of the crude state of American society, where the line of demarcation between its rapidly forming classes is yet so uncertainly defined, that each individual who is anxious to be, or even to be thought, of the better file, has to walk circumspectly, lest he should inadvertently be found mingling with the _canaille_. The more uncertain any individual is of his own true standing, the more haughtily and suspiciously will he stand aloof, and measure with his eye every stranger who advances within the limits of the prescribed circle. Education in this state has been and is still very much neglected. Appropriations have been made for public schools; but, from the fund established for the purpose, not much has as yet been effected. Many of the males, after leaving the city-schools, or the care of tutors, are sent, if destined for a professional career, to the northern colleges; others to the Catholic institutions at St. Louis and Bardstown, and a few of the wealthier young gentlemen to France. The females are educated, either by governesses, at the convents, or at northern boarding-schools. Many of them are sent to Paris when very young, and there remain until they have completed their education. The majority of the higher classes of the French population are brought up there. This custom of foreign education--like that in the Atlantic states, under the old regime, when, to be educated a gentleman, it was considered necessary for American youth to enter at Eton, and graduate from Oxford or Cambridge--must have a very natural tendency to preserve and cherish an attachment for France, seriously detrimental to genuine patriotism.--But all this is a digression. After a kind of bachelor's dinner, in a hall open on two sides for ventilation, even at this season of the year--sumptuous enough for Epicurus, and served by two or three young slaves, who were drilled to a glance of the eye--crowned by a luxurious dessert of fruits and sweet-meats, and graced with wine, not of the _chasse-cousin vintage_, so common in New England, but of the pure _outre-mer_--we proceeded to the sugar-house or _sucrérie_, through a lawn which nearly surrounded the ornamental grounds about the house, studded here and there with lofty trees, which the good taste of the original proprietor of the domain had left standing in their forest majesty. From this rich green sward, on which two or three fine saddle-horses were grazing, we passed through a turn-stile into a less lovely, but more domestic enclosure, alive with young negroes, sheep, turkeys, hogs, and every variety of domestic animal that could be attached to a plantation. From this diversified collection, which afforded a tolerable idea of the interior of Noah's ark, we entered the long street of a village of white cottages, arranged on either side of it with great regularity. They were all exactly alike, and separated by equal spaces; and to every one was attached an enclosed piece of ground, apparently for a vegetable garden; around the doors decrepit and superannuated negroes were basking in the evening sun--mothers were nursing their naked babies, and one or two old and blind negresses were spinning in their doors. In the centre of the street, which was a hundred yards in width, rose to the height of fifty feet a framed belfry, from whose summit was suspended a bell, to regulate the hours of labour. At the foot of this tower, scattered over the grass, lay half a score of black children, _in puris naturalibus_, frolicking or sleeping in the warm sun, under the surveillance of an old African matron, who sat knitting upon a camp-stool in the midst of them. We soon arrived at the boiling-house, which was an extensive brick building with tower-like chimneys, numerous flues, and a high, steep roof, reminding me of a New England distillery. As we entered, after scaling a barrier of sugar-casks with which the building was surrounded, the slaves, who were dressed in coarse trowsers, some with and others without shirts, were engaged in the several departments of their sweet employment; whose fatigues some African Orpheus was lightening with a loud chorus, which was instantly hushed, or rather modified, on our entrance, to a half-assured whistling. A white man, with a very unpleasing physiognomy, carelessly leaned against one of the brick pillars, who raised his hat very respectfully as we passed, but did not change his position. This was the overseer. He held in his hand a short-handled whip, loaded in the butt, which had a lash four or five times the length of the staff. Without noticing us, except when addressed by his employer, he remained watching the motions of the toiling slaves, quickening the steps of a loiterer by a word, or threatening with his whip, those who, tempted by curiosity, turned to gaze after us, as we walked through the building. The process of sugar-making has been so often described by others, that I can offer nothing new or interesting upon the subject. But since my visit to this plantation, I have fallen in with an ultra-montane tourist or sketcher, a fellow-townsman and successful practitioner of medicine in Louisiana, who has kindly presented me with the sheet of an unpublished MS. which I take pleasure in transcribing, for the very graphic and accurate description it conveys of this interesting process. "The season of sugar-making," says Dr. P. "is termed, by the planters of the south, the 'rolling season;' and a merry and pleasant time it is too--for verily, as Paulding says, the making of sugar and the making of love are two of the sweetest occupations in this world. It commences--the making of sugar I mean--about the middle or last of October, and continues from three weeks to as many months, according to the season and other circumstances; but more especially the force upon the plantation, and the amount of sugar to be made. As the season approaches, every thing assumes a new and more cheerful aspect. The negroes are more animated, as their winter clothing is distributed, their little crops are harvested, and their wood and other comforts secured for that season; which, to them, if not the freest, is certainly the gayest and happiest portion of the year. As soon as the corn crop and fodder are harvested, every thing is put in motion for the grinding. The horses and oxen are increased in number and better groomed; the carts and other necessary utensils are overhauled and repaired, and some hundred or thousand cords of wood are cut and ready piled for the manufacture of the sugar. The _sucrérie_, or boiling house, is swept and garnished--the mill and engine are polished--the kettles scoured--the coolers caulked, and the _purgerie_, or draining-house, cleaned and put in order, where the casks are arranged to receive the sugar. The first labour in anticipation of grinding, is that of providing plants for the coming year; and this is done by cutting the cane, and putting it in _matelas_, or mattressing it, as it is commonly called. The cane is cut and thrown into parcels in different parts of the field, in quantities sufficient to plant several acres, and so arranged that the tops of one layer may completely cover and protect the stalks of another. After the quantity required is thus secured, the whole plantation force, nearly, is employed in cutting cane, and conveying it to the mill. The cane is divested of its tops, which are thrown aside, unless they are needed for plants, which is often the case, when they are thrown together in rows, and carefully protected from the inclemencies of the weather. The stalks are then cut as near as may be to the ground, and thrown into separate parcels or rows, to be taken to the mill in carts, and expressed as soon as possible. The cane is sometimes bound together in bundles, in the field, which facilitates its transportation, and saves both time and trouble. As soon as it is harvested, it is placed upon a cane-carrier, so called, which conveys it to the mill, where it is twice expressed between iron rollers, and made perfectly dry. The juice passes into vats, or receivers, and the _baggasse_ or cane-trash, (called in the West Indies _migass_,) is received into carts and conveyed to a distance from the sugar-house to be burnt as soon as may be. Immediately after the juice is expressed, it is distributed to the boilers, generally four in succession, ranged in solid masonry along the sides of the boiling-room, where it is properly tempered, and its purification and evaporation are progressively advanced. The French have commonly five boilers, distinguished by the fanciful names of _grande_--_propre_--_flambeau_--_sirop_, and _battérie_. In the first an alkali is generally put to temper the juice; lime is commonly used, and the quantity is determined by the good judgment and experience of the sugar-maker. In the last kettle--the _teach_ as it is termed--the sugar is concentrated to the granulating point, and then conveyed into coolers, which hold from two to three hogsheads. After remaining here for twenty-four hours or more, it is removed to the _purgerie_, or draining-house, and placed in hogsheads, which is technically called _potting_. Here it undergoes the process of draining for a few days or weeks, and is then ready for the market. The molasses is received beneath in cisterns, and when they become filled, it is taken out and conveyed into barrels or hogsheads and shipped. When all the molasses is removed from the cistern, an inferior kind of sugar is re-manufactured, which is called _cistern-sugar_, and sold at a lower price. When the grinding has once commenced, there is no cessation of labour till it is completed. From beginning to end, a busy and cheerful scene continues. The negroes "---- Whose sore task Does not divide the Sunday from the week," work from eighteen to twenty hours, "And make the night joint-labourer with the day." Though to lighten the burden as much as possible, the gang is divided into two watches, one taking the first, and the other the last part of the night; and notwithstanding this continued labour, the negroes improve in condition, and appear fat and flourishing. "They drink freely of cane-juice, and the sickly among them revive and become robust and healthy." After the grinding is finished, the negroes have several holidays, when they are quite at liberty to dance and frolic as much as they please; and the cane-song--which is improvised by one of the gang, the rest all joining in a prolonged and unintelligible chorus--now breaks night and day upon the ear, in notes "most musical, most melancholy." This over, planting recommences, and the same routine of labour is continued, with an intermission--except during the boiling season, as above stated--upon most, if not all plantations, of twelve hours in twenty-four, and of one day in seven throughout the year. Leaving the sugar-house, after having examined some of the most interesting parts of the process so well described by Dr. P., I returned with my polite entertainer to the house. Lingering for a moment on the gallery in the rear of the dwelling-house, I dwelt with pleasure upon the scene which the domain presented. The lawn, terminated by a snow-white paling, and ornamented here and there by a venerable survivor of the aboriginal forest, was rolled out before me like a carpet, and dotted with sleek cows, and fine horses, peacefully grazing, or indolently reclining upon the thick grass, chewing the cud of contentment. Beyond the lawn, and extending farther into the plantation, lay a pasture containing a great number of horses and cattle, playing together, reposing, feeding, or standing in social clusters around a shaded pool. Beyond, the interminable cane-field, or plantation proper, spread away without fence or swell, till lost in the distant forests which bounded the horizon. On my left, a few hundred yards from the house, and adjoining the pasture, stood the stables and other plantation appurtenances, constituting a village in themselves--for planters always have a separate building for everything. To the right stood the humble yet picturesque village or "quarter" of the slaves, embowered in trees, beyond which, farther toward the interior of the plantation, arose the lofty walls and turreted chimneys of the sugar-house, which, combined with the bell-tower, presented the appearance of a country village with its church-tower and the walls of some public edifice, lifting themselves above the trees. Some of the sugar-houses are very lofty and extensive, with noble wings and handsome fronts, resembling--aside from their lack of windows--college edifices. I have seen two which bore a striking resemblance, as seen from the river, to the Insane Hospital near Boston. It requires almost a fortune to construct one. The whole scene before me was extremely animated. Human figures were moving in all directions over the place. Some labouring in the distant field, others driving the slow-moving oxen, with a long, drawling cry--half naked negro boys shouting and yelling, were galloping horses as wild as themselves--negresses of all sizes, from one able to carry a tub to the minikin who could "tote" but a pint-dipper, laughing and chattering as they went, were conveying water from a spring to the wash-house, in vessels adroitly balanced upon their heads. Slaves sinking under pieces of machinery, and other burdens, were passing and repassing from the boiling-house and negro quarter. Some were calling to others afar off, and the merry shouts of the black children at their sports in their village, reminding me of a school just let out, mingled with the lowing of cows, the cackling of geese, the bleating of lambs, the loud and unmusical clamour of the guinea-hen, agreeably varied by the barking of dogs, and the roaring of some young African rebel under maternal castigation. Passing from this plantation scene through the airy hall of the dwelling, which opened from piazza to piazza through the house, to the front gallery, whose light columns were wreathed with the delicately leaved Cape-jasmine, rambling woodbine and honeysuckle, a lovelier and more agreeable scene met my eye. I stood almost embowered in the foliage of exotics and native plants, which stood upon the gallery in handsome vases of marble and China-ware. The main avenue opened a vista to the river through a paradise of althea, orange, lemon, and olive trees, and groves and lawns extended on both sides of this lovely spot, "Where Flora's brightest broidery shone," terminating at the villas of adjoining plantations. The Mississippi--always majestic and lake-like in its breadth--rolled past her turbid flood, dotted here and there by a market-lugger, with its black crew and clumsy sails. By the Levée, on the opposite shore, lay a brig, taking in a cargo of sugar from the plantation, whose noble colonnaded mansion rose like a palace above its low, grove-lined margin, and an English argosy of great size, with black spars and hull, was moving under full sail down the middle of the river. As I was under the necessity of returning to the city the same evening, I took leave of the youthful family of my polite host, who clustered around us as we walked along the avenue to the gateway, endeavouring to detain us till the next morning. The young rogue of a dragoon, who was now metamorphosed into a trumpeter--what a singular propensity little chubby boys have for the weapons and apparel of war!--a most mischievous little cupidon of but two or three summers' growth, was very desirous of accompanying us to town, on seeing us seated in the carriage; but finding that his eloquent appeals were unheeded, he took a fancy to a noble pointer, spotted like a leopard, which accompanied me, and clinging around the neck of the majestic and docile creature, as we drove from the gate, said in a half playful, half pettish tone, "Me ride dis pretty dog-horse, den." The sensible animal stood like a statue till the little fellow relaxed his embrace, when he darted after the carriage, then a quarter of a mile from the gate, bounding like a stag. The cries of "Pa, bring me this," and "Pa, bring me that," were soon lost in the distance, and rolling like the wind over the level road along the banks of the river, we arrived in the city and alighted at Bishop's a few minutes after seven. XXIII. Leave New-Orleans--The Mississippi--Scenery--Evening on the water--Scenes on the deck of a steamer--Passengers-- Plantations--Farm-houses--Catholic college--Convent of the Sacred Heart--Caged birds--Donaldsonville--The first highland--Baton Rouge--Its appearance--Barracks--Scenery --Squatters--Fort Adams--Way passengers--Steamer. Once more I am floating upon the "Father of rivers." New-Orleans, with its crowd of "mingled nations", is seen indistinctly in the distance. We are now doubling a noble bend in the river, which will soon hide the city from our sight; but scenes of rural enchantment are opening before us as we advance, which will amply and delightfully repay us for its absence. What a splendid panorama of opulence and beauty is now spread out around us! Sublimity is wanting to make the painting perfect--but its picturesque effect is unrivalled. Below us a few miles, indistinctly seen through the haze, a dense forest of masts, and here and there a tower, designate the emporium of commerce--the key of the mighty west. The banks are lined and ornamented with elegant mansions, displaying, in their richly adorned grounds, the wealth and taste of their possessors; while the river, now moving onward like a golden flood, reflecting the mellow rays of the setting sun, is full of life. Vessels of every size are gliding in all directions over its waveless bosom, while graceful skiffs dart merrily about like white-winged birds. Huge steamers are dashing and thundering by, leaving long trains of wreathing smoke in their rear. Carriages filled with ladies and attended by gallant horsemen, enliven the smooth road along the Levée; while the green banks of the Levée itself are covered with gay promenaders. A glimpse through the trees now and then, as we move rapidly past the numerous villas, detects the piazzas, filled with the young, beautiful, and aged of the family, enjoying the rich beauty of the evening, and of the objects upon which my own eyes rest with admiration. The scene has changed. The moon rides high in the east, while the western star hangs trembling in the path of the sun. Innumerable lights twinkle along the shores, or flash out from some vessel as we glide rapidly past. How exhilarating to be upon the water by moonlight! But a snow-white sail, a graceful barque, and a woodland lake--with a calm, clear, moonlight, sleeping upon it like a blessing--must be marshalled for poetical effect. There is nothing of that here. Quiet and romance are lost in sublimity, if not in grandeur. The great noise of rushing waters--the deep-toned booming of the steamer--the fearful rapidity with which we are borne past the half-obscured objects on shore and in the stream--the huge columns of black smoke rolling from the mouths of the gigantic chimneys, and spangled with showers of sparks, flying like trains of meteors shooting through the air; while a proud consciousness of the power of the dark hull beneath your feet, which plunges, thundering onward--a thing of majesty and life--adds to the majesty and wonder of the time. The passengers have descended to the cabin; some to turn in, a few to read, but more to play at the ever-ready card-table. The pilot (as the helmsman is here termed) stands in his lonely wheel-house, comfortably enveloped in his blanket-coat--the hurricane deck is deserted, and the hands are gathered in the bows, listening to the narration of some ludicrous adventure of recent transaction in the city of hair-breadth escapes. Now and then a laugh from the merry auditors, or a loud roar from some ebony-cheeked fireman, as he pitches his wood into the gaping furnace, breaks upon the stillness of night, startling the echoes along the shores. What beings of habit we are! How readily do we accustom ourselves to circumstances! The deep trombone of the steam-pipe--the regular splash of the paddles--and the incessant rippling of the water eddying away astern, as our noble vessel flings it from her sides, no longer affect the senses, unless it may be to lull them into a repose well meant for contemplation. They are now no longer auxiliaries to the scene--habit has made them a part of it: and I can pace the deck with my mind as free and undisturbed as though I were in a lonely boat, upon "the dark blue sea", with no sound but the beating of my own heart, to break the silence. A few short hours have passed, and the grander characters of the scene are mellowed down, by their familiarity with my senses, into calm and quiet loneliness. Having secured a berth in one corner of the spacious cabin, where I could draw the rich crimsoned curtains around me, and with book or pen pass my time somewhat removed from the bustle, and undisturbed by the constant passing of the restless passengers, I began this morning to look about me upon my fellow-travellers, seeking familiar faces, or scanning strange ones, by Lavater's doubtful rules. Our passengers are a strange medley, not only representing every state and territory washed by this great river, but nearly every Atlantic and trans-Atlantic state and nation. In the cabin are the merchants and planters of the "up country;" and on deck, emigrants, return-boatmen, &c. &c. I may say something more of them hereafter, but not at present, as the scenery through which we are passing is too attractive to keep me longer below. So, to the deck. We are now about sixty miles above New-Orleans, and the shores have presented, the whole distance, one continued line of noble mansions, some of them princely and magnificent, intermingled, at intervals, with humbler farm-houses. I think I have remarked, in a former letter, that the plantations along the river extend from the Levée to the swamps in the rear; the distance across the belt of land being, from the irregular encroachment of the marshes, from one to two or three miles. These plantations have been, for a very long period, under cultivation for the production of sugar crops. As the early possessor of large tracts of land had sons to settle, they portioned off parallelograms to each; which, to combine the advantages of exportation and wood, extended from the river to the flooded forest in the rear. These, in time, portioned off to their children, while every occupant of a tract erected his dwelling at the head of his domain, one or two hundred yards from the river. Other plantations retain their original dimensions, crowned, on the borders of the river, with noble mansions, embowered in the evergreen foliage of the dark-leaved orange and lemon trees. The shores, consequently, present, from the lofty deck of a steamer,--from which can be had an extensive prospect of the level country--a very singular appearance. Farm-houses thickly set, or now and then separated by a prouder structure, line the shores with tasteful parterres and shady trees around them; while parallel lines of fence, commencing at these cottages, frequently but a few rods apart, extend away into the distance, till the numerous lines dwindle apparently to a point, and present the appearance of radii diverging from one common centre. A planter thus may have a plantation a league in length, though not a furlong in breadth. The regularity of these lines, the flatness of the country, and the _fac simile_ farm-houses, render the scenery in general rather monotonous; though some charming spots, that might have been stolen from Paradise, fully atone for the wearisome character of the rest. We have passed several Catholic churches, prettily situated, surrounded by the white monuments of the dead. On our right, the lofty walls of a huge edifice, just completed, and intended for a university, rear themselves in the midst of a vast plain, once an extensive sugar plantation. This embryo institution is under state patronage. It is a noble brick building, advantageously situated for health, beauty, and convenience; and calculated, from its vast size, to accommodate a large number of students. It is to be of a sectarian character, devoted, I understand, to the interest of the Roman church. A mile above, the towers and crosses of a pile of buildings, half hidden by a majestic grove of noble forest trees, attract the attention of the traveller. They are the convent du Sacré Coeur,--the nursery of the fair daughters of Louisiana. There are two large buildings, exclusive of the chapel and the residence of the officiating priest. The site is eminently beautiful, and, compared with the general tameness of the scenery in this region, romantic. A padre, in his long black gown, is promenading the Levée, and the windows of the convent are relieved by the presence of figures, which, the spy-glass informs us, are those of the fair prisoners; who, perhaps with many a sigh, are watching the rapid motion of our boat, with its busy, bustling scene on board, contrasting it with their incarcerated state, probably inducing reflections of a melancholy cast, with ardent aspirations for the "wings of a dove." The education of females is well attended to in this state; though the peculiar doctrines of the Roman Catholic church are inculcated with their tasks. The villages of Plaquemine and Donaldsonville, the latter formerly the seat of government, are pleasant, quiet, and rural. The latter is distinguished by a dilapidated state-house, which lifts itself above the humbler dwellings around it, and adds much to the importance and beauty of the town in the eye of the traveller as he sails past. But the streets of the village are solitary; and closed stores and deserted taverns add to their loneliness. Between New-Orleans and Baton Rouge, a distance of one hundred and seventeen miles, the few villages upon the river all partake, more or less, of this humble and dilapidated character. Baton Rouge is now in sight, a few miles above. As we approach it the character of the scene changes. Hills once more relieve the eye, so long wearied with gazing upon a flat yet beautiful country. These are the first hills that gladden the sight of the traveller as he ascends the river. They are to the northerner like oases in a desert. How vividly and how agreeably does the sight of their green slopes, and graceful undulations, conjure up the loved and heart-cherished scenes of home! We are now nearly opposite the town, which is pleasantly situated upon the declivity of the hill, retreating over its brow and spreading out on a plain in the rear, where the private dwellings are placed, shaded and half embowered in the rich foliage of that loveliest of all shade-trees, "the pride of China." The stores and other places of business are upon the front street, which runs parallel with the river. The site of the town is about forty feet above the highest flood, and rises by an easy and gentle swell from the water. The barracks, a short distance from the village, are handsome and commodious, constructed around a pentagonal area--four noble buildings forming four sides, while the fifth is open, fronting upon the river. The buildings are brick, with lofty colonnades and double galleries running along the whole front. The columns are yellow-stuccoed, striking the eye with a more pleasing effect, than the red glare of brick. The view of these noble structures from the river, as we passed, was very fine. From the esplanade there is an extensive and commanding prospect of the inland country--the extended shores, stretching out north and south, dotted with elegant villas, and richly enamelled by their high state of cultivation. The officers are gentlemanly men, and form a valuable acquisition to the society of the neighbourhood. This station must be to them an agreeable sinecure. The town, from the hasty survey which I was enabled to make of it, must be a delightful residence. It is neat and well built; the French and Spanish style of architecture prevails. The view of the town from the deck of the steamer is highly beautiful. The rich, green swells rising gradually from the water--its pleasant streets, bordered with the umbrageous China tree--its colonnaded dwellings--its mingled town and rural scenery, and its pleasant suburbs, give it an air of quiet and novel beauty, such as one loves to gaze upon in old landscapes which the imagination fills with ideal images of its own. The scenery now partakes of another character. The rich plantations, waving with green and golden crops of cane, are succeeded here and there by a cotton plantation, but more generally by untrodden forests, hanging over the banks, which are now for a hundred miles of one uniform character and height--being about twenty feet above the highest floods. Now and then a "squatter's" hut, instead of relieving, adds to the wild and dreary character of the scene. This class of men with their families, are usually in a most wretched and squalid condition. As they live exposed to the fatal, poisonous miasma of the swamp, their complexions are cadaverous, and their persons wasted by disease. They sell wood to the steamboats for a means of subsistence--seldom cultivating what little cleared land there may be around them. There are exceptions to this, however. Many become eventually purchasers of the tracts on which they are settled, and lay foundations for fine estates and future independence. Loftus's height, a striking eminence crowned by Fort Adams, appears in the distance. It is a cluster of cliffs and hills nearly two hundred feet in height. The old fort can just be discerned with a glass, surmounting a natural platform, half way up the side of the most prominent hill. The works present the appearance of a few green mounds, and though defaced by time, still bear evidence of having been a military post. The position is highly commanding and romantic. The scenery around would be termed striking, even in Maine, that romantic land of rocks, and cliffs, and mountains. A small village is at the base of the hills, containing a few stores. Cotton is exported hence, and steamers are now at the landing taking it in. As we were passing the place on our way up the river, a white signal was displayed from a pole held by some one standing on the shore. In a few moments we came abreast of the fort, and in obedience to the fluttering signal, our steamer rounded gracefully to, and put her jolly boat off for the expected passengers. The boat had scarcely touched the bank, before the boatmen at one leap gained the baggage which lay piled upon the Levée, and tumbling it helter-skelter into the bottom of the boat, as though for life and death, called out, so as to be heard far above the deafening noise of the rushing steam as it hissed from the pipe, "Come gentlemen, come, the boat's a-waiting." The new passengers had barely time to pass into the boat and balance themselves erect upon the thwarts, before, impelled by the nervous arms of the boatmen, she was cutting her way through the turbid waves to the steamer, which had been kept in her position against the strong current of the river, by an occasional revolution of her wheels. The instant she struck her side the boat was cleared immediately of "bag and baggage," at the "risk of the owners" truly--and the hurrying passengers had hardly gained a footing upon the guard, before the loud, brief command, "go ahead," was heard, followed by the tinkling of the engineer's bell, the dull groaning of the ponderous, labouring engine, and the heavy dash of the water, as strongly beaten by the vast fins of this huge "river monster." APPENDIX NOTE A--_Page 73._ The following STATISTICAL TABLES, exhibiting Louisiana in a variety of comparative views, have been compiled principally from the elaborate tables of that valuable periodical--the American Almanac and Repository of Useful Knowledge--for the year 1835. LOUISIANA. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Latitude of New-Orleans, 29° 57' 45" North. Longitude in degrees, 90 60 49 West. _h. m. s._ " in time, 6 0 27.3 Distance from Washington, 1203 miles. -----------------------------------+---------------------------------- Relative size of Louisiana, 5. | Extent in square miles, 45,220. -----------------------------------+---------------------------------- NUMBER OF INHABITANTS TO A SQUARE MILE. -----------------------+-----------------------+---------------------- In 1810. | In 1820. | In 1830. -----------------------+-----------------------+---------------------- 1.6 | 3.2 | 4.4 -----------------------+-----------------------+---------------------- RELATIVE POPULATION. -----------------------+-----------------------+---------------------- In 1810. | In 1820. | In 1830. -------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+------+-------+------- Free | Slave | Total | Free | Slave | Total | Free | Slave | Total -------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+------+-------+------- 18 | 8 | 17 | 19 | 8 | 17 | 21 | 8 | 19 -------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+------+-------+------- RATE OF INCREASE OF FREE AND SLAVE POPULATION. -----------------------+-----------------------+---------------------- From 1800 to 1810. | From 1810 to 1820. | From 1820 to 1830. -------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+------+-------+------- Free | Slave | Total | Free | Slave | Total | Free | Slave | Total -------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+------+-------+------- | | | | |_p.ct._| | | | | | 373 | 2193.7| 636 | 25.8| 58.7 | 40.6 -------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+------+-------+------- POPULATION OF LOUISIANA IN 1810. -------------+--------------+---------------------------+------------- Free | Slaves | No. of free to 1 slave | Total -------------+--------------+---------------------------+------------- 41,896 | 34,660 | 1.20 | 76,556 -------------+--------------+---------------------------+------------- In 1820. -------------+--------------+---------------------------+------------- 84,343 | 69,064 | 1.22 | 153,407 -------------+--------------+---------------------------+------------- In 1830. -------------+--------------+---------------------------+------------- 106,151 | 109,588 | .96 | 215,739 -------------+--------------+---------------------------+------------- VALUE OF IMPORTS IN THE YEAR ENDING SEPTEMBER 30, 1833. -----------------------+-----------------------+---------------------- In American vessels | In foreign vessels | Total -----------------------+-----------------------+---------------------- $ 6,658,916 | $ 2,931,589 | $ 9,590,505 -----------------------+-----------------------+---------------------- VALUE OF EXPORTS IN THE SAME YEAR. -----------------------+-----------------------+---------------------- | | Total of Domestic Domestic Produce | Foreign Produce | and Foreign Produce -----------------------+-----------------------+---------------------- $16,133,457 | $2,807,916 | $18,941,373 -----------------------+-----------------------+---------------------- Tonnage, 1st January, 1834--61,171 Tons. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- GOVERNMENT. _Salary._ EDWARD D. WHITE, Governor (elect); Jan. 1835 to Jan. 1839 $ 7,500 GEORGE EUSTIS, Secretary of State 2,500 F. GARDERE, Treasurer; 4 per cent. on all moneys received. LOUIS BRINGIER, Surveyor General 800 CLAUDIUS CROZET, Civil Engineer 5,000 F. GAIENNIE, Adjutant and Inspector General 2,000 E. MAZUREAU, Attorney General 2,000 Senate, 17 members, elected for two years. C. DERBIGNY, President. House of Representatives, 50 members, elected for two years. A. Labranche, Speaker. JUDICIARY. Judges of the Supreme Court.--GEORGE MATTHEWS, FRANCIS X. MARTIN, and HENRY A. BULLARD. Salary of each, $5,000. Judge of the Criminal Court of the City of New-Orleans.--JOHN F. CANONGE. Judges of the District Courts.--Salary of each $2,000. CHARLES WATTS, 1st district. BENJAMIN WINCHESTER, 2d do. CHARLES BUSHNELL, 3d do. R. N. OGDEN, 4th do. SETH LEWIS, 5th do. J. H. JOHNSON, 6th do. J. H. OVERTON, 7th do. CLARK WOODRUFF, 8th do. The Supreme Court sits in the city of New-Orleans, for the Eastern district of the state during the months of November, December, January, February, March, April, May, June, and July; and for the Northern district, at Opelousas and Attakapas, during the months of August, September, and October; and at Baton Rouge, commencing the 1st Monday in August. The district courts, with the exception of the courts in the first district, hold, in each parish, two sessions during the year, to try causes originally instituted before them, and appeals from the parish courts. The parish courts hold their regular sessions in each parish on the first Monday in each month. The courts in the first district, composed of the district, parish, and criminal courts, and courts of probate, are in session during the whole year, excepting the months of July, August, September, and October, in which they hold special courts when necessary. BANKS. State of the banks, January 7, 1834, as given in a document laid before Congress, June 21, 1834. -----------------------------+---------------+------------+------------- NAME. | Capital | Bills in | Specie | stock paid |circulation.| and specie | in. | | funds. -----------------------------+---------------+------------+------------- Canal and Banking Company | 3,998,200 | 951,780 | 297,451 21 City Bank | 2,000,000 | 380,670 | 335,288 88 Commercial Bank | 817,835 | 145,000 | 135,903 73 Union bank of Louisiana | 5,500,000 | 1,281,000 | 291,587 87 Louisiana State Bank | 1,248,720 | 428,470 | 546,125 34 Consolidated Association Bank| 2,500,000 | 84,300 | 61,936 43 | ----------- | --------- |------------ | $16,064,755 | 3,271,230 |1,568,293 46 Estimated situation of the | | | following banks.--no returns.| | | Bank of Louisiana | 4,000,000 } | | Bank of Orleans | 600,000 } | | Citizens' Bank of Louisiana | 1,000,000 } | 1,522,500 | 650,000 00 Mechanics' and Traders' Bank | 2,000,000 } | | | ---------- | ---------- |------------ Total | $23,664,755 | 4,793,730 |2,218,293 46 -----------------------------+---------------+------------+------------- The Union Bank of Louisiana has branches at the following places, viz. Thiboudeauville, Covington, Marshville, Vermillionville, St. Martinsville, Plaquemine, Natchitoches, and Clinton. Interest. "Legal interest is 5 per cent. Conventional interest, as high as 10 per cent., is legal. Of our banks, none can charge higher than 9 per cent., and some of them not higher than 8. But if I lend $100, and the borrower gives me his note for $110, $120, $130, $140, or even $150, or more, with 10 per cent. interest from date, the law legalizes the transaction, and will not set aside any part of the claim on the plea of usury. In fact, money is considered here like any other article in the market, and the holder may ask what price he pleases for it." INSURANCE COMPANIES. Merchants' Insurance Company of New-Orleans $1,000,000 Phoenix Fire Insurance Co. of London--agent at New Orleans 1,000,000 Louisiana Slate Marine and File Insurance Co. 400,000 Western Marine and Fire Insurance Company 300,000 Louisiana Insurance Company 300,000 Mississippi Marine and Fire Insurance Company 300,000 New-Orleans Insurance Company 200,000 Pontchartrain Rail-road Company 250,000 Orleans Navigation Company 200,000 Barataria and Lafourche Canal Company 150,000 NEWSPAPERS. Louisiana was originally settled by the French; in 1762, it was ceded by France to Spain; near the end of the 18th century it was restored to France; in 1803, it was purchased by the United States; in 1804, the country now forming the state of Louisiana was formed into a territorial government under the name of the Territory of Orleans; and in 1812, it was admitted into the Union as a state. Mr. Thomas, in his "History of Printing," remarks "that several printing-houses were opened at New-Orleans, and several newspapers were immediately published there, after the country came under the government of the United States." The first paper published in New-Orleans was the "Moniteur de la Louisiana," a French paper, and edited by M. Fontaine. This was a government paper, issued at irregular intervals and at the discretion of the Spanish government. It was rather a vehicle of ordinances and public documents than a newspaper. In the year 1803 an enterprising New-Englander named Lyons--a son of the celebrated Mathew Lyons--who had been sent to New-Orleans with despatches from government, on arriving there, and ascertaining that there was no regular press in the city, applied to General Wilkinson for patronage to establish a weekly paper. Herein he was successful; but, except himself, there was not another printer in New-Orleans, journeyman or "devil." By some means, however, he learned that there were three young men[11] from the only printing office in Natchez, then belonging to the army, quartered in the city. He obtained their furlough from General Wilkinson--and obtaining the office of the "Moniteur," in a few weeks issued the first number of a paper entitled the "Union." To this in a few weeks succeeded the "Louisiana Courier," which, established in 1806, now holds a high rank in the army of periodicals, and is the oldest paper in the state. The number of newspapers in the Territory of Orleans in 1810, was 10, (two of them daily;) all in the city of New-Orleans. The number in Louisiana in 1828, was only nine. New-Orleans is the great centre of business and of publishing in this state. There are now published in New-Orleans seven daily papers, and 31 altogether in Louisiana. SUMMARY. The Governor of Louisiana is elected by the people. Term begins January, 1835, and expires January 1839. Duration of the term, four years. Salary $7,500. Senators, 17. Term of years, four. Representatives, 50. Term of years, two. Total--Senators and Representatives, 67. Pay per day, $4. Electors of president and vice president are chosen by general ticket. Seat of government--New-Orleans. Time of holding elections--first Monday in July. Time of meeting of the legislature--first Monday in January. Louisiana admitted into the Union in 1812. NOTE B--_Page 178._ "The State senators of Louisiana are elected for four years, one fourth vacating their seats annually. They must possess an estate of a thousand dollars in the parish, for which they are chosen. The representatives have a biennial term, and must possess 500 dollars' worth of property in the parish to be eligible. The governor is chosen for four years; and is ineligible for the succeeding term. His duties are the same, as in the other states, and his salary is 7,000 dollars a year. The judiciary powers are vested in a supreme and circuit court, together with a municipal court called the parish court.--The salaries are ample. The elective franchise belongs to every free white man of twenty-one years, and upward, who has had a residence of six months in the parish, and who has paid taxes. The code of laws, adopted by this state, is not what is called the "common law," which is the rule of judicial proceedings in all the other states, but the _civil law_, adopted, with some modifications, from the judicial canons of France and Spain. So much of the common law is interwoven with it, as has been adopted by express deep stain upon the moral character to be generally reputed a cruel master. In many plantations no punishment is inflicted except after a trial by a jury, composed of the fellow-servants of the party accused. Festivals, prizes, and rewards are instituted, as stimulants to exertion, and compensations for superior accomplishment of labour. They are generally well fed and clothed, and that not by an arbitrary award, which might vary with the feelings of the master; but by periodical apportionment, like the distributed rations of soldiers, of what has been ascertained to be amply sufficient to render them comfortable. Nor are they destitute, as has been supposed, of any legal protection, coming between them and the possible cupidity and cruelty of the masters. The '_code noir_' of Louisiana is a curious collection of statutes, drawn partly from French and Spanish law and usage, and partly from the customs of the islands, and usages, which have grown out of the peculiar circumstances of Louisiana while a colony. It has the aspect, it must be admitted, of being formed rather for the advantage of the master, than for the servant, for it prescribes an unlimited homage and obedience to the latter. But at the same time, it defines crimes, which the master can commit in relation to the slave, and prescribes the mode of trial, and the kind and degree of punishment. It constitutes unnecessary correction, maiming, and murder, punishable offences in a master. It is very minute in prescribing the number of hours, which the master may lawfully exact to be employed in labour, and the number of hours, which he must allow his slave for meal-time and for rest. It prescribes the time and extent of his holidays. In short, it settles with minuteness and detail the whole circle of relations between master and slave, defining, and prescribing what the former may, and may not exact from the latter. That the slave is, also, in the general circumstances of his condition, as happy as this relation will admit of his being, is an unquestionable fact. That he seldom performs as much labour, or performs it as well as a free man, says all upon the subject of the motives which freedom only can supply, that can be alleged. In all the better managed plantations, the mode of building the quarters is fixed. The arrangement of the little village has a fashion by which it is settled. Interest, if not humanity, has defined the amount of food and rest, necessary for their health; and there is, in a large and respectable plantation, as much precision in the rules, as much exactness in the times of going to sleep, awaking, going to labour, and resting before and after meals, as in a garrison under military discipline, or in a ship of war. A bell gives all the signals; every slave, at the assigned hour in the morning, is forthcoming to his labour, or his case is reported, either as one of idleness, obstinacy, or sickness, in which case he is sent to the hospital, and there is attended by a physician, who, for the most part, has a yearly salary for attending to all the sick of the plantation. The union of physical force, directed by one will, is now well understood to have a much greater effect upon the amount of labour, which a number of hands, so managed, can bring about, than the same force directed by as many wills as there are hands. Hence it happens that while one free man, circumstances being the same, will perform more labour than one slave, a hundred slaves will accomplish more on one plantation, than so many hired free men, acting at their own discretion. Hence, too, it is, that such a prodigious quantity of cotton and sugar is made here, in proportion to the number of labouring hands. All the processes of agriculture are managed by system. Everything goes straight forward. There is no pulling down to-day the scheme of yesterday, and the whole amount of force is directed by the teaching of experience to the best result. _Flint's Miss. Val. Art. Louisiana_, vol. i. p. 527. NOTE D.--_Page 196._ "The borderers universally took an active part in the war, and were eminently useful in repelling the incursions of the Indians. Not even the most lawless but was found ready to pour out his life-blood for the republic. A curious instance of the strange mixture of magnanimity and ferocity often found among the demi-savages of the borders was afforded by the Louisianian Lafitte. This desperado had placed himself at the head of a band of outlaws from all nations under heaven, and fixed his abode upon the top of an impregnable rock, to the south-west of the mouth of the Mississippi. Under the colours of the South American patriots, they pirated at pleasure every vessel that came in their way, and smuggled their booty up the secret creeks of the Mississippi, with a dexterity that baffled all the efforts of justice. The depredations of these outlaws, or, as they styled themselves, _Barritarians_, (from Barrita, their island,) becoming at length intolerable, the United States' government despatched an armed force against their little Tripoli. The establishment was broken up, and the pirates dispersed. But Lafitte again collected his outlaws, and took possession of his rock. The attention of the congress being now diverted by the war, he scoured the gulf at his pleasure, and so tormented the coasting traders, that Governor Claiborne of Louisiana set a price on his head. This daring outlaw, thus confronted with the American government, appeared likely to promote the designs of its enemies. He was known to possess the clue to all the secret windings and entrances of the many-mouthed Mississippi; and in the projected attack upon New-Orleans it was deemed expedient to secure his assistance. The British officer then heading the forces landed at Pensacola for the invasion of Louisiana, opened a treaty with the Barritarian, to whom he offered such rewards as were best calculated to tempt his cupidity and flatter his ambition. The outlaw affected to relish the proposal; but having artfully drawn from Colonel N---- the plan of his intended attack, he spurned his offers with the most contemptuous disdain, and instantly despatched one of his most trusty corsairs to the governor who had set a price for his life, advising him of the intentions of the enemy, and volunteering the aid of his little band, on the single condition that an amnesty should be granted for their past offences. Governor Claiborne, though touched by this proof of magnanimity, hesitated to close with the offer. The corsair kept himself in readiness for the expected summons, and continued to spy and report the motions of the enemy. As danger became more urgent, and the steady generosity of the outlaw more assured, Governor Claiborne granted to him and his followers life and pardon, and called them to the defence of the city. They obeyed with alacrity, and served with a valour, fidelity, and good conduct, not surpassed by the best volunteers of the republic." --_Flint's Miss. Valley._ NOTE E.--_Page 204._ The following extract from a narrative of the British attack on New-Orleans by Capt. Cooke, late of the British army, will, perhaps, not be without interest to many of my readers. CAMP BEFORE NEW-ORLEANS. "I do not remember ever looking for the first signs of day-break with more intense anxiety than on this eventful morning; every now and then I thought I heard the distant hum of voices, then again something like the doleful rustling of the wind before the coming storm, among the leaves of the foliage. But no; it was only the effect of the momentary buzzing in my ears; all was silent--the dew lay on the damp sod, and the soldiers were carefully putting aside their entrenching tools, and laying hold of their arms to be up and answer the first war-call at a moment's warning. How can I convey a thought of the intense anxiety of the mind, when a sombre silence is broken by the intonations of the cannon, and when the work of death begins? Now the veil of night was less obscured, and its murky mantle dissolved on all sides, and the mist sweeping off the face of the earth; yet it was not day, and no object was very visible beyond the extent of a few yards. The morn was chilly--I augured not of victory, an evil foreboding crossed my mind, and I meditated in solitary reflection. All was tranquil as the grave, and no camp-fires glimmered from either friends or foes. Soon after this, two light companies of the seventh and ninety-third regiments came up without knapsacks, the highlanders with their blankets rolled and slung around their backs, and merely wearing the shell of their bonnets, the sable plumes of real ostrich feathers brought by them from the Cape of Good Hope, having been left in England. One company of the forty-third light infantry also followed, marching up rapidly. These three companies formed a compact little column of two hundred and forty soldiers, near the battery on the high road to New-Orleans. They were to attack the crescent battery near the river, and if possible to silence its fire under the muzzles of twenty pieces of cannon; at a point, too, where the bulk of the British force had hesitated when first they landed, and had recoiled from its fire on the twenty-eighth of last December, and on the first of January. I asked Lieut. Duncan Campbell where they were going, when he replied, "I'll be hanged if I know:" "then," said I, "you have got into what I call a good thing; a far-famed American battery is in front of you at a short range, and on the left of this spot is flanked, at 800 yards, by their batteries on the opposite bank of the river." At this piece of information he laughed heartily, and I told him to take off his blue pelisse-coat to be like the rest of the men. "No," he said gayly, "I will never peel for an American--come, Jack, embrace me." He was a fine young officer of twenty years of age, and had fought in many bloody encounters in Spain and France, but this was to be his last, as well as that of many more brave men. The mist was slowly clearing off, but objects could only be discerned at two or three hundred yards distance, as the morning was rather hazy; we had only quitted the battery two minutes, when a Congreve rocket was thrown up, whether from the enemy or not we could not tell; for some seconds it whizzed backward and forward in such a zigzag way, that we all looked up to see whether it was coming down upon our heads. The troops simultaneously halted, but all smiled at some sailors dragging a two-wheeled car a hundred yards to our left, which had brought up ammunition to the battery, who, by common consent, as it were, let go the shaft, and left it the instant the rocket was let off.--(This rocket, although we did not know it, proved to be the signal of attack.) All eyes were cast upward, like those of so many astronomers, to descry, if possible, what could be the upshot of this noisy harbinger, breaking in upon the solemn silence that reigned around. During all my military services I do not remember seeing a small body of troops thrown into such a strange configuration, having formed themselves into a circle, and halted, both officers and men, without any previous word of command, each man looking earnestly, as if by instinct of his imagination, to see in what particular quarter the anticipated firing would begin. The Mississippi was not visible, its waters likewise being covered over with the fog; nor was there a single soldier, save our little phalanx, to be seen, or the tramp of a horse or a single footstep to be heard, by way of announcing that the battle-scene was about to begin, before the vapoury curtain was lifted or cleared away for the opposing forces to get a glimpse one of the other. So that we were completely lost, not knowing which way to bend our footsteps, and the only words which now escaped the officers were "steady, men," these precautionary warnings being quite unnecessary, as every soldier was, as it were, motionless like fox-hunters, waiting with breathless expectation, and casting significant looks one at the other before Reynard breaks cover. All eyes seemed anxious to dive through the mist; and all ears attentive to the coming moment, as it was impossible to tell whether the blazing would begin from the troops who were supposed to have already crossed the river, or from the great battery of the Americans on the right bank of the Mississippi, or from the main lines. From all these points we were equidistant, and within point-blank range; and were left, besides, totally without orders, and without knowing how to act or where to find our own corps, just as if we had formed no part or parcel of the army. The rocket had fallen probably in the Mississippi, all was silent, nor did a single officer or soldier attempt to shift his foot-hold, so anxiously were we all employed in listening for the first roar of the cannon to guide our footsteps, or as it were to pronounce with loud peals where was the point of our destination, well knowing that to go farther to the rear was not the way to find our regiment. This silence and suspense had not lasted more than two minutes, when the most vehement firing from the British artillery began opposite the left of the American lines, and before they could even see what objects they were firing at, or before the intended attacking column of the British were probably formed to go on to the assault. The American artillery soon responded, and thus it was that the gunners of the English and the Americans were firing through the mist at random; or in the supposed direction whence came their respective balls through the fog. And the first objects we saw, enclosed as it were in this little world of mist, were the cannon-balls tearing up the ground and crossing one another, and bounding along like so many cricket-balls through the air, coming on our left flank from the American batteries on the right bank of the river, and also from their lines in front. At this momentous crisis a droll occurrence took place; a company of blacks emerged out of the mist, carrying ladders, which were intended for the three light companies for the left attack, but these Ethiopians were so confounded at the multiplicity of noises, that without farther ado, they dropped the ladders and fell flat on their faces, and without doubt, had their claws been of sufficient length, they would have scratched holes and buried themselves from such an unpleasant admixture of sounds and concatenation of iron projectiles, which seemed at war with one another, coming from two opposite directions at one and the same time. If these blacks were only intended to carry the ladders to the three light companies on the left, they were too late. The great bulk of them were cut to pieces before the ladders were within reach of them; even if the best troops in the world had been carrying them, they would not have been up in time. This was very odd, and more than odd; it looked as if folly stalked abroad in the English camp. One or two officers went to the front in search of some responsible person to obtain orders _ad interim_; finding myself the senior officer, I at once, making a double as it were, or, as Napoleon recommended, marched to the spot where the heaviest firing was going on; at a run we neared the American line. The mist was now rapidly clearing away, but, owing to the dense smoke, we could not at first distinguish the attacking columns of the British troops to our right. We now also caught a view of the seventh and the forty-third regiments in _echelon_ on our right, near the wood, the royal fusileers being within about 300 yards of the enemy's lines, and the forty-third deploying into line 200 yards in _echelon_ behind the fusileers. These two regiments were every now and then almost enveloped by the clouds of smoke that hung over their heads, and floated on their flanks, and the echo from the cannonade and musketry was so tremendous in the forests, that the vibration seemed as if the earth were cracking and tumbling to pieces, or as if the heavens were rent asunder by the most terrific peals of thunder that ever rumbled; it was the most awful and the grandest mixture of sounds to be conceived; the woods seemed to crack to an interminable distance, each cannon report was answered one hundred fold, and produced an intermingled roar surpassing strange. And this phenomenon can neither be fancied nor described, save by those who can bear evidence of the fact. And the flashes of fire looked as if coming out of the bowels of the earth, so little above its surface were the batteries of the Americans. We had run the gauntlet, from the left to the centre in front of the American lines, under a cross fire, in hopes of joining in the assault, and had a fine view of the sparkling of the musketry, and the liquid flashes of the cannon. And melancholy to relate, all at once many soldiers were met wildly rushing out of the dense clouds of smoke, lighted up by a sparkling sheet of fire, which hovered over the ensanguined field. Regiments were shattered and dispersed--all order was at an end. And the dismal spectacle was seen of the dark shadows of men, like skirmishers, breaking out of the clouds of smoke, which majestically rolled along the even surface of the field. And so astonished was I at such a panic, that I said to a retiring soldier, "have we or the Americans attacked?" for I had never seen troops in such a hurry without being followed. "No," replied the man, with the countenance of despair, and out of breath, as he ran along, "we attacked, sir." For still the reverberation was so intense toward the great wood, that any one would have thought the great fighting was going on there instead of immediately in front. Lieut. Duncan Campbell, of our regiment, was seen to our left running about in circles, first staggering one way, then another, and at length fell upon the sod helplessly on his face, and again tumbled, and when he was picked up, he was found to be blind from the effect of grape-shot, which had torn open his forehead, giving him a slight wound in the leg, and also ripped the scabbard from his side, and knocked the cap from his head. While being borne insensible to the rear, he still clenched the hilt of his sword with a convulsive grasp, the blade thereof being broken off close at the hilt with grape-shot, and in a state of delirium and suffering he lived for a few days. The first officer we met was Lieutenant-Colonel Stovin, of the staff, who was unhorsed, without his hat, and bleeding down the left side of his face. He at first thought the two hundred were the whole regiment, and he said, "Forty-third, for God's sake save the day!" Lieutenant-Colonel Smith of the rifles, and one of Packenham's staff, then rode up at full gallop from the right, (he had a few months before brought to England the despatches of the capture of Washington) and said to me, "Did you ever see such a scene?--There is nothing left but the seventh and forty third! just draw up here for a few minutes, to show front, that the repulsed troops may re-form." For the chances now were, as the greater portion of the actually attacking corps were stricken down, and the remainder dispersed, that the Americans would become the assailants. The ill-fated rocket was discharged before the British troops moved on; the consequence was, that every American gun was warned by such a silly signal to be laid on the parapets, ready to be discharged with the fullest effect. The misty field of battle was now inundated with wounded officers and soldiers, who were going to the rear from the right, left, and centre; in fact, little more than one thousand soldiers were left unscathed out of the three thousand who attacked the American lines, and they fell like the very blades of grass beneath the scythe of the mower. Packenham was killed; Gibbes was mortally wounded; his brigade dispersed like the dust before the whirlwind, and Keane was wounded. The command of his Majesty's forces at this critical juncture now fell to Major-general Lambert, the only general left, and he was in reserve with his fine brigade. The rifle corps individually took post to resist any forward movements of the enemy, but the ground already named being under a cross fire of at least twenty pieces of artillery, the advantage was all on the side of the Americans, who in a crowd might have completely run down a few scattered troops, exposed to such an overpowering force of artillery. The black troops behaved in the most shameful manner to a man, and, although hardly exposed to fire, were in abominable consternation, lying down in all directions. One broad beaver, with the ample folds of the coarse blanket, thrown across the shoulders of the Americans, was as terrible in their eyes as a panther might be while springing among a timid multitude. These black corps, it is said, had behaved well at some West India islands, where the thermometer was more congenial to their feelings. Lieut. Hill (now Capt. Hill) said, in his shrewd manner, "Look at the seventh and the forty-third, like seventy-fours becalmed!" As soon as the action was over, and some troops were formed in our rear, we then, under a smart fire of grape and round shot, moved to the right, and joined our own corps, which had been ordered to lie down at the edge of the ditch; and some of the old soldiers, with rage depicted on their countenances, were demanding why they were not led on to the assault. The fire of the Americans, from behind their barricades, had been indeed so murderous, and had caused so sudden a repulse, that it was difficult to persuade ourselves that such an event had happened--the whole affair being more like a dream, or some scene of enchantment, than reality. And thus it was: on the left bank of the river, three generals, seven colonels, and seventy five officers, making a total of seventeen hundred and eighty-one officers and soldiers, had fallen in a few minutes. The royal fusileers and the Monmouthshire light infantry, from the beginning to the end of the battle, were astounded at the ill success of the combat; and while formed within grape range, were lost in amazement at not being led on to the attack, being kept as quiet spectators of the onslaught. About an hour and a half after the principal attack had failed, we heard a rapid discharge of fire-arms, and a few hurried sounds of cannon on the right bank of the river, when all was again silent, until three distinct rounds of British cheers gladdened our ears from that direction, although at least one mile and a quarter from where we were stationed. They were Colonel Thornton's gallant troops, who were successful in the assault on the American works in that quarter, the details of which, for a brief space, I must postpone. For _five_ hours the enemy plied us with grape and round shot; some of the wounded lying in the mud or on wet grass, managed to crawl away; but every now and then some unfortunate man was lifted off the ground by round shot, and lay killed or mangled.--During the tedious hours we remained in front, it was necessary to lie on the ground, to cover ourselves from the projectiles. An officer of our regiment was in a reclining posture, when a grape-shot passed through both his knees; at first he sank back faintly, but at length opening his eyes, and looking at his wounds, he said, "Carry me away. I am _chilled to death_;" and as he was hoisted on the men's shoulders, more round and grape shot passed his head; taking off his hat, he waved it; and after many narrow escapes, got out of range, suffered amputation of both legs, and died of his wounds on ship-board, after enduring all the pain of the surgical operation, and passing down the lake in an open boat. A wounded soldier, who was lying among the slain, two hundred yards behind us, continued, without any cessation, for two hours, to raise his arm up and down with a convulsive motion, which excited the most painful sensations among us; and as the enemy's balls now and then killed or maimed some soldiers, we could not help casting our eyes toward the moving arm, which really was a dreadful magnet of attraction; it even caught the attention of the enemy, who, without seeing the body, fired several round shot at it. A black soldier lay near us, who had received a blow from a cannon-ball, which had obliterated all his features; and although blind, and suffering the most terrible anguish, he was employing himself in scratching a hole to put his money into. A tree, about two feet in diameter and fifteen in height, with a few scattered branches at the top, was the only object to break the monotonous scene. This tree was near the right of our regiment; the Americans, seeing some persons clustering around it, fired a thirty-two pound shot, which struck the tree exactly in the centre, and buried itself in the trunk with a loud concussion. Curiosity prompted some of us to take a hasty inspection of it, and I could clearly see the rusty ball within the tree. I thrust my arm in a little above the elbow joint, and laid hold of it; it was truly amazing, between the intervals of firing the cannon, to see the risks continually run by the officers to take a peep at this good shot. Owing to this circumstance, the vicinity of the tree became rather a hot berth; but the American gunners failed to hit it a second time, although some balls passed very near on each side, and for an hour it was a source of excessive jocularity to us. In the middle of the day a flag of truce was sent by Gen. Lambert to Gen. Jackson, to be allowed to bury the dead, which was acceded to by the latter on certain conditions." NOTE F.--_Page 241._ To the politeness of Dr. William Dunbar, a planter of Mississippi, the author is indebted for many important papers relating to this region, formerly in the possession of his father--a gentleman well known to the philosophic world as the author of several valuable scientific papers upon the natural history and meteorology of this country. Among the manuscripts of this gentleman in the author's possession, is the following account of the manufacture of Indigo, written by himself, then an extensive indigo planter, near New-Orleans. "The reservoir water in or near the field where the indigo plant is cultivated, is prepared, in lower Louisiana, by digging a canal from eighty to one hundred feet long, and 25 or 30 feet wide. The plant is in its strength when in full blossom: it is then cut down, and disposed regularly in a wooden or brick vault, about ten feet square, and three feet deep; water is then poured or pumped over it until the plant is covered; it is suffered to remain until it has undergone a fermentation, analogous to the vinous fermentation. If it stands too long, a second fermentation commences, bearing affinity to the acetous fermentation: your liquor is then spoiled, and will yield you but little matter of a bad quality--sometimes none at all. The great difficulty is to know this proper point of fermentation, which cannot sometimes be ascertained to any degree of certainty; when the plant is rich, and the weather warm, a tolerable judgment may be formed by the ascent or swelling of the liquor in the vat; at other times no alteration is observed. But to return; the liquor is at length drawn off into another vat, called the beater; it may remain in the first vat, called the steeper, from ten to fifteen hours, and even twenty-four hours, in the cool weather of autumn. The liquor is agitated in the beater in a manner similar to the churning of butter; when first drawn off, it is of a pale straw colour, but gradually turns to a pale green, from thence to a deeper green, and at length to a deep blue. This is occasioned by the grains of indigo, at first dissolved in the water, and afterward extricated by beating. The indigo is now ready to fall to the bottom by its superior specific gravity; but a precipitant is often used to cause a more hasty decomposition, and consequent precipitation. This is effected most powerfully by lime-water, but it may also be done by any mucilaginous substance, as the juice of the wild mallows, purslain, leaves of the elm-tree, and of many others indigenous in this country. The saliva produces the same effects. A few hours after the precipitation, the water standing above the indigo is drawn off by holes perforated for that purpose; the indigo matter is then swept out and farther drained, either by putting it in bags of Russia duck, or more commodiously in wooden cases with a bottom of cloth; after which it is put in a wooden frame, with a loose Osnaburg cloth between it and the frame, and subjected to a considerable press--light at first, but heavy at the last; and when solid enough, cut into squares, which shrink up in drying to half their first bulk. After it appears to be dry, it is put up in heaps to sweat and dry the second time; it is then fit for market. All that has not been injured by missing the true point of fermentation, sells here generally at a dollar a pound. The planter often, by mistake, makes his indigo of a superior quality, so as to be equal to the Guatemala indigo, and be worth from one dollar and a quarter to two dollars. This happens from the indigo maker's drawing off his water from the steeper too soon, before it has arrived at its due point of fermentation. In this case the quantity is so much lessened, as by no means to render the planter compensated by the superior quality. The grand desideratum to bring the making of indigo to some degree of certainty, is the discovery of some chymical test, that shall demonstrate the passing of the liquor from the first to the second fermentation. This test will probably be discovered in some saline body, but which, or in what quantity, it is yet difficult to ascertain." NOTE G.--_Page 245._ The following additional observations upon New-Orleans, its parish, and neighbourhood, convey, at a glance, the general resources of this region of country, besides containing much information not embodied in the work:-- "The parish of Orleans includes the city. Chef Menteur, Rigolets, Bayou Bienvenu, Bayou Gentilly, and Bayou St. Johns, are all in this parish, and are famous in the history of the late war, Lake Pontchartrain, lake Borgne, Barataria bay, gulf of Mexico, Caminda bay, lake Des Islets, lake Rond, Little lake, and Quacha lake, are in the limits of this parish. Sugar, and after that, cotton, are the staples. Along the coast there are groves of orange-trees, and the fig is extensively raised. In this parish are the greater part of the defences, that are intended to fortify the city of New-Orleans against the attack of a foreign foe. The chief fortifications are on those points, by which the British approached toward the city during the late war. Extensive fortifications of brick have been erected at Petits Coquilles, Chef Menteur, and Bayou Bienvenu, the two former guarding the passes of the Rigolet, between lake Borgne and lake Pontchartrain, and the latter the approach from lake Borgne toward New-Orleans. A great work, to mount 120 cannon, is erecting at Placquemine on the Mississippi. These works, when finished, will not fall far short of the expense 2,000,000 dollars. Fort St. Johns, at the entrance of the Bayou St. Johns into lake Pontchartrain, is well situated for the defence of the pass. It is an ancient establishment of the former regime. The guns are of vast calibre; but they appear to be sealed, and the walls have a ruinous aspect. These points of defence have been selected with great judgment, and have been fortified with so much care, that it is supposed no enemy could ever again approach the city by the same passes, through which it was approached by the British in the past war. New-Orleans, the key of the Mississippi valley, and the great depot of its agriculture and commerce, is already a city of immense importance, and is every year becoming more so. This city has strong natural defences, in its position and its climate. It is now strongly defended by artificial fortifications. But, after all, the best defence of this, and of all other cities, is the vigilant and patriotic energy of the battalions of free men, who can now, by steamboats, be brought down to its defence in a few days from the remotest points of the west. It is not to be forgotten, that by the same conveyance, an enemy might also be brought against it. Of the other parishes, we may remark, in general, that as far up the Mississippi as the parish of Baton Rouge, on the east side, and Point Coupee on the west, the cultivation of the sugar-cane is the chief pursuit of the inhabitants. The same may be said of Placquemine, Lafourche, and Attakapas. The staple article of the western parishes beyond is cotton. The parishes north of lake Pontchartrain, which formerly made a part of Florida, with the exception of some few tracts, and the alluvions of Pearl river and Bogue Chitte, have a sterile soil. The inhabitants raise large herds of cattle, and send great quantities of lumber to New-Orleans, together with pitch, tar, turpentine and coal. They burn great quantities of lime from the beds of shells, which cover large tracts near the lakes; they also send sand from the beaches of the lakes, for covering the pavements of New-Orleans. They have also, for some years past, manufactured brick to a great amount, and have transported them across the lake. They have a great number of schooners that ply on the lakes, in this and other employments. The people engaged in this extensive business, find the heavy tolls demanded on the canal a great impediment in the way of the profit of this trade.[12] The country generally is covered with open pine woods, and has small tracts of second-rate land interspersed among these tracts. The country is valuable from its inexhaustible supplies of timber and wood for the New-Orleans market. FOOTNOTES: [11] These were George Cooper--Elijah W. Brown, now a wealthy planter in Monroe, Washita, La. and I. K. Cook, for many years post a leading editor in this state. [12] The rail-road is now the medium of conveyance for these articles of produce to the city; the expense is thereby much lessened, and the facilities for this trade increased. END OF VOL. I. +------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the | | original document have been preserved. | | | | Typographical errors corrected in the text: | | Page vii phosporescence changed to phosphorescence | | Page ix humam changed to human | | Page 50 supended changed to suspended | | Page 54 irridescence changed to iridescence | | Page 56 Castillian changed to Castilian | | Page 59 superceded changed to superseded | | Page 64 Marquetti changed to Marquette | | Page 67 Mississipi changed to Mississippi | | Page 71 pannelling changed to panelling | | Page 84 succssion changed to succession | | Page 106 Goliahs changed to Goliaths | | Page 106 Arrarat changed to Ararat | | Page 109 appaling changed to appalling | | Page 111 appaling changed to appealing | | Page 112 negociating changed to negotiating | | Page 123 faec changed to face | | Page 129 mphatically changed to emphatically | | Page 131 deposite changed to deposit | | Page 149 tunnel changed to funnel | | Page 164 Apartement changed to Appartement | | Page 166 cis-atlantic changed cis-Atlantic | | Page 208 steet changed to street | | Page 211 callaboose changed to calaboose | | Page 212 huzzars changed to hussars | | Page 222 panneling changed to panelling | | Page 224 pantomine changed to pantomime | | Page 224 Marseilloise changed to Marseillaise | | Page 230 smoth changed to smooth | | Page 236 chimnies changed to chimneys | | Page 236 turkies changed to turkeys | | Page 238 freeest changed to freest | | Page 238 matressing changed to mattressing | | Page 243 ros changed to rose | | Page 247 meet changed to meant | | Page 274 circnmstance changed to circumstance | | Page 275 mucillaginous changed to mucilaginous | | Page 276 Guatimala changed to Guatemala | | Page 277 Coup e changed to Coupee | +------------------------------------------------------+ 
29439	----	Transcriber's Notes: SO_3HO = 3 is subscripted [=u] = macron above "u" * * * * * GEORGE W. CABLE'S WRITINGS BONAVENTURE. A Prose Pastoral of Arcadian Louisiana. 12mo, $1.25. DR. SEVIER. 12mo, $1.25. THE GRANDISSIMES. A Story of Creole Life. 12mo, $1.25. OLD CREOLE DAYS. 12mo, $1.25. STRANGE TRUE STORIES OF LOUISIANA. Illustrated. 12mo, $2.00. *** _New Uniform Edition of the above five volumes, cloth, in a box, $6.00._ * * * JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER, 12mo, $1.50. OLD CREOLE DAYS. Cameo Edition with Etching, $1.25. OLD CREOLE DAYS. 2 vols. 16mo, paper, each 30 cts. MADAME DELPHINE. 75 cts. THE CREOLES OF LOUISIANA. Illus. Small 4to, $2.50. THE SILENT SOUTH. 12mo, $1.00. DR. SEVIER BY GEORGE W. CABLE AUTHOR OF "OLD CREOLE DAYS," "THE GRANDISSIMES," "MADAME DELPHINE," ETC. NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1897 Copyright, 1883 and 1884 BY GEORGE W. CABLE _All rights reserved_ TROW'S PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY, NEW YORK. TO MY FRIEND MARION A. BAKER CONTENTS. Chapter Page I.--The Doctor 5 II.--A Young Stranger 10 III.--His Wife 17 IV.--Convalescence and Acquaintance 22 V.--Hard Questions 29 VI.--Nesting 34 VII.--Disappearance 45 VIII.--A Question of Book-keeping 52 IX.--When the Wind Blows 61 X.--Gentles and Commons 66 XI.--A Pantomime 73 XII.--"She's all the World" 81 XIII.--The Bough Breaks 87 XIV.--Hard Speeches and High Temper 94 XV.--The Cradle Falls 99 XVI.--Many Waters 107 XVII.--Raphael Ristofalo 118 XVIII.--How He Did It 127 XIX.--Another Patient 134 XX.--Alice 138 XXI.--The Sun at Midnight 142 XXII.--Borrower Turned Lender 160 XXIII.--Wear and Tear 169 XXIV.--Brought to Bay 177 XXV.--The Doctor Dines Out 184 XXVI.--The Trough of the Sea 194 XXVII.--Out of the Frying-Pan 207 XXVIII.--"Oh, where is my Love?" 215 XXIX.--Release.--Narcisse 224 XXX.--Lighting Ship 233 XXXI.--At Last 243 XXXII.--A Rising Star 248 XXXIII.--Bees, Wasps, and Butterflies 258 XXXIV.--Toward the Zenith 262 XXXV.--To Sigh, yet Feel no Pain 268 XXXVI.--What Name? 275 XXXVII.--Pestilence 280 XXXVIII.--"I must be Cruel only to be Kind" 286 XXXIX.--"Pettent Prate" 294 XL.--Sweet Bells Jangled 300 XLI.--Mirage 310 XLII.--Ristofalo and the Rector 317 XLIII.--Shall she Come or Stay? 324 XLIV.--What would you Do? 329 XLV.--Narcisse with News 335 XLVI.--A Prison Memento 340 XLVII.--Now I Lay Me-- 345 XLVIII.--Rise up, my Love, my Fair One! 351 XLIX.--A Bundle of Hopes 357 L.--Fall In! 366 LI.--Blue Bonnets over the Border 372 LII.--A Pass through the Lines 378 LIII.--Try Again 384 LIV.--"Who Goes There?" 394 LV.--Dixie 412 LVI.--Fire and Sword 425 LVII.--Almost in Sight 435 LVIII.--A Golden Sunset 445 LIX.--Afterglow 454 LX.--"Yet shall he live" 465 LXI.--Peace 470 DR. SEVIER. CHAPTER I. THE DOCTOR. The main road to wealth in New Orleans has long been Carondelet street. There you see the most alert faces; noses--it seems to one--with more and sharper edge, and eyes smaller and brighter and with less distance between them than one notices in other streets. It is there that the stock and bond brokers hurry to and fro and run together promiscuously--the cunning and the simple, the headlong and the wary--at the four clanging strokes of the Stock Exchange gong. There rises the tall façade of the Cotton Exchange. Looking in from the sidewalk as you pass, you see its main hall, thronged but decorous, the quiet engine-room of the surrounding city's most far-reaching occupation, and at the hall's farther end you descry the "Future Room," and hear the unearthly ramping and bellowing of the bulls and bears. Up and down the street, on either hand, are the ship-brokers and insurers, and in the upper stories foreign consuls among a multitude of lawyers and notaries. In 1856 this street was just assuming its present character. The cotton merchants were making it their favorite place of commercial domicile. The open thoroughfare served in lieu of the present exchanges; men made fortunes standing on the curb-stone, and during bank hours the sidewalks were perpetually crowded with cotton factors, buyers, brokers, weighers, reweighers, classers, pickers, pressers, and samplers, and the air was laden with cotton quotations and prognostications. Number 3-1/2, second floor, front, was the office of Dr. Sevier. This office was convenient to everything. Immediately under its windows lay the sidewalks where congregated the men who, of all in New Orleans, could best afford to pay for being sick, and least desired to die. Canal street, the city's leading artery, was just below, at the near left-hand corner. Beyond it lay the older town, not yet impoverished in those days,--the French quarter. A single square and a half off at the right, and in plain view from the front windows, shone the dazzling white walls of the St. Charles Hotel, where the nabobs of the river plantations came and dwelt with their fair-handed wives in seasons of peculiar anticipation, when it is well to be near the highest medical skill. In the opposite direction a three minutes' quick drive around the upper corner and down Common street carried the Doctor to his ward in the great Charity Hospital, and to the school of medicine, where he filled the chair set apart to the holy ailments of maternity. Thus, as it were, he laid his left hand on the rich and his right on the poor; and he was not left-handed. Not that his usual attitude was one of benediction. He stood straight up in his austere pure-mindedness, tall, slender, pale, sharp of voice, keen of glance, stern in judgment, aggressive in debate, and fixedly untender everywhere, except--but always except--in the sick chamber. His inner heart was all of flesh; but his demands for the rectitude of mankind pointed out like the muzzles of cannon through the embrasures of his virtues. To demolish evil!--that seemed the finest of aims; and even as a physician, that was, most likely, his motive until later years and a better self-knowledge had taught him that to do good was still finer and better. He waged war--against malady. To fight; to stifle; to cut down; to uproot; to overwhelm;--these were his springs of action. That their results were good proved that his sentiment of benevolence was strong and high; but it was well-nigh shut out of sight by that impatience of evil which is very fine and knightly in youngest manhood, but which we like to see give way to kindlier moods as the earlier heat of the blood begins to pass. He changed in later years; this was in 1856. To "resist not evil" seemed to him then only a rather feeble sort of knavery. To face it in its nakedness, and to inveigh against it in high places and low, seemed the consummation of all manliness; and manliness was the key-note of his creed. There was no other necessity in this life. "But a man must live," said one of his kindred, to whom, truth to tell, he had refused assistance. "No, sir; that is just what he can't do. A man must die! So, while he lives, let him be a man!" How inharmonious a setting, then, for Dr. Sevier, was 3-1/2 Carondelet street! As he drove, each morning, down to that point, he had to pass through long, irregular files of fellow-beings thronging either sidewalk,--a sadly unchivalric grouping of men whose daily and yearly life was subordinated only and entirely to the getting of wealth, and whose every eager motion was a repetition of the sinister old maxim that "Time is money." "It's a great deal more, sir; it's life!" the Doctor always retorted. Among these groups, moreover, were many who were all too well famed for illegitimate fortune. Many occupations connected with the handling of cotton yielded big harvests in perquisites. At every jog of the Doctor's horse, men came to view whose riches were the outcome of semi-respectable larceny. It was a day of reckless operation; much of the commerce that came to New Orleans was simply, as one might say, beached in Carondelet street. The sight used to keep the long, thin, keen-eyed doctor in perpetual indignation. "Look at the wreckers!" he would say. It was breakfast at eight, indignation at nine, dyspepsia at ten. So his setting was not merely inharmonious; it was damaging. He grew sore on the whole matter of money-getting. "Yes, I have money. But I don't go after it. It comes to me, because I seek and render service for the service's sake. It will come to anybody else the same way; and why should it come any other way?" He not only had a low regard for the motives of most seekers of wealth; he went further, and fell into much disbelief of poor men's needs. For instance, he looked upon a man's inability to find employment, or upon a poor fellow's run of bad luck, as upon the placarded woes of a hurdy-gurdy beggar. "If he wants work he will find it. As for begging, it ought to be easier for any true man to starve than to beg." The sentiment was ungentle, but it came from the bottom of his belief concerning himself, and a longing for moral greatness in all men. "However," he would add, thrusting his hand into his pocket and bringing out his purse, "I'll help any man to make himself useful. And the sick--well, the sick, as a matter of course. Only I must know what I'm doing." Have some of us known Want? To have known her--though to love her was impossible--is "a liberal education." The Doctor was learned; but this acquaintanceship, this education, he had never got. Hence his untenderness. Shall we condemn the fault? Yes. And the man? We have not the face. To be _just_, which he never knowingly failed to be, and at the same time to feel tenderly for the unworthy, to deal kindly with the erring,--it is a double grace that hangs not always in easy reach even of the tallest. The Doctor attained to it--but in later years; meantime, this story--which, I believe, had he ever been poor would never have been written. CHAPTER II. A YOUNG STRANGER. In 1856 New Orleans was in the midst of the darkest ten years of her history. Yet she was full of new-comers from all parts of the commercial world,--strangers seeking livelihood. The ravages of cholera and yellow-fever, far from keeping them away, seemed actually to draw them. In the three years 1853, '54, and '55, the cemeteries had received over thirty-five thousand dead; yet here, in 1856, besides shiploads of European immigrants, came hundreds of unacclimated youths, from all parts of the United States, to fill the wide gaps which they imagined had been made in the ranks of the great exporting city's clerking force. Upon these pilgrims Dr. Sevier cast an eye full of interest, and often of compassion hidden under outward impatience. "Who wants to see," he would demand, "men--_and women_--increasing the risks of this uncertain life?" But he was also full of respect for them. There was a certain nobility rightly attributable to emigration itself in the abstract. It was the cutting loose from friends and aid,--those sweet-named temptations,--and the going forth into self-appointed exile and into dangers known and unknown, trusting to the help of one's own right hand to exchange honest toil for honest bread and raiment. His eyes kindled to see the goodly, broad, red-cheeked fellows. Sometimes, though, he saw women, and sometimes tender women, by their side; and that sight touched the pathetic chord of his heart with a rude twangle that vexed him. It was on a certain bright, cool morning early in October that, as he drove down Carondelet street toward his office, and one of those little white omnibuses of the old Apollo-street line, crowding in before his carriage, had compelled his driver to draw close in by the curb-stone and slacken speed to a walk, his attention chanced to fall upon a young man of attractive appearance, glancing stranger-wise and eagerly at signs and entrances while he moved down the street. Twice, in the moment of the Doctor's enforced delay, he noticed the young stranger make inquiry of the street's more accustomed frequenters, and that in each case he was directed farther on. But, the way opened, the Doctor's horse switched his tail and was off, the stranger was left behind, and the next moment the Doctor stepped across the sidewalk and went up the stairs of Number 3-1/2 to his office. Something told him--we are apt to fall into thought on a stair-way--that the stranger was looking for a physician. He had barely disposed of the three or four waiting messengers that arose from their chairs against the corridor wall, and was still reading the anxious lines left in various handwritings on his slate, when the young man entered. He was of fair height, slenderly built, with soft auburn hair, a little untrimmed, neat dress, and a diffident, yet expectant and courageous, face. "Dr. Sevier?" "Yes, sir." "Doctor, my wife is very ill; can I get you to come at once and see her?" "Who is her physician?" "I have not called any; but we must have one now." "I don't know about going at once. This is my hour for being in the office. How far is it, and what's the trouble?" "We are only three squares away, just here in Custom-house street." The speaker began to add a faltering enumeration of some very grave symptoms. The Doctor noticed that he was slightly deaf; he uttered his words as though he did not hear them. "Yes," interrupted Dr. Sevier, speaking half to himself as he turned around to a standing case of cruel-looking silver-plated things on shelves; "that's a small part of the penalty women pay for the doubtful honor of being our mothers. I'll go. What is your number? But you had better drive back with me if you can." He drew back from the glass case, shut the door, and took his hat. "Narcisse!" On the side of the office nearest the corridor a door let into a hall-room that afforded merely good space for the furniture needed by a single accountant. The Doctor had other interests besides those of his profession, and, taking them altogether, found it necessary, or at least convenient, to employ continuously the services of a person to keep his accounts and collect his bills. Through the open door the book-keeper could be seen sitting on a high stool at a still higher desk,--a young man of handsome profile and well-knit form. At the call of his name he unwound his legs from the rounds of the stool and leaped into the Doctor's presence with a superlatively high-bred bow. "I shall be back in fifteen minutes," said the Doctor. "Come, Mr. ----," and went out with the stranger. Narcisse had intended to speak. He stood a moment, then lifted the last half inch of a cigarette to his lips, took a long, meditative inhalation, turned half round on his heel, dashed the remnant with fierce emphasis into a spittoon, ejected two long streams of smoke from his nostrils, and extending his fist toward the door by which the Doctor had gone out, said:-- "All right, ole hoss!" No, not that way. It is hard to give his pronunciation by letter. In the word "right" he substituted an a for the r, sounding it almost in the same instant with the i, yet distinct from it: "All a-ight, ole hoss!" Then he walked slowly back to his desk, with that feeling of relief which some men find in the renewal of a promissory note, twined his legs again among those of the stool, and, adding not a word, resumed his pen. The Doctor's carriage was hurrying across Canal street. "Dr. Sevier," said the physician's companion, "I don't know what your charges are"-- "The highest," said the Doctor, whose dyspepsia was gnawing him just then with fine energy. The curt reply struck fire upon the young man. "I don't propose to drive a bargain, Dr. Sevier!" He flushed angrily after he had spoken, breathed with compressed lips, and winked savagely, with the sort of indignation that school-boys show to a harsh master. The physician answered with better self-control. "What do you propose?" "I was going to propose--being a stranger to you, sir--to pay in advance." The announcement was made with a tremulous, but triumphant, _hauteur_, as though it must cover the physician with mortification. The speaker stretched out a rather long leg, and, drawing a pocket-book, produced a twenty-dollar piece. The Doctor looked full in his face with impatient surprise, then turned his eyes away again as if he restrained himself, and said, in a subdued tone:-- "I would rather you had haggled about the price." "I don't hear"--said the other, turning his ear. The Doctor waved his hand:-- "Put that up, if you please." The young stranger was disconcerted. He remained silent for a moment, wearing a look of impatient embarrassment. He still extended the piece, turning it over and over with his thumb-nail as it lay on his fingers. "You don't know me, Doctor," he said. He got another cruel answer. "We're getting acquainted," replied the physician. The victim of the sarcasm bit his lip, and protested, by an unconscious, sidewise jerk of the chin:-- "I wish you'd"--and he turned the coin again. The physician dropped an eagle's stare on the gold. "I don't practise medicine on those principles." "But, Doctor," insisted the other, appeasingly, "you can make an exception if you will. Reasons are better than rules, my old professor used to say. I am here without friends, or letters, or credentials of any sort; this is the only recommendation I can offer." "Don't recommend you at all; anybody can do that." The stranger breathed a sigh of overtasked patience, smiled with a baffled air, seemed once or twice about to speak, but doubtful what to say, and let his hand sink. "Well, Doctor,"--he rested his elbow on his knee, gave the piece one more turn over, and tried to draw the physician's eye by a look of boyish pleasantness,--"I'll not ask you to take pay in advance, but I will ask you to take care of this money for me. Suppose I should lose it, or have it stolen from me, or--Doctor, it would be a real comfort to me if you would." "I can't help that. I shall treat your wife, and then send in my bill." The Doctor folded arms and appeared to give attention to his driver. But at the same time he asked:-- "Not subject to epilepsy, eh?" "No, sir!" The indignant shortness of the retort drew no sign of attention from the Doctor; he was silently asking himself what this nonsense meant. Was it drink, or gambling, or a confidence game? Or was it only vanity, or a mistake of inexperience? He turned his head unexpectedly, and gave the stranger's facial lines a quick, thorough examination. It startled them from a look of troubled meditation. The physician as quickly turned away again. "Doctor," began the other, but added no more. The physician was silent. He turned the matter over once more in his mind. The proposal was absurdly unbusiness-like. That his part in it might look ungenerous was nothing; so his actions were right, he rather liked them to bear a hideous aspect: that was his war-paint. There was that in the stranger's attitude that agreed fairly with his own theories of living. A fear of debt, for instance, if that was genuine it was good; and, beyond and better than that, a fear of money. He began to be more favorably impressed. "Give it to me," he said, frowning; "mark you, this is your way,"--he dropped the gold into his vest-pocket,--"it isn't mine." The young man laughed with visible relief, and rubbed his knee with his somewhat too delicate hand. The Doctor examined him again with a milder glance. "I suppose you think you've got the principles of life all right, don't you?" "Yes, I do," replied the other, taking his turn at folding arms. "H-m-m! I dare say you do. What you lack is the practice." The Doctor sealed his utterance with a nod. The young man showed amusement; more, it may be, than he felt, and presently pointed out his lodging-place. "Here, on this side; Number 40;" and they alighted. CHAPTER III. HIS WIFE. In former times the presence in New Orleans, during the cooler half of the year, of large numbers of mercantile men from all parts of the world, who did not accept the fever-plagued city as their permanent residence, made much business for the renters of furnished apartments. At the same time there was a class of persons whose residence was permanent, and to whom this letting of rooms fell by an easy and natural gravitation; and the most respectable and comfortable rented rooms of which the city could boast were those _chambres garnies_ in Custom-house and Bienville streets, kept by worthy free or freed mulatto or quadroon women. In 1856 the gala days of this half-caste people were quite over. Difference was made between virtue and vice, and the famous quadroon balls were shunned by those who aspired to respectability, whether their whiteness was nature or only toilet powder. Generations of domestic service under ladies of Gallic blood had brought many of them to a supreme pitch of excellence as housekeepers. In many cases money had been inherited; in other cases it had been saved up. That Latin feminine ability to hold an awkward position with impregnable serenity, and, like the yellow Mississippi, to give back no reflection from the overhanging sky, emphasized this superior fitness. That bright, womanly business ability that comes of the same blood added again to their excellence. Not to be home itself, nothing could be more like it than were the apartments let by Madame Cécile, or Madame Sophie, or Madame Athalie, or Madame Polyxène, or whatever the name might be. It was in one of these houses, that presented its dull brick front directly upon the sidewalk of Custom-house street, with the unfailing little square sign of _Chambres à louer_ (Rooms to let), dangling by a string from the overhanging balcony and twirling in the breeze, that the sick wife lay. A waiting slave-girl opened the door as the two men approached it, and both of them went directly upstairs and into a large, airy room. On a high, finely carved, and heavily hung mahogany bed, to which the remaining furniture corresponded in ancient style and massiveness, was stretched the form of a pale, sweet-faced little woman. The proprietress of the house was sitting beside the bed,--a quadroon of good, kind face, forty-five years old or so, tall and broad. She rose and responded to the Doctor's silent bow with that pretty dignity of greeting which goes with all French blood, and remained standing. The invalid stirred. The physician came forward to the bedside. The patient could not have been much over nineteen years of age. Her face was very pleasing; a trifle slender in outline; the brows somewhat square, not wide; the mouth small. She would not have been called beautiful, even in health, by those who lay stress on correctness of outlines. But she had one thing that to some is better. Whether it was in the dark blue eyes that were lifted to the Doctor's with a look which changed rapidly from inquiry to confidence, or in the fine, scarcely perceptible strands of pale-brown hair that played about her temples, he did not make out; but, for one cause or another, her face was of that kind which almost any one has seen once or twice, and no one has seen often,--that seems to give out a soft, but veritable, light. She was very weak. Her eyes quickly dropped away from his, and turned wearily, but peacefully, to those of her husband. The Doctor spoke to her. His greeting and gentle inquiry were full of a soothing quality that was new to the young man. His long fingers moved twice or thrice softly across her brow, pushing back the thin, waving strands, and then he sat down in a chair, continuing his kind, direct questions. The answers were all bad. He turned his glance to the quadroon; she understood it; the patient was seriously ill. The nurse responded with a quiet look of comprehension. At the same time the Doctor disguised from the young strangers this interchange of meanings by an audible question to the quadroon. "Have I ever met you before?" "No, seh." "What is your name?" "Zénobie." "Madame Zénobie," softly whispered the invalid, turning her eyes, with a glimmer of feeble pleasantry, first to the quadroon and then to her husband. The physician smiled at her an instant, and then gave a few concise directions to the quadroon. "Get me"--thus and so. The woman went and came. She was a superior nurse, like so many of her race. So obvious, indeed, was this, that when she gently pressed the young husband an inch or two aside, and murmured that "de doctah" wanted him to "go h-out," he left the room, although he knew the physician had not so indicated. By-and-by he returned, but only at her beckon, and remained at the bedside while Madame Zénobie led the Doctor into another room to write his prescription. "Who are these people?" asked the physician, in an undertone, looking up at the quadroon, and pausing with the prescription half torn off. She shrugged her large shoulders and smiled perplexedly. "Mizzez--Reechin?" The tone was one of query rather than assertion. "Dey sesso," she added. She might nurse the lady like a mother, but she was not going to be responsible for the genuineness of a stranger's name. "Where are they from?" "I dunno?--Some pless?--I nevva yeh dat nem biffo?" She made a timid attempt at some word ending in "walk," and smiled, ready to accept possible ridicule. "Milwaukee?" asked the Doctor. She lifted her palm, smiled brightly, pushed him gently with the tip of one finger, and nodded. He had hit the nail on the head. "What business is he in?" The questioner arose. She cast a sidelong glance at him with a slight enlargement of her eyes, and, compressing her lips, gave her head a little, decided shake. The young man was not employed. "And has no money either, I suppose," said the physician, as they started again toward the sick-room. She shrugged again and smiled; but it came to her mind that the Doctor might be considering his own interests, and she added, in a whisper:-- "Dey pay me." She changed places with the husband, and the physician and he passed down the stairs together in silence. "Well, Doctor?" said the young man, as he stood, prescription in hand, before the carriage-door. "Well," responded the physician, "you should have called me sooner." The look of agony that came into the stranger's face caused the Doctor instantly to repent his hard speech. "You don't mean"--exclaimed the husband. "No, no; I don't think it's too late. Get that prescription filled and give it to Mrs. ----" "Richling," said the young man. "Let her have perfect quiet," continued the Doctor. "I shall be back this evening." And when he returned she had improved. She was better again the next day, and the next; but on the fourth she was in a very critical state. She lay quite silent during the Doctor's visit, until he, thinking he read in her eyes a wish to say something to him alone, sent her husband and the quadroon out of the room on separate errands at the same moment. And immediately she exclaimed:-- "Doctor, save my life! You mustn't let me die! Save me, for my husband's sake! To lose all he's lost for me, and then to lose me too--save me, Doctor! save me!" "I'm going to do it!" said he. "You shall get well!" And what with his skill and her endurance it turned out so. CHAPTER IV. CONVALESCENCE AND ACQUAINTANCE. A man's clothing is his defence; but with a woman all dress is adornment. Nature decrees it; adornment is her instinctive delight. And, above all, the adorning of a bride; it brings out so charmingly the meaning of the thing. Therein centres the gay consent of all mankind and womankind to an innocent, sweet apostasy from the ranks of both. The value of living--which is loving; the sacredest wonders of life; all that is fairest and of best delight in thought, in feeling, yea, in substance,--all are apprehended under the floral crown and hymeneal veil. So, when at length one day Mrs. Richling said, "Madame Zénobie, don't you think I might sit up?" it would have been absurd to doubt the quadroon's willingness to assist her in dressing. True, here was neither wreath nor veil, but here was very young wifehood, and its re-attiring would be like a proclamation of victory over the malady that had striven to put two hearts asunder. Her willingness could hardly be doubted, though she smiled irresponsibly, and said:-- "If you thing"-- She spread her eyes and elbows suddenly in the manner of a crab, with palms turned upward and thumbs outstretched--"Well!"--and so dropped them. "You don't want wait till de doctah comin'?" she asked. "I don't think he's coming; it's after his time." "Yass?" The woman was silent a moment, and then threw up one hand again, with the forefinger lifted alertly forward. "I make a lill fi' biffo." She made a fire. Then she helped the convalescent to put on a few loose drapings. She made no concealment of the enjoyment it gave her, though her words were few, and generally were answers to questions; and when at length she brought from the wardrobe, pretending not to notice her mistake, a loose and much too ample robe of woollen and silken stuffs to go over all, she moved as though she trod on holy ground, and distinctly felt, herself, the thrill with which the convalescent, her young eyes beaming their assent, let her arms into the big sleeves, and drew about her small form the soft folds of her husband's morning-gown. "He goin' to fine that droll," said the quadroon. The wife's face confessed her pleasure. "It's as much mine as his," she said. "Is you mek dat?" asked the nurse, as she drew its silken cord about the convalescent's waist. "Yes. Don't draw it tight; leave it loose--so; but you can tie the knot tight. That will do; there!" She smiled broadly. "Don't tie me in as if you were tying me in forever." Madame Zénobie understood perfectly, and, smiling in response, did tie it as if she were tying her in forever. Half an hour or so later the quadroon, being--it may have been by chance--at the street door, ushered in a person who simply bowed in silence. But as he put one foot on the stair he paused, and, bending a severe gaze upon her, asked:-- "Why do you smile?" She folded her hands limply on her bosom, and drawing a cheek and shoulder toward each other, replied:-- "Nuttin'"-- The questioner's severity darkened. "Why do you smile at nothing?" She laid the tips of her fingers upon her lips to compose them. "You din come in you' carridge. She goin' to thing 'tis Miché Reechin." The smile forced its way through her fingers. The visitor turned in quiet disdain and went upstairs, she following. At the top he let her pass. She led the way and, softly pushing open the chamber-door, entered noiselessly, turned, and, as the other stepped across the threshold, nestled her hands one on the other at her waist, shrank inward with a sweet smile, and waved one palm toward the huge, blue-hung mahogany four-poster,--empty. The visitor gave a slight double nod and moved on across the carpet. Before a small coal fire, in a grate too wide for it, stood a broad, cushioned rocking-chair, with the corner of a pillow showing over its top. The visitor went on around it. The girlish form lay in it, with eyes closed, very still; but his professional glance quickly detected the false pretence of slumber. A slippered foot was still slightly reached out beyond the bright colors of the long gown, and toward the brazen edge of the hearth-pan, as though the owner had been touching her tiptoe against it to keep the chair in gentle motion. One cheek was on the pillow; down the other curled a few light strands of hair that had escaped from her brow. Thus for an instant. Then a smile began to wreath about the corner of her lips; she faintly stirred, opened her eyes--and lo! Dr. Sevier, motionless, tranquil, and grave. "O Doctor!" The blood surged into her face and down upon her neck. She put her hands over her eyes, and her face into the pillow. "O Doctor!"--rising to a sitting posture,--"I thought, of course, it was my husband." The Doctor replied while she was speaking:-- "My carriage broke down." He drew a chair toward the fireplace, and asked, with his face toward the dying fire:-- "How are you feeling to-day, madam,--stronger?" "Yes; I can almost say I'm well." The blush was still on her face as he turned to receive her answer, but she smiled with a bright courageousness that secretly amused and pleased him. "I thank you, Doctor, for my recovery; I certainly should thank you." Her face lighted up with that soft radiance which was its best quality, and her smile became half introspective as her eyes dropped from his, and followed her outstretched hand as it rearranged the farther edges of the dressing-gown one upon another. "If you will take better care of yourself hereafter, madam," responded the Doctor, thumping and brushing from his knee some specks of mud that he may have got when his carriage broke down, "I will thank you. But"--brush--brush--"I--doubt it." "Do you think you should?" she asked, leaning forward from the back of the great chair and letting her wrists drop over the front of its broad arms. "I do," said the Doctor, kindly. "Why shouldn't I? This present attack was by your own fault." While he spoke he was looking into her eyes, contracted at their corners by her slight smile. The face was one of those that show not merely that the world is all unknown to them, but that it always will be so. It beamed with inquisitive intelligence, and yet had the innocence almost of infancy. The Doctor made a discovery; that it was this that made her beautiful. "She _is_ beautiful," he insisted to himself when his critical faculty dissented. "You needn't doubt me, Doctor. I'll try my best to take care. Why, of course I will,--for John's sake." She looked up into his face from the tassel she was twisting around her finger, touching the floor with her slippers' toe and faintly rocking. "Yes, there's a chance there," replied the grave man, seemingly not overmuch pleased; "I dare say everything you do or leave undone is for his sake." The little wife betrayed for a moment a pained perplexity, and then exclaimed:-- "Well, of course!" and waited his answer with bright eyes. "I have known women to think of their own sakes," was the response. She laughed, and with unprecedented sparkle replied:-- "Why, whatever's his sake is my sake. I don't see the difference. Yes, I see, of course, how there might be a difference; but I don't see how a woman"-- She ceased, still smiling, and, dropping her eyes to her hands, slowly stroked one wrist and palm with the tassel of her husband's robe. The Doctor rose, turned his back to the mantel-piece, and looked down upon her. He thought of the great, wide world: its thorny ways, its deserts, its bitter waters, its unrighteousness, its self-seeking greeds, its weaknesses, its under and over reaching, its unfaithfulness; and then again of this--child, thrust all at once a thousand miles into it, with never--so far as he could see--an implement, a weapon, a sense of danger, or a refuge; well pleased with herself, as it seemed, lifted up into the bliss of self-obliterating wifehood, and resting in her husband with such an assurance of safety and happiness as a saint might pray for grace to show to Heaven itself. He stood silent, feeling too grim to speak, and presently Mrs. Richling looked up with a sudden liveliness of eye and a smile that was half apology and half persistence. "Yes, Doctor, I'm going to take care of myself." "Mrs. Richling, is your father a man of fortune?" "My father is not living," said she, gravely. "He died two years ago. He was the pastor of a small church. No, sir; he had nothing but his small salary, except that for some years he taught a few scholars. He taught me." She brightened up again. "I never had any other teacher." The Doctor folded his hands behind him and gazed abstractedly through the upper sash of the large French windows. The street-door was heard to open. "There's John," said the convalescent, quickly, and the next moment her husband entered. A tired look vanished from his face as he saw the Doctor. He hurried to grasp his hand, then turned and kissed his wife. The physician took up his hat. "Doctor," said the wife, holding the hand he gave her, and looking up playfully, with her cheek against the chair-back, "you surely didn't suspect me of being a rich girl, did you?" "Not at all, madam." His emphasis was so pronounced that the husband laughed. "There's one comfort in the opposite condition, Doctor," said the young man. "Yes?" "Why, yes; you see, it requires no explanation." "Yes, it does," said the physician; "it is just as binding on people to show good cause why they are poor as it is to show good cause why they're rich. Good-day, madam." The two men went out together. His word would have been good-by, but for the fear of fresh acknowledgments. CHAPTER V. HARD QUESTIONS. Dr. Sevier had a simple abhorrence of the expression of personal sentiment in words. Nothing else seemed to him so utterly hollow as the attempt to indicate by speech a regard or affection which was not already demonstrated in behavior. So far did he keep himself aloof from insincerity that he had barely room enough left to be candid. "I need not see your wife any more," he said, as he went down the stairs with the young husband at his elbow; and the young man had learned him well enough not to oppress him with formal thanks, whatever might have been said or omitted upstairs. Madame Zénobie contrived to be near enough, as they reached the lower floor, to come in for a share of the meagre adieu. She gave her hand with a dainty grace and a bow that might have been imported from Paris. Dr. Sevier paused on the front step, half turned toward the open door where the husband still tarried. That was not speech; it was scarcely action; but the young man understood it and was silent. In truth, the Doctor himself felt a pang in this sort of farewell. A physician's way through the world is paved, I have heard one say, with these broken bits of other's lives, of all colors and all degrees of beauty. In his reminiscences, when he can do no better, he gathers them up, and, turning them over and over in the darkened chamber of his retrospection, sees patterns of delight lit up by the softened rays of bygone time. But even this renews the pain of separation, and Dr. Sevier felt, right here at this door-step, that, if this was to be the last of the Richlings, he would feel the twinge of parting every time they came up again in his memory. He looked at the house opposite,--where there was really nothing to look at,--and at a woman who happened to be passing, and who was only like a thousand others with whom he had nothing to do. "Richling," he said, "what brings you to New Orleans, any way?" Richling leaned his cheek against the door-post. "Simply seeking my fortune, Doctor." "Do you think it is here?" "I'm pretty sure it is; the world owes me a living." The Doctor looked up. "When did you get the world in your debt?" Richling lifted his head pleasantly, and let one foot down a step. "It owes me a chance to earn a living, doesn't it?" "I dare say," replied the other; "that's what it generally owes." "That's all I ask of it," said Richling; "if it will let us alone we'll let it alone." "You've no right to allow either," said the physician. "No, sir; no," he insisted, as the young man looked incredulous. There was a pause. "Have you any capital?" asked the Doctor. "Capital! No,"--with a low laugh. "But surely you have something to"-- "Oh, yes,--a little!" The Doctor marked the southern "Oh." There is no "O" in Milwaukee. "You don't find as many vacancies as you expected to see, I suppose--h-m-m?" There was an under-glow of feeling in the young man's tone as he replied:-- "I was misinformed." "Well," said the Doctor, staring down-street, "you'll find something. What can you do?" "Do? Oh, I'm willing to do anything!" Dr. Sevier turned his gaze slowly, with a shade of disappointment in it. Richling rallied to his defences. "I think I could make a good book-keeper, or correspondent, or cashier, or any such"-- The Doctor interrupted, with the back of his head toward his listener, looking this time up the street, riverward:-- "Yes;--or a shoe,--or a barrel,--h-m-m?" Richling bent forward with the frown of defective hearing, and the physician raised his voice:-- "Or a cart-wheel--or a coat?" "I can make a living," rejoined the other, with a needlessly resentful-heroic manner, that was lost, or seemed to be, on the physician. "Richling,"--the Doctor suddenly faced around and fixed a kindly severe glance on him,--"why didn't you bring letters?" "Why,"--the young man stopped, looked at his feet, and distinctly blushed. "I think," he stammered--"it seems to me"--he looked up with a faltering eye--"don't you think--I think a man ought to be able to recommend _himself_." The Doctor's gaze remained so fixed that the self-recommended man could not endure it silently. "_I_ think so," he said, looking down again and swinging his foot. Suddenly he brightened. "Doctor, isn't this your carriage coming?" "Yes; I told the boy to drive by here when it was mended, and he might find me." The vehicle drew up and stopped. "Still, Richling," the physician continued, as he stepped toward it, "you had better get a letter or two, yet; you might need them." The door of the carriage clapped to. There seemed a touch of vexation in the sound. Richling, too, closed his door, but in the soft way of one in troubled meditation. Was this a proper farewell? The thought came to both men. "Stop a minute!" said Dr. Sevier to his driver. He leaned out a little at the side of the carriage and looked back. "Never mind; he has gone in." The young husband went upstairs slowly and heavily, more slowly and heavily than might be explained by his all-day unsuccessful tramp after employment. His wife still rested in the rocking-chair. He stood against it, and she took his hand and stroked it. "Tired?" she asked, looking up at him. He gazed into the languishing fire. "Yes." "You're not discouraged, are you?" "Discouraged? N-no. And yet," he said, slowly shaking his head, "I can't see why I don't find something to do." "It's because you don't hunt for it," said the wife. He turned upon her with flashing countenance only to meet her laugh, and to have his head pulled down to her lips. He dropped into the seat left by the physician, laid his head back in his knit hands, and crossed his feet under the chair. "John, I do _like_ Dr. Sevier." "Why?" The questioner looked at the ceiling. "Why, don't you like him?" asked the wife, and, as John smiled, she added, "You know you like him." The husband grasped the poker in both hands, dropped his elbows upon his knees, and began touching the fire, saying slowly:-- "I believe the Doctor thinks I'm a fool." "That's nothing," said the little wife; "that's only because you married me." The poker stopped rattling between the grate-bars; the husband looked at the wife. Her eyes, though turned partly away, betrayed their mischief. There was a deadly pause; then a rush to the assault, a shower of Cupid's arrows, a quick surrender. But we refrain. Since ever the world began it is Love's real, not his sham, battles that are worth the telling. CHAPTER VI. NESTING. A fortnight passed. What with calls on his private skill, and appeals to his public zeal, Dr. Sevier was always loaded like a dromedary. Just now he was much occupied with the affairs of the great American people. For all he was the furthest remove from a mere party contestant or spoilsman, neither his righteous pugnacity nor his human sympathy would allow him to "let politics alone." Often across this preoccupation there flitted a thought of the Richlings. At length one day he saw them. He had been called by a patient, lodging near Madame Zénobie's house. The proximity of the young couple occurred to him at once, but he instantly realized the extreme poverty of the chance that he should see them. To increase the improbability, the short afternoon was near its close,--an hour when people generally were sitting at dinner. But what a coquette is that same chance! As he was driving up at the sidewalk's edge before his patient's door, the Richlings came out of theirs, the husband talking with animation, and the wife, all sunshine, skipping up to his side, and taking his arm with both hands, and attending eagerly to his words. "Heels!" muttered the Doctor to himself, for the sound of Mrs. Richling's gaiters betrayed that fact. Heels were an innovation still new enough to rouse the resentment of masculine conservatism. But for them she would have pleased his sight entirely. Bonnets, for years microscopic, had again become visible, and her girlish face was prettily set in one whose flowers and ribbon, just joyous and no more, were reflected again in the double-skirted silk _barége_; while the dark mantilla that drooped away from the broad lace collar, shading, without hiding, her "Parodi" waist, seemed made for that very street of heavy-grated archways, iron-railed balconies, and high lattices. The Doctor even accepted patiently the free northern step, which is commonly so repugnant to the southern eye. A heightened gladness flashed into the faces of the two young people as they descried the physician. "Good-afternoon," they said, advancing. "Good-evening," responded the Doctor, and shook hands with each. The meeting was an emphatic pleasure to him. He quite forgot the young man's lack of credentials. "Out taking the air?" he asked. "Looking about," said the husband. "Looking up new quarters," said the wife, knitting her fingers about her husband's elbow and drawing closer to it. "Were you not comfortable?" "Yes; but the rooms are larger than we need." "Ah!" said the Doctor; and there the conversation sank. There was no topic suited to so fleeting a moment, and when they had smiled all round again Dr. Sevier lifted his hat. Ah, yes, there was one thing. "Have you found work?" asked the Doctor of Richling. The wife glanced up for an instant into her husband's face, and then down again. "No," said Richling, "not yet. If you should hear of anything, Doctor"--He remembered the Doctor's word about letters, stopped suddenly, and seemed as if he might even withdraw the request; but the Doctor said:-- "I will; I will let you know." He gave his hand to Richling. It was on his lips to add: "And should you need," etc.; but there was the wife at the husband's side. So he said no more. The pair bowed their cheerful thanks; but beside the cheer, or behind it, in the husband's face, was there not the look of one who feels the odds against him? And yet, while the two men's hands still held each other, the look vanished, and the young man's light grasp had such firmness in it that, for this cause also, the Doctor withheld his patronizing utterance. He believed he would himself have resented it had he been in Richling's place. The young pair passed on, and that night, as Dr. Sevier sat at his fireside, an uncompanioned widower, he saw again the young wife look quickly up into her husband's face, and across that face flit and disappear its look of weary dismay, followed by the air of fresh courage with which the young couple had said good-by. "I wish I had spoken," he thought to himself; "I wish I had made the offer." And again:-- "I hope he didn't tell her what I said about the letters. Not but I was right, but it'll only wound her." But Richling had told her; he always "told her everything;" she could not possibly have magnified wifehood more, in her way, than he did in his. May be both ways were faulty; but they were extravagantly, youthfully confident that they were not. * * * Unknown to Dr. Sevier, the Richlings had returned from their search unsuccessful. Finding prices too much alike in Custom-house street they turned into Burgundy. From Burgundy they passed into Du Maine. As they went, notwithstanding disappointments, their mood grew gay and gayer. Everything that met the eye was quaint and droll to them: men, women, things, places,--all were more or less outlandish. The grotesqueness of the African, and especially the French-tongued African, was to Mrs. Richling particularly irresistible. Multiplying upon each and all of these things was the ludicrousness of the pecuniary strait that brought themselves and these things into contact. Everything turned to fun. Mrs. Richling's mirthful mood prompted her by and by to begin letting into her inquiries and comments covert double meanings, intended for her husband's private understanding. Thus they crossed Bourbon street. About there their mirth reached a climax; it was in a small house, a sad, single-story thing, cowering between two high buildings, its eaves, four or five feet deep, overshadowing its one street door and window. "Looks like a shade for weak eyes," said the wife. They had debated whether they should enter it or not. He thought no, she thought yes; but he would not insist and she would not insist; she wished him to do as he thought best, and he wished her to do as she thought best, and they had made two or three false starts and retreats before they got inside. But they were in there at length, and busily engaged inquiring into the availability of a small, lace-curtained, front room, when Richling took his wife so completely off her guard by addressing her as "Madam," in the tone and manner of Dr. Sevier, that she laughed in the face of the householder, who had been trying to talk English with a French accent and a hare-lip, and they fled with haste to the sidewalk and around the corner, where they could smile and smile without being villains. "We must stop this," said the wife, blushing. "We _must_ stop it. We're attracting attention." And this was true at least as to one ragamuffin, who stood on a neighboring corner staring at them. Yet there is no telling to what higher pitch their humor might have carried them if Mrs. Richling had not been weighted down by the constant necessity of correcting her husband's statement of their wants. This she could do, because his exactions were all in the direction of her comfort. "But, John," she would say each time as they returned to the street and resumed their quest, "those things cost; you can't afford them, can you?" "Why, you can't be comfortable without them," he would answer. "But that's not the question, John. We _must_ take cheaper lodgings, mustn't we?" Then John would be silent, and by littles their gayety would rise again. One landlady was so good-looking, so manifestly and entirely Caucasian, so melodious of voice, and so modest in her account of the rooms she showed, that Mrs. Richling was captivated. The back room on the second floor, overlooking the inner court and numerous low roofs beyond, was suitable and cheap. "Yes," said the sweet proprietress, turning to Richling, who hung in doubt whether it was quite good enough, "yesseh, I think you be pretty well in that room yeh.[1] Yesseh, I'm shoe you be _verrie_ well; yesseh." [1] "Yeh"--_ye_, as in _yearn_. "Can we get them at once?" "Yes? At once? Yes? Oh, yes?" No downward inflections from her. "Well,"--the wife looked at the husband; he nodded,--"well, we'll take it." "Yes?" responded the landlady; "well?" leaning against a bedpost and smiling with infantile diffidence, "you dunt want no ref'ence?" "No," said John, generously, "oh, no; we can trust each other that far, eh?" "Oh, yes?" replied the sweet creature; then suddenly changing countenance, as though she remembered something. "But daz de troub'--de room not goin' be vacate for t'ree mont'." She stretched forth her open palms and smiled, with one arm still around the bedpost. "Why," exclaimed Mrs. Richling, the very statue of astonishment, "you said just now we could have it at once!" "Dis room? _Oh_, no; nod _dis_ room." "I don't see how I could have misunderstood you." The landlady lifted her shoulders, smiled, and clasped her hands across each other under her throat. Then throwing them apart she said brightly:-- "No, I say at Madame La Rose. Me, my room is all fill'. At Madame La Rose, I say, I think you be pritty well. I'm shoe you be verrie well at Madame La Rose. I'm sorry. But you kin paz yondeh--'tiz juz ad the cawneh? And I am shoe I think you be pritty well at Madame La Rose." She kept up the repetition, though Mrs. Richling, incensed, had turned her back, and Richling was saying good-day. "She did say the room was vacant!" exclaimed the little wife, as they reached the sidewalk. But the next moment there came a quick twinkle from her eye, and, waving her husband to go on without her, she said, "You kin paz yondeh; at Madame La Rose I am shoe you be pritty sick." Thereupon she took his arm,--making everybody stare and smile to see a lady and gentleman arm in arm by daylight,--and they went merrily on their way. The last place they stopped at was in Royal street. The entrance was bad. It was narrow even for those two. The walls were stained by dampness, and the smell of a totally undrained soil came up through the floor. The stairs ascended a few steps, came too near a low ceiling, and shot forward into cavernous gloom to find a second rising place farther on. But the rooms, when reached, were a tolerably pleasant disappointment, and the proprietress a person of reassuring amiability. She bestirred herself in an obliging way that was the most charming thing yet encountered. She gratified the young people every moment afresh with her readiness to understand or guess their English queries and remarks, hung her head archly when she had to explain away little objections, delivered her No sirs with gravity and her Yes sirs with bright eagerness, shook her head slowly with each negative announcement, and accompanied her affirmations with a gracious bow and a smile full of rice powder. She rendered everything so agreeable, indeed, that it almost seemed impolite to inquire narrowly into matters, and when the question of price had to come up it was really difficult to bring it forward, and Richling quite lost sight of the economic rules to which he had silently acceded in the _Rue Du Maine_. "And you will carpet the floor?" he asked, hovering off of the main issue. "Put coppit? Ah! cettainlee!" she replied, with a lovely bow and a wave of the hand toward Mrs. Richling, whom she had already given the same assurance. "Yes," responded the little wife, with a captivated smile, and nodded to her husband. "We want to get the decentest thing that is cheap," he said, as the three stood close together in the middle of the room. The landlady flushed. "No, no, John," said the wife, quickly, "don't you know what we said?" Then, turning to the proprietress, she hurried to add, "We want the cheapest thing that is decent." But the landlady had not waited for the correction. "_Dis_sent! You want somesin _dis_sent!" She moved a step backward on the floor, scoured and smeared with brick-dust, her ire rising visibly at every heart-throb, and pointing her outward-turned open hand energetically downward, added:-- "'Tis yeh!" She breathed hard. "_Mais_, no; you don't _want_ somesin dissent. No!" She leaned forward interrogatively: "You want somesin tchip?" She threw both elbows to the one side, cast her spread hands off in the same direction, drew the cheek on that side down into the collar-bone, raised her eyebrows, and pushed her upper lip with her lower, scornfully. At that moment her ear caught the words of the wife's apologetic amendment. They gave her fresh wrath and new opportunity. For her new foe was a woman, and a woman trying to speak in defence of the husband against whose arm she clung. "Ah-h-h!" Her chin went up; her eyes shot lightning; she folded her arms fiercely, and drew herself to her best height; and, as Richling's eyes shot back in rising indignation, cried:-- "Ziss pless? 'Tis not ze pless! Zis pless--is diss'nt pless! I am diss'nt woman, me! Fo w'at you come in yeh?" "My dear madam! My husband"-- "Dass you' uzban'?" pointing at him. "Yes!" cried the two Richlings at once. The woman folded her arms again, turned half-aside, and, lifting her eyes to the ceiling, simply remarked, with an ecstatic smile:-- "Humph!" and left the pair, red with exasperation, to find the street again through the darkening cave of the stair-way. * * * It was still early the next morning, when Richling entered his wife's apartment with an air of brisk occupation. She was pinning her brooch at the bureau glass. "Mary," he exclaimed, "put something on and come see what I've found! The queerest, most romantic old thing in the city; the most comfortable--and the cheapest! Here, is this the wardrobe key? To save time I'll get your bonnet." "No, no, no!" cried the laughing wife, confronting him with sparkling eyes, and throwing herself before the wardrobe; "I can't let you touch my bonnet!" There is a limit, it seems, even to a wife's subserviency. However, in a very short time afterward, by the feminine measure, they were out in the street, and people were again smiling at the pretty pair to see her arm in his, and she actually _keeping step_. 'Twas very funny. As they went John described his discovery: A pair of huge, solid green gates immediately on the sidewalk, in the dull façade of a tall, red brick building with old carved vinework on its window and door frames. Hinges a yard long on the gates; over the gates a semi-circular grating of iron bars an inch in diameter; in one of these gates a wicket, and on the wicket a heavy, battered, highly burnished brass knocker. A short-legged, big-bodied, and very black slave to usher one through the wicket into a large, wide, paved corridor, where from the middle joist overhead hung a great iron lantern. Big double doors at the far end, standing open, flanked with diamond-paned side-lights of colored glass, and with an arch at the same, fan-shaped, above. Beyond these doors and showing through them, a flagged court, bordered all around by a narrow, raised parterre under pomegranate and fruit-laden orange, and over-towered by vine-covered and latticed walls, from whose ragged eaves vagabond weeds laughed down upon the flowers of the parterre below, robbed of late and early suns. Stairs old fashioned, broad; rooms, their choice of two; one looking down into the court, the other into the street; furniture faded, capacious; ceilings high; windows, each opening upon its own separate small balcony, where, instead of balustrades, was graceful iron scroll-work, centered by some long-dead owner's monogram two feet in length; and on the balcony next the division wall, close to another on the adjoining property, a quarter circle of iron-work set like a blind-bridle, and armed with hideous prongs for house-breakers to get impaled on. "Why, in there," said Richling, softly, as they hurried in, "we'll be hid from the whole world, and the whole world from us." The wife's answer was only the upward glance of her blue eyes into his, and a faint smile. The place was all it had been described to be, and more,--except in one particular. "And my husband tells me"--The owner of said husband stood beside him, one foot a little in advance of the other, her folded parasol hanging down the front of her skirt from her gloved hands, her eyes just returning to the landlady's from an excursion around the ceiling, and her whole appearance as fresh as the pink flowers that nestled between her brow and the rim of its precious covering. She smiled as she began her speech, but not enough to spoil what she honestly believed to be a very business-like air and manner. John had quietly dropped out of the negotiations, and she felt herself put upon her mettle as his agent. "And my husband tells me the price of this front room is ten dollars a month." "Munse?" The respondent was a very white, corpulent woman, who constantly panted for breath, and was everywhere sinking down into chairs, with her limp, unfortified skirt dropping between her knees, and her hands pressed on them exhaustedly. "Munse?" She turned from husband to wife, and back again, a glance of alarmed inquiry. Mary tried her hand at French. "Yes; _oui, madame_. Ten dollah the month--_le mois_." Intelligence suddenly returned. Madame made a beautiful, silent O with her mouth and two others with her eyes. "Ah _non_! By munse? No, madame. Ah-h! impossybl'! By _wick_, yes; ten dollah de wick! Ah!" She touched her bosom with the wide-spread fingers of one hand and threw them toward her hearers. The room-hunters got away, yet not so quickly but they heard behind and above them her scornful laugh, addressed to the walls of the empty room. A day or two later they secured an apartment, cheap, and--morally--decent; but otherwise--ah! CHAPTER VII. DISAPPEARANCE. It was the year of a presidential campaign. The party that afterward rose to overwhelming power was, for the first time, able to put its candidate fairly abreast of his competitors. The South was all afire. Rising up or sitting down, coming or going, week-day or Sabbath-day, eating or drinking, marrying or burying, the talk was all of slavery, abolition, and a disrupted country. Dr. Sevier became totally absorbed in the issue. He was too unconventional a thinker ever to find himself in harmony with all the declarations of any party, and yet it was a necessity of his nature to be in the _mêlée_. He had his own array of facts, his own peculiar deductions; his own special charges of iniquity against this party and of criminal forbearance against that; his own startling political economy; his own theory of rights; his own interpretations of the Constitution; his own threats and warnings; his own exhortations, and his own prophecies, of which one cannot say all have come true. But he poured them forth from the mighty heart of one who loved his country, and sat down with a sense of duty fulfilled and wiped his pale forehead while the band played a polka. It hardly need be added that he proposed to dispense with politicians, or that, when "the boys" presently counted him into their party team for campaign haranguing, he let them clap the harness upon him and splashed along in the mud with an intention as pure as snow. "Hurrah for"-- Whom it is no matter now. It was not Fremont. Buchanan won the race. Out went the lights, down came the platforms, rockets ceased to burst; it was of no use longer to "Wait for the wagon"; "Old Dan Tucker" got "out of the way," small boys were no longer fellow-citizens, dissolution was postponed, and men began to have an eye single to the getting of money. A mercantile friend of Dr. Sevier had a vacant clerkship which it was necessary to fill. A bright recollection flashed across the Doctor's memory. "Narcisse!" "Yesseh!" "Go to Number 40 Custom-house street and inquire for Mr. Fledgeling; or, if he isn't in, for Mrs. Fledge--humph! Richling, I mean; I"-- Narcisse laughed aloud. "Ha-ha-ha! daz de way, sometime'! My hant she got a honcl'--he says, once 'pon a time"-- "Never mind! Go at once!" "All a-ight, seh!" "Give him this card"-- "Yesseh!" "These people"-- "Yesseh!" "Well, wait till you get your errand, can't you? These"-- "Yesseh!" "These people want to see him." "All a-ight, seh!" Narcisse threw open and jerked off a worsted jacket, took his coat down from a peg, transferred a snowy handkerchief from the breast-pocket of the jacket to that of the coat, felt in his pantaloons to be sure that he had his match-case and cigarettes, changed his shoes, got his hat from a high nail by a little leap, and put it on a head as handsome as Apollo's. "Doctah Seveeah," he said, "in fact, I fine that a ve'y gen'lemany young man, that Mistoo Itchlin, weely, Doctah." The Doctor murmured to himself from the letter he was writing. "Well, _au 'evoi'_, Doctah; I'm goin'." Out in the corridor he turned and jerked his chin up and curled his lip, brought a match and cigarette together in the lee of his hollowed hand, took one first, fond draw, and went down the stairs as if they were on fire. At Canal street he fell in with two noble fellows of his own circle, and the three went around by way of Exchange alley to get a glass of soda at McCloskey's old down-town stand. His two friends were out of employment at the moment,--making him, consequently, the interesting figure in the trio as he inveighed against his master. "Ah, phooh!" he said, indicating the end of his speech by dropping the stump of his cigarette into the sand on the floor and softly spitting upon it,--"_le_ Shylock _de la rue_ Carondelet!"--and then in English, not to lose the admiration of the Irish waiter:-- "He don't want to haugment me! I din hass 'im, because the 'lection. But you juz wait till dat firce of Jannawerry!" The waiter swathed the zinc counter, and inquired why Narcisse did not make his demands at the present moment. "W'y I don't hass 'im now? Because w'en I hass 'im he know' he's got to _do_ it! You thing I'm goin' to kill myseff workin'?" Nobody said yes, and by and by he found himself alive in the house of Madame Zénobie. The furniture was being sold at auction, and the house was crowded with all sorts and colors of men and women. A huge sideboard was up for sale as he entered, and the crier was crying:-- "Faw-ty-fi' dollah! faw-ty-fi' dollah, ladies an' gentymen! On'y faw-ty-fi' dollah fo' thad magniffyzan sidebode! _Quarante-cinque piastres, seulement, messieurs! Les_ knobs _vaut bien cette prix_! Gentymen, de knobs is worse de money! Ladies, if you don' stop dat talkin', I will not sell one thing mo'! _Et quarante cinque piastres_--faw-ty-fi' dollah"-- "Fifty!" cried Narcisse, who had not owned that much at one time since his father was a constable; realizing which fact, he slipped away upstairs and found Madame Zénobie half crazed at the slaughter of her assets. She sat in a chair against the wall of the room the Richlings had occupied, a spectacle of agitated dejection. Here and there about the apartment, either motionless in chairs, or moving noiselessly about, and pulling and pushing softly this piece of furniture and that, were numerous vulture-like persons of either sex, waiting the up-coming of the auctioneer. Narcisse approached her briskly. "Well, Madame Zénobie!"--he spoke in French--"is it you who lives here? Don't you remember me? What! No? You don't remember how I used to steal figs from you?" The vultures slowly turned their heads. Madame Zénobie looked at him in a dazed way. No, she did not remember. So many had robbed her--all her life. "But you don't look at me, Madame Zénobie. Don't you remember, for example, once pulling a little boy--as little as _that_--out of your fig-tree, and taking the half of a shingle, split lengthwise, in your hand, and his head under your arm,--swearing you would do it if you died for it,--and bending him across your knee,"--he began a vigorous but graceful movement of the right arm, which few members of our fallen race could fail to recognize,--"and you don't remember me, my old friend?" She looked up into the handsome face with a faint smile of affirmation. He laughed with delight. "The shingle was _that_ wide. Ah! Madame Zénobie, you did it well!" He softly smote the memorable spot, first with one hand and then with the other, shrinking forward spasmodically with each contact, and throwing utter woe into his countenance. The general company smiled. He suddenly put on great seriousness. "Madame Zénobie, I hope your furniture is selling well?" He still spoke in French. She cast her eyes upward pleadingly, caught her breath, threw the back of her hand against her temple, and dashed it again to her lap, shaking her head. Narcisse was sorry. "I have been doing what I could for you, downstairs,--running up the prices of things. I wish I could stay to do more, for the sake of old times. I came to see Mr. Richling, Madame Zénobie; is he in? Dr. Sevier wants him." Richling? Why, the Richlings did not live there! The Doctor must know it. Why should she be made responsible for this mistake? It was his oversight. They had moved long ago. Dr. Sevier had seen them looking for apartments. Where did they live now? Ah, me! _she_ could not tell. Did Mr. Richling owe the Doctor something? "Owe? Certainly not. The Doctor--on the contrary"-- Ah! well, indeed, she didn't know where they lived, it is true; but the fact was, Mr. Richling happened to be there just then!--_à-ç't'eure_! He had come to get a few trifles left by his madame. Narcisse made instant search. Richling was not on the upper floor. He stepped to the landing and looked down. There he went! "Mistoo 'Itchlin!" Richling failed to hear. Sharper ears might have served him better. He passed out by the street door. Narcisse stopped the auction by the noise he made coming downstairs after him. He had some trouble with the front door,--lost time there, but got out. Richling was turning a corner. Narcisse ran there and looked; looked up--looked down--looked into every store and shop on either side of the way clear back to Canal street; crossed it, went back to the Doctor's office, and reported. If he omitted such details as having seen and then lost sight of the man he sought, it may have been in part from the Doctor's indisposition to give him speaking license. The conclusion was simple: the Richlings could not be found. * * * The months of winter passed. No sign of them. "They've gone back home," the Doctor often said to himself. How much better that was than to stay where they had made a mistake in venturing, and become the nurslings of patronizing strangers! He gave his admiration free play, now that they were quite gone. True courage that Richling had--courage to retreat when retreat is best! And his wife--ah! what a reminder of--hush, memory! "Yes, they must have gone home!" The Doctor spoke very positively, because, after all, he was haunted by doubt. One spring morning he uttered a soft exclamation as he glanced at his office-slate. The first notice on it read:-- Please call as soon as you can at number 292 St. Mary street, corner of Prytania. Lower corner--opposite the asylum. JOHN RICHLING. The place was far up in the newer part of the American quarter. The signature had the appearance as if the writer had begun to write some other name, and had changed it to Richling. CHAPTER VIII. A QUESTION OF BOOK-KEEPING. A day or two after Narcisse had gone looking for Richling at the house of Madame Zénobie, he might have found him, had he known where to search, in Tchoupitoulas street. Whoever remembers that thoroughfare as it was in those days, when the commodious "cotton-float" had not quite yet come into use, and Poydras and other streets did not so vie with Tchoupitoulas in importance as they do now, will recall a scene of commercial hurly-burly that inspired much pardonable vanity in the breast of the utilitarian citizen. Drays, drays, drays! Not the light New York things; but big, heavy, solid affairs, many of them drawn by two tall mules harnessed tandem. Drays by threes and by dozens, drays in opposing phalanxes, drays in long processions, drays with all imaginable kinds of burden; cotton in bales, piled as high as the omnibuses; leaf tobacco in huge hogsheads; cases of linens and silks; stacks of raw-hides; crates of cabbages; bales of prints and of hay; interlocked heaps of blue and red ploughs; bags of coffee, and spices, and corn; bales of bagging; barrels, casks, and tierces; whisky, pork, onions, oats, bacon, garlic, molasses, and other delicacies; rice, sugar,--what was there not? Wines of France and Spain in pipes, in baskets, in hampers, in octaves; queensware from England; cheeses, like cart-wheels, from Switzerland; almonds, lemons, raisins, olives, boxes of citron, casks of chains; specie from Vera Cruz; cries of drivers, cracking of whips, rumble of wheels, tremble of earth, frequent gorge and stoppage. It seemed an idle tale to say that any one could be lacking bread and raiment. "We are a great city," said the patient foot-passengers, waiting long on street corners for opportunity to cross the way. On one of these corners paused Richling. He had not found employment, but you could not read that in his face; as well as he knew himself, he had come forward into the world prepared amiably and patiently to be, to do, to suffer anything, provided it was not wrong or ignominious. He did not see that even this is not enough in this rough world; nothing had yet taught him that one must often gently suffer rudeness and wrong. As to what constitutes ignominy he had a very young man's--and, shall we add? a very American--idea. He could not have believed, had he been told, how many establishments he had passed by, omitting to apply in them for employment. He little dreamed he had been too select. He had entered not into any house of the Samaritans, to use a figure; much less, to speak literally, had he gone to the lost sheep of the house of Israel. Mary, hiding away in uncomfortable quarters a short stone's throw from Madame Zénobie's, little imagined that, in her broad irony about his not hunting for employment, there was really a tiny seed of truth. She felt sure that two or three persons who had seemed about to employ him had failed to do so because they detected the defect in his hearing, and in one or two cases she was right. Other persons paused on the same corner where Richling stood, under the same momentary embarrassment. One man, especially busy-looking, drew very near him. And then and there occurred this simple accident,--that at last he came in contact with the man who had work to give him. This person good-humoredly offered an impatient comment on their enforced delay. Richling answered in sympathetic spirit, and the first speaker responded with a question:-- "Stranger in the city?" "Yes." "Buying goods for up-country?" It was a pleasant feature of New Orleans life that sociability to strangers on the street was not the exclusive prerogative of gamblers' decoys. "No; I'm looking for employment." "Aha!" said the man, and moved away a little. But in a moment Richling, becoming aware that his questioner was glancing all over him with critical scrutiny, turned, and the man spoke. "D'you keep books?" Just then a way opened among the vehicles; and the man, young and muscular, darted into it, and Richling followed. "I _can_ keep books," he said, as they reached the farther curb-stone. The man seized him by the arm. "D'you see that pile of codfish and herring where that tall man is at work yonder with a marking-pot and brush? Well, just beyond there is a boarding-house, and then a hardware store; you can hear them throwing down sheets of iron. Here; you can see the sign. See? Well, the next is my store. Go in there--upstairs into the office--and wait till I come." Richling bowed and went. In the office he sat down and waited what seemed a very long time. Could he have misunderstood? For the man did not come. There was a person sitting at a desk on the farther side of the office, writing, who had not lifted his head from first to last, Richling said:-- "Can you tell me when the proprietor will be in?" The writer's eyes rose, and dropped again upon his writing. "What do you want with him?" "He asked me to wait here for him." "Better wait, then." Just then in came the merchant. Richling rose, and he uttered a rude exclamation:-- "_I_ forgot you completely! Where did you say you kept books at, last?" "I've not kept anybody's books yet, but I can do it." The merchant's response was cold and prompt. He did not look at Richling, but took a sample vial of molasses from a dirty mantel-piece and lifted it between his eyes and the light, saying:-- "You can't do any such thing. I don't want you." "Sir," said Richling, so sharply that the merchant looked round, "if you don't want me I don't want you; but you mustn't attempt to tell me that what I say is not true!" He had stepped forward as he began to speak, but he stopped before half his words were uttered, and saw his folly. Even while his voice still trembled with passion and his head was up, he colored with mortification. That feeling grew no less when his offender simply looked at him, and the man at the desk did not raise his eyes. It rather increased when he noticed that both of them were young--as young as he. "I don't doubt your truthfulness," said the merchant, marking the effect of his forbearance; "but you ought to know you can't come in and take charge of a large set of books in the midst of a busy season, when you've never kept books before." "I don't know it at all." "Well, I do," said the merchant, still more coldly than before. "There are my books," he added, warming, and pointed to three great canvassed and black-initialled volumes standing in a low iron safe, "left only yesterday in such a snarl, by a fellow who had 'never kept books, but knew how,' that I shall have to open another set! After this I shall have a book-keeper who has kept books." He turned away. Some weeks afterward Richling recalled vividly a thought that had struck him only faintly at this time: that, beneath much superficial severity and energy, there was in this establishment a certain looseness of management. It may have been this half-recognized thought that gave him courage, now, to say, advancing another step:-- "One word, if you please." "It's no use, my friend." "It may be." "How?" "Get an experienced book-keeper for your new set of books"-- "You can bet your bottom dollar!" said the merchant, turning again and running his hands down into his lower pockets. "And even he'll have as much as he can do"-- "That is just what I wanted you to say," interrupted Richling, trying hard to smile; "then you can let me straighten up the old set." "Give a new hand the work of an expert!" The merchant almost laughed out. He shook his head and was about to say more, when Richling persisted:-- "If I don't do the work to your satisfaction don't pay me a cent." "I never make that sort of an arrangement; no, sir!" Unfortunately it had not been Richling's habit to show this pertinacity, else life might have been easier to him as a problem; but these two young men, his equals in age, were casting amused doubts upon his ability to make good his professions. The case was peculiar. He reached a hand out toward the books. "Let me look over them for one day; if I don't convince you the next morning in five minutes that I can straighten them I'll leave them without a word." The merchant looked down an instant, and then turned to the man at the desk. "What do you think of that, Sam?" Sam set his elbows upon the desk, took the small end of his pen-holder in his hands and teeth, and, looking up, said:-- "I don't know; you might--try him." "What did you say your name was?" asked the other, again facing Richling. "Ah, yes! Who are your references, Mr. Richmond?" "Sir?" Richling leaned slightly forward and turned his ear. "I say, who knows you?" "Nobody." "Nobody! Where are you from?" "Milwaukee." The merchant tossed out his arm impatiently. "Oh, I can't do that kind o' business." He turned abruptly, went to his desk, and, sitting down half-hidden by it, took up an open letter. "I bought that coffee, Sam," he said, rising again and moving farther away. "Um-hum," said Sam; and all was still. Richling stood expecting every instant to turn on the next and go. Yet he went not. Under the dusty front windows of the counting-room the street was roaring below. Just beyond a glass partition at his back a great windlass far up under the roof was rumbling with the descent of goods from a hatchway at the end of its tense rope. Salesmen were calling, trucks were trundling, shipping clerks and porters were replying. One brawny fellow he saw, through the glass, take a herring from a broken box, and stop to feed it to a sleek, brindled mouser. Even the cat was valued; but he--he stood there absolutely zero. He saw it. He saw it as he never had seen it before in his life. This truth smote him like a javelin: that all this world wants is a man's permission to do without him. Right then it was that he thought he swallowed all his pride; whereas he only tasted its bitter brine as like a wave it took him up and lifted him forward bodily. He strode up to the desk beyond which stood the merchant, with the letter still in his hand, and said:-- "I've not gone yet! I may have to be turned off by you, but not in this manner!" The merchant looked around at him with a smile of surprise, mixed with amusement and commendation, but said nothing. Richling held out his open hand. "I don't ask you to trust me. Don't trust me. Try me!" He looked distressed. He was not begging, but he seemed to feel as though he were. The merchant dropped his eyes again upon the letter, and in that attitude asked:-- "What do you say, Sam?" "He can't hurt anything," said Sam. The merchant looked suddenly at Richling. "You're not from Milwaukee. You're a Southern man." Richling changed color. "I said Milwaukee." "Well," said the merchant, "I hardly know. Come and see me further about it to-morrow morning. I haven't time to talk now." * * * "Take a seat," he said, the next morning, and drew up a chair sociably before the returned applicant. "Now, suppose I was to give you those books, all in confusion as they are, what would you do first of all?" Mary fortunately had asked the same question the night before, and her husband was entirely ready with an answer which they had studied out in bed. "I should send your deposit-book to bank to be balanced, and, without waiting for it, I should begin to take a trial-balance off the books. If I didn't get one pretty soon, I'd drop that for the time being, and turn in and render the accounts of everybody on the books, asking them to examine and report." "All right," said the merchant, carelessly; "we'll try you." "Sir?" Richling bent his ear. "_All right; we'll try you!_ I don't care much about recommendations. I generally most always make up my opinion about a man from looking at him. I'm that sort of a man." He smiled with inordinate complacency. So, week by week, as has been said already, the winter passed,--Richling on one side of the town, hidden away in his work, and Dr. Sevier on the other, very positive that the "young pair" must have returned to Milwaukee. At length the big books were readjusted in all their hundreds of pages, were balanced, and closed. Much satisfaction was expressed; but another man had meantime taken charge of the new books,--one who influenced business, and Richling had nothing to do but put on his hat. However, the house cheerfully recommended him to a neighboring firm, which also had disordered books to be righted; and so more weeks passed. Happy weeks! Happy days! Ah, the joy of them! John bringing home money, and Mary saving it! "But, John, it seems such a pity not to have stayed with A, B, & Co.; doesn't it?" "I don't think so. I don't think they'll last much longer." And when he brought word that A, B, & Co. had gone into a thousand pieces Mary was convinced that she had a very far-seeing husband. By and by, at Richling's earnest and restless desire, they moved their lodgings again. And thus we return by a circuit to the morning when Dr. Sevier, taking up his slate, read the summons that bade him call at the corner of St. Mary and Prytania streets. CHAPTER IX. WHEN THE WIND BLOWS. The house stands there to-day. A small, pinched, frame, ground-floor-and-attic, double tenement, with its roof sloping toward St. Mary street and overhanging its two door-steps that jut out on the sidewalk. There the Doctor's carriage stopped, and in its front room he found Mary in bed again, as ill as ever. A humble German woman, living in the adjoining half of the house, was attending to the invalid's wants, and had kept her daughter from the public school to send her to the apothecary with the Doctor's prescription. "It is the poor who help the poor," thought the physician. "Is this your home?" he asked the woman softly, as he sat down by the patient's pillow. He looked about upon the small, cheaply furnished room, full of the neat makeshifts of cramped housewifery. "It's mine," whispered Mary. Even as she lay there in peril of her life, and flattened out as though Juggernaut had rolled over her, her eyes shone with happiness and scintillated as the Doctor exclaimed in undertone:-- "Yours!" He laid his hand upon her forehead. "Where is Mr. Richling?" "At the office." Her eyes danced with delight. She would have begun, then and there, to tell him all that had happened,--"had taken care of herself all along," she said, "until they began to move. In moving, had been _obliged_ to overwork--hardly _fixed_ yet"-- But the Doctor gently checked her and bade her be quiet. "I will," was the faint reply; "I will; but--just one thing, Doctor, please let me say." "Well?" "John"-- "Yes, yes; I know; he'd be here, only you wouldn't let him stay away from his work." She smiled assent, and he smiled in return. "'Business is business,'" he said. She turned a quick, sparkling glance of affirmation, as if she had lately had some trouble to maintain that ancient truism. She was going to speak again, but the Doctor waved his hand downward soothingly toward the restless form and uplifted eyes. "All right," she whispered, and closed them. The next day she was worse. The physician found himself, to use his words, "only the tardy attendant of offended nature." When he dropped his finger-ends gently upon her temple she tremblingly grasped his hand. "You'll save me?" she whispered. "Yes," he replied; "we'll do that--the Lord helping us." A glad light shone from her face as he uttered the latter clause. Whereat he made haste to add:-- "I don't pray, but I'm sure you do." She silently pressed the hand she still held. On Sunday he found Richling at the bedside. Mary had improved considerably in two or three days. She lay quite still as they talked, only shifting her glance softly from one to the other as one and then the other spoke. The Doctor heard with interest Richling's full account of all that had occurred since he had met them last together. Mary's eyes filled with merriment when John told the droller part of their experiences in the hard quarters from which they had only lately removed. But the Doctor did not so much as smile. Richling finished, and the physician was silent. "Oh, we're getting along," said Richling, stroking the small, weak hand that lay near him on the coverlet. But still the Doctor kept silence. "Of course," said Richling, very quietly, looking at his wife, "we mustn't be surprised at a backset now and then. But we're getting on." Mary turned her eyes toward the Doctor. Was he not going to assent at all? She seemed about to speak. He bent his ear, and she said, with a quiet smile:-- "'When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.'" The physician gave only a heavy-eyed "Humph!" and a faint look of amusement. "What did she say?" said Richling; the words had escaped his ear. The Doctor repeated it, and Richling, too, smiled. Yet it was a good speech,--why not? But the patient also smiled, and turned her eyes toward the wall with a disconcerted look, as if the smile might end in tears. For herein lay the very difficulty that always brought the Doctor's carriage to the door,--the cradle would not rock. For a few days more that carriage continued to appear, and then ceased. Richling dropped in one morning at Number 3-1/2 Carondelet, and settled his bill with Narcisse. The young Creole was much pleased to be at length brought into actual contact with a man of his own years, who, without visible effort, had made an impression on Dr. Sevier. Until the money had been paid and the bill receipted nothing more than a formal business phrase or two passed between them. But as Narcisse delivered the receipted bill, with an elaborate gesture of courtesy, and Richling began to fold it for his pocket, the Creole remarked:-- "I 'ope you will excuse the 'an'-a-'iting." Richling reopened the paper; the penmanship was beautiful. "Do you ever write better than this?" he asked. "Why, I wish I could write half as well!" "No; I do not fine that well a-'itten. I cannot see 'ow that is,--I nevva 'ite to the satizfagtion of my abil'ty soon in the mawnin's. I am dest'oying my chi'og'aphy at that desk yeh." "Indeed?" said Richling; "why, I should think"-- "Yesseh, 'tis the tooth. But consunning the chi'og'aphy, Mistoo Itchlin, I 'ave descovvud one thing to a maul cettainty, and that is, if I 'ave something to 'ite to a young lady, I always dizguise my chi'og'aphy. Ha-ah! I 'ave learn that! You will be aztonizh' to see in 'ow many diffe'n' fawm' I can make my 'an'-a-'iting to appeah. That paz thoo my fam'ly, in fact, Mistoo Itchlin. My hant, she's got a honcle w'at use' to be cluck in a bank, w'at could make the si'natu'e of the pwesiden', as well as of the cashieh, with that so absolute puffegtion, that they tu'n 'im out of the bank! Yesseh. In fact, I thing you ought to know 'ow to 'ite a ve'y fine 'an', Mistoo Itchlin." "N-not very," said Richling; "my hand is large and legible, but not well adapted for--book-keeping; it's too heavy." "You 'ave the 'ight physio'nomie, I am shu'. You will pe'haps believe me with difficulty, Mistoo Itchlin, but I assu' you I can tell if a man 'as a fine chi'og'aphy aw no, by juz lookin' upon his liniment. Do you know that Benjamin Fwanklin 'ote a v'ey fine chi'og'aphy, in fact? Also, Voltaire. Yesseh. An' Napoleon Bonaparte. Lawd By'on muz 'ave 'ad a beaucheouz chi'og'aphy. 'Tis impossible not to be, with that face. He is my favo'ite poet, that Lawd By'on. Moze people pwefeh 'im to Shakspere, in fact. Well, you muz go? I am ve'y 'appy to meck yo' acquaintanze, Mistoo Itchlin, seh. I am so'y Doctah Seveeah is not theh pwesently. The negs time you call, Mistoo Itchlin, you muz not be too much aztonizh to fine me gone from yeh. Yesseh. He's got to haugment me ad the en' of that month, an' we 'ave to-day the fifteenth Mawch. Do you smoke, Mistoo Itchlin?" He extended a package of cigarettes. Richling accepted one. "I smoke lawgely in that weatheh," striking a match on his thigh. "I feel ve'y sultwy to-day. Well,"--he seized the visitor's hand,--"_au' evoi'_, Mistoo Itchlin." And Narcisse returned to his desk happy in the conviction that Richling had gone away dazzled. CHAPTER X. GENTLES AND COMMONS. Dr. Sevier sat in the great easy-chair under the drop-light of his library table trying to read a book. But his thought was not on the page. He expired a long breath of annoyance, and lifted his glance backward from the bottom of the page to its top. Why must his mind keep going back to that little cottage in St. Mary street? What good reason was there? Would they thank him for his solicitude? Indeed! He almost smiled his contempt of the supposition. Why, when on one or two occasions he had betrayed a least little bit of kindly interest,--what? Up had gone their youthful vivacity like an umbrella. Oh, yes!--like all young folks--_their_ affairs were intensely private. Once or twice he had shaken his head at the scantiness of all their provisions for life. Well? They simply and unconsciously stole a hold upon one another's hand or arm, as much as to say, "To love is enough." When, gentlemen of the jury, it isn't enough! "Pshaw!" The word escaped him audibly. He drew partly up from his half recline, and turned back a leaf of the book to try once more to make out the sense of it. But there was Mary, and there was her husband. Especially Mary. Her image came distinctly between his eyes and the page. There she was, just as on his last visit,--a superfluous one--no charge,--sitting and plying her needle, unaware of his approach, gently moving her rocking-chair, and softly singing, "Flow on, thou shining river,"--the song his own wife used to sing. "O child, child! do you think it's always going to be 'shining'?" They shouldn't be so contented. Was pride under that cloak? Oh, no, no! But even if the content was genuine, it wasn't good. Why, they oughtn't to be _able_ to be happy so completely out of their true sphere. It showed insensibility. But, there again,--Richling wasn't insensible, much less Mary. The Doctor let his book sink, face downward, upon his knee. "They're too big to be playing in the sand." He took up the book again. "'Tisn't my business to tell them so." But before he got the volume fairly before his eyes his professional bell rang, and he tossed the book upon the table. "Well, why don't you bring him in?" he asked, in a tone of reproof, of a servant who presented a card; and in a moment the visitor entered. He was a person of some fifty years of age, with a patrician face, in which it was impossible to tell where benevolence ended and pride began. His dress was of fine cloth, a little antique in cut, and fitting rather loosely on a form something above the medium height, of good width, but bent in the shoulders, and with arms that had been stronger. Years, it might be, or possibly some unflinching struggle with troublesome facts, had given many lines of his face a downward slant. He apologized for the hour of his call, and accepted with thanks the chair offered him. "You are not a resident of the city?" asked Dr. Sevier. "I am from Kentucky." The voice was rich, and the stranger's general air one of rather conscious social eminence. "Yes?" said the Doctor, not specially pleased, and looked at him closer. He wore a black satin neck-stock, and dark-blue buttoned gaiters. His hair was dyed brown. A slender frill adorned his shirt-front. "Mrs."--the visitor began to say, not giving the name, but waving his index-finger toward his card, which Dr. Sevier had laid upon the table, just under the lamp,--"my wife, Doctor, seems to be in a very feeble condition. Her physicians have advised her to try the effects of a change of scene, and I have brought her down to your busy city, sir." The Doctor assented. The stranger resumed:-- "Its hurry and energy are a great contrast to the plantation life, sir." "They're very unlike," the physician admitted. "This chafing of thousands of competitive designs," said the visitor, "this great fretwork of cross purposes, is a decided change from the quiet order of our rural life. Hmm! There everything is under the administration of one undisputed will, and is executed by the unquestioning obedience of our happy and contented slave peasantry. I prefer the country. But I thought this was just the change that would arouse and electrify an invalid who has really no tangible complaint." "Has the result been unsatisfactory?" "Entirely so. I am unexpectedly disappointed." The speaker's thought seemed to be that the climate of New Orleans had not responded with that hospitable alacrity which was due so opulent, reasonable, and universally obeyed a guest. There was a pause here, and Dr. Sevier looked around at the book which lay at his elbow. But the visitor did not resume, and the Doctor presently asked:-- "Do you wish me to see your wife?" "I called to see you alone first," said the other, "because there might be questions to be asked which were better answered in her absence." "Then you think you know the secret of her illness, do you?" "I do. I think, indeed I may say I know, it is--bereavement." The Doctor compressed his lips and bowed. The stranger drooped his head somewhat, and, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, laid the tips of his thumbs and fingers softly together. "The truth is, sir, she cannot recover from the loss of our son." "An infant?" asked the Doctor. His bell rang again as he put the question. "No, sir; a young man,--one whom I had thought a person of great promise; just about to enter life." "When did he die?" "He has been dead nearly a year. I"-- The speaker ceased as the mulatto waiting-man appeared at the open door, with a large, simple, German face looking easily over his head from behind. "Toctor," said the owner of this face, lifting an immense open hand, "Toctor, uf you bleace, Toctor, you vill bleace ugscooce me." The Doctor frowned at the servant for permitting the interruption. But the gentleman beside him said:-- "Let him come in, sir; he seems to be in haste, sir, and I am not,--I am not, at all." "Come in," said the physician. The new-comer stepped into the room. He was about six feet three inches in height, three feet six in breadth, and the same in thickness. Two kindly blue eyes shone softly in an expanse of face that had been clean-shaven every Saturday night for many years, and that ended in a retreating chin and a dewlap. The limp, white shirt-collar just below was without a necktie, and the waist of his pantaloons, which seemed intended to supply this deficiency, did not quite, but only almost reached up to the unoccupied blank. He removed from his respectful head a soft gray hat, whitened here and there with flour. "Yentlemen," he said, slowly, "you vill ugscooce me to interruptet you,--yentlemen." "Do you wish to see me?" asked Dr. Sevier. The German made an odd gesture of deferential assent, lifting one open hand a little in front of him to the level of his face, with the wrist bent forward and the fingers pointing down. "Uf you bleace, Toctor, I toose; undt tat's te fust time I effer _tit_ vanted a toctor. Undt you mus' ugscooce me, Toctor, to callin' on you, ovver I vish you come undt see mine"-- To the surprise of all, tears gushed from his eyes. "Mine poor vife, Toctor!" He turned to one side, pointed his broad hand toward the floor, and smote his forehead. "I yoost come in fun mine paykery undt comin' into mine howse, fen--I see someting"--he waved his hand downward again--"someting--layin' on te--floor--face pleck ans a nigger's; undt fen I look to see who udt iss,--_udt is Mississ Reisen_! Toctor, I vish you come right off! I couldn't shtayndt udt you toandt come right avay!" "I'll come," said the Doctor, without rising; "just write your name and address on that little white slate yonder." "Toctor," said the German, extending and dipping his hat, "I'm ferra much a-velcome to you, Toctor; undt tat's yoost fot te pottekerra by mine corner sayt you vould too. He sayss, 'Reisen,' he sayss, 'you yoost co to Toctor Tsewier.'" He bent his great body over the farther end of the table and slowly worked out his name, street, and number. "Dtere udt iss, Toctor; I put udt town on teh schlate; ovver, I hope you ugscooce te hayndtwriding." "Very well. That's right. That's all." The German lingered. The Doctor gave a bow of dismission. "That's all, I say. I'll be there in a moment. That's all. Dan, order my carriage!" "Yentlemen, you vill ugscooce me?" The German withdrew, returning each gentleman's bow with a faint wave of the hat. During this interview the more polished stranger had sat with bowed head, motionless and silent, lifting it only once and for a moment at the German's emotional outburst. Then the upward and backward turned face was marked with a commiseration partly artificial, but also partly natural. He now looked up at the Doctor. "I shall have to leave you," said the Doctor. "Certainly, sir," replied the other; "by all means!" The willingness was slightly overdone and the benevolence of tone was mixed with complacency. "By all means," he said again; "this is one of those cases where it is only a proper grace in the higher to yield place to the lower." He waited for a response, but the Doctor merely frowned into space and called for his boots. The visitor resumed:-- "I have a good deal of feeling, sir, for the unlettered and the vulgar. They have their station, but they have also--though doubtless in smaller capacity than we--their pleasures and pains." Seeing the Doctor ready to go, he began to rise. "I may not be gone long," said the physician, rather coldly; "if you choose to wait"-- "I thank you; n-no-o"--The visitor stopped between a sitting and a rising posture. "Here are books," said the Doctor, "and the evening papers,--'Picayune,' 'Delta,' 'True Delta.'" It seemed for a moment as though the gentleman might sink into his seat again. "And there's the 'New York Herald.'" "No, sir!" said the visitor quickly, rising and smoothing himself out; "nothing from that quarter, if you please." Yet he smiled. The Doctor did not notice that, while so smiling, he took his card from the table. There was something familiar in the stranger's face which the Doctor was trying to make out. They left the house together. Outside the street door the physician made apologetic allusion to their interrupted interview. "Shall I see you at my office to-morrow? I would be happy"-- The stranger had raised his hat. He smiled again, as pleasantly as he could, which was not delightful, and said, after a moment's hesitation:-- "--Possibly." CHAPTER XI. A PANTOMIME. It chanced one evening about this time--the vernal equinox had just passed--that from some small cause Richling, who was generally detained at the desk until a late hour, was home early. The air was soft and warm, and he stood out a little beyond his small front door-step, lifting his head to inhale the universal fragrance, and looking in every moment, through the unlighted front room, toward a part of the diminutive house where a mild rattle of domestic movements could be heard, and whence he had, a little before, been adroitly requested to absent himself. He moved restlessly on his feet, blowing a soft tune. Presently he placed a foot on the step and a hand on the door-post, and gave a low, urgent call. A distant response indicated that his term of suspense was nearly over. He turned about again once or twice, and a moment later Mary appeared in the door, came down upon the sidewalk, looked up into the moonlit sky and down the empty, silent street, then turned and sat down, throwing her wrists across each other in her lap, and lifting her eyes to her husband's with a smile that confessed her fatigue. The moon was regal. It cast its deep contrasts of clear-cut light and shadow among the thin, wooden, unarchitectural forms and weed-grown vacancies of the half-settled neighborhood, investing the matter-of-fact with mystery, and giving an unexpected charm to the unpicturesque. It was--as Richling said, taking his place beside his wife--midspring in March. As he spoke he noticed she had brought with her the odor of flowers. They were pinned at her throat. "Where did you get them?" he asked, touching them with his fingers. Her face lighted up. "Guess." How could he guess? As far as he knew neither she nor he had made an acquaintance in the neighborhood. He shook his head, and she replied:-- "The butcher." "You're a queer girl," he said, when they had laughed. "Why?" "You let these common people take to you so." She smiled, with a faint air of concern. "You don't dislike it, do you?" she asked. "Oh, no," he said, indifferently, and spoke of other things. And thus they sat, like so many thousands and thousands of young pairs in this wide, free America, offering the least possible interest to the great human army round about them, but sharing, or believing they shared, in the fruitful possibilities of this land of limitless bounty, fondling their hopes and recounting the petty minutiæ of their daily experiences. Their converse was mainly in the form of questions from Mary and answers from John. "And did he say that he would?" etc. "And didn't you insist that he should?" etc. "I don't understand how he could require you to," etc., etc. Looking at everything from John's side, as if there never could be any other, until at last John himself laughed softly when she asked why he couldn't take part of some outdoor man's work, and give him part of his own desk-work in exchange, and why he couldn't say plainly that his work was too sedentary. Then she proposed a walk in the moonlight, and insisted she was not tired; she wanted it on her own account. And so, when Richling had gone into the house and returned with some white worsted gauze for her head and neck and locked the door, they were ready to start. They were tarrying a moment to arrange this wrapping when they found it necessary to move aside from where they stood in order to let two persons pass on the sidewalk. These were a man and woman, who had at least reached middle age. The woman wore a neatly fitting calico gown; the man, a short pilot-coat. His pantaloons were very tight and pale. A new soft hat was pushed forward from the left rear corner of his closely cropped head, with the front of the brim turned down over his right eye. At each step he settled down with a little jerk alternately on this hip and that, at the same time faintly dropping the corresponding shoulder. They passed. John and Mary looked at each other with a nod of mirthful approval. Why? Because the strangers walked silently hand-in-hand. It was a magical night. Even the part of town where they were, so devoid of character by day, had become all at once romantic with phantasmal lights and glooms, echoes and silences. Along the edge of a wide chimney-top on one blank, new hulk of a house, that nothing else could have made poetical, a mocking-bird hopped and ran back and forth, singing as if he must sing or die. The mere names of the streets they traversed suddenly became sweet food for the fancy. Down at the first corner below they turned into one that had been an old country road, and was still named Felicity. Richling called attention to the word painted on a board. He merely pointed to it in playful silence, and then let his hand sink and rest on hers as it lay in his elbow. They were walking under the low boughs of a line of fig-trees that overhung a high garden wall. Then some gay thought took him; but when his downward glance met the eyes uplifted to meet his they were grave, and there came an instantaneous tenderness into the exchange of looks that would have been worse than uninteresting to you or me. But the next moment she brightened up, pressed herself close to him, and caught step. They had not owned each other long enough to have settled into sedate possession, though they sometimes thought they had done so. There was still a tingling ecstasy in one another's touch and glance that prevented them from quite behaving themselves when under the moon. For instance, now, they began, though in cautious undertone, to sing. Some person approached them, and they hushed. When the stranger had passed, Mary began again another song, alone:-- "Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?" "Hush!" said John, softly. She looked up with an air of mirthful inquiry, and he added:-- "That was the name of Dr. Sevier's wife." "But he doesn't hear me singing." "No; but it seems as if he did." And they sang no more. They entered a broad, open avenue, with a treeless, grassy way in the middle, up which came a very large and lumbering street-car, with smokers' benches on the roof, and drawn by tandem horses. "Here we turn down," said Richling, "into the way of the Naiads." (That was the street's name.) "They're not trying to get me away." He looked down playfully. She was clinging to him with more energy than she knew. "I'd better hold you tight," she answered. Both laughed. The nonsense of those we love is better than the finest wit on earth. They walked on in their bliss. Shall we follow? Fie! They passed down across three or four of a group of parallel streets named for the nine muses. At Thalia they took the left, went one square, and turned up by another street toward home. Their conversation had flagged. Silence was enough. The great earth was beneath their feet, firm and solid; the illimitable distances of the heavens stretched above their heads and before their eyes. Here was Mary at John's side, and John at hers; John her property and she his, and time flowing softly, shiningly on. Yea, even more. If one might believe the names of the streets, there were Naiads on the left and Dryads on the right; a little farther on, Hercules; yonder corner the dark trysting-place of Bacchus and Melpomene; and here, just in advance, the corner where Terpsichore crossed the path of Apollo. They came now along a high, open fence that ran the entire length of a square. Above it a dense rank of bitter orange-trees overhung the sidewalk, their dark mass of foliage glittering in the moonlight. Within lay a deep, old-fashioned garden. Its white shell-walks gleamed in many directions. A sweet breath came from its parterres of mingled hyacinths and jonquils that hid themselves every moment in black shadows of lagustrums and laurestines. Here, in severe order, a pair of palms, prim as mediæval queens, stood over against each other; and in the midst of the garden, rising high against the sky, appeared the pillared veranda and immense, four-sided roof of an old French colonial villa, as it stands unchanged to-day. The two loiterers slackened their pace to admire the scene. There was much light shining from the house. Mary could hear voices, and, in a moment, words. The host was speeding his parting guests. "The omnibus will put you out only one block from the hotel," some one said. * * * Dr. Sevier, returning home from a visit to a friend in Polymnia street, had scarcely got well seated in the omnibus before he witnessed from its window a singular dumb show. He had handed his money up to the driver as they crossed Euterpe street, had received the change and deposited his fare as they passed Terpsichore, and was just sitting down when the only other passenger in the vehicle said, half-rising:-- "Hello! there's going to be a shooting scrape!" A rather elderly man and woman on the sidewalk, both of them extremely well dressed, and seemingly on the eve of hailing the omnibus, suddenly transferred their attention to a younger couple a few steps from them, who appeared to have met them entirely by accident. The elderly lady threw out her arms toward the younger man with an expression on her face of intensest mental suffering. She seemed to cry out; but the deafening rattle of the omnibus, as it approached them, intercepted the sound. All four of the persons seemed, in various ways, to experience the most violent feelings. The young man more than once moved as if about to start forward, yet did not advance; his companion, a small, very shapely woman, clung to him excitedly and pleadingly. The older man shook a stout cane at the younger, talking furiously as he did so. He held the elderly lady to him with his arm thrown about her, while she now cast her hands upward, now covered her face with them, now wrung them, clasped them, or extended one of them in seeming accusation against the younger person of her own sex. In a moment the omnibus was opposite the group. The Doctor laid his hand on his fellow-passenger's arm. "Don't get out. There will be no shooting." The young man on the sidewalk suddenly started forward, with his companion still on his farther arm, and with his eyes steadily fixed on those of the elder and taller man, a clenched fist lifted defensively, and with a tense, defiant air walked hurriedly and silently by within easy sweep of the uplifted staff. At the moment when the slight distance between the two men began to increase, the cane rose higher, but stopped short in its descent and pointed after the receding figure. "I command you to leave this town, sir!" Dr. Sevier looked. He looked with all his might, drawing his knee under him on the cushion and leaning out. The young man had passed. He still moved on, turning back as he went a face full of the fear that men show when they are afraid of their own violence; and, as the omnibus clattered away, he crossed the street at the upper corner and disappeared in the shadows. "That's a very strange thing," said the other passenger to Dr. Sevier, as they resumed the corner seats by the door. "It certainly is!" replied the Doctor, and averted his face. For when the group and he were nearest together and the moon shone brightly upon the four, he saw, beyond all question, that the older man was his visitor of a few evenings before and that the younger pair were John and Mary Richling. CHAPTER XII. "SHE'S ALL THE WORLD." Excellent neighborhood, St. Mary street, and Prytania was even better. Everybody was very retired though, it seemed. Almost every house standing in the midst of its shady garden,--sunny gardens are a newer fashion of the town,--a bell-knob on the gate-post, and the gate locked. But the Richlings cared nothing for this; not even what they should have cared. Nor was there any unpleasantness in another fact. "Do you let this window stand wide this way when you are at work here, all day?" asked the husband. The opening alluded to was on Prytania street, and looked across the way to where the asylumed widows of "St Anna's" could glance down into it over their poor little window-gardens. "Why, yes, dear!" Mary looked up from her little cane rocker with that thoughtful contraction at the outer corners of her eyes and that illuminated smile that between them made half her beauty. And then, somewhat more gravely and persuasively: "Don't you suppose they like it? They must like it. I think we can do that much for them. Would you rather I'd shut it?" For answer John laid his hand on her head and gazed into her eyes. "Take care," she whispered; "they'll see you." He let his arm drop in amused despair. "Why, what's the window open for? And, anyhow, they're all abed and asleep these two hours." They did like it, those aged widows. It fed their hearts' hunger to see the pretty unknown passing and repassing that open window in the performance of her morning duties, or sitting down near it with her needle, still crooning her soft morning song,--poor, almost as poor as they, in this world's glitter; but rich in hope and courage, and rich beyond all count in the content of one who finds herself queen of ever so little a house, where love is. "Love is enough!" said the widows. And certainly she made it seem so. The open window brought, now and then, a moisture to the aged eyes, yet they liked it open. But, without warning one day, there was a change. It was the day after Dr. Sevier had noticed that queer street quarrel. The window was not closed, but it sent out no more light. The song was not heard, and many small, faint signs gave indication that anxiety had come to be a guest in the little house. At evening the wife was seen in her front door and about its steps, watching in a new, restless way for her husband's coming; and when he came it could be seen, all the way from those upper windows, where one or two faces appeared now and then, that he was troubled and care-worn. There were two more days like this one; but at the end of the fourth the wife read good tidings in her husband's countenance. He handed her a newspaper, and pointed to a list of departing passengers. "They're gone!" she exclaimed. He nodded, and laid off his hat. She cast her arms about his neck, and buried her head in his bosom. You could almost have seen Anxiety flying out at the window. By morning the widows knew of a certainty that the cloud had melted away. In the counting-room one evening, as Richling said good-night with noticeable alacrity, one of his employers, sitting with his legs crossed over the top of a desk, said to his partner:-- "Richling works for his wages." "That's all," replied the other; "he don't see his interests in ours any more than a tinsmith would, who comes to mend the roof." The first one took a meditative puff or two from his cigar, tipped off its ashes, and responded:-- "Common fault. He completely overlooks his immense indebtedness to the world at large, and his dependence on it. He's a good fellow, and bright; but he actually thinks that he and the world are starting even." "His wife's his world," said the other, and opened the Bills Payable book. Who will say it is not well to sail in an ocean of love? But the Richlings were becalmed in theirs, and, not knowing it, were satisfied. Day in, day out, the little wife sat at her window, and drove her needle. Omnibuses rumbled by; an occasional wagon or cart set the dust a-flying; the street venders passed, crying the praises of their goods and wares; the blue sky grew more and more intense as weeks piled up upon weeks; but the empty repetitions, and the isolation, and, worst of all, the escape of time,--she smiled at all, and sewed on and crooned on, in the sufficient thought that John would come, each time, when only hours enough had passed away forever. Once she saw Dr. Sevier's carriage. She bowed brightly, but he--what could it mean?--he lifted his hat with such austere gravity. Dr. Sevier was angry. He had no definite charge to make, but that did not lessen his displeasure. After long, unpleasant wondering, and long trusting to see Richling some day on the street, he had at length driven by this way purposely to see if they had indeed left town, as they had been so imperiously commanded to do. This incident, trivial as it was, roused Mary to thought; and all the rest of the day the thought worked with energy to dislodge the frame of mind that she had acquired from her husband. When John came home that night and pressed her to his bosom she was silent. And when he held her off a little and looked into her eyes, and she tried to better her smile, those eyes stood full to the lashes and she looked down. "What's the matter?" asked he, quickly. "Nothing!" She looked up again, with a little laugh. He took a chair and drew her down upon his lap. "What's the matter with my girl?" "I don't know." "How,--you don't know?" "Why, I simply don't. I can't make out what it is. If I could I'd tell you; but I don't know at all." After they had sat silent a few moments:-- "I wonder"--she began. "You wonder what?" asked he, in a rallying tone. "I wonder if there's such a thing as being too contented." Richling began to hum, with a playful manner:-- "'And she's all the world to me.' Is that being too"-- "Stop!" said Mary. "That's it." She laid her hand upon his shoulder. "You've said it. That's what I ought not to be!" "Why, Mary, what on earth"-- His face flamed up "John, I'm willing to be _more_ than all the rest of the world to you. I always must be that. I'm going to be that forever. And you"--she kissed him passionately--"you're all the world to me! But I've no right to be _all_ the world to _you_. And you mustn't allow it. It's making it too small!" "Mary, what are you saying?" "Don't, John. Don't speak that way. I'm not saying anything. I'm only trying to say something, I don't know what." "Neither do I," was the mock-rueful answer. "I only know," replied Mary, the vision of Dr. Sevier's carriage passing before her abstracted eyes, and of the Doctor's pale face bowing austerely within it, "that if you don't take any part or interest in the outside world it'll take none in you; do you think it will?" "And who cares if it doesn't?" cried John, clasping her to his bosom. "I do," she replied. "Yes, I do. I've no right to steal you from the rest of the world, or from the place in it that you ought to fill. John"-- "That's my name." "Why can't I do something to help you?" John lifted his head unnecessarily. "No!" "Well, then, let's think of something we can do, without just waiting for the wind to blow us along,--I mean," she added appeasingly, "I mean without waiting to be employed by others." "Oh, yes; but that takes capital!" "Yes, I know; but why don't you think up something,--some new enterprise or something,--and get somebody with capital to go in with you?" He shook his head. "You're out of your depth. And that wouldn't make so much difference, but you're out of mine. It isn't enough to think of something; you must know how to do it. And what do I know how to do? Nothing! Nothing that's worth doing!" "I know one thing you could do." "What's that?" "You could be a professor in a college." John smiled bitterly. "Without antecedents?" he asked. Their eyes met; hers dropped, and both voices were silent. Mary drew a soft sigh. She thought their talk had been unprofitable. But it had not. John laid hold of work from that day on in a better and wiser spirit. CHAPTER XIII. THE BOUGH BREAKS. By some trivial chance, she hardly knew what, Mary found herself one day conversing at her own door with the woman whom she and her husband had once smiled at for walking the moonlit street with her hand in willing and undisguised captivity. She was a large and strong, but extremely neat, well-spoken, and good-looking Irish woman, who might have seemed at ease but for a faintly betrayed ambition. She praised with rather ornate English the good appearance and convenient smallness of Mary's house; said her own was the same size. That person with whom she sometimes passed "of a Sundeh"--yes, and moonlight evenings--that was her husband. He was "ferst ingineeur" on a steam-boat. There was a little, just discernible waggle in her head as she stated things. It gave her decided character. "Ah! engineer," said Mary. "_Ferst_ ingineeur," repeated the woman; "you know there bees ferst ingineeurs, an' secon' ingineeurs, an' therd ingineeurs. Yes." She unconsciously fanned herself with a dust-pan that she had just bought from a tin peddler. She lived only some two or three hundred yards away, around the corner, in a tidy little cottage snuggled in among larger houses in Coliseum street. She had had children, but she had lost them; and Mary's sympathy when she told her of them--the girl and two boys--won the woman as much as the little lady's pretty manners had dazed her. It was not long before she began to drop in upon Mary in the hour of twilight, and sit through it without speaking often, or making herself especially interesting in any way, but finding it pleasant, notwithstanding. "John," said Mary,--her husband had come in unexpectedly,--"our neighbor, Mrs. Riley." John's bow was rather formal, and Mrs. Riley soon rose and said good-evening. "John," said the wife again, laying her hands on his shoulders as she tiptoed to kiss him, "what troubles you?" Then she attempted a rallying manner: "Don't my friends suit you?" He hesitated only an instant, and said:-- "Oh, yes, that's all right!" "Well, then, I don't see why you look so." "I've finished the task I was to do." "What! you haven't"-- "I'm out of employment." They went and sat down on the little hair-cloth sofa that Mrs. Riley had just left. "I thought they said they would have other work for you." "They said they might have; but it seems they haven't." "And it's just in the opening of summer, too," said Mary; "why, what right"-- "Oh!"--a despairing gesture and averted gaze--"they've a perfect right if they think best. I asked them that myself at first--not too politely, either; but I soon saw I was wrong." They sat without speaking until it had grown quite dark. Then John said, with a long breath, as he rose:-- "It passes my comprehension." "What passes it?" asked Mary, detaining him by one hand. "The reason why we are so pursued by misfortunes." "But, John," she said, still holding him, "_is_ it misfortune? When I know so well that you deserve to succeed, I think maybe it's good fortune in disguise, after all. Don't you think it's possible? You remember how it was last time, when A., B., & Co. failed. Maybe the best of all is to come now!" She beamed with courage. "Why, John, it seems to me I'd just go in the very best of spirits, the first thing to-morrow, and tell Dr. Sevier you are looking for work. Don't you think it might"-- "I've been there." "Have you? What did he say?" "He wasn't in." * * * There was another neighbor, with whom John and Mary did not get acquainted. Not that it was more his fault than theirs; it may have been less. Unfortunately for the Richlings there was in their dwelling no toddling, self-appointed child commissioner to find his way in unwatched moments to the play-ground of some other toddler, and so plant the good seed of neighbor acquaintanceship. This neighbor passed four times a day. A man of fortune, aged a hale sixty or so, who came and stood on the corner, and sometimes even rested a foot on Mary's door-step, waiting for the Prytania omnibus, and who, on his returns, got down from the omnibus step a little gingerly, went by Mary's house, and presently shut himself inside a very ornamental iron gate, a short way up St. Mary street. A child would have made him acquainted. Even as it was, they did not escape his silent notice. It was pleasant for him, from whose life the early dew had been dried away by a well-risen sun, to recall its former freshness by glimpses of this pair of young beginners. It was like having a bird's nest under his window. John, stepping backward from his door one day, saying a last word to his wife, who stood on the threshold, pushed against this neighbor as he was moving with somewhat cumbersome haste to catch the stage, turned quickly, and raised his hat. "Pardon!" The other uncovered his bald head and circlet of white, silken locks, and hurried on to the conveyance. "President of one of the banks down-town," whispered John. That is the nearest they ever came to being acquainted. And even this accident might not have occurred had not the man of snowy locks been glancing at Mary as he passed instead of at his omnibus. As he sat at home that evening he remarked:-- "Very pretty little woman that, my dear, that lives in the little house at the corner; who is she?" The lady responded, without lifting her eyes from the newspaper in which she was interested; she did not know. The husband mused and twirled his penknife between a finger and thumb. "They seem to be starting at the bottom," he observed. "Yes?" "Yes; much the same as we did." "I haven't noticed them particularly." "They're worth noticing," said the banker. He threw one fat knee over the other, and laid his head on the back of his easy-chair. The lady's eyes were still on her paper, but she asked:-- "Would you like me to go and see them?" "No, no--unless you wish." She dropped the paper into her lap with a smile and a sigh. "Don't propose it. I have so much going to do"-- She paused, removed her glasses, and fell to straightening the fringe of the lamp-mat. "Of course, if you think they're in need of a friend; but from your description"-- "No," he answered, quickly, "not at all. They've friends, no doubt. Everything about them has a neat, happy look. That's what attracted my notice. They've got friends, you may depend." He ceased, took up a pamphlet, and adjusted his glasses. "I think I saw a sofa going in there to-day as I came to dinner. A little expansion, I suppose." "It was going out," said the only son, looking up from a story-book. But the banker was reading. He heard nothing, and the word was not repeated. He did not divine that a little becalmed and befogged bark, with only two lovers in her, too proud to cry "Help!" had drifted just yonder upon the rocks, and, spar by spar and plank by plank, was dropping into the smooth, unmerciful sea. Before the sofa went there had gone, little by little, some smaller valuables. "You see," said Mary to her husband, with the bright hurry of a wife bent upon something high-handed, "we both have to have furniture; we must have it; and I don't have to have jewelry. Don't you see?" "No, I"-- "Now, John!" There could be but one end to the debate; she had determined that. The first piece was a bracelet. "No, I wouldn't pawn it," she said. "Better sell it outright at once." But Richling could not but cling to hope and to the adornments that had so often clasped her wrists and throat or pinned the folds upon her bosom. Piece by piece he pawned them, always looking out ahead with strained vision for the improbable, the incredible, to rise to his relief. "Is _nothing_ going to happen, Mary?" Yes; nothing happened--except in the pawn-shop. So, all the sooner, the sofa had to go. "It's no use talking about borrowing," they both said. Then the bureau went. Then the table. Then, one by one, the chairs. Very slyly it was all done, too. Neighbors mustn't know. "Who lives there?" is a question not asked concerning houses as small as theirs; and a young man, in a well-fitting suit of only too heavy goods, removing his winter hat to wipe the standing drops from his forehead; and a little blush-rose woman at his side, in a mist of cool muslin and the cunningest of millinery,--these, who always paused a moment, with a lost look, in the vestibule of the sepulchral-looking little church on the corner of Prytania and Josephine streets, till the sexton ushered them in, and who as often contrived, with no end of ingenuity, despite the little woman's fresh beauty, to get away after service unaccosted by the elders,--who could imagine that _these_ were from so deep a nook in poverty's vale? There was one person who guessed it: Mrs. Riley, who was not asked to walk in any more when she called at the twilight hour. She partly saw and partly guessed the truth, and offered what each one of the pair had been secretly hoping somebody, anybody, would offer--a loan. But when it actually confronted them it was sweetly declined. "Wasn't it kind?" said Mary; and John said emphatically, "Yes." Very soon it was their turn to be kind to Mrs. Riley. They attended her husband's funeral. He had been killed by an explosion. Mrs. Riley beat upon the bier with her fists, and wailed in a far-reaching voice:-- "O Mike, Mike! Me jew'l, me jew'l! Why didn't ye wait to see the babe that's unborn?" And Mary wept. And when she and John reëntered their denuded house she fell upon his neck with fresh tears, and kissed him again and again, and could utter no word, but knew he understood. Poverty was so much better than sorrow! She held him fast, and he her, while he tenderly hushed her, lest a grief, the very opposite of Mrs. Riley's, should overtake her. CHAPTER XIV. HARD SPEECHES AND HIGH TEMPER. Dr. Sevier found occasion, one morning, to speak at some length, and very harshly, to his book-keeper. He had hardly ceased when John Richling came briskly in. "Doctor," he said, with great buoyancy, "how do you do?" The physician slightly frowned. "Good-morning, Mr. Richling." Richling was tamed in an instant; but, to avoid too great a contrast of manner, he retained a semblance of sprightliness, as he said:-- "This is the first time I have had this pleasure since you were last at our house, Doctor." "Did you not see me one evening, some time ago, in the omnibus?" asked Dr. Sevier. "Why, no," replied the other, with returning pleasure; "was I in the same omnibus?" "You were on the sidewalk." "No-o," said Richling, pondering. "I've seen you in your carriage several times, but you"-- "I didn't see you." Richling was stung. The conversation failed. He recommenced it in a tone pitched intentionally too low for the alert ear of Narcisse. "Doctor, I've simply called to say to you that I'm out of work and looking for employment again." "Um--hum," said the Doctor, with a cold fulness of voice that hurt Richling afresh. "You'll find it hard to get anything this time of year," he continued, with no attempt at undertone; "it's very hard for anybody to get anything these days, even when well recommended." Richling smiled an instant. The Doctor did not, but turned partly away to his desk, and added, as if the smile had displeased him:-- "Well, maybe you'll not find it so." Richling turned fiery red. "Whether I do or not," he said, rising, "my affairs sha'n't trouble anybody. Good-morning!" He started out. "How's Mrs. Richling?" asked the Doctor. "She's well," responded Richling, putting on his hat and disappearing in the corridor. Each footstep could be heard as he went down the stairs. "He's a fool!" muttered the physician. He looked up angrily, for Narcisse stood before him. "Well, Doctah," said the Creole, hurriedly arranging his coat-collar, and drawing his handkerchief, "I'm goin' ad the poss-office." "See here, sir!" exclaimed the Doctor, bringing his fist down upon the arm of his chair, "every time you've gone out of this office for the last six months you've told me you were going to the post-office; now don't you ever tell me that again!" The young man bowed with injured dignity and responded:-- "All a-ight, seh." He overtook Richling just outside the street entrance. Richling had halted there, bereft of intention, almost of outward sense, and choking with bitterness. It seemed to him as if in an instant all his misfortunes, disappointments, and humiliations, that never before had seemed so many or so great, had been gathered up into the knowledge of that hard man upstairs, and, with one unmerciful downward wrench, had received his seal of approval. Indignation, wrath, self-hatred, dismay, in undefined confusion, usurped the faculties of sight and hearing and motion. "Mistoo Itchlin," said Narcisse, "I 'ope you fine you'seff O.K., seh, if you'll egscuse the slang expwession." Richling started to move away, but checked himself. "I'm well, sir, thank you, sir; yes, sir, I'm very well." "I billieve you, seh. You ah lookin' well." Narcisse thrust his hands into his pockets, and turned upon the outer sides of his feet, the embodiment of sweet temper. Richling found him a wonderful relief at the moment. He quit gnawing his lip and winking into vacancy, and felt a malicious good-humor run into all his veins. "I dunno 'ow 'tis, Mistoo Itchlin," said Narcisse, "but I muz tell you the tooth; you always 'ave to me the appe'ance ligue the chile of p'ospe'ity." "Eh?" said Richling, hollowing his hand at his ear,--"child of"-- "P'ospe'ity?" "Yes--yes," replied the deaf man vaguely, "I--have a relative of that name." "Oh!" exclaimed the Creole, "thass good faw luck! Mistoo Itchlin, look' like you a lil mo' hawd to yeh--but egscuse me. I s'pose you muz be advancing in business, Mistoo Itchlin. I say I s'pose you muz be gittin' along!" "I? Yes; yes, I must." He started. "I'm 'appy to yeh it!" said Narcisse. His innocent kindness was a rebuke. Richling began to offer a cordial parting salutation, but Narcisse said:-- "You goin' that way? Well, I kin go that way." They went. "I was goin' ad the poss-office, but"--he waved his hand and curled his lip. "Mistoo Itchlin, in fact, if you yeh of something suitable to me I would like to yeh it. I am not satisfied with that pless yondeh with Doctah Seveeah. I was compel this mawnin', biffo you came in, to 'epoove 'im faw 'is 'oodness. He called me a jackass, in fact. I woon allow that. I 'ad to 'epoove 'im. 'Doctah Seveeah,' says I, 'don't you call me a jackass ag'in!' An' 'e din call it me ag'in. No, seh. But 'e din like to 'ush up. Thass the rizz'n 'e was a lil miscutteous to you. Me, I am always polite. As they say, 'A nod is juz as good as a kick f'om a bline hoss.' You are fon' of maxim, Mistoo Itchlin? Me, I'm ve'y fon' of them. But they's got one maxim what you may 'ave 'eard--I do not fine that maxim always come t'ue. 'Ave you evva yeah that maxim, 'A fool faw luck'? That don't always come t'ue. I 'ave discove'd that." "No," responded Richling, with a parting smile, "that doesn't always come true." Dr. Sevier denounced the world at large, and the American nation in particular, for two days. Within himself, for twenty-four hours, he grumly blamed Richling for their rupture; then for twenty-four hours reproached himself, and, on the morning of the third day knocked at the door, corner of St. Mary and Prytania. No one answered. He knocked again. A woman in bare feet showed herself at the corresponding door-way in the farther half of the house. "Nobody don't live there no more, sir," she said. "Where have they gone?" "Well, reely, I couldn't tell you, sir. Because, reely, I don't know nothing about it. I haint but jest lately moved in here myself, and I don't know nothing about nobody around here scarcely at all." The Doctor shut himself again in his carriage and let himself be whisked away, in great vacuity of mind. "They can't blame anybody but themselves," was, by-and-by, his rallying thought. "Still"--he said to himself after another vacant interval, and said no more. The thought that whether _they_ could blame others or not did not cover all the ground, rested heavily on him. CHAPTER XV. THE CRADLE FALLS. In the rear of the great commercial centre of New Orleans, on that part of Common street where it suddenly widens out, broad, unpaved, and dusty, rises the huge dull-brown structure of brick, famed, well-nigh as far as the city is known, as the Charity Hospital. Twenty-five years ago, when the emigrant ships used to unload their swarms of homeless and friendless strangers into the streets of New Orleans to fall a prey to yellow-fever or cholera, that solemn pile sheltered thousands on thousands of desolate and plague-stricken Irish and Germans, receiving them unquestioned, until at times the very floors were covered with the sick and dying, and the sawing and hammering in the coffin-shop across the inner court ceased not day or night. Sombre monument at once of charity and sin! For, while its comfort and succor cost the houseless wanderer nothing, it lived and grew, and lives and grows still, upon the licensed vices of the people,--drinking, harlotry, and gambling. The Charity Hospital of St. Charles--such is its true name--is, however, no mere plague-house. Whether it ought to be, let doctors decide. How good or necessary such modern innovations as "ridge ventilation," "movable bases," the "pavilion plan," "trained nurses," etc., may be, let the Auxiliary Sanitary Association say. There it stands as of old, innocent of all sins that may be involved in any of these changes, rising story over story, up and up: here a ward for poisonous fevers, and there a ward for acute surgical cases; here a story full of simple ailments, and there a ward specially set aside for women. In 1857 this last was Dr. Sevier's ward. Here, at his stated hour one summer morning in that year, he tarried a moment, yonder by that window, just where you enter the ward and before you come to the beds. He had fallen into discourse with some of the more inquiring minds among the train of students that accompanied him, and waited there to finish and cool down to a physician's proper temperature. The question was public sanitation. He was telling a tall Arkansan, with high-combed hair, self-conscious gloves, and very broad, clean-shaven lower jaw, how the peculiar formation of delta lands, by which they drain away from the larger watercourses, instead of into them, had made the swamp there in the rear of the town, for more than a century, "the common dumping-ground and cesspool of the city, sir!" Some of the students nodded convincedly to the speaker; some looked askance at the Arkansan, who put one forearm meditatively under his coat-tail; some looked through the window over the regions alluded to, and some only changed their pose and looked around for a mirror. The Doctor spoke on. Several of his hearers were really interested in the then unusual subject, and listened intelligently as he pointed across the low plain at hundreds of acres of land that were nothing but a morass, partly filled in with the foulest refuse of a semi-tropical city, and beyond it where still lay the swamp, half cleared of its forest and festering in the sun--"every drop of its waters, and every inch of its mire," said the Doctor, "saturated with the poisonous drainage of the town!" "I happen," interjected a young city student; but the others bent their ear to the Doctor, who continued:-- "Why, sir, were these regions compactly built on, like similar areas in cities confined to narrow sites, the mortality, with the climate we have, would be frightful." "I happen to know," essayed the city student; but the Arkansan had made an interrogatory answer to the Doctor, that led him to add:-- "Why, yes; you see the houses here on these lands are little, flimsy, single ground-story affairs, loosely thrown together, and freely exposed to sun and air." "I hap--," said the city student. "And yet," exclaimed the Doctor, "Malaria is king!" He paused an instant for his hearers to take in the figure. "Doctor, I happen to"-- Some one's fist from behind caused the speaker to turn angrily, and the Doctor resumed:-- "Go into any of those streets off yonder,--Trémé, Prieur, Marais. Why, there are often ponds under the houses! The floors of bedrooms are within a foot or two of these ponds! The bricks of the surrounding pavements are often covered with a fine, dark moss! Water seeps up through the sidewalks! That's his realm, sir! Here and there among the residents--every here and there--you'll see his sallow, quaking subjects dragging about their work or into and out of their beds, until a fear of a fatal ending drives them in here. Congestion? Yes, sometimes congestion pulls them under suddenly, and they're gone before they know it. Sometimes their vitality wanes slowly, until Malaria beckons in Consumption." "Why, Doctor," said the city student, ruffling with pride of his town, "there are plenty of cities as bad as this. I happen to know, for instance"-- Dr. Sevier turned away in quiet contempt. "It will not improve our town to dirty others, or to clean them, either." He moved down the ward, while two or three members among the moving train, who never happened to know anything, nudged each other joyfully. The group stretched out and came along, the Doctor first and the young men after, some of one sort, some of another,--the dull, the frivolous, the earnest, the kind, the cold,--following slowly, pausing, questioning, discoursing, advancing, moving from each clean, slender bed to the next, on this side and on that, down and up the long sanded aisles, among the poor, sick women. Among these, too, there was variety. Some were stupid and ungracious, hardened and dulled with long penury as some in this world are hardened and dulled with long riches. Some were as fat as beggars; some were old and shrivelled; some were shrivelled and young; some were bold; some were frightened; and here and there was one almost fair. Down at the far end of one aisle was a bed whose occupant lay watching the distant, slowly approaching group with eyes of unspeakable dread. There was not a word or motion, only the steadfast gaze. Gradually the throng drew near. The faces of the students could be distinguished. This one was coarse; that one was gentle; another was sleepy; another trivial and silly; another heavy and sour; another tender and gracious. Presently the tones of the Doctor's voice could be heard, soft, clear, and without that trumpet quality that it had beyond the sick-room. How slowly, yet how surely, they came! The patient's eyes turned away toward the ceiling; they could not bear the slowness of the encounter. They closed; the lips moved in prayer. The group came to the bed that was only the fourth away; then to the third; then to the second. There they pause some minutes. Now the Doctor approaches the very next bed. Suddenly he notices this patient. She is a small woman, young, fair to see, and, with closed eyes and motionless form, is suffering an agony of consternation. One startled look, a suppressed exclamation, two steps forward,--the patient's eyes slowly open. Ah, me! It is Mary Richling. "Good-morning, madam," said the physician, with a cold and distant bow; and to the students, "We'll pass right along to the other side," and they moved into the next aisle. "I am a little pressed for time this morning," he presently remarked, as the students showed some unwillingness to be hurried. As soon as he could he parted with them and returned to the ward alone. As he moved again down among the sick, straight along this time, turning neither to right nor left, one of the Sisters of Charity--the hospital and its so-called nurses are under their oversight--touched his arm. He stopped impatiently. "Well, Sister"--(bowing his ear). "I--I--the--the"--His frown had scared away her power of speech. "Well, what is it, Sister?" "The--the last patient down on this side"-- He was further displeased. "_I'll_ attend to the patients, Sister," he said; and then, more kindly, "I'm going there now. No, you stay here, if you please." And he left her behind. He came and stood by the bed. The patient gazed on him. "Mrs. Richling," he softly began, and had to cease. She did not speak or move; she tried to smile, but her eyes filled, her lips quivered. "My dear madam," exclaimed the physician, in a low voice, "what brought you here?" The answer was inarticulate, but he saw it on the moving lips. "Want," said Mary. "But your husband?" He stooped to catch the husky answer. "Home." "Home?" He could not understand. "Not gone to--back--up the river?" She slowly shook her head: "No, home. In Prieur street." Still her words were riddles. He could not see how she had come to this. He stood silent, not knowing how to utter his thought. At length he opened his lips to speak, hesitated an instant, and then asked:-- "Mrs. Richling, tell me plainly, has your husband gone wrong?" Her eyes looked up a moment, upon him, big and staring, and suddenly she spoke:-- "O Doctor! My husband go wrong? John go wrong?" The eyelids closed down, the head rocked slowly from side to side on the flat hospital pillow, and the first two tears he had ever seen her shed welled from the long lashes and slipped down her cheeks. "My poor child!" said the Doctor, taking her hand in his. "No, no! God forgive me! He hasn't gone wrong; he's not going wrong. You'll tell me all about it when you're stronger." The Doctor had her removed to one of the private rooms of the pay-ward, and charged the Sisters to take special care of her. "Above all things," he murmured, with a beetling frown, "tell that thick-headed nurse not to let her know that this is at anybody's expense. Ah, yes; and when her husband comes, tell him to see me at my office as soon as he possibly can." As he was leaving the hospital gate he had an afterthought. "I might have left a note." He paused, with his foot on the carriage-step. "I suppose they'll tell him,"--and so he got in and drove off, looking at his watch. On his second visit, although he came in with a quietly inspiring manner, he had also, secretly, the feeling of a culprit. But, midway of the room, when the young head on the pillow turned its face toward him, his heart rose. For the patient smiled. As he drew nearer she slid out her feeble hand. "I'm glad I came here," she murmured. "Yes," he replied; "this room is much better than the open ward." "I didn't mean this room," she said. "I meant the whole hospital." "The whole hospital!" He raised his eyebrows, as to a child. "Ah! Doctor," she responded, her eyes kindling, though moist. "What, my child?" She smiled upward to his bent face. "The poor--mustn't be ashamed of the poor, must they?" The Doctor only stroked her brow, and presently turned and addressed his professional inquiries to the nurse. He went away. Just outside the door he asked the nurse:-- "Hasn't her husband been here?" "Yes," was the reply, "but she was asleep, and he only stood there at the door and looked in a bit. He trembled," the unintelligent woman added, for the Doctor seemed waiting to hear more,--"he trembled all over; and that's all he did, excepting his saying her name over to himself like, over and over, and wiping of his eyes." "And nobody told him anything?" "Oh, not a word, sir!" came the eager answer. "You didn't tell him to come and see me?" The woman gave a start, looked dismayed, and began:-- "N-no, sir; you didn't tell"-- "Um--hum," growled the Doctor. He took out a card and wrote on it. "Now see if you can remember to give him that." CHAPTER XVI. MANY WATERS. As the day faded away it began to rain. The next morning the water was coming down in torrents. Richling, looking out from a door in Prieur street, found scant room for one foot on the inner edge of the sidewalk; all the rest was under water. By noon the sidewalks were completely covered in miles of streets. By two in the afternoon the flood was coming into many of the houses. By three it was up at the door-sill on which he stood. There it stopped. He could do nothing but stand and look. Skiffs, canoes, hastily improvised rafts, were moving in every direction, carrying the unsightly chattels of the poor out of their overflowed cottages to higher ground. Barrels, boxes, planks, hen-coops, bridge lumber, piles of straw that waltzed solemnly as they went, cord-wood, old shingles, door-steps, floated here and there in melancholy confusion; and down upon all still drizzled the slackening rain. At length it ceased. Richling still stood in the door-way, the picture of mute helplessness. Yes, there was one other thing he could do; he could laugh. It would have been hard to avoid it sometimes, there were such ludicrous sights,--such slips and sprawls into the water; so there he stood in that peculiar isolation that deaf people content themselves with, now looking the picture of anxious waiting, now indulging a low, deaf man's chuckle when something made the rowdies and slatterns of the street roar. Presently he noticed, at a distance up the way, a young man in a canoe, passing, much to their good-natured chagrin, a party of three in a skiff, who had engaged him in a trial of speed. From both boats a shower of hilarious French was issuing. At the nearest corner the skiff party turned into another street and disappeared, throwing their lingual fireworks to the last. The canoe came straight on with the speed of a fish. Its dexterous occupant was no other than Narcisse. There was a grace in his movement that kept Richling's eyes on him, when he would rather have withdrawn into the house. Down went the paddle always on the same side, noiselessly, in front; on darted the canoe; backward stretched the submerged paddle and came out of the water edgewise at full reach behind, with an almost imperceptible swerving motion that kept the slender craft true to its course. No rocking; no rush of water before or behind; only the one constant glassy ripple gliding on either side as silently as a beam of light. Suddenly, without any apparent change of movement in the sinewy wrists, the narrow shell swept around in a quarter circle, and Narcisse sat face to face with Richling. Each smiled brightly at the other. The handsome Creole's face was aglow with the pure delight of existence. "Well, Mistoo Itchlin, 'ow you enjoyin' that watah? As fah as myseff am concerned, 'I am afloat, I am afloat on the fee-us 'olling tide.' I don't think you fine that stweet pwetty dusty to-day, Mistoo Itchlin?" Richling laughed. "It don't inflame my eyes to-day," he said. "You muz egscuse my i'ony, Mistoo Itchlin; I can't 'ep that sometime'. It come natu'al to me, in fact. I was on'y speaking i'oniously juz now in calling allusion to that dust; because, of co'se, theh is no dust to-day, because the g'ound is all covvud with watah, in fact. Some people don't understand that figgah of i'ony." "I don't understand as much about it myself as I'd like to," said Richling. "Me, I'm ve'y fon' of it," responded the Creole. "I was making seve'al i'onies ad those fwen' of mine juz now. We was 'unning a 'ace. An' thass anotheh thing I am fon' of. I would 'ather 'un a 'ace than to wuck faw a livin'. Ha! ha! ha! I should thing so! Anybody would, in fact. But thass the way with me--always making some i'onies." He stopped with a sudden change of countenance, and resumed gravely: "Mistoo Itchlin, looks to me like you' lookin' ve'y salad." He fanned himself with his hat. "I dunno 'ow 'tis with you, Mistoo Itchlin, but I fine myseff ve'y oppwessive thiz evening." "I don't find you so," said Richling, smiling broadly. And he did not. The young Creole's burning face and resplendent wit were a sunset glow in the darkness of this day of overpowering adversity. His presence even supplied, for a moment, what seemed a gleam of hope. Why wasn't there here an opportunity to visit the hospital? He need not tell Narcisse the object of his visit. "Do you think," asked Richling, persuasively, crouching down upon one of his heels, "that I could sit in that thing without turning it over?" "In that pee-ogue?" Narcisse smiled the smile of the proficient as he waved his paddle across the canoe. "Mistoo Itchlin,"--the smile passed off,--"I dunno if you'll billiv me, but at the same time I muz tell you the tooth?"-- He paused inquiringly. "Certainly," said Richling, with evident disappointment. "Well, it's juz a poss'bil'ty that you'll wefwain fum spillin' out fum yeh till the negs cawneh. Thass the manneh of those who ah not acquainted with the pee-ogue. 'Lost to sight, to memo'y deah'--if you'll egscuse the maxim. Thass Chawles Dickens mague use of that egspwession." Richling answered with a gay shake of the head. "I'll keep out of it." If Narcisse detected his mortified chagrin, he did not seem to. It was hard; the day's last hope was blown out like a candle in the wind. Richling dared not risk the wetting of his suit of clothes; they were his sole letter of recommendation and capital in trade. "Well, _au 'evoi'_, Mistoo Itchlin." He turned and moved off--dip, glide, and away. * * * Dr. Sevier stamped his wet feet on the pavement of the hospital porch. It was afternoon of the day following that of the rain. The water still covering the streets about the hospital had not prevented his carriage from splashing through it on his double daily round. A narrow and unsteady plank spanned the immersed sidewalk. Three times, going and coming, he had crossed it safely, and this fourth time he had made half the distance well enough; but, hearing distant cheers and laughter, he looked up street; when--splatter!--and the cheers were redoubled. "Pretty thing to laugh at!" he muttered. Two or three bystanders, leaning on their umbrellas in the lodge at the gate and in the porch, where he stood stamping, turned their backs and smoothed their mouths. "Hah!" said the tall Doctor, stamping harder. Stamp!--stamp! He shook his leg.--"Bah!" He stamped the other long, slender, wet foot and looked down at it, turning one side and then the other.--"F-fah!"--The first one again.--"Pshaw!"--The other.--Stamp!--stamp!--"_Right_--_into_ it!--up to my _ankles!_" He looked around with a slight scowl at one man, who seemed taken with a sudden softening of the spine and knees, and who turned his back quickly and fell against another, who, also with his back turned, was leaning tremulously against a pillar. But the object of mirth did not tarry. He went as he was to Mary's room, and found her much better--as, indeed, he had done at every visit. He sat by her bed and listened to her story. "Why, Doctor, you see, we did nicely for a while. John went on getting the same kind of work, and pleasing everybody, of course, and all he lacked was finding something permanent. Still, we passed through one month after another, and we really began to think the sun was coming out, so to speak." "Well, I thought so, too," put in the Doctor. "I thought if it didn't you'd let me know." "Why, no, Doctor, we couldn't do that; you couldn't be taking care of well people." "Well," said the Doctor, dropping that point, "I suppose as the busy season began to wane that mode of livelihood, of course, disappeared." "Yes,"--a little one-sided smile,--"and so did our money. And then, of course,"--she slightly lifted and waved her hand. "You had to live," said Dr. Sevier, sincerely. She smiled again, with abstracted eyes. "We thought we'd like to," she said. "I didn't mind the loss of the things so much,--except the little table we ate from. You remember that little round table, don't you?" The visitor had not the heart to say no. He nodded. "When that went there was but one thing left that could go." "Not your bed?" "The bedstead; yes." "You didn't sell your bed, Mrs. Richling?" The tears gushed from her eyes. She made a sign of assent. "But then," she resumed, "we made an excellent arrangement with a good woman who had just lost her husband, and wanted to live cheaply, too." "What amuses you, madam?" "Nothing great. But I wish you knew her. She's funny. Well, so we moved down-town again. Didn't cost much to move." She would smile a little in spite of him. "And then?" said he, stirring impatiently and leaning forward. "What then?" "Why, then I worked a little harder than I thought,--pulling trunks around and so on,--and I had this third attack." The Doctor straightened himself up, folded his arms, and muttered:-- "Oh!--oh! _Why_ wasn't I instantly sent for?" The tears were in her eyes again, but-- "Doctor," she answered, with her odd little argumentative smile, "how could we? We had nothing to pay with. It wouldn't have been just." "Just!" exclaimed the physician, angrily. "Doctor," said the invalid, and looked at him. "Oh--all right!" She made no answer but to look at him still more pleadingly. "Wouldn't it have been just as fair to let me be generous, madam?" His faint smile was bitter. "For once? Simply for once?" "We couldn't make that proposition, could we, Doctor?" He was checkmated. "Mrs. Richling," he said suddenly, clasping the back of his chair as if about to rise, "tell me,--did you or your husband act this way for anything I've ever said or done?" "No, Doctor! no, no; never! But"-- "But kindness should seek--not be sought," said the physician, starting up. "No, Doctor, we didn't look on it so. Of course we didn't. If there's any fault it's all mine. For it was my own proposition to John, that as we _had_ to seek charity we should just be honest and open about it. I said, 'John, as I need the best attention, and as that can be offered free only in the hospital, why, to the hospital I ought to go.'" She lay still, and the Doctor pondered. Presently he said:-- "And Mr. Richling--I suppose he looks for work all the time?" "From daylight to dark!" "Well, the water is passing off. He'll be along by and by to see you, no doubt. Tell him to call, first thing to-morrow morning, at my office." And with that the Doctor went off in his wet boots, committed a series of indiscretions, reached home, and fell ill. In the wanderings of fever he talked of the Richlings, and in lucid moments inquired for them. "Yes, yes," answered the sick Doctor's physician, "they're attended to. Yes, all their wants are supplied. Just dismiss them from your mind." In the eyes of this physician the Doctor's life was invaluable, and these patients, or pensioners, an unknown and, most likely, an inconsiderable quantity; two sparrows, as it were, worth a farthing. But the sick man lay thinking. He frowned. "I wish they would go home." "I have sent them." "You have? Home to Milwaukee?" "Yes." "Thank God!" He soon began to mend. Yet it was weeks before he could leave the house. When one day he reëntered the hospital, still pale and faint, he was prompt to express to the Mother-Superior the comfort he had felt in his sickness to know that his brother physician had sent those Richlings to their kindred. The Sister shook her head. He saw the deception in an instant. As best his strength would allow, he hurried to the keeper of the rolls. There was the truth. Home? Yes,--to Prieur street,--discharged only one week before. He drove quickly to his office. "Narcisse, you will find that young Mr. Richling living in Prieur street, somewhere between Conti and St. Louis. I don't know the house; you'll have to find it. Tell him I'm in my office again, and to come and see me." Narcisse was no such fool as to say he knew the house. He would get the praise of finding it quickly. "I'll do my mose awduous, seh," he said, took down his coat, hung up his jacket, put on his hat, and went straight to the house and knocked. Got no answer. Knocked again, and a third time; but in vain. Went next door and inquired of a pretty girl, who fell in love with him at a glance. "Yes, but they had moved. She wasn't _jess ezac'ly_ sure where they _had_ moved to, _unless-n_ it was in that little house yondeh between St. Louis and Toulouse; and if they wasn't there she didn't know _where_ they was. People ought to leave words where they's movin' at, but they don't. You're very welcome," she added, as he expressed his thanks; and he would have been welcome had he questioned her for an hour. His parting bow and smile stuck in her heart a six-months. He went to the spot pointed out. As a Creole he was used to seeing very respectable people living in very small and plain houses. This one was not too plain even for his ideas of Richling, though it was but a little one-street-door-and-window affair, with an alley on the left running back into the small yard behind. He knocked. Again no one answered. He looked down the alley and saw, moving about the yard, a large woman, who, he felt certain, could not be Mrs. Richling. Two little short-skirted, bare-legged girls were playing near him. He spoke to them in French. Did they know where Monsieu' Itchlin lived? The two children repeated the name, looking inquiringly at each other. "_Non, miché._"--"No, sir, they didn't know." "_Qui reste ici?_" he asked. "Who lives here?" "_Ici? Madame qui reste là c'est Mizziz Ri-i-i-ly!_" said one. "Yass," said the other, breaking into English and rubbing a musquito off of her well-tanned shank with the sole of her foot, "tis Mizziz Ri-i-i-ly what live there. She jess move een. She's got a lill baby.--Oh! you means dat lady what was in de Chatty Hawspill!" "No, no! A real, nice _lady_. She nevva saw that Cha'ity Hospi'l." The little girls shook their heads. They couldn't imagine a person who had never seen the Charity Hospital. "Was there nobody else who had moved into any of these houses about here lately?" He spoke again in French. They shook their heads. Two boys came forward and verified the testimony. Narcisse went back with his report: "Moved,--not found." "I fine that ve'y d'oll, Doctah Seveeah," concluded the unaugmented, hanging up his hat; "some peop' always 'ard to fine. I h-even notiz that sem thing w'en I go to colic' some bill. I dunno 'ow' tis, Doctah, but I assu' you I kin tell that by a man's physio'nomie. Nobody teach me that. 'Tis my own in_geen_u'ty 'as made me to discoveh that, in fact." The Doctor was silent. Presently he drew a piece of paper toward him and, dipping his pen into the ink, began to write:-- "Information wanted of the whereabouts of John Richling"-- "Narcisse," he called, still writing, "I want you to take an advertisement to the 'Picayune' office." "With the gweatez of pleazheh, seh." The clerk began his usual shifting of costume. "Yesseh! I assu' you, Doctah, that is a p'oposition moze enti'ly to my satizfagtion; faw I am suffe'ing faw a smoke, and deztitute of a ciga'ette! I am aztonizh' 'ow I did that, to egshauz them unconsciouzly, in fact." He received the advertisement in an envelope, whipped his shoes a little with his handkerchief, and went out. One would think to hear him thundering down the stairs, that it was twenty-five cents' worth of ice. "Hold o--" The Doctor started from his seat, then turned and paced feebly up and down. Who, besides Richling, might see that notice? What might be its unexpected results? Who was John Richling? A man with a secret at the best; and a secret, in Dr. Sevier's eyes, was detestable. Might not Richling be a man who had fled from something? "No! no!" The Doctor spoke aloud. He had promised to think nothing ill of him. Let the poor children have their silly secret. He spoke again: "They'll find out the folly of it by and by." He let the advertisement go; and it went. CHAPTER XVII. RAPHAEL RISTOFALO. Richling had a dollar in his pocket. A man touched him on the shoulder. But let us see. On the day that John and Mary had sold their only bedstead, Mrs. Riley, watching them, had proposed the joint home. The offer had been accepted with an eagerness that showed itself in nervous laughter. Mrs. Riley then took quarters in Prieur street, where John and Mary, for a due consideration, were given a single neatly furnished back room. The bedstead had brought seven dollars. Richling, on the day after the removal, was in the commercial quarter, looking, as usual, for employment. The young man whom Dr. Sevier had first seen, in the previous October, moving with a springing step and alert, inquiring glances from number to number in Carondelet street was slightly changed. His step was firm, but something less elastic, and not quite so hurried. His face was more thoughtful, and his glance wanting in a certain dancing freshness that had been extremely pleasant. He was walking in Poydras street toward the river. As he came near to a certain man who sat in the entrance of a store with the freshly whittled corner of a chair between his knees, his look and bow were grave, but amiable, quietly hearty, deferential, and also self-respectful--and uncommercial: so palpably uncommercial that the sitter did not rise or even shut his knife. He slightly stared. Richling, in a low, private tone, was asking him for employment. "What?" turning his ear up and frowning downward. The application was repeated, the first words with a slightly resentful ring, but the rest more quietly. The store-keeper stared again, and shook his head slowly. "No, sir," he said, in a barely audible tone. Richling moved on, not stopping at the next place, or the next, or the next; for he felt the man's stare all over his back until he turned the corner and found himself in Tchoupitoulas street. Nor did he stop at the first place around the corner. It smelt of deteriorating potatoes and up-river cabbages, and there were open barrels of onions set ornamentally aslant at the entrance. He had a fatal conviction that his services would not be wanted in malodorous places. "Now, isn't that a shame?" asked the chair-whittler, as Richling passed out of sight. "Such a gentleman as that, to be beggin' for work from door to door!" "He's not beggin' f'om do' to do'," said a second, with a Creole accent on his tongue, and a match stuck behind his ear like a pen. "Beside, he's too _much_ of a gennlemun." "That's where you and him differs," said the first. He frowned upon the victim of his delicate repartee with make-believe defiance. Number Two drew from an outside coat-pocket a wad of common brown wrapping-paper, tore from it a small, neat parallelogram, dove into an opposite pocket for some loose smoking-tobacco, laid a pinch of it in the paper, and, with a single dexterous turn of the fingers, thumbs above, the rest beneath,--it looks simple, but 'tis an amazing art,--made a cigarette. Then he took down his match, struck it under his short coat-skirt, lighted his cigarette, drew an inhalation through it that consumed a third of its length, and sat there, with his eyes half-closed, and all that smoke somewhere inside of him. "That young man," remarked a third, wiping a toothpick on his thigh and putting it in his vest-pocket, as he stepped to the front, "don't know how to _look_ fur work. There's one way fur a day-laborer to look fur work, and there's another way fur a gentleman to look fur work, and there's another way fur a--a--a man with money to look fur somethin' to put his money into. _It's just like fishing!_" He threw both hands outward and downward, and made way for a porter's truck with a load of green meat. The smoke began to fall from Number Two's nostrils in two slender blue streams. Number Three continued:-- "You've got to know what kind o' hooks you want, and what kind o' bait you want, and then, after _that_, you've"-- Numbers One and Two did not let him finish. "--Got to know how to fish," they said; "that's so!" The smoke continued to leak slowly from Number Two's nostrils and teeth, though he had not lifted his cigarette the second time. "Yes, you've got to know how to fish," reaffirmed the third. "If you don't know how to fish, it's as like as not that nobody can tell you what's the matter; an' yet, all the same, you aint goin' to ketch no fish." "Well, now," said the first man, with an unconvinced swing of his chin, "_spunk_ 'll sometimes pull a man through; and you can't say he aint spunky." Number Three admitted the corollary. Number Two looked up: his chance had come. "He'd a w'ipped you faw a dime," said he to Number One, took a comforting draw from his cigarette, and felt a great peace. "I take notice he's a little deaf," said Number Three, still alluding to Richling. "That'd spoil him for me," said Number One. Number Three asked why. "Oh, I just wouldn't have him about me. Didn't you ever notice that a deaf man always seems like a sort o' stranger? I can't bear 'em." Richling meanwhile moved on. His critics were right. He was not wanting in courage; but no man from the moon could have been more an alien on those sidewalks. He was naturally diligent, active, quick-witted, and of good, though maybe a little too scholarly address; quick of temper, it is true, and uniting his quickness of temper with a certain bashfulness,--an unlucky combination, since, as a consequence, nobody had to get out of its way; but he was generous in fact and in speech, and never held malice a moment. But, besides the heavy odds which his small secret seemed to be against him, stopping him from accepting such valuable friendships as might otherwise have come to him, and besides his slight deafness, he was by nature a recluse, or, at least, a dreamer. Every day that he set foot on Tchoupitoulas, or Carondelet, or Magazine, or Fulton, or Poydras street he came from a realm of thought, seeking service in an empire of matter. There is a street in New Orleans called Triton _Walk_. That is what all the ways of commerce and finance and daily bread-getting were to Richling. He was a merman--ashore. It was the feeling rather than the knowledge of this that prompted him to this daily, aimless trudging after mere employment. He had a proper pride; once in a while a little too much; nor did he clearly see his deficiencies; and yet the unrecognized consciousness that he had not the commercial instinct made him willing--as Number Three would have said--to "cut bait" for any fisherman who would let him do it. He turned without any distinct motive and, retracing his steps to the corner, passed up across Poydras street. A little way above it he paused to look at some machinery in motion. He liked machinery,--for itself rather than for its results. He would have gone in and examined the workings of this apparatus had it not been for the sign above his head, "No Admittance." Those words always seemed painted for him. A slight modification in Richling's character might have made him an inventor. Some other faint difference, and he might have been a writer, a historian, an essayist, or even--there is no telling--a well-fed poet. With the question of food, raiment, and shelter permanently settled, he might have become one of those resplendent flash lights that at intervals dart their beams across the dark waters of the world's ignorance, hardly from new continents, but from the observatory, the study, the laboratory. But he was none of these. There had been a crime committed somewhere in his bringing up, and as a result he stood in the thick of life's battle, weaponless. He gazed upon machinery with childlike wonder; but when he looked around and saw on every hand men,--good fellows who ate in their shirt-sleeves at restaurants, told broad jokes, spread their mouths and smote their sides when they laughed, and whose best wit was to bombard one another with bread-crusts and hide behind the sugar-bowl; men whom he could have taught in every kind of knowledge that they were capable of grasping, except the knowledge of how to get money,--when he saw these men, as it seemed to him, grow rich daily by simply flipping beans into each other's faces, or slapping each other on the back, the wonder of machinery was eclipsed. Do as they did? He? He could no more reach a conviction as to what the price of corn would be to-morrow than he could remember what the price of sugar was yesterday. He called himself an accountant, gulping down his secret pride with an amiable glow that commanded, instantly, an amused esteem. And, to judge by his evident familiarity with Tonti's beautiful scheme of mercantile records, he certainly--those guessed whose books he had extricated from confusion--had handled money and money values in days before his unexplained coming to New Orleans. Yet a close observer would have noticed that he grasped these tasks only as problems, treated them in their mathematical and enigmatical aspect, and solved them without any appreciation of their concrete values. When they were done he felt less personal interest in them than in the architectural beauty of the store-front, whose window-shutters he had never helped to close without a little heart-leap of pleasure. But, standing thus, and looking in at the machinery, a man touched him on the shoulder. "Good-morning," said the man. He wore a pleasant air. It seemed to say, "I'm nothing much, but you'll recognize me in a moment; I'll wait." He was short, square, solid, beardless; in years, twenty-five or six. His skin was dark, his hair almost black, his eyebrows strong. In his mild black eyes you could see the whole Mediterranean. His dress was coarse, but clean; his linen soft and badly laundered. But under all the rough garb and careless, laughing manner was visibly written again and again the name of the race that once held the world under its feet. "You don't remember me?" he added, after a moment. "No," said Richling, pleasantly, but with embarrassment. The man waited another moment, and suddenly Richling recalled their earlier meeting. The man, representing a wholesale confectioner in one of the smaller cities up the river, had bought some cordials and syrups of the house whose books Richling had last put in order. "Why, yes I do, too!" said Richling. "You left your pocket-book in my care for two or three days; your own private money, you said." "Yes." The man laughed softly. "Lost that money. Sent it to the boss. Boss died--store seized--everything gone." His English was well pronounced, but did not escape a pretty Italian accent, too delicate for the printer's art. "Oh! that was too bad!" Richling laid his hand upon an awning-post and twined an arm and leg around it as though he were a vine. "I--I forget your name." "Ristofalo. Raphael Ristofalo. Yours is Richling. Yes, knocked me flat. Not got cent in world." The Italian's low, mellow laugh claimed Richling's admiration. "Why, when did that happen?" he asked. "Yes'day," replied the other, still laughing. "And how are you going to provide for the future?" Richling asked, smiling down into the face of the shorter man. The Italian tossed the future away with the back of his hand. "I got nothin' do with that." His words were low, but very distinct. Thereupon Richling laughed, leaning his cheek against the post. "Must provide for the present," said Raphael Ristofalo. Richling dropped his eyes in thought. The present! He had never been able to see that it was the present which must be provided against, until, while he was training his guns upon the future, the most primitive wants of the present burst upon him right and left like whooping savages. "Can you lend me dollar?" asked the Italian. "Give you back dollar an' quarter to-morrow." Richling gave a start and let go the post. "Why, Mr. Risto--falo, I--I--, the fact is, I"--he shook his head--"I haven't much money." "Dollar will start me," said the Italian, whose feet had not moved an inch since he touched Richling's shoulder. "Be aw righ' to-morrow." "You can't invest one dollar by itself," said the incredulous Richling. "Yes. Return her to-morrow." Richling swung his head from side to side as an expression of disrelish. "I haven't been employed for some time." "I goin' t'employ myself," said Ristofalo. Richling laughed again. There was a faint betrayal of distress in his voice as it fell upon the cunning ear of the Italian; but he laughed too, very gently and innocently, and stood in his tracks. "I wouldn't like to refuse a dollar to a man who needs it," said Richling. He took his hat off and ran his fingers through his hair. "I've seen the time when it was much easier to lend than it is just now." He thrust his hand down into his pocket and stood gazing at the sidewalk. The Italian glanced at Richling askance, and with one sweep of the eye from the softened crown of his hat to the slender, white bursted slit in the outer side of either well-polished shoe, took in the beauty of his face and a full understanding of his condition. His hair, somewhat dry, had fallen upon his forehead. His fine, smooth skin was darkened by the exposure of his daily wanderings. His cheek-bones, a trifle high, asserted their place above the softly concave cheeks. His mouth was closed and the lips were slightly compressed; the chin small, gracefully turned, not weak,--not strong. His eyes were abstracted, deep, pensive. His dress told much. The fine plaits of his shirt had sprung apart and been neatly sewed together again. His coat was a little faulty in the set of the collar, as if the person who had taken the garment apart and turned the goods had not put it together again with practised skill. It was without spot and the buttons were new. The edges of his shirt-cuffs had been trimmed with the scissors. Face and vesture alike revealed to the sharp eye of the Italian the woe underneath. "He has a wife," thought Ristofalo. Richling looked up with a smile. "How can you be so sure you will make, and not lose?" "I never fail." There was not the least shade of boasting in the man's manner. Richling handed out his dollar. It was given without patronage and taken with simple thanks. "Where goin' to meet to-morrow morning?" asked Ristofalo. "Here?" "Oh! I forgot," said Richling. "Yes, I suppose so; and then you'll tell me how you invested it, will you?" "Yes, but you couldn't do it." "Why not?" Raphael Ristofalo laughed. "Oh! fifty reason'." CHAPTER XVIII. HOW HE DID IT. Ristofalo and Richling had hardly separated, when it occurred to the latter that the Italian had first touched him from behind. Had Ristofalo recognized him with his back turned, or had he seen him earlier and followed him? The facts were these: about an hour before the time when Richling omitted to apply for employment in the ill-smelling store in Tchoupitoulas street, Mr. Raphael Ristofalo halted in front of the same place,--which appeared small and slovenly among its more pretentious neighbors,--and stepped just inside the door to where stood a single barrel of apples,--a fruit only the earliest varieties of which were beginning to appear in market. These were very small, round, and smooth, and with a rather wan blush confessed to more than one of the senses that they had seen better days. He began to pick them up and throw them down--one, two, three, four, seven, ten; about half of them were entirely sound. "How many barrel' like this?" "No got-a no more; dass all," said the dealer. He was a Sicilian. "Lame duck," he added. "Oäl de rest gone." "How much?" asked Ristofalo, still handling the fruit. The Sicilian came to the barrel, looked in, and said, with a gesture of indifference:-- "'M--doll' an' 'alf." Ristofalo offered to take them at a dollar if he might wash and sort them under the dealer's hydrant, which could be heard running in the back yard. The offer would have been rejected with rude scorn but for one thing: it was spoken in Italian. The man looked at him with pleased surprise, and made the concession. The porter of the store, in a red worsted cap, had drawn near. Ristofalo bade him roll the barrel on its chine to the rear and stand it by the hydrant. "I will come back pretty soon," he said, in Italian, and went away. By and by he returned, bringing with him two swarthy, heavy-set, little Sicilian lads, each with his inevitable basket and some clean rags. A smile and gesture to the store-keeper, a word to the boys, and in a moment the barrel was upturned, and the pair were washing, wiping, and sorting the sound and unsound apples at the hydrant. Ristofalo stood a moment in the entrance of the store. The question now was where to get a dollar. Richling passed, looked in, seemed to hesitate, went on, turned, and passed again, the other way. Ristofalo saw him all the time and recognized him at once, but appeared not to observe him. "He will do," thought the Italian. "Be back few minute'," he said, glancing behind him. "Or-r righ'," said the store-keeper, with a hand-wave of good-natured confidence. He recognized Mr. Raphael Ristofalo's species. The Italian walked up across Poydras street, saw Richling stop and look at the machinery, approached, and touched him on the shoulder. On parting with him he did not return to the store where he had left the apples. He walked up Tchoupitoulas street about a mile, and where St. Thomas street branches acutely from it, in a squalid district full of the poorest Irish, stopped at a dirty fruit-stand and spoke in Spanish to its Catalan proprietor. Half an hour later twenty-five cents had changed hands, the Catalan's fruit shelves were bright with small pyramids--sound side foremost--of Ristofalo's second grade of apples, the Sicilian had Richling's dollar, and the Italian was gone with his boys and his better grade of fruit. Also, a grocer had sold some sugar, and a druggist a little paper of some harmless confectioner's dye. Down behind the French market, in a short, obscure street that runs from Ursulines to Barracks street, and is named in honor of Albert Gallatin, are some old buildings of three or four stories' height, rented, in John Richling's day, to a class of persons who got their livelihood by sub-letting the rooms, and parts of rooms, to the wretchedest poor of New Orleans,--organ-grinders, chimney-sweeps, professional beggars, street musicians, lemon-peddlers, rag-pickers, with all the yet dirtier herd that live by hook and crook in the streets or under the wharves; a room with a bed and stove, a room without, a half-room with or without ditto, a quarter-room with or without a blanket or quilt, and with only a chalk-mark on the floor instead of a partition. Into one of these went Mr. Raphael Ristofalo, the two boys, and the apples. Whose assistance or indulgence, if any, he secured in there is not recorded; but when, late in the afternoon, the Italian issued thence--the boys, meanwhile, had been coming and going--an unusual luxury had been offered the roustabouts and idlers of the steam-boat landings, and many had bought and eaten freely of the very small, round, shiny, sugary, and artificially crimson roasted apples, with neatly whittled white-pine stems to poise them on as they were lifted to the consumer's watering teeth. When, the next morning Richling laughed at the story, the Italian drew out two dollars and a half, and began to take from it a dollar. "But you have last night's lodging and so forth yet to pay for." "No. Made friends with Sicilian luggerman. Slept in his lugger." He showed his brow and cheeks speckled with mosquito-bites. "Ate little hard-tack and coffee with him this morning. Don't want much." He offered the dollar with a quarter added. Richling declined the bonus. "But why not?" "Oh, I just couldn't do it," laughed Richling; "that's all." "Well," said the Italian, "lend me that dollar one day more, I return you dollar and half in its place to-morrow." The lender had to laugh again. "You can't find an odd barrel of damaged apples every day." "No. No apples to-day. But there's regiment soldiers at lower landing; whole steam-boat load; going to sail this evenin' to Florida. They'll eat whole barrel hard-boil' eggs."--And they did. When they sailed, the Italian's pocket was stuffed with small silver. Richling received his dollar and fifty cents. As he did so, "I would give, if I had it, a hundred dollars for half your art," he said, laughing unevenly. He was beaten, surpassed, humbled. Still he said, "Come, don't you want this again? You needn't pay me for the use of it." But the Italian refused. He had outgrown his patron. A week afterward Richling saw him at the Picayune Tier, superintending the unloading of a small schooner-load of bananas. He had bought the cargo, and was reselling to small fruiterers. "Make fifty dolla' to-day," said the Italian, marking his tally-board with a piece of chalk. Richling clapped him joyfully on the shoulder, but turned around with inward distress and hurried away. He had not found work. Events followed of which we have already taken knowledge. Mary, we have seen, fell sick and was taken to the hospital. "I shall go mad!" Richling would moan, with his dishevelled brows between his hands, and then start to his feet, exclaiming, "I must not! I must not! I must keep my senses!" And so to the commercial regions or to the hospital. Dr. Sevier, as we know, left word that Richling should call and see him; but when he called, a servant--very curtly, it seemed to him--said the Doctor was not well and didn't want to see anybody. This was enough for a young man who _hadn't_ his senses. The more he needed a helping hand the more unreasonably shy he became of those who might help him. "Will nobody come and find us?" Yet he would not cry "Whoop!" and how, then, was anybody to come? Mary returned to the house again (ah! what joys there are in the vale of tribulation!), and grew strong,--stronger, she averred, than ever she had been. "And now you'll _not_ be cast down, _will_ you?" she said, sliding into her husband's lap. She was in an uncommonly playful mood. "Not a bit of it," said John. "Every dog has his day. I'll come to the top. You'll see." "Don't I know that?" she responded, "Look here, now," she exclaimed, starting to her feet and facing him, "_I'll_ recommend you to anybody. _I've_ got confidence in you!" Richling thought she had never looked quite so pretty as at that moment. He leaped from his chair with a laughing ejaculation, caught and swung her an instant from her feet, and landed her again before she could cry out. If, in retort, she smote him so sturdily that she had to retreat backward to rearrange her shaken coil of hair, it need not go down on the record; such things will happen. The scuffle and suppressed laughter were detected even in Mrs. Riley's room. "Ah!" sighed the widow to herself, "wasn't it Kate Riley that used to get the sweet, haird knocks!" Her grief was mellowing. Richling went out on the old search, which the advancing summer made more nearly futile each day than the day before. Stop. What sound was that? "Richling! Richling!" Richling, walking in a commercial street, turned. A member of the firm that had last employed him beckoned him to halt. "What are you doing now, Richling? Still acting deputy assistant city surveyor _pro tem._?" "Yes." "Well, see here! Why haven't you been in the store to see us lately? Did I seem a little preoccupied the last time you called?" "I"--Richling dropped his eyes with an embarrassed smile--"_I was_ afraid I was in the way--or should be." "Well and suppose you were? A man that's looking for work must put himself in the way. But come with me. I think I may be able to give you a lift." "How's that?" asked Richling, as they started off abreast. "There's a house around the corner here that will give you some work,--temporary anyhow, and may be permanent." So Richling was at work again, hidden away from Dr. Sevier between journal and ledger. His employers asked for references. Richling looked dismayed for a moment, then said, "I'll bring somebody to recommend me," went away, and came back with Mary. "All the recommendation I've got," said he, with timid elation. There was a laugh all round. "Well, madam, if you say he's all right, we don't doubt he is!" CHAPTER XIX. ANOTHER PATIENT. "Doctah Seveeah," said Narcisse, suddenly, as he finished sticking with great fervor the postage-stamps on some letters the Doctor had written, and having studied with much care the phraseology of what he had to say, and screwed up his courage to the pitch of utterance, "I saw yo' notiz on the noozpapeh this mornin'." The unresponding Doctor closed his eyes in unutterable weariness of the innocent young gentleman's prepared speeches. "Yesseh. 'Tis a beaucheouz notiz. I fine that w'itten with the gweatez ac_cu_'acy of diction, in fact. I made a twanslation of that faw my hant. Thaz a thing I am fon' of, twanslation. I dunno 'ow 'tis, Doctah," he continued, preparing to go out,--"I dunno 'ow 'tis, but I thing, you goin' to fine that Mistoo Itchlin ad the en'. I dunno 'ow 'tis. Well, I'm goin' ad the"-- The Doctor looked up fiercely. "Bank," said Narcisse, getting near the door. "All right!" grumbled the Doctor, more politely. "Yesseh--befo' I go ad the poss-office." A great many other persons had seen the advertisement. There were many among them who wondered if Mr. John Richling could be such a fool as to fall into that trap. There were others--some of them women, alas!--who wondered how it was that nobody advertised for information concerning them, and who wished, yes, "wished to God," that such a one, or such a one, who had had his money-bags locked up long enough, would die, and then you'd see who'd be advertised for. Some idlers looked in vain into the city directory to see if Mr. John Richling were mentioned there. But Richling himself did not see the paper. His employers, or some fellow-clerk, might have pointed it out to him, but--we shall see in a moment. Time passed. It always does. At length, one morning, as Dr. Sevier lay on his office lounge, fatigued after his attentions to callers, and much enervated by the prolonged summer heat, there entered a small female form, closely veiled. He rose to a sitting posture. "Good-morning, Doctor," said a voice, hurriedly, behind the veil. "Doctor," it continued, choking,--"Doctor"-- "Why, Mrs. Richling!" He sprang and gave her a chair. She sank into it. "Doctor,--O Doctor! John is in the Charity Hospital!" She buried her face in her handkerchief and sobbed aloud. The Doctor was silent a moment, and then asked:-- "What's the matter with him?" "Chills." It seemed as though she must break down again, but the Doctor stopped her savagely. "Well, my dear madam, don't cry! Come, now, you're making too much of a small matter. Why, what are chills? We'll break them in forty-eight hours. He'll have the best of care. You needn't cry! Certainly this isn't as bad as when you were there." She was still, but shook her head. She couldn't agree to that. "Doctor, will you attend him?" "Mine is a female ward." "I know; but"-- "Oh--if you wish it--certainly; of course I will. But now, where have you moved, Mrs. Richling? I sent"-- He looked up over his desk toward that of Narcisse. The Creole had been neither deaf nor idle. Hospital? Then those children in Prieur street had told him right. He softly changed his coat and shoes. As the physician looked over the top of the desk Narcisse's silent form, just here at the left, but out of the range of vision, passed through the door and went downstairs with the noiselessness of a moonbeam. Mary explained the location and arrangement of her residence. "Yes," she said, "that's the way your clerk must have overlooked us. We live behind--down the alleyway." "Well, at any rate, madam," said the Doctor, "you are here now, and before you go I want to"-- He drew out his pocket-book. There was a quick gesture of remonstrance and a look of pleading. "No, no, Doctor, please don't! please don't! Give my poor husband one more chance; don't make me take that. I don't refuse it for pride's sake!" "I don't know about that," he replied; "why do you do it?" "For his sake, Doctor. I know just as well what he'd say--we've no right to take it anyhow. We don't know when we could pay it back." Her head sank. She wiped a tear from her hand. "Why, I don't care if you never pay it back!" The Doctor reddened angrily. Mary raised her veil. "Doctor,"--a smile played on her lips,--"I want to say one thing." She was a little care-worn and grief-worn; and yet, Narcisse, you should have seen her; you would not have slipped out. "Say on, madam," responded the Doctor. "If we have to ask anybody, Doctor, it will be you. John had another situation, but lost it by his chills. He'll get another. I'm sure he will." A long, broken sigh caught her unawares. Dr. Sevier thrust his pocket-book back into its place, compressing his lips and giving his head an unpersuaded jerk. And yet, was she not right, according to all his preaching? He asked himself that. "Why didn't your husband come to see me, as I requested him to do, Mrs. Richling?" She explained John's being turned away from the door during the Doctor's illness. "But anyhow, Doctor, John has always been a little afraid of you." The Doctor's face did not respond to her smile. "Why, you are not," he said. "No." Her eyes sparkled, but their softer light quickly returned. She smiled and said:-- "I will ask a favor of you now, Doctor." They had risen, and she stood leaning sidewise against his low desk and looking up into his face. "Can you get me some sewing? John says I may take some." The Doctor was about to order two dozen shirts instanter, but common sense checked him, and he only said:-- "I will. I will find you some. And I shall see your husband within an hour. Good-by." She reached the door. "God bless you!" he added. "What, sir?" she asked, looking back. But the Doctor was reading. CHAPTER XX. ALICE. A little medicine skilfully prescribed, the proper nourishment, two or three days' confinement in bed, and the Doctor said, as he sat on the edge of Richling's couch:-- "No, you'd better stay where you are to-day; but to-morrow, if the weather is good, you may sit up." Then Richling, with the unreasonableness of a convalescent, wanted to know why he couldn't just as well go home. But the Doctor said again, no. "Don't be impatient; you'll have to go anyhow before I would prefer to send you. It would be invaluable to you to pass your entire convalescence here, and go home only when you are completely recovered. But I can't arrange it very well. The Charity Hospital is for sick people." "And where is the place for convalescents?" "There is none," replied the physician. "I shouldn't want to go to it, myself," said Richling, lolling pleasantly on his pillow; "all I should ask is strength to get home, and I'd be off." The Doctor looked another way. "The sick are not the wise," he said, abstractedly. "However, in your case, I should let you go to your wife as soon as you safely could." At that he fell into so long a reverie that Richling studied every line of his face again and again. A very pleasant thought was in the convalescent's mind the while. The last three days had made it plain to him that the Doctor was not only his friend, but was willing that Richling should be his. At length the physician spoke:-- "Mary is wonderfully like Alice, Richling." "Yes?" responded Richling, rather timidly. And the Doctor continued:-- "The same age, the same stature, the same features. Alice was a shade paler in her style of beauty, just a shade. Her hair was darker; but otherwise her whole effect was a trifle quieter, even, than Mary's. She was beautiful,--outside and in. Like Mary, she had a certain richness of character--but of a different sort. I suppose I would not notice the difference if they were not so much alike. She didn't stay with me long." "Did you lose her--here?" asked Richling, hardly knowing how to break the silence that fell, and yet lead the speaker on. "No. In Virginia." The Doctor was quiet a moment, and then resumed:-- "I looked at your wife when she was last in my office, Richling; she had a little timid, beseeching light in her eyes that is not usual with her--and a moisture, too; and--it seemed to me as though Alice had come back. For my wife lived by my moods. Her spirits rose or fell just as my whim, conscious or unconscious, gave out light or took on shadow." The Doctor was still again, and Richling only indicated his wish to hear more by shifting himself on his elbow. "Do you remember, Richling, when the girl you had been bowing down to and worshipping, all at once, in a single wedding day, was transformed into your adorer?" "Yes, indeed," responded the convalescent, with beaming face. "Wasn't it wonderful? I couldn't credit my senses. But how did you--was it the same"-- "It's the same, Richling, with every man who has really secured a woman's heart with her hand. It was very strange and sweet to me. Alice would have been a spoiled child if her parents could have spoiled her; and when I was courting her she was the veriest little empress that ever walked over a man." "I can hardly imagine," said Richling, with subdued amusement, looking at the long, slender form before him. The Doctor smiled very sweetly. "Yes." Then, after another meditative pause: "But from the moment I became her husband she lived in continual trepidation. She so magnified me in her timid fancy that she was always looking tremulously to me to see what should be her feeling. She even couldn't help being afraid of me. I hate for any one to be afraid of me." "Do you, Doctor?" said Richling, with surprise and evident introspection. "Yes." Richling felt his own fear changing to love. "When I married," continued Dr. Sevier, "I had thought Alice was one that would go with me hand in hand through life, dividing its cares and doubling its joys, as they say; I guiding her and she guiding me. But if I had let her, she would have fallen into me as a planet might fall into the sun. I didn't want to be the sun to her. I didn't want her to shine only when I shone on her, and be dark when I was dark. No man ought to want such a thing. Yet she made life a delight to me; only she wanted that development which a better training, or even a harder training, might have given her; that subserving of the emotions to the"--he waved his hand--"I can't philosophize about her. We loved one another with our might, and she's in heaven." Richling felt an inward start. The Doctor interrupted his intended speech. "Our short experience together, Richling, is the one great light place in my life; and to me, to-day, sere as I am, the sweet--the sweetest sound--on God's green earth"--the corners of his mouth quivered--"is the name of Alice. Take care of Mary, Richling; she's a priceless treasure. Don't leave the making and sustaining of the home sunshine all to her, any more than you'd like her to leave it all to you." "I'll not, Doctor; I'll not." Richling pressed the Doctor's hand fervently; but the Doctor drew it away with a certain energy, and rose, saying:-- "Yes, you can sit up to-morrow." The day that Richling went back to his malarious home in Prieur street Dr. Sevier happened to meet him just beyond the hospital gate. Richling waved his hand. He looked weak and tremulous. "Homeward bound," he said, gayly. The physician reached forward in his carriage and bade his driver stop. "Well, be careful of yourself; I'm coming to see you in a day or two." CHAPTER XXI. THE SUN AT MIDNIGHT. Dr. Sevier was daily overtasked. His campaigns against the evils of our disordered flesh had even kept him from what his fellow-citizens thought was only his share of attention to public affairs. "Why," he cried to a committee that came soliciting his coöperation, "here's one little unprofessional call that I've been trying every day for two weeks to make--and ought to have made--and must make; and I haven't got a step toward it yet. Oh, no, gentlemen!" He waved their request away. He was very tired. The afternoon was growing late. He dismissed his jaded horse toward home, walked down to Canal street, and took that yellow Bayou-Road omnibus whose big blue star painted on its corpulent side showed that quadroons, etc., were allowed a share of its accommodation, and went rumbling and tumbling over the cobble-stones of the French quarter. By and by he got out, walked a little way southward in the hot, luminous shade of low-roofed tenement cottages that closed their window-shutters noiselessly, in sensitive-plant fashion, at his slow, meditative approach, and slightly and as noiselessly reopened them behind him, showing a pair of wary eyes within. Presently he recognized just ahead of him, standing out on the sidewalk, the little house that had been described to him by Mary. In a door-way that opened upon two low wooden sidewalk steps stood Mrs. Riley, clad in a crisp black and white calico, a heavy, fat babe poised easily in one arm. The Doctor turned directly toward the narrow alley, merely touching his hat to her as he pushed its small green door inward, and disappeared, while she lifted her chin at the silent liberty and dropped her eyelids. Dr. Sevier went down the cramped, ill-paved passage very slowly and softly. Regarding himself objectively, he would have said the deep shade of his thoughts was due partly, at least, to his fatigue. But that would hardly have accounted for a certain faint glow of indignation that came into them. In truth, he began distinctly to resent this state of affairs in the life of John and Mary Richling. An ill-defined anger beat about in his brain in search of some tangible shortcoming of theirs upon which to thrust the blame of their helplessness. "Criminal helplessness," he called it, mutteringly. He tried to define the idea--or the idea tried to define itself--that they had somehow been recreant to their social caste, by getting down into the condition and estate of what one may call the alien poor. Carondelet street had in some way specially vexed him to-day, and now here was this. It was bad enough, he thought, for men to slip into riches through dark back windows; but here was a brace of youngsters who had glided into poverty, and taken a place to which they had no right to stoop. Treachery,--that was the name for it. And now he must be expected,--the Doctor quite forgot that nobody had asked him to do it,--he must be expected to come fishing them out of their hole, like a rag-picker at a trash barrel. --"Bringing me into this wretched alley!" he silently thought. His foot slipped on a mossy brick. Oh, no doubt they thought they were punishing some negligent friend or friends by letting themselves down into this sort of thing. Never mind! He recalled the tender, confiding, friendly way in which he had talked to John, sitting on the edge of his hospital bed. He wished, now, he had every word back he had uttered. They might hide away to the full content of their poverty-pride. Poverty-pride: he had invented the term; it was the opposite pole to purse-pride--and just as mean,--no, meaner. There! Must he yet slip down? He muttered an angry word. Well, well, this was making himself a little the cheapest he had ever let himself be made. And probably this was what they wanted! Misery's revenge. Umhum! They sit down in sour darkness, eh! and make relief seek them. It wouldn't be the first time he had caught the poor taking savage comfort in the blush which their poverty was supposed to bring to the cheek of better-kept kinsfolk. True, he didn't know this was the case with the Richlings. But wasn't it? Wasn't it? And have they a dog, that will presently hurl himself down this alley at one's legs? He hopes so. He would so like to kick him clean over the twelve-foot close plank fence that crowded his right shoulder. Never mind! His anger became solemn. The alley opened into a small, narrow yard, paved with ashes from the gas-works. At the bottom of the yard a rough shed spanned its breadth, and a woman was there, busily bending over a row of wash-tubs. The Doctor knocked on a door near at hand, then waited a moment, and, getting no response, turned away toward the shed and the deep, wet, burring sound of a wash-board. The woman bending over it did not hear his footfall. Presently he stopped. She had just straightened up, lifting a piece of the washing to the height of her head, and letting it down with a swash and slap upon the board. It was a woman's garment, but certainly not hers. For she was small and slight. Her hair was hidden under a towel. Her skirts were shortened to a pair of dainty ankles by an extra under-fold at the neat, round waist. Her feet were thrust into a pair of sabots. She paused a moment in her work, and, lifting with both smoothly rounded arms, bared nearly to the shoulder, a large apron from her waist, wiped the perspiration from her forehead. It was Mary. The red blood came up into the Doctor's pale, thin face. This was too outrageous. This was insult! He stirred as if to move forward. He would confront her. Yes, just as she was. He would speak. He would speak bluntly. He would chide sternly. He had the right. The only friend in the world from whom she had not escaped beyond reach,--he would speak the friendly, angry word that would stop this shocking-- But, truly, deeply incensed as he was, and felt it his right to be, hurt, wrung, exasperated, he did not advance. She had reached down and taken from the wash-bench the lump of yellow soap that lay there, and was soaping the garment on the board before her, turning it this way and that. As she did this she began, all to herself and for her own ear, softly, with unconscious richness and tenderness of voice, to sing. And what was her song? "Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?" Down drooped the listener's head. Remember? Ah, memory!--The old, heart-rending memory! Sweet Alice! "Sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown?" Yes, yes; so brown!--so brown! "She wept with delight when you gave her a smile, And trembled with fear at your frown." Ah! but the frown is gone! There is a look of supplication now. Sing no more! Oh, sing no more! Yes, surely, she will stop there! No. The voice rises gently--just a little--into the higher key, soft and clear as the note of a distant bird, and all unaware of a listener. Oh! in mercy's name-- "In the old church-yard in the valley, Ben Bolt, In a corner obscure and alone, They have fitted a slab of granite so gray, And sweet Alice lies under the stone." The little toiling figure bent once more across the wash-board and began to rub. He turned, the first dew of many a long year welling from each eye, and stole away, out of the little yard and down the dark, slippery alley, to the street. Mrs. Riley still stood on the door-sill, holding the child. "Good-evening, madam!" "Sur, to you." She bowed with dignity. "Is Mrs. Richling in?" There was a shadow of triumph in her faint smile. "She is." "I should like to see her." Mrs. Riley hoisted her chin. "I dunno if she's a-seein' comp'ny to-day." The voice was amiably important. "Wont ye walk in? Take a seat and sit down, sur, and I'll go and infarm the laydie." "Thank you," said the Doctor, but continued to stand. Mrs. Riley started and stopped again. "Ye forgot to give me yer kyaird, sur." She drew her chin in again austerely. "Just say Dr. Sevier." "Certainly, sur; yes, that'll be sufficiend. And dispinse with the kyaird." She went majestically. The Doctor, left alone, cast his uninterested glance around the smart little bare-floored parlor, upon its new, jig-sawed, gray hair-cloth furniture, and up upon a picture of the Pope. When Mrs. Riley, in a moment, returned he stood looking out the door. "Mrs. Richling consints to see ye, sur. She'll be in turreckly. Take a seat and sit down." She readjusted the infant on her arm and lifted and swung a hair-cloth arm-chair toward him without visible exertion. "There's no use o' having chayers if ye don't sit on um," she added affably. The Doctor sat down, and Mrs. Riley occupied the exact centre of the small, wide-eared, brittle-looking sofa, where she filled in the silent moments that followed by pulling down the skirts of the infant's apparel, oppressed with the necessity of keeping up a conversation and with the want of subject-matter. The child stared at the Doctor, and suddenly plunged toward him with a loud and very watery coo. "Ah-h!" said Mrs. Riley, in ostentatious rebuke. "Mike!" she cried, laughingly, as the action was repeated. "Ye rowdy, air ye go-un to fight the gintleman?" She laughed sincerely, and the Doctor could but notice how neat and good-looking she was. He condescended to crook his finger at the babe. This seemed to exasperate the so-called rowdy. He planted his pink feet on his mother's thigh and gave a mighty lunge and whoop. "He's go-un to be a wicked bruiser," said proud Mrs. Riley. "He"--the pronoun stood, this time, for her husband--"he never sah the child. He was kilt with an explosion before the child was barn." She held the infant on her strong arm as he struggled to throw himself, with wide-stretched jaws, upon her bosom; and might have been devoured by the wicked bruiser had not his attention been diverted by the entrance of Mary, who came in at last, all in fragrant white, with apologies for keeping the Doctor waiting. He looked down into her uplifted eyes. What a riddle is woman! Had he not just seen this one in sabots? Did she not certainly know, through Mrs. Riley, that he must have seen her so? Were not her skirts but just now hitched up with an under-tuck, and fastened with a string? Had she not just laid off, in hot haste, a suds-bespattered apron and the garments of toil beneath it? Had not a towel been but now unbound from the hair shining here under his glance in luxuriant brown coils? This brightness of eye, that seemed all exhilaration, was it not trepidation instead? And this rosiness, so like redundant vigor, was it not the flush of her hot task? He fancied he saw--in truth he may have seen--a defiance in the eyes as he glanced upon, and tardily dropped, the little water-soaked hand with a bow. Mary turned to present Mrs. Riley, who bowed and said, trying to hold herself with majesty while Mike drew her head into his mouth: "Sur," then turned with great ceremony to Mary, and adding, "I'll withdrah," withdrew with the head and step of a duchess. "How is your husband, madam?" "John?--is not well at all, Doctor; though he would say he was if he were here. He doesn't shake off his chills. He is out, though, looking for work. He'd go as long as he could stand." She smiled; she almost laughed; but half an eye could see it was only to avoid the other thing. "Where does he go?" "Everywhere!" She laughed this time audibly. "If he went everywhere I should see him," said Dr. Sevier. "Ah! naturally," responded Mary, playfully. "But he does go wherever he thinks there's work to be found. He doesn't wander clear out among the plantations, of course, where everybody has slaves, and there's no work but slaves' work. And he says it's useless to think of a clerkship this time of year. It must be, isn't it?" The Doctor made no answer. There was a footstep in the alley. "He's coming now," said Mary,--"that's he. He must have got work to-day. He has an acquaintance, an Italian, who promised to have something for him to do very soon. Doctor,"--she began to put together the split fractions of a palm-leaf fan, smiling diffidently at it the while,--"I can't see how it is any discredit to a man not to have a _knack_ for making money?" She lifted her peculiar look of radiant inquiry. "It is not, madam." Mary laughed for joy. The light of her face seemed to spread clear into her locks. "Well, I knew you'd say so! John blames himself; he can make money, you know, Doctor, but he blames himself because he hasn't that natural gift for it that Mr. Ristofalo has. Why, Mr. Ristofalo is simply wonderful!" She smiled upon her fan in amused reminiscence. "John is always wishing he had his gift." "My dear madam, don't covet it! At least don't exchange it for anything else." The Doctor was still in this mood of disapprobation when John entered. The radiancy of the young husband's greeting hid for a moment, but only so long, the marks of illness and adversity. Mary followed him with her smiling eyes as the two men shook hands, and John drew a chair near to her and sat down with a sigh of mingled pleasure and fatigue. She told him of whom she and their visitor had just been speaking. "Raphael Ristofalo!" said John, kindling afresh. "Yes; I've been with him all day. It humiliates me to think of him." Dr. Sevier responded quietly:-- "You've no right to let it humiliate you, sir." Mary turned to John with dancing eyes, but he passed the utterance as a mere compliment, and said, through his smiles:-- "Just see how it is to-day. I have been overseeing the unloading of a little schooner from Ruatan island loaded with bananas, cocoanuts, and pine-apples. I've made two dollars; he has made a hundred." Richling went on eagerly to tell about the plain, lustreless man whose one homely gift had fascinated him. The Doctor was entertained. The narrator sparkled and glowed as he told of Ristofalo's appearance, and reproduced his speeches and manner. "Tell about the apples and eggs," said the delighted Mary. He did so, sitting on the front edge of his chair-seat, and sprawling his legs now in front and now behind him as he swung now around to his wife and now to the Doctor. Mary laughed softly at every period, and watched the Doctor, to see his slight smile at each detail of the story. Richling enjoyed telling it; he had worked; his earnings were in his pocket; gladness was easy. "Why, I'm learning more from Raphael Ristofalo than I ever learned from my school-masters: I'm learning the art of livelihood." He ran on from Ristofalo to the men among whom he had been mingling all day. He mimicked the strange, long swing of their Sicilian speech; told of their swarthy faces and black beards, their rich instinct for color in costume; their fierce conversation and violent gestures; the energy of their movements when they worked, and the profoundness of their repose when they rested; the picturesqueness and grotesqueness of the negroes, too; the huge, flat, round baskets of fruit which the black men carried on their heads, and which the Sicilians bore on their shoulders or the nape of the neck. The "captain" of the schooner was a central figure. "Doctor," asked Richling, suddenly, "do you know anything about the island of Cozumel?" "Aha!" thought Mary. So there was something besides the day's earning that elated him. She had suspected it. She looked at her husband with an expression of the most alert pleasure. The Doctor noticed it. "No," he said, in reply to Richling's question. "It stands out in the Gulf of Mexico, off the coast of Yucatan," began Richling. "Yes, I know that." "Well, Mary, I've almost promised the schooner captain that we'll go there. He wants to get up a colony." Mary started. "Why, John!" She betrayed a look of dismay, glanced at their visitor, tried to say "Have you?" approvingly, and blushed. The Doctor made no kind of response. "Now, don't conclude," said John to Mary, coloring too, but smiling. He turned to the physician. "It's a wonderful spot, Doctor." But the Doctor was still silent, and Richling turned. "Just to think, Mary, of a place where you can raise all the products of two zones; where health is almost perfect; where the yellow fever has never been; and where there is such beauty as can be only in the tropics and a tropical sea. Why, Doctor, I can't understand why Europeans or Americans haven't settled it long ago." "I suppose we can find out before we go, can't we?" said Mary, looking timorously back and forth between John and the Doctor. "The reason is," replied John, "it's so little known. Just one island away out by itself. Three crops of fruit a year. One acre planted in bananas feeds fifty men. All the capital a man need have is an axe to cut down the finest cabinet and dye-woods in the world. The thermometer never goes above ninety nor below forty. You can hire all the labor you want at a few cents a day." Mary's diligent eye detected a cloud on the Doctor's face. But John, though nettled, pushed on the more rapidly. "A man can make--easily!--a thousand dollars the first year, and live on two hundred and fifty. It's the place for a poor man." He looked a little defiant. "Of course," said Mary, "I know you wouldn't come to an opinion"--she smiled with the same restless glance--"until you had made all the inquiries necessary. It mu--must--be a delightful place. Doctor?" Her eyes shone blue as the sky. "I wouldn't send a convict to such a place," said Dr. Sevier. Richling flamed up. "Don't you think," he began to say with visible restraint and a faint, ugly twist of the head,--"don't you think it's a better place for a poor man than a great, heartless town?" "This isn't a heartless town," said the Doctor. "He doesn't mean it as you do, Doctor," interposed Mary, with alarm. "John, you ought to explain." "Than a great town," said Richling, "where a man of honest intentions and real desire to live and be useful and independent; who wants to earn his daily bread at any honorable cost, and who can't do it because the town doesn't want his services, and will not have them--can go"-- He ceased, with his sentence all tangled. "No!" the Doctor was saying meanwhile. "No! No! No!" "Here I go, day after day," persisted Richling, extending his arm and pointing indefinitely through the window. "No, no, you don't, John," cried Mary, with an effort at gayety; "you don't go by the window, John; you go by the door." She pulled his arm down tenderly. "I go by the alley," said John. Silence followed. The young pair contrived to force a little laugh, and John made an apologetic move. "Doctor," he exclaimed, with an air of pleasantry, "the whole town's asleep!--sound asleep, like a negro in the sunshine! There isn't work for one man in fifty!" He ended tremulously. Mary looked at him with dropped face but lifted eyes, handling the fan, whose rent she had made worse. "Richling, my friend,"--the Doctor had never used that term before,--"what does your Italian money-maker say to the idea?" Richling gave an Italian shrug and his own pained laugh. "Exactly! Why, Mr. Richling, you're on an island now,--an island in mid-ocean. Both of you!" He waved his hands toward the two without lifting his head from the back of the easy-chair, where he had dropped it. "What do you mean, Doctor?" "Mean? Isn't my meaning plain enough? I mean you're too independent. You know very well, Richling, that you've started out in life with some fanciful feud against the 'world.' What it is I don't know, but I'm sure it's not the sort that religion requires. You've told this world--you remember you said it to me once--that if it will go one road you'll go another. You've forgotten that, mean and stupid and bad as your fellow-creatures are, they're your brothers and sisters, and that they have claims on you as such, and that you have claims on them as such.--Cozumel! You're there now! Has a friend no rights? I don't know your immediate relatives, and I say nothing about them"-- John gave a slight start, and Mary looked at him suddenly. "But here am I," continued the speaker. "Is it just to me for you to hide away here in want that forces you and your wife--I beg your pardon, madam--into mortifying occupations, when one word to me--a trivial obligation, not worthy to be called an obligation, contracted with me--would remove that necessity, and tide you over the emergency of the hour?" Richling was already answering, not by words only, but by his confident smile:-- "Yes, sir; yes, it is just: ask Mary." "Yes, Doctor," interposed the wife. "We went over"-- "We went over it together," said John. "We weighed it well. It _is_ just,--not to ask aid as long as there's hope without it." The Doctor responded with the quiet air of one who is sure of his position:-- "Yes, I see. But, of course--I know without asking--you left the question of health out of your reckoning. Now, Richling, put the whole world, if you choose, in a selfish attitude"-- "No, no," said Richling and his wife. "Ah, no!" But the Doctor persisted. "--a purely selfish attitude. Wouldn't it, nevertheless, rather help a well man or woman than a sick one? Wouldn't it pay better?" "Yes, but"-- "Yes," said the Doctor. "But you're taking the most desperate risks against health and life." He leaned forward in his chair, jerked in his legs, and threw out his long white hands. "You're committing slow suicide." "Doctor," began Mary; but her husband had the floor. "Doctor," he said, "can you put yourself in our place? Wouldn't you rather die than beg? _Wouldn't_ you?" The Doctor rose to his feet as straight as a lance. "It isn't what you'd rather, sir! You haven't your choice! You haven't your choice at all, sir! When God gets ready for you to die he'll let you know, sir! And you've no right to trifle with his mercy in the meanwhile. I'm not a man to teach men to whine after each other for aid; but every principle has its limitations, Mr. Richling. You say you went over the whole subject. Yes; well, didn't you strike the fact that suicide is an affront to civilization and humanity?" "Why, Doctor!" cried the other two, rising also. "We're not going to commit suicide." "No," retorted he, "you're not. That's what I came here to tell you. I'm here to prevent it." "Doctor," exclaimed Mary, the big tears standing in her eyes, and the Doctor melting before them like wax, "it's not so bad as it looks. I wash--some--because it pays so much better than sewing. I find I'm stronger than any one would believe. I'm stronger than I ever was before in my life. I am, indeed. I _don't_ wash _much_. And it's only for the present. We'll all be laughing at this, some time, together." She began a small part of the laugh then and there. "You'll do it no more," the Doctor replied. He drew out his pocket-book. "Mr. Richling, will you please send me through the mail, or bring me, your note for fifty dollars,--at your leisure, you know,--payable on demand?" He rummaged an instant in the pocket-book, and extended his hand with a folded bank-note between his thumb and finger. But Richling compressed his lips and shook his head, and the two men stood silently confronting each other. Mary laid her hand upon her husband's shoulder and leaned against him, with her eyes on the Doctor's face. "Come, Richling,"--the Doctor smiled,--"your friend Ristofalo did not treat you in this way." "I never treated Ristofalo so," replied Richling, with a smile tinged with bitterness. It was against himself that he felt bitter; but the Doctor took it differently, and Richling, seeing this, hurried to correct the impression. "I mean I lent him no such amount as that." "It was just one-fiftieth of that," said Mary. "But you gave liberally, without upbraiding," said the Doctor. "Oh, no, Doctor! no!" exclaimed she, lifting the hand that lay on her husband's near shoulder and reaching it over to the farther one. "Oh! a thousand times no! John never meant that. Did you, John?" "How could I?" said John. "No!" Yet there was confession in his look. He had not meant it, but he had felt it. Dr. Sevier sat down, motioned them into their seats, drew the arm-chair close to theirs. Then he spoke. He spoke long, and as he had not spoken anywhere but at the bedside scarce ever in his life before. The young husband and wife forgot that he had ever said a grating word. A soft love-warmth began to fill them through and through. They seemed to listen to the gentle voice of an older and wiser brother. A hand of Mary sank unconsciously upon a hand of John. They smiled and assented, and smiled, and assented, and Mary's eyes brimmed up with tears, and John could hardly keep his down. The Doctor made the whole case so plain and his propositions so irresistibly logical that the pair looked from his eyes to each other's and laughed. "Cozumel!" They did not utter the name; they only thought of it both at one moment. It never passed their lips again. Their visitor brought them to an arrangement. The fifty dollars were to be placed to John's credit on the books kept by Narcisse, as a deposit from Richling, and to be drawn against by him in such littles as necessity might demand. It was to be "secured"--they all three smiled at that word--by Richling's note payable on demand. The Doctor left a prescription for the refractory chills. As he crossed Canal street, walking in slow meditation homeward at the hour of dusk, a tall man standing against a wall, tin cup in hand,--a full-fledged mendicant of the steam-boiler explosion, tin-proclamation type,--asked his alms. He passed by, but faltered, stopped, let his hand down into his pocket, and looked around to see if his pernicious example was observed. None saw him. He felt--he saw himself--a drivelling sentimentalist. But weak, and dazed, sore wounded of the archers, he turned and dropped a dime into the beggar's cup. Richling was too restless with the joy of relief to sit or stand. He trumped up an errand around the corner, and hardly got back before he contrived another. He went out to the bakery for some crackers--fresh baked--for Mary; listened to a long story across the baker's counter, and when he got back to his door found he had left the crackers at the bakery. He went back for them and returned, the blood about his heart still running and leaping and praising God. "The sun at midnight!" he exclaimed, knitting Mary's hands in his. "You're very tired. Go to bed. Me? I can't yet. I'm too restless." He spent more than an hour chatting with Mrs. Riley, and had never found her so "nice" a person before; so easy comes human fellowship when we have had a stroke of fortune. When he went again to his room there was Mary kneeling by the bedside, with her head slipped under the snowy mosquito net, all in fine linen, white as the moonlight, frilled and broidered, a remnant of her wedding glory gleaming through the long, heavy wefts of her unbound hair. "Why, Mary"-- There was no answer. "Mary?" he said again, laying his hand upon her head. The head was slowly lifted. She smiled an infant's smile, and dropped her cheek again upon the bedside. She had fallen asleep at the foot of the Throne. At that same hour, in an upper chamber of a large, distant house, there knelt another form, with bared, bowed head, but in the garb in which it had come in from the street. Praying? This white thing overtaken by sleep here was not more silent. Yet--yes, praying. But, all the while, the prayer kept running to a little tune, and the words repeating themselves again and again; "Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice--with hair so brown--so brown--so brown? Sweet Alice, with hair so brown?" And God bent his ear and listened. CHAPTER XXII. BORROWER TURNED LENDER. It was only a day or two later that the Richlings, one afternoon, having been out for a sunset walk, were just reaching Mrs. Riley's door-step again, when they were aware of a young man approaching from the opposite direction with the intention of accosting them. They brought their conversation to a murmurous close. For it was not what a mere acquaintance could have joined them in, albeit its subject was the old one of meat and raiment. Their talk had been light enough on their starting out, notwithstanding John had earned nothing that day. But it had toned down, or, we might say up, to a sober, though not a sombre, quality. John had in some way evolved the assertion that even the life of the body alone is much more than food and clothing and shelter; so much more, that only a divine provision can sustain it; so much more, that the fact is, when it fails, it generally fails with meat and raiment within easy reach. Mary devoured his words. His spiritual vision had been a little clouded of late, and now, to see it clear-- She closed her eyes for bliss. "Why, John," she said, "you make it plainer than any preacher I ever heard." This, very naturally, silenced John. And Mary, hoping to start him again, said:-- "Heaven provides. And yet I'm sure you're right in seeking our food and raiment?" She looked up inquiringly. "Yes; like the fowls, the provision is made _for_ us through us. The mistake is in making those things the _end_ of our search." "Why, certainly!" exclaimed Mary, softly. She took fresh hold in her husband's arm; the young man was drawing near. "It's Narcisse!" murmured John. The Creole pressed suddenly forward with a joyous smile, seized Richling's hand, and, lifting his hat to Mary as John presented him, brought his heels together and bowed from the hips. "I wuz juz coming at yo' 'ouse, Mistoo Itchlin. Yesseh. I wuz juz sitting in my 'oom afteh dinneh, envelop' in my _'obe de chambre_, when all at once I says to myseff, 'Faw distwaction I will go and see Mistoo Itchlin!'" "Will you walk in?" said the pair. Mrs. Riley, standing in the door of her parlor, made way by descending to the sidewalk. Her calico was white, with a small purple figure, and was highly starched and beautifully ironed. Purple ribbons were at her waist and throat. As she reached the ground Mary introduced Narcisse. She smiled winningly, and when she said, with a courtesy: "Proud to know ye, sur," Narcisse was struck with the sweetness of her tone. But she swept away with a dramatic tread. "Will you walk in?" Mary repeated; and Narcisse responded:-- "If you will pummit me yo' attention a few moment'." He bowed again and made way for Mary to precede him. "Mistoo Itchlin," he continued, going in, "in fact you don't give Misses Witchlin my last name with absolute co'ectness." "Did I not? Why, I hope you'll pardon"-- "Oh, I'm glad of it. I don' feel lak a pusson is my fwen' whilst they don't call me Nahcisse." He directed his remark particularly to Mary. "Indeed?" responded she. "But, at the same time, Mr. Richling would have"-- She had turned to John, who sat waiting to catch her eye with such intense amusement betrayed in his own that she saved herself from laughter and disgrace only by instant silence. "Yesseh," said Narcisse to Richling, "'tis the tooth." He cast his eye around upon the prevailing hair-cloth and varnish. "Misses Witchlin, I muz tell you I like yo' tas'e in that pawlah." "It's Mrs. Riley's taste," said Mary. "'Tis a beaucheouz tas'e," insisted the Creole, contemplatively, gazing at the Pope's vestments tricked out with blue, scarlet, and gilt spangles. "Well, Mistoo Itchlin, since some time I've been stipulating me to do myseff that honoh, seh, to come at yo' 'ouse; well, ad the end I am yeh. I think you fine yoseff not ve'y well those days. Is that nod the case, Mistoo Itchlin?" "Oh, I'm well enough!" Richling ended with a laugh, somewhat explosively. Mary looked at him with forced gravity as he suppressed it. He had to draw his nose slowly through his thumb and two fingers before he could quite command himself. Mary relieved him by responding:-- "No, Mr. Richling hasn't been well for some time." Narcisse responded triumphantly:-- "It stwuck me--so soon I pe'ceive you--that you 'ave the ai' of a valedictudina'y. Thass a ve'y fawtunate that you ah 'esiding in a 'ealthsome pawt of the city, in fact." Both John and Mary laughed and demurred. "You don't think?" asked the smiling visitor. "Me, I dunno,--I fine one thing. If a man don't die fum one thing, yet, still, he'll die fum something. I 'ave study that out, Mistoo Itchlin. 'To be, aw to not be, thaz the queztion,' in fact. I don't ca'e if you live one place aw if you live anotheh place, 'tis all the same,--you've got to pay to live!" The Richlings laughed again, and would have been glad to laugh more; but each, without knowing it of the other, was reflecting with some mortification upon the fact that, had they been talking French, Narcisse would have bitten his tongue off before any of his laughter should have been at their expense. "Indeed you have got to pay to live," said John, stepping to the window and drawing up its painted paper shade. "Yes, and"-- "Ah!" exclaimed Mary, with gentle disapprobation. She met her husband's eye with a smile of protest. "John," she said, "Mr. ----" she couldn't think of the name. "Nahcisse," said the Creole. "Will think," she continued, her amusement climbing into her eyes in spite of her, "you're in earnest." "Well, I am, partly. Narcisse knows, as well as we do that there are two sides to the question." He resumed his seat. "I reckon"-- "Yes," said Narcisse, "and what you muz look out faw, 'tis to git on the soff side." They all laughed. "I was going to say," said Richling, "the world takes us as we come, 'sight-unseen.' Some of us pay expenses, some don't." "Ah!" rejoined Narcisse, looking up at the whitewashed ceiling, "those egspenze'!" He raised his hand and dropped it. "I _fine_ it so _diffycul'_ to defeat those egspenze'! In fact, Mistoo Itchlin, such ah the state of my financial emba'assment that I do not go out at all. I stay in, in fact. I stay at my 'ouse--to light' those egspenze'!" They were all agreed that expenses could be lightened thus. "And by making believe you don't want things," said Mary. "Ah!" exclaimed Narcisse, "I nevvah kin do that!" and Richling gave a laugh that was not without sympathy. "But I muz tell you, Mistoo Itchlin, I am aztonizh at _you_." An instant apprehension seized John and Mary. They _knew_ their ill-concealed amusement would betray them, and now they were to be called to account. But no. "Yesseh," continued Narcisse, "you 'ave the gweatez o'casion to be the subjec' of congwatulation, Mistoo Itchlin, to 'ave the poweh to _ac_cum'late money in those hawd time' like the pwesen'!" The Richlings cried out with relief and amused surprise. "Why, you couldn't make a greater mistake!" "Mistaken! Hah! W'en I ged that memo'andum f'om Dr. Seveeah to paz that fifty dollah at yo' cwedit, it burz f'om me, that egs_clam_ation! 'Acchilly! 'ow that Mistoo Itchlin deserve the 'espect to save a lill quantity of money like that!" The laughter of John and Mary did not impede his rhapsody, nor their protestations shake his convictions. "Why," said Richling, lolling back, "the Doctor has simply omitted to have you make the entry of"-- But he had no right to interfere with the Doctor's accounts. However, Narcisse was not listening. "You' compel' to be witch some day, Mistoo Itchlin, ad that wate of p'ogwess; I am convince of that. I can deteg that indis_pu_tably in yo' physio'nomie. Me--I _can't_ save a cent! Mistoo Itchlin, you would be aztonizh to know 'ow bad I want some money, in fact; exceb that I am _too_ pwoud to dizclose you that state of my condition!" He paused and looked from John to Mary, and from Mary to John again. "Why, I'll declare," said Richling, sincerely, dropping forward with his chin on his hand, "I'm sorry to hear"-- But Narcisse interrupted. "Diffyculty with me--I am not willing to baw'." Mary drew a long breath and glanced at her husband. He changed his attitude and, looking upon the floor, said, "Yes, yes." He slowly marked the bare floor with the edge of his shoe-sole. "And yet there are times when duty actually"-- "I believe you, Mistoo Itchlin," said Narcisse, quickly forestalling Mary's attempt to speak. "Ah, Mistoo Itchlin! _if_ I had baw'd money ligue the huncle of my hant!" He waved his hand to the ceiling and looked up through that obstruction, as it were, to the witnessing sky. "But I _hade_ that--to baw'! I tell you 'ow 'tis with me, Mistoo Itchlin; I nevvah would consen' to baw' money on'y if I pay a big inte'es' on it. An' I'm compel' to tell you one thing, Mistoo Itchlin, in fact: I nevvah would leave money with Doctah Seveeah to invez faw me--no!" Richling gave a little start, and cast his eyes an instant toward his wife. She spoke. "We'd rather you wouldn't say that to us, Mister ----" There was a commanding smile at one corner of her lips. "You don't know what a friend"-- Narcisse had already apologized by two or three gestures to each of his hearers. "Misses Itchlin--Mistoo Itchlin,"--he shook his head and smiled skeptically,--"you think you kin admiah Doctah Seveeah mo' than me? 'Tis uzeless to attempt. 'With all 'is fault I love 'im still.'" Richling and his wife both spoke at once. "But John and I," exclaimed Mary, electrically, "love him, faults and all!" She looked from husband to visitor, and from visitor to husband, and laughed and laughed, pushing her small feet back and forth alternately and softly clapping her hands. Narcisse felt her in the centre of his heart. He laughed. John laughed. "What I mean, Mistoo Itchlin," resumed Narcisse, preferring to avoid Mary's aroused eye,--"what I mean--Doctah Seveeah don't un'stan' that kine of business co'ectly. Still, ad the same time, if I was you I know I would 'ate faw my money not to be makin' me some inte'es'. I tell you what I would do with you, Mistoo Itchlin, in fact: I kin baw' that fifty dollah f'om you myseff." Richling repressed a smile. "Thank you! But I don't care to invest it." "Pay you ten pe' cent. a month." "But we can't spare it," said Richling, smiling toward Mary. "We may need part of it ourselves." "I tell you, 'eally, Mistoo Itchlin, I nevveh baw' money; but it juz 'appen I kin use that juz at the pwesent." "Why, John," said Mary, "I think you might as well say plainly that the money is borrowed money." "That's what it is," responded Richling, and rose to spread the street-door wider open, for the daylight was fading. "Well, I 'ope you'll egscuse that libbetty," said Narcisse, rising a little more tardily, and slower. "I muz baw' fawty dollah--some place. Give you good secu'ty--give you my note, Mistoo Itchlin, in fact; muz baw fawty--aw thutty-five." "Why, I'm very sorry," responded Richling, really ashamed that he could not hold his face straight. "I hope you understand"-- "Mistoo Itchlin, 'tis baw'd money. If you had a necessity faw it you would use it. If a fwend 'ave a necessity--'tis anotheh thing--you don't feel that libbetty--you ah 'ight--I honoh you"-- "I _don't_ feel the same liberty." "Mistoo Itchlin," said Narcisse, with noble generosity, throwing himself a half step forward, "if it was yoze you'd baw' it to me in a minnit!" He smiled with benign delight. "Well, madame,--I bid you good evening, Misses Itchlin. The bes' of fwen's muz pawt, you know." He turned again to Richling with a face all beauty and a form all grace. "I was juz sitting--mistfully--all at once I says to myseff, 'Faw distwaction I'll go an' see Mistoo Itchlin.' I don't _know_ 'ow I juz 'appen'!-- Well, _au 'evo'_, Mistoo Itchlin." Richling followed him out upon the door-step. There Narcisse intimated that even twenty dollars for a few days would supply a stern want. And when Richling was compelled again to refuse, Narcisse solicited his company as far as the next corner. There the Creole covered him with shame by forcing him to refuse the loan of ten dollars, and then of five. It was a full hour before Richling rejoined his wife. Mrs. Riley had stepped off to some neighbor's door with Mike on her arm. Mary was on the sidewalk. "John," she said, in a low voice, and with a long anxious look. "What?" "He _didn't_ take the only dollar of your own in the world?" "Mary, what could I do? It seemed a crime to give, and a crime not to give. He cried like a child; said it was all a sham about his dinner and his _robe de chambre_. An aunt, two little cousins, an aged uncle at home--and not a cent in the house! What could I do? He says he'll return it in three days." "And"--Mary laughed distressfully--"you believed him?" She looked at him with an air of tender, painful admiration, half way between a laugh and a cry. "Come, sit down," he said, sinking upon the little wooden buttress at one side of the door-step. Tears sprang into her eyes. She shook her head. "Let's go inside." And in there she told him sincerely, "No, no, no; she didn't think he had done wrong"--when he knew he had. CHAPTER XXIII. WEAR AND TEAR. The arrangement for Dr. Sevier to place the loan of fifty dollars on his own books at Richling's credit naturally brought Narcisse into relation with it. It was a case of love at first sight. From the moment the record of Richling's "little quantity" slid from the pen to the page, Narcisse had felt himself betrothed to it by destiny, and hourly supplicated the awful fates to frown not upon the amorous hopes of him unaugmented. Richling descended upon him once or twice and tore away from his embrace small fractions of the coveted treasure, choosing, through a diffidence which he mistook for a sort of virtue, the time of day when he would not see Dr. Sevier; and at the third visitation took the entire golden fleece away with him rather than encounter again the always more or less successful courtship of the scorner of loans. A faithful suitor, however, was not thus easily shaken off. Narcisse became a frequent visitor at the Richlings', where he never mentioned money; that part was left to moments of accidental meeting with Richling in the street, which suddenly began to occur at singularly short intervals. Mary labored honestly and arduously to dislike him--to hold a repellent attitude toward him. But he was too much for her. It was easy enough when he was absent; but one look at his handsome face, so rife with animal innocence, and despite herself she was ready to reward his displays of sentiment and erudition with laughter that, mean what it might, always pleased and flattered him. "Can you help liking him?" she would ask John. "I can't, to save my life!" Had the treasure been earnings, Richling said--and believed--he could firmly have repelled Narcisse's importunities. But coldly to withhold an occasional modest heave-offering of that which was the free bounty of another to him was more than he could do. "But," said Mary, straightening his cravat, "you intend to pay up, and he--you don't think I'm uncharitable, do you?" "I'd rather give my last cent than think you so," replied John. "Still,"--laying the matter before her with both open hands,--"if you say plainly not to give him another cent I'll do as you say. The money's no more mine than yours." "Well, you can have all my share," said Mary, pleasantly. So the weeks passed and the hoard dwindled. "What has it got down to, now?" asked John, frowningly, on more than one morning as he was preparing to go out. And Mary, who had been made treasurer, could count it at a glance without taking it out of her purse. One evening, when Narcisse called, he found no one at home but Mrs. Riley. The infant Mike had been stuffed with rice and milk and laid away to slumber. The Richlings would hardly be back in less than an hour. "I'm so'y," said Narcisse, with a baffled frown, as he sat down and Mrs. Riley took her seat opposite. "I came to 'epay 'em some moneys which he made me the loan--juz in a fwenly way. And I came to 'epay 'im. The sum-total, in fact--I suppose he nevva mentioned you about that, eh?" "No, sir; but, still, if"-- "No, and so I can't pay it to you. I'm so'y. Because I know he woon like it, I know, if he fine that you know he's been bawing money to me. Well, Misses Wiley, in fact, thass a _ve'y_ fine gen'leman and lady--that Mistoo and Misses Itchlin, in fact?" "Well, now, Mr. Narcisse, ye'r about right? She's just too good to live--and he's not much better--ha! ha!" She checked her jesting mood. "Yes, sur, they're very peaceable, quiet people. They're just simply ferst tlass." "'Tis t'ue," rejoined the Creole, fanning himself with his straw hat and looking at the Pope. "And they handsome and genial, as the lite'ati say on the noozpapeh. Seem like they almoze wedded to each otheh." "Well, now, sir, that's the trooth!" She threw her open hand down with emphasis. "And isn't that as man and wife should be?" "Yo' mighty co'ect, Misses Wiley!" Narcisse gave his pretty head a little shake from side to side as he spoke. "Ah! Mr. Narcisse,"--she pointed at herself,--"haven't I been a wife? The husband and wife--they'd aht to jist be each other's guairdjian angels! Hairt to hairt sur; sperit to sperit. All the rist is nawthing, Mister Narcisse." She waved her hands. "Min is different from women, sur." She looked about on the ceiling. Her foot noiselessly patted the floor. "Yes," said Narcisse, "and thass the cause that they dwess them dif'ent. To show the dif'ence, you know." "Ah! no. It's not the mortial frame, sur; it's the sperit. The sperit of man is not the sperit of woman. The sperit of woman is not the sperit of man. Each one needs the other, sur. They needs each other, sur, to purify and strinthen and enlairge each other's speritu'l life. Ah, sur! Doo not I feel those things, sur?" She touched her heart with one backward-pointed finger, "_I_ doo. It isn't good for min to be alone--much liss for women. Do not misunderstand me, sur; I speak as a widder, sur--and who always will be--ah! yes, I will--ha! ha! ha!" She hushed her laugh as if this were going too far, tossed her head, and continued smiling. So they talked on. Narcisse did not stay an hour, but there was little of the hour left when he rose to go. They had passed a pleasant time. The Creole, it is true, tried and failed to take the helm of conversation. Mrs. Riley held it. But she steered well. She was still expatiating on the "strinthenin'" spiritual value of the marriage relation when she, too, stood up. "And that's what Mr. and Madam Richlin's a-doin' all the time. And they do ut to perfiction, sur--jist to perfiction!" "I doubt it not, Misses Wiley. Well, Misses Wiley, I bid you _au 'evoi'_. I dunno if you'll pummit me, but I am compel to tell you, Misses Wiley, I nevva yeh anybody in my life with such a educated and talented conve'sation like yo'seff. Misses Wiley, at what univussity did you gwaduate?" "Well, reely, Mister--eh"--she fanned herself with broad sweeps of her purple bordered palm-leaf--"reely, sur, if I don't furgit the name I--I--I'll be switched! Ha! ha! ha!" Narcisse joined in the laugh. "Thaz the way, sometime," he said, and then with sudden gravity: "And, by-the-by, Misses Wiley, speakin' of Mistoo Itchlin,--if you could baw' me two dollahs an' a 'alf juz till tomaw mawnin--till I kin sen' it you fum the office-- Because that money I've got faw Mistoo Itchlin is in the shape of a check, and anyhow I'm c'owding me a little to pay that whole sum-total to Mistoo Itchlin. I kin sen' it you firs' thing my bank open tomaw mawnin." Do you think he didn't get it? * * * "What has it got down to now?" John asked again, a few mornings after Narcisse's last visit. Mary told him. He stepped a little way aside, averting his face, dropped his forehead into his hand, and returned. "I don't see--I don't see, Mary--I"-- "Darling," she replied, reaching and capturing both his hands, "who does see? The rich _think_ they see; but do they, John? Now, _do_ they?" The frown did not go quite off his face, but he took her head between his hands and kissed her temple. "You're always trying to lift me," he said. "Don't you lift me?" she replied, looking up between his hands and smiling. "Do I?" "You know you do. Don't you remember the day we took that walk, and you said that after all it never is we who provide?" She looked at the button of his coat, which she twirled in her fingers. "That word lifted me." "But suppose I can't practice the trust I preach?" he said. "You do trust, though. You have trusted." "Past tense," said John. He lifted her hands slowly away from him, and moved toward the door of their chamber. He could not help looking back at the eyes that followed him, and then he could not bear their look. "I--I suppose a man mustn't trust too much," he said. "Can he?" asked Mary, leaning against a table. "Oh, yes, he can," replied John; but his tone lacked conviction. "If it's the right kind?" Her eyes were full of tears. "I'm afraid mine's not the right kind, then," said John, and passed out into and down the street. But what a mind he took with him--what torture of questions! Was he being lifted or pulled down? His tastes,--were they rising or sinking? Were little negligences of dress and bearing and in-door attitude creeping into his habits? Was he losing his discriminative sense of quantity, time, distance? Did he talk of small achievements, small gains, and small truths, as though they were great? Had he learned to carp at the rich, and to make honesty the excuse for all penury? Had he these various poverty-marks? He looked at himself outside and inside, and feared to answer. One thing he knew,--that he was having great wrestlings. He turned his thoughts to Ristofalo. This was a common habit with him. Not only in thought, but in person, he hovered with a positive infatuation about this man of perpetual success. Lately the Italian had gone out of town, into the country of La Fourche, to buy standing crops of oranges. Richling fed his hope on the possibilities that might follow Ristofalo's return. His friend would want him to superintend the gathering and shipment of those crops--when they should be ripe--away yonder in November. Frantic thought! A man and his wife could starve to death twenty times before then. Mrs. Riley's high esteem for John and Mary had risen from the date of the Doctor's visit, and the good woman thought it but right somewhat to increase the figures of their room-rent to others more in keeping with such high gentility. How fast the little hoard melted away! And the summer continued on,--the long, beautiful, glaring, implacable summer; its heat quaking on the low roofs; its fig-trees dropping their shrivelled and blackened leaves and writhing their weird, bare branches under the scorching sun; the long-drawn, frying note of its cicada throbbing through the mid-day heat from the depths of the becalmed oak; its universal pall of dust on the myriad red, sleep-heavy blossoms of the oleander and the white tulips of the lofty magnolia; its twinkling pomegranates hanging their apples of scarlet and gold over the garden wall; its little chameleons darting along the hot fence-tops; its far-stretching, empty streets; its wide hush of idleness; its solitary vultures sailing in the upper blue; its grateful clouds; its hot north winds, its cool south winds; its gasping twilight calms; its gorgeous nights,--the long, long summer lingered on into September. One evening, as the sun was sinking below the broad, flat land, its burning disk reddened by a low golden haze of suspended dust, Richling passed slowly toward his home, coming from a lower part of the town by way of the quadroon quarter. He was paying little notice, or none, to his whereabouts, wending his way mechanically, in the dejected reverie of weary disappointment, and with voiceless inward screamings and groanings under the weight of those thoughts which had lately taken up their stay in his dismayed mind. But all at once his attention was challenged by a strange, offensive odor. He looked up and around, saw nothing, turned a corner, and found himself at the intersection of Trémé and St. Anne streets, just behind the great central prison of New Orleans. The "Parish Prison" was then only about twenty-five years old; but it had made haste to become offensive to every sense and sentiment of reasonable man. It had been built in the Spanish style,--a massive, dark, grim, huge, four-sided block, the fissure-like windows of its cells looking down into the four public streets which ran immediately under its walls. Dilapidation had followed hard behind ill-building contractors. Down its frowning masonry ran grimy streaks of leakage over peeling stucco and mould-covered brick. Weeds bloomed high aloft in the broken gutters under the scant and ragged eaves. Here and there the pale, debauched face of a prisoner peered shamelessly down through shattered glass or rusted grating; and everywhere in the still atmosphere floated the stifling smell of the unseen loathsomeness within. Richling paused. As he looked up he noticed a bat dart out from a long crevice under the eaves. Two others followed. Then three--a dozen--a hundred--a thousand--millions. All along the two sides of the prison in view they poured forth in a horrid black torrent,--myriads upon myriads. They filled the air. They came and came. Richling stood and gazed; and still they streamed out in gibbering waves, until the wonder was that anything but a witch's dream could contain them. The approach of another passer roused him, and he started on. The step gained upon him--closed up with him; and at the moment when he expected to see the person go by, a hand was laid gently on his shoulder. "Mistoo Itchlin, I 'ope you well, seh!" CHAPTER XXIV. BROUGHT TO BAY. One may take his choice between the two, but there is no escaping both in this life: the creditor--the borrower. Either, but never neither. Narcisse caught step with Richling, and they walked side by side. "How I learned to mawch, I billong with a fiah comp'ny," said the Creole. "We mawch eve'y yeah on the fou'th of Mawch." He laughed heartily. "Thass a 'ime!--Mawch on the fou'th of Mawch! Thass poetwy, in fact, as you may _say_ in a jesting _way_--ha! ha! ha!" "Yes, and it's truth, besides," responded the drearier man. "Yes!" exclaimed Narcisse, delighted at the unusual coincidence, "at the same time 'tis the tooth! In fact, why should I tell a lie about such a thing like _that_? 'Twould be useless. Pe'haps you may 'ave notiz, Mistoo Itchlin, thad the noozpapehs opine us fiahmen to be the gau'dians of the city." "Yes," responded Richling. "I think Dr. Sevier calls you the Mamelukes, doesn't he? But that's much the same, I suppose." "Same thing," replied the Creole. "We combad the fiah fiend. You fine that building ve'y pitto'esque, Mistoo Itchlin?" He jerked his thumb toward the prison, that was still pouring forth its clouds of impish wings. "Yes? 'Tis the same with me. But I tell you one thing, Mistoo Itchlin, I assu' you, and you will believe me, I would 'atheh be lock' _out_side of that building than to be lock' _in_side of the same. 'Cause--you know why? 'Tis ve'y 'umid in that building. An thass a thing w'at I believe, Mistoo Itchlin; I believe w'en a building is v'ey 'umid it is not ve'y 'ealthsome. What is yo' opinion consunning that, Mistoo Itchlin?" "My opinion?" said Richling, with a smile. "My opinion is that the Parish Prison would not be a good place to raise a family." Narcisse laughed. "I thing yo' _o_pinion is co'ect," he said, flatteringly; then growing instantly serious, he added, "Yesseh, I think you' about a-'ight, Mistoo Itchlin; faw even if 'twas not too 'umid, 'twould be too confining, in fact,--speshly faw child'en. I dunno; but thass my opinion. If you ah p'oceeding at yo' residence, Mistoo Itchlin, I'll juz _con_tinue my p'omenade in yo' society--if not intooding"-- Richling smiled candidly. "Your company's worth all it costs, Narcisse. Excuse me; I always forget your last name--and your first is so appropriate." It _was_ worth all it cost, though Richling could ill afford the purchase. The young Latin's sweet, abysmal ignorance, his infantile amiability, his artless ambition, and heathenish innocence started the natural gladness of Richling's blood to effervescing anew every time they met, and, through the sheer impossibility of confiding any of his troubles to the Creole, made him think them smaller and lighter than they had just before appeared. The very light of Narcisse's countenance and beauty of his form--his smooth, low forehead, his thick, abundant locks, his faintly up-tipped nose and expanded nostrils, his sweet, weak mouth with its impending smile, his beautiful chin and bird's throat, his almond eyes, his full, round arm, and strong thigh--had their emphatic value. So now, Richling, a moment earlier borne down by the dreadful shadow of the Parish Prison, left it behind him as he walked and laughed and chatted with his borrower. He felt very free with Narcisse, for the reason that would have made a wiser person constrained,--lack of respect for him. "Mistoo Itchlin, you know," said the Creole, "I like you to call me Nahcisse. But at the same time my las' name is Savillot." He pronounced it Sav-_veel_-yo. "Thass a somewot Spanish name. That double l got a twist in it." "Oh, call it Papilio!" laughed Richling. "Papillon!" exclaimed Narcisse, with delight. "The buttehfly! All a-'ight; you kin juz style me that! 'Cause thass my natu'e, Mistoo Itchlin; I gatheh honey eve'y day fum eve'y opening floweh, as the bahd of A-von wemawk." So they went on. _Ad infinitum?_ Ah, no! The end was just as plainly in view to both from the beginning as it was when, at length, the two stepping across the street gutter at the last corner between Richling and home, Narcisse laid his open hand in his companion's elbow, and stopped, saying, as Richling turned and halted with a sudden frown of unwillingness:-- "I tell you 'ow 'tis with me, Mistoo Itchlin, I've p'oject that manneh myseff; in weading a book--w'en I see a beaucheouz idee, I juz take a pencil"--he drew one from his pocket--"check! I check it. So w'en I wead the same book again, then I take notiz I've check that idee and I look to see what I check it faw. 'Ow you like that invention, eh?" "Very simple," said Richling, with an unpleasant look of expectancy. "Mistoo Itchlin," resumed the other, "do you not fine me impooving in my p'onouncement of yo' lang-widge? I fine I don't use such bad land-widge like biffo. I am shue you muz' 'ave notiz since some time I always soun' that awer in yo' name. Mistoo Itchlin, will you 'ave that kin'ness to baw me two-an-a-'alf till the lass of that month?" Richling looked at him a moment in silence, and then broke into a short, grim laugh. "It's all gone. There's no more honey in this flower." He set his jaw as he ceased speaking. There was a warm red place on either cheek. "Mistoo Itchlin," said Narcisse, with sudden, quavering fervor, "you kin len' me two dollahs! I gi'e you my honah the moze sacwed of a gen'leman, Mistoo Itchlin, I nevvah hass you ag'in so long I live!" He extended a pacifying hand. "One moment, Mistoo Itchlin,--one moment,--I implo' you, seh! I assu' you, Mistoo Itchlin, I pay you eve'y cent in the worl' on the laz of that month? Mistoo Itchlin, I am in indignan' circumstan's. Mistoo Itchlin, if you know the distwess--Mistoo Itchlin, if you know--'ow bad I 'ate to baw!" The tears stood in his eyes. "It nea'ly _kill_ me to b--" Utterance failed him. "My friend," began Richling. "Mistoo Itchlin," exclaimed Narcisse, dashing away the tears and striking his hand on his heart, "I _am_ yo' fwend, seh!" Richling smiled scornfully. "Well, my good friend, if you had ever kept a single promise made to me I need not have gone since yesterday without a morsel of food." Narcisse tried to respond. "Hush!" said Richling, and Narcisse bowed while Richling spoke on. "I haven't a cent to buy bread with to carry home. And whose fault is it? Is it my fault--or is it yours?" "Mistoo Itchlin, seh"-- "Hush!" cried Richling, again; "if you try to speak before I finish I'll thrash you right here in the street!" Narcisse folded his arms. Richling flushed and flashed with the mortifying knowledge that his companion's behavior was better than his own. "If you want to borrow more money of me find me a chance to earn it!" He glanced so suddenly at two or three street lads, who were the only on-lookers, that they shrank back a step. "Mistoo Itchlin," began Narcisse, once more, in a tone of polite dismay, "you aztonizh me. I assu' you, Mistoo Itchlin"-- Richling lifted his finger and shook it. "Don't you tell me that, sir! I will not be an object of astonishment to you! Not to you, sir! Not to you!" He paused, trembling, his anger and his shame rising together. Narcisse stood for a moment, silent, undaunted, the picture of amazed friendship and injured dignity, then raised his hat with the solemnity of affronted patience and said:-- "Mistoo Itchlin, seein' as 'tis you, a puffic gen'leman, 'oo is not goin' to 'efuse that satisfagtion w'at a gen'leman, always a-'eady to give a gen'leman,--I bid you--faw the pwesen'--good-evenin', seh!" He walked away. Richling stood in his tracks dumfounded, crushed. His eyes followed the receding form of the borrower until it disappeared around a distant corner, while the eye of his mind looked in upon himself and beheld, with a shame that overwhelmed anger, the folly and the puerility of his outburst. The nervous strain of twenty-four hours' fast, without which he might not have slipped at all, only sharpened his self-condemnation. He turned and walked to his house, and all the misery that had oppressed him before he had seen the prison, and all that had come with that sight, and all this new shame, sank down upon his heart at once. "I am not a man! I am not a whole man!" he suddenly moaned to himself. "Something is wanting--oh! what is it?"--he lifted his eyes to the sky,--"what is it?"--when in truth, there was little wanting just then besides food. He passed in at the narrow gate and up the slippery alley. Nearly at its end was the one window of the room he called home. Just under it--it was somewhat above his head--he stopped and listened. A step within was moving busily here and there, now fainter and now plainer; and a voice, the sweetest on earth to him, was singing to itself in its soft, habitual way. He started round to the door with a firmer tread. It stood open. He halted on the threshold. There was a small table in the middle of the room, and there was food on it. A petty reward of his wife's labor had brought it there. "Mary," he said, holding her off a little, "don't kiss me yet." She looked at him with consternation. He sat down, drew her upon his lap, and told her, in plain, quiet voice, the whole matter. "Don't look so, Mary." "How?" she asked, in a husky voice and with flashing eye. "Don't breathe so short and set your lips. I never saw you look so, Mary, darling!" She tried to smile, but her eyes filled. "If you had been with me," said John, musingly, "it wouldn't have happened." "If--if"-- Mary sat up as straight as a dart, the corners of her mouth twitching so that she could scarcely shape a word,--"if--if I'd been there, I'd have made you _whip_ him!" She flouted her handkerchief out of her pocket, buried her face in his neck, and sobbed like a child. "Oh!" exclaimed the tearful John, holding her away by both shoulders, tossing back his hair and laughing as she laughed,--"Oh! you women! You're all of a sort! You want us men to carry your hymn-books and your iniquities, too!" She laughed again. "Well, of course!" And they rose and drew up to the board. CHAPTER XXV. THE DOCTOR DINES OUT. On the third day after these incidents, again at the sunset hour, but in a very different part of the town, Dr. Sevier sat down, a guest, at dinner. There were flowers; there was painted and monogrammed china; there was Bohemian glass; there was silver of cunning work with linings of gold, and damasked linen, and oak of fantastic carving. There were ladies in summer silks and elaborate coiffures; the hostess, small, slender, gentle, alert; another, dark, flashing, Roman, tall; another, ripe but not drooping, who had been beautiful, now, for thirty years; and one or two others. There were jewels; there were sweet odors. And there were, also, some good masculine heads: Dr. Sevier's, for instance; and the chief guest's,--an iron-gray, with hard lines in the face, and a scar on the near cheek,--a colonel of the regular army passing through from Florida; and one crown, bald, pink, and shining, encircled by a silken fringe of very white hair: it was the banker who lived in St. Mary street. His wife was opposite. And there was much high-bred grace. There were tall windows thrown wide to make the blaze of gas bearable, and two tall mulattoes in the middle distance bringing in and bearing out viands too sumptuous for any but a French nomenclature. It was what you would call a quiet affair; quite out of season, and difficult to furnish with even this little handful of guests; but it was a proper and necessary attention to the colonel; conversation not too dull, nor yet too bright for ease, but passing gracefully from one agreeable topic to another without earnestness, a restless virtue, or frivolity, which also goes against serenity. Now it touched upon the prospects of young A. B. in the demise of his uncle; now upon the probable seriousness of C. D. in his attentions to E. F.; now upon G.'s amusing mishaps during a late tour in Switzerland, which had--"how unfortunately!"--got into the papers. Now it was concerning the admirable pulpit manners and easily pardoned vocal defects of a certain new rector. Now it turned upon Stephen A. Douglas's last speech; passed to the questionable merits of a new-fangled punch; and now, assuming a slightly explanatory form from the gentlemen to the ladies, showed why there was no need whatever to fear a financial crisis--which came soon afterward. The colonel inquired after an old gentleman whom he had known in earlier days in Kentucky. "It's many a year since I met him," he said. "The proudest man I ever saw. I understand he was down here last season." "He was," replied the host, in a voice of native kindness, and with a smile on his high-fed face. "He was; but only for a short time. He went back to his estate. That is his world. He's there now." "It used to be considered one of the finest places in the State," said the colonel. "It is still," rejoined the host. "Doctor, you know him?" "I think not," said Dr. Sevier; but somehow he recalled the old gentleman in button gaiters, who had called on him one evening to consult him about his sick wife. "A good man," said the colonel, looking amused; "and a superb gentleman. Is he as great a partisan of the church as he used to be?" "Greater! Favors an established church of America." The ladies were much amused. The host's son, a young fellow with sprouting side-whiskers, said he thought he could be quite happy with one of the finest plantations in Kentucky, and let the church go its own gait. "Humph!" said the father; "I doubt if there's ever a happy breath drawn on the place." "Why, how is that?" asked the colonel, in a cautious tone. "Hadn't he heard?" The host was surprised, but spoke low. "Hadn't he heard about the trouble with their only son? Why, he went abroad and never came back!" Every one listened. "It's a terrible thing," said the hostess to the ladies nearest her; "no one ever dares ask the family what the trouble is,--they have such odd, exclusive ideas about their matters being nobody's business. All that can be known is that they look upon him as worse than dead and gone forever." "And who will get the estate?" asked the banker. "The two girls. They're both married." "They're very much like their father," said the hostess, smiling with gentle significance. "Very much," echoed the host, with less delicacy. "Their mother is one of those women who stand in terror of their husband's will. Now, if he were to die and leave her with a will of her own she would hardly know what to do with it--I mean with her will--or the property either." The hostess protested softly against so harsh a speech, and the son, after one or two failures, got in his remark:-- "Maybe the prodigal would come back and be taken in." But nobody gave this conjecture much attention. The host was still talking of the lady without a will. "Isn't she an invalid?" Dr. Sevier had asked. "Yes; the trip down here last season was on her account,--for change of scene. Her health is wretched." "I'm distressed that I didn't call on her," said the hostess; "but they went away suddenly. My dear, I wonder if they really did encounter the young man here?" "Pshaw!" said the husband, softly, smiling and shaking his head, and turned the conversation. In time it settled down with something like earnestness for a few minutes upon a subject which the rich find it easy to discuss without the least risk of undue warmth. It was about the time when one of the graciously murmuring mulattoes was replenishing the glasses, that remark in some way found utterance to this effect,--that the company present could congratulate themselves on living in a community where there was no poor class. "Poverty, of course, we see; but there is no misery, or nearly none," said the ambitious son of the host. Dr. Sevier differed with him. That was one of the Doctor's blemishes as a table guest: he would differ with people. "There is misery," he said; "maybe not the gaunt squalor and starvation of London or Paris or New York; the climate does not tolerate that,--stamps it out before it can assume dimensions; but there is at least misery of that sort that needs recognition and aid from the well-fed." The lady who had been beautiful so many years had somewhat to say; the physician gave attention, and she spoke:-- "If sister Jane were here, she would be perfectly triumphant to hear you speak so, Doctor." She turned to the hostess, and continued: "Jane is quite an enthusiast, you know; a sort of Dorcas, as husband says, modified and readapted. Yes, she is for helping everybody." "Whether help is good for them or not," said the lady's husband, a very straight and wiry man with a garrote collar. "It's all one," laughed the lady. "Our new rector told her plainly, the other day, that she was making a great mistake; that she ought to consider whether assistance assists. It was really amusing. Out of the pulpit and off his guard, you know, he lisps a little; and he said she ought to consider whether 'aththithtanth aththithtth.'" There was a gay laugh at this, and the lady was called a perfect and cruel mimic. "'Aththithtanth aththithtth!'" said two or three to their neighbors, and laughed again. "What did your sister say to that?" asked the banker, bending forward his white, tonsured head, and smiling down the board. "She said she didn't care; that it kept her own heart tender, anyhow. 'My dear madam,' said he, 'your heart wants strengthening more than softening.' He told her a pound of inner resource was more true help to any poor person than a ton of assistance." The banker commended the rector. The hostess, very sweetly, offered her guarantee that Jane took the rebuke in good part. "She did," replied the time-honored beauty; "she tried to profit by it. But husband, here, has offered her a wager of a bonnet against a hat that the rector will upset her new schemes. Her idea now is to make work for those whom nobody will employ." "Jane," said the kind-faced host, "really wants to do good for its own sake." "I think she's even a little Romish in her notions," said Jane's wiry brother-in-law. "I talked to her as plainly as the rector. I told her, 'Jane, my dear, all this making of work for the helpless poor is not worth one-fiftieth part of the same amount of effort spent in teaching and training those same poor to make their labor intrinsically marketable.'" "Yes," said the hostess; "but while we are philosophizing and offering advice so wisely, Jane is at work--doing the best she knows how. We can't claim the honor even of making her mistakes." "'Tisn't a question of honors to us, madam," said Dr. Sevier; "it's a question of results to the poor." The brother-in-law had not finished. He turned to the Doctor. "Poverty, Doctor, is an inner condition"-- "Sometimes," interposed the Doctor. "Yes, generally," continued the brother-in-law, with some emphasis. "And to give help you must, first of all, 'inquire within'--within your beneficiary." "Not always, sir," replied the Doctor; "not if they're sick, for instance." The ladies bowed briskly and applauded with their eyes. "And not always if they're well," he added. His last words softened off almost into soliloquy. The banker spoke forcibly:-- "Yes, there are two quite distinct kinds of poverty. One is an accident of the moment; the other is an inner condition of the individual"-- "Of course it is," said sister Jane's brother-in-law, who felt it a little to have been contradicted on the side of kindness by the hard-spoken Doctor. "Certainly! it's a deficiency of inner resources or character, and what to do with it is no simple question." "That's what I was about to say," resumed the banker; "at least, when the poverty is of that sort. And what discourages kind people is that that's the sort we commonly see. It's a relief to meet the other, Doctor, just as it's a relief to a physician to encounter a case of simple surgery." "And--and," said the brother-in-law, "what is your rule about plain almsgiving to the difficult sort?" "My rule," replied the banker, "is, don't do it. Debt is slavery, and there is an ugly kink in human nature that disposes it to be content with slavery. No, sir; gift-making and gift-taking are twins of a bad blood." The speaker turned to Dr. Sevier for approval; but, though the Doctor could not gainsay the fraction of a point, he was silent. A lady near the hostess stirred softly both under and above the board. In her private chamber she would have yawned. Yet the banker spoke again:-- "Help the old, I say. You are pretty safe there. Help the sick. But as for the young and strong,--now, no man could be any poorer than I was at twenty-one,--I say be cautious how you smooth that hard road which is the finest discipline the young can possibly get." "If it isn't _too_ hard," chirped the son of the host. "Too hard? Well, yes, if it isn't too hard. Still I say, hands off; you needn't turn your back, however." Here the speaker again singled out Dr. Sevier. "Watch the young man out of one corner of your eye; but make him swim!" "Ah-h!" said the ladies. "No, no," continued the banker; "I don't say let him drown; but I take it, Doctor, that your alms, for instance, are no alms if they put the poor fellow into your debt and at your back." "To whom do you refer?" asked Dr. Sevier. Whereat there was a burst of laughter, which was renewed when the banker charged the physician with helping so many persons, "on the sly," that he couldn't tell which one was alluded to unless the name were given. "Doctor," said the hostess, seeing it was high time the conversation should take a new direction, "they tell me you have closed your house and taken rooms at the St. Charles." "For the summer," said the physician. As, later, he walked toward that hotel, he went resolving to look up the Richlings again without delay. The banker's words rang in his ears like an overdose of quinine: "Watch the young man out of one corner of your eye. Make him swim. I don't say let him drown." "Well, I do watch him," thought the Doctor. "I've only lost sight of him once in a while." But the thought seemed to find an echo against his conscience, and when it floated back it was: "I've only _caught_ sight of him once in a while." The banker's words came up again: "Don't put the poor fellow into your debt and at your back." "Just what you've done," said conscience. "How do you know he isn't drowned?" He would see to it. While he was still on his way to the hotel he fell in with an acquaintance, a Judge Somebody or other, lately from Washington City. He, also, lodged at the St. Charles. They went together. As they approached the majestic porch of the edifice they noticed some confusion at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the rotunda; cabmen and boys were running to a common point, where, in the midst of a small, compact crowd, two or three pairs of arms were being alternately thrown aloft and brought down. Presently the mass took a rapid movement up St. Charles street. The judge gave his conjecture: "Some poor devil resisting arrest." Before he and the Doctor parted for the night they went to the clerk's counter. "No letters for you, Judge; mail failed. Here is a card for you, Doctor." The Doctor received it. It had been furnished, blank, by the clerk to its writer. [Illustration: JOHN RICHLING.] At the door of his own room, with one hand on the unturned knob and one holding the card, the Doctor stopped and reflected. The card gave no indication of urgency. Did it? It was hard to tell. He didn't want to look foolish; morning would be time enough; he would go early next morning. But at daybreak he was summoned post-haste to the bedside of a lady who had stayed all summer in New Orleans so as not to be out of this good doctor's reach at this juncture. She counted him a dear friend, and in similar trials had always required close and continual attention. It was the same now. Dr. Sevier scrawled and sent to the Richlings a line, saying that, if either of them was sick, he would come at their call. When the messenger returned with word from Mrs. Riley that both of them were out, the Doctor's mind was much relieved. So a day and a night passed in which he did not close his eyes. The next morning, as he stood in his office, hat in hand, and a finger pointing to a prescription on his desk, which he was directing Narcisse to give to some one who would call for it, there came a sudden hurried pounding of feminine feet on the stairs, a whiff of robes in the corridor, and Mary Richling rushed into his presence all tears and cries. "O Doctor!--O Doctor! O God, my husband! my husband! O Doctor, my husband is in the Parish Prison!" She sank to the floor. The Doctor raised her up. Narcisse hurried forward with his hands full of restoratives. "Take away those things," said the Doctor, resentfully. "Here!--Mrs. Richling, take Narcisse's arm and go down and get into my carriage. I must write a short note, excusing myself from an appointment, and then I will join you." Mary stood alone, turned, and passed out of the office beside the young Creole, but without taking his proffered arm. Did she suspect him of having something to do with this dreadful affair? "Missez Witchlin," said he, as soon as they were out in the corridor, "I dunno if you goin' to billiv me, but I boun' to tell you that nodwithstanning that yo' 'uzban' is displease' with me, an' nodwithstanning 'e's in that calaboose, I h'always fine 'im a puffic gen'leman--that Mistoo Itchlin,--an' I'll sweah 'e _is_ a gen'leman!" She lifted her anguished eyes and looked into his beautiful face. Could she trust him? His little forehead was as hard as a goat's, but his eyes were brimming with tears, and his chin quivered. As they reached the head of the stairs he again offered his arm, and she took it, moaning softly, as they descended:-- "O John! O John! O my husband, my husband!" CHAPTER XXVI. THE TROUGH OF THE SEA. Narcisse, on receiving his scolding from Richling, had gone to his home in Casa Calvo street, a much greater sufferer than he had appeared to be. While he was confronting his abaser there had been a momentary comfort in the contrast between Richling's ill-behavior and his own self-control. It had stayed his spirit and turned the edge of Richling's sharp denunciations. But, as he moved off the field, he found himself, at every step, more deeply wounded than even he had supposed. He began to suffocate with chagrin, and hurried his steps in sheer distress. He did not experience that dull, vacant acceptance of universal scorn which an unresentful coward feels. His pangs were all the more poignant because he knew his own courage. In his home he went so straight up to the withered little old lady, in the dingiest of flimsy black, who was his aunt, and kissed her so passionately, that she asked at once what was the matter. He recounted the facts, shedding tears of mortification. Her feeling, by the time he had finished the account, was a more unmixed wrath than his, and, harmless as she was, and wrapped up in her dear, pretty nephew as she was, she yet demanded to know why such a man shouldn't be called out upon the field of honor. "Ah!" cried Narcisse, shrinkingly. She had touched the core of the tumor. One gets a public tongue-lashing from a man concerning money borrowed; well, how is one going to challenge him without first handing back the borrowed money? It was a scalding thought! The rotten joists beneath the bare scrubbed-to-death floor quaked under Narcisse's to-and-fro stride. "--And then, anyhow!"--he stopped and extended both hands, speaking, of course, in French,--"anyhow, he is the favored friend of Dr. Sevier. If I hurt him--I lose my situation! If he hurts me--I lose my situation!" He dried his eyes. His aunt saw the insurmountability of the difficulty, and they drowned feeling in an affectionate glass of green-orangeade. "But never mind!" Narcisse set his glass down and drew out his tobacco. He laughed spasmodically as he rolled his cigarette. "You shall see. The game is not finished yet." Yet Richling passed the next day and night without assassination, and on the second morning afterward, as on the first, went out in quest of employment. He and Mary had eaten bread, and it had gone into their life without a remainder either in larder or purse. Richling was all aimless. "I do wish I had the _art_ of finding work," said he. He smiled. "I'll get it," he added, breaking their last crust in two. "I have the science already. Why, look you, Mary, the quiet, amiable, imperturbable, dignified, diurnal, inexorable haunting of men of influence will get you whatever you want." "Well, why don't you do it, dear? Is there any harm in it? I don't see any harm in it. Why don't you do that very thing?" "I'm telling you the truth," answered he, ignoring her question. "Nothing else short of overtowering merit will get you what you want half so surely." "Well, why not do it? Why not?" A fresh, glad courage sparkled in the wife's eyes. "Why, Mary," said John, "I never in my life tried so hard to do anything else as I've tried to do that! It sounds easy; but try it! You can't conceive how hard it is till you try it. I can't _do_ it! I _can't_ do it!" "_I'd_ do it!" cried Mary. Her face shone. "_I'd_ do it! You'd see if I didn't! Why, John"-- "All right!" exclaimed he; "you sha'n't talk that way to me for nothing. I'll try it again! I'll begin to-day!" "Good-by," he said. He reached an arm over one of her shoulders and around under the other and drew her up on tiptoe. She threw both hers about his neck. A long kiss--then a short one. "John, something tells me we're near the end of our troubles." John laughed grimly. "Ristofalo was to get back to the city to-day: maybe he's going to put us out of our misery. There are two ways for troubles to end." He walked away as he spoke. As he passed under the window in the alley, its sash was thrown up and Mary leaned out on her elbows. "John!" "Well?" They looked into each other's eyes with the quiet pleasure of tried lovers, and were silent a moment. She leaned a little farther down, and said, softly:-- "You mustn't mind what I said just now." "Why, what did you say?" "That if it were I, I'd do it. I know you can do anything I can do, and a hundred better things besides." He lifted his hand to her cheek. "We'll see," he whispered. She drew in, and he moved on. Morning passed. Noon came. From horizon to horizon the sky was one unbroken blue. The sun spread its bright, hot rays down upon the town and far beyond, ripening the distant, countless fields of the great delta, which by and by were to empty their abundance into the city's lap for the employment, the nourishing, the clothing of thousands. But in the dusty streets, along the ill-kept fences and shadowless walls of the quiet districts, and on the glaring façades and heated pavements of the commercial quarters, it seemed only as though the slowly retreating summer struck with the fury of a wounded Amazon. Richling was soon dust-covered and weary. He had gone his round. There were not many men whom he could even propose to haunt. He had been to all of them. Dr. Sevier was not one. "Not to-day," said Richling. "It all depends on the way it's done," he said to himself; "it needn't degrade a man if it's done the right way." It was only by such philosophy he had done it at all. Ristofalo he could have haunted without effort; but Ristofalo was not to be found. Richling tramped in vain. It may be that all plans were of equal merit just then. The summers of New Orleans in those times were, as to commerce, an utter torpor, and the autumn reawakening was very tardy. It was still too early for the stirrings of general mercantile life. The movement of the cotton crop was just beginning to be perceptible; but otherwise almost the only sounds were from the hammers of craftsmen making the town larger and preparing it for the activities of days to come. The afternoon wore along. Not a cent yet to carry home! Men began to shut their idle shops and go to meet their wives and children about their comfortable dinner-tables. The sun dipped low. Hammers and saws were dropped into tool-boxes, and painters pulled themselves out of their overalls. The mechanic's rank, hot supper began to smoke on its bare board; but there was one board that was still altogether bare and to which no one hastened. Another day and another chance of life were gone. Some men at a warehouse door, the only opening in the building left unclosed, were hurrying in a few bags of shelled corn. Night was falling. At an earlier hour Richling had offered the labor of his hands at this very door and had been rejected. Now, as they rolled in the last truck-load, they began to ask for rest with all the gladness he would have felt to be offered toil, singing,-- "To blow, to blow, some time for to blow." They swung the great leaves of the door together as they finished their chorus, stood grouped outside a moment while the warehouseman turned the resounding lock, and then went away. Richling, who had moved on, watched them over his shoulder, and as they left turned back. He was about to do what he had never done before. He went back to the door where the bags of grain had stood. A drunken sailor came swinging along. He stood still and let him pass; there must be no witnesses. The sailor turned the next corner. Neither up nor down nor across the street, nor at dust-begrimed, cobwebbed window, was there any sound or motion. Richling dropped quickly on one knee and gathered hastily into his pocket a little pile of shelled corn that had leaked from one of the bags. That was all. No harm to a living soul; no theft; no wrong; but ah! as he rose he felt a sudden inward lesion. Something broke. It was like a ship, in a dream, noiselessly striking a rock where no rock is. It seemed as though the very next thing was to begin going to pieces. He walked off in the dark shadow of the warehouse, half lifted from his feet by a vague, wide dismay. And yet he felt no greatness of emotion, but rather a painful want of it, as if he were here and emotion were yonder, down-street, or up-street, or around the corner. The ground seemed slipping from under him. He appeared to have all at once melted away to nothing. He stopped. He even turned to go back. He felt that if he should go and put that corn down where he had found it he should feel himself once more a living thing of substance and emotions. Then it occurred to him--no, he would keep it, he would take it to Mary; but himself--he would not touch it; and so he went home. Mary parched the corn, ground it fine in the coffee-mill and salted and served it close beside the candle. "It's good white corn," she said, laughing. "Many a time when I was a child I used to eat this in my playhouse and thought it delicious. Didn't you? What! not going to eat?" Richling had told her how he got the corn. Now he told his sensations. "You eat it, Mary," he said at the end; "you needn't feel so about it; but if I should eat it I should feel myself a vagabond. It may be foolish, but I wouldn't touch it for a hundred dollars." A hundred dollars had come to be his synonyme for infinity. Mary gazed at him a moment tearfully, and rose, with the dish in her hand, saying, with a smile, "I'd look pretty, wouldn't I!" She set it aside, and came and kissed his forehead. By and by she asked:-- "And so you saw no work, anywhere?" "Oh, yes!" he replied, in a tone almost free from dejection. "I saw any amount of work--preparations for a big season. I think I certainly shall pick up something to-morrow--enough, anyhow, to buy something to eat with. If we can only hold out a little longer--just a little--I am sure there'll be plenty to do--for everybody." Then he began to show distress again. "I could have got work to-day if I had been a carpenter, or if I'd been a joiner, or a slater, or a bricklayer, or a plasterer, or a painter, or a hod-carrier. Didn't I try that, and was refused?" "I'm glad of it," said Mary. "'Show me your hands,' said the man to me. I showed them. 'You won't do,' said he." "I'm glad of it!" said Mary, again. "No," continued Richling; "or if I'd been a glazier, or a whitewasher, or a wood-sawyer, or"--he began to smile in a hard, unpleasant way,--"or if I'd been anything but an American gentleman. But I wasn't, and I didn't get the work!" Mary sank into his lap, with her very best smile. "John, if you hadn't been an American gentleman"-- "We should never have met," said John. "That's true; that's true." They looked at each other, rejoicing in mutual ownership. "But," said John, "I needn't have been the typical American gentleman,--completely unfitted for prosperity and totally unequipped for adversity." "That's not your fault," said Mary. "No, not entirely; but it's your calamity, Mary. O Mary! I little thought"-- She put her hand quickly upon his mouth. His eye flashed and he frowned. "Don't do so!" he exclaimed, putting the hand away; then blushed for shame, and kissed her. They went to bed. Bread would have put them to sleep. But after a long time-- "John," said one voice in the darkness, "do you remember what Dr. Sevier told us?" "Yes, he said we had no right to commit suicide by starvation." "If you don't get work to-morrow, are you going to see him?" "I am." In the morning they rose early. During these hard days Mary was now and then conscious of one feeling which she never expressed, and was always a little more ashamed of than probably she need have been, but which, stifle it as she would, kept recurring in moments of stress. Mrs. Riley--such was the thought--need not be quite so blind. It came to her as John once more took his good-by, the long kiss and the short one, and went breakfastless away. But was Mrs. Riley as blind as she seemed? She had vision enough to observe that the Richlings had bought no bread the day before, though she did overlook the fact that emptiness would set them astir before their usual hour of rising. She knocked at Mary's inner door. As it opened a quick glance showed the little table that occupied the centre of the room standing clean and idle. "Why, Mrs. Riley!" cried Mary; for on one of Mrs. Riley's large hands there rested a blue-edged soup-plate, heaping full of the food that goes nearest to the Creole heart--_jambolaya_. There it was, steaming and smelling,--a delicious confusion of rice and red pepper, chicken legs, ham, and tomatoes. Mike, on her opposite arm, was struggling to lave his socks in it. "Ah!" said Mrs. Riley, with a disappointed lift of the head, "ye're after eating breakfast already! And the plates all tleared off. Well, ye air smairt! I knowed Mr. Richlin's taste for jumbalie"-- Mary smote her hands together. "And he's just this instant gone! John! John! Why, he's hardly"-- She vanished through the door, glided down the alley, leaned out the gate, looking this way and that, tripped down to this corner and looked--"Oh! oh!"--no John there--back and up to the other corner--"Oh! which way did John go?" There was none to answer. Hours passed; the shadows shortened and shrunk under their objects, crawled around stealthily behind them as the sun swung through the south, and presently began to steal away eastward, long and slender. This was the day that Dr. Sevier dined out, as hereinbefore set forth. The sun set. Carondelet street was deserted. You could hear your own footstep on its flags. In St. Charles street the drinking-saloons and gamblers' drawing-rooms, and the barber-shops, and the show-cases full of shirt-bosoms and walking-canes, were lighted up. The smell of lemons and mint grew finer than ever. Wide Canal street, out under the darkling crimson sky, was resplendent with countless many-colored lamps. From the river the air came softly, cool and sweet. The telescope man set up his skyward-pointing cylinder hard by the dark statue of Henry Clay; the confectioneries were ablaze and full of beautiful life, and every little while a great, empty cotton-dray or two went thundering homeward over the stony pavements until the earth shook, and speech for the moment was drowned. The St. Charles, such a glittering mass in winter nights, stood out high and dark under the summer stars, with no glow except just in its midst, in the rotunda; and even the rotunda was well-nigh deserted The clerk at his counter saw a young man enter the great door opposite, and quietly marked him as he drew near. Let us not draw the stranger's portrait. If that were a pleasant task the clerk would not have watched him. What caught and kept that functionary's eye was that, whatever else might be revealed by the stranger's aspect,--weariness, sickness, hardship, pain,--the confession was written all over him, on his face, on his garb, from his hat's crown to his shoe's sole, Penniless! Penniless! Only when he had come quite up to the counter the clerk did not see him at all. "Is Dr. Sevier in?" "Gone out to dine," said the clerk, looking over the inquirer's head as if occupied with all the world's affairs except the subject in hand. "Do you know when he will be back?" "Ten o'clock." The visitor repeated the hour murmurously and looked something dismayed. He tarried. "Hem!--I will leave my card, if you please." The clerk shoved a little box of cards toward him, from which a pencil dangled by a string. The penniless wrote his name and handed it in. Then he moved away, went down the tortuous granite stair, and waited in the obscurity of the dimly lighted porch below. The card was to meet the contingency of the Doctor's coming in by some other entrance. He would watch for him here. By and by--he was very weary--he sat down on the stairs. But a porter, with a huge trunk on his back, told him very distinctly that he was in the way there, and he rose and stood aside. Soon he looked for another resting-place. He must get off of his feet somewhere, if only for a few moments. He moved back into the deep gloom of the stair-way shadow, and sank down upon the pavement. In a moment he was fast asleep. He dreamed that he, too, was dining out. Laughter and merry-making were on every side. The dishes of steaming viands were grotesque in bulk. There were mountains of fruit and torrents of wine. Strange people of no identity spoke in senseless vaporings that passed for side-splitting wit, and friends whom he had not seen since childhood appeared in ludicrously altered forms and announced impossible events. Every one ate like a Cossack. One of the party, champing like a boar, pushed him angrily, and when he, eating like the rest, would have turned fiercely on the aggressor, he awoke. A man standing over him struck him smartly with his foot. "Get up out o' this! Get up! get up!" The sleeper bounded to his feet. The man who had waked him grasped him by the lapel of his coat. "What do you mean?" exclaimed the awakened man, throwing the other off violently. "I'll show you!" replied the other, returning with a rush; but he was thrown off again, this time with a blow of the fist. "You scoundrel!" cried the penniless man, in a rage; "if you touch me again I'll kill you!" They leaped together. The one who had proposed to show what he meant was knocked flat upon the stones. The crowd that had run into the porch made room for him to fall. A leather helmet rolled from his head, and the silver crescent of the police flashed on his breast. The police were not uniformed in those days. But he is up in an instant and his adversary is down--backward, on his elbows. Then the penniless man is up again; they close and struggle, the night-watchman's club falls across his enemy's head blow upon blow, while the sufferer grasps him desperately, with both hands, by the throat. They tug, they snuffle, they reel to and fro in the yielding crowd; the blows grow fainter, fainter; the grip is terrible; when suddenly there is a violent rupture of the crowd, it closes again, and then there are two against one, and up sparkling St. Charles street, the street of all streets for flagrant, unmolested, well-dressed crime, moves a sight so exhilarating that a score of street lads follow behind and a dozen trip along in front with frequent backward glances: two officers of justice walking in grim silence abreast, and between them a limp, torn, hatless, bloody figure, partly walking, partly lifted, partly dragged, past the theatres, past the lawyers' rookeries of Commercial place, the tenpin alleys, the chop-houses, the bunko shows, and shooting-galleries, on, across Poydras street into the dim openness beyond, where glimmer the lamps of Lafayette square and the white marble of the municipal hall, and just on the farther side of this, with a sudden wheel to the right into Hevia street, a few strides there, a turn to the left, stumbling across a stone step and wooden sill into a narrow, lighted hall, and turning and entering an apartment here again at the right. The door is shut; the name is written down; the charge is made: Vagrancy, assaulting an officer, resisting arrest. An inner door is opened. "What have you got in number nine?" asks the captain in charge. "Chuck full," replies the turnkey. "Well, number seven?" These were the numbers of cells. "The rats'll eat him up in number seven." "How about number ten?" "Two drunk-and-disorderlies, one petty larceny, and one embezzlement and breach of trust." "Put him in there." * * * And this explains what the watchman in Marais street could not understand,--why Mary Richling's window shone all night long. CHAPTER XXVII. OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN. Round goes the wheel forever. Another sun rose up, not a moment hurried or belated by the myriads of life-and-death issues that cover the earth and wait in ecstasies of hope or dread the passage of time. Punctually at ten Justice-in-the-rough takes its seat in the Recorder's Court, and a moment of silent preparation at the desks follows the loud announcement that its session has begun. The perky clerks and smirking pettifoggers move apart on tiptoe, those to their respective stations, these to their privileged seats facing the high dais. The lounging police slip down from their reclining attitudes on the heel-scraped and whittled window-sills. The hum of voices among the forlorn humanity that half fills the gradually rising, greasy benches behind, allotted to witnesses and prisoners' friends, is hushed. In a little square, railed space, here at the left, the reporters tip their chairs against the hair-greased wall, and sharpen their pencils. A few tardy visitors, familiar with the place, tiptoe in through the grimy doors, ducking and winking, and softly lifting and placing their chairs, with a mock-timorous upward glance toward the long, ungainly personage who, under a faded and tattered crimson canopy, fills the august bench of magistracy with its high oaken back. On the right, behind a rude wooden paling that rises from the floor to the smoke-stained ceiling, are the peering, bloated faces of the night's prisoners. The recorder utters a name. The clerk down in front of him calls it aloud. A door in the palings opens, and one of the captives comes forth and stands before the rail. The arresting officer mounts to the witness-stand and confronts him. The oath is rattled and turned out like dice from a box, and the accusing testimony is heard. It may be that counsel rises and cross-examines, if there are witnesses for the defence. Strange and far-fetched questions, from beginners at the law or from old blunderers, provoke now laughter, and now the peremptory protestations of the court against the waste of time. Yet, in general, a few minutes suffices for the whole trial of a case. "You are sure she picked the handsaw up by the handle, are you?" says the questioner, frowning with the importance of the point. "Yes." "And that she coughed as she did so?" "Well, you see, she kind o'"-- "Yes, or no!" "No." "That's all." He waves the prisoner down with an air of mighty triumph, turns to the recorder, "trusts it is not necessary to," etc., and the accused passes this way or that, according to the fate decreed,--discharged, sentenced to fine and imprisonment, or committed for trial before the courts of the State. "Order in court!" There is too much talking. Another comes and stands before the rail, and goes his way. Another, and another; now a ragged boy, now a half-sobered crone, now a battered ruffian, and now a painted girl of the street, and at length one who starts when his name is called, as though something had exploded. "John Richling!" He came. "Stand there!" Some one is in the witness-stand, speaking. The prisoner partly hears, but does not see. He stands and holds the rail, with his eyes fixed vacantly on the clerk, who bends over his desk under the seat of justice, writing. The lawyers notice him. His dress has been laboriously genteel, but is torn and soiled. A detective, with small eyes set close together, and a nose like a yacht's rudder, whisperingly calls the notice of one of these spectators who can see the prisoner's face to the fact that, for all its thinness and bruises, it is not a bad one. All can see that the man's hair is fine and waving where it is not matted with blood. The testifying officer had moved as if to leave the witness-stand, when the recorder restrained him by a gesture, and, leaning forward and looking down upon the prisoner, asked:-- "Have you anything to say to this?" The prisoner lifted his eyes, bowed affirmatively, and spoke in a low, timid tone. "May I say a few words to you privately?" "No." He dropped his eyes, fumbled with the rail, and, looking up suddenly, said in a stronger voice, "I want somebody to go to my wife--in Prieur street. She is starving. This is the third day"-- "We're not talking about that," said the recorder. "Have you anything to say against this witness's statement?" The prisoner looked upon the floor and slowly shook his head. "I never meant to break the law. I never expected to stand here. It's like an awful dream. Yesterday, at this time, I had no more idea of this--I didn't think I was so near it. It's like getting caught in machinery." He looked up at the recorder again. "I'm so confused"--he frowned and drew his hand slowly across his brow--"I can hardly--put my words together. I was hunting for work. There is no man in this city who wants to earn an honest living more than I do." "What's your trade?" "I have none." "I supposed not. But you profess to have some occupation, I dare say. What's your occupation?" "Accountant." "Hum! you're all accountants. How long have you been out of employment?" "Six months." "Why did you go to sleep under those steps?" "I didn't intend to go to sleep. I was waiting for a friend to come in who boards at the St. Charles." A sudden laugh ran through the room. "Silence in court!" cried a deputy. "Who is your friend?" asked the recorder. The prisoner was silent. "What is your friend's name?" Still the prisoner did not reply. One of the group of pettifoggers sitting behind him leaned forward, touched him on the shoulder, and murmured: "You'd better tell his name. It won't hurt him, and it may help you." The prisoner looked back at the man and shook his head. "Did you strike this officer?" asked the recorder, touching the witness, who was resting on both elbows in the light arm-chair on the right. The prisoner made a low response. "I don't hear you," said the recorder. "I struck him," replied the prisoner; "I knocked him down." The court officers below the dais smiled. "I woke and found him spurning me with his foot, and I resented it. I never expected to be a law-breaker. I"-- He pressed his temples between his hands and was silent. The men of the law at his back exchanged glances of approval. The case was, to some extent, interesting. "May it please the court," said the man who had before addressed the prisoner over his shoulder, stepping out on the right and speaking very softly and graciously, "I ask that this man be discharged. His fault seems so much more to be accident than intention, and his suffering so much more than his fault"-- The recorder interrupted by a wave of the hand and a preconceived smile: "Why, according to the evidence, the prisoner was noisy and troublesome in his cell all night." "O sir," exclaimed the prisoner, "I was thrown in with thieves and drunkards! It was unbearable in that hole. We were right on the damp and slimy bricks. The smell was dreadful. A woman in the cell opposite screamed the whole night. One of the men in the cell tried to take my coat from me, and I beat him!" "It seems to me, your honor," said the volunteer advocate, "the prisoner is still more sinned against than sinning. This is evidently his first offence, and"-- "Do you know even that?" asked the recorder. "I do not believe his name can be found on any criminal record. I"-- The recorder interrupted once more. He leaned toward the prisoner. "Did you ever go by any other name?" The prisoner was dumb. "Isn't John Richling the only name you have ever gone by?" said his new friend: but the prisoner silently blushed to the roots of his hair and remained motionless. "I think I shall have to send you to prison," said the recorder, preparing to write. A low groan was the prisoner's only response. "May it please your honor," began the lawyer, taking a step forward; but the recorder waved his pen impatiently. "Why, the more is said the worse his case gets; he's guilty of the offence charged, by his own confession." "I am guilty and not guilty," said the prisoner slowly. "I never intended to be a criminal. I intended to be a good and useful member of society; but I've somehow got under its wheels. I've missed the whole secret of living." He dropped his face into his hands. "O Mary, Mary! why are you my wife?" He beckoned to his counsel. "Come here; come here." His manner was wild and nervous. "I want you--I want you to go to Prieur street, to my wife. You know--you know the place, don't you? Prieur street. Ask for Mrs. Riley"-- "Richling," said the lawyer. "No, no! you ask for Mrs. Riley? Ask her--ask her--oh! where are my senses gone? Ask"-- "May it please the court," said the lawyer, turning once more to the magistrate and drawing a limp handkerchief from the skirt of his dingy alpaca, with a reviving confidence, "I ask that the accused be discharged; he's evidently insane." The prisoner looked rapidly from counsel to magistrate, and back again, saying, in a low voice, "Oh, no! not that! Oh, no! not that! not that!" The recorder dropped his eyes upon a paper on the desk before him, and, beginning to write, said without looking up:-- "Parish Prison--to be examined for insanity." A cry of remonstrance broke so sharply from the prisoner that even the reporters in their corner checked their energetic streams of lead-pencil rhetoric and looked up. "You cannot do that!" he exclaimed. "I am not insane! I'm not even confused now! It was only for a minute! I'm not even confused!" An officer of the court laid his hand quickly and sternly upon his arm; but the recorder leaned forward and motioned him off. The prisoner darted a single flash of anger at the officer, and then met the eye of the justice. "If I am a vagrant commit me for vagrancy! I expect no mercy here! I expect no justice! You punish me first, and try me afterward, and now you can punish me again; but you can't do that!" "Order in court! Sit down in those benches!" cried the deputies. The lawyers nodded darkly or blandly, each to each. The one who had volunteered his counsel wiped his bald Gothic brow. On the recorder's lips an austere satire played as he said to the panting prisoner:-- "You are showing not only your sanity, but your contempt of court also." The prisoner's eyes shot back a fierce light as he retorted:-- "I have no object in concealing either." The recorder answered with a quick, angry look; but, instantly restraining himself, dropped his glance upon his desk as before, began again to write, and said, with his eyes following his pen:-- "Parish Prison, for thirty days." The officer grasped the prisoner again and pointed him to the door in the palings whence he had come, and whither he now returned, without a word or note of distress. Half an hour later the dark omnibus without windows, that went by the facetious name of the "Black Maria" received the convicted ones from the same street door by which they had been brought in out of the world the night before. The waifs and vagabonds of the town gleefully formed a line across the sidewalk from the station-house to the van, and counted with zest the abundant number of passengers that were ushered into it one by one. Heigh ho! In they went: all ages and sorts; both sexes; tried and untried, drunk and sober, new faces and old acquaintances; a man who had been counterfeiting, his wife who had been helping him, and their little girl of twelve, who had done nothing. Ho, ho! Bridget Fury! Ha, ha! Howling Lou! In they go: the passive, the violent, all kinds; filling the two benches against the sides, and then the standing room; crowding and packing, until the officer can shut the door only by throwing his weight against it. "Officer," said one, whose volunteer counsel had persuaded the reporters not to mention him by name in their thrilling account,--"officer," said this one, trying to pause an instant before the door of the vehicle, "is there no other possible way to"-- "Get in! get in!" Two hands spread against his back did the rest; the door clapped to like the lid of a bursting trunk, the padlock rattled: away they went! CHAPTER XXVIII. "OH, WHERE IS MY LOVE?" At the prison the scene is repeated in reverse, and the Black Maria presently rumbles away empty. In that building, whose exterior Narcisse found so picturesque, the vagrant at length finds food. In that question of food, by the way, another question arose, not as to any degree of criminality past or present, nor as to age, or sex, or race, or station; but as to the having or lacking fifty cents. "Four bits" a day was the open sesame to a department where one could have bedstead and ragged bedding and dirty mosquito-bar, a cell whose window looked down into the front street, food in variety, and a seat at table with the officers of the prison. But those who could not pay were conducted past all these delights, along one of several dark galleries, the turnkeys of which were themselves convicts, who, by a process of reasoning best understood among the harvesters of perquisites, were assumed to be undergoing sentence. The vagrant stood at length before a grated iron gate while its bolts were thrown back and it growled on its hinges. What he saw within needs no minute description; it may be seen there still, any day: a large, flagged court, surrounded on three sides by two stories of cells with heavy, black, square doors all a-row and mostly open; about a hundred men sitting, lying, or lounging about in scanty rags,--some gaunt and feeble, some burly and alert, some scarred and maimed, some sallow, some red, some grizzled, some mere lads, some old and bowed,--the sentenced, the untried, men there for the first time, men who were oftener in than out,--burglars, smugglers, house-burners, highwaymen, wife-beaters, wharf-rats, common "drunks," pickpockets, shop-lifters, stealers of bread, garroters, murderers,--in common equality and fraternity. In this resting and refreshing place for vice, this caucus for the projection of future crime, this ghastly burlesque of justice and the protection of society, there was a man who had been convicted of a dreadful murder a year or two before, and sentenced to twenty-one years' labor in the State penitentiary. He had got his sentence commuted to confinement in this prison for twenty-one years of idleness. The captain of the prison had made him "captain of the yard." Strength, ferocity, and a terrific record were the qualifications for this honorary office. The gate opened. A howl of welcome came from those within, and the new batch, the vagrant among them, entered the yard. He passed, in his turn, to a tank of muddy water in this yard, washed away the soil and blood of the night, and so to the cell assigned him. He was lying face downward on its pavement, when a man with a cudgel ordered him to rise. The vagrant sprang to his feet and confronted the captain of the yard, a giant in breadth and stature, with no clothing but a ragged undershirt and pantaloons. "Get a bucket and rag and scrub out this cell!" He flourished his cudgel. The vagrant cast a quick glance at him, and answered quietly, but with burning face:-- "I'll die first." A blow with the cudgel, a cry of rage, a clash together, a push, a sledge-hammer fist in the side, another on the head, a fall out into the yard, and the vagrant lay senseless on the flags. When he opened his eyes again, and struggled to his feet, a gentle grasp was on his arm. Somebody was steadying him. He turned his eyes. Ah! who is this? A short, heavy, close-shaven man, with a woollen jacket thrown over one shoulder and its sleeves tied together in a knot under the other. He speaks in a low, kind tone:-- "Steady, Mr. Richling!" Richling supported himself by a hand on the man's arm, gazed in bewilderment at the gentle eyes that met his, and with a slow gesture of astonishment murmured, "Ristofalo!" and dropped his head. The Italian had just entered the prison from another station-house. With his hand still on Richling's shoulder, and Richling's on his, he caught the eye of the captain of the yard, who was striding quietly up and down near by, and gave him a nod to indicate that he would soon adjust everything to that autocrat's satisfaction. Richling, dazed and trembling, kept his eyes still on the ground, while Ristofalo moved with him slowly away from the squalid group that gazed after them. They went toward the Italian's cell. "Why are you in prison?" asked the vagrant, feebly. "Oh, nothin' much--witness in shootin' scrape--talk 'bout aft' while." "O Ristofalo," groaned Richling, as they entered, "my wife! my wife! Send some bread to my wife!" "Lie down," said the Italian, pressing softly on his shoulders; but Richling as quietly resisted. "She is near here, Ristofalo. You can send with the greatest ease! You can do anything, Ristofalo,--if you only choose!" "Lay down," said the Italian again, and pressed more heavily. The vagrant sank limply to the pavement, his companion quickly untying the jacket sleeves from under his own arms and wadding the garment under Richling's head. "Do you know what I'm in here for, Ristofalo?" moaned Richling. "Don't know, don't care. Yo' wife know you here?" Richling shook his head on the jacket. The Italian asked her address, and Richling gave it. "Goin' tell her come and see you," said the Italian. "Now, you lay still little while; I be back t'rectly." He went out into the yard again, pushing the heavy door after him till it stood only slightly ajar, sauntered easily around till he caught sight of the captain of the yard, and was presently standing before him in the same immovable way in which he had stood before Richling in Tchoupitoulas street, on the day he had borrowed the dollar. Those who idly drew around could not hear his words, but the "captain's" answers were intentionally audible. He shook his head in rejection of a proposal. "No, nobody but the prisoner himself should scrub out the cell. No, the Italian should not do it for him. The prisoner's refusal and resistance had settled that question. No, the knocking down had not balanced accounts at all. There was more scrubbing to be done. It was scrubbing day. Others might scrub the yard and the galleries, but he should scrub out the tank. And there were other things, and worse,--menial services of the lowest kind. He should do them when the time came, and the Italian would have to help him too. Never mind about the law or the terms of his sentence. Those counted for nothing there." Such was the sense of the decrees; the words were such as may be guessed or left unguessed. The scrubbing of the cell must commence at once. The vagrant must make up his mind to suffer. "He had served on jury!" said the man in the undershirt, with a final flourish of his stick. "He's got to pay dear for it." When Ristofalo returned to his cell, its inmate, after many upstartings from terrible dreams, that seemed to guard the threshold of slumber, had fallen asleep. The Italian touched him gently, but he roused with a wild start and stare. "Ristofalo," he said, and fell a-staring again. "You had some sleep," said the Italian. "It's worse than being awake," said Richling. He passed his hands across his face. "Has my wife been here?" "No. Haven't sent yet. Must watch good chance. Git captain yard in good-humor first, or else do on sly." The cunning Italian saw that anything looking like early extrication would bring new fury upon Richling. He knew _all_ the values of time. "Come," he added, "must scrub out cell now." He ignored the heat that kindled in Richling's eyes, and added, smiling, "You don't do it, I got to do it." With a little more of the like kindly guile, and some wise and simple reasoning, the Italian prevailed. Together, without objection from the captain of the yard, with many unavailing protests from Richling, who would now do it alone, and with Ristofalo smiling like a Chinaman at the obscene ribaldry of the spectators in the yard, they scrubbed the cell. Then came the tank. They had to stand in it with the water up to their knees, and rub its sides with brickbats. Richling fell down twice in the water, to the uproarious delight of the yard; but his companion helped him up, and they both agreed it was the sliminess of the tank's bottom that was to blame. "Soon we get through we goin' to buy drink o' whisky from jailer," said Ristofalo; "he keep it for sale. Then, after that, kin hire somebody to go to your house; captain yard think we gittin' mo' whisky." "Hire?" said Richling. "I haven't a cent in the world." "I got a little--few dimes," rejoined the other. "Then why are you here? Why are you in this part of the prison?" "Oh, 'fraid to spend it. On'y got few dimes. Broke ag'in." Richling stopped still with astonishment, brickbat in hand. The Italian met his gaze with an illuminated smile. "Yes," he said, "took all I had with me to bayou La Fourche. Coming back, slept with some men in boat. One git up in night-time and steal everything. Then was a big fight. Think that what fight was about--about dividing the money. Don't know sure. One man git killed. Rest run into the swamp and prairie. Officer arrest me for witness. Couldn't trust me to stay in the city." "Do you think the one who was killed was the thief?" "Don't know sure," said the Italian, with the same sweet face, and falling to again with his brickbat,--"hope so!" "Strange place to confine a witness!" said Richling, holding his hand to his bruised side and slowly straightening his back. "Oh, yes, good place," replied the other, scrubbing away; "git him, in short time, so he swear to anything." It was far on in the afternoon before the wary Ristofalo ventured to offer all he had in his pocket to a hanger-on of the prison office, to go first to Richling's house, and then to an acquaintance of his own, with messages looking to the procuring of their release. The messenger chose to go first to Ristofalo's friend, and afterward to Mrs. Riley's. It was growing dark when he reached the latter place. Mary was out in the city somewhere, wandering about, aimless and distracted, in search of Richling. The messenger left word with Mrs. Riley. Richling had all along hoped that that good friend, doubtless acquainted with the most approved methods of finding a missing man, would direct Mary to the police station at the earliest practicable hour. But time had shown that she had not done so. No, indeed! Mrs. Riley counted herself too benevolently shrewd for that. While she had made Mary's suspense of the night less frightful than it might have been, by surmises that Mr. Richling had found some form of night-work,--watching some pile of freight or some unfinished building,--she had come, secretly, to a different conviction, predicated on her own married experiences; and if Mr. Richling had, in a moment of gloom, tipped the bowl a little too high, as her dear lost husband, the best man that ever walked, had often done, and had been locked up at night to be let out in the morning, why, give him a chance! Let him invent his own little fault-hiding romance and come home with it. Mary was frantic. She could not be kept in; but Mrs. Riley, by prolonged effort, convinced her it was best not to call upon Dr. Sevier until she could be sure some disaster had actually occurred, and sent her among the fruiterers and oystermen in vain search for Raphael Ristofalo. Thus it was that the Doctor's morning messenger to the Richlings, bearing word that if any one were sick he would call without delay, was met by Mrs. Riley only, and by the reassuring statement that both of them were out. The later messenger, from the two men in prison, brought back word of Mary's absence from the house, of her physical welfare, and Mrs. Riley's promise that Mary should visit the prison at the earliest hour possible. This would not be till the next morning. While Mrs. Riley was sending this message, Mary, a great distance away, was emerging from the darkening and silent streets of the river front and moving with timid haste across the broad levee toward the edge of the water at the steam-boat landing. In this season of depleted streams and idle waiting, only an occasional boat lifted its lofty, black, double funnels against the sky here and there, leaving wide stretches of unoccupied wharf-front between. Mary hurried on, clear out to the great wharf's edge, and looked forth upon the broad, softly moving harbor. The low waters spread out and away, to and around the opposite point, in wide surfaces of glassy purples and wrinkled bronze. Beauty, that joy forever, is sometimes a terror. Was the end of her search somewhere underneath that fearful glory? She clasped her hands, bent down with dry, staring eyes, then turned again and fled homeward. She swerved once toward Dr. Sevier's quarters, but soon decided to see first if there were any tidings with Mrs. Riley, and so resumed her course. Night overtook her in streets where every footstep before or behind her made her tremble; but at length she crossed the threshold of Mrs. Riley's little parlor. Mrs. Riley was standing in the door, and retreated a step or two backward as Mary entered with a look of wild inquiry. "Not come?" cried the wife. "Mrs. Richlin'," said the widow, hurriedly, "yer husband's alive and found." Mary seized her frantically by the shoulders, crying with high-pitched voice:-- "Where is he?--where is he?" "Ya can't see um till marning, Mrs. Richlin'." "Where is he?" cried Mary, louder than before. "Me dear," said Mrs. Riley, "ye kin easy git him out in the marning." "Mrs. Riley," said Mary, holding her with her eye, "is my husband in prison?--O Lord God! O God! my God!" Mrs. Riley wept. She clasped the moaning, sobbing wife to her bosom, and with streaming eyes said:-- "Mrs. Richlin', me dear, Mrs. Richlin', me dear, what wad I give to have my husband this night where your husband is!" CHAPTER XXIX. RELEASE.--NARCISSE. As some children were playing in the street before the Parish Prison next morning, they suddenly started and scampered toward the prison's black entrance. A physician's carriage had driven briskly up to it, ground its wheels against the curb-stone, and halted. If any fresh crumbs of horror were about to be dropped, the children must be there to feast on them. Dr. Sevier stepped out, gave Mary his hand and then his arm, and went in with her. A question or two in the prison office, a reference to the rolls, and a turnkey led the way through a dark gallery lighted with dimly burning gas. The stench was suffocating. They stopped at the inner gate. "Why didn't you bring him to us?" asked the Doctor, scowling resentfully at the facetious drawings and legends on the walls, where the dampness glistened in the sickly light. The keeper made a low reply as he shot the bolts. "What?" quickly asked Mary. "He's not well," said Dr. Sevier. The gate swung open. They stepped into the yard and across it. The prisoners paused in a game of ball. Others, who were playing cards, merely glanced up and went on. The jailer pointed with his bunch of keys to a cell before him. Mary glided away from the Doctor and darted in. There was a cry and a wail. The Doctor followed quickly. Ristofalo passed out as he entered. Richling lay on a rough gray blanket spread on the pavement with the Italian's jacket under his head. Mary had thrown herself down beside him upon her knees, and their arms were around each other's neck. "Let me see, Mrs. Richling," said the physician, touching her on the shoulder. She drew back. Richling lifted a hand in welcome. The Doctor pressed it. "Mrs. Richling," he said, as they faced each other, he on one knee, she on both. He gave her a few laconic directions for the sick man's better comfort. "You must stay here, madam," he said at length; "this man Ristofalo will be ample protection for you; and I will go at once and get your husband's discharge." He went out. In the office he asked for a seat at a desk. As he finished using it he turned to the keeper and asked, with severe face:-- "What do you do with sick prisoners here, anyway?" The keeper smiled. "Why, if they gits right sick, the hospital wagon comes and takes 'em to the Charity Hospital." "Umhum!" replied the Doctor, unpleasantly,--"in the same wagon they use for a case of scarlet fever or small-pox, eh?" The keeper, with a little resentment in his laugh, stated that he would be eternally lost if he knew. "_I_ know," remarked the Doctor. "But when a man is only a little sick,--according to your judgment,--like that one in there now, he is treated here, eh?" The keeper swelled with a little official pride. His tone was boastful. "We has a complete dispenisary in the prison," he said. "Yes? Who's your druggist?" Dr. Sevier was in his worst inquisitorial mood. "One of the prisoners," said the keeper. The Doctor looked at him steadily. The man, in the blackness of his ignorance, was visibly proud of this bit of economy and convenience. "How long has he held this position?" asked the physician. "Oh, a right smart while. He was sentenced for murder, but he's waiting for a new trial." "And he has full charge of all the drugs?" asked the Doctor, with a cheerful smile. "Yes, sir." The keeper was flattered. "Poisons and all, I suppose, eh?" pursued the Doctor. "Everything." The Doctor looked steadily and silently upon the officer, and tore and folded and tore again into small bits the prescription he had written. A moment later the door of his carriage shut with a smart clap and its wheels rattled away. There was a general laugh in the office, heavily spiced with maledictions. "I say, Cap', what d'you reckon he'd 'a' said if he'd 'a' seen the women's department?" * * * In those days recorders had the power to release prisoners sentenced by them when in their judgment new information justified such action. Yet Dr. Sevier had a hard day's work to procure Richling's liberty. The sun was declining once more when a hack drove up to Mrs. Riley's door with John and Mary in it, and Mrs. Riley was restrained from laughing and crying only by the presence of the great Dr. Sevier and a romantic Italian stranger by the captivating name of Ristofalo. Richling, with repeated avowals of his ability to walk alone, was helped into the house between these two illustrious visitors, Mary hurrying in ahead, and Mrs. Riley shutting the street door with some resentment of manner toward the staring children who gathered without. Was there anything surprising in the fact that eminent persons should call at her house? When there was time for greetings she gave her hand to Dr. Sevier and asked him how he found himself. To Ristofalo she bowed majestically. She noticed that he was handsome and muscular. At different hours the next day the same two visitors called. Also the second day after. And the third. And frequently afterward. * * * Ristofalo regained his financial feet almost, as one might say, at a single hand-spring. He amused Mary and John and Mrs. Riley almost beyond limit with his simple story of how he did it. "Ye'd better hurry and be getting up out o' that sick bed, Mr. Richlin'," said the widow, in Ristofalo's absence, "or that I-talian rascal'll be making himself entirely too agree'ble to yer lady here. Ha! ha! It's _she_ that he's a-comin' here to see." Mrs. Riley laughed again, and pointed at Mary and tossed her head, not knowing that Mary went through it all over again as soon as Mrs. Riley was out of the room, to the immense delight of John. "And now, madam," said Dr. Sevier to Mary, by and by, "let it be understood once more that even independence may be carried to a vicious extreme, and that"--he turned to Richling, by whose bed he stood--"you and your wife will not do it again. You've had a narrow escape. Is it understood?" "We'll try to be moderate," replied the invalid, playfully. "I don't believe you," said the Doctor. And his scepticism was wise. He continued to watch them, and at length enjoyed the sight of John up and out again with color in his cheeks and the old courage--nay, a new and a better courage--in his eyes. Said the Doctor on his last visit, "Take good care of your husband, my child." He held the little wife's hand a moment, and gazed out of Mrs. Riley's front door upon the western sky. Then he transferred his gaze to John, who stood, with his knee in a chair, just behind her. He looked at the convalescent with solemn steadfastness. The husband smiled broadly. "I know what you mean. I'll try to deserve her." The Doctor looked again into the west. "Good-by." Mary tried playfully to retort, but John restrained her, and when she contrived to utter something absurdly complimentary of her husband he was her only hearer. They went back into the house, talking of other matters. Something turned the conversation upon Mrs. Riley, and from that subject it seemed to pass naturally to Ristofalo. Mary, laughing and talking softly as they entered their room, called to John's recollection the Italian's account of how he had once bought a tarpaulin hat and a cottonade shirt of the pattern called a "jumper," and had worked as a deck-hand in loading and unloading steam-boats. It was so amusingly sensible to put on the proper badge for the kind of work sought. Richling mused. Many a dollar he might have earned the past summer, had he been as ingeniously wise, he thought. "Ristofalo is coming here this evening," said he, taking a seat in the alley window. Mary looked at him with sidelong merriment. The Italian was coming to see Mrs. Riley. "Why, John," whispered Mary, standing beside him, "she's nearly ten years older than he is!" But John quoted the old saying about a man's age being what he feels, and a woman's what she looks. "Why,--but--dear, it is scarcely a fortnight since she declared nothing could ever induce"-- "Let her alone," said John, indulgently. "Hasn't she said half-a-dozen times that it isn't good for woman to be alone? A widow's a woman--and you never disputed it." "O John," laughed Mary, "for shame! You know I didn't mean that. You know I never could mean that." And when John would have maintained his ground she besought him not to jest in that direction, with eyes so ready for tears that he desisted. "I only meant to be generous to Mrs. Riley," he said. "I know it," said Mary, caressingly; "you're always on the generous side of everything." She rested her hand fondly on his arm, and he took it into his own. One evening the pair were out for that sunset walk which their young blood so relished, and which often led them, as it did this time, across the wide, open commons behind the town, where the unsettled streets were turf-grown, and toppling wooden lamp-posts threatened to fall into the wide, cattle-trodden ditches. "Fall is coming," said Mary. "Let it come!" exclaimed John; "it's hung back long enough." He looked about with pleasure. On every hand the advancing season was giving promise of heightened activity. The dark, plumy foliage of the china trees was getting a golden edge. The burnished green of the great magnolias was spotted brilliantly with hundreds of bursting cones, red with their pendent seeds. Here and there, as the sauntering pair came again into the region of brick sidewalks, a falling cone would now and then scatter its polished coral over the pavement, to be gathered by little girls for necklaces, or bruised under foot, staining the walk with its fragrant oil. The ligustrums bent low under the dragging weight of their small clustered berries. The oranges were turning. In the wet, choked ditches along the interruptions of pavement, where John followed Mary on narrow plank footways, bloomed thousands of little unrenowned asteroid flowers, blue and yellow, and the small, pink spikes of the water pepper. It wasn't the fashionable habit in those days, but Mary had John gather big bunches of this pretty floral mob, and filled her room with them--not Mrs. Riley's parlor--whoop, no! Weeds? Not if Mrs. Riley knew herself. So ran time apace. The morning skies were gray monotones, and the evening gorgeous reds. The birds had finished their summer singing. Sometimes the alert chirp of the cardinal suddenly smote the ear from some neighboring tree; but he would pass, a flash of crimson, from one garden to the next, and with another chirp or two be gone for days. The nervy, unmusical waking cry of the mocking-bird was often the first daybreak sound. At times a myriad downy seed floated everywhere, now softly upward, now gently downward, and the mellow rays of sunset turned it into a warm, golden snow-fall. By night a soft glow from distant burning prairies showed the hunters were afield; the call of unseen wild fowl was heard overhead, and--finer to the waiting poor man's ear than all other sounds--came at regular intervals, now from this quarter and now from that, the heavy, rushing blast of the cotton compress, telling that the flood tide of commerce was setting in. Narcisse surprised the Richlings one evening with a call. They tried very hard to be reserved, but they were too young for that task to be easy. The Creole had evidently come with his mind made up to take unresentfully and override all the unfriendliness they might choose to show. His conversation never ceased, but flitted from subject to subject with the swift waywardness of a humming-bird. It was remarked by Mary, leaning back in one end of Mrs. Riley's little sofa, that "summer dresses were disappearing, but that the girls looked just as sweet in their darker colors as they had appeared in midsummer white. Had Narcisse noticed? Probably he didn't care for"-- "Ho! I notiz them an' they notiz me! An' thass one thing I 'ave notiz about young ladies: they ah juz like those bird'; in summeh lookin' cool, in winteh waum. I 'ave notiz that. An' I've notiz anotheh thing which make them juz like those bird'. They halways know if a man is lookin', an' they halways make like they don't see 'im! I would like to 'ite an i'ony about that--a lill i'ony--in the he'oic measuh. You like that he'oic measuh, Mizzez Witchlin'?" As he rose to go he rolled a cigarette, and folded the end in with the long nail of his little finger. "Mizzez Witchlin', if you will allow me to light my ciga'ette fum yo' lamp--I can't use my sun-glass at night, because the sun is nod theh. But, the sun shining, I use it. I 'ave adop' that method since lately." "You borrow the sun's rays," said Mary, with wicked sweetness. "Yes; 'tis cheapeh than matches in the longue 'un." "You have discovered that, I suppose," remarked John. "Me? The sun-glass? No. I believe Ahchimides invend that, in fact. An' yet, out of ten thousan' who use the sun-glass only a few can account 'ow tis done. 'Ow did you think that that's my invention, Mistoo Itchlin? Did you know that I am something of a chimist? I can tu'n litmus papeh 'ed by juz dipping it in SO_3HO. Yesseh." "Yes," said Richling, "that's one thing that I have noticed, that you're very fertile in devices." "Yes," echoed Mary, "I noticed that, the first time you ever came to see us. I only wish Mr. Richling was half as much so." She beamed upon her husband. Narcisse laughed with pure pleasure. "Well, I am compel' to say you ah co'ect. I am continually makin' some discove'ies. 'Necessity's the motheh of inventions.' Now thass anotheh thing I 'ave notiz--about that month of Octobeh: it always come befo' you think it's comin'. I 'ave notiz that about eve'y month. Now, to-day we ah the twennieth Octobeh! Is it not so?" He lighted his cigarette. "You ah compel' to co'obo'ate me." CHAPTER XXX. LIGHTING SHIP. Yes, the tide was coming in. The Richlings' bark was still on the sands, but every now and then a wave of promise glided under her. She might float, now, any day. Meantime, as has no doubt been guessed, she was held on an even keel by loans from the Doctor. "Why you don't advertise in papers?" asked Ristofalo. "Advertise? Oh, I didn't think it would be of any use. I advertised a whole week, last summer." "You put advertisement in wrong time and keep it out wrong time," said the Italian. "I have a place in prospect, now, without advertising," said Richling, with an elated look. It was just here that a new mistake of Richling's emerged. He had come into contact with two or three men of that wretched sort that indulge the strange vanity of keeping others waiting upon them by promises of employment. He believed them, liked them heartily because they said nothing about references, and gratefully distended himself with their husks, until Ristofalo opened his eyes by saying, when one of these men had disappointed Richling the third time:-- "Business man don't promise but once." "You lookin' for book-keeper's place?" asked the Italian at another time. "Why don't dress like a book-keeper?" "On borrowed money?" asked Richling, evidently looking upon that question as a poser. "Yes." "Oh, no," said Richling, with a smile of superiority; but the other one smiled too, and shook his head. "Borrow mo', if you don't." Richling's heart flinched at the word. He had thought he was giving his true reason; but he was not. A foolish notion had floated, like a grain of dust, into the over-delicate wheels of his thought,--that men would employ him the more readily if he looked needy. His hat was unbrushed, his shoes unpolished; he had let his beard come out, thin and untrimmed; his necktie was faded. He looked battered. When the Italian's gentle warning showed him this additional mistake on top of all his others he was dismayed at himself; and when he sat down in his room and counted the cost of an accountant's uniform, so to speak, the remains of Dr. Sevier's last loan to him was too small for it. Thereupon he committed one error more,--but it was the last. He sunk his standard, and began again to look for service among industries that could offer employment only to manual labor. He crossed the river and stirred about among the dry-docks and ship-carpenters' yards of the suburb Algiers. But he could neither hew spars, nor paint, nor splice ropes. He watched a man half a day calking a boat; then he offered himself for the same work, did it fairly, and earned half a day's wages. But then the boat was done, and there was no other calking at the moment along the whole harbor front, except some that was being done on a ship by her own sailors. "John," said Mary, dropping into her lap the sewing that hardly paid for her candle, "isn't it hard to realize that it isn't twelve months since your hardships commenced? They _can't_ last much longer, darling." "I know that," said John. "And I know I'll find a place presently, and then we'll wake up to the fact that this was actually less than a year of trouble in a lifetime of love." "Yes," rejoined Mary, "I know your patience will be rewarded." "But what I want is work now, Mary. The bread of idleness is getting _too_ bitter. But never mind; I'm going to work to-morrow;--never mind where. It's all right. You'll see." She smiled, and looked into his eyes again with a confession of unreserved trust. The next day he reached the--what shall we say?--big end of his last mistake. What it was came out a few mornings after, when he called at Number 5 Carondelet street. "The Doctah is not in pwesently," said Narcisse. "He ve'y hawdly comes in so soon as that. He's living home again, once mo', now. He's ve'y un'estless. I tole 'im yistiddy, 'Doctah, I know juz 'ow you feel, seh; 'tis the same way with myseff. You ought to git ma'ied!'" "Did he say he would?" asked Richling. "Well, you know, Mistoo Itchlin, so the povvub says, 'Silent give consense.' He juz look at me--nevvah said a word--ha! he couldn'! You not lookin' ve'y well, Mistoo Itchlin. I suppose 'tis that waum weatheh." "I suppose it is; at least, partly," said Richling, and added nothing more, but looked along and across the ceiling, and down at a skeleton in a corner, that was offering to shake hands with him. He was at a loss how to talk to Narcisse. Both Mary and he had grown a little ashamed of their covert sarcasms, and yet to leave them out was bread without yeast, meat without salt, as far as their own powers of speech were concerned. "I thought, the other day," he began again, with an effort, "when it blew up cool, that the warm weather was over." "It seem to be finishin' ad the end, I think," responded the Creole. "I think, like you, that we 'ave 'ad too waum weatheh. Me, I like that weatheh to be cole, me. I halways weigh the mose in cole weatheh. I gain flesh, in fact. But so soon 'tis summeh somethin' become of it. I dunno if 'tis the fault of my close, but I reduct in summeh. Speakin' of close, Mistoo Itchlin,--egscuse me if 'tis a fair question,--w'at was yo' objec' in buyin' that tawpaulin hat an' jacket lass week ad that sto' on the levee? You din know I saw you, but I juz 'appen to see you, in fact." (The color rose in Richling's face, and Narcisse pressed on without allowing an answer.) "Well, thass none o' my biziness, of co'se, but I think you lookin' ve'y bad, Mistoo Itchlin"-- He stopped very short and stepped with dignified alacrity to his desk, for Dr. Sevier's step was on the stair. The Doctor shook hands with Richling and sank into the chair at his desk. "Anything turned up yet, Richling?" "Doctor," began Richling, drawing his chair near and speaking low. "Good-mawnin', Doctah," said Narcisse, showing himself with a graceful flourish. The Doctor nodded, then turned again to Richling. "You were saying"-- "I 'ope you well, seh," insisted the Creole, and as the Doctor glanced toward him impatiently, repeated the sentiment, "'Ope you well, seh." The Doctor said he was, and turned once more to Richling. Narcisse bowed away backward and went to his desk, filled to the eyes with fierce satisfaction. He had made himself felt. Richling drew his chair nearer and spoke low:-- "If I don't get work within a day or two I shall have to come to you for money." "That's all right, Richling." The Doctor spoke aloud; Richling answered low. "Oh, no, Doctor, it's all wrong! Indeed, I can't do it any more unless you will let me earn the money." "My dear sir, I would most gladly do it; but I have nothing that you can do." "Yes, you have, Doctor." "What is it?" "Why, it's this: you have a slave boy driving your carriage." "Well?" "Give him some other work, and let me do that." Dr. Sevier started in his seat. "Richling, I can't do that. I should ruin you. If you drive my carriage"-- "Just for a time, Doctor, till I find something else." "No! no! If you drive my carriage in New Orleans you'll never do anything else." "Why, Doctor, there are men standing in the front ranks to-day, who"-- "Yes, yes," replied the Doctor, impatiently, "I know,--who began with menial labor; but--I can't explain it to you, Richling, but you're not of the same sort; that's all. I say it without praise or blame; you must have work adapted to your abilities." "My abilities!" softly echoed Richling. Tears sprang to his eyes. He held out his open palms,--"Doctor, look there." They were lacerated. He started to rise, but the Doctor prevented him. "Let me go," said Richling, pleadingly, and with averted face. "Let me go. I'm sorry I showed them. It was mean and foolish and weak. Let me go." But Dr. Sevier kept a hand on him, and he did not resist. The Doctor took one of the hands and examined it. "Why, Richling, you've been handling freight!" "There was nothing else." "Oh, bah!" "Let me go," whispered Richling. But the Doctor held him. "You didn't do this on the steam-boat landing, did you, Richling?" The young man nodded. The Doctor dropped the hand and looked upon its owner with set lips and steady severity. When he spoke he said:-- "Among the negro and green Irish deck-hands, and under the oaths and blows of steam-boat mates! Why, Richling!" He turned half away in his rotary chair with an air of patience worn out. "You thought I had more sense," said Richling. The Doctor put his elbows upon his desk and slowly drew his face upward through his hands. "Mr. Richling, what is the matter with you?" They gazed at each other a long moment, and then Dr. Sevier continued: "Your trouble isn't want of sense. I know that very well, Richling." His voice was low and became kind. "But you don't get the use of the sense you have. It isn't available." He bent forward: "Some men, Richling, carry their folly on the surface and their good sense at the bottom,"--he jerked his thumb backward toward the distant Narcisse, and added, with a stealthy frown,--"like that little fool in yonder. He's got plenty of sense, but he doesn't load any of it on deck. Some men carry their sense on top and their folly down below"-- Richling smiled broadly through his dejection, and touched his own chest. "Like this big fool here," he said. "Exactly," said Dr. Sevier. "Now you've developed a defect of the memory. Your few merchantable qualities have been so long out of the market, and you've suffered such humiliation under the pressure of adversity, that you've--you've done a very bad thing." "Say a dozen," responded Richling, with bitter humor. But the Doctor swung his head in resentment of the levity. "One's enough. You've allowed yourself to forget your true value." "I'm worth whatever I'll bring." The Doctor tossed his head in impatient disdain. "Pshaw! You'll never bring what you're worth any more than some men are worth what they bring. You don't know how. You never will know." "Well, Doctor, I do know that I'm worth more than I ever was before. I've learned a thousand things in the last twelvemonth. If I can only get a chance to prove it!" Richling turned red and struck his knee with his fist. "Oh, yes," said Dr. Sevier; "that's your sense, on top. And then you go--in a fit of the merest impatience, as I do suspect--and offer yourself as a deck-hand and as a carriage-driver. That's your folly, at the bottom. What ought to be done to such a man?" He gave a low, harsh laugh. Richling dropped his eyes. A silence followed. "You say all you want is a chance," resumed the Doctor. "Yes," quickly answered Richling, looking up. "I'm going to give it to you." They looked into each other's eyes. The Doctor nodded. "Yes, sir." He nodded again. "Where did you come from, Richling,--when you came to New Orleans,--you and your wife? Milwaukee?" "Yes." "Do your relatives know of your present condition?" "No." "Is your wife's mother comfortably situated?" "Yes." "Then I'll tell you what you must do." "The only thing I can't do," said Richling. "Yes, you can. You must. You must send Mrs. Richling back to her mother." Richling shook his head. "Well," said the Doctor, warmly, "I say you must. I will lend you the passage-money." Richling's eye kindled an instant at the Doctor's compulsory tone, but he said, gently:-- "Why, Doctor, Mary will never consent to leave me." "Of course she will not. But you must make her do it! That's what you must do. And when that's done then you must start out and go systematically from door to door,--of business houses, I mean,--offering yourself for work befitting your station--ahem!--station, I say--and qualifications. I will lend you money to live on until you find permanent employment. Now, now, don't get alarmed! I'm not going to help you any more than I absolutely must!" "But, Doctor, how can you expect"-- But the Doctor interrupted. "Come, now, none of that! You and your wife are brave; I must say that for you. She has the courage of a gladiator. You can do this if you will." "Doctor," said Richling, "you are the best of friends; but, you know, the fact is, Mary and I--well, we're still lovers." "Oh!" The Doctor turned away his head with fresh impatience. Richling bit his lip, but went on:-- "We can bear anything on earth together; but we have sworn to stay together through better and worse"-- "Oh, pf-f-f-f!" said the doctor, closing his eyes and swinging his head away again. "--And we're going to do it," concluded Richling. "But you can't do it!" cried the Doctor, so loudly that Narcisse stood up on the rungs of his stool and peered. "We can't separate." Dr. Sevier smote the desk and sprang to his feet:-- "Sir, you've got to do it! If you continue in this way, you'll die. You'll die, Mr. Richling--both of you! You'll die! Are you going to let Mary die just because she's brave enough to do it?" He sat down again and busied himself, nervously placing pens on the pen-rack, the stopper in the inkstand, and the like. Many thoughts ran through Richling's mind in the ensuing silence. His eyes were on the floor. Visions of parting; of the great emptiness that would be left behind; the pangs and yearnings that must follow,--crowded one upon another. One torturing realization kept ever in the front,--that the Doctor had a well-earned right to advise, and that, if his advice was to be rejected, one must show good and sufficient cause for rejecting it, both in present resources and in expectations. The truth leaped upon him and bore him down as it never had done before,--the truth which he had heard this very Dr. Sevier proclaim,--that debt is bondage. For a moment he rebelled against it; but shame soon displaced mutiny, and he accepted this part, also, of his lot. At length he rose. "Well?" said Dr. Sevier. "May I ask Mary?" "You will do what you please, Mr. Richling." And then, in a kinder voice, the Doctor added, "Yes; ask her." They moved together to the office door. The Doctor opened it, and they said good-by, Richling trying to drop a word of gratitude, and the Doctor hurriedly ignoring it. The next half hour or more was spent by the physician in receiving, hearing, and dismissing patients and their messengers. By and by no others came. The only audible sound was that of the Doctor's paper-knife as it parted the leaves of a pamphlet. He was thinking over the late interview with Richling, and knew that, if this silence were not soon interrupted from without, he would have to encounter his book-keeper, who had not spoken since Richling had left. Presently the issue came. "Dr. Seveeah,"--Narcisse came forward, hat in hand,--"I dunno 'ow 'tis, but Mistoo Itchlin always wemine me of that povvub, 'Ully to bed, ully to 'ise, make a pusson to be 'ealthy an' wealthy an' wise.'" "I don't know how it is, either," grumbled the Doctor. "I believe thass not the povvub I was thinking. I am acquainting myseff with those povvubs; but I'm somewhat gween in that light, in fact. Well, Doctah, I'm goin' ad the--shoemakeh. I burs' my shoe yistiddy. I was juz"-- "Very well, go." "Yesseh; and from the shoemakeh I'll go"-- The Doctor glanced darkly over the top of the pamphlet. "--Ad the bank; yesseh," said Narcisse, and went. CHAPTER XXXI. AT LAST. Mary, cooking supper, uttered a soft exclamation of pleasure and relief as she heard John's step under the alley window and then at the door. She turned, with an iron spoon in one hand and a candlestick in the other, from the little old stove with two pot-holes, where she had been stirring some mess in a tin pan. "Why, you're"--she reached for a kiss--"real late!" "I could not come any sooner." He dropped into a chair at the table. "Busy?" "No; no work to-day." Mary lifted the pan from the stove, whisked it to the table, and blew her fingers. "Same subject continued," she said laughingly, pointing with her spoon to the warmed-over food. Richling smiled and nodded, and then flattened his elbows out on the table and hid his face in them. This was the first time he had ever lingered away from his wife when he need not have done so. It was the Doctor's proposition that had kept him back. All day long it had filled his thoughts. He felt its wisdom. Its sheer practical value had pierced remorselessly into the deepest convictions of his mind. But his heart could not receive it. "Well," said Mary, brightly, as she sat down at the table, "maybe you'll have better luck to-morrow. Don't you think you may?" "I don't know," said John, straightening up and tossing back his hair. He pushed a plate up to the pan, supplied and passed it. Then he helped himself and fell to eating. "Have you seen Dr. Sevier to-day?" asked Mary, cautiously, seeing her husband pause and fall into distraction. He pushed his plate away and rose. She met him in the middle of the room. He extended both hands, took hers, and gazed upon her. How could he tell? Would she cry and lament, and spurn the proposition, and fall upon him with a hundred kisses? Ah, if she would! But he saw that Doctor Sevier, at least, was confident she would not; that she would have, instead, what the wife so often has in such cases, the strongest love, it may be, but also the strongest wisdom for that particular sort of issue. Which would she do? Would she go, or would she not? He tried to withdraw his hands, but she looked beseechingly into his eyes and knit her fingers into his. The question stuck upon his lips and would not be uttered. And why should it be? Was it not cowardice to leave the decision to her? Should not he decide? Oh! if she would only rebel! But would she? Would not her utmost be to give good reasons in her gentle, inquiring way why he should not require her to leave him? And were there any such? No! no! He had racked his brain to find so much as one, all day long. "John," said Mary, "Dr. Sevier's been talking to you?" "Yes." "And he wants you to send me back home for a while?" "How do you know?" asked John, with a start. "I can read it in your face." She loosed one hand and laid it upon his brow. "What--what do you think about it, Mary?" Mary, looking into his eyes with the face of one who pleads for mercy, whispered, "He's right," then buried her face in his bosom and wept like a babe. "I felt it six months ago," she said later, sitting on her husband's knee and holding his folded hands tightly in hers. "Why didn't you say so?" asked John. "I was too selfish," was her reply. When, on the second day afterward, they entered the Doctor's office Richling was bright with that new hope which always rises up beside a new experiment, and Mary looked well and happy. The Doctor wrote them a letter of introduction to the steam-boat agent. "You're taking a very sensible course," he said, smoothing the blotting-paper heavily over the letter. "Of course, you think it's hard. It is hard. But distance needn't separate you." "It can't," said Richling. "Time," continued the Doctor,--"maybe a few months,--will bring you together again, prepared for a long life of secure union; and then, when you look back upon this, you'll be proud of your courage and good sense. And you'll be"-- He enclosed the note, directed the envelope, and, pausing with it still in his hand, turned toward the pair. They rose up. His rare, sick-room smile hovered about his mouth, and he said:-- "You'll be all the happier--all three of you." The husband smiled. Mary colored down to the throat and looked up on the wall, where Harvey was explaining to his king the circulation of the blood. There was quite a pause, neither side caring to utter the first adieu. "If a physician could call any hour his own," presently said the Doctor, "I should say I would come down to the boat and see you off. But I might fail in that. Good-by!" "Good-by, Doctor!"--a little tremor in the voice,--"take care of John." The tall man looked down into the upturned blue eyes. "Good-by!" He stooped toward her forehead, but she lifted her lips and he kissed them. So they parted. The farewell with Mrs. Riley was mainly characterized by a generous and sincere exchange of compliments and promises of remembrance. Some tears rose up; a few ran over. At the steam-boat wharf there were only the pair themselves to cling one moment to each other and then wave that mute farewell that looks through watery eyes and sticks in the choking throat. Who ever knows what good-by means? * * * "Doctor," said Richling, when he came to accept those terms in the Doctor's proposition which applied more exclusively to himself,--"no, Doctor, not that way, please." He put aside the money proffered him. "This is what I want to do: I will come to your house every morning and get enough to eat to sustain me through the day, and will continue to do so till I find work." "Very well," said the Doctor. The arrangement went into effect. They never met at dinner; but almost every morning the Doctor, going into the breakfast-room, met Richling just risen from his earlier and hastier meal. "Well? Anything yet?" "Nothing yet." And, unless there was some word from Mary, nothing more would be said. So went the month of November. But at length, one day toward the close of the Doctor's office hours, he noticed the sound of an agile foot springing up his stairs three steps at a stride, and Richling entered, panting and radiant. "Doctor, at last! At last!" "At last, what?" "I've found employment! I have, indeed! One line from you, and the place is mine! A good place, Doctor, and one that I can fill. The very thing for me! Adapted to my abilities!" He laughed so that he coughed, was still, and laughed again. "Just a line, if you please, Doctor." CHAPTER XXXII. A RISING STAR. It had been many a day since Dr. Sevier had felt such pleasure as thrilled him when Richling, half beside himself with delight, ran in upon him with the news that he had found employment. Narcisse, too, was glad. He slipped down from his stool and came near enough to contribute his congratulatory smiles, though he did not venture to speak. Richling nodded him a happy how-d'ye-do, and the Creole replied by a wave of the hand. In the Doctor's manner, on the other hand, there was a decided lack of response that made Richling check his spirits and resume more slowly,-- "Do you know a man named Reisen?" "No," said the Doctor. "Why, he says he knows you." "That may be." "He says you treated his wife one night when she was very ill"-- "What name?" "Reisen." The Doctor reflected a moment. "I believe I recollect him. Is he away up on Benjamin street, close to the river, among the cotton-presses?" "Yes. Thalia street they call it now. He says"-- "Does he keep a large bakery?" interrupted the Doctor. "The 'Star Bakery,'" said Richling, brightening again. "He says he knows you, and that, if you will give me just one line of recommendation, he will put me in charge of his accounts and give me a trial. And a trial's all I want, Doctor. I'm not the least fearful of the result." "Richling," said Dr. Sevier, slowly picking up his paper-folder and shaking it argumentatively, "where are the letters I advised you to send for?" Richling sat perfectly still, taking a long, slow breath through his nostrils, his eyes fixed emptily on his questioner. He was thinking, away down at the bottom of his heart,--and the Doctor knew it,--that this was the unkindest question, and the most cold-blooded, that he had ever heard. The Doctor shook his paper-folder again. "You see, now, as to the bare fact, I don't know you." Richling's jaw dropped with astonishment. His eye lighted up resentfully. But the speaker went on:-- "I esteem you highly. I believe in you. I would trust you, Richling,"--his listener remembered how the speaker _had_ trusted him, and was melted,--"but as to recommending you, why, that is like going upon the witness-stand, as it were, and I cannot say that I know anything." Richling's face suddenly flashed full of light. He touched the Doctor's hand. "That's it! That's the very thing, sir! Write that!" The Doctor hesitated. Richling sat gazing at him, afraid to move an eye lest he should lose an advantage. The Doctor turned to his desk and wrote. * * * On the next morning Richling did not come for his breakfast; and, not many days after, Dr. Sevier received through the mail the following letter:-- NEW ORLEANS, December 2, 1857. DEAR DOCTOR,--I've got the place. I'm Reisen's book-keeper. I'm earning my living. And I like the work. Bread, the word bread, that has so long been terrible to me, is now the sweetest word in the language. For eighteen months it was a prayer; now it's a proclamation. I've not only got the place, but I'm going to keep it. I find I have new powers; and the first and best of them is the power to throw myself into my work and make it _me_. It's not a task; it's a mission. Its being bread, I suppose, makes it easier to seem so; but it should be so if it was pork and garlic, or rags and raw-hides. My maxim a year ago, though I didn't know it then, was to do what I liked. Now it's to like what I do. I understand it now. And I understand now, too, that a man who expects to retain employment must yield a profit. He must be worth more than he costs. I thank God for the discipline of the last year and a half. I thank him that I did not fall where, in my cowardice, I so often prayed to fall, into the hands of foolish benefactors. You wouldn't believe this of me, I know; but it's true. I have been taught what life is; I never would have learned it any other way. And still another thing: I have been taught to know what the poor suffer. I know their feelings, their temptations, their hardships, their sad mistakes, and the frightful mistakes and oversights the rich make concerning them, and the ways to give them true and helpful help. And now, if God ever gives me competency, whether he gives me abundance or not, I know what he intends me to do. I was once, in fact and in sentiment, a brother to the rich; but I know that now he has trained me to be a brother to the poor. Don't think I am going to be foolish. I remember that I'm brother to the rich too; but I'll be the other as well. How wisely has God--what am I saying? Poor fools that we humans are! We can hardly venture to praise God's wisdom to-day when we think we see it, lest it turn out to be only our own folly to-morrow. But I find I'm only writing to myself, Doctor, not to you; so I stop. Mary is well, and sends you much love. Yours faithfully, JOHN RICHLING. "Very little about Mary," murmured Dr. Sevier. Yet he was rather pleased than otherwise with the letter. He thrust it into his breast-pocket. In the evening, at his fireside, he drew it out again and re-read it. "Talks as if he had got into an impregnable castle," thought the Doctor, as he gazed into the fire. "Book-keeper to a baker," he muttered, slowly folding the sheet again. It somehow vexed him to see Richling so happy in so low a station. But--"It's the joy of what he has escaped _from_, not _to_," he presently remembered. A fortnight or more elapsed. A distant relative of Dr. Sevier, a man of his own years and profession, was his guest for two nights and a day as he passed through the city, eastward, from an all-summer's study of fevers in Mexico. They were sitting at evening on opposite sides of the library fire, conversing in the leisurely ease of those to whom life is not a novelty. "And so you think of having Laura and Bess come out from Charleston, and keep house for you this winter? Their mother wrote me to that effect." "Yes," said Dr. Sevier. "Society here will be a great delight to them. They will shine. And time will be less monotonous for me. It may suit me, or it may not." "I dare say it may," responded the kinsman, whereas in truth he was very doubtful about it. He added something, a moment later, about retiring for the night, and his host had just said, "Eh?" when a slave, in a five-year-old dress-coat, brought in the card of a person whose name was as well known in New Orleans in those days as St. Patrick's steeple or the statue of Jackson in the old Place d'Armes. Dr. Sevier turned it over and looked for a moment ponderingly upon the domestic. The relative rose. "You needn't go," said Dr. Sevier; but he said "he had intended," etc., and went to his chamber. The visitor entered. He was a dark, slender, iron gray man, of finely cut, regular features, and seeming to be much more deeply wrinkled than on scrutiny he proved to be. One quickly saw that he was full of reposing energy. He gave the feeling of your being very near some weapon, of dreadful efficiency, ready for instant use whenever needed. His clothing fitted him neatly; his long, gray mustache was the only thing that hung loosely about him; his boots were fine. If he had told a child that all his muscles and sinews were wrapped with fine steel wire the child would have believed him, and continued to sit on his knee all the same. It is said, by those who still survive him, that in dreadful places and moments the flash of his fist was as quick, as irresistible, and as all-sufficient, as lightning, yet that years would sometimes pass without its ever being lifted. Dr. Sevier lifted his slender length out of his easy-chair, and bowed with severe gravity. "Good-evening, sir," he said, and silently thought, "Now, what can Smith Izard possibly want with me?" It may have been perfectly natural that this man's presence shed off all idea of medical consultation; but why should it instantly bring to the Doctor's mind, as an answer to his question, another man as different from this one as water from fire? The detective returned the Doctor's salutation, and they became seated. Then the visitor craved permission to ask a confidential question or two for information which he was seeking in his official capacity. His manners were a little old-fashioned, but perfect of their kind. The Doctor consented. The man put his hand into his breast-pocket, and drew out a daguerreotype case, touched its spring, and as it opened in his palm extended it to the Doctor. The Doctor took it with evident reluctance. It contained the picture of a youth who was just reaching manhood. The detective spoke:-- "They say he ought to look older than that now." "He does," said Dr. Sevier. "Do you know his name?" inquired the detective. "No." "What name do you know him by?" "John Richling." "Wasn't he sent down by Recorder Munroe, last summer, for assault, etc.?" "Yes. I got him out the next day. He never should have been put in." To the Doctor's surprise the detective rose to go. "I'm much obliged to you, Doctor." "Is that all you wanted to ask me?" "Yes, sir." "Mr. Izard, who is this young man? What has he done?" "I don't know, sir. I have a letter from a lawyer in Kentucky who says he represents this young man's two sisters living there,--half-sisters, rather,--stating that his father and mother are both dead,--died within three days of each other." "What name?" "He didn't give the name. He sent this daguerreotype, with instructions to trace up the young man, if possible. He said there was reason to believe he was in New Orleans. He said, if I found him, just to see him privately, tell him the news, and invite him to come back home. But he said if the young fellow had got into any kind of trouble that might somehow reflect on the family, you know, like getting arrested for something or other, you know, or some such thing, then I was just to drop the thing quietly, and say nothing about it to him or anybody else." "And doesn't that seem a strange way to manage a matter like that,--to put it into the hands of a detective?" "Well, I don't know," said Mr. Izard. "We're used to strange things, and this isn't so very strange. No, it's very common. I suppose he knew that if he gave it to me it would be attended to in a quiet and innocent sort o' way. Some people hate mighty bad to get talked about. Nobody's seen that picture but you and one 'aid,' and just as soon as he saw it he said, 'Why, that's the chap that Dr. Sevier took out of the Parish Prison last September.' And there won't anybody else see it." "Don't you intend to see Richling?" asked the Doctor, following the detective toward the door. "I don't see as it would be any use," said the detective, "seeing he's been sent down, and so on. I'll write to the lawyer and state the facts, and wait for orders." "But do you know how slight the blame was that got him into trouble here?" "Yes. The 'aid' who saw the picture told me all about that. It was a shame. I'll say so. I'll give all the particulars. But I tell you, I just guess--they'll drop him." "I dare say," said Dr. Sevier. "Well, Doctor," said Mr. Izard, "hope I haven't annoyed you." "No," replied the Doctor. But he had; and the annoyance had not ceased to be felt when, a few mornings afterward, Narcisse suddenly doubled--trebled it by saying:-- "Doctah Seveeah,"--it was a cold day and the young Creole stood a moment with his back to the office fire, to which he had just given an energetic and prolonged poking,--"a man was yeh, to see you, name' Bison. 'F want' to see you about Mistoo Itchlin." The Doctor looked up with a start, and Narcisse continued:-- "Mistoo Itchlin is wuckin' in 'is employment. I think 'e's please' with 'im." "Then why does he come to see me about him?" asked the Doctor, so sharply that Narcisse shrugged as he replied:-- "Reely, I cann' tell you; but thass one thing, Doctah, I dunno if you 'ave notiz: the worl' halways take a gweat deal of welfa'e in a man w'en 'e's 'ising. I do that myseff. Some'ow I cann' 'e'p it." This bold speech was too much for him. He looked down at his symmetrical legs and went back to his desk. The Doctor was far from reassured. After a silence he called out:-- "Did he say he would come back?" A knock at the door arrested the answer, and a huge, wide, broad-faced German entered diffidently. The Doctor recognized Reisen. The visitor took off his flour-dusted hat and bowed with great deference. "Toc-tor," he softly drawled, "I yoost taught I trop in on you to say a verte to you apowt teh chung yentleman vot you hef rickomendet to me." "I didn't recommend him to you, sir. I wrote you distinctly that I did not feel at liberty to recommend him." "Tat iss teh troot, Toctor Tseweer; tat iss teh ectsectly troot. Shtill I taught I'll yoost trop in on you to say a verte to you,--Toctor,--apowt Mister"-- He hung his large head at one side to remember. "Richling," said the Doctor, impatiently. "Yes, sir. Apowt Mister Richlun. I heff a tifficuldy to rigolict naymps. I yoost taught I voot trop in und trop a verte to you apowt Mr. Richlun, vot maypy you titn't herr udt before, yet." "Yes," said the Doctor, with ill-concealed contempt. "Well, speak it out, Mr. Reisen; time is precious." The German smiled and made a silly gesture of assent. "Yes, udt is brecious. Shtill I taught I voot take enough time to yoost trop in undt say to you tat I heffent het Mr. Richlun in my etsteplitchmendt a veek undtil I finte owdt someting apowt him, tot, uf you het a-knowdt ud, voot hef mate your letter maypy a little tifferendt written, yet." Now, at length, Dr. Sevier's annoyance was turned to dismay. He waited in silence for Reisen to unfold his enigma, but already his resentment against Richling was gathering itself for a spring. To the baker, however, he betrayed only a cold hostility. "I kept a copy of my letter to you, Mr. Reisen, and there isn't a word in it which need have misled you, sir." The baker waved his hand amicably. "Sure, Tocter Tseweer, I toandt hef nutting to gomblain akinst teh vertes of tat letter. You voss mighty puttickly. Ovver, shtill, I hef sumpting to tell you vot ef you het a-knowdt udt pefore you writed tose vertes, alreatty, t'ey voot a little tifferendt pin." "Well, sir, why don't you tell it?" Reisen smiled. "Tat iss teh ectsectly vot I am coing to too. I yoost taught I'll trop in undt tell you, Toctor, tat I heffent het Mr. Richlun in my etsteplitchmendt a veek undtil I findte owdt tat he's a--berfect--tressure." Doctor Sevier started half up from his chair, dropped into it again, wheeled half away, and back again with the blood surging into his face and exclaimed:-- "Why, what do you mean by such drivelling nonsense, sir? You've given me a positive fright!" He frowned the blacker as the baker smiled from ear to ear. "Vy, Toctor, I hope you ugscooce me! I yoost taught you voot like to herr udt. Undt Missis Reisen sayce, 'Reisen, you yoost co undt tell um.' I taught udt voot pe blessant to you to know tatt you hett sendt me teh fynust pissness mayn I effer het apowdt me. Undt uff he iss onnust he iss a berfect tressure, undt uff he aint a berfect tressure,"--he smiled anew and tendered his capacious hat to his listener,--"you yoost kin take tiss, Toctor, undt kip udt undt vare udt! Toctor, I vish you a merrah Chris'mus!" CHAPTER XXXIII. BEES, WASPS, AND BUTTERFLIES. The merry day went by. The new year, 1858, set in. Everything gathered momentum. There was a panic and a crash. The brother-in-law of sister Jane--he whom Dr. Sevier met at that quiet dinner-party--struck an impediment, stumbled, staggered, fell under the feet of the racers, and crawled away minus not money and credit only, but all his philosophy about helping the poor, maimed in spirit, his pride swollen with bruises, his heart and his speech soured beyond all sweetening. Many were the wrecks. But over their débris, Mercury and Venus--the busy season and the gay season--ran lightly, hand in hand. Men getting money and women squandering it. Whole nights in the ball-room. Gold pouring in at the hopper and out at the spout,--Carondelet street emptying like a yellow river into Canal street. Thousands for vanity; thousands for pride; thousands for influence and for station; thousands for hidden sins; a slender fraction for the wants of the body; a slenderer for the cravings of the soul. Lazarus paid to stay away from the gate. John the Baptist, in raiment of broadcloth, a circlet of white linen about his neck, and his meat strawberries and ice-cream. The lower classes mentioned mincingly; awkward silences or visible wincings at allusions to death, and converse on eternal things banished as if it were the smell of cabbage. So looked the gay world, at least, to Dr. Sevier. He saw more of it than had been his wont for many seasons. The two young-lady cousins whom he had brought and installed in his home thirsted for that gorgeous, nocturnal moth life in which no thirst is truly slaked, and dragged him with them into the iridescent, gas-lighted spider-web of society. "Now, you know you like it!" they said. "A little of it, yes. But I don't see how you can like it, who virtually live in it and upon it. Why, I would as soon try to live upon cake and candy!" "Well, we can live very nicely upon cake and candy," retorted they. "Why, girls, it's no more life than spice is food. What lofty motive--what earnest, worthy object"-- But they drowned his homily in a carol, and ran away arm in arm to dress for another ball. One of them stopped in the door with an air of mock bravado:-- "What do we care for lofty motives or worthy objects?" A smile escaped from him as she vanished. His condemnation was flavored with charity. "It's their mating season," he silently thought, and, not knowing he did it, sighed. "There come Dr. Sevier and his two pretty cousins," was the ball-room whisper. "Beautiful girls--rich widower without children--great catch! _Passé_, how? Well, maybe so; not as much as he makes himself out, though." "_Passé_, yes," said a merciless belle to a blade of her own years; "a man of strong sense is _passé_ at any age." Sister Jane's name was mentioned in the same connection, but that illusion quickly passed. The cousins denied indignantly that he had any matrimonial intention. Somebody dissipated the rumor by a syllogism: "A man hunting a second wife always looks like a fool; the Doctor doesn't look a bit like a fool, ergo"-- He grew very weary of the giddy rout, standing in it like a rock in a whirlpool. He did rejoice in the Carnival, but only because it was the end. "Pretty? yes, as pretty as a bonfire," he said. "I can't enjoy much fiddling while Rome is burning." "But Rome isn't always burning," said the cousins. "Yes, it is! Yes, it is!" The wickeder of the two cousins breathed a penitential sigh, dropped her bare, jewelled arms out of her cloak, and said:-- "Now tell us once more about Mary Richling." He had bored them to death with Mary. Lent was a relief to all three. One day, as the Doctor was walking along the street, a large hand grasped his elbow and gently arrested his steps. He turned. "Well, Reisen, is that you?" The baker answered with his wide smile. "Yes, Toctor, tat iss me, sure. You titn't tink udt iss Mr. Richlun, tit you?" "No. How is Richling?" "Vell, Mr. Richlun kitten along so-o-o-so-o-o. He iss not ferra shtrong; ovver he vurks like a shteam-inchyine." "I haven't seen him for many a day," said Dr. Sevier. The baker distended his eyes, bent his enormous digestive apparatus forward, raised his eyebrows, and hung his arms free from his sides. "He toandt kit a minudt to shpare in teh tswendy-four hourss. Sumptimes he sayss, 'Mr. Reisen, I can't shtop to talk mit you.' Sindts Mr. Richlun pin py my etsteplitchmendt, I tell you teh troot, Toctor Tseweer, I am yoost meckin' monneh haynd ofer fist!" He swung his chest forward again, drew in his lower regions, revolved his fists around each other for a moment, and then let them fall open at his sides, with the added assurance, "Now you kott teh ectsectly troot." The Doctor started away, but the baker detained him by a touch:-- "You toandt kott enna verte to sendt to Mr. Richlun, Toctor!" "Yes. Tell him to come and pass an hour with me some evening in my library." The German lifted his hand in delight. "Vy, tot's yoost teh dting! Mr. Richlun alvayss pin sayin', 'I vish he aysk me come undt see um;' undt I sayss, 'You holdt shtill, yet, Mr. Richlun; teh next time I see um I make um aysk you.' Vell, now, titn't I tunned udt?" He was happy. "Well, ask him," said the Doctor, and got away. "No fool is an utter fool," pondered the Doctor, as he went. Two friends had been kept long apart by the fear of each, lest he should seem to be setting up claims based on the past. It required a simpleton to bring them together. CHAPTER XXXIV. TOWARD THE ZENITH. "Richling, I am glad to see you!" Dr. Sevier had risen from his luxurious chair beside a table, the soft downward beams of whose lamp partly showed, and partly hid, the rich appointments of his library. He grasped Richling's hand, and with an extensive stride drew forward another chair on its smooth-running casters. Then inquiries were exchanged as to the health of one and the other. The Doctor, with his professional eye, noticed, as the light fell full upon his visitor's buoyant face, how thin and pale he had grown. He rose again, and stepping beyond Richling with a remark, in part complimentary and in part critical, upon the balmy April evening, let down the sash of a window where the smell of honeysuckles was floating in. "Have you heard from your wife lately?" he asked, as he resumed his seat. "Yesterday," said Richling. "Yes, she's very well, been well ever since she left us. She always sends love to you." "Hum," responded the physician. He fixed his eyes on the mantel and asked abstractedly, "How do you bear the separation?" "Oh!" Richling laughed, "not very heroically. It's a great strain on a man's philosophy." "Work is the only antidote," said the Doctor, not moving his eyes. "Yes, so I find it," answered the other. "It's bearable enough while one is working like mad; but sooner or later one must sit down to meals, or lie down to rest, you know"-- "Then it hurts," said the Doctor. "It's a lively discipline," mused Richling. "Do you think you learn anything by it?" asked the other, turning his eyes slowly upon him. "That's what it means, you notice." "Yes, I do," replied Richling, smiling; "I learn the very thing I suppose you're thinking of,--that separation isn't disruption, and that no pair of true lovers are quite fitted out for marriage until they can bear separation if they must." "Yes," responded the physician; "if they can muster the good sense to see that they'll not be so apt to marry prematurely. I needn't tell you I believe in marrying for love; but these needs-must marriages are so ineffably silly. You 'must' and you 'will' marry, and 'nobody shall hinder you!' And you do it! And in three or four or six months"--he drew in his long legs energetically from the hearth-pan--"_death_ separates you!--death, sometimes, resulting directly from the turn your haste has given to events! Now, where is your 'must' and 'will'?" He stretched his legs out again, and laid his head on his cushioned chair-back. "I have made a narrow escape," said Richling. "I wasn't so fortunate," responded the Doctor, turning solemnly toward his young friend. "Richling, just seven months after I married Alice I buried her. I'm not going into particulars--of course; but the sickness that carried her off was distinctly connected with the haste of our marriage. Your Bible, Richling, that you lay such store by, is right; we should want things as if we didn't want them. That isn't the quotation, exactly, but it's the idea. I swore I couldn't and wouldn't live without her; but, you see, this is the fifteenth year that I have had to do it." "I should think it would have unmanned you for life," said Richling. "It made a man of me! I've never felt young a day since, and yet I've never seemed to grow a day older. It brought me all at once to my full manhood. I have never consciously disputed God's arrangements since. The man who does is only a wayward child." "It's true," said Richling, with an air of confession, "it's true;" and they fell into silence. Presently Richling looked around the room. His eyes brightened rapidly as he beheld the ranks and tiers of good books. He breathed an audible delight. The multitude of volumes rose in the old-fashioned way, in ornate cases of dark wood from floor to ceiling, on this hand, on that, before him, behind; some in gay covers,--green, blue, crimson,--with gilding and embossing; some in the sumptuous leathers of France, Russia, Morocco, Turkey; others in worn attire, battered and venerable, dingy but precious,--the gray heads of the council. The two men rose and moved about among those silent wits and philosophers, and, from the very embarrassment of the inner riches, fell to talking of letter-press and bindings, with maybe some effort on the part of each to seem the better acquainted with Caxton, the Elzevirs, and other like immortals. They easily passed to a competitive enumeration of the rare books they had seen or not seen here and there in other towns and countries. Richling admitted he had travelled, and the conversation turned upon noted buildings and famous old nooks in distant cities where both had been. So they moved slowly back to their chairs, and stood by them, still contemplating the books. But as they sank again into their seats the one thought which had fastened itself in the minds of both found fresh expression. Richling began, smilingly, as if the subject had not been dropped at all,--"I oughtn't to speak as if I didn't realize my good fortune, for I do." "I believe you do," said the Doctor, reaching toward the fire-irons. "Yes. Still, I lose patience with myself to find myself taking Mary's absence so hard." "All hardships are comparative," said the Doctor. "Certainly they are," replied Richling. "I lie sometimes and think of men who have been political prisoners, shut away from wife and children, with war raging outside and no news coming in." "Think of the common poor," exclaimed Dr. Sevier,--"the thousands of sailors' wives and soldiers' wives. Where does that thought carry you?" "It carries me," responded the other, with a low laugh, "to where I'm always a little ashamed of myself." "I didn't mean it to do that," said the Doctor; "I can imagine how you miss your wife. I miss her myself." "Oh! but she's here on this earth. She's alive and well. Any burden is light when I think of that--pardon me, Doctor!" "Go on, go on. Anything you please about her, Richling." The Doctor half sat, half lay in his chair, his eyes partly closed. "Go on," he repeated. "I was only going to say that long before Mary went away, many a time when she and I were fighting starvation at close quarters, I have looked at her and said to myself, 'What if I were in Dr. Sevier's place?' and it gave me strength to rise up and go on." "You were right." "I know I was. I often wake now at night and turn and find the place by my side empty, and I can hardly keep from calling her aloud. It wrenches me, but before long I think she's no such great distance away, since we're both on the same earth together, and by and by she'll be here at my side; and so it becomes easy to me once more." Richling, in the self-occupation of a lover, forgot what pains he might be inflicting. But the Doctor did not wince. "Yes," said the physician, "of course you wouldn't want the separation to be painless; and it promises a reward, you know." "Ah!" exclaimed Richling, with an exultant smile and motion of the head, and then dropped his eyes in meditation. The Doctor looked at him steadily. "Richling, you've gathered some terribly hard experiences. But hard experiences are often the foundation-stones of a successful life. You can make them all profitable. You can make them draw you along, so to speak. But you must hold them well in hand, as you would a dangerous team, you know,--coolly and alertly, firmly and patiently,--and never let the reins slack till you've driven through the last gate." Richling replied, with a pleasant nod, "I believe I shall do it. Did you notice what I wrote you in my letter? I have got the notion strongly that the troubles we have gone through--Mary and I--were only our necessary preparation--not so necessary for her as for me"-- "No," said Dr. Sevier, and Richling continued, with a smile:-- "To fit us for a long and useful life, and especially a life that will be full of kind and valuable services to the poor. If that isn't what they were sent for"--he dropped into a tone of reflection--"then I don't understand them." "And suppose you don't understand," said the Doctor, with his cold, grim look. "Oh!" rejoined Richling, in amiable protest; "but a man would like to understand." "Like to--yes," replied the Doctor; "but be careful. The spirit that _must_ understand is the spirit that can't trust." He paused. Presently he said, "Richling!" Richling answered by an inquiring glance. "Take better care of your health," said the physician. Richling smiled--a young man's answer--and rose to say good-night. CHAPTER XXXV. TO SIGH, YET FEEL NO PAIN. Mrs. Riley missed the Richlings, she said, more than tongue could tell. She had easily rented the rooms they left vacant; that was not the trouble. The new tenant was a sallow, gaunt, wind-dried seamstress of sixty, who paid her rent punctually, but who was-- "Mighty poor comp'ny to thim as's been used to the upper tin, Mr. Ristofalo." Still she was a protection. Mrs. Riley had not regarded this as a necessity in former days, but now, somehow, matters seemed different. This seamstress had, moreover, a son of eighteen years, principally skin and bone, who was hoping to be appointed assistant hostler at the fire-engine house of "Volunteer One," and who meantime hung about Mrs. Riley's dwelling and loved to relieve her of the care of little Mike. This also was something to be appreciated. Still there was a void. "Well, Mr. Richlin'!" cried Mrs. Riley, as she opened her parlor door in response to a knock. "Well, I'll be switched! ha! ha! I didn't think it was you at all. Take a seat and sit down!" It was good to see how she enjoyed the visit. Whenever she listened to Richling's words she rocked in her rocking-chair vigorously, and when she spoke stopped its motion and rested her elbows on its arms. "And how _is_ Mrs. Richlin'? And so she sent her love to me, did she, now? The blessed angel! Now, ye're not just a-makin' that up? No, I know ye wouldn't do sich a thing as that, Mr. Richlin'. Well, you must give her mine back again. I've nobody else on e'rth to give ud to, and never will have." She lifted her nose with amiable stateliness, as if to imply that Richling might not believe this, but that it was true, nevertheless. "You may change your mind, Mrs. Riley, some day," returned Richling, a little archly. "Ha! ha!" She tossed her head and laughed with good-natured scorn. "Nivver a fear o' that, Mr. Richlin'!" Her brogue was apt to broaden when pleasure pulled down her dignity. "And, if I did, it wuddent be for the likes of no I-talian Dago, if id's him ye're a-dthrivin' at,--not intinding anny disrespect to your friend, Mr. Richlin', and indeed I don't deny he's a perfect gintleman,--but, indeed, Mr. Richlin', I'm just after thinkin' that you and yer lady wouldn't have no self-respect for Kate Riley if she should be changing her name." "Still you were thinking about it," said Richling, with a twinkle. "Ah! ha! ha! Indeed I wasn', an' ye needn' be t'rowin' anny o' yer slyness on me. Ye know ye'd have no self-respect fur me. No; now ye know ye wuddent,--wud ye?" "Why, Mrs. Riley, of course we would. Why--why not?" He stood in the door-way, about to take his leave. "You may be sure we'll always be glad of anything that will make you the happier." Mrs. Riley looked so grave that he checked his humor. "But in the nixt life, Mr. Richlin', how about that?" "There? I suppose we shall simply each love all in absolute perfection. We'll"-- "We'll never know the differ," interposed Mrs. Riley. "That's it," said Richling, smiling again. "And so I say,--and I've always said,--if a person _feels_ like marrying again, let him do it." "Have ye, now? Well, ye're just that good, Mr. Richlin'." "Yes," he responded, trying to be grave, "that's about my measure." "Would _you_ do ut?" "No, I wouldn't. I couldn't. But I should like--in good earnest, Mrs. Riley, I should like, now, the comfort of knowing that you were not to pass all the rest of your days in widowhood." "Ah! ged out, Mr. Richlin'!" She failed in her effort to laugh. "Ah! ye're sly!" She changed her attitude and drew a breath. "No," said Richling, "no, honestly. I should feel that you deserved better at this world's hands than that, and that the world deserved better of you. I find two people don't make a world, Mrs. Riley, though often they think they do. They certainly don't when one is gone." "Mr. Richlin'," exclaimed Mrs. Riley, drawing back and waving her hand sweetly, "stop yer flattery! Stop ud! Ah! ye're a-feeling yer oats, Mr. Richlin'. An' ye're a-showin' em too, ye air. Why, I hered ye was lookin' terrible, and here ye're lookin' just splendud!" "Who told you that?" asked Richling. "Never mind! Never mind who he was--ha, ha, ha!" She checked herself suddenly. "Ah, me! It's a shame for the likes o' me to be behavin' that foolish!" She put on additional dignity. "I will always be the Widow Riley." Then relaxing again into sweetness: "Marridge is a lottery, Mr. Richlin'; indeed an' it is; and ye know mighty well that he ye're after joking me about is no more nor a fri'nd." She looked sweet enough for somebody to kiss. "I don't know so certainly about that," said her visitor, stepping down upon the sidewalk and putting on his hat. "If I may judge by"-- He paused and glanced at the window. "Ah, now, Mr. Richlin', na-na-now, Mr. Richlin', ye daurn't say ud! Ye daurn't!" She smiled and blushed and arched her neck and rose and sank upon herself with sweet delight. "I say if I may judge by what he has said to me," insisted Richling. Mrs. Riley glided down across the door-step, and, with all the insinuation of her sex and nation, demanded:-- "What'd he tell ye? Ah! he didn't tell ye nawthing! Ha, ha! there wasn' nawthing to tell!" But Richling slipped away. Mrs. Riley shook her finger: "Ah, ye're a wicket joker, Mr. Richlin'. I didn't think that o' the likes of a gintleman like you, anyhow!" She shook her finger again as she withdrew into the house, smiling broadly all the way in to the cradle, where she kissed and kissed again her ruddy, chubby, sleeping boy. * * * Ristofalo came often. He was a man of simple words, and of few thoughts of the kind that were available in conversation; but his personal adventures had begun almost with infancy, and followed one another in close and strange succession over lands and seas ever since. He could therefore talk best about himself, though he talked modestly. "These things to hear would Desdemona seriously incline," and there came times when even a tear was not wanting to gem the poetry of the situation. "And ye might have saved yerself from all that," was sometimes her note of sympathy. But when he asked how she silently dried her eyes. Sometimes his experiences had been intensely ludicrous, and Mrs. Riley would laugh until in pure self-oblivion she smote her thigh with her palm, or laid her hand so smartly against his shoulder as to tip him half off his seat. "Ye didn't!" "Yes." "Ah! Get out wid ye, Raphael Ristofalo,--to be telling me that for the trooth!" At one such time she was about to give him a second push, but he took the hand in his, and quietly kept it to the end of his story. He lingered late that evening, but at length took his hat from under his chair, rose, and extended his hand. "Man alive!" she cried, "that's my _hand_, sur, I'd have ye to know. Begahn wid ye! Lookut heere! What's the reason ye make it so long atween yer visits, eh? Tell me that. Ah--ah--ye've no need fur to tell me, Mr. Ristofalo! Ah--now don't tell a lie!" "Too busy. Come all time--wasn't too busy." "Ha, ha! Yes, yes; ye're too busy. Of coorse ye're too busy. Oh, yes! ye _air_ too busy--a-courtin' thim I-talian froot gerls around the Frinch Mairket. Ah! I'll bet two bits ye're a bouncer! Ah, don't tell me. I know ye, ye villain! Some o' thim's a-waitin' fur ye now, ha, ha! Go! And don't ye nivver come back heere anny more. D'ye mind?" "Aw righ'." The Italian took her hand for the third time and held it, standing in his simple square way before her and wearing his gentle smile as he looked her in the eye. "Good-by, Kate." Her eye quailed. Her hand pulled a little helplessly and in a meek voice she said:-- "That's not right for you to do me that a-way, Mr. Ristofalo. I've got a handle to my name, sur." She threw some gentle rebuke into her glance, and turned it upon him. He met it with that same amiable absence of emotion that was always in his look. "Kate too short by itself?" he asked. "Aw righ'; make it Kate Ristofalo." "No," said Mrs. Riley, averting and drooping her face. "Take good care of you," said the Italian; "you and Mike. Always be kind. Good care." Mrs. Riley turned with sudden fervor. "Good cayre!--Mr. Ristofalo," she exclaimed, lifting her free hand and touching her bosom with the points of her fingers, "ye don't know the hairt of a woman, surr! No-o-o, surr! It's _love_ we wants! 'The hairt as has trooly loved nivver furgits, but as trooly loves ahn to the tlose!'" "Yes," said the Italian; "yes," nodding and ever smiling, "dass aw righ'." But she:-- "Ah! it's no use fur you to be a-talkin' an' a-pallaverin' to Kate Riley when ye don't be lovin' her, Mr. Ristofalo, an' ye know ye don't." A tear glistened in her eye. "Yes, love you," said the Italian; "course, love you." He did not move a foot or change the expression of a feature. "H-yes!" said the widow. "H-yes!" she panted. "H-yes, a little! A little, Mr. Ristofalo! But I want"--she pressed her hand hard upon her bosom, and raised her eyes aloft--"I want to be--h--h--h-adaured above all the e'rth!" "Aw righ'," said Ristofalo; "das aw righ'; yes--door above all you worth." "Raphael Ristofalo," she said, "ye're a-deceivin' me! Ye came heere whin nobody axed ye,--an' that ye know is a fact, surr,--an' made yerself agree'ble to a poor, unsuspectin' widdah, an' [_tears_] rabbed me o' mie hairt, ye did; whin I nivver intinded to git married ag'in." "Don't cry, Kate--Kate Ristofalo," quietly observed the Italian, getting an arm around her waist, and laying a hand on the farther cheek. "Kate Ristofalo." "Shut!" she exclaimed, turning with playful fierceness, and proudly drawing back her head; "shut! Hah! It's Kate Ristofalo, is it? Ah, ye think so? Hah-h! It'll be ad least two weeks yet before the priest will be after giving you the right to call me that!" And, in fact, an entire fortnight did pass before they were married. CHAPTER XXXVI. WHAT NAME? Richling in Dr. Sevier's library, one evening in early May, gave him great amusement by an account of the Ristofalo-Riley wedding. He had attended it only the night before. The Doctor had received an invitation, but had pleaded previous engagements. "But I am glad you went," he said to Richling; "however, go on with your account." "Oh! I was glad to go. And I'm certainly glad I went." Richling proceeded with the recital. The Doctor smiled. It was very droll,--the description of persons and costumes. Richling was quite another than his usual restrained self this evening. Oddly enough, too, for this was but his second visit; the confinement of his work was almost like an imprisonment, it was so constant. The Doctor had never seen him in just such a glow. He even mimicked the brogue of two or three Irish gentlemen, and the soft, outlandish swing in the English of one or two Sicilians. He did it all so well that, when he gave an instance of some of the broad Hibernian repartee he had heard, the Doctor actually laughed audibly. One of his young-lady cousins on some pretext opened a door, and stole a glance within to see what could have produced a thing so extraordinary. "Come in, Laura; come in! Tell Bess to come in." The Doctor introduced Richling with due ceremony Richling could not, of course, after this accession of numbers, go on being funny. The mistake was trivial, but all saw it. Still the meeting was pleasant. The girls were very intelligent and vivacious. Richling found a certain refreshment in their graceful manners, like what we sometimes feel in catching the scent of some long-forgotten perfume. They had not been told all his history, but had heard enough to make them curious to see and speak to him. They were evidently pleased with him, and Dr. Sevier, observing this, betrayed an air that was much like triumph. But after a while they went as they had come. "Doctor," said Richling, smiling until Dr. Sevier wondered silently what possessed the fellow, "excuse me for bringing this here. But I find it so impossible to get to your office"-- He moved nearer the Doctor's table and put his hand into his bosom. "What's that?" asked the Doctor, frowning heavily. Richling smiled still broader than before. "This is a statement," he said. "Of what?" "Of the various loans you have made me, with interest to date." "Yes?" said the Doctor, frigidly. "And here," persisted the happy man, straightening out a leg as he had done the first time they ever met, and drawing a roll of notes from his pocket, "is the total amount." "Yes?" The Doctor regarded them with cold contempt. "That's all very pleasant for you, I suppose, Richling,--shows you're the right kind of man, I suppose, and so on. I know that already, however. Now just put all that back into your pocket; the sight of it isn't pleasant. You certainly don't imagine I'm going to take it, do you?" "You promised to take it when you lent it." "Humph! Well, I didn't say when." "As soon as I could pay it," said Richling. "I don't remember," replied the Doctor, picking up a newspaper. "I release myself from that promise." "I don't release you," persisted Richling; "neither does Mary." The Doctor was quiet awhile before he answered. He crossed his knees, a moment after folded his arms, and presently said:-- "Foolish pride, Richling." "We know that," replied Richling; "we don't deny that that feeling creeps in. But we'd never do anything that's right if we waited for an unmixed motive, would we?" "Then you think my motive--in refusing it--is mixed, probably." "Ho-o-oh!" laughed Richling. The gladness within him would break through. "Why, Doctor, nothing could be more different. It doesn't seem to me as though you ever had a mixed motive." The Doctor did not answer. He seemed to think the same thing. "We know very well, Doctor, that if we should accept this kindness we might do it in a spirit of proper and commendable--a--humble-mindedness. But it isn't mere pride that makes us insist." "No?" asked the Doctor, cruelly. "What is it else?" "Why, I hardly know what to call it, except that it's a conviction that--well, that to pay is best; that it's the nearest to justice we can get, and that"--he spoke faster--"that it's simply duty to choose justice when we can and mercy when we must. There, I've hit it out!" He laughed again. "Don't you see, Doctor? Justice when we may--mercy when we must! It's your own principles!" The Doctor looked straight at the mantel-piece as he asked:-- "Where did you get that idea?" "I don't know; partly from nowhere, and"-- "Partly from Mary," interrupted the Doctor. He put out his long white palm. "It's all right. Give me the money." Richling counted it into his hand. He rolled it up and stuffed it into his portemonnaie. "You like to part with your hard earnings, do you, Richling?" "Earnings can't be hard," was the reply; "it's borrowings that are hard." The Doctor assented. "And, of course," said Richling, "I enjoy paying old debts." He stood and leaned his head in his hand with his elbow on the mantel. "But, even aside from that, I'm happy." "I see you are!" remarked the physician, emphatically, catching the arms of his chair and drawing his feet closer in. "You've been smiling worse than a boy with a love-letter." "I've been hoping you'd ask me what's the matter." "Well, then, Richling, what is the matter?" "Mary has a daughter." "What!" cried the Doctor, springing up with a radiant face, and grasping Richling's hand in both his own. Richling laughed aloud, nodded, laughed again, and gave either eye a quick, energetic wipe with all his fingers. "Doctor," he said, as the physician sank back into his chair, "we want to name"--he hesitated, stood on one foot and leaned again against the shelf--"we want to call her by the name of--if we may"-- The Doctor looked up as if with alarm, and John said, timidly,--"Alice!" Dr. Sevier's eyes--what was the matter? His mouth quivered. He nodded and whispered huskily:-- "All right." After a long pause Richling expressed the opinion that he had better be going, and the Doctor did not indicate any difference of conviction. At the door the Doctor asked:-- "If the fever should break out this summer, Richling, will you go away?" "No." CHAPTER XXXVII. PESTILENCE. On the twentieth of June, 1858, an incident occurred in New Orleans which challenged special attention from the medical profession. Before the month closed there was a second, similar to the first. The press did not give such matters to the public in those days; it would only make the public--the advertising public--angry. Times have changed since--faced clear about: but at that period Dr. Sevier, who hated a secret only less than a falsehood, was right in speaking as he did. "Now you'll see," he said, pointing downward aslant, "the whole community stick its head in the sand!" He sent for Richling. "I give you fair warning," he said. "It's coming." "Don't cases occur sometimes in an isolated way without--anything further?" asked Richling, with a promptness which showed he had already been considering the matter. "Yes." "And might not this"-- "Richling, I give you fair warning." "Have you sent your cousins away, Doctor?" "They go to-morrow." After a silence the Doctor added: "I tell you now, because this is the time to decide what you will do. If you are not prepared to take all the risks and stay them through, you had better go at once." "What proportion of those who are taken sick of it die?" asked Richling. "The proportion varies in different seasons; say about one in seven or eight. But your chances would be hardly so good, for you're not strong, Richling, nor well either." Richling stood and swung his hat against his knee. "I really don't see, Doctor, that I have any choice at all. I couldn't go to Mary--when she has but just come through a mother's pains and dangers--and say, 'I've thrown away seven good chances of life to run away from one bad one.' Why, to say nothing else, Reisen can't spare me." He smiled with boyish vanity. "O Richling, that's silly!" "I--I know it," exclaimed the other, quickly; "I see it is. If he could spare me, of course he wouldn't be paying me a salary." But the Doctor silenced him by a gesture. "The question is not whether he can spare you, at all. It's simply, can you spare him?" "Without violating any pledge, you mean," added Richling. "Of course," assented the physician. "Well, I can't spare him, Doctor. He has given me a hold on life, and no one chance in seven, or six, or five is going to shake me loose. Why, I tell you I couldn't look Mary in the face!" "Have your own way," responded the Doctor. "There are some things in your favor. You frail fellows often pull through easier than the big, full-blooded ones." "Oh, it's Mary's way too, I feel certain!" retorted Richling, gayly, "and I venture to say"--he coughed and smiled again--"it's yours." "I didn't say it wasn't," replied the unsmiling Doctor, reaching for a pen and writing a prescription. "Here; get that and take it according to direction. It's for that cold." "If I should take the fever," said Richling, coming out of a revery, "Mary will want to come to me." "Well, she mustn't come a step!" exclaimed the Doctor. "You'll forbid it, will you not, Doctor? Pledge me!" "I do better, sir; I pledge myself." So the July suns rose up and moved across the beautiful blue sky; the moon went through all her majestic changes; on thirty-one successive midnights the Star Bakery sent abroad its grateful odors of bread, and as the last night passed into the first twinkling hour of morning the month chronicled one hundred and thirty-one deaths from yellow fever. The city shuddered because it knew, and because it did not know, what was in store. People began to fly by hundreds, and then by thousands. Many were overtaken and stricken down as they fled. Still men plied their vocations, children played in the streets, and the days came and went, fair, blue tremulous with sunshine, or cool and gray and sweet with summer rain. How strange it was for nature to be so beautiful and so unmoved! By and by one could not look down a street, on this hand or on that, but he saw a funeral. Doctors' gigs began to be hailed on the streets and to refuse to stop, and houses were pointed out that had just become the scenes of strange and harrowing episodes. "Do you see that bakery,--the 'Star Bakery'? Five funerals from that place--and another goes this afternoon." Before this was said August had completed its record of eleven hundred deaths, and September had begun the long list that was to add twenty-two hundred more. Reisen had been the first one ill in the establishment. He had been losing friends,--one every few days; and he thought it only plain duty, let fear or prudence say what they might, to visit them at their bedsides and follow them to their tombs. It was not only the outer man of Reisen, but the heart as well, that was elephantine. He had at length come home from one of these funerals with pains in his back and limbs, and the various familiar accompaniments. "I feel right clumsy," he said, as he lifted his great feet and lowered them into the mustard foot-bath. "Doctor Sevier," said Richling, as he and the physician paused half way between the sick-chambers of Reisen and his wife, "I hope you'll not think it foolhardy for me to expose myself by nursing these people"-- "No," replied the veteran, in a tone of indifference, and passed on; the tincture of self-approval that had "mixed" with Richling's motives went away to nothing. Both Reisen and his wife recovered. But an apple-cheeked brother of the baker, still in a green cap and coat that he had come in from Germany, was struck from the first with that mortal terror which is so often an evil symptom of the disease, and died, on the fifth day after his attack, in raging delirium. Ten of the workmen, bakers and others, followed him. Richling alone, of all in the establishment, while the sick lay scattered through the town on uncounted thousands of beds, and the month of October passed by, bringing death to eleven hundred more, escaped untouched of the scourge. "I can't understand it," he said. "Demand an immediate explanation," said Dr. Sevier, with sombre irony. How did others fare? Ristofalo had, time and again, sailed with the fever, nursed it, slept with it. It passed him by again. Little Mike took it, lay two or three days very still in his mother's strong arms, and recovered. Madame Ristofalo had had it in "fifty-three." She became a heroic nurse to many, and saved life after life among the poor. The trials of those days enriched John Richling in the acquaintanceship and esteem of Sister Jane's little lisping rector. And, by the way, none of those with whom Dr. Sevier dined on that darkest night of Richling's life became victims. The rector had never encountered the disease before, but when Sister Jane and the banker, and the banker's family and friends, and thousands of others, fled, he ran toward it, David-like, swordless and armorless. He and Richling were nearly of equal age. Three times, four times, and again, they met at dying-beds. They became fond of each other. Another brave nurse was Narcisse. Dr. Sevier, it is true, could not get rid of the conviction for years afterward that one victim would have lived had not Narcisse talked him to death. But in general, where there was some one near to prevent his telling all his discoveries and inventions, he did good service, and accompanied it with very chivalric emotions. "Yesseh," he said, with a strutting attitude that somehow retained a sort of modesty, "I 'ad the gweatess success. Hah! a nuss is a nuss those time'. Only some time' 'e's not. 'Tis accawding to the povvub,--what is that povvub, now, ag'in?" The proverb did not answer his call, and he waved it away. "Yesseh, eve'ybody wanting me at once--couldn' supply the deman'." Richling listened to him with new pleasure and rising esteem. "You make me envy you," he exclaimed, honestly. "Well, I s'pose you may say so, Mistoo Itchlin, faw I nevva nuss a sing-le one w'at din paid me ten dollahs a night. Of co'se! 'Consistency, thou awt a jew'l.' It's juz as the povvub says, 'All work an' no pay keep Jack a small boy.' An' yet," he hurriedly added, remembering his indebtedness to his auditor, "'tis aztonizhin' 'ow 'tis expensive to live. I haven' got a picayune of that money pwesently! I'm aztonizh' myseff!" CHAPTER XXXVIII. "I MUST BE CRUEL ONLY TO BE KIND." The plague grew sated and feeble. One morning frost sent a flight of icy arrows into the town, and it vanished. The swarthy girls and lads that sauntered homeward behind their mothers' cows across the wide suburban stretches of marshy commons heard again the deep, unbroken, cataract roar of the reawakened city. We call the sea cruel, seeing its waters dimple and smile where yesterday they dashed in pieces the ship that was black with men, women, and children. But what shall we say of those billows of human life, of which we are ourselves a part, that surge over the graves of its own dead with dances and laughter and many a coquetry, with panting chase for gain and preference, and pious regrets and tender condolences for the thousands that died yesterday--and need not have died? Such were the questions Dr. Sevier asked himself as he laid down the newspaper full of congratulations upon the return of trade's and fashion's boisterous flow, and praises of the deeds of benevolence and mercy that had abounded throughout the days of anguish. Certain currents in these human rapids had driven Richling and the Doctor wide apart. But at last, one day, Richling entered the office with a cheerfulness of countenance something overdone, and indicative to the Doctor's eye of inward trepidation. "Doctor," he said hurriedly, "preparing to leave the office? It was the only moment I could command"-- "Good-morning, Richling." "I've been trying every day for a week to get down here," said Richling, drawing out a paper. "Doctor"--with his eyes on the paper, which he had begun to unfold. "Richling"-- It was the Doctor's hardest voice. Richling looked up at him as a child looks at a thundercloud. The Doctor pointed to the document:-- "Is that a subscription paper?" "Yes." "You needn't unfold it, Richling." The Doctor made a little pushing motion at it with his open hand. "From whom does it come?" Richling gave a name. He had not changed color when the Doctor looked black, but now he did; for Dr. Sevier smiled. It was terrible. "Not the little preacher that lisps?" asked the physician. "He lisps sometimes," said Richling, with resentful subsidence of tone and with dropped eyes, preparing to return the paper to his pocket. "Wait," said the Doctor, more gravely, arresting the movement with his index finger. "What is it for?" "It's for the aid of an asylum overcrowded with orphans in consequence of the late epidemic." There was still a tightness in Richling's throat, a faint bitterness in his tone, a spark of indignation in his eye. But these the Doctor ignored. He reached out his hand, took the folded paper gently from Richling, crossed his knees, and, resting his elbows on them and shaking the paper in a prefatory way, spoke:-- "Richling, in old times we used to go into monasteries; now we subscribe to orphan asylums. Nine months ago I warned this community that if it didn't take the necessary precautions against the foul contagion that has since swept over us it would pay for its wicked folly in the lives of thousands and the increase of fatherless and helpless children. I didn't know it would come this year, but I knew it might come any year. Richling, we deserved it!" Richling had never seen his friend in so forbidding an aspect. He had come to him boyishly elated with the fancied excellence and goodness and beauty of the task he had assumed, and a perfect confidence that his noble benefactor would look upon him with pride and upon the scheme with generous favor. When he had offered to present the paper to Dr. Sevier he had not understood the little rector's marked alacrity in accepting his service. Now it was plain enough. He was well-nigh dumfounded. The responses that came from him came mechanically, and in the manner of one who wards off unmerited buffetings from one whose unkindness may not be resented. "You can't think that only those died who were to blame?" he asked, helplessly; and the Doctor's answer came back instantly:-- "Ho, no! look at the hundreds of little graves! No, sir. If only those who were to blame had been stricken, I should think the Judgment wasn't far off. Talk of God's mercy in times of health! There's no greater evidence of it than to see him, in these awful visitations, refusing still to discriminate between the innocent and the guilty! Richling, only Infinite Mercy joined to Infinite Power, with infinite command of the future, could so forbear!" Richling could not answer. The Doctor unfolded the paper and began to read: "'God, in his mysterious providence'--O sir!" "What!" demanded Richling. "O sir, what a foul, false charge! There's nothing mysterious about it. We've trampled the book of Nature's laws in the mire of our streets, and dragged her penalties down upon our heads! Why, Richling,"--he shifted his attitude, and laid the edge of one hand upon the paper that lay in the other, with the air of commencing a demonstration,--"you're a Bible man, eh? Well, yes, I think you are; but I want you never to forget that the book of Nature has its commandments, too; and the man who sins against _them_ is a sinner. There's no dispensation of mercy in that Scripture to Jew or Gentile, though the God of Mercy wrote it with his own finger. A community has got to know those laws and keep them, or take the consequences--and take them here and now--on this globe--_presently_!" "You mean, then," said Richling, extending his hand for the return of the paper, "that those whose negligence filled the asylums should be the ones to subscribe." "Yes," replied the Doctor, "yes!" drew back his hand with the paper still in it, turned to his desk, opened the list, and wrote. Richling's eyes followed the pen; his heart came slowly up into his throat. "Why, Doc--Doctor, that's more than any one else has"-- "They have probably made some mistake," said Dr. Sevier, rubbing the blotting-paper with his finger. "Richling, do you think it's your mission to be a philanthropist?" "Isn't it everybody's mission?" replied Richling. "That's not what I asked you." "But you ask a question," said Richling, smiling down upon the subscription-paper as he folded it, "that nobody would like to answer." "Very well, then, you needn't answer. But, Richling,"--he pointed his long finger to the pocket of Richling's coat, where the subscription-list had disappeared,--"this sort of work--whether you distinctly propose to be a philanthropist or not--is right, of course. It's good. But it's the mere alphabet of beneficence. Richling, whenever philanthropy takes the _guise_ of philanthropy, look out. Confine your philanthropy--you can't do it entirely, but as much as you can--confine your philanthropy to the _motive_. It's the temptation of philanthropists to set aside the natural constitution of society wherever it seems out of order, and substitute some philanthropic machinery in its place. It's all wrong, Richling. Do as a good doctor would. Help nature." Richling looked down askance, pushed his fingers through his hair perplexedly, drew a deep breath, lifted his eyes to the Doctor's again, smiled incredulously, and rubbed his brow. "You don't see it?" asked the physician, in a tone of surprise. "O Doctor,"--throwing up a despairing hand,--"we're miles apart. I don't see how any work could be nobler. It looks to me"-- But Dr. Sevier interrupted. "--From an emotional stand-point, Richling. Richling,"--he changed his attitude again,--"if you _want_ to be a philanthropist, be cold-blooded." Richling laughed outright, but not heartily. "Well!" said his friend, with a shrug, as if he dismissed the whole matter. But when Richling moved, as if to rise, he restrained him. "Stop! I know you're in a hurry, but you may tell Reisen to blame me." "It's not Reisen so much as it's the work," replied Richling, but settled down again in his seat. "Richling, human benevolence--public benevolence--in its beginning was a mere nun on the battle-field, binding up wounds and wiping the damp from dying brows. But since then it has had time and opportunity to become strong, bold, masculine, potential. Once it had only the knowledge and power to alleviate evil consequences; now it has both the knowledge and the power to deal with evil causes. Now, I say to you, leave this emotional A B C of human charity to nuns and mite societies. It's a good work; let them do it. Give them money, if you can." "I see what you mean--I think," said Richling, slowly, and with a pondering eye. "I'm glad if you do," rejoined the Doctor, visibly relieved. "But that only throws a heavier responsibility upon strong men, if I understand it," said Richling, half interrogatively. "Certainly! Upon strong spirits, male or female. Upon spirits that can drive the axe low down into the causes of things, again and again and again, steadily, patiently, until at last some great evil towering above them totters and falls crashing to the earth, to be cut to pieces and burned in the fire. Richling, gather fagots for pastime if you like, though it's poor fun; but don't think that's your mission! _Don't_ be a fagot-gatherer! What are you smiling at?" "Your good opinion of me," answered Richling. "Doctor, I don't believe I'm fit for anything but a fagot-gatherer. But I'm willing to try." "Oh, bah!" The Doctor admired such humility as little as it deserved. "Richling, reduce the number of helpless orphans! Dig out the old roots of calamity! A spoon is not what you want; you want a _mattock_. Reduce crime and vice! Reduce squalor! Reduce the poor man's death-rate! Improve his tenements! Improve his hospitals! Carry sanitation into his workshops! Teach the trades! Prepare the poor for possible riches, and the rich for possible poverty! Ah--ah--Richling, I preach well enough, I think, but in practice I have missed it myself! Don't repeat my error!" "Oh, but you haven't missed it!" cried Richling. "Yes, but I have," said the Doctor. "Here I am, telling you to let your philanthropy be cold-blooded; why, I've always been hot-blooded." "I like the hot best," said Richling, quickly. "You ought to hate it," replied his friend. "It's been the root of all your troubles. Richling, God Almighty is unimpassioned. If he wasn't he'd be weak. You remember Young's line: 'A God all mercy is a God unjust.' The time has come when beneficence, to be real, must operate scientifically, not emotionally. Emotion is good; but it must follow, not guide. Here! I'll give you a single instance. Emotion never sells where it can give: that is an old-fashioned, effete benevolence. The new, the cold-blooded, is incomparably better: it never--to individual or to community--gives where it can sell. Your instincts have applied the rule to yourself; apply it to your fellow-man." "Ah!" said Richling, promptly, "that's another thing. It's not my business to apply it to them." "It _is_ your business to apply it to them. You have no right to do less." "And what will men say of me? At least--not that, but"-- The Doctor pointed upward. "They will say, 'I know thee, that thou art an hard man.'" His voice trembled. "But, Richling," he resumed with fresh firmness, "if you want to lead a long and useful life,--you say you do,--you must take my advice; you must deny yourself for a while; you must shelve these fine notions for a time. I tell you once more, you must endeavor to reëstablish your health as it was before--before they locked you up, you know. When that is done you can commence right there if you choose; I wish you would. Give the public--sell would be better, but it will hardly buy--a prison system less atrocious, less destructive of justice, and less promotive of crime and vice, than the one it has. By-the-by, I suppose you know that Raphael Ristofalo went to prison last night again?" Richling sprang to his feet. "For what? He hasn't"-- "Yes, sir; he has discovered the man who robbed him, and has killed him." Richling started away, but halted as the Doctor spoke again, rising from his seat and shaking out his legs. "He's not suffering any hardship. He's shrewd, you know,--has made arrangements with the keeper by which he secures very comfortable quarters. The star-chamber, I think they call the room he is in. He'll suffer very little restraint. Good-day!" He turned, as Richling left, to get his own hat and gloves. "Yes," he thought, as he passed slowly downstairs to his carriage, "I have erred." He was not only teaching, he was learning. To fight evil was not enough. People who wanted help for orphans did not come to him--they sent. They drew back from him as a child shrinks from a soldier. Even Alice, his buried Alice, had wept with delight when he gave her a smile, and trembled with fear at his frown. To fight evil is not enough. Everybody seemed to feel as though that were a war against himself. Oh for some one always to understand--never to fear--the frowning good intention of the lonely man! CHAPTER XXXIX. "PETTENT PRATE." It was about the time, in January, when clerks and correspondents were beginning to write '59 without first getting it '58, that Dr. Sevier, as one morning he approached his office, noticed with some grim amusement, standing among the brokers and speculators of Carondelet street, the baker, Reisen. He was earnestly conversing with and bending over a small, alert fellow, in a rakish beaver and very smart coat, with the blue flowers of modesty bunched saucily in one button-hole. Almost at the same moment Reisen saw the Doctor. He called his name aloud, and for all his ungainly bulk would have run directly to the carriage in the middle of the street, only that the Doctor made believe not to see, and in a moment was out of reach. But when, two or three hours later, the same vehicle came, tipping somewhat sidewise against the sidewalk at the Charity Hospital gate, and the Doctor stepped from it, there stood Reisen in waiting. "Toctor," he said, approaching and touching his hat, "I like to see you a minudt, uff you bleace, shtrict prifut." They moved slowly down the unfrequented sidewalk, along the garden wall. "Before you begin, Reisen, I want to ask you a question. I've noticed for a month past that Mr. Richling rides in your bread-carts alongside the drivers on their rounds. Don't you know you ought not to require such a thing as that from a person like Mr. Richling? Mr. Richling's a gentleman, Reisen, and you make him mount up in those bread-carts, and jump out every few minutes to deliver bread!" The Doctor's blood was not cold. "Vell, now!" drawled the baker, as the corners of his mouth retreated toward the back of his neck, "end't tat teh funn'est ting, ennahow! Vhy, tat iss yoost teh ferra ting fot I comin' to shpeak mit you apowdt udt!" He halted and looked at the Doctor to see how this coincidence struck him; but the Doctor merely moved on. "_I_ toant make him too udt," he continued, starting again; "he cumps to me sindts apowdt two-o-o mundts aco--ven I shtill feelin' a liddle veak, yet, fun teh yalla-feewa--undt yoost paygs me to let um too udt. 'Mr. Richlun,' sayss I to him, 'I toandt kin untershtayndt for vot you vawndts to too sich a ritickliss, Mr. Richlun!' Ovver he sayss, 'Mr. Reisen,'--he alvays callss me 'Mister,' undt tat iss one dting in puttickly vot I alvays tit li-i-iked apowdt Mr. Richlun,--'Mr. Reisen,' he sayss, 'toandt you aysk me te reason, ovver yoost let me co abate undt too udt!' Undt I voss a coin' to kiff udt up, alretty; ovver ten cumps in _Missess_ Reisen,--who iss a heap shmarter mayn as fot Reisen iss, I yoost tell you te ectsectly troot,--and she sayss, 'Reisen, you yoost tell Mr. Richlun, Mr. Richlun, you toadnt coin' to too sich a ritickliss!'" The speaker paused for effect. "Undt ten Mr. Richlun, he talks!--Schweedt?--Oh yendlemuns, toandt say nutting!" The baker lifted up his palm and swung it down against his thigh with a blow that sent the flour out in a little cloud. "I tell you, Toctor Tseweer, ven tat mayn vawndts to too udt, he kin yoost talk te mo-ust like a Christun fun enna mayn I neffa he-ut in mine li-i-fe! 'Missess Reisen,' he sayss, 'I vawndts to too udt pecause I vawndts to too udt.' Vell, how you coin' to arg-y ennating eagval mit Mr. Richlun? So teh upshodt iss he coes owdt in teh prate-cawts tistripputin' te prate!" Reisen threw his arms far behind him, and bowed low to his listener. Dr. Sevier had learned him well enough to beware of interrupting him, lest when he resumed it would be at the beginning again. He made no answer, and Reisen went on:-- "Bressently"-- He stopped his slow walk, brought forward both palms, shrugged, dropped them, bowed, clasped them behind him, brought the left one forward, dropped it, then the right one, dropped it also, frowned, smiled, and said:-- "Bressently"--then a long silence--"effrapotty in my etsteplitchmendt"--another long pause--"hef yoost teh same ettechmendt to Mr. Richlun,"--another interval,--"tey hef yoost tso much effection fur _him_"--another silence--"ass tey hef"--another, with a smile this time--"fur--te teffle himpselluf!" An oven opened in the baker's face, and emitted a softly rattling expiration like that of a bursted bellows. The Doctor neither smiled nor spoke. Reisen resumed:-- "I seen udt. I seen udt. Ovver I toandt coult untershtayndt udt. Ovver one tay cumps in mine little poy in to me fen te pakers voss all ashleep, 'Pap-a, Mr. Richlun sayss you shouldt come into teh offuss.' I kumpt in. Mr. Richlun voss tare, shtayndting yoost so--yoost so--py teh shtofe; undt, Toctor Tseweer, I yoost tell you te ectsectly troot, he toaldt in fife minudts--six minudts--seven minudts, udt may pe--undt shoadt me how effrapotty, high undt low, little undt pick, Tom, Tick, undt Harra, pin ropping me sindts more ass fife years!" The longest pause of all followed this disclosure. The baker had gradually backed the Doctor up against the wall, spreading out the whole matter with his great palms turned now upward and now downward, the bulky contents of his high-waisted, barn-door trowsers now bulged out and now withdrawn, to be protruded yet more a moment later. He recommenced by holding out his down-turned hand some distance above the ground. "I yoompt tot hoigh!" He blew his cheeks out, and rose a half-inch off his heels in recollection of the mighty leap. "Ovver Mr. Richlun sayss,--he sayss, 'Kip shtill, Mr. Reisen;' undt I kibt shtill." The baker's auditor was gradually drawing him back toward the hospital gate; but he continued speaking:-- "Py undt py, vun tay, I kot someting to say to Mr. _Richlun_, yet. Undt I sendts vert to Mr. _Richlun_ tat _he_ shouldt come into teh offuss. He cumps in. 'Mr. Richlun,' I sayss, sayss I to him, 'Mr. Richlun, I kot udt!'" The baker shook his finger in Dr. Sevier's face. "'I kot udt, udt layst, Mr. Richlun! I yoost het a _suspish'n_ sindts teh first tay fot I employedt you, ovver now I _know_ I kot udt!' Vell, sir, he yoost turnun so rate ass a flennen shirt!--'Mr. Reisen,' sayss he to me, 'fot iss udt fot you kot?' Undt sayss I to him, 'Mr. Richlun, udt iss you! Udt is _you_ fot I kot!'" Dr. Sevier stood sphinx-like, and once more Reisen went on. "'Yes, Mr. Richlun,'" still addressing the Doctor as though he were his book-keeper, "'I yoost layin, on my pett effra nighdt--effra nighdt, vi-i-ite ava-a-ake! undt in apowdt a veek I make udt owdt ut layst tot you, Mr. Richlun,'--I lookt um shtraight in te eye, undt he lookt me shtraight te same,--'tot, Mr. Richlun, _you_,' sayss I, 'not dtose fellehs fot pin py mo sindts more ass fife yearss, put _you_, Mr. Richlun, iss teh mayn!--teh mayn fot I--kin _trust_!'" The baker's middle parts bent out and his arms were drawn akimbo. Thus for ten seconds. "'Undt now, Mr. Richlun, do you kot teh shtrengdt for to shtart a noo pissness?'--Pecause, Toctor, udt pin seem to me Mr. Richlun kitten more undt more shecklun, undt toandt take tot meticine fot you kif um (ovver he sayss he toos). So ten he sayss to me, 'Mister Reisen, I am yoost so sollut undt shtrong like a pilly-coat! Fot is teh noo pissness?'--'Mr. Richlun,' sayss I, 've goin' to make pettent prate!'" "What?" asked the Doctor, frowning with impatience and venturing to interrupt at last. "_Pet-tent prate!_" The listener frowned heavier and shook his head. "_Pettent prate!_" "Oh! patent bread; yes. Well?" "Yes," said Reisen, "prate mate mit a mutcheen; mit copponic-essut kass into udt ploat pefore udt is paked. I pought teh pettent tiss mawning fun a yendleman in Garontelet shtreedt, alretty, naympt Kknox." "And what have I to do with all this?" asked the Doctor, consulting his watch, as he had already done twice before. "Vell," said Reisen, spreading his arms abroad, "I yoost taught you like to herr udt." "But what do you want to see me for? What have you kept me all this time to tell me--or ask me?" "Toctor,--you ugscooce me--ovver"--the baker held the Doctor by the elbow as he began to turn away--"Toctor Tseweer,"--the great face lighted up with a smile, the large body doubled partly together, and the broad left hand was held ready to smite the thigh,--"you shouldt see Mr. Richlun ven he fowndt owdt udt is goin' to lower teh price of prate! I taught he iss goin' to kiss Mississ Reisen!" CHAPTER XL. SWEET BELLS JANGLED. Those who knew New Orleans just before the civil war, even though they saw it only along its riverfront from the deck of some steam-boat, may easily recall a large sign painted high up on the side of the old "Triangle Building," which came to view through the dark web of masts and cordage as one drew near St. Mary's Market. "Steam Bakery" it read. And such as were New Orleans householders, or by any other chance enjoyed the experience of making their way in the early morning among the hundreds of baskets that on hundreds of elbows moved up and down along and across the quaint gas-lit arcades of any of the market-houses, must remember how, about this time or a little earlier, there began to appear on one of the tidiest of bread-stalls in each of these market-houses a new kind of bread. It was a small, densely compacted loaf of the size and shape of a badly distorted brick. When broken, it divided into layers, each of which showed--"teh bprindt of teh kkneading-mutcheen," said Reisen to Narcisse; "yoost like a tsoda crecker!" These two persons had met by chance at a coffee-stand one beautiful summer dawn in one of the markets,--the Tréiné, most likely,--where, perched on high stools at a zinc-covered counter, with the smell of fresh blood on the right and of stale fish on the left, they had finished half their cup of _café au lait_ before they awoke to the exhilarating knowledge of each other's presence. "Yesseh," said Narcisse, "now since you 'ave wemawk the mention of it, I think I have saw that va'iety of bwead." "Oh, surely you poundt to a-seedt udt. A uckly little prown dting"-- "But cook well," said Narcisse. "Yayss," drawled the baker. It was a fact that he had to admit. "An' good flou'," persisted the Creole. "Yayss," said the smiling manufacturer. He could not deny that either. "An' honness weight!" said Narcisse, planting his empty cup in his saucer, with the energy of his asservation; "an', Mr. Bison, thass a ve'y seldom thing." "Yayss," assented Reisen, "ovver tat prate is mighdy dtry, undt shtickin' in ten dtroat." "No, seh!" said the flatterer, with a generous smile. "Egscuse me--I diffeh fum you. 'Tis a beaucheouz bwead. Yesseh. And eve'y loaf got the name beaucheouzly pwint on the top, with 'Patent'--sich an' sich a time. 'Tis the tooth, Mr. Bison, I'm boun' to congwatu_late_ you on that bwead." "O-o-oh! tat iss not _mine_ prate," exclaimed the baker. "Tat iss not fun mine etsteplitchmendt. Oh, no! Tatt iss te prate--I'm yoost dtellin' you--tat iss te prate fun tat fellah py teh Sunk-Mary's Morrikit-house! Tat's teh 'shteam prate'. I to-undt know for vot effrapotty puys tat prate annahow! Ovver you yoost vait dtill you see _mine_ prate!" "Mr. Bison," said Narcisse, "Mr. Bison,"--he had been trying to stop him and get in a word of his own, but could not,--"I don't know if you--Mr.--Mr. Bison, in fact, you din unde'stood me. Can that be poss'ble that you din notiz that I was speaking in my i'ony about that bwead? Why, of co'se! Thass juz my i'onious cuztom, Mr. Bison. Thass one thing I dunno if you 'ave notiz about that 'steam bwead,' Mr. Bison, but with me that bwead always stick in my th'oat; an' yet I kin swallow mose anything, in fact. No, Mr. Bison, yo' bwead is deztyned to be the bwead; and I tell you how 'tis with me, I juz gladly eat yo' bwead eve'y time I kin git it! Mr. Bison, in fact you don't know me ve'y in_tim_itly, but you will oblige me ve'y much indeed to baw me five dollahs till tomaw--save me fum d'awing a check!" The German thrust his hand slowly and deeply into his pocket. "I alvayss like to oplyche a yendleman,"--he smiled benignly, drew out a toothpick, and added,--"ovver I nivveh bporrah or lend to ennabodda." "An' then," said Narcisse, promptly, "'tis imposs'ble faw anybody to be offended. Thass the bess way, Mr. Bison." "Yayss," said the baker, "I tink udt iss." As they were parting, he added: "Ovver you vait dtill you see _mine_ prate!" "I'll do it, seh!-- And, Mr. Bison, you muzn't think anything about that, my not bawing that five dollars fum you, Mr. Bison, because that don't make a bit o' dif'ence; an' thass one thing I like about you, Mr. Bison, you don't baw yo' money to eve'y Dick, Tom, an' Hawwy, do you?" "No, I dtoandt. Ovver, you yoost vait"-- And certainly, after many vexations, difficulties, and delays, that took many a pound of flesh from Reisen's form, the pretty, pale-brown, fragrant white loaves of "aërated bread" that issued from the Star Bakery in Benjamin street were something pleasant to see, though they did not lower the price. Richling's old liking for mechanical apparatus came into play. He only, in the establishment, thoroughly understood the new process, and could be certain of daily, or rather nightly, uniform results. He even made one or two slight improvements in it, which he contemplated with ecstatic pride, and long accounts of which he wrote to Mary. In a generous and innocent way Reisen grew a little jealous of his accountant, and threw himself into his business as he had not done before since he was young, and in the ardor of his emulation ignored utterly a state of health that was no better because of his great length and breadth. "Toctor Tseweer!" he said, as the physician appeared one day in his office. "Vell, now, I yoost pet finfty tawllars tat iss Mississ Reisen sendts for you tat I'm sick! Ven udt iss not such a dting!" He laughed immoderately. "Ovver I'm gladt you come, Toctor, ennahow, for you pin yoost in time to see ever'ting runnin'. I vish you yoost come undt see udt!" He grinned in his old, broad way; but his face was anxious, and his bared arms were lean. He laid his hand on the Doctor's arm, and then jerked it away, and tried to blow off the floury print of his fingers. "Come!" He beckoned. "Come; I show you somedting putiful. Toctor, I _vizh_ you come!" The Doctor yielded. Richling had to be called upon at last to explain the hidden parts and processes. "It's yoost like putt'n' te shpirudt into teh potty," said the laughing German. "Now, tat prate kot life in udt yoost teh same like your own selluf, Toctor. Tot prate kot yoost so much sense ass Reisen kot. Ovver, Toctor--Toctor"--the Doctor was giving his attention to Richling, who was explaining something--"Toctor, toandt you come here uxpectin' to see nopoty sick, less-n udt iss Mr. Richlun." He caught Richling's face roughly between his hands, and then gave his back a caressing thwack. "Toctor, vot you dtink? Ve goin' teh run prate-cawts mit copponic-essut kass. Tispense mit hawses!" He laughed long but softly, and smote Richling again as the three walked across the bakery yard abreast. "Well?" said Dr. Sevier to Richling, in a low tone, "always working toward the one happy end." Richling had only time to answer with his eyes, when the baker, always clinging close to them, said, "Yes; if I toandt look oudt yet, he pe rich pefore Reisen." The Doctor looked steadily at Richling, stood still, and said, "Don't hurry." But Richling swung playfully half around on his heel, dropped his glance, and jerked his head sidewise, as one who neither resented the advice nor took it. A minute later he drew from his breast-pocket a small, thick letter stripped of its envelope, and handed it to the Doctor, who put it into his pocket, neither of them speaking. The action showed practice. Reisen winked one eye laboriously at the Doctor and chuckled. "See here, Reisen," said the Doctor, "I want you to pack your trunk, take the late boat, and go to Biloxi or Pascagoula, and spend a month fishing and sailing." The baker pushed his fingers up under his hat, scratched his head, smiled widely, and pointed at Richling. "Sendt him." The Doctor went and sat down with Reisen, and used every form of inducement that could be brought to bear; but the German had but one answer: Richling, Richling, not he. The Doctor left a prescription, which the baker took until he found it was making him sleep while Richling was at work, whereupon he amiably threw it out of his window. It was no surprise to Dr. Sevier that Richling came to him a few days later with a face all trouble. "How are you, Richling? How's Reisen?" "Doctor," said Richling, "I'm afraid Mr. Reisen is"--Their eyes met. "Insane," said the Doctor. "Yes." "Does his wife know whether he has ever had such symptoms before--in his life?" "She says he hasn't." "I suppose you know his pecuniary condition perfectly; has he money?" "Plenty." "He'll not consent to go away anywhere, I suppose, will he?" "Not an inch." "There's but one sensible and proper course, Richling; he must be taken at once, by force if necessary, to a first-class insane hospital." "Why, Doctor, why? Can't we treat him better at home?" The Doctor gave his head its well-known swing of impatience. "If you want to be _criminally_ in error try that!" "I don't want to be in error at all," retorted Richling. "Then don't lose twelve hours that you can save, but send him off as soon as process of court will let you." "Will you come at once and see him?" asked Richling, rising up. "Yes, I'll be there nearly as soon as you will. Stop; you had better ride with me; I have something special to say." As the carriage started off, the Doctor leaned back in its cushions, folded his arms, and took a long, meditative breath. Richling glanced at him and said:-- "We're both thinking of the same person." "Yes," replied the Doctor; "and the same day, too, I suppose: the first day I ever saw her; the only other time that we ever got into this carriage together. Hmm! hmm! With what a fearful speed time flies!" "Sometimes," said the yearning husband, and apologized by a laugh. The Doctor grunted, looked out of the carriage window, and, suddenly turning, asked:-- "Do you know that Reisen instructed his wife about six months ago, in the event of his death or disability, to place all her interests in your hands, and to be guided by your advice in everything?" "Oh!" exclaimed Richling, "he can't do that! He should have asked my consent." "I suppose he knew he wouldn't get it. He's a cunning simpleton." "But, Doctor, if you knew this"--Richling ceased. "Six months ago. Why didn't I tell you?" said the physician. "I thought I would, Richling, though Reisen bade me not, when he told me; I made no promise. But time, that you think goes slow, was too fast for me." "I shall refuse to serve," said Richling, soliloquizing aloud. "Don't you see, Doctor, the delicacy of the position?" "Yes, I do; but you don't. Don't you see it would be just as delicate a matter for you to refuse?" Richling pondered, and presently said, quite slowly:-- "It will look like coming down out of the tree to catch the apples as they fall," he said. "Why," he added with impatience, "it lays me wide open to suspicion and slander." "Does it?" asked the Doctor, heartlessly. "There's nothing remarkable in that. Did any one ever occupy a responsible position without those conditions?" "But, you know, I have made some unscrupulous enemies by defending Reisen's interests." "Um-hmm; what did you defend them for?" Richling was about to make a reply; but the Doctor wanted none. "Richling," he said, "the most of men have burrows. They never let anything decoy them so far from those burrows but they can pop into them at a moment's notice. Do you take my meaning?" "Oh, yes!" said Richling, pleasantly; "no trouble to understand you this time. I'll not run into any burrow just now. I'll face my duty and think of Mary." He laughed. "Excellent pastime," responded Dr. Sevier. They rode on in silence. "As to"--began Richling again,--"as to such matters as these, once a man confronts the question candidly, there is really no room, that I can see, for a man to choose: a man, at least, who is always guided by conscience." "If there were such a man," responded the Doctor. "True," said John. "But for common stuff, such as you and I are made of, it must sometimes be terrible." "I dare say," said Richling. "It sometimes requires cold blood to choose aright." "As cold as granite," replied the other. They arrived at the bakery. "O Doctor," said Mrs. Reisen, proffering her hand as he entered the house, "my poor hussband iss crazy!" She dropped into a chair and burst into tears. She was a large woman, with a round, red face and triple chin, but with a more intelligent look and a better command of English than Reisen. "Doctor, I want you to cure him ass quick ass possible." "Well, madam, of course; but will you do what I say?" "I will, certain shure. I do it yust like you tellin' me." The Doctor gave her such good advice as became a courageous physician. A look of dismay came upon her. Her mouth dropped open. "Oh, no, Doctor!" She began to shake her head. "I'll never do tha-at; oh, no; I'll never send my poor hussband to the crazy-house! Oh, no, sir; I'll do not such a thing!" There was some resentment in her emotion. Her nether lip went up like a crying babe's, and she breathed through her nostrils audibly. "Oh, yes, I know!" said the poor creature, turning her face away from the Doctor's kind attempts to explain, and lifting it incredulously as she talked to the wall,--"I know all about it. I'm not a-goin' to put no sich a disgrace on my poor hussband; no, indeed!" She faced around suddenly and threw out her hand to Richling, who leaned against a door twisting a bit of string between his thumbs. "Why, he wouldn't go, nohow, even if I gave my consents. You caynt coax him out of his room yet. Oh, no, Doctor! It's my duty to keep him wid me an' try to cure him first a little while here at home. That aint no trouble to me; I don't never mind no trouble if I can be any help to my hussband." She addressed the wall again. "Well, madam," replied the physician, with unusual tenderness of tone, and looking at Richling while he spoke, "of course you'll do as you think best." "Oh! my poor Reisen!" exclaimed the wife, wringing her hands. "Yes," said the physician, rising and looking out of the window, "I am afraid it will be ruin to Reisen." "No, it won't be such a thing," said Mrs. Reisen, turning this way and that in her chair as the physician moved from place to place. "Mr. Richlin',"--turning to him,--"Mr. Richlin' and me kin run the business yust so good as Reisen." She shifted her distressed gaze back and forth from Richling to the Doctor. The latter turned to Richling:-- "I'll have to leave this matter to you." Richling nodded. "Where is Reisen?" asked the Doctor. "In his own room, upstairs?" The three passed through an inner door. CHAPTER XLI. MIRAGE. "This spoils some of your arrangements, doesn't it?" asked Dr. Sevier of Richling, stepping again into his carriage. He had already said the kind things, concerning Reisen, that physicians commonly say when they have little hope. "Were you not counting on an early visit to Milwaukee?" Richling laughed. "That illusion has been just a little beyond reach for months." He helped the Doctor shut his carriage-door. "But now, of course--" said the physician. "Of course it's out of the question," replied Richling; and the Doctor drove away, with the young man's face in his mind bearing an expression of simple emphasis that pleased him much. Late at night Richling, in his dingy little office, unlocked a drawer, drew out a plump package of letters, and began to read their pages,--transcripts of his wife's heart, pages upon pages, hundreds of precious lines, dates crowding closely one upon another. Often he smiled as his eyes ran to and fro, or drew a soft sigh as he turned the page, and looked behind to see if any one had stolen in and was reading over his shoulder. Sometimes his smile broadened; he lifted his glance from the sheet and fixed it in pleasant revery on the blank wall before him. Often the lines were entirely taken up with mere utterances of affection. Now and then they were all about little Alice, who had fretted all the night before, her gums being swollen and tender on the upper left side near the front; or who had fallen violently in love with the house-dog, by whom, in turn, the sentiment was reciprocated; or whose eyes were really getting bluer and bluer, and her cheeks fatter and fatter, and who seemed to fear nothing that had existence. And the reader of the lines would rest one elbow on the desk, shut his eyes in one hand, and see the fair young head of the mother drooping tenderly over that smaller head in her bosom. Sometimes the tone of the lines was hopefully grave, discussing in the old tentative, interrogative key the future and its possibilities. Some pages were given to reminiscences,--recollections of all the droll things and all the good and glad things of the rugged past. Every here and there, but especially where the lines drew toward the signature, the words of longing multiplied, but always full of sunshine; and just at the end of each letter love spurned its restraints, and rose and overflowed with sweet confessions. Sometimes these re-read letters did Richling good; not always. Maybe he read them too often. It was only the very next time that the Doctor's carriage stood before the bakery that the departing physician turned before he reëntered the vehicle, and--whatever Richling had been saying to him--said abruptly:-- "Richling, are you falling out of love with your work?" "Why do you ask me that?" asked the young man, coloring. "Because I no longer see that joy of deliverance with which you entered upon this humble calling. It seems to have passed like a lost perfume, Richling. Have you let your toil become a task once more?" Richling dropped his eyes and pushed the ground with the toe of his boot. "I didn't want you to find that out, Doctor." "I was afraid, from the first, it would be so," said the physician. "I don't see why you were." "Well, I saw that the zeal with which you first laid hold of your work was not entirely natural. It was good, but it was partly artificial,--the more credit to you on that account. But I saw that by and by you would have to keep it up mainly by your sense of necessity and duty. 'That'll be the pinch,' I said; and now I see it's come. For a long time you idealized the work; but at last its real dulness has begun to overcome you, and you're discontented--and with a discontentment that you can't justify, can you?" "But I feel myself growing smaller again." "No wonder. Why, Richling, it's the discontent makes that." "Oh, no! The discontent makes me long to expand. I never had so much ambition before. But what can I do here? Why, Doctor, I ought to be--I might be"-- The physician laid a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Stop, Richling. Drop those phrases and give us a healthy 'I am,' and 'I must,' and 'I will.' Don't--_don't_ be like so many! You're not of the many. Richling, in the first illness in which I ever attended your wife, she watched her chance and asked me privately--implored me--not to let her die, for your sake. I don't suppose that tortures could have wrung from her, even if she realized it,--which I doubt,--the true reason. But don't you feel it? It was because your moral nature needs her so badly. Stop--let me finish. You need Mary back here now to hold you square to your course by the tremendous power of her timid little 'Don't you think?' and 'Doesn't it seem?'" "Doctor," replied Richling, with a smile of expostulation, "you touch one's pride." "Certainly I do. You're willing enough to say that you love her and long for her, but not that your moral manhood needs her. And yet isn't it true?" "It sha'n't be true," said Richling, swinging a playful fist. "'Forewarned is forearmed;' I'll not allow it. I'm man enough for that." He laughed, with a touch of pique. "Richling,"--the Doctor laid a finger against his companion's shoulder, preparing at the same time to leave him,--"don't be misled. A man who doesn't need a wife isn't fit to have one." "Why, Doctor," replied Richling, with sincere amiability, "you're the man of all men I should have picked out to prove the contrary." "No, Richling, no. I wasn't fit, and God took her." In accordance with Dr. Sevier's request Richling essayed to lift the mind of the baker's wife, in the matter of her husband's affliction, to that plane of conviction where facts, and not feelings, should become her motive; and when he had talked until his head reeled, as though he had been blowing a fire, and she would not blaze for all his blowing--would be governed only by a stupid sentimentality; and when at length she suddenly flashed up in silly anger and accused him of interested motives; and when he had demanded instant retraction or release from her employment; and when she humbly and affectionately apologized, and was still as deep as ever in hopeless, clinging sentimentalisms, repeating the dictums of her simple and ignorant German neighbors and intimates, and calling them in to argue with him, the feeling that the Doctor's exhortation had for the moment driven away came back with more force than ever, and he could only turn again to his ovens and account-books with a feeling of annihilation. "Where am I? What am I?" Silence was the only answer. The separation that had once been so sharp a pain had ceased to cut, and was bearing down upon him now with that dull, grinding weight that does the damage in us. Presently came another development: the lack of money, that did no harm while it was merely kept in the mind, settled down upon the heart. "It may be a bad thing to love, but it's a good thing to have," he said, one day, to the little rector, as this friend stood by him at a corner of the high desk where Richling was posting his ledger. "But not to seek," said the rector. Richling posted an item and shook his head doubtingly. "That depends, I should say, on how much one seeks it, and how much of it he seeks." "No," insisted the clergyman. Richling bent a look of inquiry upon him, and he added:-- "The principle is bad, and you know it, Richling. 'Seek ye first'--you know the text, and the assurance that follows with it--'all these things shall be added'"-- "Oh, yes; but still"-- "'But still!'" exclaimed the little preacher; "why must everybody say 'but still'? Don't you see that that 'but still' is the refusal of Christians to practise Christianity?" Richling looked, but said nothing; and his friend hoped the word had taken effect. But Richling was too deeply bitten to be cured by one or two good sayings. After a moment he said:-- "I used to wonder to see nearly everybody struggling to be rich, but I don't now. I don't justify it, but I understand it. It's flight from oblivion. It's the natural longing to be seen and felt." "Why isn't it enough to be felt?" asked the other. "Here, you make bread and sell it. A thousand people eat it from your hand every day. Isn't that something?" "Yes; but it's all the bread. The bread's everything; I'm nothing. I'm not asked to do or to be. I may exist or not; there will be bread all the same. I see my remark pains you, but I can't help it. You've never tried the thing. You've never encountered the mild contempt that people in ease pay to those who pursue the 'industries.' You've never suffered the condescension of rank to the ranks. You don't know the smart of being only an arithmetical quantity in a world of achievements and possessions." "No," said the preacher, "maybe I haven't. But I should say you are just the sort of man that ought to come through all that unsoured and unhurt. Richling,"--he put on a lighter mood,--"you've got a moral indigestion. You've accustomed yourself to the highest motives, and now these new notions are not the highest, and you know and feel it. They don't nourish you. They don't make you happy. Where are your old sentiments? What's become of them?" "Ah!" said Richling, "I got them from my wife. And the supply's nearly run out." "Get it renewed!" said the little man, quickly, putting on his hat and extending a farewell hand. "Excuse me for saying so. I didn't intend it; I dropped in to ask you again the name of that Italian whom you visit at the prison,--the man I promised you I'd go and talk to. Yes--Ristofalo; that's it. Good-by." That night Richling wrote to his wife. What he wrote goes not down here; but he felt as he wrote that his mood was not the right one, and when Mary got the letter she answered by first mail:-- "Will you not let me come to you? Is it not surely best? Say but the word, and I'll come. It will be the steamer to Chicago, railroad to Cairo, and a St. Louis boat to New Orleans. Alice will be both company and protection, and no burden at all. O my beloved husband! I am just ungracious enough to think, some days, that these times of separation are the hardest of all. When we were suffering sickness and hunger together--well, we were _together_. Darling, if you'll just say come, I'll come in an _instant_. Oh, how gladly! Surely, with what you tell me you've saved, and with your place so secure to you, can't we venture to begin again? Alice and I can live with you in the bakery. O my husband! if you but say the word, a little time--a few days will bring us into your arms. And yet, do not yield to my impatience; I trust your wisdom, and know that what you decide will be best. Mother has been very feeble lately, as I have told you; but she seems to be improving, and now I see what I've half suspected for a long time, and ought to have seen sooner, that my husband--my dear, dear husband--needs me most; and I'm coming--I'm _coming_, John, if you'll only say come. Your loving MARY." CHAPTER XLII. RISTOFALO AND THE RECTOR. Be Richling's feelings what they might, the Star Bakery shone in the retail firmament of the commercial heavens with new and growing brilliancy. There was scarcely time to talk even with the tough little rector who hovers on the borders of this history, and he might have become quite an alien had not Richling's earnest request made him one day a visitor, as we have seen him express his intention of being, in the foul corridors of the parish prison, and presently the occupant of a broken chair in the apartment apportioned to Raphael Ristofalo and two other prisoners. "Easy little tasks you cut out for your friends," said the rector to Richling when next they met. "I got preached _to_--not to say edified. I'll share my edification with you!" He told his experience. It was a sinister place, the prison apartment. The hand of Kate Ristofalo had removed some of its unsightly conditions and disguised others; but the bounds of the room, walls, ceiling, windows, floor, still displayed, with official unconcern, the grime and decay that is commonly thought good enough for men charged, rightly or wrongly, with crime. The clergyman's chair was in the centre of the floor. Ristofalo sat facing him a little way off on the right. A youth of nineteen sat tipped against the wall on the left, and a long-limbed, big-boned, red-shirted young Irishman occupied a poplar table, hanging one of his legs across a corner of it and letting the other down to the floor. Ristofalo remarked, in the form of polite acknowledgment, that the rector had preached to the assembled inmates of the prison on the Sunday previous. "Did I say anything that you thought was true?" asked the minister. The Italian smiled in the gentle manner that never failed him. "Didn't listen much," he said. He drew from a pocket of his black velveteen pantaloons a small crumpled tract. It may have been a favorite one with the clergyman, for the youth against the wall produced its counterpart, and the man on the edge of the table lay back on his elbow, and, with an indolent stretch of the opposite arm and both legs, drew a third one from a tin cup that rested on a greasy shelf behind him. The Irishman held his between his fingers and smirked a little toward the floor. Ristofalo extended his toward the visitor, and touched the caption with one finger: "Mercy offered." "Well," asked the rector, pleasantly, "what's the matter with that?" "Is no use yeh. Wrong place--this prison." "Um-hm," said the tract-distributor, glancing down at the leaf and smoothing it on his knee while he took time to think. "Well, why shouldn't mercy be offered here?" "No," replied Ristofalo, still smiling; "ought offer justice first." "Mr. Preacher," asked the young Irishman, bringing both legs to the front, and swinging them under the table, "d'ye vote?" "Yes; I vote." "D'ye call yerself a cidizen--with a cidizen's rights an' djuties?" "I do." "That's right." There was a deep sea of insolence in the smooth-faced, red-eyed smile that accompanied the commendation. "And how manny times have ye bean in this prison?" "I don't know; eight or ten times. That rather beats you, doesn't it?" Ristofalo smiled, the youth uttered a high rasping cackle, and the Irishman laughed the heartiest of all. "A little," he said; "a little. But nivver mind. Ye say ye've bin here eight or tin times; yes. Well, now, will I tell ye what I'd do afore and iver I'd kim back here ag'in,--if I was you now? Will I tell ye?" "Well, yes," replied the visitor, amiably; "I'd like to know." "Well, surr, I'd go to the mair of this city and to the judge of the criminal coort, and to the gov'ner of the Sta-ate, and to the ligislatur, if needs be, and I'd say, 'Gintlemin, I can't go back to that prison! There is more crimes a-being committed by the people outside ag'in the fellies in theyre than--than--than the--the fellies in theyre has committed ag'in the people! I'm ashamed to preach theyre! I'm afeered to do ud!'" The speaker slipped off the table, upon his feet. "'There's murrder a-goun' on in theyre! There's more murrder a-bein' done in theyre nor there is outside! Justice is a-bein' murdered theyre ivery hour of day and night!'" He brandished his fist with the last words, but dropped it at a glance from Ristofalo, and began to pace the floor along his side of the room, looking with a heavy-browed smile back and forth from one fellow-captive to the other. He waited till the visitor was about to speak, and then interrupted, pointing at him suddenly:-- "Ye're a Prodez'n preacher! I'll bet ye fifty dollars ye have a rich cherch! Full of leadin' cidizens!" "You're correct." "Well, I'd go an'--an'--an' I'd say, 'Dawn't ye nivver ax me to go into that place ag'in a-pallaverin' about mercy, until ye gid ud chaynged from the hell on earth it is to a house of justice, wheyre min gits the sintences that the coorts decrees!' _I_ don't complain in here. _He_ don't complain," pointing to Ristofalo; "ye'll nivver hear a complaint from him. But go look in that yaird!" He threw up both hands with a grimace of disgust--"Aw!"--and ceased again, but continued his walk, looked at his fellows, and resumed:-- "_I_ listened to yer sermon. I heerd ye talkin' about the souls of uz. Do ye think ye kin make anny of thim min believe ye cayre for the souls of us whin ye do nahthing for the _bodies_ that's before yer eyes tlothed in rrags and stairved, and made to sleep on beds of brick and stone, and to receive a hundred abuses a day that was nivver intended to be a pairt of _anny_body's sintince--and manny of'm not tried yit, an' nivver a-goun' to have annythin' proved ag'in 'm? How _can_ ye come offerin' uz merrcy? For ye don't come out o' the tloister, like a poor Cat'lic priest or Sister. Ye come rright out o' the hairt o' the community that's a-committin' more crimes ag'in uz in here than all of us together has iver committed outside. Aw!--Bring us a better airticle of yer own justice ferst--I doan't cayre how _crool_ it is, so ut's _justice_--an' _thin_ preach about God's mercy. I'll listen to ye." Ristofalo had kept his eyes for the most of the time on the floor, smiling sometimes more and sometimes less. Now, however, he raised them and nodded to the clergyman. He approved all that had been said. The Irishman went and sat again on the table and swung his legs. The visitor was not allowed to answer before, and must answer now. He would have been more comfortable at the rectory. "My friend," he began, "suppose, now, I should say that you are pretty nearly correct in everything you've said?" The prisoner, who, with hands grasping the table's edge on either side of him, was looking down at his swinging brogans, simply lifted his lurid eyes without raising his head, and nodded. "It would be right," he seemed to intimate, "but nothing great." "And suppose I should say that I'm glad I've heard it, and that I even intend to make good use of it?" His hearer lifted his head, better pleased, but not without some betrayal of the distrust which a lower nature feels toward the condescensions of a higher. The preacher went on:-- "Would you try to believe what I have to add to that?" "Yes, I'd try," replied the Irishman, looking facetiously from the youth to Ristofalo. But this time the Italian was grave, and turned his glance expectantly upon the minister, who presently replied:-- "Well, neither my church nor the community has sent me here at all." The Irishman broke into a laugh. "Did God send ye?" He looked again to his comrades, with an expanded grin. The youth giggled. The clergyman met the attack with serenity, waited a moment and then responded:-- "Well, in one sense, I don't mind saying--yes." "Well," said the Irishman, still full of mirth, and swinging his legs with fresh vigor, "he'd aht to 'a' sint ye to the ligislatur." "I'm in hopes he will," said the little rector; "but"--checking the Irishman's renewed laughter--"tell me why should other men's injustice in here stop me from preaching God's mercy?" "Because it's pairt _your_ injustice! Ye _do_ come from yer cherch, an' ye _do_ come from the community, an' ye can't deny ud, an' ye'd ahtn't to be comin' in here with yer sweet tahk and yer eyes tight shut to the crimes that's bein' committed ag'in uz for want of an outcry against 'em by you preachers an' prayers an' thract-disthributors." The speaker ceased and nodded fiercely. Then a new thought occurred to him, and he began again abruptly:-- "Look ut here! Ye said in yer serrmon that as to Him"--he pointed through the broken ceiling--"we're all criminals alike, didn't ye?" "I did," responded the preacher, in a low tone. "Yes," said Ristofalo; and the boy echoed the same word. "Well, thin, what rights has some to be out an' some to be in?" "Only one right that I know of," responded the little man; "still that is a good one." "And that is--?" prompted the Irishman. "Society's right to protect itself." "Yes," said the prisoner, "to protect itself. Thin what right has it to keep a prison like this, where every man an' woman as goes out of ud goes out a blacker devil, and cunninger devil, and a more dangerous devil, nor when he came in? Is that anny protection? Why shouldn't such a prison tumble down upon the heads of thim as built it? Say." "I expect you'll have to ask somebody else," said the rector. He rose. "Ye're not a-goun'!" exclaimed the Irishman, in broad affectation of surprise. "Yes." "Ah! come, now! Ye're not goun' to be beat that a-way by a wild Mick o' the woods?" He held himself ready for a laugh. "No, I'm coming back," said the smiling clergyman, and the laugh came. "That's right! But"--as if the thought was a sudden one--"I'll be dead by thin, willn't I? Of coorse I will." "Yes?" rejoined the clergyman. "How's that?" The Irishman turned to the Italian. "Mr. Ristofalo, we're a-goin to the pinitintiary, aint we?" Ristofalo nodded. "Of coorse we air! Ah! Mr. Preechur, that's the place!" "Worse than this?" "Worse? Oh, no! It's better. This is slow death, but that's quick and short--and sure. If it don't git ye in five year', ye're an allygatur. This place? It's heaven to ud!" CHAPTER XLIII. SHALL SHE COME OR STAY? Richling read Mary's letter through three times without a smile. The feeling that he had prompted the missive--that it was partly his--stood between him and a tumult of gladness. And yet when he closed his eyes he could see Mary, all buoyancy and laughter, spurning his claim to each and every stroke of the pen. It was all hers, all! As he was slowly folding the sheet Mrs. Reisen came in upon him. It was one of those excessively warm spring evenings that sometimes make New Orleans fear it will have no May. The baker's wife stood with her immense red hands thrust into the pockets of an expansive pinafore, and her three double chins glistening with perspiration. She bade her manager a pleasant good-evening. Richling inquired how she had left her husband. "Kviet, Mr. Richlin', kviet. Mr. Richlin', I pelief Reisen kittin petter. If he don't gittin' better, how come he'ss every day a little more kvieter, and sit' still and don't say nutting to nobody?" "Mrs. Reisen, my wife is asking me to send for her"--Richling gave the folded letter a little shake as he held it by one corner--"to come down here and live again." "Now, Mr. Richlin'?" "Yes." "Well, I will shwear!" She dropped into a seat. "Right in de bekinning o' summer time! Vell, vell, vell! And you told me Mrs. Richling is a sentsible voman! Vell, I don't belief dat I efer see a young voman w'at aint de pickest kind o' fool apowt her hussbandt. Vell, vell!--And she comin' down heah 'n' choost kittin' all your money shpent, 'n' den her mudter kittin' vorse 'n' she got 'o go pack akin!" "Why, Mrs. Reisen," exclaimed Richling, warmly. "you speak as if you didn't want her to come." He contrived to smile as he finished. "Vell,--of--course! _You_ don't vant her to come, do you?" Richling forced a laugh. "Seems to me 'twould be natural if I did, Mrs. Reisen. Didn't the preacher say, when we were married, 'Let no man put asunder'?" "Oh, now, Mr. Richlin', dere aindt nopotty a-koin' to put you under!--'less-n it's your vife. Vot she want to come down for? Don't I takin' koot care you?" There was a tear in her eye as she went out. An hour or so later the little rector dropped in. "Richling, I came to see if I did any damage the last time I was here. My own words worried me." "You were afraid," responded Richling, "that I would understand you to recommend me to send for my wife." "Yes." "I didn't understand you so." "Well, my mind's relieved." "Mine isn't," said Richling. He laid down his pen and gathered his fingers around one knee. "Why shouldn't I send for her?" "You will, some day." "But I mean now." The clergyman shook his head pleasantly. "I don't think that's what you mean." "Well, let that pass. I know what I do mean. I mean to get out of this business. I've lived long enough with these savages." A wave of his hand indicated the whole _personnel_ of the bread business. "I would try not to mind their savageness, Richling," said the little preacher, slowly. "The best of us are only savages hid under a harness. If we're not, we've somehow made a loss." Richling looked at him with amused astonishment, but he persisted. "I'm in earnest! We've had something refined out of us that we shouldn't have parted with. Now, there's Mrs. Reisen. I like her. She's a good woman. If the savage can stand you, why can't you stand the savage?" "Yes, true enough. Yet--well, I must get out of this, anyway." The little man clapped him on the shoulder. "_Climb_ out. See here, you Milwaukee man,"--he pushed Richling playfully,--"what are _you_ doing with these Southern notions of ours about the 'yoke of menial service,' anyhow?" "I was not born in Milwaukee," said Richling. "And you'll not die with these notions, either," retorted the other. "Look here, I am going. Good-by. You've got to get rid of them, you know, before your wife comes. I'm glad you are not going to send for her now." "I didn't say I wasn't." "I wouldn't." "Oh, you don't know what you'd do," said Richling. The little preacher eyed him steadily for a moment, and then slowly returned to where he still sat holding his knee. They had a long talk in very quiet tones. At the end the rector asked:-- "Didn't you once meet Dr. Sevier's two nieces--at his house?" "Yes," said Richling. "Do you remember the one named Laura?--the dark, flashing one?" "Yes." "Well,--oh, pshaw! I could tell you something funny, but I don't care to do it." What he did not care to tell was, that she had promised him five years before to be his wife any day when he should say the word. In all that time, and this very night, one letter, one line almost, and he could have ended his waiting; but he was not seeking his own happiness. They smiled together. "Well, good-by again. Don't think I'm always going to persecute you with my solicitude." "I'm not worth it," said Richling, slipping slowly down from his high stool and letting the little man out into the street. A little way down the street some one coming out of a dark alley just in time to confront the clergyman extended a hand in salutation. "Good-evenin', Mr. Blank." He took the hand. It belonged to a girl of eighteen, bareheaded and barefooted, holding in the other hand a small oil-can. Her eyes looked steadily into his. "You don't know me," she said, pleasantly. "Why, yes, now I remember you. You're Maggie." "Yes," replied the girl. "Don't you recollect--in the mission-school? Don't you recollect you married me and Larry? That's two years ago." She almost laughed out with pleasure. "And where's Larry?" "Why, don't you recollect? He's on the sloop-o'-war _Preble_." Then she added more gravely: "I aint seen him in twenty months. But I know he's all right. I aint a-scared about _that_--only if he's alive and well; yes, sir. Well, good-evenin', sir. Yes, sir; I think I'll come to the mission nex' Sunday--and I'll bring the baby, will I? All right, sir. Well, so long, sir. Take care of yourself, sir." What a word that was! It echoed in his ear all the way home: "Take care of _yourself_." What boast is there for the civilization that refines away the unconscious heroism of the unfriended poor? He was glad he had not told Richling all his little secret. But Richling found it out later from Dr. Sevier. CHAPTER XLIV. WHAT WOULD YOU DO? Three days Mary's letter lay unanswered. About dusk of the third, as Richling was hurrying across the yard of the bakery on some errand connected with the establishment, a light touch was laid upon his shoulder; a peculiar touch, which he recognized in an instant. He turned in the gloom and exclaimed, in a whisper:-- "Why, Ristofalo!" "Howdy?" said Raphael, in his usual voice. "Why, how did you get out?" asked Richling. "Have you escaped?" "No. Just come out for little air. Captain of the prison and me. Not captain, exactly; one of the keepers. Goin' back some time to-night." He stood there in his old-fashioned way, gently smiling, and looking as immovable as a piece of granite. "Have you heard from wife lately?" "Yes," said Richling. "But--why--I don't understand. You and the jailer out together?" "Yes, takin' a little stroll 'round. He's out there in the street. You can see him on door-step 'cross yonder. Pretty drunk, eh?" The Italian's smile broadened for a moment, then came back to its usual self again. "I jus' lef' Kate at home. Thought I'd come see you a little while." "Return calls?" suggested Richling. "Yes, return call. Your wife well?" "Yes. But--why, this is the drollest"-- He stopped short, for the Italian's gravity indicated his opinion that there had been enough amusement shown. "Yes, she's well, thank you. By-the-by, what do you think of my letting her come out here now and begin life over again? Doesn't it seem to you it's high time, if we're ever going to do it at all?" "What you think?" asked Ristofalo. "Well, now, you answer my question first." "No, you answer me first." "I can't. I haven't decided. I've been three days thinking about it. It may seem like a small matter to hesitate so long over"--Richling paused for his hearer to dissent. "Yes," said Ristofalo, "pretty small." His smile remained the same. "She ask you? Reckon you put her up to it, eh?" "I don't see why you should reckon that," said Richling, with resentful coldness. "I dunno," said the Italian; "thought so--that's the way fellows do sometimes." There was a pause. Then he resumed: "I wouldn't let her come yet. Wait." "For what?" "See which way the cat goin' to jump." Richling laughed unpleasantly. "What do you mean by that?" he inquired. "We goin' to have war," said Raphael Ristofalo. "Ho! ho! ho! Why, Ristofalo, you were never more mistaken in your life!" "I dunno," replied the Italian, sticking in his tracks, "think it pretty certain. I read all the papers every day; nothin' else to do in parish prison. Think we see war nex' winter." "Ristofalo, a man of your sort can hardly conceive the amount of bluster this country can stand without coming to blows. We Americans are not like you Italians." "No," responded Ristofalo, "not much like." His smile changed peculiarly. "Wasn't for Kate, I go to Italia now." "Kate and the parish prison," said Richling. "Oh!"--the old smile returned,--"I get out that place any time I want." "And you'd join Garibaldi, I suppose?" The news had just come of Garibaldi in Sicily. "Yes," responded the Italian. There was a twinkle deep in his eyes as he added: "I know Garibaldi." "Indeed!" "Yes. Sailed under him when he was ship-cap'n. He knows me." "And I dare say he'd remember you," said Richling, with enthusiasm. "He remember me," said the quieter man. "Well,--must go. Good-e'nin'. Better tell yo' wife wait a while." "I--don't know. I'll see. Ristofalo"-- "What?" "I want to quit this business." "Better not quit. Stick to one thing." "But you never did that. You never did one thing twice in succession." "There's heap o' diff'ence." "I don't see it. What is it?" But the Italian only smiled and shrugged, and began to move away. In a moment he said:-- "You see, Mr. Richlin', you sen' for yo' wife, you can't risk change o' business. You change business, you can't risk sen' for yo' wife. Well, good-night." Richling was left to his thoughts. Naturally they were of the man whom he still saw, in his imagination, picking his jailer up off the door-step and going back to prison. Who could say that this man might not any day make just such a lion's leap into the world's arena as Garibaldi had made, and startle the nations as Garibaldi had done? What was that red-shirted scourge of tyrants that this man might not be? Sailor, soldier, hero, patriot, prisoner! See Garibaldi: despising the restraints of law; careless of the simplest conventionalities that go to make up an honest gentleman; doing both right and wrong--like a lion; everything in him leonine. All this was in Ristofalo's reach. It was all beyond Richling's. Which was best, the capability or the incapability? It was a question he would have liked to ask Mary. Well, at any rate, he had strength now for one thing--"one pretty small thing." He would answer her letter. He answered it, and wrote: "Don't come; wait a little while." He put aside all those sweet lovers' pictures that had been floating before his eyes by night and day, and bade her stay until the summer, with its risks to health, should have passed, and she could leave her mother well and strong. It was only a day or two afterward that he fell sick. It was provoking to have such a cold and not know how he caught it, and to have it in such fine weather. He was in bed some days, and was robbed of much sleep by a cough. Mrs. Reisen found occasion to tell Dr. Sevier of Mary's desire, as communicated to her by "Mr. Richlin'," and of the advice she had given him. "And he didn't send for her, I suppose." "No, sir." "Well, Mrs. Reisen, I wish you had kept your advice to yourself." The Doctor went to Richling's bedside. "Richling, why don't you send for your wife?" The patient floundered in the bed and drew himself up on his pillow. "O Doctor, just listen!" He smiled incredulously. "Bring that little woman and her baby down here just as the hot season is beginning?" He thought a moment, and then continued: "I'm afraid, Doctor, you're prescribing for homesickness. Pray don't tell me that's my ailment." "No, it's not. You have a bad cough, that you must take care of; but still, the other is one of the counts in your case, and you know how quickly Mary and--the little girl would cure it." Richling smiled again. "I can't do that, Doctor; when I go to Mary, or send for her, on account of homesickness, it must be hers, not mine." "Well, Mrs. Reisen," said the Doctor, outside the street door, "I hope you'll remember my request." "I'll tdo udt, Dtoctor," was the reply, so humbly spoken that he repented half his harshness. "I suppose you've often heard that 'you can't make a silk purse of a sow's ear,' haven't you?" he asked. "Yes; I pin right often heeard udt." She spoke as though she was not wedded to any inflexible opinion concerning the proposition. "Well, Mrs. Reisen, as a man once said to me, 'neither can you make a sow's ear out of a silk purse.'" "Vell, to be cettaintly!" said the poor woman, drawing not the shadow of an inference; "how kin you?" "Mr. Richling tells me he will write to Mrs. Richling to prepare to come down in the fall." "Vell," exclaimed the delighted Mrs. Reisen, in her husband's best manner, "t'at's te etsectly I atwised him!" And, as the Doctor drove away, she rubbed her mighty hands around each other in restored complacency. Two or three days later she had the additional pleasure of seeing Richling up and about his work again. It was upon her motherly urging that he indulged himself, one calm, warm afternoon, in a walk in the upper part of the city. CHAPTER XLV. NARCISSE WITH NEWS. It was very beautiful to see the summer set in. Trees everywhere. You looked down a street, and, unless it were one of the two broad avenues where the only street-cars ran, it was pretty sure to be so overarched with boughs that, down in the distance, there was left but a narrow streak of vivid blue sky in the middle. Well-nigh every house had its garden, as every garden its countless flowers. The dark orange began to show its growing weight of fruitfulness, and was hiding in its thorny interior the nestlings of yonder mocking-bird, silently foraging down in the sunny grass. The yielding branches of the privet were bowed down with their plumy panicles, and swayed heavily from side to side, drunk with gladness and plenty. Here the peach was beginning to droop over a wall. There, and yonder again, beyond, ranks of fig-trees, that had so muffled themselves in their foliage that not the nakedness of a twig showed through, had yet more figs than leaves. The crisp, cool masses of the pomegranate were dotted with scarlet flowers. The cape jasmine wore hundreds of her own white favors, whose fragrance forerun the sight. Every breath of air was a new perfume. Roses, an innumerable host, ran a fairy riot about all grounds, and clambered from the lowest door-step to the highest roof. The oleander, wrapped in one great garment of red blossoms, nodded in the sun, and stirred and winked in the faint stirrings of the air The pale banana slowly fanned herself with her own broad leaf. High up against the intense sky, its hard, burnished foliage glittering in the sunlight, the magnolia spread its dark boughs, adorned with their queenly white flowers. Not a bird nor an insect seemed unmated. The little wren stood and sung to his sitting wife his loud, ecstatic song, made all of her own name,--Matilda, Urilda, Lucinda, Belinda, Adaline, Madaline, Caroline, or Melinda, as the case might be,--singing as though every bone of his tiny body were a golden flute. The hummingbirds hung on invisible wings, and twittered with delight as they feasted on woodbine and honeysuckle. The pigeon on the roof-tree cooed and wheeled about his mate, and swelled his throat, and tremulously bowed and walked with a smiting step, and arched his purpling neck, and wheeled and bowed and wheeled again. Pairs of butterflies rose in straight upward flight, fluttered about each other in amorous strife, and drifted away in the upper air. And out of every garden came the voices of little children at play,--the blessedest sound on earth. "O Mary, Mary! why should two lovers live apart on this beautiful earth? Autumn is no time for mating. Who can tell what autumn will bring?" The revery was interrupted. "Mistoo Itchlin, 'ow you enjoyin' yo' 'ealth in that beaucheouz weatheh juz at the pwesent? Me, I'm well. Yes, I'm always well, in fact. At the same time nevvatheless, I fine myseff slightly sad. I s'pose 'tis natu'al--a man what love the 'itings of Lawd By'on as much as me. You know, of co'se, the melancholic intelligens?" "No," said Richling; "has any one"-- "Lady By'on, seh. Yesseh. 'In the mids' of life'--you know where we ah, Mistoo Itchlin, I su-pose?" "Is Lady Byron dead?" "Yesseh." Narcisse bowed solemnly. "Gone, Mistoo Itchlin. Since the seventeenth of last; yesseh. 'Kig the bucket,' as the povvub say." He showed an extra band of black drawn neatly around his new straw hat. "I thought it but p'opeh to put some moaning--as a species of twibute." He restored the hat to his head. "You like the tas'e of that, Mistoo Itchlin?" Richling could but confess the whole thing was delicious. "Yo humble servan', seh," responded the smiling Creole, with a flattered bow. Then, assuming a gravity becoming the historian, he said:-- "In fact, 'tis a gweat mistake, that statement that Lawd By'on evva qua'led with his lady, Mistoo Itchlin. But I s'pose you know 'tis but a slandeh of the pwess. Yesseh. As, faw instance, thass anotheh slandeh of the pwess that the delegates qua'led ad the Chawleston convention. They only pwetend to qua'l; so, by that way, to mizguide those A_bol_ish-nists. Mistoo Itchlin, I am p'ojecting to 'ite some obitua' 'emawks about that Lady By'on, but I scass know w'etheh to 'ite them in the poetic style aw in the p'osaic. Which would you conclude, Mistoo Itchlin?" Richling reflected with downcast eyes. "It seems to me," he said, when he had passed his hand across his mouth in apparent meditation and looked up,--"seems to me I'd conclude both, without delay." "Yes? But accawding to what fawmule, Mistoo Itchlin? 'Ay, 'tis theh is the 'ub,' in fact, as Lawd By'on say. Is it to migs the two style' that you advise?" "That's the favorite method," replied Richling. "Well, I dunno 'ow 'tis, Mistoo Itchlin, but I fine the moze facil'ty in the poetic. 'Tis t'ue, in the poetic you got to look out concehning the _'ime_. You got to keep the eye skin' faw it, in fact. But in the p'osaic, on the cont'a-ay, 'tis juz the opposite; you got to keep the eye skin' faw the _sense_. Yesseh. Now, if you migs the two style'--well--'ow's that, Mistoo Itchlin, if you migs them? Seem' to me I dunno." "Why, don't you see?" asked Richling. "If you mix them, you avoid both necessities. You sail triumphantly between Scylla and Charybdis without so much as skinning your eye." Narcisse looked at him a moment with a slightly searching glance, dropped his eyes upon his own beautiful feet, and said, in a meditative tone:-- "I believe you co'ect." But his smile was gone, and Richling saw he had ventured too far. "I wish my wife were here," said Richling; "she might give you better advice than I." "Yes," replied Narcisse, "I believe you co'ect ag'in, Mistoo Itchlin. 'Tis but since yeste'd'y that I jus appen to hea' Dr. Seveeah d'op a saying 'esembling to that. Yesseh, she's a v'ey 'emawkable, Mistoo Itchlin." "Is that what Dr. Sevier said?" Richling began to fear an ambush. "No, seh. What the Doctah say--'twas me'ly to 'emawk in his jocose way--you know the Doctah's lill callous, jocose way, Mistoo Itchlin." He waved either hand outward gladsomely. "Yes," said Richling, "I've seen specimens of it." "Yesseh. He was ve'y complimenta'y, in fact, the Doctah. 'Tis the trooth. He says, 'She'll make a man of Witchlin if anythin' can.' Juz in his jocose way, you know." The Creole's smile had returned in concentrated sweetness. He stood silent, his face beaming with what seemed his confidence that Richling would be delighted. Richling recalled the physician's saying concerning this very same little tale-bearer,--that he carried his nonsense on top and his good sense underneath. "Dr. Sevier said that, did he?" asked Richling, after a time. "'Tis the vehbatim, seh. Convussing to yo' 'eve'end fwend. You can ask him; he will co'obo'ate me in fact. Well, Mistoo Itchlin, it supp'ise me you not tickle at that. Me, I may say, I wish _I_ had a wife to make a man out of _me_." "I wish you had," said Richling. But Narcisse smiled on. "Well, _au 'evoi'_." He paused an instant with an earnest face. "Pehchance I'll meet you this evening, Mistoo Itchlin? Faw doubtless, like myseff, you will assist at the gweat a-ally faw the Union, the Const'ution, and the enfo'cemen' of the law. Dr. Seveeah will addwess." "I don't know that I care to hear him," replied Richling. "Goin' to be a gwan' out-po'-ing, Mistoo Itchlin. Citizens of Noo 'Leans without the leas' 'espec' faw fawmeh polly-tickle diff'ence. Also fiah-works. 'Come one, come all,' as says the gweat Scott--includin' yo'seff, Mistoo Itchlin. No? Well, _au 'evoi'_, Mistoo Itchlin." CHAPTER XLVI. A PRISON MEMENTO. The political pot began to seethe. Many yet will remember how its smoke went up. The summer--summer of 1860--grew fervent. Its breath became hot and dry. All observation--all thought--turned upon the fierce campaign. Discussion dropped as to whether Heenan would ever get that champion's belt, which even the little rector believed he had fairly won in the international prize-ring. The news brought by each succeeding European steamer of Garibaldi's splendid triumphs in the cause of a new Italy, the fierce rattle of partisan warfare in Mexico, that seemed almost within hearing, so nearly was New Orleans concerned in some of its movements,--all things became secondary and trivial beside the developments of a political canvass in which the long-foreseen, long-dreaded issues between two parts of the nation were at length to be made final. The conventions had met, the nominations were complete, and the clans of four parties and fractions of parties were "meeting," and "rallying," and "uprising," and "outpouring." All life was strung to one high pitch. This contest was everything,--nay, everybody,--men, women, and children. They were all for the Constitution; they were all for the Union; and each, even Richling, for the enforcement of--his own ideas. On every bosom, "no matteh the sex," and no matter the age, hung one of those little round, ribbanded medals, with a presidential candidate on one side and his vice-presidential man Friday on the other. Needless to say that Ristofalo's Kate, instructed by her husband, imported the earliest and many a later invoice of them, and distributing her peddlers at choice thronging-places, "everlastin'ly," as she laughingly and confidentially informed Dr. Sevier, "raked in the sponjewlicks." They were exposed for sale on little stalls on populous sidewalks and places of much entry and exit. The post-office in those days was still on Royal street, in the old Merchants' Exchange. The small hand-holes of the box-delivery were in the wide tessellated passage that still runs through the building from Royal street to Exchange alley. A keeper of one of these little stalls established himself against a pillar just where men turned into and out of Royal street, out of or into this passage. One day, in this place, just as Richling turned from a delivery window to tear the envelope of a letter bearing the Milwaukee stamp, his attention was arrested by a man running by him toward Exchange alley, pale as death, and followed by a crowd that suddenly broke into a cry, a howl, a roar: "Hang him! Hang him!" "Come!" said a small, strong man, seizing Richling's arm and turning him in the common direction. If the word was lost on Richling's defective hearing, not so the touch; for the speaker was Ristofalo. The two friends ran with all their speed through the passage and out into the alley. A few rods away the chased wretch had been overtaken, and was made to face his pursuers. When Richling and Ristofalo reached him there was already a rope about his neck. The Italian's leap, as he closed in upon the group around the victim, was like a tiger's. The men he touched did not fall; they were rather hurled, driving backward those whom they were hurled against. A man levelled a revolver at him; Richling struck it a blow that sent it over twenty men's heads. A long knife flashed in Ristofalo's right hand. He stood holding the rope in his left, stooping slightly forward, and darting his eyes about as if selecting a victim for his weapon. A stranger touched Richling from behind, spoke a hurried word in Italian, and handed him a huge dirk. But in that same moment the affair was over. There stood Ristofalo, gentle, self-contained, with just a perceptible smile turned upon the crowd, no knife in his hand, and beside him the slender, sinewy, form, and keen gray eye of Smith Izard. The detective was addressing the crowd. While he was speaking, half a score of police came from as many directions. When he had finished, he waved his slender hand at the mass of heads. "Stand back. Go about your business." And they began to go. He laid a hand upon the rescued stranger and addressed the police. "Take this rope off. Take this man to the station and keep him until it's safe to let him go." The explanation by which he had so quickly pacified the mob was a simple one. The rescued man was a seller of campaign medals. That morning, in opening a fresh supply of his little stock, he had failed to perceive that, among a lot of "Breckenridge and Lane" medals, there had crept in one of Lincoln. That was the sum of his offence. The mistake had occurred in the Northern factory. Of course, if he did not intend to sell Lincoln medals, there was no crime. "Don't I tell you?" said the Italian to Richling, as they were walking away together. "Bound to have war; is already begin-n." "It began with me the day I got married," said Richling. Ristofalo waited some time, and then asked:-- "How?" "I shouldn't have said so," replied Richling; "I can't explain." "Thass all right," said the other. And, a little later: "Smith Izard call' you by name. How he know yo' name?" "I can't imagine!" The Italian waved his hand. "Thass all right, too; nothin' to me." Then, after another pause: "Think you saved my life to-day." "The honors are easy," said Richling. He went to bed again for two or three days. He liked it little when Dr. Sevier attributed the illness to a few moments' violent exertion and excitement. "It was bravely done, at any rate, Richling," said the Doctor. "_That_ it was!" said Kate Ristofalo, who had happened to call to see the sick man at the same hour. "Doctor, ye'r mighty right! Ha!" Mrs. Reisen expressed a like opinion, and the two kind women met the two men's obvious wish by leaving the room. "Doctor," said Richling at once, "the last time you said it was love-sickness; this time you say it's excitement; at the bottom it isn't either. Will you please tell me what it really is? What is this thing that puts me here on my back this way?" "Richling," replied the Doctor, slowly, "if I tell you the honest truth, it began in that prison." The patient knit his hands under his head and lay motionless and silent. "Yes," he said, after a time. And by and by again: "Yes; I feared as much. And can it be that my _physical_ manhood is going to fail me at such a time as this?" He drew a long breath and turned restively in the bed. "We'll try to keep it from doing that," replied the physician. "I've told you this, Richling, old fellow to impress upon you the necessity of keeping out of all this hubbub,--this night-marching and mass-meeting and exciting nonsense." "And am I always--always to be blown back--blown back this way?" said Richling, half to himself, half to his friend. "There, now," responded the Doctor, "just stop talking entirely. No, no; not always blown back. A sick man always thinks the present moment is the whole boundless future. Get well. And to that end possess your soul in patience. No newspapers. Read your Bible. It will calm you. I've been trying it myself." His tone was full of cheer, but it was also so motherly and the touch so gentle with which he put back the sick man's locks--as if they had been a lad's--that Richling turned away his face with chagrin. "Come!" said the Doctor, more sturdily, laying his hand on the patient's shoulder. "You'll not lie here more than a day or two. Before you know it summer will be gone, and you'll be sending for Mary." Richling turned again, put out a parting hand, and smiled with new courage. CHAPTER XLVII. NOW I LAY ME-- Time may drag slowly, but it never drags backward. So the summer wore on, Richling following his physician's directions; keeping to his work only--out of public excitements and all overstrain; and to every day, as he bade it good-by, his eager heart, lightened each time by that much, said, "When you come around again, next year, Mary and I will meet you hand in hand." This was _his_ excitement, and he seemed to flourish on it. But day by day, week by week, the excitements of the times rose. Dr. Sevier was deeply stirred, and ever on the alert, looking out upon every quarter of the political sky, listening to the rising thunder, watching the gathering storm. There could hardly have been any one more completely engrossed by it. If there was, it was his book-keeper. It wasn't so much the Constitution that enlisted Narcisse's concern; nor yet the Union, which seemed to him safe enough; much less did the desire to see the enforcement of the laws consume him. Nor was it altogether the "'oman candles" and the "'ockets"; but the rhetoric. Ah, the "'eto'ic"! He bathed, he paddled, dove, splashed, in a surf of it. "Doctah,"--shaking his finely turned shoulders into his coat and lifting his hat toward his head,--"I had the honah, and at the same time the pleasu', to yeh you make a shawt speech lass evening. I was p'oud to yeh yo' bunning eloquence, Doctah,--if you'll allow. Yesseh. Eve'ybody said 'twas the moze bilious effo't of the o'-casion." Dr. Sevier actually looked up and smiled, and thanked the happy young man for the compliment. "Yesseh," continued his admirer, "I nevveh flatteh. I give me'-it where the me'-it lies. Well, seh, we juz make the welkin 'ing faw joy when you finally stop' at the en'. Pehchance you heard my voice among that sea of head'? But I doubt--in 'such a vas' up'ising--so many imposing pageant', in fact,--and those 'ocket' exploding in the staw-y heaven', as they say. I think I like that exp'ession I saw on the noozpapeh, wheh it says: 'Long biffo the appointed owwa, thousan' of flashing tawches and tas'eful t'anspa'encies with divuz devices whose blazing effulgence turn' day into night.' Thass a ve'y talented style, in fact. Well, _au 'evoi'_, Doctah. I'm going ad the--an' thass anotheh thing I like--'tis faw the ladies to 'ing bells that way on the balconies. Because Mr. Bell and Eve'et is name _bell_, and so is the _bells_ name' juz the same way, and so they 'ing the _bells_ to signify. I had to elucidate that to my hant. Well, _au 'evoi'_, Doctah." The Doctor raised his eyes from his letter-writing. The young man had turned, and was actually going out without another word. What perversity moved the physician no one will ever know; but he sternly called:-- "Narcisse?" The Creole wheeled about on the threshold. "Yesseh?" The Doctor held him with a firm, grave eye, and slowly said:-- "I suppose before you return you will go to the post office." He said nothing more,--only that, just in his jocose way,--and dropped his eyes again upon his pen. Narcisse gave him one long black look, and silently went out. But a sweet complacency could not stay long away from the young man's breast. The world was too beautiful; the white, hot sky above was in such fine harmony with his puffed lawn shirt-bosom and his white linen pantaloons, bulging at the thighs and tapering at the ankles, and at the corner of Canal and Royal streets he met so many members of the Yancey Guards and Southern Guards and Chalmette Guards and Union Guards and Lane Dragoons and Breckenridge Guards and Douglas Rangers and Everett Knights, and had the pleasant trouble of stepping aside and yielding the pavement to the far-spreading crinoline. Oh, life was one scintillating cluster breast-pin of ecstasies! And there was another thing,--General William Walker's filibusters! Royal street, St. Charles, the rotunda of the St. Charles Hotel, were full of them. It made Dr. Sevier both sad and fierce to see what hold their lawless enterprise took upon the youth of the city. Not that any great number were drawn into the movement, least of all Narcisse; but it captivated their interest and sympathy, and heightened the general unrest, when calmness was what every thoughtful man saw to be the country's greatest need. An incident to illustrate the Doctor's state of mind. It occurred one evening in the St. Charles rotunda. He saw some citizens of high standing preparing to drink at the bar with a group of broad-hatted men, whose bronzed foreheads and general out-of-door mien hinted rather ostentatiously of Honduras and Ruatan Island. As he passed close to them one of the citizens faced him blandly, and unexpectedly took his hand, but quickly let it go again. The rest only glanced at the Doctor, and drew nearer to the bar. "I trust you're not unwell, Doctor," said the sociable one, with something of a smile, and something of a frown, at the tall physician's gloomy brow. "I am well, sir." "I--didn't know," said the man again, throwing an aggressive resentment into his tone; "you seemed preoccupied." "I was," replied the Doctor, returning his glance with so keen an eye that the man smiled again, appeasingly. "I was thinking how barely skin-deep civilization is." The man ha-ha'd artificially, stepping backward as he said, "That's so!" He looked after the departing Doctor an instant and then joined his companions. Richling had a touch of this contagion. He looked from Garibaldi to Walker and back again, and could not see any enormous difference between them. He said as much to one of the bakery's customers, a restaurateur with a well-oiled tongue, who had praised him for his intrepidity in the rescue of the medal-peddler, which, it seems, he had witnessed. With this praise still upon his lips the caterer walked with Richling to the restaurant door, and detained him there to enlarge upon the subject of Spanish-American misrule, and the golden rewards that must naturally fall to those who should supplant it with stable government. Richling listened and replied and replied again and listened; and presently the restaurateur startled him with an offer to secure him a captain's commission under Walker. He laughed incredulously; but the restaurateur, very much in earnest, talked on; and by littles, but rapidly, Richling admitted the value of the various considerations urged. Two or three months of rapid adventure; complete physical renovation--of course--natural sequence; the plaudits of a grateful people; maybe fortune also, but at least a certainty of finding the road to it,--all this to meet Mary with next fall. "I'm in a great hurry just now," said Richling; "but I'll talk about this thing with you again to-morrow or next day," and so left. The restaurateur turned to his head-waiter, stuck his tongue in his cheek, and pulled down the lower lid of an eye with his forefinger. He meant to say he had been lying for the pure fun of it. When Dr. Sevier came that afternoon to see Reisen--of whom there was now but little left, and that little unable to leave the bed--Richling took occasion to raise the subject that had entangled his fancy. He was careful to say nothing of himself or the restaurateur, or anything, indeed, but a timid generality or two. But the Doctor responded with a clear, sudden energy that, when he was gone, left Richling feeling painfully blank, and yet unable to find anything to resent except the Doctor's superfluous--as he thought, quite superfluous--mention of the island of Cozumel. However, and after all, that which for the most part kept the public mind heated was, as we have said, the political campaign. Popular feeling grew tremulous with it as the landscape did under the burning sun. It was a very hot summer. Not a good one for feeble folk; and one early dawn poor Reisen suddenly felt all his reason come back to him, opened his eyes, and lo! he had crossed the river in the night, and was on the other side. Dr. Sevier's experienced horse halted of his own will to let a procession pass. In the carriage at its head the physician saw the little rector, sitting beside a man of German ecclesiastical appearance. Behind it followed a majestic hearse, drawn by black-plumed and caparisoned horses,--four of them. Then came a long line of red-shirted firemen; for he in the hearse had been an "exempt." Then a further line of big-handed, white-gloved men in beavers and regalias; for he had been also a Freemason and an Odd-fellow. Then another column, of emotionless-visaged German women, all in bunchy black gowns, walking out of time to the solemn roll and pulse of the muffled drums, and the brazen peals of the funeral march. A few carriages closed the long line. In the first of them the waiting Doctor marked, with a sudden understanding of all, the pale face of John Richling, and by his side the widow who had been forty years a wife,--weary and red with weeping. The Doctor took off his hat. CHAPTER XLVIII. RISE UP, MY LOVE, MY FAIR ONE. The summer at length was past, and the burning heat was over and gone. The days were refreshed with the balm of a waning October. There had been no fever. True, the nights were still aglare with torches, and the street echoes kept awake by trumpet notes and huzzas, by the tramp of feet and the delicate hint of the bell-ringing; and men on the stump and off it; in the "wigwams;" along the sidewalks, as they came forth, wiping their mouths, from the free-lunch counters, and on the curb-stones and "flags" of Carondelet street, were saying things to make a patriot's heart ache. But contrariwise, in that same Carondelet street, and hence in all the streets of the big, scattered town, the most prosperous commercial year--they measure from September to September--that had ever risen upon New Orleans had closed its distended record, and no one knew or dreamed that, for nearly a quarter of a century to come, the proud city would never see the equal of that golden year just gone. And so, away yonder among the great lakes on the northern border of the anxious but hopeful country, Mary was calling, calling, like an unseen bird piping across the fields for its mate, to know if she and the one little nestling might not come to hers. And at length, after two or three unexpected contingencies had caused delays of one week after another, all in a silent tremor of joy, John wrote the word--"Come!" He was on his way to put it into the post-office, in Royal street. At the newspaper offices, in Camp street, he had to go out into the middle of the way to get around the crowd that surrounded the bulletin-boards, and that scuffled for copies of the latest issue. The day of days was passing; the returns of election were coming in. In front of the "Picayune" office he ran square against a small man, who had just pulled himself and the most of his clothing out of the press with the last news crumpled in the hand that he still held above his head. "Hello, Richling, this is pretty exciting, isn't it?" It was the little clergyman. "Come on, I'll go your way; let's get out of this." He took Richling's arm, and they went on down the street, the rector reading aloud as they walked, and shopkeepers and salesmen at their doors catching what they could of his words as the two passed. "It's dreadful! dreadful!" said the little man, thrusting the paper into his pocket in a wad. "Hi! Mistoo Itchlin," quoth Narcisse, passing them like an arrow, on his way to the paper offices. "He's happy," said Richling. "Well, then, he's the only happy man I know of in New Orleans to-day," said the little rector, jerking his head and drawing a sigh through his teeth. "No," said Richling, "I'm another. You see this letter." He showed it with the direction turned down. "I'm going now to mail it. When my wife gets it she starts." The preacher glanced quickly into his face. Richling met his gaze with eyes that danced with suppressed joy. The two friends attracted no attention from those whom they passed or who passed them; the newsboys were scampering here and there, everybody buying from them, and the walls of Common street ringing with their shouted proffers of the "full account" of the election. "Richling, don't do it." "Why not?" Richling showed only amusement. "For several reasons," replied the other. "In the first place, look at your business!" "Never so good as to-day." "True. And it entirely absorbs you. What time would you have at your fireside, or even at your family table? None. It's--well you know what it is--it's a bakery, you know. You couldn't expect to lodge _your_ wife and little girl in a bakery in Benjamin street; you know you couldn't. Now, _you_--you don't mind it--or, I mean, you can stand it. Those things never need damage a gentleman. But with your wife it would be different. You smile, but--why, you know she couldn't go there. And if you put her anywhere where a lady ought to be, in New Orleans, she would be--well, don't you see she would be about as far away as if she were in Milwaukee? Richling, I don't know how it looks to you for me to be so meddlesome, and I believe you think I'm making a very poor argument; but you see this is only one point and the smallest. Now"-- Richling raised his thin hand, and said pleasantly:-- "It's no use. You can't understand; it wouldn't be possible to explain; for you simply don't know Mary." "But there are some things I do know. Just think; she's with her mother where she is. Imagine her falling ill here,--as you've told me she used to do,--and you with that bakery on your hands." Richling looked grave. "Oh no," continued the little man. "You've been so brave and patient, you and your wife, both,--do be so a little bit longer! Live close; save your money; go on rising in value in your business; and after a little you'll rise clear out of the sphere you're now in. You'll command your own time; you'll build your own little home; and life and happiness and usefulness will be fairly and broadly open before you." Richling gave heed with a troubled face, and let his companion draw him into the shadow of that "St. Charles" from the foot of whose stair-way he had once been dragged away as a vagrant. "See, Richling! Every few weeks you may read in some paper of how a man on some ferry-boat jumps for the wharf before the boat has touched it, falls into the water, and-- Make sure! Be brave a little longer--only a little longer! Wait till you're sure!" "I'm sure enough!" "Oh, no, you're not! Wait till this political broil is over. They say Lincoln is elected. If so, the South is not going to submit to it. Nobody can tell what the consequences are to be. Suppose we should have war? I don't think we shall, but suppose we should? There would be a general upheaval, commercial stagnation, industrial collapse, shrinkage everywhere! Wait till it's over. It may not be two weeks hence; it can hardly be more than ninety days at the outside. If it should the North would be ruined, and you may be sure they are not going to allow _that_. Then, when all starts fair again, bring your wife and baby. I'll tell you what to do, Richling!" "Will you?" responded the listener, with an amiable laugh that the little man tried to echo. "Yes. Ask Dr. Sevier! He's right here in the next street. He was on your side last time; maybe he'll be so now." "Done!" said Richling. They went. The rector said he would do an errand in Canal street, while Richling should go up and see the physician. Dr. Sevier was in. "Why, Richling!" He rose to receive him. "How are you?" He cast his eye over his visitor with professional scrutiny. "What brings _you_ here?" "To tell you that I've written for Mary," said Richling, sinking wearily into a chair. "Have you mailed the letter?" "I'm taking it to the post-office now." The Doctor threw one leg energetically over the other, and picked up the same paper-knife that he had handled when, two years and a half before, he had sat thus, talking to Mary and John on the eve of their separation. "Richling, I'll tell you. I've been thinking about this thing for some time, and I've decided to make you a proposal. I look at you and at Mary and at the times--the condition of the country--the probable future--everything. I know you, physically and mentally, better than anybody else does. I can say the same of Mary. So, of course, I don't make this proposal impulsively, and I don't want it rejected. "Richling, I'll lend you two thousand to twenty-five hundred dollars, payable at your convenience, if you will just go to your room, pack up, go home, and take from six to twelve months' holiday with your wife and child." The listener opened his mouth in blank astonishment. "Why, Doctor, you're jesting! You can't suppose"-- "I don't suppose anything. I simply want you to do it." "Well, I simply can't!" "Did you ever regret taking my advice, Richling?" "No, never. But this--why, it's utterly impossible! Me leave the results of four years' struggle to go holidaying? I can't understand you, Doctor." "'Twould take weeks to explain." "It's idle to think of it," said Richling, half to himself. "Go home and think of it twenty-four hours," said the Doctor. "It is useless, Doctor." "Very good, then; send for Mary. Mail your letter." "You don't mean it!" said Richling. "Yes, I do. Send for Mary; and tell her I advised it." He turned quickly away to his desk, for Richling's eyes had filled with tears; but turned again and rose as Richling rose. They joined hands. "Yes, Richling, send for her. It's the right thing to do--if you will not do the other. You know I want you to be happy." "Doctor, one word. In your opinion is there going to be war?" "I don't know. But if there is it's time for husband and wife and child to draw close together. Good-day." And so the letter went. CHAPTER XLIX. A BUNDLE OF HOPES. Richling insisted, in the face of much scepticism on the part of the baker's widow, that he felt better, was better, and would go on getting better, now that the weather was cool once more. "Well, I hope you vill, Mr. Richlin', dtat's a fect. 'Specially ven yo' vife comin'. Dough _I_ could a-tooken care ye choost tso koot as vot she couldt." "But maybe you couldn't take care of her as well as I can," said the happy Richling. "Oh, tdat's a tdifferendt. A voman kin tek care herself." Visiting the French market on one of these glad mornings, as his business often required him to do, he fell in with Narcisse, just withdrawing from the celebrated coffee-stand of Rose Nicaud. Richling stopped in the moving crowd and exchanged salutations very willingly; for here was one more chance to hear himself tell the fact of Mary's expected coming. "So'y, Mistoo Itchlin," said Narcisse, whipping away the pastry crumbs from his lap with a handkerchief and wiping his mouth, "not to encounteh you a lill biffo', to join in pahtaking the cup what cheeahs at the same time whilce it invigo'ates; to-wit, the coffee-cup--as the maxim say. I dunno by what fawmule she makes that coffee, but 'tis astonishin' how 'tis good, in fact. I dunno if you'll billieve me, but I feel almost I could pahtake anotheh cup--? 'Tis the tooth." He gave Richling time to make any handsome offer that might spontaneously suggest itself, but seeing that the response was only an over-gay expression of face, he added, "But I conclude no. In fact, Mistoo Itchlin, thass a thing I have discovud,--that too much coffee millytates ag'inst the chi'og'aphy; and thus I abstain. Well, seh, ole Abe is elected." "Yes," rejoined Richling, "and there's no telling what the result will be." "You co'ect, Mistoo Itchlin." Narcisse tried to look troubled. "I've got a bit of private news that I don't think you've heard," said Richling. And the Creole rejoined promptly:-- "Well, I _thought_ I saw something on yo' thoughts--if you'll excuse my tautology. Thass a ve'y diffycult to p'event sometime'. But, Mistoo Itchlin, I trus' 'tis not you 'ave allowed somebody to swin'le you?--confiding them too indiscweetly, in fact?" He took a pretty attitude, his eyes reposing in Richling's. Richling laughed outright. "No, nothing of that kind. No, I"-- "Well, I'm ve'y glad," interrupted Narcisse. "Oh, no, 'tisn't trouble at all! I've sent for Mrs. Richling. We're going to resume housekeeping." Narcisse gave a glad start, took his hat off, passed it to his left hand, extended his right, bowed from the middle with princely grace, and, with joy breaking all over his face, said:-- "Mistoo Itchlin, in fact,--shake!" They shook. "Yesseh--an' many 'appy 'eturn! I dunno if you kin billieve that, Mistoo Itchlin; but I was juz about to 'ead that in yo' physio'nomie! Yesseh. But, Mistoo Itchlin, when shall the happy o'casion take effect?" "Pretty soon. Not as soon as I thought, for I got a despatch yesterday, saying her mother is very ill, and of course I telegraphed her to stay till her mother is at least convalescent. But I think that will be soon. Her mother has had these attacks before. I have good hopes that before long Mrs. Richling will actually be here." Richling began to move away down the crowded market-house, but Narcisse said:-- "Thass yo' di'ection? 'Tis the same, mine. We may accompany togetheh--if you'll allow yo' 'umble suvvant?" "Come along! You do me honor!" Richling laid his hand on Narcisse's shoulder and they went at a gait quickened by the happy husband's elation. Narcisse was very proud of the touch, and, as they began to traverse the vegetable market, took the most populous arcade. "Mistoo Itchlin," he began again, "I muz congwatu_late_ you! You know I always admiah yo' lady to excess. But appopo of that news, I might infawm you some intelligens consunning myseff." "Good!" exclaimed Richling. "For it's good news, isn't it?" "Yesseh,--as you may say,--yes. Faw in fact, Mistoo Itchlin, I 'ave ass Dr. Seveeah to haugment me." "Hurrah!" cried Richling. He coughed and laughed and moved aside to a pillar and coughed, until people looked at him, and lifted his eyes, tired but smiling, and, paying his compliments to the paroxysm in one or two ill-wishes, wiped his eyes at last, and said:-- "And the Doctor augmented you?" "Well, no, I can't say that--not p'ecisely." "Why, what did he do?" "Well, he 'efuse' me, in fact." "Why--but that isn't good news, then." Narcisse gave his head a bright, argumentative twitch. "Yesseh. 'Tis t'ue he 'efuse'; but ad the same time--I dunno--I thing he wasn' so mad about it as he make out. An' you know thass one thing, Mistoo Itchlin, whilce they got life they got hope; and hence I ente'tain the same." They had reached that flagged area without covering or inclosure, before the third of the three old market-houses, where those dealers in the entire miscellanies of a housewife's equipment, excepting only stoves and furniture, spread their wares and fabrics in the open weather before the Bazar market rose to give them refuge. He grew suddenly fierce. "But any'ow I don't care! I had the spunk to ass 'im, an' he din 'ave the spunk to dischawge me! All he can do; 'tis to shake the fis' of impatience." He was looking into his companion's face, as they walked, with an eye distended with defiance. "Look out!" exclaimed Richling, reaching a hurried hand to draw him aside. Narcisse swerved just in time to avoid stepping into a pile of crockery, but in so doing went full into the arms of a stately female figure dressed in the crispest French calico and embarrassed with numerous small packages of dry goods. The bundles flew hither and yon. Narcisse tried to catch the largest as he saw it going, but only sent it farther than it would have gone, and as it struck the ground it burst like a pomegranate. But the contents were white: little thin, square-folded fractions of barred jaconet and white flannel; rolls of slender white lutestring ribbon; very narrow papers of tiny white pearl buttons, minute white worsted socks, spools of white floss, cards of safety-pins, pieces of white castile soap, etc. "_Mille pardons, madame!_" exclaimed Narcisse; "I make you a thousan' poddons, madam!" He was ill-prepared for the majestic wrath that flashed from the eyes and radiated from the whole dilating, and subsiding, and reëxpanding, and rising, and stiffening form of Kate Ristofalo! "Officerr," she panted,--for instantly there was a crowd, and a man with the silver-crescent badge was switching the assemblage on the legs with his cane to make room,--"Officerr," she gasped, levelling her tremulous finger at Narcisse, "arrist that man!" "Mrs. Ristofalo!" exclaimed Richling, "don't do that! It was all an accident! Why, don't you see it's Narcisse,--my friend?" "Yer frind rised his hand to sthrike me, sur, he did! Yer frind rised his hand to sthrike me, he did!" And up she went and down she went, shortening and lengthening, swelling and decreasing. "Yes, yes, I know yer frind; indeed I do! I paid two dollars and a half fur his acquaintans nigh upon three years agone, sur. Yer frind!" And still she went up and down, enlarging, diminishing, heaving her breath and waving her chin around, and saying, in broken utterances,--while a hackman on her right held his whip in her auditor's face, crying, "Carriage, sir? Carriage, sir?"-- "Why didn'--he rin agin--a man, sur! I--I--oh! I wish Mr. Ristofalah war heer!--to teach um how--to walk!--Yer frind, sur--ixposing me!" She pointed to Narcisse and the policeman gathering up the scattered lot of tiny things. Her eyes filled with tears, but still shot lightning. "If he's hurrted me, he's got 'o suffer fur ud, Mr. Richlin'!" And she expanded again. "Carriage, sir, carriage?" continued the man with the whip. "Yes!" said Richling and Mrs. Ristofalo in a breath. She took his arm, the hackman seized the bundles from the policeman, threw open his hack door, laid the bundles on the front seat, and let down the folding steps. The crowd dwindled away to a few urchins. "Officerr," said Mrs. Ristofalo, her foot on the step and composure once more in her voice, "ye needn't arrist um. I could of done ud, sur," she added to Narcisse himself, "but I'm too much of a laydy, sur!" And she sank together and stretched herself up once more, entered the vehicle, and sat with a perpendicular back, her arms folded on her still heaving bosom, and her head high. As to her ability to have that arrest made, Kate Ristofalo was in error. Narcisse smiled to himself; for he was conscious of one advantage that overtopped all the sacredness of female helplessness, public right, or any other thing whatsoever. It lay in the simple fact that he was acquainted with the policeman. He bowed blandly to the officer, stepped backward, touching his hat, and walked away, the policeman imitating each movement with the promptness and faithfulness of a mirror. "Aren't ye goin' to get in, Mr. Richlin'?" asked Mrs. Ristofalo. She smiled first and then looked alarmed. "I--I can't very well--if you'll excuse me, ma'am." "Ah, Mr. Richlin'!"--she pouted girlishly. "Gettin' proud!" She gave her head a series of movements, as to say she might be angry if she would, but she wouldn't. "Ye won't know uz when Mrs. Richlin' comes." Richling laughed, but she gave a smiling toss to indicate that it was a serious matter. "Come," she insisted, patting the seat beside her with honeyed persuasiveness, "come and tell me all about ud. Mr. Ristofalah nivver goes into peticklers, an' so I har'ly know anny more than jist she's a-comin'. Come, git in an' tell me about Mrs. Richlin'--that is, if ye like the subject--and I don't believe ye do." She lifted her finger, shook it roguishly close to her own face, and looked at him sidewise. "Ah, nivver mind, sur! that's rright! Furgit yer old frinds--maybe ye wudden't do ud if ye knewn everythin'. But that's rright; that's the way with min." She suddenly changed to subdued earnestness, turned the catch of the door, and, as the door swung open, said: "Come, if ud's only fur a bit o' the way--if ud's only fur a ming-ute. I've got somethin' to tell ye." "I must get out at Washington Market," said Richling, as he got in. The hack hurried down Old Levee street. "And now," said she, merriment dancing in her eyes, her folded arms tightening upon her bosom, and her lips struggling against their own smile, "I'm just a good mind not to tell ye at ahll!" Her humor was contagious and Richling was ready to catch it. His own eye twinkled. "Well, Mrs. Ristofalo, of course, if you feel any embarrassment"-- "Ye villain!" she cried, with delighted indignation, "I didn't mean nawthing about _that_, an' ye knew ud! Here, git out o' this carridge!" But she made no effort to eject him. "Mary and I are interested in all your hopes," said Richling, smiling softly upon the damaged bundle which he was making into a tight package again on his knee. "You'll tell me your good news if it's only that I may tell her, will you not?" "_I_ will. And it's joost this,--Mr. Richlin',--that if there be's a war Mr. Ristofalah's to be lit out o' prison." "I'm very glad!" cried Richling, but stopped short, for Mrs. Ristofalo's growing dignity indicated that there was more to be told. "I'm sure ye air, Mr. Richlin'; and I'm sure ye'll be glad--a heap gladder nor I am--that in that case he's to be Captain Ristofalah." "Indeed!" "Yes, sur." The wife laid her palm against her floating ribs and breathed a sigh. "I don't like ud, Mr. Richlin'. No, sur. I don't like tytles." She got her fan from under her handkerchief and set it a-going. "I nivver liked the idee of bein' a tytled man's wife. No, sur." She shook her head, elevating it as she shook it. "It creates too much invy, Mr. Richlin'. Well, good-by." The carriage was stopping at the Washington Market. "Now, don't ye mintion it to a livin' soul, Mr. Richlin'!" Richling said "No." "No, sur; fur there be's manny a slip 'tuxt the cup an' the lip, ye know; an' there may be no war, after all, and we may all be disapp'inted. But he's bound to be tleared if he's tried, and don't ye see--I--I don't want um to be a captain, anyhow, don't ye see?" Richling saw, and they parted. * * * Thus everybody hoped. Dr. Sevier, wifeless, childless, had his hopes too, nevertheless. Hopes for the hospital and his many patients in it and out of it; hopes for his town and his State; hopes for Richling and Mary; and hopes with fears, and fears with hopes, for the great sisterhood of States. Richling had one hope more. After some weeks had passed Dr. Sevier ventured once more to say:-- "Richling, go home. Go to your wife. I must tell you you're no ordinary sick man. Your life is in danger." "Will I be out of danger if I go home?" asked Richling. Dr. Sevier made no answer. "Do you still think we may have war?" asked Richling again. "I know we shall." "And will the soldiers come back," asked the young man, smilingly, "when they find their lives in danger?" "Now, Richling, that's another thing entirely; that's the battle-field." "Isn't it all the _same_ thing, Doctor? Isn't it all a battle-field?" The Doctor turned impatiently, disdaining to reply. But in a moment he retorted:-- "We take wounded men off the field." "They don't take themselves off," said Richling, smiling. "Well," rejoined the Doctor, rising and striding toward a window, "a good general may order a retreat." "Yes, but--maybe I oughtn't to say what I was thinking"-- "Oh, say it." "Well, then, he don't let his surgeon order it. Doctor," continued Richling, smiling apologetically as his friend confronted him, "you know, as you say, better than any one else, all that Mary and I have gone through--nearly all--and how we've gone through it. Now, if my life should end here shortly, what would the whole thing mean? It would mean nothing. Doctor; it would be meaningless. No, sir; this isn't the end. Mary and I"--his voice trembled an instant and then was firm again--"are designed for a long life. I argue from the simple fitness of things,--this is not the end." Dr. Sevier turned his face quickly toward the window, and so remained. CHAPTER L. FALL IN! There came a sound of drums. Twice on such a day, once the day before, thrice the next day, till by and by it was the common thing. High-stepping childhood, with laths and broom-handles at shoulder, was not fated, as in the insipid days of peace, to find, on running to the corner, its high hopes mocked by a wagon of empty barrels rumbling over the cobble-stones. No; it was the Washington Artillery, or the Crescent Rifles, or the Orleans Battalion, or, best of all, the blue-jacketed, white-leggined, red-breeched, and red-fezzed Zouaves; or, better than the best, it was all of them together, their captains stepping backward, sword in both hands, calling "_Gauche! gauche!_" ("Left! left!") "Guide right!"--"_Portez armes!_" and facing around again, throwing their shining blades stiffly to belt and epaulette, and glancing askance from under their abundant plumes to the crowded balconies above. Yea, and the drum-majors before, and the brilliant-petticoated _vivandières_ behind! What pomp! what giddy rounds! Pennons, cock-feathers, clattering steeds, pealing salvos, banners, columns, ladies' favors, balls, concerts, toasts, the Free Gift Lottery--don't you recollect?--and this uniform and that uniform, brother a captain, father a colonel, uncle a major, the little rector a chaplain, Captain Ristofalo of the Tiger Rifles; the levee covered with munitions of war, steam-boats unloading troops, troops, troops, from Opelousas, Attakapas, Texas; and a supper to this company, a flag to that battalion, farewell sermon to the Washington Artillery, tears and a kiss to a spurred and sashed lover, hurried weddings,--no end of them,--a sword to such a one, addresses by such and such, serenades to Miss and to Mademoiselle. Soon it will have been a quarter of a century ago! And yet--do you not hear them now, coming down the broad, granite-paved, moonlit street, the light that was made for lovers glancing on bayonet and sword soon to be red with brothers' blood, their brave young hearts already lifted up with the triumph of battles to come, and the trumpets waking the midnight stillness with the gay notes of the Cracovienne?-- "Again, again, the pealing drum, The clashing horn, they come, they come, And lofty deeds and daring high Blend with their notes of victory." Ah! the laughter; the music; the bravado; the dancing; the songs! "_Voilà l'Zouzou!_" "Dixie!" "_Aux armes, vos citoyens!_" "The Bonnie Blue Flag!"--it wasn't bonnie very long. Later the maidens at home learned to sing a little song,--it is among the missing now,--a part of it ran:-- "Sleeping on grassy couches; Pillowed on hillocks damp; Of martial fame how little we know Till brothers are in the camp." By and by they began to depart. How many they were! How many, many! We had too lightly let them go. And when all were gone, and they of Carondelet street and its tributaries, massed in that old gray, brittle-shanked regiment, the Confederate Guards, were having their daily dress parade in Coliseum place, and only they and the Foreign Legion remained; when sister Jane made lint, and flour was high, and the sounds of commerce were quite hushed, and in the custom-house gun-carriages were a-making, and in the foundries big guns were being cast, and the cotton gun-boats and the rams were building, and at the rotting wharves the masts of a few empty ships stood like dead trees in a blasted wilderness, and poor soldiers' wives crowded around the "Free Market," and grass began to spring up in the streets,--they were many still, while far away; but some marched no more, and others marched on bleeding feet, in rags; and it was very, very hard for some of us to hold the voice steady and sing on through the chorus of the little song:-- "Brave boys are they! Gone at their country's call. And yet--and yet--we cannot forget That many brave boys must fall." Oh! Shiloh, Shiloh! But before the gloom had settled down upon us it was a gay dream. "Mistoo Itchlin, in fact 'ow you ligue my uniefawm? You think it suit my style? They got about two poun' of gole lace on that uniefawm. Yesseh. Me, the h-only thing--I don' ligue those epaulette'. So soon ev'ybody see that on me, 'tis 'Lieut'nan'!' in thiz place, an' 'Lieut'nan'!' in that place. My de'seh, you'd thing I'm a majo'-gen'l, in fact. Well, of co'se, I don' ligue that." "And so you're a lieutenant?" "Third! Of the Chasseurs-á-Pied! Coon he'p 't, in fact; the fellehs elected me. Goin' at Pensacola tomaw. Dr. Seveeah _con_tinue my sala'y whilce I'm gone. no matteh the len'th. Me, I don' care, so long the sala'y _con_tinue, if that waugh las' ten yeah! You ah pe'haps goin' ad the ball to-nighd, Mistoo Itchlin? I dunno 'ow 'tis--I suppose you'll be aztonizh' w'en I infawm you--that ball wemine me of that battle of Wattaloo! Did you evva yeh those line' of Lawd By'on,-- 'Theh was a soun' of wibalwy by night, W'en--'Ush-'ark!--A deep saun' stwike'--? Thaz by Lawd By'on. Yesseh. Well"-- The Creole lifted his right hand energetically, laid its inner edge against the brass buttons of his _képi_, and then waved it gracefully abroad:-- "_Au 'evoi'_, Mistoo Itchlin. I leave you to defen' the city." "To-morrow," in those days of unreadiness and disconnection, glided just beyond reach continually. When at times its realization was at length grasped, it was away over on the far side of a fortnight or farther. However, the to-morrow for Narcisse came at last. A quiet order for attention runs down the column. Attention it is. Another order follows, higher-keyed, longer drawn out, and with one sharp "clack!" the sword-bayoneted rifles go to the shoulders of as fine a battalion as any in the land of Dixie. "_En avant!_"--Narcisse's heart stands still for joy--"_Marche!_" The bugle rings, the drums beat; "tramp, tramp," in quick succession, go the short-stepping, nimble Creole feet, and the old walls of the Rue Chartres ring again with the pealing huzza, as they rang in the days of Villeré and Lafrénière, and in the days of the young Galvez, and in the days of Jackson. The old Ponchartrain cars move off, packed. Down at the "Old Lake End" the steamer for Mobile receives the burden. The gong clangs in her engine-room, the walking-beam silently stirs, there is a hiss of water underneath, the gang-plank is in, the wet hawser-ends whip through the hawse-holes,--she moves; clang goes the gong again--she glides--or is it the crowded wharf that is gliding?--No.--Snatch the kisses! snatch them! Adieu! Adieu! She's off, huzza--she's off! Now she stands away. See the mass of gay colors--red, gold, blue, yellow, with glitter of steel and flutter of flags, a black veil of smoke sweeping over. Wave, mothers and daughters, wives, sisters, sweethearts--wave, wave; you little know the future! And now she is a little thing, her white wake following her afar across the green waters, the call of the bugle floating softly back. And now she is a speck. And now a little smoky stain against the eastern blue is all,--and now she is gone. Gone! Gone! Farewell, soldier boys! Light-hearted, little-forecasting, brave, merry boys! God accept you, our offering of first fruits! See that mother--that wife--take them away; it is too much. Comfort them, father, brother; tell them their tears may be for naught. "And yet--and yet--we cannot forget That many brave boys must fall." Never so glad a day had risen upon the head of Narcisse. For the first time in his life he moved beyond the corporate limits of his native town. "'Ezcape fum the aunt, thou sluggud!'" "_Au 'evoi'_" to his aunt and the uncle of his aunt. "_Au 'evoi'!_ _Au 'evoi'!_"--desk, pen, book--work, care, thought, restraint--all sinking, sinking beneath the receding horizon of Lake Ponchartrain, and the wide world and a soldier's life before him. Farewell, Byronic youth! You are not of so frail a stuff as you have seemed. You shall thirst by day and hunger by night. You shall keep vigil on the sands of the Gulf and on the banks of the Potomac. You shall grow brown, but prettier. You shall shiver in loathsome tatters, yet keep your grace, your courtesy, your joyousness. You shall ditch and lie down in ditches, and shall sing your saucy songs of defiance in the face of the foe, so blackened with powder and dust and smoke that your mother in heaven would not know her child. And you shall borrow to your heart's content chickens, hogs, rails, milk, buttermilk, sweet potatoes, what not; and shall learn the American songs, and by the camp-fire of Shenandoah valley sing "The years creep slowly by, Lorena" to messmates with shaded eyes, and "Her bright smile haunts me still." Ah, boy! there's an old woman still living in the Rue Casa Calvo--your bright smile haunts her still. And there shall be blood on your sword, and blood--twice--thrice--on your brow. Your captain shall die in your arms; and you shall lead charge after charge, and shall step up from rank to rank; and all at once, one day, just in the final onset, with the cheer on your lips, and your red sword waving high, with but one lightning stroke of agony, down, down you shall go in the death of your dearest choice. CHAPTER LI. BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER. One morning, about the 1st of June, 1861, in the city of New York, two men of the mercantile class came from a cross street into Broadway, near what was then the upper region of its wholesale stores. They paused on the corner, near the edge of the sidewalk. "Even when the States were seceding," said one of them, "I couldn't make up my mind that they really meant to break up the Union." He had rosy cheeks, a retreating chin, and amiable, inquiring eyes. The other had a narrower face, alert eyes, thin nostrils, and a generally aggressive look. He did not reply at once, but, after a quick glance down the great thoroughfare and another one up it, said, while his eyes still ran here and there:-- "Wonderful street, this Broadway!" He straightened up to his fullest height and looked again, now down the way, now up, his eye kindling with the electric contagion of the scene. His senses were all awake. They took in, with a spirit of welcome, all the vast movement: the uproar, the feeling of unbounded multitude, the commercial splendor, the miles of towering buildings; the long, writhing, grinding mass of coming and going vehicles, the rush of innumerable feet, and the countless forms and faces hurrying, dancing, gliding by, as though all the world's mankind, and womankind, and childhood must pass that way before night. "How many people, do you suppose, go by this corner in a single hour?" asked the man with the retreating chin. But again he got no answer. He might as well not have yielded the topic of conversation as he had done; so he resumed it. "No, I didn't believe it," he said. "Why, look at the Southern vote of last November--look at New Orleans. The way it went there, I shouldn't have supposed twenty-five per cent. of the people would be in favor of secession. Would you?" But his companion, instead of looking at New Orleans, took note of two women who had come to a halt within a yard of them and seemed to be waiting, as he and his companion were, for an opportunity to cross the street. The two new-comers were very different in appearance, the one from the other. The older and larger was much beyond middle life, red, fat, and dressed in black stuff, good as to fabric, but uncommonly bad as to fit. The other was young and pretty, refined, tastefully dressed, and only the more interesting for the look of permanent anxiety that asserted itself with distinctness about the corners of her eyes and mouth. She held by the hand a rosy, chubby little child, that seemed about three years old, and might be a girl or might be a boy, so far as could be discerned by masculine eyes. The man did not see this fifth member of their group until the elder woman caught it under the arms in her large hands, and, lifting it above her shoulder, said, looking far up the street:-- "O paypy, paypy, choost look de fla-ags! One, two, dtree,--a tuzzent, a hundut, a dtowsant fla-ags!" Evidently the child did not know her well. The little face remained without a smile, the lips sealed, the shoulders drawn up, and the legs pointing straight to the spot whence they had been lifted. She set it down again. "We're not going to get by here," said the less talkative man. "They must be expecting some troops to pass here. Don't you see the windows full of women and children?" "Let's wait and look at them," responded the other, and his companion did not dissent. "Well, sir," said the more communicative one, after a moment's contemplation, "I never expected to see this!" He indicated by a gesture the stupendous life of Broadway beginning slowly to roll back upon itself like an obstructed river. It was obviously gathering in a general pause to concentrate its attention upon something of leading interest about to appear to view. "We're in earnest at last, and we can see, now, that the South was in the deadest kind of earnest from the word go." "They can't be any more in earnest than we are, now," said the more decided speaker. "I had great hopes of the peace convention," said the rosier man. "I never had a bit," responded the other. "The suspense was awful--waiting to know what Lincoln would do when he came in," said he of the poor chin. "My wife was in the South visiting her relatives; and we kept putting off her return, hoping for a quieter state of affairs--hoping and putting off--till first thing you knew the lines closed down and she had the hardest kind of a job to get through." "I never had a doubt as to what Lincoln would do," said the man with sharp eyes; but while he spoke he covertly rubbed his companion's elbow with his own, and by his glance toward the younger of the two women gave him to understand that, though her face was partly turned away, the very pretty ear, with no ear-ring in the hole pierced for it, was listening. And the readier speaker rejoined in a suppressed voice:-- "That's the little lady I travelled in the same car with all the way from Chicago." "No times for ladies to be travelling alone," muttered the other. "She hoped to take a steam-ship for New Orleans, to join her husband there." "Some rebel fellow, I suppose." "No, a Union man, she says." "Oh, of course!" said the sharp-eyed one, sceptically. "Well, she's missed it. The last steamer's gone and may get back or may not." He looked at her again, narrowly, from behind his companion's shoulder. She was stooping slightly toward the child, rearranging some tie under its lifted chin and answering its questions in what seemed a chastened voice. He murmured to his fellow, "How do you know she isn't a spy?" The other one turned upon him a look of pure amusement, but, seeing the set lips and earnest eye of his companion, said softly, with a faint, scouting hiss and smile:-- "She's a perfect lady--a perfect one." "Her friend isn't," said the aggressive man. "Here they come," observed the other aloud, looking up the street. There was a general turning of attention and concentration of the street's population toward the edge of either sidewalk. A force of police was clearing back into the by-streets a dense tangle of drays, wagons, carriages, and white-topped omnibuses, and far up the way could be seen the fluttering and tossing of handkerchiefs, and in the midst a solid mass of blue with a sheen of bayonets above, and every now and then a brazen reflection from in front, where the martial band marched before. It was not playing. The ear caught distantly, instead of its notes, the warlike thunder of the drum corps. The sharper man nudged his companion mysteriously. "Listen," he whispered. Neither they nor the other pair had materially changed their relative positions. The older woman was speaking. "'Twas te fun'est dting! You pe lookin' for te Noo 'Leants shteamer, undt me lookin' for te Hambourg shteamer, undt coompt right so togeder undt never vouldn't 'a' knowedt udt yet, ovver te mayne exdt me, 'Misses Reisen, vot iss your name?' undt you headt udt. Undt te minudt you shpeak, udt choost come to me like a flash o' lightenin'--'Udt iss Misses Richlin'!'" The speaker's companion gave her such attention as one may give in a crowd to words that have been heard two or three times already within the hour. "Yes, Alice," she said, once or twice to the little one, who pulled softly at her skirt asking confidential questions. But the baker's widow went on with her story, enjoying it for its own sake. "You know, Mr. Richlin' he told me finfty dtimes, 'Misses Reisen, doant kif up te pissness!' Ovver I see te mutcheenery proke undt te foundtries all makin' guns undt kennons, undt I choost says, 'I kot plenteh moneh--I tdtink I kfit undt go home.' Ovver I sayss to de Doctor, 'Dte oneh dting--vot Mr. Richlin' ko-in to tdo?' Undt Dr. Tseweer he sayss, 'How menneh pa'ls flour you kot shtowed away?' Undt I sayss, 'Tsoo hundut finfty.' Undt he sayss, 'Misses Reisen, Mr. Richlin' done made you rich; you choost kif um dtat flour; udt be wort' tweny-fife tollahs te pa'l, yet.' Undt sayss I, 'Doctor, you' right, undt I dtank you for te goodt idea; I kif Mr. Richlin' innahow one pa'l.' Undt I done-d it. Ovver I sayss, 'Doctor, dtat's not like a rigler sellery, yet.' Undt dten he sayss, 'You know, _mine_ pookkeeper he gone to te vor, undt I need'"-- A crash of brazen music burst upon the ear and drowned the voice. The throng of the sidewalk pushed hard upon its edge. "Let me hold the little girl up," ventured the milder man, and set her gently upon his shoulder, as amidst a confusion of outcries and flutter of hats and handkerchiefs the broad, dense column came on with measured tread, its stars and stripes waving in the breeze and its backward-slanting thicket of bayoneted arms glittering in the morning sun. All at once there arose from the great column, in harmony with the pealing music, the hoarse roar of the soldiers' own voices singing in time to the rhythm of their tread. And a thrill runs through the people, and they answer with mad huzzas and frantic wavings and smiles, half of wild ardor and half of wild pain; and the keen-eyed man here by Mary lets the tears roll down his cheeks unhindered as he swings his hat and cries "Hurrah! hurrah!" while on tramps the mighty column, singing from its thousand thirsty throats the song of John Brown's Body. Yea, so, soldiers of the Union,--though that little mother there weeps but does not wave, as the sharp-eyed man notes well through his tears,--yet even so, yea, all the more, go--"go marching on," saviors of the Union; your cause is just. Lo, now, since nigh twenty-five years have passed, we of the South can say it! "And yet--and yet, we cannot forget"-- and we would not. CHAPTER LII. A PASS THROUGH THE LINES. About the middle of September following the date of the foregoing incident, there occurred in a farmhouse head-quarters on the Indiana shore of the Ohio river the following conversation:-- "You say you wish me to give you a pass through the lines, ma'am. Why do you wish to go through?" "I want to join my husband in New Orleans." "Why, ma'am, you'd much better let New Orleans come through the lines. We shall have possession of it, most likely, within a month." The speaker smiled very pleasantly, for very pleasant and sweet was the young face before him, despite its lines of mental distress, and very soft and melodious the voice that proceeded from it. "Do you think so?" replied the applicant, with an unhopeful smile. "My friends have been keeping me at home for months on that idea, but the fact seems as far off now as ever. I should go straight through without stopping, if I had a pass." "Ho!" exclaimed the man, softly, with pitying amusement. "Certainly, I understand you would try to do so. But, my dear madam, you would find yourself very much mistaken. Suppose, now, we should let you through our lines. You'd be between two fires. You'd still have to get into the rebel lines. You don't know what you're undertaking." She smiled wistfully. "I'm undertaking to get to my husband." "Yes, yes," said the officer, pulling his handkerchief from between two brass buttons of his double-breasted coat and wiping his brow. She did not notice that he made this motion purely as a cover for the searching glance which he suddenly gave her from head to foot. "Yes," he continued, "but you don't know what it is, ma'am. After you get through the _other_ lines, what are you going to do _then_? There's a perfect reign of terror over there. I wouldn't let a lady relative of mine take such risks for thousands of dollars. I don't think your husband ought to thank me for giving you a pass. You say he's a Union man; why don't he come to you?" Tears leaped into the applicant's eyes. "He's become too sick to travel," she said. "Lately?" "Yes, sir." "I thought you said you hadn't heard from him for months." The officer looked at her with narrowed eyes. "I said I hadn't had a letter from him." The speaker blushed to find her veracity on trial. She bit her lip, and added, with perceptible tremor: "I got one lately from his physician." "How did you get it?" "What, sir?" "Now, madam, you know what I asked you, don't you?" "Yes, sir." "Yes. Well, I'd like you to answer." "I found it, three mornings ago, under the front door of the house where I live with my mother and my little girl." "Who put it there?" "I do not know." The officer looked her steadily in the eyes. They were blue. His own dropped. "You ought to have brought that letter with you, ma'am," he said, looking up again; "don't you see how valuable it would be to you?" "I did bring it," she replied, with alacrity, rummaged a moment in a skirt-pocket, and brought it out. The officer received it and read the superscription audibly. "'Mrs. John H----.' Are you Mrs. John H----?" "That is not the envelope it was in," she replied. "It was not directed at all. I put it into that envelope merely to preserve it. That's the envelope of a different letter,--a letter from my mother." "Are you Mrs. John H----?" asked her questioner again. She had turned partly aside and was looking across the apartment and out through a window. He spoke once more. "Is this your name?" "What, sir?" He smiled cynically. "Please don't do that again, madam." She blushed down into the collar of her dress. "That is my name, sir." The man put the missive to his nose, snuffed it softly, and looked amused, yet displeased. "Mrs. H----, did you notice just a faint smell of--garlic--about this--?" "Yes, sir." "Well, I have no less than three or four others with the very same odor." He smiled on. "And so, no doubt, we are both of the same private opinion that the bearer of this letter was--who, Mrs. H----?" Mrs. H---- frequently by turns raised her eyes honestly to her questioner's and dropped them to where, in her lap, the fingers of one hand fumbled with a lone wedding-ring on the other, while she said:-- "Do you think, sir, if you were in my place you would like to give the name of the person you thought had risked his life to bring you word that your husband--your wife--was very ill, and needed your presence? Would you like to do it?" The officer looked severe. "Don't you know perfectly well that wasn't his principal errand inside our lines?" "No." "No!" echoed the man; "and you don't know perfectly well, I suppose, that he's been shot at along this line times enough to have turned his hair white? Or that he crossed the river for the third time last night, loaded down with musket-caps for the rebels?" "No." "But you must admit you know a certain person, wherever he may be, or whatever he may be doing, named Raphael Ristofalo?" "I do not." The officer smiled again. "Yes, I see. That is to say, you don't _admit_ it. And you don't deny it." The reply came more slowly:-- "I do not." "Well, now, Mrs. H----, I've given you a pretty long audience. I'll tell you what I'll do. But do you please tell me, first, you affirm on your word of honor that your name is really Mrs. H----; that you are no spy, and have had no voluntary communication with any, and that you are a true and sincere Union woman." "I affirm it all." "Well, then, come in to-morrow at this hour, and if I am going to give you a pass at all I'll give it to you then. Here, here's your letter." As she received the missive she lifted her eyes, suffused, but full of hope, to his, and said:-- "God grant you the heart to do it, sir, and bless you." The man laughed. Her eyes fell, she blushed, and, saying not a word, turned toward the door and had reached the threshold when the officer called, with a certain ringing energy:-- "Mrs. Richling!" She wheeled as if he had struck her, and answered:-- "What, sir!" Then, turning as red as a rose, she said, "O sir, that was cruel!" covered her face with her hands, and sobbed aloud. It was only as she was in the midst of these last words that she recognized in the officer before her the sharper-visaged of those two men who had stood by her in Broadway. "Step back here, Mrs. Richling." She came. "Well, madam! I should like to know what we are coming to, when a lady like you--a palpable, undoubted lady--can stoop to such deceptions!" "Sir," said Mary, looking at him steadfastly and then shaking her head in solemn asseveration, "all that I have said to you is the truth." "Then will you explain how it is that you go by one name in one part of the country, and by another in another part?" "No," she said. It was very hard to speak. The twitching of her mouth would hardly let her form a word. "No--no--I can't--tell you." "Very well, ma'am. If you don't start back to Milwaukee by the next train, and stay there, I shall"-- "Oh, don't say that, sir! I must go to my husband! Indeed, sir, it's nothing but a foolish mistake, made years ago, that's never harmed any one but us. I'll take all the blame of it if you'll only give me a pass!" The officer motioned her to be silent. "You'll have to do as I tell you, ma'am. If not, I shall know it; you will be arrested, and I shall give you a sort of pass that you'd be a long time asking for." He looked at the face mutely confronting him and felt himself relenting. "I dare say this does sound very cruel to you, ma'am; but remember, this is a cruel war. I don't judge you. If I did, and could harden my heart as I ought to, I'd have you arrested now. But, I say, you'd better take my advice. Good-morning! _No, ma'am, I can't hear you!_ So, now, that's enough! Good-morning, madam!" CHAPTER LIII. TRY AGAIN. One afternoon in the month of February, 1862, a locomotive engine and a single weather-beaten passenger-coach, moving southward at a very moderate speed through the middle of Kentucky, stopped in response to a handkerchief signal at the southern end of a deep, rocky valley, and, in a patch of gray, snow-flecked woods, took on board Mary Richling, dressed in deep mourning, and her little Alice. The three or four passengers already in the coach saw no sign of human life through the closed panes save the roof of one small cabin that sent up its slender thread of blue smoke at one corner of a little badly cleared field a quarter of a mile away on a huge hill-side. As the scant train crawled off again into a deep, ice-hung defile, it passed the silent figure of a man in butternut homespun, spattered with dry mud, standing close beside the track on a heap of cross-tie cinders and fire-bent railroad iron, a gray goat-beard under his chin, and a quilted homespun hat on his head. From beneath the limp brim of this covering, as the train moved by him, a tender, silly smile beamed upward toward one hastily raised window, whence the smile of Mary and the grave, unemotional gaze of the child met it for a moment before the train swung round a curve in the narrow way, and quickened speed on down grade. The conductor came and collected her fare. He smelt of tobacco above the smell of the coach in general. "Do you charge anything for the little girl?" The purse in which the inquirer's finger and thumb tarried was limber and flat. "No, ma'am." It was not the customary official negative; a tawdry benevolence of face went with it, as if to say he did not charge because he would not; and when Mary returned a faint beam of appreciation he went out upon the rear platform and wiped the plenteous dust from his shoulders and cap. Then he returned to his seat at the stove and renewed his conversation with a lieutenant in hard-used blue, who said "the rebel lines ought never to have been allowed to fall back to Nashville," and who knew "how Grant could have taken Fort Donelson a week ago if he had had any sense." There were but few persons, as we have said, in the car. A rough man in one corner had a little captive, a tiny, dappled fawn, tied by a short, rough bit of rope to the foot of the car-seat. When the conductor by and by lifted the little Alice up from the cushion, where she sat with her bootees straight in front of her at its edge, and carried her, speechless and drawn together like a kitten, and stood her beside the captive orphan, she simply turned about and pattered back to her mother's side. "I don't believe she even saw it," said the conductor, standing again by Mary. "Yes, she did," replied Mary, smiling upon the child's head as she smoothed its golden curls; "she'll talk about it to-morrow." The conductor lingered a moment, wanting to put his own hand there, but did not venture, perhaps because of the person sitting on the next seat behind, who looked at him rather steadily until he began to move away. This was a man of slender, commanding figure and advanced years. Beside him, next the window, sat a decidedly aristocratic woman, evidently his wife. She, too, was of fine stature, and so, without leaning forward from the back of her seat, or unfolding her arms, she could make kind eyes to Alice, as the child with growing frequency stole glances, at first over her own little shoulder, and later over her mother's, facing backward and kneeling on the cushion. At length a cooky passed between them in dead silence, and the child turned and gazed mutely in her mother's face, with the cooky just in sight. "It can't hurt her," said the lady, in a sweet voice, to Mary, leaning forward with her hands in her lap. By the time the sun began to set in a cool, golden haze across some wide stretches of rolling fallow, a conversation had sprung up, and the child was in the lady's lap, her little hand against the silken bosom, playing with a costly watch. The talk began about the care of Alice, passed to the diet, and then to the government, of children, all in a light way, a similarity of convictions pleasing the two ladies more and more as they found it run further and further. Both talked, but the strange lady sustained the conversation, although it was plainly both a pastime and a comfort to Mary. Whenever it threatened to flag the handsome stranger persisted in reviving it. Her husband only listened and smiled, and with one finger made every now and then a soft, slow pass at Alice, who each time shrank as slowly and softly back into his wife's fine arm. Presently, however, Mary raised her eyebrows a little and smiled, to see her sitting quietly in the gentleman's lap; and as she turned away and rested her elbow on the window-sill and her cheek on her hand in a manner that betrayed weariness, and looked out upon the ever-turning landscape, he murmured to his wife, "I haven't a doubt in my mind," and nodded significantly at the preoccupied little shape in his arms. His manner with the child was imperceptibly adroit, and very soon her prattle began to be heard. Mary was just turning to offer a gentle check to this rising volubility, when up jumped the little one to a standing posture on the gentleman's knee, and, all unsolicited and with silent clapping of hands, plumped out her full name:-- "Alice Sevier Witchlin'!" The husband threw a quick glance toward his wife; but she avoided it and called Mary's attention to the sunset as seen through the opposite windows. Mary looked and responded with expressions of admiration, but was visibly disquieted, and the next moment called her child to her. "My little girl mustn't talk so loud and fast in the cars," she said, with tender pleasantness, standing her upon the seat and brushing back the stray golden waves from the baby's temples, and the brown ones, so like them, from her own. She turned a look of amused apology to the gentleman, and added, "She gets almost boisterous sometimes," then gave her regard once more to her offspring, seating the little one beside her as in the beginning, and answering her musical small questions with composing yeas and nays. "I suppose," she said, after a pause and a look out through the window,--"I suppose we ought soon to be reaching M---- station, now, should we not?" "What, in Tennessee? Oh! no," replied the gentleman. "In ordinary times we should; but at this slow rate we cannot nearly do it. We're on a road, you see, that was destroyed by the retreating army and made over by the Union forces. Besides, there are three trains of troops ahead of us, that must stop and unload between here and there, and keep you waiting, there's no telling how long." "Then I'll get there in the night!" exclaimed Mary. "Yes, probably after midnight." "Oh, I shouldn't have _thought_ of coming before to-morrow if I had known that!" In the extremity of her dismay she rose half from her seat and looked around with alarm. "Have you no friends expecting to receive you there?" asked the lady. "Not a soul! And the conductor says there's no lodging-place nearer than three miles"-- "And that's gone now," said the gentleman. "You'll have to get out at the same station with us," said the lady, her manner kindness itself and at the same time absolute. "I think you have claims on us, anyhow, that we'd like to pay." "Oh! impossible," said Mary. "You're certainly mistaking me." "I think you have," insisted the lady; "that is, if your name is Richling." Mary blushed. "I don't think you know my husband," she said; "he lives a long way from here." "In New Orleans?" asked the gentleman. "Yes, sir," said Mary, boldly. She couldn't fear such good faces. "His first name is John, isn't it?" "Yes, sir. Do you really know John, sir?" The lines of pleasure and distress mingled strangely in Mary's face. The gentleman smiled. He tapped little Alice's head with the tips of his fingers. "I used to hold him on my knee when he was no bigger than this little image of him here." The tears leaped into Mary's eyes. "Mr. Thornton," she whispered, huskily, and could say no more. "You must come home with us," said the lady, touching her tenderly on the shoulder. "It's a wonder of good fortune that we've met. Mr. Thornton has something to say to you,--a matter of business. He's the family's lawyer, you know." "I must get to my husband without delay," said Mary. "Get to your husband?" asked the lawyer, in astonishment. "Yes, sir." "Through the lines?" "Yes, sir." "I told him so," said the lady. "I don't know how to credit it," said he. "Why, my child, I don't think you can possibly know what you are attempting. Your friends ought never to have allowed you to conceive such a thing. You must let us dissuade you. It will not be taking too much liberty, will it? Has your husband never told you what good friends we were?" Mary nodded and tried to speak. "Often," said Mrs. Thornton to her husband, interpreting the half-articulated reply. They sat and talked in low tones, under the dismal lamp of the railroad coach, for two or three hours. Mr. Thornton came around and took the seat in front of Mary, and sat with one leg under him, facing back toward her. Mrs. Thornton sat beside her, and Alice slumbered on the seat behind, vacated by the lawyer and his wife. "You needn't tell me John's story," said the gentleman; "I know it. What I didn't know before, I got from a man with whom I corresponded in New Orleans." "Dr. Sevier?" "No, a man who got it from the Doctor." So they had Mary tell her own story. "I thought I should start just as soon as my mother's health would permit. John wouldn't have me start before that, and, after all, I don't see how I could have done it--rightly. But by the time she was well--or partly well--every one was in the greatest anxiety and doubt everywhere. You know how it was." "Yes," said Mrs. Thornton. "And everybody thinking everything would soon be settled," continued Mary. "Yes," said the sympathetic lady, and her husband touched her quietly, meaning for her not to interrupt. "We didn't think the Union _could_ be broken so easily," pursued Mary. "And then all at once it was unsafe and improper to travel alone. Still I went to New York, to take steamer around by sea. But the last steamer had sailed, and I had to go back home; for--the fact is,"--she smiled,--"my money was all gone. It was September before I could raise enough to start again; but one morning I got a letter from New Orleans, telling me that John was very ill, and enclosing money for me to travel with." She went on to tell the story of her efforts to get a pass on the bank of the Ohio river, and how she had gone home once more, knowing she was watched, not daring for a long time to stir abroad, and feeding on the frequent hope that New Orleans was soon to be taken by one or another of the many naval expeditions that from time to time were, or were said to be, sailing. "And then suddenly--my mother died." Mrs. Thornton gave a deep sigh. "And then," said Mary, with a sudden brightening, but in a low voice, "I determined to make one last effort. I sold everything in the world I had and took Alice and started. I've come very slowly, a little way at a time, feeling along, for I was resolved not to be turned back. I've been weeks getting this far, and the lines keep moving south ahead of me. But I haven't been turned back," she went on to say, with a smile, "and everybody, white and black, everywhere, has been just as kind as kind can be." Tears stopped her again. "Well, never mind, Mrs. Richling," said Mrs. Thornton; then turned to her husband, and asked, "May I tell her?" "Yes." "Well, Mrs. Richling,--but do you wish to be called Mrs. Richling?" "Yes," said Mary, and "Certainly," said Mr. Thornton. "Well, Mrs. Richling, Mr. Thornton has some money for your husband. Not a great deal, but still--some. The younger of the two sisters died a few weeks ago. She was married, but she was rich in her own right. She left almost everything to her sister; but Mr. Thornton persuaded her to leave some money--well, two thousand--'tisn't much, but it's something, you know--to--ah to Mr. Richling. Husband has it now at home and will give it to you,--at the breakfast-table to-morrow morning; can't you, dear?" "Yes." "Yes, and we'll not try to persuade you to give up your idea of going to New Orleans. I know we couldn't do it. We'll watch our chance,--eh, husband?--and put you through the lines; and not only that, but give you letters to--why, dear," said the lady, turning to her partner in good works, "you can give Mrs. Richling a letter to Governor Blank; and another to General Um-hm, can't you? and--yes, and one to Judge Youknow. Oh, they will take you anywhere! But first you'll stop with us till you get well rested--a week or two, or as much longer as you will." Mary pressed the speaker's hand. "I can't stay." "Oh, you know you needn't have the least fear of seeing any of John's relatives. They don't live in this part of the State at all; and, even if they did, husband has no business with them just now, and being a Union man, you know"-- "I want to see my husband," said Mary, not waiting to hear what Union sympathies had to do with the matter. "Yes," said the lady, in a suddenly subdued tone. "Well, we'll get you through just as quickly as we can." And soon they all began to put on wraps and gather their luggage. Mary went with them to their home, laid her tired head beside her child's in sleep, and late next morning rose to hear that Fort Donelson was taken, and the Southern forces were falling back. A day or two later came word that Columbus, on the Mississippi, had been evacuated. It was idle for a woman to try just then to perform the task she had set for herself. The Federal lines! "Why, my dear child, they're trying to find the Confederate lines and strike them. You can't lose anything--you may gain much--by remaining quiet here awhile. The Mississippi, I don't doubt, will soon be open from end to end." A fortnight seemed scarcely more than a day when it was past, and presently two of them had gone. One day comes Mr. Thornton, saying:-- "My dear child, I cannot tell you how I have the news, but you may depend upon its correctness. New Orleans is to be attacked by the most powerful naval expedition that ever sailed under the United States flag. If the place is not in our hands by the first of April I will put you through both lines, if I have to go with you myself." When Mary made no answer, he added, "Your delays have all been unavoidable, my child!" "Oh, I don't know; I don't know!" exclaimed Mary, with sudden distraction; "it seems to me I _must_ be to blame, or I'd have been through long ago. I ought to have _run through_ the lines. I ought to have 'run the blockade.'" "My child," said the lawyer, "you're mad." "You'll see," replied Mary, almost in soliloquy. CHAPTER LIV. "WHO GOES THERE?" The scene and incident now to be described are without date. As Mary recalled them, years afterward, they hung out against the memory a bold, clear picture, cast upon it as the magic lantern casts its tableaux upon the darkened canvas. She had lost the day of the month, the day of the week, all sense of location, and the points of the compass. The most that she knew was that she was somewhere near the meeting of the boundaries of three States. Either she was just within the southern bound of Tennessee, or the extreme north-eastern corner of Mississippi, or else the north-western corner of Alabama. She was aware, too, that she had crossed the Tennessee river; that the sun had risen on her left and had set on her right, and that by and by this beautiful day would fade and pass from this unknown land, and the fire-light and lamp-light draw around them the home-groups under the roof-trees, here where she was a homeless stranger, the same as in the home-lands where she had once loved and been beloved. She was seated in a small, light buggy drawn by one good horse. Beside her the reins were held by a rather tall man, of middle age, gray, dark, round-shouldered, and dressed in the loose blue flannel so much worn by followers of the Federal camp. Under the stiff brim of his soft-crowned black hat a pair of clear eyes gave a continuous playful twinkle. Between this person and Mary protruded, at the edge of the buggy-seat, two small bootees that have already had mention, and from his elbow to hers, and back to his, continually swayed drowsily the little golden head to which the bootees bore a certain close relation. The dust of the highway was on the buggy and the blue flannel and the bootees. It showed with special boldness on a black sun-bonnet that covered Mary's head, and that somehow lost all its homeliness whenever it rose sufficiently in front to show the face within. But the highway itself was not there; it had been left behind some hours earlier. The buggy was moving at a quiet jog along a "neighborhood road," with unploughed fields on the right and a darkling woods pasture on the left. By the feathery softness and paleness of the sweet-smelling foliage you might have guessed it was not far from the middle of April, one way or another; and, by certain allusions to Pittsburg Landing as a place of conspicuous note, you might have known that Shiloh had been fought. There was that feeling of desolation in the land that remains after armies have passed over, let them tread never so lightly. "D'you know what them rails is put that way fur?" asked the man. He pointed down with his buggy-whip just off the roadside, first on one hand and then on the other. "No," said Mary, turning the sun-bonnet's limp front toward the questioner and then to the disjointed fence on her nearer side; "that's what I've been wondering for days. They've been ordinary worm fences, haven't they?" "Jess so," responded the man, with his accustomed twinkle. "But I think I see you oncet or twicet lookin' at 'em and sort o' tryin' to make out how come they got into that shape." The long-reiterated W's of the rail-fence had been pulled apart into separate V's, and the two sides of each of these had been drawn narrowly together, so that what had been two parallel lines of fence, with the lane between, was now a long double row of wedge-shaped piles of rails, all pointing into the woods on the left. "How did it happen?" asked Mary, with a smile of curiosity. "Didn't happen at all, 'twas jess _done_ by live men, and in a powerful few minutes at that. Sort o' shows what we're approachin' unto, as it were, eh? Not but they's plenty behind us done the same way, all the way back into Kentuck', as you already done see; but this's been done sence the last rain, and it rained night afore last." "Still I'm not sure what it means," said Mary; "has there been fighting here?" "Go up head," said the man, with a facetious gesture. "See? The fight came through these here woods, here. 'Taint been much over twenty-four hours, I reckon, since every one o' them-ah sort o' shut-up-fan-shape sort o' fish-traps had a gray-jacket in it layin' flat down an' firin' through the rails, sort o' random-like, only not much so." His manner of speech seemed a sort of harlequin patchwork from the bad English of many sections, the outcome of a humorous and eclectic fondness for verbal deformities. But his lightness received a sudden check. "Heigh-h-h!" he gravely and softly exclaimed, gathering the reins closer, as the horse swerved and dashed ahead. Two or three buzzards started up from the roadside, with their horrid flapping and whiff of quills, and circled low overhead. "Heigh-h-h!" he continued soothingly. "Ho-o-o-o! somebody lost a good nag there,--a six-pound shot right through his head and neck. Whoever made that shot killed two birds with one stone, sho!" He was half risen from his seat, looking back. As he turned again, and sat down, the drooping black sun-bonnet quite concealed the face within. He looked at it a moment. "If you think you don't like the risks we can still turn back." "No," said the voice from out the sun-bonnet; "go on." "If we don't turn back now we can't turn back at all." "Go on," said Mary; "I can't turn back." "You're a good soldier," said the man, playfully again. "You're a better one than me, I reckon; I kin turn back frequently, as it were. I've done it 'many a time and oft,' as the felleh says." Mary looked up with feminine surprise. He made a pretence of silent laughter, that showed a hundred crows' feet in his twinkling eyes. "Oh, don't you fret; I'm not goin' to run the wrong way with you in charge. Didn't you hear me promise Mr. Thornton? Well, you see, I've got a sort o' bad memory, that kind o' won't let me forgit when I make a promise;--bothers me that way a heap sometimes." He smirked in a self-deprecating way, and pulled his hat-brim down in front. Presently he spoke again, looking straight ahead over the horse's ears:-- "Now, that's the mischief about comin' with me--got to run both blockades at oncet. Now, if you'd been a good Secesh and could somehow or 'nother of got a pass through the Union lines you'd of been all gay. But bein' Union, the fu'ther you git along the wuss off you air, 'less-n I kin take you and carry you 'way 'long yonder to where you kin jess jump onto a south-bound Rebel railroad and light down amongst folks that'll never think o' you havin' run through the lines." "But you can't do that," said Mary, not in the form of a request. "You know you agreed with Mr. Thornton that you would simply"-- "Put you down in a safe place," said the man, jocosely; "that's what it meant, and don't you get nervous"-- His face suddenly changed; he raised his whip and held it up for attention and silence, looking at Mary, and smiling while he listened. "Do you hear anything?" "Yes," said Mary, in a hushed tone. There were some old fields on the right-hand now, and a wood on the left. Just within the wood a turtle-dove was cooing. "I don't mean that," said the man, softly. "No," said Mary, "you mean this, away over here." She pointed across the fields, almost straight away in front. "'Taint so scandalous far 'awa-a-ay' as you talk like," murmured the man, jestingly; and just then a fresh breath of the evening breeze brought plainer and nearer the soft boom of a bass-drum. "Are they coming this way?" asked Mary. "No; they're sort o' dress-paradin' in camp, I reckon." He began to draw rein. "We turn off here, anyway," he said, and drove slowly, but point blank into the forest. "I don't see any road," said Mary. It was so dark in the wood that even her child, muffled in a shawl and asleep in her arms, was a dim shape. "Yes," was the reply; "we have to sort o' smell out the way here; but my smellers is good, at times, and pretty soon we'll strike a little sort o' somepnuther like a road, about a quarter from here." Pretty soon they did so. It started suddenly from the edge of an old field in the forest, and ran gradually down, winding among the trees, into a densely wooded bottom, where even Mary's short form often had to bend low to avoid the boughs of beech-trees and festoons of grape-vine. Under one beech the buggy stood still a moment. The man drew and opened a large clasp-knife and cut one of the long, tough withes. He handed it to Mary, as they started on again. "With compliments," he said, "and hoping you won't find no use for it." "What is it for?" "Why, you see, later on we'll be in the saddle; and if such a thing should jess accidentally happen to happen, which I hope it won't, to be sho', that I should happen to sort o' absent-mindedly yell out 'Go!' like as if a hornet had stabbed me, you jess come down with that switch, and make the critter under you run like a scared dog, as it were." "Must I?" "No, I don't say you _must_, but you'd better, I bet you. You needn't if you don't want to." Presently the dim path led them into a clear, rippling creek, and seemed to Mary to end; but when the buggy wheels had crunched softly along down stream over some fifty or sixty yards of gravelly shallow, the road showed itself faintly again on the other bank, and the horse, with a plunge or two and a scramble, jerked them safely over the top, and moved forward in the direction of the rising moon. They skirted a small field full of ghostly dead trees, where corn was beginning to make a show, turned its angle, and saw the path under their feet plain to view, smooth and hard. "See that?" said the man, in a tone of playful triumph, as the animal started off at a brisk trot, lifted his head and neighed. "'My day's work's done,' sezee; 'I done hoed my row.'" A responsive neigh came out of the darkness ahead. "That's the trick!" said the man. "Thanks, as the felleh says." He looked to Mary for her appreciation of his humor. "I suppose that means a good deal; does it?" asked she, with a smile. "Jess so! It means, first of all, fresh hosses. And then it means a house what aint been burnt by jayhawkers yit, and a man and woman a-waitin' in it, and some bacon and cornpone, and maybe a little coffee; and milk, anyhow, till you can't rest, and buttermilk to fare-you-well. Now, have you ever learned the trick o' jess sort o' qui'lin'[2] up, cloze an' all, dry so, and puttin' half a night's rest into an hour's sleep? 'Caze why, in one hour we must be in the saddle. No mo' buggy, and powerful few roads. Comes as nigh coonin' it as I reckon you ever 'lowed you'd like to do, don't it?" [2] Coiling. He smiled, pretending to hold back much laughter, and Mary smiled too. At mention of a woman she had removed her bonnet and was smoothing her hair with her hand. "I don't care," she said, "if only you'll bring us through." The man made a ludicrous gesture of self-abasement. "Not knowin', can't say, as the felleh says; but what I can tell you--I always start out to make a spoon or spoil a horn, and which one I'll do I seldom ever promise till it's done. But I have a sneakin' notion, as it were, that I'm the clean sand, and no discount, as Mr. Lincoln says, and I do my best. Angels can do no more, as the felleh says." He drew rein. "Whoa!" Mary saw a small log cabin, and a fire-light shining under the bottom of the door. "The woods seem to be on fire just over there in three or four places, are they not?" she asked, as she passed the sleeping Alice down to the man, who had got out of the buggy. "Them's the camps," said another man, who had come out of the house and was letting the horse out of the shafts. "If we was on the rise o' the hill yonder we could see the Confedick camps, couldn't we, Isaiah?" asked Mary's guide. "Easy," said that prophet. "I heer 'em to-day two, three times, plain, cheerin' at somethin'." * * * About the middle of that night Mary Richling was sitting very still and upright on a large dark horse that stood champing his Mexican bit in the black shadow of a great oak. Alice rested before her, fast asleep against her bosom. Mary held by the bridle another horse, whose naked saddle-tree was empty. A few steps in front of her the light of the full moon shone almost straight down upon a narrow road that just there emerged from the shadow of woods on either side, and divided into a main right fork and a much smaller one that curved around to Mary's left. Off in the direction of the main fork the sky was all aglow with camp-fires. Only just here on the left there was a cool and grateful darkness. She lifted her head alertly. A twig crackled under a tread, and the next moment a man came out of the bushes at the left, and without a word took the bridle of the led horse from her fingers and vaulted into the saddle. The hand that rested a moment on the cantle as he rose grasped a "navy-six." He was dressed in dull homespun but he was the same who had been dressed in blue. He turned his horse and led the way down the lesser road. "If we'd of gone three hundred yards further," he whispered, falling back and smiling broadly, "we'd 'a' run into the pickets. I went nigh enough to see the videttes settin' on their hosses in the main road. This here aint no road; it just goes up to a nigger quarters. I've got one o' the niggers to show us the way." "Where is he?" whispered Mary; but, before her companion could answer, a tattered form moved from behind a bush a little in advance and started ahead in the path, walking and beckoning. Presently they turned into a clear, open forest and followed the long, rapid, swinging stride of the negro for nearly an hour. Then they halted on the bank of a deep, narrow stream. The negro made a motion for them to keep well to the right when they should enter the water. The white man softly lifted Alice to his arms, directed and assisted Mary to kneel in her saddle, with her skirts gathered carefully under her, and so they went down into the cold stream, the negro first, with arms outstretched above the flood; then Mary, and then the white man,--or, let us say plainly the spy,--with the unawakened child on his breast. And so they rose out of it on the farther side without a shoe or garment wet save the rags of their dark guide. Again they followed him, along a line of stake-and-rider fence, with the woods on one side and the bright moonlight flooding a field of young cotton on the other. Now they heard the distant baying of house-dogs, now the doleful call of the chuck-will's-widow; and once Mary's blood turned, for an instant, to ice, at the unearthly shriek of the hoot-owl just above her head. At length they found themselves in a dim, narrow road, and the negro stopped. "Dess keep dish yeh road fo' 'bout half mile an' you strak 'pon the broad, main road. Tek de right, an' you go whah yo' fancy tek you." "Good-by," whispered Mary. "Good-by, miss," said the negro, in the same low voice; "good-by, boss; don't you fo'git you promise tek me thoo to de Yankee' when you come back. I 'feered you gwine fo'git it, boss." The spy said he would not, and they left him. The half-mile was soon passed, though it turned out to be a mile and a half, and at length Mary's companion looked back, as they rode single file, with Mary in the rear, and said softly, "There's the road," pointing at its broad, pale line with his six-shooter. As they entered it and turned to the right, Mary, with Alice again in her arms, moved somewhat ahead of her companion, her indifferent horsemanship having compelled him to drop back to avoid a prickly bush. His horse was just quickening his pace to regain the lost position when a man sprang up from the ground on the farther side of the highway, snatched a carbine from the earth and cried, "Halt!" The dark, recumbent forms of six or eight others could be seen, enveloped in their blankets, lying about a few red coals. Mary turned a frightened look backward and met the eyes of her companion. "Move a little faster," said he, in a low, clear voice. As she promptly did so she heard him answer the challenge. His horse trotted softly after hers. "Don't stop us, my friend; we're taking a sick child to the doctor." "Halt, you hound!" the cry rang out; and as Mary glanced back three or four men were just leaping into the road. But she saw, also, her companion, his face suffused with an earnestness that was almost an agony, rise in his stirrups, with the stoop of his shoulders all gone, and wildly cry:-- "Go!" She smote the horse and flew. Alice awoke and screamed. "Hush, my darling!" said the mother, laying on the withe; "mamma's here. Hush, darling!--mamma's here. Don't be frightened, darling baby! O God, spare my child!" and away she sped. The report of a carbine rang out and went rolling away in a thousand echoes through the wood. Two others followed in sharp succession, and there went close by Mary's ear the waspish whine of a minie-ball. At the same moment she recognized, once,--twice,--thrice,--just at her back where the hoofs of her companion's horse were clattering,--the tart rejoinders of his navy-six. "Go!" he cried again. "Lay low! lay low! cover the child!" But his words were needless. With head bowed forward and form crouched over the crying, clinging child, with slackened rein and fluttering dress, and sun-bonnet and loosened hair blown back upon her shoulders, with lips compressed and silent prayers, Mary was riding for life and liberty and her husband's bedside. "O mamma! mamma!" wailed the terrified little one. "Go on! Go on!" cried the voice behind; "they're saddling--up! Go! go! We're goin' to make it. We're goin' to _make_ it! Go-o-o!" Half an hour later they were again riding abreast, at a moderate gallop. Alice's cries had been quieted, but she still clung to her mother in a great tremor. Mary and her companion conversed earnestly in the subdued tone that had become their habit. "No, I don't think they followed us fur," said the spy. "Seem like they's jess some scouts, most likely a-comin' in to report, feelin' pooty safe and sort o' takin' it easy and careless; 'dreamin' the happy hours away,' as the felleh says. I reckon they sort o' believed my story, too, the little gal yelled so sort o' skilful. We kin slack up some more now; we want to get our critters lookin' cool and quiet ag'in as quick as we kin, befo' we meet up with somebody." They reined into a gentle trot. He drew his revolver, whose emptied chambers he had already refilled. "D'd you hear this little felleh sing, 'Listen to the mockin'-bird'?" "Yes," said Mary; "but I hope it didn't hit any of them." He made no reply. "Don't you?" she asked. He grinned. "D'you want a felleh to wish he was a bad shot?" "Yes," said Mary, smiling. "Well, seein' as you're along, I do. For they wouldn't give us up so easy if I'd a hit one. Oh,--mine was only sort o' complimentary shots,--much as to say, 'Same to you, gents,' as the felleh says." Mary gave him a pleasant glance by way of courtesy, but was busy calming the child. The man let his weapon into its holster under his homespun coat and lapsed into silence. He looked long and steadily at the small feminine figure of his companion. His eyes passed slowly from the knee thrown over the saddle's horn to the gentle forehead slightly bowed, as her face sank to meet the uplifted kisses of the trembling child, then over the crown and down the heavy, loosened tresses that hid the sun-bonnet hanging back from her throat by its strings and flowed on down to the saddle-bow. His admiring eyes, grave for once, had made the journey twice before he noticed that the child was trying to comfort the mother, and that the light of the sinking moon was glistening back from Mary's falling tears. "Better let me have the little one," he said, "and you sort o' fix up a little, befo' we happen to meet up with somebody, as I said. It's lucky we haven't done it already." A little coaxing prevailed with Alice, and the transfer was made. Mary turned away her wet eyes, smiling for shame of them, and began to coil her hair, her companion's eye following. "Oh, you aint got no business to be ashamed of a few tears. I knowed you was a good soldier, befo' ever we started; I see' it in yo' eye. Not as I want to be complimentin' of you jess now. 'I come not here to talk,' as they used to say in school. D'd you ever hear that piece?" "Yes," said Mary. "That's taken from Romans, aint it?" "No," said Mary again, with a broad smile. "I didn't know," said the man; "I aint no brag Bible scholar." He put on a look of droll modesty. "I used to could say the ten commandments of the decalogue, oncet, and I still tries to keep 'em, in ginerally. There's another burnt house. That's the third one we done passed inside a mile. Raiders was along here about two weeks back. Hear that rooster crowin'? When we pass the plantation whar he is and rise the next hill, we'll be in sight o' the little town whar we stop for refresh_ments_, as the railroad man says. You must begin to feel jess about everlastin'ly wore out, don't you?" "No," said Mary; but he made a movement of the head to indicate that he had his belief to the contrary. At an abrupt angle of the road Mary's heart leaped into her throat to find herself and her companion suddenly face to face with two horsemen in gray, journeying leisurely toward them on particularly good horses. One wore a slouched hat, the other a Federal officer's cap. They were the first Confederates she had ever seen eye to eye. "Ride on a little piece and stop," murmured the spy. The strangers lifted their hats respectfully as she passed them. "Gents," said the spy, "good-morning!" He threw a leg over the pommel of his saddle and the three men halted in a group. One of them copied the spy's attitude. They returned the greeting in kind. "What command do you belong to?" asked the lone stranger. "Simmons's battery," said one. "Whoa!"--to his horse. "Mississippi?" asked Mary's guardian. "Rackensack," said the man in the blue cap. "Arkansas," said the other in the same breath. "What is your command?" "Signal service," replied the spy. "Reckon I look mighty like a citizen jess about now, don't I?" He gave them his little laugh of self-depreciation and looked toward Mary, where she had halted and was letting her horse nip the new grass of the roadside. "See any troops along the way you come?" asked the man in the hat. "No; on'y a squad o' fellehs back yonder who was all unsaddled and fast asleep, and jumped up worse scared'n a drove o' wile hogs. We both sort o' got a little mad and jess swapped a few shots, you know, kind o' tit for tat, as it were. Enemy's loss unknown." He stooped more than ever in the shoulders, and laughed. The men were amused. "If you see 'em, I'd like you to mention me"-- He paused to exchange smiles again. "And tell 'em the next time they see a man hurryin' along with a lady and sick child to see the doctor, they better hold their fire till they sho he's on'y a citizen." He let his foot down into the stirrup again and they all smiled broadly. "Good-morning!" The two parties went their ways. "Jess as leave not of met up with them two buttermilk rangers," said the spy, once more at Mary's side; "but seein' as thah we was the oniest thing was to put on all the brass I had." From the top of the next hill the travellers descended into a village lying fast asleep, with the morning star blazing over it, the cocks calling to each other from their roosts, and here and there a light twinkling from a kitchen window, or a lazy axe-stroke smiting the logs at a wood-pile. In the middle of the village one lone old man, half-dressed, was lazily opening the little wooden "store" that monopolized its commerce. The travellers responded to his silent bow, rode on through the place, passed over and down another hill, met an aged negro, who passed on the roadside, lifting his forlorn hat and bowing low; and, as soon as they could be sure they had gone beyond his sight and hearing, turned abruptly into a dark wood on the left. Twice again they turned to the left, going very warily through the deep shadows of the forest, and so returned half around the village, seeing no one. Then they stopped and dismounted at a stable-door, on the outskirts of the place. The spy opened it with a key from his own pocket, went in and came out again with a great armful of hay, which he spread for the horses' feet to muffle their tread, led them into the stable, removed the hay again, and closed and locked the door. "Make yourself small," he whispered, "and walk fast." They passed by a garden path up to the back porch and door of a small unpainted cottage. He knocked, three soft, measured taps. "Day's breakin'," he whispered again, as he stood with Alice asleep in his arms, while somebody was heard stirring within. "Sam?" said a low, wary voice just within the unopened door. "Sister," softly responded the spy, and the door swung inward, and revealed a tall woman, with an austere but good face, that could just be made out by the dim light of a tallow candle shining from the next room. The travellers entered and the door was shut. "Well," said the spy, standing and smiling foolishly, and bending playfully in the shoulders, "well, Mrs. Richlin',"--he gave his hand a limp wave abroad and smirked,--"'In Dixie's land you take yo' stand.' This is it. You're in it!--Mrs. Richlin', my sister; sister, Mrs. Richlin'." "Pleased to know ye," said the woman, without the faintest ray of emotion. "Take a seat and sit down." She produced a chair bottomed with raw-hide. "Thank you," was all Mary could think of to reply as she accepted the seat, and "Thank you" again when the woman brought a glass of water. The spy laid Alice on a bed in sight of Mary in another chamber. He came back on tiptoe. "Now, the next thing is to git you furder south. Wust of it is that, seein' as you got sich a weakness fur tellin' the truth, we'll jess have to sort o' slide you along fum one Union man to another; sort o' hole fass what I give ye, as you used to say yourself, I reckon. But you've got one strong holt." His eye went to his sister's, and he started away without a word, and was presently heard making a fire, while the woman went about spreading a small table with cold meats and corn-bread, milk and butter. Her brother came back once more. "Yes," he said to Mary, "you've got one mighty good card, and that's it in yonder on the bed. 'Humph!' folks'll say; 'didn't come fur with that there baby, sho!'" "I wouldn't go far without her," said Mary, brightly. "_I_ say," responded the hostess, with her back turned, and said no more. "Sister," said the spy, "we'll want the buggy." "All right," responded the sister. "I'll go feed the hosses," said he, and went out. In a few minutes he returned. "Joe must give 'em a good rubbin' when he comes, sister," he said. "All right," replied the woman, and then turning to Mary, "Come." "What, ma'm?" "Eat." She touched the back of a chair. "Sam, bring the baby." She stood and waited on the table. Mary was still eating, when suddenly she rose up, saying:-- "Why, where is Mr. ----, your brother?" "He's gone to take a sleep outside," said his sister. "It's too resky for him to sleep in a house." She faintly smiled, for the first time, at the end of this long speech. "But," said Mary, "oh, I haven't uttered a word of thanks. What will he think of me?" She sank into her chair again with an elbow on the table, and looked up at the tall standing figure on the other side, with a little laugh of mortification. "You kin thank God," replied the figure. "_He_ aint gone." Another ghost of a smile was seen for a moment on the grave face. "Sam aint thinkin' about that. You hurry and finish and lay down and sleep, and when you wake up he'll be back here ready, to take you along furder. That's a healthy little one. She wants some more buttermilk. Give it to her. If she don't drink it the pigs'll git it, as the ole woman says.... Now you better lay down on the bed in yonder and go to sleep. Jess sort o' loosen yo' cloze; don't take off noth'n' but dress and shoes. You needn't be afeard to sleep sound; I'm goin' to keep a lookout." CHAPTER LV. DIXIE. In her sleep Mary dreamed over again the late rencontre. Again she heard the challenging outcry, and again was lashing her horse to his utmost speed; but this time her enemy seemed too fleet for her. He overtook--he laid his hand upon her. A scream was just at her lips, when she awoke with a wild start, to find the tall woman standing over her, and bidding her in a whisper rise with all stealth and dress with all speed. "Where's Alice?" asked Mary. "Where's my little girl?" "She's there. Never mind her yit, till you're dressed. Here; not them cloze; these here homespun things. Make haste, but don't get excited." "How long have I slept?" asked Mary, hurriedly obeying. "You couldn't 'a' more'n got to sleep. Sam oughtn't to have shot back at 'em. They're after 'im, hot; four of 'em jess now passed through on the road, right here past my front gate." "What kept them back so long?" asked Mary, tremblingly attempting to button her dress in the back. "Let me do that," said the woman. "They couldn't come very fast; had to kind o' beat the bushes every hundred yards or so. If they'd of been more of 'em they'd a-come faster, 'cause they'd a-left one or two behind at each turn-out, and come along with the rest. There; now that there hat, there, on the table." As Mary took the hat the speaker stepped to a window and peeped into the early day. A suppressed exclamation escaped her. "O you poor boy!" she murmured. Mary sprang toward her, but the stronger woman hurried her away from the spot. "Come; take up the little one 'thout wakin' her. Three more of 'em's a-passin'. The little young feller in the middle reelin' and swayin' in his saddle, and t'others givin' him water from his canteen." "Wounded?" asked Mary, with a terrified look, bringing the sleeping child. "Yes, the last wound he'll ever git, I reckon. Jess take the baby, so. Sam's already took her cloze. He's waitin' out in the woods here behind the house. He's got the critters down in the hollow. Now, here! This here bundle's a ridin'-skirt. It's not mournin', but you mustn't mind. It's mighty green and cottony-lookin', but--anyhow, you jess put it on when you git into the woods. Now it's good sun-up outside. The way you must do--you jess keep on the lef' side o' me, close, so as when I jess santer out e-easy todes the back gate you'll be hid from all the other houses. Then when we git to the back gate I'll kind o' stand like I was lookin' into the pig-pen, and you jess slide away on a line with me into the woods, and there'll be Sam. No, no; take your hat off and sort o' hide it. Now; you ready?" Mary threw her arms around the woman's neck and kissed her passionately. "Oh, don't stop for that!" said the woman, smiling with an awkward diffidence. "Come!" * * * "What is the day of the month?" asked Mary of the spy. They had been riding briskly along a mere cattle-path in the woods for half an hour, and had just struck into an old, unused road that promised to lead them presently into and through some fields of cotton. Alice, slumbering heavily, had been, little by little, dressed, and was now in the man's arms. As Mary spoke they slackened pace to a quiet trot, and crossed a broad highway nearly at right angles. "That would 'a' been our road with the buggy," said the man, "if we could of took things easy." They were riding almost straight away from the sun. His dress had been changed again, and in a suit of new, dark brown homespun wool, over a pink calico shirt and white cuffs and collar, he presented the best possible picture of spruce gentility that the times would justify. "'What day of the month,' did you ask? _I_'ll never tell you, but I know it's Friday." "Then it's the eighteenth," said Mary. They met an old negro driving three yoke of oxen attached to a single empty cart. "Uncle," said the spy, "I don't reckon the boss will mind our sort o' ridin' straight thoo his grove, will he?" "Not 'tall, boss; on'y dess be so kyine an' shet de gates behine you, sah." They passed those gates and many another, shutting them faithfully, and journeying on through miles of fragrant lane and fields of young cotton and corn, and stretches of wood where the squirrel scampered before them and reaches of fallow grounds still wet with dew, and patches of sedge, and old fields grown up with thickets of young trees; now pushing their horses to a rapid gallop, where they were confident of escaping notice, and now ambling leisurely, where the eyes of men afield, or of women at home, followed them with rustic scrutiny; or some straggling Confederate soldier on foot or in the saddle met them in the way. "How far must we go before we can stop?" asked Mary. "Jess as far's the critters'll take us without showin' distress." "South is out that way, isn't it?" she asked again, pointing off to the left. "Look here," said the spy, with a look that was humorous, but not only humorous. "What?" "Two or three times last night, and now ag'in, you gimme a sort o' sneakin' notion you don't trust me," said he. "Oh!" exclaimed she, "I do! Only I'm so anxious to be going south." "Jess so," said the man. "Well, we're goin' sort o' due west right now. You see we dassent take this railroad anywheres about here,"--they were even then crossing the track of the Mobile and Ohio Railway--"because that's jess where they _sho_ to be on the lookout fur us. And I can't take you straight south on the dirt roads, because I don't know the country down that way. But this way I know it like your hand knows the way to your mouth, as the felleh says. Learned it most all sence the war broke out, too. And so the whole thing is we got to jess keep straight across the country here till we strike the Mississippi Central." "What time will that be?" "Time! You don't mean time o' day, do you?" he asked. "Yes," said Mary, smiling. "Why, we'll be lucky to make it in two whole days. Won't we, Alice!" The child had waked, and was staring into her mother's face. Mary caressed her. The spy looked at them silently. The mother looked up, as if to speak, but was silent. "Hello!" said the man, softly; for a tear shone through her smile. Whereat she laughed. "I ought to be ashamed to be so unreasonable," she said. "Well, now, I'd like to contradict you for once," responds the spy; "but the fact is, how kin I, when Noo Orleens is jest about south-west frum here, anyhow?" "Yes," said Mary, pleasantly, "it's between south and south-west." The spy made a gesture of mock amazement. "Well, you air partickly what you say. I never hear o' but one party that was more partickly than you. I reckon you never hear' tell o' him, did you?" "Who was he?" asked Mary. "Well, I never got his name, nor his habitation, as the felleh says; but he was so conscientious that when a highwayman attackted him onct, he wouldn't holla murder nor he wouldn't holla thief, 'cause he wasn't certain whether the highwayman wanted to kill him or rob him. He was something like George Washington, who couldn't tell a lie. Did you ever hear that story about George Washington?" "About his chopping the cherry-tree with his hatchet?" asked Mary. "Oh, I see you done heard the story!" said the spy, and left it untold; but whether he was making game of his auditor or not she did not know, and never found out. But on they went, by many a home; through miles of growing crops, and now through miles of lofty pine forests, and by log-cabins and unpainted cottages, from within whose open doors came often the loud feline growl of the spinning-wheel. So on and on, Mary spending the first night in a lone forest cabin of pine poles, whose master, a Confederate deserter, fed his ague-shaken wife and cotton-headed children oftener with the spoils of his rifle than with the products of the field. The spy and the deserter lay down together, and together rose again with the dawn, in a deep thicket, a few hundred yards away. The travellers had almost reached the end of this toilsome horseback journey, when rains set in, and, for forty-eight hours more, swollen floods and broken bridges held them back, though within hearing of the locomotive's whistle. But at length, one morning, Mary stepped aboard the train that had not long before started south from the town of Holly Springs, Mississippi, assisted with decorous alacrity by the conductor, and followed by the station-agent with Alice in his arms, and by the telegraph-operator with a home-made satchel or two of luggage and luncheon. It was disgusting,--to two thin, tough-necked women, who climbed aboard, unassisted, at the other end of the same coach. "You kin just bet she's a widder, and them fellers knows it," said one to the other, taking a seat and spitting expertly through the window. "If she aint," responded the other, putting a peeled snuff-stick into her cheek, "then her husband's got the brass buttons, and they knows that. Look at 'er a-smi-i-ilin'!" "What you reckon makes her look so wore out?" asked the first. And the other replied promptly, with unbounded loathing, "Dayncin'," and sent her emphasis out of the window in liquid form without disturbing her intervening companion. During the delay caused by the rain Mary had found time to refit her borrowed costume. Her dress was a stout, close-fitting homespun of mixed cotton and wool, woven in a neat plaid of walnut-brown, oak-red, and the pale olive dye of the hickory. Her hat was a simple round thing of woven pine straw, with a slightly drooping brim, its native brown gloss undisturbed, and the low crown wrapped about with a wreath of wild grasses plaited together with a bit of yellow cord. Alice wore a much-washed pink calico frock and a hood of the same stuff. "Some officer's wife," said two very sweet and lady-like persons, of unequal age and equal good taste in dress, as their eyes took an inventory of her apparel. They wore bonnets that were quite handsome, and had real false flowers and silk ribbons on them. "Yes, she's been to camp somewhere to see him." "Beautiful child she's got," said one, as Alice began softly to smite her mother's shoulder for private attention, and to whisper gravely as Mary bent down. Two or three soldiers took their feet off the seats, and one of them, at the amiably murmured request of the conductor, put his shoes on. "The car in front is your car," said the conductor to another man, in especially dirty gray uniform. "You kin hev it," said the soldier, throwing his palm open with an air of happy extravagance, and a group of gray-headed "citizens," just behind, exploded a loud country laugh. "D' I onderstaynd you to lafe at me, saw?" drawled the soldier, turning back with a pretence of heavy gloom on his uncombed brow. "Laughin' at yo' friend yondeh," said one of the citizens, grinning and waving his hand after the departing conductor. "'Caze if you lafe at me again, saw,"--the frown deepened,--"I'll thess go 'ight straight out iss caw."[3] [3] Out of this car. The laugh that followed this dreadful threat was loud and general, the victims laughing loudest of all, and the soldier smiling about benignly, and slowly scratching his elbows. Even the two ladies smiled. Alice's face remained impassive. She looked twice into her mother's to see if there was no smile there. But the mother smiled at her, took off her hood and smoothed back the fine gold, then put the hood on again, and tied its strings under the upstretched chin. Presently Alice pulled softly at the hollow of her mother's elbow. "Mamma--mamma!" she whispered. Mary bowed her ear. The child gazed solemnly across the car at another stranger, then pulled the mother's arm again, "That man over there--winked at me." And thereupon another man, sitting sidewise on the seat in front, and looking back at Alice, tittered softly, and said to Mary, with a raw drawl:-- "She's a-beginnin' young." "She means some one on the other side," said Mary, quite pleasantly, and the man had sense enough to hush. The jest and the laugh ran to and fro everywhere. It seemed very strange to Mary to find it so. There were two or three convalescent wounded men in the car, going home on leave, and they appeared never to weary of the threadbare joke of calling their wounds "furloughs." There was one little slip of a fellow--he could hardly have been seventeen--wounded in the hand, whom they kept teazed to the point of exasperation by urging him to confess that he had shot himself for a furlough, and of whom they said, later, when he had got off at a flag station, that he was the bravest soldier in his company. No one on the train seemed to feel that he had got all that was coming to him until the conductor had exchanged a jest with him. The land laughed. On the right hand and on the left it dimpled and wrinkled in gentle depressions and ridges, and rolled away in fields of young corn and cotton. The train skipped and clattered along at a happy-go-lucky, twelve-miles-an-hour gait, over trestles and stock-pits, through flowery cuts and along slender, rain-washed embankments where dewberries were ripening, and whence cattle ran down and galloped off across the meadows on this side and that, tails up and heads down, throwing their horns about, making light of the screaming destruction, in their dumb way, as the people made light of the war. At stations where the train stopped--and it stopped on the faintest excuse--a long line of heads and gray shoulders was thrust out of the windows of the soldiers' car, in front, with all manner of masculine head-coverings, even bloody handkerchiefs; and woe to the negro or negress or "citizen" who, by any conspicuous demerit or excellence of dress, form, stature, speech, or bearing, drew the fire of that line! No human power of face or tongue could stand the incessant volley of stale quips and mouldy jokes, affirmative, interrogative, and exclamatory, that fell about their victim. At one spot, in a lovely natural grove, where the air was spiced with the gentle pungency of the young hickory foliage, the train paused a moment to let off a man in fine gray cloth, whose yellow stripes and one golden star on the coat-collar indicated a major of cavalry. It seemed as though pandemonium had opened. Mules braying, negroes yodling, axes ringing, teamsters singing, men shouting and howling, and all at nothing; mess-fires smoking all about in the same hap-hazard, but roomy, disorder in which the trees of the grove had grown; the railroad side lined with a motley crowd of jolly fellows in spurs, and the atmosphere between them and the line of heads in the car-windows murky with the interchange of compliments that flew back and forth from the "web-foots"[4] to the "critter company," and from the "critter company" to the "web-foots." As the train moved off, "I say, boys," drawled a lank, coatless giant on the roadside, with but one suspender and one spur, "tha-at's right! Gen'l Beerygyard told you to strike fo' yo' homes, an' I see you' a-doin' it ez fass as you kin git thah." And the "citizens" in the rear car-windows giggled even at that; while the "web-foots" he-hawed their derision, and the train went on, as one might say, with its hands in its pockets, whooping and whistling over the fields--after the cows; for the day was declining. [4] Infantry. Mary was awed. As she had been forewarned to do, she tried not to seem unaccustomed to, or out of harmony with, all this exuberance. But there was something so brave in it, coming from a people who were playing a losing game with their lives and fortunes for their stakes; something so gallant in it, laughing and gibing in the sight of blood, and smell of fire, and shortness of food and raiment, that she feared she had betrayed a stranger's wonder and admiration every time the train stopped, and the idlers of the station platform lingered about her window and silently paid their ungraceful but complimentary tribute of simulated casual glances. For, with all this jest, it was very plain there was but little joy. It was not gladness; it was bravery. It was the humor of an invincible spirit--the gayety of defiance. She could easily see the grim earnestness beneath the jocund temper, and beneath the unrepining smile the privation and the apprehension. What joy there was, was a martial joy. The people were confident of victory at last,--a victorious end, whatever might lie between, and of even what lay between they would confess no fear. Richmond was safe, Memphis safer, New Orleans safest. Yea, notwithstanding Porter and Farragut were pelting away at Forts Jackson and St. Philip. Indeed, if the rumor be true, if Farragut's ships had passed those forts, leaving Porter behind, then the Yankee sea-serpent was cut in two, and there was an end of him in that direction. Ha! ha! "Is to-day the twenty-sixth?" asked Mary, at last, of one of the ladies in real ribbons, leaning over toward her. "Yes, ma'am." It was the younger one who replied. As she did so she came over and sat by Mary. "I judge, from what I heard your little girl asking you, that you are going beyond Jackson." "I'm going to New Orleans." "Do you live there?" The lady's interest seemed genuine and kind. "Yes. I am going to join my husband there." Mary saw by the reflection in the lady's face that a sudden gladness must have overspread her own. "He'll be mighty glad, I'm sure," said the pleasant stranger, patting Alice's cheek, and looking, with a pretty fellow-feeling, first into the child's face and then into Mary's. "Yes, he will," said Mary, looking down upon the curling locks at her elbow with a mother's happiness. "Is he in the army?" asked the lady. Mary's face fell. "His health is bad," she replied. "I know some nice people down in New Orleans," said the lady again. "We haven't many acquaintances," rejoined Mary, with a timidity that was almost trepidation. Her eyes dropped, and she began softly to smooth Alice's collar and hair. "I didn't know," said the lady, "but you might know some of them. For instance, there's Dr. Sevier." Mary gave a start and smiled. "Why, is he your friend too?" she asked. She looked up into the lady's quiet, brown eyes and down again into her own lap, where her hands had suddenly knit together, and then again into the lady's face. "We have no friend like Dr. Sevier." "Mother," called the lady softly, and beckoned. The senior lady leaned toward her. "Mother, this lady is from New Orleans and is an intimate friend of Dr. Sevier." The mother was pleased. "What might one call your name?" she asked, taking a seat behind Mary and continuing to show her pleasure. "Richling." The mother and daughter looked at each other. They had never heard the name before. Yet only a little while later the mother was saying to Mary,--they were expecting at any moment to hear the whistle for the terminus of the route, the central Mississippi town of Canton:-- "My dear child, no! I couldn't sleep to-night if I thought you was all alone in one o' them old hotels in Canton. No, you must come home with us. We're barely two mile' from town, and we'll have the carriage ready for you bright and early in the morning, and our coachman will put you on the cars just as nice--Trouble?" She laughed at the idea. "No; I tell you what would trouble me,--that is, if we'd allow it; that'd be for you to stop in one o' them hotels all alone, child, and like' as not some careless servant not wake you in time for the cars to-morrow." At this word she saw capitulation in Mary's eyes. "Come, now, my child, we're not going to take no for an answer." Nor did they. But what was the result? The next morning, when Mary and Alice stood ready for the carriage, and it was high time they were gone, the carriage was not ready; the horses had got astray in the night. And while the black coachman was on one horse, which he had found and caught, and was scouring the neighboring fields and lanes and meadows in search of the other, there came out from townward upon the still, country air the long whistle of the departing train; and then the distant rattle and roar of its far southern journey began, and then its warning notes to the scattering colts and cattle. "Look away!"--it seemed to sing--"Look away!"--the notes fading, failing, on the ear,--"away--away--away down south in Dixie,"--the last train that left for New Orleans until the war was over. CHAPTER LVI. FIRE AND SWORD. The year the war began dates also, for New Orleans, the advent of two better things: street-cars and the fire-alarm telegraph. The frantic incoherence of the old alarum gave way to the few solemn, numbered strokes that called to duty in the face of hot danger, like the electric voice of a calm commander. The same new system also silenced, once for all, the old nine-o'clock gun. For there were not only taps to signify each new fire-district,--one for the first, two for the second, three, four, five, six seven, eight, and nine,--but there was also one lone toll at mid-day for the hungry mechanic, and nine at the evening hour when the tired workman called his children in from the street and turned to his couch, and the slave must show cause in a master's handwriting why he or she was not under that master's roof. And then there was one signal more. Fire is a dreadful thing, and all the alarm signals were for fire except this one. Yet the profoundest wish of every good man and tender women in New Orleans, when this pleasing novelty of electro-magnetic warnings was first published for the common edification, was that mid-day or midnight, midsummer or midwinter, let come what might of danger or loss or distress, that one particular signal might not sound. Twelve taps. Anything but that. Dr. Sevier and Richling had that wish together. They had many wishes that were greatly at variance the one's from the other's. The Doctor had struggled for the Union until the very smoke of war began to rise into the sky; but then he "went with the South." He was the only one in New Orleans who knew--whatever some others may have suspected--that Richling's heart was on the other side. Had Richling's bodily strength remained, so that he could have been a possible factor, however small, in the strife, it is hard to say whether they could have been together day by day and night by night, as they came to be when the Doctor took the failing man into his own home, and have lived in amity, as they did. But there is this to be counted; they were both, though from different directions, for peace, and their gentle forbearance toward each other taught them a moderation of sentiment concerning the whole great issue. And, as I say, they both together held the one longing hope that, whatever war should bring of final gladness or lamentation, the steeples of New Orleans might never toll--twelve. But one bright Thursday April morning, as Richling was sitting, half dressed, by an open window of his room in Dr. Sevier's house, leaning on the arm of his soft chair and looking out at the passers on the street, among whom he had begun to notice some singular evidences of excitement, there came from a slender Gothic church-spire that was highest of all in the city, just beyond a few roofs in front of him, the clear, sudden, brazen peal of its one great bell. "Fire," thought Richling; and yet, he knew not why, wondered where Dr. Sevier might be. He had not seen him that morning. A high official had sent for him at sunrise and he had not returned. "Clang," went the bell again, and the softer ding--dang--dong of others, struck at the same instant, came floating in from various distances. And then it clanged again--and again--and again--the loud one near, the soft ones, one by one, after it--six, seven, eight, nine--ah! stop there! stop there! But still the alarm pealed on; ten--alas! alas!--eleven--oh, oh, the women and children!--twelve! And then the fainter, final asseverations of the more distant bells--twelve! twelve! twelve!--and a hundred and seventy thousand souls knew by that sign that the foe had passed the forts. New Orleans had fallen. Richling dressed himself hurriedly and went out. Everywhere drums were beating to arms. Couriers and aides-de-camp were galloping here and there. Men in uniform were hurrying on foot to this and that rendezvous. Crowds of the idle and poor were streaming out toward the levee. Carriages and cabs rattled frantically from place to place; men ran out-of-doors and leaped into them and leaped out of them and sprang up stair-ways; hundreds of all manner of vehicles, fit and unfit to carry passengers and goods, crowded toward the railroad depots and steam-boat landings; women ran into the streets wringing their hands and holding their brows; and children stood in the door-ways and gate-ways and trembled and called and cried. Richling took the new Dauphine street-car. Far down in the Third district, where there was a silence like that of a village lane, he approached a little cottage painted with Venetian red, setting in its garden of oranges, pomegranates, and bananas, and marigolds, and coxcombs behind its white paling fence and green gate. The gate was open. In it stood a tall, strong woman, good-looking, rosy, and neatly dressed. That she was tall you could prove by the gate, and that she was strong, by the graceful muscularity with which she held two infants,--pretty, swarthy little fellows, with joyous black eyes, and evidently of one age and parentage,--each in the hollow of a fine, round arm. There was just a hint of emotional disorder in her shining hair and a trace of tears about her eyes. As the visitor drew near, a fresh show of distressed exaltation was visible in the slight play of her form. "Ah! Mr. Richlin'," she cried, the moment he came within hearing, "'the dispot's heels is on our shores!'" Tears filled her eyes again. Mike, the bruiser, in his sixth year, who had been leaning backward against her knees and covering his legs with her skirts, ran forward and clasped the visitor's lower limbs with the nerve and intention of a wrestler. Kate followed with the cherubs. They were Raphael's. "Yes, it's terrible," said Richling. "Ah! no, Mr. Richlin'," replied Kate, lifting her head proudly as she returned with him toward the gate, "it's outrageouz; but it's not terrible. At least it's not for me, Mr. Richlin'. I'm only Mrs. Captain Ristofalah; and whin I see the collonels' and gin'r'ls' ladies a-prancin' around in their carridges I feel my _humility_; but it's my djuty to be _brave_, sur! An' I'll help to _fight_ thim, sur, if the min can't do ud. Mr. Richlin', my husband is the intimit frind of Gin'r'l Garrybaldy, sur! I'll help to burrin the cittee, sur!--rather nor give ud up to thim vandjals! Come in, Mr. Richlin'; come in." She led the way up the narrow shell-walk. "Come 'n, sur, it may be the last time ye' do ud before the flames is leppin' from the roof! Ah! I knowed ye'd come. I was a-lookin' for ye. I knowed _ye'd_ prove yerself that frind in need that he's the frind indeed! Take a seat an' sit down." She faced about on the vine-covered porch, and dropped into a rocking-chair, her eyes still at the point of overflow. "But ah! Mr. Richlin', where's all thim flatterers that fawned around uz in the days of tytled prosperity?" Richling said nothing; he had not seen any throngs of that sort. "Gone, sur! and it's a relief; it's a relief, Mr. Richlin'!" She marshalled the twins on her lap, Carlo commanding the right, Francisco the left. "You mustn't expect too much of them," said Richling, drawing Mike between his knees, "in such a time of alarm and confusion as this." And Kate responded generously:-- "Well, I suppose you're right, sur." "I've come down," resumed the visitor, letting Mike count off "Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief," on the buttons of his coat, "to give you any help I can in getting ready to leave town. For you mustn't think of staying. It isn't possible to be anything short of dreadful to stay in a city occupied by hostile troops. It's almost certain the Confederates will try to hold the city, and there may be a bombardment. The city may be taken and retaken half-a-dozen times before the war is over." "Mr. Richlin'," said Kate, with a majestic lifting of the hand, "I'll nivver rin away from the Yanks." "No, but you must _go_ away from them. You mustn't put yourself in such a position that you can't go to your husband if he needs you, Mrs. Ristofalo; don't get separated from him." "Ah! Mr. Richlin', it's you as has the right to say so; and I'll do as you say. Mr. Richlin', my husband"--her voice trembled--"may be wounded this hour. I'll go, sur, indeed I will; but, sur, if Captain Raphael Ristofalah wor _here_, sur, he'd be ad the _front_, sur, and Kate Ristofalah would be at his galliant side!" "Well, then, I'm glad he's not here," rejoined Richling, "for I'd have to take care of the children." "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Kate. "No, sur! I'd take the lion's whelps with me, sur! Why, that little Mike theyre can han'le the dthrum-sticks to beat the felley in the big hat!" And she laughed again. They made arrangements for her and the three children to go "out into the confederacy" within two or three days at furthest; as soon as she and her feeble helper could hurry a few matters of business to completion at and about the Picayune Tier. Richling did not get back to the Doctor's house until night had fallen and the sky was set aglare by seven miles' length of tortuous harbor front covered with millions' worth of burning merchandise. The city was being evacuated. Dr. Sevier and he had but few words. Richling was dejected from weariness, and his friend weary with dejections. "Where have you been all day?" asked the Doctor, with a touch of irritation. "Getting Kate Ristofalo ready to leave the city." "You shouldn't have left the house; but it's no use to tell you anything. Has she gone?" "No." "Well, in the name of common-sense, then, when is she going?" "In two or three days," replied Richling, almost in retort. The Doctor laughed with impatience. "If you feel responsible for her going get her off by to-morrow afternoon at the furthest." He dropped his tired head against the back of his chair. "Why," said Richling, "I don't suppose the fleet can fight its way through all opposition and get here short of a week." The Doctor laid his long fingers upon his brow and rolled his head from side to side. Then, slowly raising it:-- "Well, Richling!" he said, "there must have been some mistake made when you was put upon the earth." Richling's thin cheek flushed. The Doctor's face confessed the bitterest resentment. "Why, the fleet is only eighteen miles from here now." He ceased, and then added, with sudden kindness of tone, "I want you to do something for me, will you?" "Yes." "Well, then, go to bed; I'm going. You'll need every grain of strength you've got for to-morrow. I'm afraid then it will not be enough. This is an awful business, Richling." They went upstairs together. As they were parting at its top Richling said:-- "You told me a few days ago that if the city should fall, which we didn't expect"-- "That I'd not leave," said the Doctor. "No; I shall stay. I haven't the stamina to take the field, and I can't be a runaway. Anyhow, I couldn't take you along. You couldn't bear the travel, and I wouldn't go and leave you here, Richling--old fellow!" He laid his hand gently on the sick man's shoulder, who made no response, so afraid was he that another word would mar the perfection of the last. When Richling went out the next morning the whole city was in an ecstasy of rage and terror. Thousands had gathered what they could in their hands, and were flying by every avenue of escape. Thousands ran hither and thither, not knowing where or how to fly. He saw the wife and son of the silver-haired banker rattling and bouncing away toward one of the railway depots in a butcher's cart. A messenger from Kate by good chance met him with word that she would be ready for the afternoon train of the Jackson Railroad, and asking anew his earliest attention to her interests about the lugger landing. He hastened to the levee. The huge, writhing river, risen up above the town, was full to the levee's top, and, as though the enemy's fleet was that much more than it could bear, was silently running over by a hundred rills into the streets of the stricken city. As far as the eye could reach, black smoke, white smoke, brown smoke, and red flames rolled and spread, and licked and leaped, from unnumbered piles of cotton bales, and wooden wharves, and ships cut adrift, and steam-boats that blazed like shavings, floating down the harbor as they blazed. He stood for a moment to see a little revenue cutter,--a pretty topsail schooner,--lying at the foot of Canal street, sink before his eyes into the turbid yellow depths of the river, scuttled. Then he hurried on. Huge mobs ran to and fro in the fire and smoke, howling, breaking, and stealing. Women and children hurried back and forth like swarms of giant ants, with buckets and baskets, and dippers and bags, and bonnets, hats, petticoats, anything,--now empty, and now full of rice and sugar and meal and corn and syrup,--and robbed each other, and cursed and fought, and slipped down in pools of molasses, and threw live pigs and coops of chickens into the river, and with one voiceless rush left the broad levee a smoking, crackling desert, when some shells exploded on a burning gunboat, and presently were back again like a flock of evil birds. It began to rain, but Richling sought no shelter. The men he was in search of were not to be found. But the victorious ships, with bare black arms stretched wide, boarding nettings up, and the dark muzzles of their guns bristling from their sides, came, silently as a nightmare, slowly around the bend at Slaughterhouse Point and moved up the middle of the harbor. At the French market he found himself, without forewarning, witness of a sudden skirmish between some Gascon and Sicilian market-men, who had waved a welcome to the fleet, and some Texan soldiers who resented the treason. The report of a musket rang out, a second and third reëchoed it, a pistol cracked, and another, and another; there was a rush for cover; another shot, and another, resounded in the market-house, and presently in the street beyond. Then, in a moment, all was silence and emptiness, into which there ventured but a single stooping, peeping Sicilian, glancing this way and that, with his finger on trigger, eager to kill, gliding from cover to cover, and presently gone again from view, leaving no human life visible nearer than the swarming mob that Richling, by mounting a pile of ship's ballast, could see still on the steam-boat landing, pillaging in the drenching rain, and the long fleet casting anchor before the town in line of battle. Late that afternoon Richling, still wet to the skin, amid pushing and yelling and the piping calls of distracted women and children, and scuffling and cramming in, got Kate Ristofalo, trunks, baskets, and babes, safely off on the cars. And when, one week from that day, the sound of drums, that had been hushed for a while, fell upon his ear again,--no longer the jaunty rataplan of Dixie's drums, but the heavy, monotonous roar of the conqueror's at the head of his dark-blue columns,--Richling could not leave his bed. Dr. Sevier sat by him and bore the sound in silence. As it died away and ceased, Richling said:-- "May I write to Mary?" Then the Doctor had a hard task. "I wrote for her yesterday," he said. "But, Richling, I--don't think she'll get the letter." "Do you think she has already started?" asked the sick man, with glad eagerness. "Richling, I did the best I knew how"-- "Whatever you did was all right, Doctor." "I wrote to her months ago, by the hand of Ristofalo. He knows she got the letter. I'm afraid she's somewhere in the Confederacy, trying to get through. I meant it for the best, my dear boy." "It's all right, Doctor," said the invalid; but the physician could see the cruel fact slowly grind him. "Doctor, may I ask one favor?" "One or a hundred, Richling." "I want you to let Madame Zénobie come and nurse me." "Why, Richling, can't I nurse you well enough?" The Doctor was jealous. "Yes," answered the sick man. "But I'll need a good deal of attention. She wants to do it. She was here yesterday, you knew. She wanted to ask you, but was afraid." His wish was granted. CHAPTER LVII. ALMOST IN SIGHT. In St. Tammany Parish, on the northern border of Lake Ponchartrain, about thirty miles from New Orleans, in a straight line across the waters of the lake, stood in time of the war, and may stand yet, an old house, of the Creole colonial fashion, all of cypress from sills to shingles, standing on brick pillars ten feet from the ground, a wide veranda in front, and a double flight of front steps running up to it sidewise and meeting in a balustraded landing at its edge. Scarcely anything short of a steamer's roof or a light-house window could have offered a finer stand-point from which to sweep a glass round the southern semi-circle of water and sky than did this stair-landing; and here, a long ship's-glass in her hands, and the accustomed look of care on her face, faintly frowning against the glare of noonday, stood Mary Richling. She still had on the pine-straw hat, and the skirt--stirring softly in a breeze that had to come around from the north side of the house before it reached her--was the brown and olive homespun. "No use," said an old, fat, and sun-tanned man from his willow chair on the veranda behind her. There was a slight palsied oscillation in his head. He leaned forward somewhat on a staff, and as he spoke his entire shapeless and nearly helpless form quaked with the effort. But Mary, for all his advice, raised the glass and swung it slowly from east to west. The house was near the edge of a slightly rising ground, close to the margin of a bayou that glided around toward the left from the woods at its back, and ran, deep and silent, under the shadows of a few huge, wide-spreading, moss-hung live-oaks that stood along its hither shore, laving their roots in its waters, and throwing their vast green images upon its glassy surface. As the dark stream slipped away from these it flashed a little while in the bright open space of a marsh, and, just entering the shade of a spectral cypress wood, turned as if to avoid it, swung more than half about, and shone sky-blue, silver, and green as it swept out into the unbroken sunshine of the prairie. It was over this flowery savanna, broadening out on either hand, and spreading far away until its bright green margin joined, with the perfection of a mosaic, the distant blue of the lake, that Mary, dallying a moment with hope, passed her long glass. She spoke with it still raised and her gaze bent through it:-- "There's a big alligator crossing the bayou down in the bend." "Yes," said the aged man, moving his flat, carpet-slippered feet a laborious inch; "alligator. Alligator not goin' take you 'cross lake. No use lookin'. 'Ow Peter goin' come when win' dead ahead? Can't do it." Yet Mary lifted the glass a little higher, beyond the green, beyond the crimpling wavelets of the nearer distance that seemed drawn by the magical lens almost into her hand, out to the fine, straight line that cut the cool blue below from the boundless blue above. Round swung the glass, slowly, waveringly, in her unpractised hand, from the low cypress forests of Manchac on the west, to the skies that glittered over the unseen marshes of the Rigolets on the farthest east. "You see sail yondeh?" came the slow inquiry from behind. "No," said Mary, letting the instrument down, and resting it on the balustrade. "Humph! No! Dawn't I tell you is no use look?" "He was to have got here three days ago," said Mary, shutting the glass and gazing in anxious abstraction across the prairie. The Spanish Creole grunted. "When win' change, he goin' start. He dawn't start till win' change. Win' keep ligue dat, he dawn't start 't all." He moved his orange-wood staff an inch, to suit the previous movement of his feet, and Mary came and laid the glass on its brackets in the veranda, near the open door of a hall that ran through the dwelling to another veranda in the rear. In the middle of the hall a small woman, as dry as the peppers that hung in strings on the wall behind her, sat in a rush-bottomed rocking-chair plaiting a palmetto hat, and with her elbow swinging a tattered manilla hammock, in whose bulging middle lay Alice, taking her compulsory noonday nap. Mary came, expressed her thanks in sprightly whispers, lifted the child out, and carried her to a room. How had Mary got here? The morning after that on which she had missed the cars at Canton she had taken a south-bound train for Camp Moore, the camp of the forces that had evacuated New Orleans, situated near the railway station of Tangipahoa, some eighty miles north of the captured city. Thence, after a day or two of unavoidable delay, and of careful effort to know the wisest step, she had taken stage,--a crazy ambulance,--with some others, two women, three children, and an old man, and for two days had travelled through a beautiful country of red and yellow clays and sands below and murmuring pines above,--vast colonnades of towering, branchless brown columns holding high their green, translucent roof, and opening up their wide, bright, sunshot vistas of gentle, grassy hills that undulated far away under the balsamic forest, and melted at length into luminous green unity and deer-haunted solitudes. Now she went down into richer bottom-lands, where the cotton and corn were growing tall and pretty to look upon, like suddenly grown girls, and the sun was beginning to shine hot. Now she passed over rustic bridges, under posted warnings to drive slow or pay a fine, or through sandy fords across purling streams, hearing the monotone of some unseen mill-dam, or scaring the tall gray crane from his fishing, or the otter from his pranks. Again she went up into leagues of clear pine forest, with stems as straight as lances; meeting now a farmer, and now a school-girl or two, and once a squad of scouts, ill-mounted, worse clad, and yet more sorrily armed; bivouacking with the jolly, tattered fellows, Mary and one of the other women singing for them, and the "boys" singing for Mary, and each applauding each about the pine-knot fire, and the women and children by and by lying down to slumber, in soldier fashion, with their feet to the brands, under the pines and the stars, while the gray-coats stood guard in the wavering fire-light; but Mary lying broad awake staring at the great constellation of the Scorpion, and thinking now of him she sought, and now remorsefully of that other scout, that poor boy whom the spy had shot far away yonder to the north and eastward. Now she rose and journeyed again. Rare hours were those for Alice. They came at length into a low, barren land, of dwarfed and scrawny pines, with here and there a marshy flat; thence through a narrow strip of hickories, oaks, cypresses, and dwarf palmetto, and so on into beds of white sand and oyster-shells, and then into one of the villages on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain. Her many little adventures by the way, the sayings and doings and seeings of Alice, and all those little adroitnesses by which Mary from time to time succeeded in avoiding or turning aside the suspicions that hovered about her, and the hundred times in which Alice was her strongest and most perfect protection, we cannot pause to tell. But we give a few lines to one matter. Mary had not yet descended from the ambulance at her journey's end; she and Alice only were in it; its tired mules were dragging it slowly through the sandy street of the village, and the driver was praising the milk, eggs, chickens, and genteel seclusion of Mrs. ----'s "hotel," at that end of the village toward which he was driving, when a man on horseback met them, and, in passing, raised his hat to Mary. The act was only the usual courtesy of the highway; yet Mary was startled, disconcerted, and had to ask the unobservant, loquacious driver to repeat what he had said. Two days afterward Mary was walking at the twilight hour, in a narrow, sandy road, that ran from the village out into the country to the eastward. Alice walked beside her, plying her with questions. At a turn of the path, without warning, she confronted this horseman again. He reined up and lifted his hat. An elated look brightened his face. "It's all fixed," he said. But Mary looked distressed, even alarmed. "You shouldn't have done this," she replied. The man waved his hand downward repressively, but with a countenance full of humor. "Hold on. It's _still_ my deal. This is the last time, and then I'm done. Make a spoon or spoil a horn, you know. When you commence to do a thing, do it. Them's the words that's inscribed on my banner, as the felleh says; only I, Sam, aint got much banner. And if I sort o' use about this low country a little while for my health, as it were, and nibble around sort o' _pro bono p[=u]blico_ takin' notes, why you aint a-carin', is you? For wherefore shouldest thou?" He put on a yet more ludicrous look, and spread his hand off at one side, working his outstretched fingers. "Yes," responded Mary, with severe gravity; "I must care. You did finish at Holly Springs. I was to find the rest of the way as best I could. That was the understanding. Go away!" She made a commanding gesture, though she wore a pleading look. He looked grave; but his habitual grimace stole through his gravity and invited her smile. But she remained fixed. He gathered the rein and straightened up in the saddle. "Yes," she insisted, answering his inquiring attitude; "go! I shall be grateful to you as long as I live. It wasn't because I mistrusted you that I refused your aid at Camp Moore or at----that other place on this side. I don't mistrust you. But don't you see--you must see--it's your duty to see--that this staying and--and--foll--following--is--is--wrong." She stood, holding her skirt in one hand, and Alice's hand in the other, not upright, but in a slightly shrinking attitude, and as she added once more, "Go! I implore you--go!" her eyes filled. "I will; I'll go," said the man, with a soft chuckle intended for self-abasement. "I go, thou goest, he goes. 'I'll skedaddle,' as the felleh says. And yit it do seem to me sorter like,--if my moral sense is worthy of any consideration, which is doubtful, may be,--seems to me like it's sort o' jumpin' the bounty for you to go and go back on an arrangement that's been all fixed up nice and tight, and when it's on'y jess to sort o' 'jump into the wagon' that's to call for you to-morrow, sun-up, drove by a nigger boy, and ride a few mile' to a house on the bayou, and wait there till a man comes with a nice little schooner, and take you on bode and sail off, and 'good-by, Sally,' and me never in sight from fust to last, 'and no questions axed.'" "I don't reject the arrangement," replied Mary, with tearful pleasantness. "If you'll do as I say, I'll do as you say; and that will be final proof to you that I believe you're"--she fell back a step, laughingly--"'the clean sand!'" She thought the man would have perpetrated some small antic; but he did not. He did not even smile, but lifted the rein a little till the horse stepped forward, and, putting out his hand, said:-- "Good-by. You don't need no directions. Jess tell the lady where you' boardin' that you've sort o' consented to spend a day or two with old Adrien Sanchez, and get into the wagon when it comes for you." He let go her hand. "Good-by, Alice." The child looked up in silence and pressed herself against her mother. "Good-by," said he once more. "Good-by," replied Mary. His eyes lingered as she dropped her own. "Come, Alice," she said, resisting the little one's effort to stoop and pick a wild-pea blossom, and the mother and child started slowly back the way they had come. The spy turned his horse, and moved still more slowly in the opposite direction. But before he had gone many rods he turned the animal's head again, rode as slowly back, and, beside the spot where Mary had stood, got down, and from the small imprint of her shoe in the damp sand took the pea-blossom, which, in turning to depart, she had unawares trodden under foot. He looked at the small, crushed thing for a moment, and then thrust it into his bosom; but in a moment, as if by a counter impulse, drew it forth again, let it flutter to the ground, following it with his eyes, shook his head with an amused air, half of defiance and half of discomfiture, turned, drew himself into the saddle, and with one hand laid upon another on the saddle-bow and his eyes resting on them in meditation, passed finally out of sight. * * * Here, then, in this lone old Creole cottage, Mary was tarrying, prisoner of hope, coming out all hours of the day, and scanning the wide view, first, only her hand to shade her brow, and then with the old ship's-glass, Alice often standing by and looking up at this extraordinary toy with unspoken wonder. All that Mary could tell her of things seeable through it could never persuade the child to risk her own eye at either end of it. So Mary would look again and see, out in the prairie, in the morning, the reed birds, the marsh hen, the blackbirds, the sparrows, the starlings, with their red and yellow epaulets, rising and fluttering and sinking again among the lilies and mallows, and the white crane, paler than a ghost, wading in the grassy shallows. She saw the ravening garfish leap from the bayou, and the mullet in shining hundreds spatter away to left and right; and the fisherman and the shrimp-catcher in their canoes come gliding up the glassy stream, riding down the water-lilies, that rose again behind and shook the drops from their crowns, like water-sprites. Here and there, farther out, she saw the little cat-boats of the neighboring village crawling along the edge of the lake, taking their timid morning cruises. And far away she saw the titanic clouds; but on the horizon, no sail. In the evening she would see mocking-birds coming out of the savanna and flying into the live-oaks. A summer duck might dart from the cypresses, speed across the wide green level, and become a swerving, vanishing speck on the sky. The heron might come round the bayou's bend, and suddenly take fright and fly back again. The rattling kingfisher might come up the stream, and the blue crane sail silently through the purple haze that hung between the swamp and the bayou. She would see the gulls, gray and white, on the margin of the lake, the sun setting beyond its western end, and the sky and water turning all beautiful tints; and every now and then, low down along the cool, wrinkling waters, passed across the round eye of the glass the broad, downward-curved wing of the pelican. But when she ventured to lift the glass to the horizon, she swept it from east to west in vain. No sail. "Dawn't I tell you no use look? Peter dawn't comin' in day-time, nohow." But on the fifth morning Mary had hardly made her appearance on the veranda, and had not ventured near the spy-glass yet, when the old man said:-- "She rain back in swamp las' night; can smell." "How do you feel this morning?" asked Mary, facing around from her first glance across the waters. He did not heed. "See dat win'?" he asked, lifting one hand a little from the top of his staff. "Yes," responded Mary, eagerly; "why, it's--hasn't it--changed?" "Yes, change' las' night 'fo' went to bed." The old man's manner betrayed his contempt for one who could be interested in such a change, and yet not know when it took place. "Why, then," began Mary, and started as if to take down the glass. "What you doin'?" demanded its owner. "Better let glass 'lone; fool' wid him enough." Mary flushed, and, with a smile of resentful apology, was about to reply, when he continued:-- "What you want glass for? Dare Peter' schooner--right dare in bayou. What want glass for? Can't see schooner hundred yard' off 'dout glass?" And he turned away his poor wabbling head in disgust. Mary looked an instant at two bare, rakish, yellow poles showing out against the clump of cypresses, and the trim little white hull and apple-green deck from which they sprang, then clasped her hands and ran into the house. CHAPTER LVIII. A GOLDEN SUNSET. Dr. Sevier came to Richling's room one afternoon, and handed him a sealed letter. The postmark was blurred, but it was easy still to read the abbreviation of the State's name,--Kentucky. It had come by way of New York and the sea. The sick man reached out for it with avidity from the large bed in which he sat bolstered up. He tore it open with unsteady fingers, and sought the signature. "It's from a lawyer." "An old acquaintance?" asked the doctor. "Yes," responded Richling, his eyes glancing eagerly along the lines. "Mary's in the Confederate lines!--Mary and Alice!" The hand that held the letter dropped to his lap. "It doesn't say a word about how she got through!" "But _where_ did she get through?" asked the physician. "Whereabouts is she now?" "She got through away up to the eastward of Corinth, Mississippi. Doctor, she may be within fifty miles of us this very minute! Do you think they'll give her a pass to come in?" "They may, Richling; I hope they will." "I think I'd get well if she'd come," said the invalid. But his friend made no answer. A day or two afterward--it was drawing to the close of a beautiful afternoon in early May--Dr. Sevier came into the room and stood at a window looking out. Madame Zénobie sat by the bedside softly fanning the patient. Richling, with his eyes, motioned her to retire. She smiled and nodded approvingly, as if to say that that was just what she was about to propose, and went out, shutting the door with just sound enough to announce her departure to Dr. Sevier. He came from the window to the bedside and sat down. The sick man looked at him, with a feeble eye, and said, in little more than a whisper:-- "Mary and Alice"-- "Yes," said the Doctor. "If they don't come to-night they'll be too late." "God knows, my dear boy!" "Doctor"-- "What, Richling?" "Did you ever try to guess"-- "Guess what, Richling?" "_His_ use of my life." "Why, yes, my poor boy, I have tried. But I only make out its use to me." The sick man's eye brightened. "Has it been?" The Doctor nodded. He reached out and took the wasted hand in his. It tried to answer his pressure. The invalid spoke. "I'm glad you told me that before--before it was too late." "Are you, my dear boy? Shall I tell you more?" "Yes," the sick man huskily replied; "oh, yes." "Well, Richling,--you know we're great cowards about saying such things; it's a part of our poor human weakness and distrust of each other, and the emptiness of words,--but--lately--only just here, very lately, I've learned to call the meekest, lovingest One that ever trod our earth, Master; and it's been your life, my dear fellow, that has taught me." He pressed the sick man's hand slowly and tremulously, then let it go, but continued to caress it in a tender, absent way, looking on the floor as he spoke on. "Richling, Nature herself appoints some men to poverty and some to riches. God throws the poor upon our charge--in mercy to _us_. Couldn't he take care of them without us if he wished? Are they not his? It's easy for the poor to feel, when they are helped by us, that the rich are a godsend to them; but they don't see, and many of their helpers don't see, that the poor are a godsend to the rich. They're set over against each other to keep pity and mercy and charity in the human heart. If every one were entirely able to take care of himself we'd turn to stone." The speaker ceased. "Go on," whispered the listener. "That will never be," continued the Doctor. "God Almighty will never let us find a way to quite abolish poverty. Riches don't always bless the man they come to, but they bless the world. And so with poverty; and it's no contemptible commission, Richling, to be appointed by God to bear that blessing to mankind which keeps its brotherhood universal. See, now,"--he looked up with a gentle smile,--"from what a distance he brought our two hearts together. Why, Richling, the man that can make the rich and poor love each other will make the world happier than it has ever been since man fell!" "Go on," whispered Richling. "No," said the Doctor. "Well, now, Doctor--_I_ want to say--something." The invalid spoke with a weak and broken utterance, with many breaks and starts that we may set aside. "For a long time," he said, beginning as if half in soliloquy, "I couldn't believe I was coming to this early end, simply because I didn't see why I should. I know that was foolish. I thought my hardships"-- He ceased entirely, and, when his strength would allow, resumed:-- "I thought they were sent in order that when I should come to fortune I might take part in correcting some evils that are strangely overlooked." The Doctor nodded, and, after a moment of rest, Richling said again:-- "But now I see--that is not my work. May be it is Mary's. May be it's my little girl's." "Or mine," murmured the Doctor. "Yes, Doctor, I've been lying here to-day thinking of something I never thought of before, though I dare say you have, often. There could be no art of healing till the earth was full of graves. It is by shipwreck that we learn to build ships. All our safety--all our betterment--is secured by our knowledge of others' disasters that need not have happened had they only _known_. Will you--finish my mission?" The sick man's hand softly grasped the hand that lay upon it. And the Doctor responded:-- "How shall I do that, Richling?" "Tell my story." "But I don't know it all, Richling." "I'll tell you all that's behind. You know I'm a native of Kentucky. My name is not Richling. I belong to one of the proudest, most distinguished families in that State or in all the land. Until I married I never knew an ungratified wish. I think my bringing-up, not to be wicked, was as bad as could be. It was based upon the idea that I was always to be master, and never servant. I was to go through life with soft hands. I was educated to know, but not to do. When I left school my parents let me travel. They would have let me do anything except work. In the West--in Milwaukee--I met Mary. It was by mere chance. She was poor, but cultivated and refined; trained--you know--for knowing, not doing. I loved her and courted her, and she encouraged my suit, under the idea, you know, again,"--he smiled faintly and sadly,--"that it was nobody's business but ours. I offered my hand and was accepted. But, when I came to announce our engagement to my family, they warned me that if I married her they would disinherit and disown me." "What was their reason, Richling?" "Nothing." "But, Richling, they had a reason of some sort." "Nothing in the world but that Mary was a Northern girl. Simple sectional prejudice. I didn't tell Mary. I didn't think they would do it; but I knew Mary would refuse to put me to the risk. We married, and they carried out their threat." The Doctor uttered a low exclamation, and both were silent. "Doctor," began the sick man once more. "Yes, Richling." "I suppose you never looked into the case of a man who needed help, but you were sure to find that some one thing was the key to all his troubles; did you?" The Doctor was silent again. "I'll give you the key to mine, Doctor: I took up the gage thrown down by my family as though it were thrown down by society at large. I said I would match pride with pride. I said I would go among strangers, take a new name, and make it as honorable as the old. I saw Mary didn't think it wise; but she believed whatever I did was best, and"--he smiled and whispered--"I thought so too. I suppose my troubles have more than one key; but that's the outside one. Let me rest a little. "Doctor, I die nameless. I had a name, a good name, and only too proud a one. It's mine still. I've never tarnished it--not even in prison. I will not stain it now by disclosing it. I carry it with me to God's throne." The whisperer ceased, exhausted. The Doctor rested an elbow on a knee and laid his face in his hand. Presently Richling moved, and he raised a look of sad inquiry. "Bury me here in New Orleans, Doctor, will you?" "Why, Richling?" "Well--this has been--my--battle-ground. I'd like to be buried on the field,--like the other soldiers. Not that I've been a good one; but--I want to lie where you can point to me as you tell my story. If it could be so, I should like to lie in sight--of that old prison." The Doctor brushed his eyes with his handkerchief and wiped his brow. "Doctor," said the invalid again, "will you read me just four verses in the Bible?" "Why, yes, my boy, as many as you wish to hear." "No, only four." His free hand moved for the book that lay on the bed, and presently the Doctor read:-- "'My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations; "'Knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience. "'But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing. "'If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.'" "There," whispered the sick man, and rested with a peaceful look in all his face. "It--doesn't mean wisdom in general, Doctor,--such as Solomon asked for." "Doesn't it?" said the other, meekly. "No. It means the wisdom necessary to let--patience--have her perf-- I was a long time--getting any where near that. "Doctor--do you remember how fond--Mary was of singing--all kinds of--little old songs?" "Of course I do, my dear boy." "Did you ever sing--Doctor?" "O my dear fellow! I never did really sing, and I haven't uttered a note since--for twenty years." "Can't you sing--ever so softly--just a verse--of--'I'm a Pilgrim'?" "I--I--it's impossible, Richling, old fellow. I don't know either the words or the tune. I never sing." He smiled at himself through his tears. "Well, all right," whispered Richling. He lay with closed eyes for a moment, and then, as he opened them, breathed faintly through his parted lips the words, spoken, not sung, while his hand feebly beat the imagined cadence:-- "'The sun shines bright in my old Kentucky home; 'Tis summer, the darkies are gay; The corn-tops are ripe, and the meadows are in bloom, And the birds make music all the day.'" The Doctor hid his face in his hands, and all was still. By and by there came a whisper again. The Doctor raised his head. "Doctor, there's one thing"-- "Yes, I know there is, Richling." "Doctor,--I've been a poor stick of a husband." "I never knew a good one, Richling." "Doctor, you'll be a friend to Mary?" The Doctor nodded; his eyes were full. The sick man drew from his breast a small ambrotype, pressed it to his lips, and poised it in his trembling fingers. It was the likeness of the little Alice. He turned his eyes to his friend. "I didn't need Mary's. But this is all I've ever seen of my little girl. To-morrow, at daybreak,--it will be just at daybreak,--when you see that I've passed, I want you to lay this here on my breast. Then fold my hands upon it"-- His speech was arrested. He seemed to hearken an instant. "Doctor," he said, with excitement in his eye and sudden strength of voice, "what is that I hear?" "I don't know," replied his friend; "one of the servants probably down in the hall." But he, too, seemed to have been startled. He lifted his head. There was a sound of some one coming up the stairs in haste. "Doctor." The Doctor was rising from his chair. "Lie still, Richling." But the sick man suddenly sat erect. "Doctor--it's--O Doctor, I"-- The door flew open; there was a low outcry from the threshold, a moan of joy from the sick man, a throwing wide of arms, and a rush to the bedside, and John and Mary Richling--and the little Alice, too-- Come, Doctor Sevier; come out and close the door. * * * "Strangest thing on earth!" I once heard a physician say,--"the mysterious power that the dying so often have to fix the very hour of their approaching end!" It was so in John Richling's case. It was as he said. Had Mary and Alice not come when they did, they would have been too late. He "tarried but a night;" and at the dawn Mary uttered the bitter cry of the widow, and Doctor Sevier closed the eyes of the one who had committed no fault,--against this world, at least,--save that he had been by nature a pilgrim and a stranger in it. CHAPTER LIX. AFTERGLOW. Mary, with Alice holding one hand, flowers in the other, was walking one day down the central avenue of the old Girod Cemetery, breaking the silence of the place only by the soft grinding of her footsteps on the shell-walk, and was just entering a transverse alley, when she stopped. Just at hand a large, broad woman, very plainly dressed, was drawing back a single step from the front of a tomb, and dropping her hands from a coarse vase of flowers that she had that moment placed on the narrow stone shelf under the tablet. The blossoms touched, without hiding, the newly cut name. She had hung a little plaster crucifix against it from above. She must have heard the footfall so near by, and marked its stoppage; but, with the oblivion common to the practisers of her religion, she took no outward notice. She crossed herself, sank upon her knees, and with her eyes upon the shrine she had made remained thus. The tears ran down Mary's face. It was Madame Zénobie. They went and lived together. The name of the street where their house stood has slipped me, as has that of the clean, unfrequented, round-stoned way up which one looked from the small cottage's veranda, and which, running down to their old arched gate, came there to an end, as if that were a pretty place to stop at in the shade until evening. Grass grows now, as it did then, between the round stones; and in the towering sycamores of the reddened brick sidewalk the long, quavering note of the cicada parts the wide summer noonday silence. The stillness yields to little else, save now and then the tinkle of a mule-bell, where in the distance the softly rumbling street-car invites one to the centre of the town's activities, or the voice of some fowl that, having laid an egg, is asserting her right to the credit of it. Some forty feet back, within a mossy brick wall that stands waist-high, surmounted by a white, open fence, the green wooden balls on top of whose posts are full eight feet above the sidewalk, the cottage stands high up among a sweet confusion of pale purple and pink crape myrtles, oleanders white and red, and the bristling leaves and plumes of white bells of the Spanish bayonet, all in the shade of lofty magnolias, and one great pecan. "And this is little Alice," said Doctor Sevier with gentle gravity, as, on his first visit to the place, he shook hands with Mary at the top of the veranda stairs, and laid his fingers upon the child's forehead. He smiled into her uplifted face as her eyes examined his, and stroked the little crown as she turned her glance silently upon her mother, as if to inquire if this were a trustworthy person. Mary led the way to chairs at the veranda's end where the south breeze fanned them, and Alice retreated to her mother's side until her silent question should be settled. It was still May. They spoke the praises of the day whose sun was just setting. And Mary commended the house, the convenience of its construction, its salubrity; and also, and especially, the excellence and goodness of Madame Zénobie. What a complete and satisfactory arrangement! Was it not? Did not the Doctor think so? But the Doctor's affirmative responses were unfrequent, and quite without enthusiasm; and Mary's face, wearing more cheer than was felt within, betrayed, moreover, the feeling of one who, having done the best she knew, falls short of commendation. She was once more in deep black. Her face was pale, and some of its lines had yielded up a part of their excellence. The outward curves of the rose had given place to the inward curves of the lily--nay, hardly all that; for as she had never had the full red queenliness of the one, neither had she now the severe sanctitude of the other; that soft glow of inquiry, at once so blithe and so self-contained, so modest and so courageous, humble, yet free, still played about her saddened eyes and in her tones. Through the glistening sadness of those eyes smiled resignation; and although the Doctor plainly read care about them and about the mouth, it was a care that was forbearing to feed upon itself, or to take its seat on her brow. The brow was the old one; that is, the young. The joy of life's morning was gone from it forever; but a chastened hope was there, and one could see peace hovering just above it, as though it might in time alight. Such were the things that divided her austere friend's attention as she sat before him, seeking, with timid smiles and interrogative argument, for this new beginning of life some heartiness of approval from him. "Doctor," she plucked up courage to say at last, with a geniality that scantily hid the inner distress, "you don't seem pleased." "I can't say I am, Mary. You've provided for things in sight; but I see no provision for unseen contingencies. They're sure to come, you know. How are you going to meet them?" "Well," said Mary, with slow, smiling caution, "there's my two thousand dollars that you've put at interest for me." "Why, no; you've already counted the interest on that as part of your necessary income." "Doctor, 'the Lord will provide,' will he not?" "No." "Why, Doctor!"-- "No, Mary; you've got to provide. He's not going to set aside the laws of nature to cover our improvidence. That would be to break faith with all creation for the sake of one or two creatures." "No; but still, Doctor, without breaking the laws of nature, he will provide. It's in his word." "Yes, and it ought to be in his word--not in ours. It's for him to say to us, not for us to say to him. But there's another thing, Mary." "Yes, sir." "It's this. But first I'll say plainly you've passed through the fires of poverty, and they haven't hurt you. You have one of those imperishable natures that fire can't stain or warp." "O Doctor, how absurd!" said Mary, with bright genuineness, and a tear in either eye. She drew Alice closer. "Well, then, I do see two ill effects," replied the Doctor. "In the first place, as I've just tried to show you, you have caught a little of the _recklessness_ of the poor." "I was born with it," exclaimed Mary, with amusement. "Maybe so," replied her friend; "at any rate you show it." He was silent. "But what is the other?" asked Mary. "Why, as to that, I may mistake; but--you seem inclined to settle down and be satisfied with poverty." "Having food and raiment," said Mary, smiling with some archness, "to be therewith content." "Yes, but"--the physician shook his head--"that doesn't mean to be satisfied. It's one thing to be content with God's providence, and it's another to be satisfied with poverty. There's not one in a thousand that I'd venture to say it to. He wouldn't understand the fine difference. But you will. I'm sure you do." "Yes, I do." "I know you do. You know poverty has its temptations, and warping influences, and debasing effects, just as truly as riches have. See how it narrows our usefulness. Not always, it is true. Sometimes our best usefulness keeps us poor. That's poverty with a good excuse. But that's not poverty satisfying, Mary"-- "No, of course not," said Mary, exhibiting a degree of distress that the Doctor somehow overlooked. "It's merely," said he, half-extending his open palm,--"it's merely poverty accepted, as a good soldier accepts the dust and smut that are a necessary part of the battle. Now, here's this little girl."--As his open white hand pointed toward Alice she shrank back; but the Doctor seemed blind this afternoon and drove on.--"In a few years--it will not seem like any time at all--she'll be half grown up; she'll have wants that ought to be supplied." "Oh! don't," exclaimed Mary, and burst into a flood of tears; and the Doctor, while she hid them from her child, sat silently loathing his own stupidity. "Please, don't mind it," said Mary, stanching the flow. "You were not so badly mistaken. I wasn't satisfied, but I was about to surrender." She smiled at herself and her warlike figure of speech. He looked away, passed his hand across his forehead and must have muttered audibly his self-reproach: for Mary looked up again with a faint gleam of the old radiance in her face, saying:-- "I'm glad you didn't let me do it. I'll not do it. I'll take up the struggle again. Indeed, I had already thought of one thing I could do, but I--I--in fact, Doctor, I thought you might not like it." "What was it?" "It was teaching in the public schools. They're in the hands of the military government, I am told. Are they not?" "Yes." "Still," said Mary, speaking rapidly, "I say I'll keep up the"-- But the Doctor lifted his hand. "No, no. There's to be no more struggle." "No?" Mary tried to look pleasantly incredulous. "No; and you're not going to be put upon anybody's bounty, either. No. What I was going to say about this little girl here was this,--her name is Alice, is it?" "Yes." The mother dropped an arm around the child, and both she and Alice looked timidly at the questioner. "Well, by that name, Mary, I claim the care of her." The color mounted to Mary's brows, but the Doctor raised a finger. "I mean, of course, Mary, only in so far as such care can go without molesting your perfect motherhood, and all its offices and pleasures." Her eyes filled again, and her lips parted; but the Doctor was not going to let her reply. "Don't try to debate it, Mary. You must see you have no case. Nobody's going to take her from you, nor do any other of the foolish things, I hope, that are so often done in such cases. But you've called her Alice, and Alice she must be. I don't propose to take care of her for you"-- "Oh, no; of course not," interjected Mary. "No," said the Doctor; "you'll take care of her for me. I intended it from the first. And that brings up another point. You mustn't teach school. No. I have something else--something better--to suggest. Mary, you and John have been a kind of blessing to me"-- She would have interrupted with expressions of astonishment and dissent, but he would not hear them. "I think I ought to know best about that," he said. "Your husband taught me a great deal, I think. I want to put some of it into practice. We had a--an understanding, you might say--one day toward the--end--that I should do for him some of the things he had so longed and hoped to do--for the poor and the unfortunate." "I know," said Mary, the tears dropping down her face. "He told you?" asked the Doctor. She nodded. "Well," resumed the Doctor, "those may not be his words precisely, but it's what they meant to me. And I said I'd do it. But I shall need assistance. I'm a medical practitioner. I attend the sick. But I see a great deal of other sorts of sufferers; and I can't stop for them." "Certainly not," said Mary, softly. "No," said he; "I can't make the inquiries and investigations about them and study them, and all that kind of thing, as one should if one's help is going to be help. I can't turn aside for all that. A man must have one direction, you know. But you could look after those things"-- "I?" "Certainly. You could do it just as I--just as John--would wish to see it done. You're just the kind of person to do it right." "O Doctor, don't say so! I'm not fitted for it at all." "I'm sure you are, Mary. You're fitted by character and outward disposition, and by experience. You're full of cheer"-- She tearfully shook her head. But he insisted. "You will be--for _his_ sake, as you once said to me. Don't you remember?" She remembered. She recalled all he wished her to: the prayer she had made that, whenever death should part her husband and her, he might not be the one left behind. Yes, she remembered; and the Doctor spoke again:-- "Now, I invite you to make this your principal business. I'll pay you for it, regularly and well, what I think it's worth; and it's worth no trifle. There's not one in a thousand that I'd trust to do it, woman or man; but I know you will do it all, and do it well, without any nonsense. And if you want to look at it so, Mary, you can just consider that it's John doing it, all the time; for, in fact, that's just what it is. It beats sewing, Mary, or teaching school, or making preserves, I think." "Yes," said Mary, looking down on Alice, and stroking her head. "You can stay right here where you are, with Madame Zénobie, as you had planned; but you'll give yourself to this better work. I'll give you a _carte blanche_. Only one mistake I charge you not to make; don't go and come from day to day on the assumption that only the poor are poor, and need counsel and attention." "I know that would be a mistake," said Mary. "But I mean more than that," continued the Doctor. "You must keep a hold on the rich and comfortable and happy. You want to be a medium between the two, identified with both as completely as possible. It's a hard task, Mary. It will take all your cunning." "And more, too," replied she, half-musing. "You know," said the Doctor, "I'm not to appear in the matter, of course; I'm not to be mentioned: that must be one of the conditions." Mary smiled at him through her welling eyes. "I'm not fit to do it," she said, folding the wet spots of her handkerchief under. "But still, I'd rather not refuse. If I might try it, I'd like to do so. If I could do it well, it would be a finer monument--to _him_"-- "Than brass or marble," said Dr. Sevier. "Yes, more to his liking." "Well," said Mary again, "if you think I can do it I'll try it." "Very well. There's one place you can go to, to begin with, to-morrow morning, if you choose. I'll give you the number. It's just across here in Casa Calvo street." "Narcisse's aunt?" asked Mary, with a soft gleam of amusement. "Yes. Have you been there already?" She had; but she only said:-- "There's one thing that I'm afraid will go against me, Doctor, almost everywhere." She lifted a timid look. The Doctor looked at her inquiringly, and in his private thought said that it was certainly not her face or voice. "Ah!" he said, as he suddenly recollected. "Yes; I had forgotten. You mean your being a Union woman." "Yes. It seems to me they'll be sure to find it out. Don't you think it will interfere?" The Doctor mused. "I forgot that," he repeated and mused again. "You can't blame us, Mary; we're at white heat"-- "Indeed I don't!" said Mary, with eager earnestness. He reflected yet again. "But--I don't know, either. It may be not as great a drawback as you think. Here's Madame Zénobie, for instance"-- Madame Zénobie was just coming up the front steps from the garden, pulling herself up upon the veranda wearily by the balustrade. She came forward, and, with graceful acknowledgment, accepted the physician's outstretched hand and courtesied. "Here's Madame Zénobie, I say; you seem to get along with her." Mary smiled again, looked up at the standing quadroon, and replied in a low voice:-- "Madame Zénobie is for the Union herself." "Ah! no-o-o!" exclaimed the good woman, with an alarmed face. She lifted her shoulders and extended what Narcisse would have called the han' of rep-u-diation; then turned away her face, lifted up her underlip with disrelish, and asked the surrounding atmosphere,--"What I got to do wid Union? Nuttin' do wid Union--nuttin' do wid Confédéracie!" She moved away, addressing the garden and the house by turns. "Ah! no!" She went in by the front door, talking Creole French, until she was beyond hearing. Dr. Sevier reached out toward the child at Mary's knee. Here was one who was neither for nor against, nor yet a fear-constrained neutral. Mary pushed her persuasively toward the Doctor, and Alice let herself be lifted to his lap. "I used to be for it myself," he said, little dreaming he would one day be for it again. As the child sank back into his arm, he noticed a miniature of her father hanging from her neck. He took it into his fingers, and all were silent while he looked long upon the face. By and by he asked Mary for an account of her wanderings. She gave it. Many of the experiences, that had been hard and dangerous enough when she was passing through them, were full of drollery when they came to be told, and there was much quiet amusement over them. The sunlight faded out, the cicadas hushed their long-drawn, ear-splitting strains, and the moon had begun to shine in the shadowy garden when Dr. Sevier at length let Alice down and rose to take his lonely homeward way, leaving Mary to Alice's prattle, and, when that was hushed in slumber, to gentle tears and whispered thanksgivings above the little head. CHAPTER LX. "YET SHALL HE LIVE." We need not follow Mary through her ministrations. Her office was no sinecure. It took not only much labor, but, as the Doctor had expected, it took all her cunning. True, nature and experience had equipped her for such work; but for all that there was an art to be learned, and time and again there were cases of mental and moral decrepitude or deformity that baffled all her skill until her skill grew up to them, which in some cases it never did. The greatest tax of all was to seem, and to be, unprofessional; to avoid regarding her work in quantity, and to be simply, merely, in every case, a personal friend; not to become known as a benevolent itinerary, but only a kind and thoughtful neighbor. Blessed word! not benefactor--neighbor! She had no schemes for helping the unfortunate by multitude. Possibly on that account her usefulness was less than it might have been. But I am not sure; for they say her actual words and deeds were but the seed of ultimate harvests; and that others, moreover, seeing her light shine so brightly along this seemingly narrow path, and moved to imitate her, took that other and broader way, and so both fields were reaped. But, I say, we need not follow her steps. They would lead deviously through ill-smelling military hospitals, and into buildings that had once been the counting-rooms of Carondelet-street cotton merchants, but were now become the prisons of soldiers in gray. One of these places, restored after the war as a cotton factor's counting-room again, had, until a few years ago, a queer, clumsy patch in the plastering of one wall, near the base-board. Some one had made a rough inscription on it with a cotton sampler's marking-brush. It commemorates an incident. Mary by some means became aware beforehand that this incident was going to occur; and one of the most trying struggles of conscience she ever had in her life was that in which she debated with herself one whole night whether she ought to give her knowledge to others or keep it to herself. She kept it. In fact, she said nothing until the war was all over and done, and she never was quite sure whether her silence was right or wrong. And when she asked Dr. Sevier if he thought she had done wrong, he asked:-- "You knew it was going to take place, and kept silence?" "Yes," said Mary. "And you want to know whether you did right?" "Yes. I'd like to know what you think." He sat very straight, and said not a word, nor changed a line of his face. She got no answer at all. The inscription was as follows; I used to see it every work-day of the week for years--it may be there yet--190 Common street, first flight, back office: [Illustration: Oct 14 1864 17 Confederate Prisoners escaped Through this hole] But we move too fast. Let us go back into the war for a moment longer. Mary pursued her calling. The most of it she succeeded in doing in a very sunshiny way. She carried with her, and left behind her, cheer, courage, hope. Yet she had a widow's heart, and whenever she took a widow's hand in hers, and oftentimes, alone or against her sleeping child's bedside, she had a widow's tears. But this work, or these works,--she made each particular ministration seem as if it were the only one,--these works, that she might never have had the opportunity to perform had her nest-mate never been taken from her, seemed to keep John near. Almost, sometimes, he seemed to walk at her side in her errands of mercy, or to spread above her the arms of benediction. And so even the bitter was sweet, and she came to believe that never before had widow such blessed commutation. One day, a short, slight Confederate prisoner, newly brought in, and hobbling about the place where he was confined, with a vile bullet-hole in his foot, came up to her and said:-- "Allow me, madam,--did that man call you by your right name, just now?" Mary looked at him. She had never seen him before. "Yes, sir," she said. She could see the gentleman, under much rags and dirt. "Are you Mrs. John Richling?" A look of dismay came into his face as he asked the grave question. "Yes, sir," replied Mary. His voice dropped, and he asked, with subdued haste:-- "Ith it pothible you're in mourning for him?" She nodded. It was the little rector. He had somehow got it into his head that preachers ought to fight, and this was one of the results. Mary went away quickly, and told Dr. Sevier. The Doctor went to the commanding general. It was a great humiliation to do so, he thought. There was none worse, those days, in the eyes of the people. He craved and got the little man's release on parole. A fortnight later, as Dr. Sevier was sitting at the breakfast table, with the little rector at its opposite end, he all at once rose to his full attenuated height, with a frown and then a smile, and, tumbling the chair backward behind him, exclaimed:-- "Why, Laura!"--for it was that one of his two gay young nieces who stood in the door-way. The banker's wife followed in just behind, and was presently saying, with the prettiest heartiness, that Dr. Sevier looked no older than the day they met the Florida general at dinner years before. She had just come in from the Confederacy, smuggling her son of eighteen back to the city, to save him from the conscript officers, and Laura had come with her. And when the clergyman got his crutches into his armpits and stood on one foot, and he and Laura both blushed as they shook hands, the Doctor knew that she had come to nurse her wounded lover. That she might do this without embarrassment, they got married, and were thereupon as vexed with themselves as they could be under the circumstances that they had not done it four or five years before. Of course there was no parade; but Dr. Sevier gave a neat little dinner. Mary and Laura were its designers; Madame Zénobie was the master-builder and made the gumbo. One word about the war, whose smoke was over all the land, would have spoiled the broth. But no such word was spoken. It happened that the company was almost the same as that which had sat down in brighter days to that other dinner, which the banker's wife recalled with so much pleasure. She and her husband and son were guests; also that Sister Jane, of whom they had talked, a woman of real goodness and rather unrelieved sweetness; also her sister and bankrupted brother-in-law. The brother-in-law mentioned several persons who, he said, once used to be very cordial to him and his wife, but now did not remember them; and his wife chid him, with the air of a fellow-martyr; but they could not spoil the tender gladness of the occasion. "Well, Doctor," said the banker's wife, looking quite the old lady now, "I suppose your lonely days are over, now that Laura and her husband are to keep house for you." "Yes," said the Doctor. But the very thought of it made him more lonely than ever. "It's a very pleasant and sensible arrangement," said the lady, looking very practical and confidential; "Laura has told me all about it. It's just the thing for them and for you." "I think so, ma'am," replied Dr. Sevier, and tried to make his statement good. "I'm sure of it," said the lady, very sweetly and gayly, and made a faint time-to-go beckon with a fan to her husband, to whom, in the farther drawing-room, Laura and Mary stood talking, each with an arm about the other's waist. CHAPTER LXI PEACE. It came with tears. But, ah! it lifted such an awful load from the hearts even of those who loved the lost cause. Husbands snatched their wives once more to their bosoms, and the dear, brave, swarthy, rough-bearded, gray-jacketed boys were caught again in the wild arms of mothers and sisters. Everywhere there was glad, tearful kissing. Everywhere? Alas for the silent lips that remained unkissed, and the arms that remained empty! And alas for those to whom peace came too suddenly and too soon! Poor Narcisse! His salary still continues. So does his aunt. The Ristofalos came back all together. How delighted Mrs. Colonel Ristofalo--I say Mrs. _Colonel_ Ristofalo--was to see Mary! And how impossible it was, when they sat down together for a long talk, to avoid every moment coming back to the one subject of "him." "Yes, ye see, there bees thim as is _called_ col-o-nels, whin in fact they bees only _liftinent_ col-o-nels. Yes. But it's not so wid him. And he's no different from the plain Raphael Ristofalah of eight year ago--the same perfict gintleman that he was when he sold b'iled eggs!" And the colonel's "lady" smiled a gay triumph that gave Mary a new affection for her. Sister Jane bowed to the rod of an inscrutable Providence. She could not understand how the Confederacy could fail, and justice still be justice; so, without understanding, she left it all to Heaven, and clung to her faith. Her brother-in-law never recovered his fortunes nor his sweetness. He could not bend his neck to the conqueror's yoke; he went in search of liberty to Brazil--or was it Honduras? Little matter which, now, for he died there, both he and his wife, just as their faces were turning again homeward, and it was dawning upon them once more that there is no land like Dixie in all the wide world over. The little rector--thanks, he says, to the skill of Dr. Sevier!--recovered perfectly the use of his mangled foot, so that he even loves long walks. I was out walking with him one sunset hour in the autumn of--if I remember aright--1870, when whom should we spy but our good Kate Ristofalo, out driving in her family carriage? The cherubs were beside her,--strong, handsome boys. Mike held the reins; he was but thirteen, but he looked full three years better than that, and had evidently employed the best tailor in St. Charles street to fit his rather noticeable clothes. His mother had changed her mind about his being a bruiser, though there isn't a doubt he had a Derringer in one or another of his pockets. No, she was proposing to make him a doctor--"a surgeon," she said; "and thin, if there bees another war"-- She was for making every edge cut. She did us the honor to stop the carriage, and drive up to the curb-stone for a little chat. Her spirits were up, for Colonel Ristofalo had just been made a city councilman by a rousing majority. We expressed our regret not to see Raphael himself in the family group enjoying the exquisite air. "Ha, ha! He ride out for pleasure?"--And then, with sudden gravity,--"Aw, naw, sur! He's too busy. Much use ut is to be married to a public man! Ah! surs, I'm mighty tired of ut, now I tell ye!" Yet she laughed again, without betraying much fatigue. "And how's Dr. Sevier?" "He's well," said the clergyman. "And Mrs. Richling?" "She's well, too." Kate looked at the little rector out of the corners of her roguish Irish eyes, a killing look, and said:-- "Ye're sure the both o' thim bees well?" "Yes, quite well," replied he, ignoring the inane effort at jest. She nodded a blithe good-day, and rolled on toward the lake, happy as the harvest weather, and with a kind heart for all the world. We walked on, and after the walk I dined with the rector. Dr. Sevier's place was vacant, and we talked of him. The prettiest piece of furniture in the dining-room was an extremely handsome child's high chair that remained, unused, against the wall. It was Alice's, and Alice was an almost daily visitor. It had come in almost simultaneously with Laura's marriage, and more and more frequently, as time had passed, the waiter had set it up to the table, at the Doctor's right hand, and lifted Goldenhair into it, until by and by she had totally outgrown it. But she had not grown out of the place of favor at the table. In these later days she had become quite a school-girl, and the Doctor, in his place at the table, would often sit with a faint, continuous smile on his face that no one could bring there but her, to hear her prattle about Madame Locquet, and the various girls at Madame Locquet's school. * * * "It's actually pathetic," said Laura, as we sat sipping our coffee after the meal, "to see how he idolizes that child." Alice had just left the room. "Why don't he idolize the child's"--began her husband, in undertone, and did not have to finish to make us understand. "He does," murmured the smiling wife. "Then why shouldn't he tell her so?" "My dear!" objected the wife, very softly and prettily. "I don't mean to speak lightly," responded the husband, "but--they love each other; they suit each other; they complete each other; they don't feel their disparity of years; they're both so linked to Alice that it would break either heart over again to be separated from her. I don't see why"-- Laura shook her head, smiling in the gentle way that only the happy wives of good men have. "It will never be." * * * What changes! "The years creep slowly by"-- We seem to hear the old song yet. What changes! Laura has put two more leaves into her dining-table. Children fill three seats. Alice has another. It is she, now, not her chair, that is tall--and fair. Mary, too, has a seat at the same board. This is their home now. Her hair is turning all to silver. So early? Yes; but she is--she never was--so beautiful! They all see it--feel it; Dr. Sevier--the gentle, kind, straight old Doctor--most of all. And oh! when they two, who have never joined hands on this earth, go to meet John and Alice,--which God grant may be at one and the same time,--what weeping there will be among God's poor! THE END.