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<title type="main">The Confidence-Man</title>
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<author>Melville, Herman, 1819-1891</author>
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				<date value="1996">1996</date>
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Copyright © 1996 by the Rector and Visitors of the University of Virginia

Publicly accessible

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<title type="main">The Confidence-Man</title>
<title type="sort">confidence man</title>
<author>Herman Melville</author>
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Facsimile of First Edition

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						<pubPlace>New York</pubPlace>
						<date value="1857">1857</date>
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Electronic text checked against 1968 facsimile of first edition,
								prepared by John Seelye (San Francisco: Chandler Publishing
							Company)

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						<note>

<list type="simple">
April 1996: Scott Eric Atkins
									<item>p. v, li. 8: evidently as] evidently not so</item>
									<item>p. v, li. 23: music] magic</item>
									<item>p. 26, li. 2 : ACQUANTANCE] ACQUAINTANCE</item>
									<item>p. 72, li. 13: uufortunate] unfortunate</item>
									<item>p. 77, li. 25: the the] the</item>
									<item>p. 102, li. 2: brightening."] brightening.</item>
									<item>p. 112, li. 5: abox] a box</item>
									<item>p. 116, li. 11: over ,while] over, while</item>
									<item>p. 122, li. 5: incurable?"] incurable."</item>
									<item>p. 141, li. 23: since] "since</item>
									<item>p. 143, li. 5: to wardsthe] towards the</item>
									<item>p. 154, li. 19: the money.] the money."</item>
									<item>p. 179, li. 5: acommodates] accomodates</item>
									<item>p. 193, li. 30: butterfly."] butterfly.'"</item>
									<item>p. 195, li. 18: suppose.] suppose."</item>
									<item>p. 209, li. 14: cured?] cured?'</item>
									<item>p. 212, li. 7: have have heard] have heard</item>
									<item>p. 213, li. 24-25: snap-ing] snapping</item>
									<item>p. 214, li. 1: worldlingg] worldling</item>
									<item>p. 214, li. 11: confinement?] confinement?"</item>
									<item>p. 227, li. 14: backswoods'] backwoods'</item>
									<item>p. 262, li. 22: grave!] grave!"</item>
									<item>p. 273, li. 18: drink, it it has] drink it, it has
										[following the 1971 Herschel Parker ed.]</item>
									<item>p. 275, li. 18: everwhere] everywhere</item>
									<item>p. 302, li. 5-6: defi-tion] definition</item>
									<item>p. 302, li. 7: favor.] favor."</item>
									<item>p. 314, li. 17: freind] friend</item>
									<item>p. 322, li. 30: of it.] of it."</item>
									<item>p. 323, li. 3: not Charlie.] not Charlie."</item>
									<item>p. 323, li. 9: with him.] with him."</item>
									<item>p. 323, li. 20: loan it.] loan it."</item>
									<item>p. 339: li. 1: upon him] upon him.</item>
									<item>p. 362, li. 19: their hearts?] their hearts?"</item>
									<item>p. 379, li. 30: white,'] white,"</item>
									<item>p. 385, li. 23: nor, to be] "nor, to be</item>
</list>

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	<text id="d1">

		<front id="d2">
			<titlePage id="d3">
				<pb n="i"/>
				<docTitle>
					<titlePart type="main"> THE<lb/> CONFIDENCE-MAN:<lb/> HIS MASQUERADE.<lb/>
					</titlePart>
				</docTitle>

				<byline> BY<lb/>
					<docAuthor>HERMAN MELVILLE.</docAuthor><lb/> AUTHOR OF "PIAZZA TALES," "OMOO,"
					"TYPEE," ETC., ETC.<lb/>
				</byline>

				<docImprint> NEW YORK:<lb/> DIX, EDWARDS & CO., 321 BROADWAY.<lb/> 1857.<lb/>
					<pb n="ii"/> Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1857, by<lb/>
					HERMAN MELVILLE,<lb/> In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United
					States for the Southern District of New York.<lb/> MILLER & HOLMAN,<lb/>
					Printers and Stereotypers, N. Y. </docImprint>
			</titlePage>

			<div1 type="contents" id="d4">
			<pb n="iii"/>
				CONTENTS.

				<list>
					<item>

CHAPTER I.<lb/> A mute goes aboard a boat on the Mississippi.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER II.<lb/> Showing that many men have many minds.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER III.<lb/> In which a variety of characters appear.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER IV.<lb/> Renewal of old acquaintance.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER V.<lb/> The man with the weed makes it an even question whether
							he be a great sage or a great simpleton.

					</item>

					<item>

CHAPTER VI.<lb/> At the outset of which certain passengers prove deaf to
							the call of charity.

					</item>

					<item>

CHAPTER VII.<lb/> A gentleman with gold sleeve-buttons.

					</item>

					<item>

CHAPTER VIII.<lb/> A charitable lady.

					</item>

					<item>

CHAPTER IX.<lb/> Two business men transact a little business.

					</item>

					<item>

CHAPTER X.<lb/> In the cabin.

					</item>

					<pb n="iv"/>

					<item>

CHAPTER XI.<lb/> Only a page or so.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XII.<lb/> The story of the unfortunate man, from which my be
							gathered whether or no he has been justly so entitled.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XIII.<lb/> The man with the traveling-cap evinces much humanity,
							and in a way which would seem to show him to be one of the most logical
							of optimists.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XIV.<lb/> Worth the consideration of those to whom it may prove
							worth considering.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XV.<lb/> An old miser, upon suitable representations, is
							prevailed upon to venture an investment.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XVI.<lb/> A sick man after some impatience, is induced to become
							a patient.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XVII.<lb/> Toward the end of which the Herb-Doctor proves himself
							a forgiver of injuries.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XVIII.<lb/> Inquest into the true character of the
						Herb-Doctor.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XIX.<lb/> A soldier of fortune.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XX.<lb/> Reappearance of one who may be remembered.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XXI.<lb/> A hard case.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XXII.<lb/> In the polite spirit of the Tusculan disputations.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XXIII.<lb/> In which the powerful effect of natural scenery is
							evinced in the case of the Missourian, who, in view of the region round
							about Cairo, has a return of his chilly fit.

					</item>
					<pb n="v"/>

					<item>

CHAPTER XXIV.<lb/> A philanthropist undertakes to convert a misanthrope,
							but does not get beyond confuting him.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XXV.<lb/> The Cosmopolitan makes an acquaintance.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XXVI.<lb/> Containing the metaphysics of Indian-hating, according
							to the views of one evidently not so prepossessed as Rousseau in favor
							of savages.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XXVII.<lb/> Some account of a man of questionable morality, but
							who, nevertheless, would seem entitled to the esteem of that eminent
							English moralist who said he liked a good hater.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XXVIII.<lb/> Moot points touching the late Colonel John
						Moredock.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XXIX.<lb/> The boon companions.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XXX.<lb/> Opening with a poetical eulogy of the Press, and
							continuing with talk inspired by the same.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XXXI.<lb/> A metamorphosis more surprising than any in Ovid.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XXXII.<lb/> Showing that the age of magic and magicians is not
							yet over.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XXXIII.<lb/> Which may pass for whatever it may prove to be
							worth.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XXXIV.<lb/> In which the Cosmopolitan tells the story of the
							gentleman-madman.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XXXV.<lb/> In which the Cosmopolitan strikingly evinces the
							artlessness of his nature.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XXXVI.<lb/> In which the Cosmopolitan is accosted by a mystic,
							whereupon ensues pretty much such talk as might be expected.

					</item>

					<pb n="vi"/>

					<item>

CHAPTER XXXVII.<lb/> The mystical master introduces the practical
							disciple.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XXXVIII .<lb/> The disciple unbends, and consents to act a social
							part.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XXXIX.<lb/> The hypothetical friends.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XL.<lb/> In which the story of China Astor is, at second-hand,
							told by one who, while not disapproving the moral, disclaims the spirit
							of the style.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XLI.<lb/> Ending with a rupture of the hypothesis.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XLII.<lb/> Upon the heel of the last scene, the Cosmopolitan
							enters the barber's shop, a benediction on his lips.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XLIII.<lb/> Very charming.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XLIV.<lb/> In which the last three words of the last chapter are
							made the text of the discourse, which will be sure of receiving more or
							less attention from those readers who do not skip it.

					</item>
					<item>

CHAPTER XLV.<lb/> The Cosmopolitan increases in seriousness.

					</item>
				</list>
			</div1>
		</front>

			<div1 type="chapter" n="1" id="d6">
				<pb n="1"/>
				CHAPTER I.<lb/> A MUTE GOES ABOARD A BOAT ON THE MISSISSIPPI.

AT sunrise on a first of April there appeared, suddenly as Manco Capac at the
					lake Titicaca, a man in cream-colors, at the water-side in the city of St.
					Louis.

His cheek was fair, his chin downy, his hair flaxen, his hat a white fur one,
					with a long fleecy nap. He had neither trunk, valise, carpet-bag, nor parcel. No
					porter followed him. He was unaccompanied by friends. From the shrugged
					shoulders, titters, whispers, wonderings of the crowd, it was plain that he was,
					in the extremest sense of the word, a stranger.

In the same moment with his advent, he stepped aboard the favorite steamer
					Fidèle , on the point of starting for New Orleans. Stared at, but
					unsaluted, with the air of one neither courting nor shunning regard, but evenly
					pursuing the path of duty, lead it through solitudes or cities, he held on his
					way along <pb n="2"/> the lower deck until he chanced to come to a placard nigh
					the captain's office, offering a reward for the capture of a mysterious
					impostor, supposed to have recently arrived from the East; quite an original
					genius in his vocation, as would appear, though wherein his originality
					consisted was not clearly given; but what purported to be a careful description
					of his person followed.

As if it had been a theatre-bill , crowds were gathered about the announcement,
					and among them certain chevaliers , whose eyes, it was plain, were on the
					capitals, or, at least, earnestly seeking sight of them from behind intervening
					coats; but as for their fingers, they were enveloped in some myth; though,
					during a chance interval, one of these chevaliers somewhat showed his hand in
					purchasing from another chevalier, ex-officio a peddler of money-belts, one of
					his popular safe-guards, while another peddler, who was still another versatile
					chevalier, hawked, in the thick of the throng, the lives of Measan, the bandit
					of Ohio, Murrel, the pirate of the Mississippi, and the brothers Harpe, the
					Thugs of the Green River country, in Kentucky —creatures, with others
					of the sort, one and all exterminated at the time, and for the most part, like
					the hunted generations of wolves in the same regions, leaving comparatively few
					successors; which would seem cause for unalloyed gratulation, and is such to all
					except those who think that in new countries, where the wolves are killed off,
					the foxes increase.

Pausing at this spot, the stranger so far succeeded <pb n="3"/> in threading his
					way, as at last to plant himself just beside the placard, when, producing a
					small slate and tracing some. words upon it, he held it up before him on a level
					with the placard, so that they who read the one might read the other. The words
					were these:— <q>
						<l>"Charity thinketh no evil." </l>
					</q> As, in gaining his place, some little perseverance, not to say persistence,
					of a mildly inoffensive sort, had been unavoidable, it was not with the best
					relish that the crowd regarded his apparent intrusion; and upon a more attentive
					survey, perceiving no badge of authority about him, but rather something quite
					the contrary—he being of an aspect so singularly innocent; an aspect,
					too, which they took to be somehow inappropriate to the time and place, and
					inclining to the notion that his writing was of much the same sort: in short,
					taking him for some strange kind of simpleton, harmless enough, would he keep to
					himself, but not wholly unobnoxious as an intruder—they made no
					scruple to jostle him aside; while one, less kind than the rest, or more of a
					wag, by an unobserved stroke, dexterously flattened down his fleecy hat upon his
					head. Without readjusting it, the stranger quietly turned, and writing anew upon
					the slate, again held it up:— <q>
						<l>"Charity suffereth long, and is kind."</l>
					</q>

Illy pleased with his pertinacity, as they thought it, the crowd a second time
					thrust him aside, and not without epithets and some buffets, all of which were
						<pb n="4"/> unresented. But, as if at last despairing of so difficult an
					adventure, wherein one, apparently a non-resistant, sought to impose his
					presence upon fighting characters, the stranger now moved slowly away, yet not
					before altering his writing to this:— <q>
						<l>"Charity endureth all "things."</l>
					</q>

Shield-like bearing his slate before him, amid stares and jeers he moved slowly
					up and down, at his turning points again changing his inscription to— <q>
						<l>"Charity believeth all things"</l>
					</q> and then— <q>
						<l>"Charity never faileth."</l>
					</q>

The word charity, as originally traced, remained throughout uneffaced, not unlike
					the left-hand numeral of a printed date, otherwise left for convenience in
					blank.

To some observers, the singularity, if not lunacy, of the stranger was heightened
					by his muteness, and, perhaps also, by the contrast to his proceedings afforded
					in the actions—quite in the wonted and sensible order of
					things—of the barber of the boat, whose quarters, under a
					smoking-saloon, and over against a bar-room, was next door but two to the
					captain's office. As if the long, wide, covered deck, hereabouts built up on
					both sides with shop-like windowed spaces, were some Constantinople arcade or
					bazaar, where more than one trade is plied, this river barber, aproned and
					slippered, but rather crusty-looking for the moment, it may be from being newly
					out of bed, was throwing open his <pb n="5"/> premises for the day, and suitably
					arranging the exterior. With business-like dispatch, having rattled down his
					shutters, and at a palm-tree angle set out in the iron fixture his little
					ornamental pole, and this without overmuch tenderness for the elbows and toes of
					the crowd, he concluded his operations by bidding people stand still more aside,
					when, jumping on a stool, he hung over his door, on the customary nail, a gaudy
					sort of illuminated pasteboard sign, skillfully executed by himself, gilt with
					the likeness of a razor elbowed in readiness to shave, and also, for the public
					benefit, with two words not unfrequently seen ashore gracing other shops besides
					barbers':— <q>
						<l>"NO TRUST."</l>
					</q>

An inscription which, though in a sense not less intrusive than the contrasted
					ones of the stranger, did not, as it seemed, provoke any corresponding derision
					or surprise, much less indignation; and still less, to all appearances, did it
					gain for the inscriber the repute of being a simpleton.

Meanwhile, he with the slate continued moving slowly up and down, not without
					causing some stares to change into jeers, and some jeers into pushes, and some
					pushes into punches; when suddenly, in one of his turns, he was hailed from
					behind by two porters carrying a large trunk; but as the summons, though loud,
					was without effect, they accidentally or otherwise swung their burden against
					him, nearly overthrowing him; when, by a quick start, a peculiar inarticulate
					moan, and a pathetic telegraphing of his fingers, he <pb n="6"/> involuntarily
					betrayed that he was not alone dumb, but also deaf.

Presently, as if not wholly unaffected by his reception thus far, he went
					forward, seating himself in a retired spot on the forecastle, nigh the foot of a
					ladder there leading to a deck above, up and down which ladder some of the
					boatmen, in discharge of their duties, were occasionally going.

From his betaking himself to this humble quarter, it was evident that, as a
					deck-passenger, the stranger, simple though he seemed, was not entirely ignorant
					of his place, though his taking a deck-passage might have been partly for
					convenience; as, from his having no luggage, it was probable that his
					destination was one of the small wayside landings within a few hours' sail. But,
					though he might not have a long way to go, yet he seemed already to have come
					from a very long distance.

Though neither soiled nor slovenly, his cream-colored suit had a tossed look,
					almost linty, as if, traveling night and day from some far country beyond the
					prairies, he had long been without the solace of a bed. His aspect was at once
					gentle and jaded, and, from the moment of seating himself, increasing in tired
					abstraction and dreaminess. Gradually overtaken by slumber, his flaxen head
					drooped, his whole lamb-like figure relaxed, and, half reclining against the
					ladder's foot, lay motionless, as some sugar-snow in March, which, softly
					stealing down over night, with its white placidity startles the brown farmer
					peering out from his threshold at daybreak.

				<pb n="7"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="2" id="d7">
				CHAPTER II.<lb/> SHOWING THAT MANY MEN HAVE MANY MINDS.

"Odd fish!"

"Poor fellow!"

"Who can he be?"

"Casper Hauser." "Bless my soul!"

"Uncommon countenance."

"Green prophet from Utah."

"Humbug!"

"Singular innocence."

"Means something."

"Spirit-rapper." "Moon-calf."

"Piteous."

"Trying to enlist interest."

"Beware of him."

"Fast asleep here, and, doubtless, pick-pockets on board."

"Kind of daylight Endymion." "Escaped convict, worn out with dodging."

"Jacob dreaming at Luz."

Such the epitaphic comments, conflictingly spoken or thought, of a miscellaneous
					company, who, assembled <pb n="8"/> On the overlooking, cross-wise balcony at
					the forward end of the upper deck near by, had not witnessed preceding
					occurrences.

Meantime, like some enchanted man in his grave, happily oblivious of all gossip,
					whether chiseled or chatted, the deaf and dumb stranger still tranquilly slept,
					while now the boat started on her voyage.

The great ship-canal of Ving-King-Ching, in the Flowery Kingdom, seems the
					Mississippi in parts, where, amply flowing between low, vine-tangled banks, flat
					as tow-paths, it bears the huge toppling steamers, bedizened and lacquered
					within like imperial junks.

Pierced along its great white bulk with two tiers of small embrasure-like
					windows, well above the water-line, the Fidèle, though, might at
					distance have been taken by strangers for some whitewashed fort on a floating
					isle.

Merchants on 'change seem the passengers that buzz on her decks, while, from
					quarters unseen, comes a murmur as of bees in the comb. Fine promenades, domed
					saloons, long galleries, sunny balconies, confidential passages, bridal
					chambers, state-rooms plenty as pigeon-holes, and out-of-the-way retreats like
					secret drawers in an escritoire, present like facilities for publicity or
					privacy. Auctioneer or coiner, with equal ease, might somewhere here drive his
					trade.

Though her voyage of twelve hundred miles extends from apple to orange, from
					clime to clime, yet, like any small ferry-boat, to right and left, at every
					landing, <pb n="9"/> the huge Fidèle still receives additional
					passengers in exchange for those that disembark; so that, though always full of
					strangers, she continually, in some degree, adds to, or replaces them with
					strangers still more strange; like Rio Janeiro fountain, fed from the Cocovarde
					mountains, which is ever overflowing with strange waters, but never with the
					same strange particles in every part.

Though hitherto, as has been seen, the man in cream-colors had by no means passed
					unobserved, yet by stealing into retirement, and there going asleep and
					continuing so, he seemed to have courted oblivion, a boon not often withheld
					from so humble an applicant as he. Those staring crowds on the shore were now
					left far behind, seen dimly clustering like swallows on eaves; while the
					passengers' attention was soon drawn away to the rapidly shooting high bluffs
					and shot-towers on the Missouri shore, or the bluff-looking Missourians and
					towering Kentuckians among the throngs on the decks.

By-and-by—two or three random stoppages having been made, and the last
					transient memory of the slumberer vanished, and he himself, not unlikely, waked
					up and landed ere now—the crowd, as is usual, began in all parts to
					break up from a concourse into various clusters or squads, which in some cases
					disintegrated again into quartettes, trios, and couples, or even solitaires;
					involuntarily submitting to that natural law which ordains dissolution equally
					to the mass, as in time to the member. <pb n="10"/>

As among Chaucer's Canterbury pilgrims, or those oriental ones crossing the Red
					Sea towards Mecca in the festival month, there was no lack of variety. Natives
					of all sorts, and foreigners; men of business and men of pleasure; parlor men
					and backwoodsmen; farm-hunters and fame-hunters; heiress-hunters, gold-hunters,
					buffalo-hunters, bee-hunters, happiness-hunters, truth-hunters, and still keener
					hunters after all these hunters. Fine ladies in slippers, and moccasined squaws;
					Northern speculators and Eastern philosophers; English, Irish, German, Scotch,
					Danes; Santa Fé traders in striped blankets, and Broadway bucks in
					cravats of cloth of gold; fine-looking Kentucky boat-men, and Japanese-looking
					Mississippi cotton-planters; Quakers in full drab, and United States soldiers in
					full regimentals; slaves, black, mulatto, quadroon; modish young Spanish
					Creoles, and old-fashioned French Jews; Mormons and Papists; Dives and Lazarus;
					jesters and mourners, teetotalers and convivialists, deacons and blacklegs;
					hard-shell Baptists and clay-eaters; grinning negroes, and Sioux chiefs solemn
					as high-priests. In short, a piebald parliament, an Anacharsis Cloots congress
					of all kinds of that multiform pilgrim species, man.

As pine, beech, birch, ash, hackmatack, hemlock, spruce, bass-wood, maple,
					interweave their foliage in the natural wood, so these varieties of mortals
					blended their varieties of visage and garb. A Tartar-like picturesqueness; a
					sort of pagan abandonment and assurance. Here reigned the dashing and all-fusing
					spirit <pb n="11"/> of the West, whose type is the Mississippi itself, which,
					uniting the streams of the most distant and opposite zones, pours them along,
					helter-skelter, in one cosmopolitan and confident tide.

				<pb n="12"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="3" id="d8">
				CHAPTER III.<lb/> IN WHICH A VARIETY OF CHARACTERS APPEAR.

IN the forward part of the boat, not the least attractive object, for a time, was
					a grotesque Negro cripple, in tow-cloth attire and an old coal-sifter of a
					tamborine in his hand, who, owing to something wrong about his legs, was, in
					effect, cut down to the stature of a New-foundland dog; his knotted black fleece
					and good-natured, honest black face rubbing against the upper part of people's
					thighs as he made shift to shuffle about, making music, such as it was, and
					raising a smile even from the gravest. It was curious to see him, out of his
					very deformity, indigence, and houselessness, so cheerily endured, raising mirth
					in some of that crowd, whose own purses, hearths, hearts, all their possessions,
					sound limbs included, could not make gay.

"What is your name, old boy?" said a purple-faced drover, putting his large
					purple hand on the cripple's bushy wool, as if it were the curled forehead of a
					black steer.

"Der Black Guinea dey calls me, sar."

"And who is your master, Guinea?"

"Oh sar, I am der dog widout massa." <pb n="13"/>

"A free dog, eh? Well, on your account, I'm sorry for that, Guinea. Dogs without
					masters fare hard."

"So day do, sar; so dey do. But you see, sar, dese here legs? What ge'mman want
					to own dese here legs?"

"But where do you live ?"

"All 'long shore, sar; dough now I'se going to see brodder at der landing; but
					chiefly I libs in der city."

"St. Louis, ah ? Where do you sleep there of nights ?"

"On der floor of der good baker's oven, ser."

"In an oven ? whose, pray ? What baker, I should like to know, bakes such black
					bread in his oven, alongside of his nice white rolls, too. Who is that too
					charitable baker, pray ?"

"Dar he be," with a broad grin lifting his tambourine high over his head.

"The sun is the baker, eh ?"

"Yes sar, in der city dat good baker warms der stones for dis ole darkie when he
					sleeps out on der pabements o' nights."

"But that must be in the summer only, old boy. How about winter, when the cold
					Cossacks come clattering and jingling ? How about winter, old boy ?"

"Den dis poor old darkie shakes werry bad, I tell you, sar. Oh sar, oh! don't
					speak ob der winter," he added, with a reminiscent shiver, shuffling off into
					the thickest of the crowd, like a half-frozen black sheep <pb n="14"/> nudging
					itself a cozy berth in the heart of the white flock.

Thus far not very many pennies had been given him, and, used at last to his
					strange looks, the less polite passengers of those in that part of the boat
					began to get their fill of him as a curious object; when suddenly the negro more
					than revived their first interest by an expedient which, whether by chance or
					design, was a singular temptation at once to diversion and charity, though, even
					more than his crippled limbs, it put him on a canine footing. In short, as in
					appearance he seemed a dog, so now, in a merry way, like a dog he began to be
					treated. Still shuffling among the crowd, now and then he would pause, throwing
					back his head and opening his mouth like an elephant for tossed apples at a
					menagerie; when, making a space before him, people would have a bout at a
					strange sort of pitch-penny game, the cripple's mouth being at once target and
					purse, and he hailing each expertly-caught copper with a cracked bravura from
					his tambourine. To be the subject of alms-giving is trying, and to feel in duty
					bound to appear cheerfully grateful under the trial, must be still more so; but
					whatever his secret emotions, he swallowed them, while still retaining each
					copper this side the oesophagus. And nearly always he grinned, and only once or
					twice did he wince, which was when certain coins, tossed by more playful
					almoners, came inconveniently nigh to his teeth, an accident whose unwelcomeness
					was not unedged by the circumstance that the pennies thus thrown proved buttons.
						<pb n="15"/>

While this game of charity was yet at its height, a limping, gimlet-eyed,
					sour-faced person—it may be some discharged custom-house officer, who,
					suddenly stripped of convenient means of support, had concluded to be avenged on
					government and humanity by making himself miserable for life, either by hating
					or suspecting everything and everybody—this shallow unfortunate, after
					sundry sorry observations of the negro, began to croak out something about his
					deformity being a sham, got up for financial purposes, which immediately threw a
					damp upon the frolic benignities of the pitch-penny players.

But that these suspicions came from one who himself on a wooden leg went halt,
					this did not appear to strike anybody present. That cripples, above all men
					should be companionable, or, at least, refrain from picking a fellow-limper to
					pieces, in short, should have a little sympathy in common misfortune, seemed not
					to occur to the company.

Meantime, the negro's countenance, before marked with even more than patient
					good-nature, drooped into a heavy-hearted expression, full of the most painful
					distress. So far abased beneath its proper physical level, that Newfoundland-dog
					face turned in passively hopeless appeal, as if instinct told it that the right
					or the wrong might not have overmuch to do with whatever wayward mood superior
					intelligences might yield to.

But instinct, though knowing, is yet a teacher set below reason, which itself
					says, in the grave words of <pb n="16"/> Lysander in the comedy, after Puck has
					made a sage of him with his spell:— <q>
						<l>"The will of man is by his reason swayed."</l>
					</q> So that, suddenly change as people may, in their dispositions, it is not
					always waywardness, but improved judgment, which, as in Lysander's case, or the
					present, operates with them.

Yes, they began to scrutinize the negro curiously enough; when, emboldened by
					this evidence of the efficacy of his words, the wooden-legged man hobbled up to
					the negro, and, with the air of a beadle, would, to prove his alleged imposture
					on the spot, have stripped him and then driven him away, but was prevented by
					the crowd's clamor, now taking part with the poor fellow, against one who had
					just before turned nearly all minds the other way. So he with the wooden leg was
					forced to retire; when the rest, finding themselves left sole judges in the
					case, could not resist the opportunity of acting the part: not because it is a
					human weakness to take pleasure in sitting in judgment upon one in a box, as
					surely this unfortunate negro now was, but that it strangely sharpens human
					perceptions, when, instead of standing by and having their fellow-feelings
					touched by the sight of an alleged culprit severely handled by some one
					justiciary, a crowd suddenly come to be all justiciaries in the same case
					themselves; as in Arkansas once, a man proved guilty, by law, of murder, but
					whose condemnation was deemed <pb n="17"/> unjust by the people, so that they
					rescued him to try him themselves; whereupon, they, as it turned out, found him
					even guiltier than the court had done, and forthwith proceeded to execution; so
					that the gallows presented the truly warning spectacle of a man hanged by his
					friends.

But not to such extremities, or anything like them, did the present crowd come;
					they, for the time, being content with putting the negro fairly and discreetly
					to the question; among other things, asking him, had he any documentary proof,
					any plain paper about him, attesting that his case was not a spurious one.

"No, no, dis poor ole darkie haint none o' dem waloable papers," he wailed.

"But is there not some one who can speak a good word for you ?" here said a
					person newly arrived from another part of the boat, a young Episcopal clergyman,
					in a long, straight-bodied black coat; small in stature, but manly; with a clear
					face and blue eye; innocence, tenderness, and good sense triumvirate in his air.

"Oh yes, oh yes, ge'mmen," he eagerly answered, as if his memory, before suddenly
					frozen up by cold charity, as suddenly thawed back into fluidity at the first
					kindly word. "Oh yes, oh yes, dar is aboard here a werry nice, good ge'mman wid
					a weed, and a ge'mman in a gray coat and white tie, what knows all about me; and
					a ge'mman wid a big book, too; and a yarb-doctor; and a ge'mman in a yaller
					west; and a ge'mman wid a brass plate; and a ge'mman in a wiolet robe; and a
					ge'mman as is a sodjer; and ever so many good, kind, <pb n="18"/> honest ge'mmen
					more aboard what knows me and will speak for me, God bress 'em; yes, and what
					knows me as well as dis poor old darkie knows hisself, God bress him! Oh, find
					'em, find 'em," he earnestly added, "and let 'em come quick, and show you all,
					ge'mmen, dat dis poor ole darkie is werry well wordy of all you kind ge'mmen's
					kind confidence."

"But how are we to find all these people in this great crowd ?" was the question
					of a bystander, umbrella in hand; a middle-aged person, a country merchant
					apparently, whose natural good-feeling had been made at least cautious by the
					unnatural ill-feeling of the discharged custom-house officer.

"Where are we to find them?" half-rebukefully echoed the young Episcopal
					clergymen. "I will go find one to begin with," he quickly added, and, with kind
					haste suiting the action to the word, away he went.

"Wild goose chase!" croaked he with the wooden leg, now again drawing nigh.
					"Don't believe there's a soul of them aboard. Did ever beggar have such heaps of
					fine friends ? He can walk fast enough when he tries, a good deal faster than I;
					but he can lie yet faster. He's some white operator, betwisted and painted up
					for a decoy. He and his friends are all humbugs."

"Have you no charity, friend ?" here in self-subdued tones, singularly contrasted
					with his unsubdued person, said a Methodist minister, advancing; a tall,
					muscular, martial-looking man, a Tennessean by birth, who in the <pb n="19"/>
					Mexican war had been volunteer chaplain to a volunteer rifle-regiment.

"Charity is one thing, and truth is another," rejoined he with the wooden leg:
					"he's a rascal, I say."

"But why not, friend, put as charitable a construction as one can upon the poor
					fellow?" said the soldier-like Methodist, with increased difficulty maintaining
					a pacific demeanor towards one whose own asperity seemed so little to entitle
					him to it: "he looks honest, don't he ?"

"Looks are one thing, and facts are another," snapped out the other perversely;
					"and as to your construction, what construction can you put upon a rascal, but
					that a rascal he is ?"

"Be not such a Canada thistle," urged the Methodist, with something less of
					patience than before. "Charity, man, charity."

"To where it belongs with your charity! to heaven with it!" again snapped out the
					other, diabolically; "here on earth, true charity dotes, and false charity
					plots. Who betrays a fool with a kiss, the charitable fool has the charity to
					believe is in love with him, and the charitable knave on the stand gives
					charitable testimony for his comrade in the box."

"Surely, friend," returned the noble Methodist, with much ado restraining his
					still waxing indignation—"surely, to say the least, you forget
					yourself. Apply it home," he continued, with exterior calmness tremulous with
					inkept emotion. "Suppose, now, I should exercise no charity in judging your own
					character by <pb n="20"/> the words which have fallen from you; what sort of
					vile, pitiless man do you think I would take you for?"

"No doubt"—with a grin—"some such pitiless man as has lost
					his piety in much the same way that the jockey loses his honesty."

"And how is that, friend?" still conscientiously holding back the old Adam in
					him, as if it were a mastiff he had by the neck.

"Never you mind how it is"—with a sneer; "but all horses aint virtuous,
					no more than all men kind; and come close to, and much dealt with, some things
					are catching. When you find me a virtuous jockey, I will find you a benevolent
					wise man."

"Some insinuation there."

"More fool you that are puzzled by it."

"Reprobate!" cried the other, his indignation now at last almost boiling over;
					"godless reprobate! if charity did not restrain me, I could call you by names
					you deserve."

"Could you, indeed ?" with an insolent sneer.

"Yea, and teach you charity on the spot," cried the goaded Methodist, suddenly
					catching this exasperating opponent by his shabby coat-collar, and shaking him
					till his timber-toe clattered on the deck like a nine-pin. "You took me for a
					non-combatant did you?—thought, seedy coward that you are, that you
					could abuse a Christian with impunity. You find your mistake"—with
					another hearty shake.

"Well said and better done, church militant!" cried a voice. <pb n="21"/>

"The white cravat against the world!" cried another.

"Bravo, bravo !" chorused many voices, with like enthusiasm taking sides with the
					resolute champion.

"You fools!" cried he with the wooden leg, writhing himself loose and inflamedly
					turning upon the throng; "you flock of fools, under this captain of fools, in
					this ship of fools!" With which exclamations, followed by idle threats against
					his admonisher, this condign victim to justice hobbled away, as disdaining to
					hold further argument with such a rabble. But his scorn was more than repaid by
					the hisses that chased him, in which the brave Methodist, satisfied with the
					rebuke already administered, was, to omit still better reasons, too magnanimous
					to join. All he said was, pointing towards the departing recusant, "There he
					shambles off on his one lone leg, emblematic of his one-sided view of humanity."

"But trust your painted decoy," retorted the other from a distance, pointing back
					to the black cripple, "and I have my revenge."

"But we aint agoing to trust him!" shouted back a voice.

"So much the better," he jeered back. "Look you," he added, coming to a dead halt
					where he was; "look you, I have been called a Canada thistle. Very good. And a
					seedy one: still better. And the seedy Canada thistle has been pretty well
					shaken among ye; best of all. Dare say some seed has been shaken out; <pb n="22"
					/> and won't it spring though? And when it does spring, do you cut down the
					young thistles, and won't they spring the more? It's encouraging and coaxing
					'em. Now, when with my thistles your farms shall be well stocked, why
					then—you may abandon 'em!"

"What does all that mean, now ?" asked the country merchant, staring.

"Nothing; the foiled wolf's parting howl," said the Methodist. "Spleen, much
					spleen, which is the rickety child of his evil heart of unbelief: it has made
					him mad. I suspect him for one naturally reprobate. Oh, friends," raising his
					arms as in the pulpit, "oh beloved, how are we admonished by the melancholy
					spectacle of this raver. Let us profit by the lesson; and is it not this: that
					if, next to mistrusting Providence, there be aught that man should pray against,
					it is against mistrusting his fellow-man. I have been in mad-houses full of
					tragic mopers, and seen there the end of suspicion: the cynic, in the moody
					madness muttering in the corner; for years a barren fixture there; head lopped
					over, gnawing his own lip, vulture of himself; while, by fits and starts, from
					the corner opposite came the grimace of the idiot at him."

"What an example," whispered one.

"Might deter Timon," was the response.

"Oh, oh, good ge'mmen, have you no confidence in dis poor ole darkie?" now wailed
					the returning negro, who, during the late scene, had stumped apart in alarm.

"Confidence in you ?" echoed he who had whispered, <pb n="23"/> with abruptly
					changed air turning short round; "that remains to be seen."

"I tell you what it is, Ebony," in similarly changed tones said he who had
					responded to the whisperer, "yonder churl," pointing toward the wooden leg in
					the distance, "is, no doubt, a churlish fellow enough, and I would not wish to
					be like him; but that is no reason why you may not be some sort of black Jeremy
					Diddler."

"No confidence in dis poor ole darkie, den ?"

"Before giving you our confidence," said a third, "we will wait the report of the
					kind gentleman who, went in search of one of your friends who was to speak for
					you."

"Very likely, in that case," said a fourth, "we shall wait here till Christmas.
					Shouldn't wonder, did we not see that kind gentleman again. After seeking awhile
					in vain, he will conclude he has been made a fool of, and so not return to us
					for pure shame. Fact is, I begin to feel a little qualmish about the darkie
					myself. Something queer about this darkie, depend upon it."

Once more the negro wailed, and turning in despair from the last speaker,
					imploringly caught the Methodist by the skirt of his coat. But a change had come
					over that before impassioned intercessor. With an irresolute and troubled air,
					he mutely eyed the suppliant; against whom, somehow, by what seemed instinctive
					influences, the distrusts first set on foot were now generally reviving, and, if
					anything, with added severity.

"No confidence in dig poor ole darkie," yet again <pb n="24"/> wailed the negro,
					letting go the coat-skirts and turning appealingly all round him.

"Yes, my poor fellow, I have confidence in you," now exclaimed the country
					merchant before named, whom the negro's appeal, coming so piteously on the heel
					of pitilessness, seemed at last humanely to have decided in his favor. "And
					here, here is some proof of my trust," with which, tucking his umbrella under
					his arm, and diving down his hand into his pocket, he fished forth a purse, and,
					accidentally, along with it, his business card, which, unobserved, dropped to
					the deck. "Here, here, my poor fellow," he continued, extending a half dollar.

Not more grateful for the coin than the kindness, the cripple's face glowed like
					a polished copper saucepan, and shuffling a pace nigher, with one upstretched
					hand he received the alms, while, as unconsciously, his one advanced leather
					stump covered the card.

Done in despite of the general sentiment, the good deed of the merchant was not,
					perhaps, without its unwelcome return from the crowd, since that good deed
					seemed somehow to convey to them a sort of reproach. Still again, and more
					pertinaciously than ever, the cry arose against the negro, and still again he
					wailed forth his lament and appeal; among other things, repeating that the
					friends, of whom already he had partially run off the list, would freely speak
					for him, would anybody go find them.

"Why don't you go find 'em yourself ?" demanded a gruff boatman. <pb n="25"/>

"How can I go find 'em myself ? Dis poor ole game-legged darkie's friends must
					come to him. Oh, whar, whar is dat good friend of dis darkie's, dat good man wid
					de weed ?"

At this point, a steward ringing a bell came along, summoning all persons who had
					not got their tickets to step to the captain's office; an announcement which
					speedily thinned the throng about the black cripple, who himself soon forlornly
					stumped out of sight, probably on much the same errand as the rest.

				<pb n="26"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="4" id="d9">
				CHAPTER IV. <lb/> RENEWAL OF OLD ACQUAINTANCE

"How do you do, Mr. Roberts ?"

"Eh ?"

"Don't you know me?"

"No, certainly."

The crowd about the captain's office, having in good time melted away, the above
					encounter took place in one of the side balconies astern, between a man in
					mourning clean and respectable, but none of the glossiest, a long weed on his
					hat, and the country-merchant before-mentioned, whom, with the familiarity of an
					old acquaintance, the former had accosted.

"Is it possible, my dear sir," resumed he with the weed," that you do not recall
					my countenance? why yours I recall distinctly as if but half an hour, instead of
					half an age, had passed since I saw you. Don't you recall me, now ? Look
					harder."

"In my conscience—truly—I protest," honestly bewildered,
					"bless my soul, sir, I don't know you—really, really. But stay, stay,"
					he hurriedly added, but without gratification, glancing up at the crepe on the
					stranger's hat, "stay—yes—seems to me, though I have <pb
						n="27"/> not the pleasure of personally knowing you, yet I am pretty sure I
					have at least heard of you, and recently too, quite recently. A poor negro
					aboard here referred to you, among others, for a character, I think."

"Oh, the cripple. Poor fellow I know him well. They found me. I have said all I
					could for him. I think I abated their distrust. Would I could have been of more
					substantial service. And apropos, sir," he added, "now that it strikes me, allow
					me to ask, whether the circumstance of one man, however humble, referring for a
					character to another man, however afflicted, does not argue more or less of
					moral worth in the latter ?"

The good merchant looked puzzled.

"Still you don't recall my countenance?"

"Still does truth compel me to say that I cannot, despite my best efforts," was
					the reluctantly-candid reply.

"Can I be so changed ? Look at me. Or is it I who am mistaken?—Are you
					not, sir, Henry Roberts, forwarding merchant, of Wheeling, Pennsylvania ? Pray,
					now, if you use the advertisement of business cards, and happen to have one with
					you, just look at it, and see whether you are not the man I take you for."

"Why," a bit chafed, perhaps, "I hope I know myself."

"And yet self-knowledge is thought by some not so easy. Who knows, my dear sir,
					but for a time you may have taken yourself for somebody else? Stranger things
					have happened."

The good merchant stared.

"To come to particulars, my dear sir, I met you, now <pb n="28"/> some six years
					back, at Brade Brothers & Co.'s office, I think. I was traveling for a
					Philadelphia house. The senior Brade introduced us, you remember; some
					business-chat followed, then you forced me home with you to a family tea, and a
					family time we had. Have you forgotten about the urn, and what I said about
					Werter's Charlotte, and the bread and butter, and that capital story you told of
					the large loaf. A hundred times since, I have laughed over it. At least you must
					recall my name—Ringman, John Ringman."

"Large loaf? Invited you to tea? Ringman? Ringman ? Ring ? Ring ?"

"Ah sir," sadly smiling, don't ring the changes that way. I see you have a
					faithless memory, Mr. Roberts. But trust in the faithfulness of mine."

"Well, to tell the truth, in some things my memory aint of the very best," was
					the honest rejoinder. "But still," he perplexedly added, "still I—"

"Oh sir, suffice it that it is as I say. Doubt not that we are all well
					acquainted."

"But—but I don't like this going dead against my own memory;
					I—"

"But didn't you admit, my dear sir, that in some things this memory of yours is a
					little faithless ? Now, those who have faithless memories, should they not have
					some little confidence in the less faithless memories of others ?"

"But, of this friendly chat and tea, I have not the slightest—"

"I see, I see; quite erased from the tablet. Pray, <pb n="29"/> sir," with a
					sudden illumination, " about six years back, did it happen to you to receive any
					injury on the head ? Surprising effects have arisen from such a cause. Not alone
					unconsciousness as to events for a greater or less time immediately subsequent
					to the injury, but likewise—strange to add—oblivion, entire
					and incurable, as to events embracing a longer or shorter period immediately
					preceding it; that is, when the mind at the time was perfectly sensible of them,
					and fully competent also to register them in the memory, and did in fact so do;
					but all in vain, for all was afterwards bruised out by the injury."

After the first start, the merchant listened with what appeared more than
					ordinary interest. The other proceeded:

"In my boyhood I was kicked by a horse, and lay insensible for a long time. Upon
					recovering, what a blank! No faintest trace in regard to how I had come near the
					horse, or what horse it was, or where it was, or that it was a horse at all that
					had brought me to that pass. For the knowledge of those particulars I am
					indebted solely to my friends, in whose statements, I need not say, I place
					implicit reliance, since particulars of some sort there must have been, and why
					should they deceive me? You see, sir, the mind is ductile, very much so: but
					images, ductilely received into it, need a certain time to harden and bake in
					their impressions, otherwise such a casualty as I speak of will in an instant
					obliterate them, as though they had never been. We are but clay, sir, potter's
					clay, as the good book says, <pb n="30"/> clay, feeble, and too-yielding clay.
					But I will not philosophize. Tell me, was it your misfortune to receive any
					concussion upon the brain about the period I speak of ? If so, I will with
					pleasure supply the void in your memory by more minutely rehearsing the
					circumstances of our acquaintance."

The growing interest betrayed by the merchant had not relaxed as the other
					proceeded. After some hesitation, indeed, something more than hesitation, he
					confessed that, though he had never received any injury of the sort named, yet,
					about the time in question, he had in fact been taken with a brain fever, losing
					his mind completely for a considerable interval. He was continuing, when the
					stranger with much animation exclaimed:

"There now, you see, I was not wholly mistaken. That brain fever accounts for it
					all."

"Nay; but—"

"Pardon me, Mr. Roberts," respectfully interrupting him, "but time is short, and
					I have something private and particular to say to you. Allow me."

Mr. Roberts, good man, could but acquiesce, and the two having silently walked to
					a less public spot, the manner of the man with the weed suddenly assumed a
					seriousness almost painful. What might be called a writhing expression stole
					over him. He seemed struggling with some disastrous necessity inkept. He made
					one or two attempts to speak, but words seemed to choke him. His companion stood
					in humane surprise, wondering what was to come. At length, with an effort <pb
						n="31"/> mastering his feelings, in a tolerably composed tone he spoke:

"If I remember, you are a mason, Mr. Roberts?"

"Yes, yes."

Averting himself a moment, as to recover from a return of agitation, the stranger
					grasped the other's hand; "and would you not loan a brother a shilling if he
					needed it ?"

The merchant started, apparently, almost as if to retreat.

"Ah, Mr. Roberts, I trues you are not one of those business men, who make a
					business of never having to do with unfortunates. For God's sake don't leave me.
					I have something on my heart—on my heart. Under deplorable
					circumstances thrown among strangers, utter strangers. I want a friend in whom I
					may confide. Yours, Mr. Roberts, is almost the first known face I've seen for
					many weeks."

It was so sudden an outburst; the interview offered such a contrast to the scene
					around, that the merchant, though not used to be very indiscreet, yet, being not
					entirely inhumane, remained not entirely unmoved.

The other, still tremulous, resumed:

"I need not say, sir, how it cuts me to the soul, to follow up a social
					salutation with such words as have just been mine. I know that I jeopardize your
					good opinion. But I can't help it: necessity knows no law, and heeds no risk.
					Sir, we are masons, one more step aside; I will tell you my story."

In a low, half-suppressed tone, he began it. Judging <pb n="32"/> from his
					auditor's expression, it seemed to be a tale of singular interest, involving
					calamities against which no integrity, no forethought, no energy, no genius, no
					piety, could guard.

At every disclosure, the hearer's commiseration increased. No sentimental pity.
					As the story went on, he drew from his wallet a bank note, but after a while, at
					some still more unhappy revelation, changed it for another, probably of a
					somewhat larger amount; which, when the story was concluded, with an air
					studiously disclamatory of alms-giving, he put into the stranger's hands; who,
					on his side, with an air studiously disclamatory of alms-taking, put it into his
					pocket.

Assistance being received, the stranger's manner assumed a kind and degree of
					decorum which, under the circumstances, seemed almost coldness. After some
					words, not over ardent, and yet not exactly inappropriate, he took leave, making
					a bow which had one knows not what of a certain chastened independence about it;
					as if misery, however burdensome, could not break down self-respect, nor
					gratitude, however deep, humiliate a gentleman.

He was hardly yet out of sight, when he paused as if thinking; then with hastened
					steps returning to the merchant, "I am just reminded that the president, who is
					also transfer-agent, of the Black Rapids Coal Company, happens to be on board
					here, and, having been subpoenaed as witness in a stock case on the docket in
					Kentucky, has his transfer-book with him. A month since, in a panic contrived by
					artful alarmists, some credulous <pb n="33"/> stock-holders sold out; but, to
					frustrate the aim of the alarmists, the Company, previously advised of their
					scheme, so managed it as to get into its own hands those sacrificed shares,
					resolved that, since a spurious panic must be, the panic-makers should be no
					gainers by it. The Company, I hear, is now ready, but not anxious, to redispose
					of those shares; and having obtained them at their depressed value, will now
					sell them at par, though, prior to the panic, they were held at a handsome
					figure above. That the readiness of the Company to do this is not generally
					known, is shown by the fact that the stock still stands on the transfer-book in
					the Company's name, offering to one in funds a rare chance for investment. For,
					the panic subsiding more and more every day, it will daily be seen how it
					originated; confidence will be more than restored; there will be a reaction;
					from the stock's descent its rise will be higher than from no fall, the holders
					trusting themselves to fear no second fate."

Having listened at first with curiosity, at last with interest, the merchant
					replied to the effect, that some time since, through friends concerned with it,
					he had heard of the company, and heard well of it, but was ignorant that there
					had latterly been fluctuations. He added that he was no speculator; that
					hitherto he had avoided having to do with stocks of any sort, but in the present
					case he really felt something like being tempted. "Pray," in conclusion, "do you
					think that upon a pinch anything could be transacted on board here with the
					transfer-agent? Are you acquainted with him?" <pb n="34"/>

"Not personally. I but happened to hear that he was a passenger. For the rest,
					though it might be somewhat informal, the gentleman might not object to doing a
					little business on board. Along the Mississippi, you know, business is not so
					ceremonious as at the East."

"True," returned the merchant, and looked down a moment in thought, then, raising
					his head quickly, said, in a tone not so benign as his wonted one, "This would
					seem a rare chance, indeed; why, upon first hearing it, did you not snatch at it
					? I mean for yourself !"

"I ?—would it had been possible !"

Not without some emotion was this said, and not without some embarrassment was
					the reply. "Ah, yes, I had forgotten."

Upon this, the stranger regarded him with mild gravity, not a little
					disconcerting; the more so, as there was in it what seemed the aspect not alone
					of the superior, but, as it were, the rebuker; which sort of bearing, in a
					beneficiary towards his benefactor, looked strangely enough; none the less,
					that, somehow, it sat not altogether unbecomingly upon the beneficiary, being
					free from anything like the appearance of assumption, and mixed with a kind of
					painful conscientiousness, as though nothing but a proper sense of what he owed
					to himself swayed him. At length he spoke:

"To reproach a penniless man with remissness in not availing himself of an
					opportunity for pecuniary investment—but, no, no; it was
					forgetfulness; and this, charity will impute to some lingering effect of that
						<pb n="35"/> unfortunate brain-fever, which, as to occurrences dating yet
					further back, disturbed Mr. Roberts's memory still more seriously."

"As to that," said the merchant, rallying, "I am not—"

"Pardon me, but you must admit, that just now, an unpleasant distrust, however
					vague, was yours. Ah, shallow as it is, yet, how subtle a thing is suspicion,
					which at times can invade the humanest of hearts and wisest of heads. But,
					enough. My object, sir, in calling your attention to this stock, is by way of
					acknowledgment of your goodness. I but seek to be grateful; if my information
					leads to nothing, you must remember the motive."

He bowed, and finally retired, leaving Mr. Roberts not wholly without
					self-reproach, for having momentarily indulged injurious thoughts against one
					who, it was evident, was possessed of a self-respect which forbade his indulging
					them himself.

				<pb n="36"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="5" id="d10">
				CHAPTER V.<lb/> THE MAN WITH THE WEED MAKES IT AN EVEN QUESTION WHETHER HE BE
					A GREAT SAGE OR GREAT SIMPLETON.

"WELL, there is sorrow in the world, but goodness too; and goodness that is not
					greenness, either, no more than sorrow is. Dear good man. Poor beating heart!"

It was the man with the weed, not very long after quitting the merchant,
					murmuring to himself with his hand to his side like one with the heart-disease.

Meditation over kindness received seemed to have softened him something, too, it
					may be, beyond what might, perhaps, have been looked for from one whose unwonted
					self-respect in the hour of need, and in the act of being aided, might have
					appeared to some not wholly unlike pride out of place; and pride, in any place,
					is seldom very feeling. But the truth, perhaps, is, that those who are least
					touched with that vice, besides being not unsusceptible to goodness, are
					sometimes the ones whom a ruling sense of propriety makes appear cold, if not
					thankless, under a favor. For, at such a time, to be full of warm, earnest
					words, and heart-felt protestations, is to create a scene; and well-bred people
					dislike few things more than that; which would <pb n="37"/> seem to look as if
					the world did not relish earnestness; but, not so; because the world, being
					earnest itself, likes an earnest scene, and an earnest man, very well, but only
					in their place—the stage. See what sad work they make of it, who,
					ignorant of this, flame out in Irish enthusiasm and with Irish sincerity, to a
					benefactor, who, if a man of sense and respectability, as well as kindliness,
					can but be more or less annoyed by it; and, if of a nervously fastidious nature,
					as some are, may be led to think almost as much less favorably of the
					beneficiary paining him by his gratitude, as if he had been guilty of its
					contrary, instead only of an indiscretion. But, beneficiaries who know better,
					though they may feel as much, if not more, neither inflict such pain, nor are
					inclined to run any risk of so doing. And these, being wise, are the majority.
					By which one sees how inconsiderate those persons are, who, from the absence of
					its officious manifestations in the world, complain that there is not much
					gratitude extant; when the truth is, that there is as much of it as there is of
					modesty; but, both being for the most part votarists of the shade, for the most
					part keep out of sight.

What started this was, to account, if necessary, for the changed air of the man
					with the weed, who, throwing off in private the cold garb of decorum, and so
					giving warmly loose to his genuine heart, seemed almost transformed into another
					being. This subdued air of softness, too, was toned with melancholy, melancholy
					unreserved; a thing which, however at variance with propriety, still the more
					attested his earnestness; for <pb n="38"/> one knows not how it is, but it
					sometimes happens that, where earnestness is, there, also, is melancholy. At the
					time, he was leaning over the rail at the boat's side, in his pensiveness,
					unmindful of another pensive figure near—a young gentleman with a
					swan-neck, wearing a lady-like open shirt collar, thrown back, and tied with a
					black ribbon. From a square, tableted broach, curiously engraved with Greek
					characters, he seemed a collegian—not improbably, a
					sophomore—on his travels; possibly, his first. A small book bound in
					Roman vellum was in his hand.

Overhearing his murmuring neighbor, the youth regarded him with some surprise,
					not to say interest. But, singularly for a collegian, being apparently of a
					retiring nature, he did not speak; when the other still more increased his
					diffidence by changing from soliloquy to colloquy, in a manner strangely mixed
					of familiarity and pathos.

"Ah, who is this ? You did not hear me, my young friend, did you ? Why, you, too,
					look sad. My melancholy is not catching!"

"Sir, sir," stammered the other.

"Pray, now," with a sort of sociable sorrowfulness, slowly sliding along the
					rail, "Pray, now, my young friend, what volume have you there ? Give me leave,"
					gently drawing it from him. "Tacitus!" Then opening it at random, read: "In
					general a black and shameful period lies before me." "Dear young sir," touching
					his arm alarmedly, "don't read this book. It is poison, moral poison. Even were
					there truth in Tacitus, <pb n="39"/> such truth would have the operation of
					falsity, and so still be poison, moral poison. Too well I know this Tacitus. In
					my college-days he came near souring me into cynicism. Yes, I began to turn down
					my collar, and go about with a disdainfully joyless expression."

"Sir, sir, I—I—"

"Trust me. Now, young friend, perhaps you think that Tacitus, like me, is only
					melancholy; but he's more—he's ugly. A vast difference, young sir,
					between the melancholy view and the ugly. The one may show the world still
					beautiful, not so the other. The one may be compatible with benevolence, the
					other not. The one may deepen insight, the other shallows it. Drop Tacitus.
					Phrenologically, my young friend, you would seem to have a well-developed head,
					and large; but cribbed within the ugly view, the Tacitus view, your large brain,
					like your large ox in the contracted field, will but starve the more. And don't
					dream, as some of you students may, that, by taking this same ugly view, the
					deeper meanings of the deeper books will so alone become revealed to you. Drop
					Tacitus. His subtlety is falsity. To him, in his double-refined anatomy of human
					nature, is well applied the Scripture saying—'There is a subtle man,
					and the same is deceived.' Drop Tacitus. Come, now, let me throw the book
					overboard."

"Sir, I—I—"

"Not a word; I know just what is in your mind, and that is just what I am
					speaking to. Yes, learn from me that, though the sorrows of the world are great,
					its <pb n="40"/> wickedness—that is, its ugliness—is small.
					Much cause to pity man, little to distrust him. I myself have known adversity,
					and know it still. But for that, do I turn cynic? No, no: it is small beer that
					sours. To my fellow-creatures I owe alleviations. So, whatever I may have
					undergone, it but deepens my confidence in my kind. Now, then" (winningly),
					"this book—will you let me drown it for you ?"

"Really, sir—I—"

"I see, I see. But of course you read Tacitus in order to aid you in
					understanding human nature—as if truth was ever got at by libel. My
					young friend, if to know human nature is your object, drop Tacitus and go north
					to the cemeteries of Auburn and Greenwood." "Upon my word,
					I—I—"

"Nay, I foresee all that. But you carry Tacitus, that shallow Tacitus. What do I
					carry ? See"—producing a
					pocket-volume—"Akenside—his 'Pleasures of Imagination.' One
					of these days you will know it. Whatever our lot, we should read serene and
					cheery books, fitted to inspire love and trust. But Tacitus! I have long been of
					opinion that these classics are the bane of colleges; for—not to hint
					of the immorality of Ovid, Horace, Anacreon, and the rest, and the dangerous
					theology of Eschylus and others—where will one find views so injurious
					to human nature as in Thucydides, Juvenal, Lucian, but more particularly Tacitus
					? When I consider that, ever since the revival of learning, these classics have
					been the favorites of successive generations of students and studious men, I
					tremble to think of that mass <pb n="41"/> of unsuspected heresy on every vital
					topic which for centuries must have simmered unsurmised in the heart of
					Christendom. But Tacitus—he is the most extraordinary example of a
					heretic; not one iota of confidence in his kind. What a mockery that such an one
					should be reputed wise, and Thucydides be esteemed the statesman's manual! But
					Tacitus—I hate Tacitus; not, though, I trust, with the hate that sins,
					but a righteous hate. Without confidence himself, Tacitus destroys it in all his
					readers. Destroys confidence, paternal confidence, of which God knows that there
					is in this world none to spare. For, comparatively inexperienced as you are, my
					dear young friend, did you never observe how little, very little, confidence,
					there is ? I mean between man and man—more particularly between
					stranger and stranger. In a sad world it is the saddest fact. Confidence! I have
					sometimes almost thought that confidence is fled; that confidence is the New
					Astrea— emigrated—vanished—gone." Then softly
					sliding nearer, with the softest air, quivering down and looking up, "could you
					now, my dear young sir, under such circumstances, by way of experiment, simply
					have confidence in me ?"

From the outset, the sophomore, as has been seen, had struggled with an
					ever-increasing embarrassment, arising, perhaps, from such strange remarks
					coming from a stranger—such persistent and prolonged remarks, too. In
					vain had he more than once sought to break the spell by venturing a deprecatory
					or leave-taking word. In vain. Somehow, the stranger fascinated him. Little <pb
						n="42"/> wonder, then, that, when the appeal came, he could hardly speak,
					but, as before intimated, being apparently of a retiring nature, abruptly
					retired from the spot, leaving the chagrined stranger to wander away in the
					opposite direction.

				<pb n="43"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="6" id="d11">
				CHAPTER VI.<lb/> AT THE OUTSET OF WHICH CERTAIN PASSENGERS PROVE DEAF TO THE
					CALL OF CHARITY.

—"You—pish ! Why will the captain suffer these begging
					fellows on board ?"

These pettish words were breathed by a well-to-do gentleman in a ruby-colored
					velvet vest, and with a ruby-colored cheek, a ruby-headed cane in his hand, to a
					man in a gray coat and white tie, who, shortly after the interview last
					described, had accosted him for contributions to a Widow and Orphan Asylum
					recently founded among the Seminoles. Upon a cursory view, this last person
					might have seemed, like the man with the weed, one of the less unrefined
					children of misfortune; but, on a closer observation, his countenance revealed
					little of sorrow, though much of sanctity.

With added words of touchy disgust, the well-to-do gentleman hurried away. But,
					though repulsed, and rudely, the man in gray did not reproach, for a time
					patiently remaining in the chilly loneliness to which he had been left, his
					countenance, however, not without token of latent though chastened reliance. <pb
						n="44"/>

At length an old gentleman, somewhat bulky, drew nigh, and from him also a
					contribution was sought.

"Look, you," coming to a dead halt, and scowling upon him. "Look, you," swelling
					his bulk out before him like a swaying balloon, "look, you, you on others'
					behalf ask for money; you, a fellow with a face as long as my arm. Hark ye, now:
					there is such a thing as gravity, and in condemned felons it may be genuine; but
					of long faces there are three sorts: that of grief's drudge, that of the
					lantern-jawed man, and that of the impostor. You know best which yours is."

"Heaven give you more charity, sir."

"And you less hypocrisy, sir."

With which words, the hard-hearted old gentleman marched off.

While the other still stood forlorn, the young clergyman, before introduced,
					passing that way, catching a chance sight of him, seemed suddenly struck by some
					recollection; and, after a moment's pause, hurried up with: "Your pardon, but
					shortly since I was all over looking for you."

"For me ?" as marveling that one of so little account should be sought for.

"Yes, for you; do you know anything about the negro, apparently a cripple, aboard
					here? Is he, or is he not, what he seems to be ?"

"Ah, poor Guinea! have you, too, been distrusted ? you, upon whom nature has
					placarded the evidence of your claims ?"

"Then you do really know him, and he is quite <pb n="45"/> worthy ? It relieves
					me to hear it—much relieves me. Come, let us go find him, and see what
					can be done."

"Another instance that confidence may come too late. I am sorry to say that at
					the last landing I myself—just happening to catch sight of him on the
					gang-way-plank—assisted the cripple ashore. No time to talk, only to
					help. He may not have told you, but he has a brother in that vicinity."

"Really, I regret his going without my seeing him again; regret it, more,
					perhaps, than you can readily think. You see, shortly after leaving St. Louis,
					he was on the forecastle, and there, with many others, I saw him, and put trust
					in him; so much so, that, to convince those who did not, I, at his entreaty,
					went in search of you, you being one of several individuals he mentioned, and
					whose personal appearance he more or less described, individuals who he said
					would willingly speak for him. But, after diligent search, not finding you, and
					catching no glimpse of any of the others he had enumerated, doubts were at last
					suggested; but doubts indirectly originating, as I can but think, from prior
					distrust unfeelingly proclaimed by another. Still, certain it is, I began to
					suspect."

"Ha, ha, ha !"

A sort of laugh more like a groan than a laugh; and yet, somehow, it seemed
					intended for a laugh. Both turned, and the young clergyman started at seeing the
					wooden-legged man close behind him, morosely grave as a criminal judge with a
					mustard-plaster on his back. In the present case the mustard-plaster <pb n="46"
					/> might have been the memory of certain recent biting rebuffs and
					mortifications.

"Wouldn't think it was I who laughed, would you ?"

"But who was it you laughed at? or rather, tried to laugh at ?" demanded the
					young clergyman, flushing, "me ?"

"Neither you nor any one within a thousand miles of you. But perhaps you don't
					believe it."

"If he were of a suspicious temper, he might not," interposed the man in gray
					calmly, "it is one of the imbecilities of the suspicious person to fancy that
					every stranger, however absent-minded, he sees so much as smiling or gesturing
					to himself in any odd sort of way, is secretly making him his butt. In some
					moods, the movements of an entire street, as the suspicious man walks down it,
					will seem an express pantomimic jeer at him. In short, the suspicious man kicks
					himself with his own foot."

"Whoever can do that, ten to one he saves other folks' sole-leather," said the
					wooden-legged man with a crusty attempt at humor. But with augmented grin and
					squirm, turning directly upon the young clergyman, "you still think it was you I
					was laughing at, just now. To prove your mistake, I will tell you what I was
					laughing at; a story I happened to call to mind just then."

Whereupon, in his porcupine way, and with sarcastic details, unpleasant to
					repeat, he related a story, which might, perhaps, in a good-natured version, be
					rendered as follows: <pb n="47"/>

A certain Frenchman of New Orleans, an old man, less slender in purse than limb,
					happening to attend the theatre one evening, was so charmed with the character
					of a faithful wife, as there represented to the life, that nothing would do but
					he must marry upon it. So, marry he did, a beautiful girl from Tennessee, who
					had first attracted his attention by her liberal mould, and was subsequently
					recommended to him through her kin, for her equally liberal education and
					disposition. Though large, the praise proved not too much. For, ere long, rumor
					more than corroborated it, by whispering that the lady was liberal to a fault.
					But though various circumstances, which by most Benedicts would have been deemed
					all but conclusive, were duly recited to the old Frenchman by his friends, yet
					such was his confidence that not a syllable would he credit, till, chancing one
					night to return unexpectedly from a journey, upon entering his apartment, a
					stranger burst from the alcove: "Begar!" cried he, "now I begin to suspec."

His story told, the wooden-legged man threw back his head, and gave vent to a
					long, gasping, rasping sort of taunting cry, intolerable as that of a
					high-pressure engine jeering off steam; and that done, with apparent
					satisfaction hobbled away. "Who is that scoffer," said the man in gray, not
					without warmth. "Who is he, who even were truth on his tongue, his way of
					speaking it would make truth almost offensive as falsehood. Who is he ?"

"He who I mentioned to you as having boasted his suspicion of the negro," replied
					the young clergyman, <pb n="48"/> recovering from disturbance, "in short, the
					person to whom I ascribe the origin of my own distrust; he maintained that
					Guinea was some white scoundrel, betwisted and painted up for a decoy. Yes,
					these were his very words, I think."

"Impossible! he could not be so wrong-headed. Pray, will you call him back, and
					let me ask him if he were really in earnest ?"

The other complied; and, at length, after no few surly objections, prevailed upon
					the one-legged individual to return for a moment. Upon which, the man in gray
					thus addressed him: "This reverend gentleman tells me, sir, that a certain
					cripple, a poor negro, is by you considered an ingenious impostor. Now, I am not
					unaware that there are some persons in this world, who, unable to give better
					proof of being wise, take a strange delight in showing what they think they have
					sagaciously read in mankind by uncharitable suspicions of them. I hope you are
					not one of these. In short, would you tell me now, whether you were not merely
					joking in the notion you threw out about the negro. Would you be so kind ?"

"No, I won't be so kind, I'll be so cruel."

"As you please about that."

"Well, he's just what I said he was."

"A white masquerading as a black?"

"Exactly."

The man in gray glanced at the young clergyman a moment, then quietly whispered
					to him, "I thought you represented your friend here as a very distrustful sort
					of <pb n="49"/> person, but he appears endued with a singular credulity.
					—Tell me, sir, do you really think that a white could look the negro
					so ? For one, I should call it pretty good acting."

"Not much better than any other man acts."

"How ? Does all the world act ? Am I, for instance, an actor ? Is my reverend
					friend here, too, a performer ?"

"Yes, don't you both perform acts ? To do, is to act; so all doers are actors."

"You trifle.—I ask again, if a white, how could he look the negro so ?"

"Never saw the negro-minstrels, I suppose ?"

"Yes, but they are apt to overdo the ebony; exemplifying the old saying, not more
					just than charitable, that 'the devil is never so black as he is painted.' But
					his limbs, if not a cripple, how could he twist his limbs so ?"

"How do other hypocritical beggars twist theirs ? Easy enough to see how they are
					hoisted up."

"The sham is evident, then ?"

"To the discerning eye," with a horrible screw of his gimlet one.

"Well, where is Guinea?" said the man in gray; "where is he ? Let us at once find
					him, and refute beyond cavil this injurious hypothesis."

"Do so," cried the one-eyed man, "I'm just in the humor now for having him found,
					and leaving the streaks of these fingers on his paint, as the lion leaves the
					streaks of his nails on a Caffre. They wouldn't let me touch him before. Yes,
					find him, I'll make wool fly, and him after." <pb n="50"/>

"You forget," here said the young clergyman to the man in gray, "that yourself
					helped poor Guinea ashore."

"So I did, so I did; how unfortunate. But look now," to the other, "I think that
					without personal proof I can convince you of your mistake. For I put it to you,
					is it reasonable to suppose that a man with brains, sufficient to act such a
					part as you say, would take all that trouble, and run all that hazard, for the
					mere sake of those few paltry coppers, which, I hear, was all he got for his
					pains, if pains they were ?"

"That puts the case irrefutably," said the young clergyman, with a challenging
					glance towards the one-legged man.

"You two green-horns! Money, you think, is the sole motive to pains and hazard,
					deception and deviltry, in this world. How much money did the devil make by
					gulling Eve ?"

Whereupon he hobbled off again with a repetition of his intolerable jeer.

The man in gray stood silently eying his retreat a while, and then, turning to
					his companion, said: "A bad man, a dangerous man; a man to be put down in any
					Christian community.—And this was he who was the means of begetting
					your distrust? Ah, we should shut our ears to distrust, and keep them open only
					for its opposite."

"You advance a principle, which, if I had acted upon it this morning, I should
					have spared myself what I now feel.—That but one man, and he with one
					leg, should have such ill power given him; his one sour word <pb n="51"/>
					leavening into congenial sourness (as, to my knowledge, it did) the
					dispositions, before sweet enough, of a numerous company. But, as I hinted, with
					me at the time his ill words went for nothing; the same as now; only afterwards
					they had effect; and I confess, this puzzles me."

"It should not. With humane minds, the spirit of distrust works something as
					certain potions do; it is a spirit which may enter such minds, and yet, for a
					time, longer or shorter, lie in them quiescent; but only the more deplorable its
					ultimate activity."

"An uncomfortable solution; for, since that baneful man did but just now anew
					drop on me his bane, how shall I be sure that my present exemption from its
					effects will be lasting?"

"You cannot be sure, but you can strive against it."

"How ?"

"By strangling the least symptom of distrust, of any sort, which hereafter, upon
					whatever provocation, may arise in you."

"I will do so." Then added as in soliloquy, "Indeed, indeed, I was to blame in
					standing passive under such influences as that one-legged man's. My conscience
					up-braids me.—The poor negro: You see him occasionally, perhaps ?"

"No, not often; though in a few days, as it happens, my engagements will call me
					to the neighborhood of his present retreat; and, no doubt, honest Guinea, who is
					a grateful soul, will come to see me there."

"Then you have been his benefactor ?" <pb n="62"/>

"His benefactor? I did not say that. I have known him."

"Take this mite. Hand it to Guinea when you see him; say it comes from one who
					has full belief in his honesty, and is sincerely sorry for having indulged,
					however transiently, in a contrary thought."

"I accept the trust. And, by-the-way, since you are of this truly charitable
					nature, you will not turn away an appeal in behalf of the Seminole Widow and
					Orphan Asylum ?"

"I have not heard of that charity."

"But recently founded."

After a pause, the clergyman was irresolutely putting his hand in his pocket,
					when, caught by something in his companion's expression, he eyed him
					inquisitively, almost uneasily.

"Ah, well," smiled the other wanly, "if that subtle bane, we were speaking of but
					just now, is so soon beginning to work, in vain my appeal to you. Good-by."

"Nay," not untouched, "you do me injustice; instead of indulging present
					suspicions, I had rather make amends for previous ones. Here is something for
					your asylum. Not much; but every drop helps. Of course you have papers ?"

"Of course," producing a memorandum book and pencil. "Let me take down name and
					amount. We publish these names. And now let me give you a little history of our
					asylum, and the providential way in which it was started."

				<pb n="53"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="7" id="d12">
				CHAPTER VII.<lb/> A GENTLEMAN WITH GOLD SLEEVE-BUTTONS.

AT an interesting point of the narration, and at the moment when, with much
					curiosity, indeed, urgency, the narrator was being particularly questioned upon
					that point, he was, as it happened, altogether diverted both from it and his
					story, by just then catching sight of a gentleman who had been standing in sight
					from the beginning, but, until now, as it seemed, without being observed by him.

"Pardon me," said he, rising, "but yonder is one who I know will contribute, and
					largely. Don't take it amiss if I quit you."

"Go: duty before all things," was the conscientious reply.

The stranger was a man of more than winsome aspect. There he stood apart and in
					repose, and yet, by his mere look, lured the man in gray from his story, much
					as, by its graciousness of bearing, some full-leaved elm, alone in a meadow,
					lures the noon sickleman to throw down his sheaves, and come and apply for the
					alms of its shade.

But, considering that goodness is no such rare thing <pb n="54"/> among
					men—the world familiarly know the noun; a common one in every
					language—it was curious that what so signalized the stranger, and made
					him look like a kind of foreigner, among the crowd (as to some it make him
					appear more or less unreal in this portraiture), was but the expression of so
					prevailent a quality. Such goodness seemed his, allied with such fortune, that,
					so far as his own personal experience could have gone, scarcely could he have
					known ill, physical or moral; and as for knowing or suspecting the latter in any
					serious degree (supposing such degree of it to be), by observation or
					philosophy; for that, probably, his nature, by its opposition, imperfectly
					qualified, or from it wholly exempted. For the rest, he might have been five and
					fifty, perhaps sixty, but tall, rosy, between plump and portly, with a primy,
					palmy air, and for the time and place, not to hint of his years, dressed with a
					strangely festive finish and elegance. The inner-side of his coat-skirts was of
					white satin, which might have looked especially inappropriate, had it not seemed
					less a bit of mere tailoring than something of an emblem, as it were; an
					involuntary emblem, let us say, that what seemed so good about him was not all
					outside; no, the fine covering had a still finer lining. Upon one hand he wore a
					white kid glove, but the other hand, which was ungloved, looked hardly less
					white. Now, as the Fidèle, like most steamboats, was upon deck a
					little soot-streaked here and there, especially about the railings, it was a
					marvel how, under such circumstances, these hands retained their spotlessness.
					But, if you watched them <pb n="55"/> a while, you noticed that they avoided
					touching anything; you noticed, in short, that a certain negro body-servant,
					whose hands nature had dyed black, perhaps with the same purpose that millers
					wear white, this negro servant's hands did most of his master's handling for
					him; having to do with dirt on his account, but not to his prejudices. But if,
					with the same undefiledness of consequences to himself, a gentleman could also
					sin by deputy, how shocking would that be! But it is not permitted to be; and
					even if it were, no judicious moralist would make proclamation of it.

This gentleman, therefore, there is reason to affirm, was one who, like the
					Hebrew governor, knew how to keep his hands clean, and who never in his life
					happened to be run suddenly against by hurrying house-painter, or sweep; in a
					word, one whose very good luck it was to be a very good man.

Not that he looked as if he were a kind of Wilberforce at all; that superior
					merit, probably, was not his; nothing in his manner bespoke him righteous, but
					only good, and though to be good is much below being righteous, and though there
					is a difference between the two, yet not, it is to be hoped, so incompatible as
					that a righteous man can not be a good man; though, conversely, in the pulpit it
					has been with much cogency urged, that a merely good man, that is, one good
					merely by his nature, is so far from there by being righteous, that nothing
					short of a total change and conversion can make him so; which is something which
					no honest mind, well read in the history of righteousness, will care to <pb
						n="56"/> deny; nevertheless, since St. Paul himself, agreeing in a sense
					with the pulpit distinction, though not altogether in the pulpit deduction, and
					also pretty plainly intimating which of the two qualities in question enjoys his
					apostolic preference; I say, since St. Paul has so meaningly said, that,
					"scarcely for a righteous man will one die, yet peradventure for a good man some
					would even dare to die;" therefore, when we repeat of this gentleman, that he
					was only a good man, whatever else by severe censors may be objected to him, it
					is still to be hoped that his goodness will not at least be considered criminal
					in him. At all events, no man, not even a righteous man, would think it quite
					right to commit this gentleman to prison for the crime, extraordinary as he
					might deem it; more especially, as, until everything could be known, there would
					be some chance that the gentleman might after all be quite as innocent of it as
					he himself.

It was pleasant to mark the good man's reception of the salute of the righteous
					man, that is, the man in gray; his inferior, apparently, not more in the social
					scale than in stature. Like the benign elm again, the good man seemed to wave
					the canopy of his goodness over that suitor, not in conceited condescension, but
					with that even amenity of true majesty, which can be kind to any one without
					stooping to it.

To the plea in behalf of the Seminole widows and orphans, the gentleman, after a
					question or two duly answered, responded by producing an ample pocket-book in
					the good old capacious style, of fine green <pb n="57"/> French morocco and
					workmanship, bound with silk of the same color, not to omit bills crisp with
					newness, fresh from the bank, no muckworms' grime upon them. Lucre those bills
					might be, but as yet having been kept unspotted from the world, not of the
					filthy sort. Placing now three of those virgin bills in the applicant's hands,
					he hoped that the smallness of the contribution would be pardoned; to tell the
					truth, and this at last accounted for his toilet, he was bound but a short run
					down the river, to attend, in a festive grove, the afternoon wedding of his
					niece: so did not carry much money with him.

The other was about expressing his thanks when the gentleman in his pleasant way
					checked him: the gratitude was on the other side. To him, he said, charity was
					in one sense not an effort, but a luxury; against too great indulgence in which
					his steward, a humorist, had sometimes admonished him.

In some general talk which followed, relative to organized modes of doing good,
					the gentleman expressed his regrets that so many benevolent societies as there
					were, here and there isolated in the land, should not act in concert by coming
					together, in the way that already in each society the individuals composing it
					had done, which would result, he thought, in like advantages upon a larger
					scale. Indeed, such a confederation might, perhaps, be attended with as happy
					results as politically attended that of the states.

Upon his hitherto moderate enough companion, this suggestion had an effect
					illustrative in a sort of that notion <pb n="58"/> of Socrates, that the soul is
					a harmony; for as the sound of a flute, in any particular key, will, it is said,
					audibly affect the corresponding chord of any harp in good tune, within hearing,
					just so now did some string in him respond, and with animation.

Which animation, by the way, might seem more or less out of character in the man
					in gray, considering his unsprightly manner when first introduced, had he not
					already, in certain after colloquies, given proof, in some degree, of the fact,
					that, with certain natures, a soberly continent air at times, so far from
					arguing emptiness of stuff, is good proof it is there, and plenty of it, because
					unwasted, and may be used the more effectively, too, when opportunity offers.
					What now follows on the part of the man in gray will still further exemplify,
					perhaps somewhat strikingly, the truth, or what appears to be such, of this
					remark.

"Sir," said he eagerly, "I am before you. A project, not dissimilar to yours, was
					by me thrown out at the World's Fair in London."

"World's Fair ? You there ? Pray how was that ?"

"First, let me—"

"Nay, but first tell me what took you to the Fair ?"

"I went to exhibit an invalid's easy-chair I had invented."

"Then you have not always been in the charity business ?"

"Is it not charity to ease human suffering? I am, and always have been, as I
					always will be, I trust, in the charity business, as you call it; but charity is
					not <pb n="59"/> like a pin, one to make the head, and the other the point;
					charity is a work to which a good workman may be competent in all its branches.
					I invented my Protean easy-chair in odd intervals stolen from meals and sleep."

"You call it the Protean easy-chair; pray describe it."

"My Protean easy-chair is a chair so all over bejointed, behinged, and bepadded,
					everyway so elastic, springy, and docile to the airiest touch, that in some one
					of its endlessly-changeable accommodations of back, seat, footboard, and arms,
					the most restless body, the body most racked, nay, I had almost added the most
					tormented conscience must, somehow and somewhere, find rest. Believing that I
					owed it to suffering humanity to make known such a chair to the utmost, I
					scraped together my little means and off to the World's Fair with it."

"You did right. But your scheme; how did you come to hit upon that ?"

"I was going to tell you. After seeing my invention duly catalogued and placed, I
					gave myself up to pondering the scene about me. As I dwelt upon that shining
					pageant of arts, and moving concourse of nations, and reflected that here was
					the pride of the world glorying in a glass house, a sense of the fragility of
					worldly grandeur profoundly impressed me. And I said to myself, I will see if
					this occasion of vanity cannot supply a hint toward a better profit than was
					designed. Let some world-wide good to the world-wide cause be now done. <pb
						n="60"/> In short, inspired by the scene, on the fourth day I issued at the
					World's Fair my prospectus of the World's Charity."

"Quite a thought. But, pray explain it."

"The World's Charity is to be a society whose members shall comprise deputies
					from every charity and mission extant; the one object of the society to be the
					methodization of the world's benevolence; to which end, the present system of
					voluntary and promiscuous contribution to be done away, and the Society to be
					empowered by the various governments to levy, annually, one grand benevolence
					tax upon all mankind; as in Augustus CFsar's time, the whole world to come up to
					be taxed; a tax which, for the scheme of it, should be something like the
					income-tax in England, a tax, also, as before hinted, to be a consolidation-tax
					of all possible benevolence taxes; as in America here, the state-tax, and the
					county-tax, and the town-tax, and the poll-tax, are by the assessors rolled into
					one. This tax, according to my tables, calculated with care, would result in the
					yearly raising of a fund little short of eight hundred millions; this fund to be
					annually applied to such objects, and in such modes, as the various charities
					and missions, in general congress represented, might decree; whereby, in
					fourteen years, as I estimate, there would have been devoted to good works the
					sum of eleven thousand two hundred millions; which would warrant the dissolution
					of the society, as that fund judiciously expended, not a pauper or heathen could
					remain the round world over." <pb n="61"/>

"Eleven thousand two hundred millions! And all by passing round a hat, as it
					were."

"Yes, I am no Fourier, the projector of an impossible scheme, but a
					philanthropist and a financier setting forth a philanthropy and a finance which
					are practicable."

"Practicable ?"

"Yes. Eleven thousand two hundred millions; it will frighten none but a retail
					philanthropist. What is it but eight hundred millions for each of fourteen years
					? Now eight hundred millions—what is that, to average it, but one
					little dollar a head for the population of the planet ? And who will refuse,
					what Turk or Dyak even, his own little dollar for sweet charity's sake? Eight
					hundred millions! More than that sum is yearly expended by mankind, not only in
					vanities, but miseries. Consider that bloody spendthrift, War. And are mankind
					so stupid, so wicked, that, upon the demonstration of these things they will
					not, amending their ways, devote their superfluities to blessing the world
					instead of cursing it? Eight hundred millions! They have not to make it, it is
					theirs already; they have but to direct it from ill to good. And to this, scarce
					a self-denial is demanded. Actually, they would not in the mass be one farthing
					the poorer for it; as certainly would they be all the better and happier. Don't
					you see ? But admit, as you must, that mankind is not mad, and my project is
					practicable. For, what creature but a madman would not rather do good than ill,
					when it is plain that, good or ill, it must return upon himself?" "Your sort of
					reasoning," said the good gentleman, <pb n="62"/> adjusting his gold
					sleeve-buttons, "seems all reasonable enough, but with mankind it wont do."

"Then mankind are not reasoning beings, if reason wont do with them."

"That is not to the purpose. By-the-way, from the manner in which you alluded to
					the world's census, it would appear that, according to your world-wide scheme,
					the pauper not less than the nabob is to contribute to the relief of pauperism,
					and the heathen not less than the Christian to the conversion of heathenism. How
					is that ?"

"Why, that—pardon me—is quibbling. Now, no philanthropist
					likes to be opposed with quibbling."

"Well, I won't quibble any more. But, after all, if I understand your project,
					there is little specially new in it, further than the magnifying of means now in
					operation."

"Magnifying and energizing. For one thing, missions I would thoroughly reform.
					Missions I would quicken with the Wall street spirit."

"The Wall street spirit ?"

"Yes; for if, confessedly, certain spiritual ends are to be gained but through
					the auxiliary agency of worldly means, then, to the surer gaining of such
					spiritual ends, the example of worldly policy in worldly projects should not by
					spiritual projectors be slighted. In brief, the conversion of the heathen, so
					far, at least, as depending on human effort, would, by the world's charity, be
					let out on contract. So much by bid for converting India, so much for Borneo, so
					much for Africa. Competition <pb n="63"/> allowed, stimulus would be given.
					There would be no lethargy of monopoly. We should have no mission-house or
					tract-house of which slanderers could, with any plausibility, say that it had
					degenerated in its clerkships into a sort of custom-house. But the main point is
					the Archimedean money-power that would be brought to bear."

"You mean the eight hundred million power ?"

"Yes. You see, this doing good to the world by driblets amounts to just nothing.
					I am for doing good to the world with a will. I am for doing good to the world
					once for all and having done with it. Do but think, my dear sir, of the eddies
					and maNlstroms of pagans in China. People here have no conception of it. Of a
					frosty morning in Hong Kong, pauper pagans are found dead in the streets like so
					many nipped peas in a bin of peas. To be an immortal being in China is no more
					distinction than to be a snow-flake in a snow-squall. What are a score or two of
					missionaries to such a people ? A pinch of snuff to the kraken. I am for sending
					ten thousand missionaries in a body and converting the Chinese en masse within
					six months of the debarkation. The thing is then done, and turn to something
					else."

"I fear you are too enthusiastic."

"A philanthropist is necessarily an enthusiast; for without enthusiasm what was
					ever achieved but commonplace? But again: consider the poor in London. To that
					mob of misery, what is a joint here and a loaf there ? I am for voting to them
					twenty thousand <pb n="64"/> bullocks and one hundred thousand barrels of flour
					to begin with. They are then comforted, and no more hunger for one while among
					the poor of London. And so all round."

"Sharing the character of your general project, these things, I take it, are
					rather examples of wonders that were to be wished, than wonders that will
					happen."

"And is the age of wonders passed ? Is the world too old ? Is it barren ? Think
					of Sarah."

"Then I am Abraham reviling the angel (with a smile). But still, as to your
					design at large, there seems a certain audacity."

"But if to the audacity of the design there be brought a commensurate
					circumspectness of execution, how then ?"

"Why, do you really believe that your world's charity will ever go into operation
					?"

"I have confidence that it will."

"But may you not be over-confident ?"

"For a Christian to talk so !"

"But think of the obstacles!"

"Obstacles ? I have confidence to remove obstacles, though mountains. Yes,
					confidence in the world's charity to that degree, that, as no better person
					offers to supply the place, I have nominated myself provisional treasurer, and
					will be happy to receive subscriptions, for the present to be devoted to
					striking off a million more of my prospectuses."

The talk went on; the man in gray revealed a spirit of benevolence which, mindful
					of the millennial promise, <pb n="65"/> had gone abroad over all the countries
					of the globe, much as the diligent spirit of the husbandman, stirred by
					forethought of the coming seed-time, leads him, in March reveries at his
					fireside, over every field of his farm. The master chord of the man in gray had
					been touched, and it seemed as if it would never cease vibrating. A not
					unsilvery tongue, too, was his, with gestures that were a Pentecost of added
					ones, and persuasiveness before which granite hearts might crumble into gravel.

Strange, therefore, how his auditor, so singularly good-hearted as he seemed,
					remained proof to such eloquence; though not, as it turned out, to such
					pleadings. For, after listening a while longer with pleasant incredulity,
					presently, as the boat touched his place of destination, the gentleman, with a
					look half humor, half pity, put another bank-note into his hands; charitable to
					the last, if only to the dreams of enthusiasm.

				<pb n="66"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="8" id="d13">
				CHAPTER VIII.<lb/> A CHARITABLE LADY.

IF a drunkard in a sober fit is the dullest of mortals, an enthusiast in a
					reason-fit is not the most lively. And this, without prejudice to his greatly
					improved understanding; for, if his elation was the height of his madness, his
					despondency is but the extreme of his sanity. Something thus now, to all
					appearance with the man in gray. Society his stimulus, loneliness was his
					lethargy. Loneliness, like the sea-breeze, blowing off from a thousand leagues
					of blankness, he did not find, as veteran solitaires do, if anything, too
					bracing. In short, left to himself, with none to charm forth his latent
					lymphatic, he insensibly resumes his original air, a quiescent one, blended of
					sad humility and demureness.

Ere long he goes laggingly into the ladies' saloon, as in spiritless quest of
					somebody; but, after some disappointed glances about him, seats himself upon a
					sofa with an air of melancholy exhaustion and depression.

At the sofa's further end sits a plump and pleasant person, whose aspect seems to
					hint that, if she have any weak point, it must be anything rather than her
					excellent <pb n="67"/> heart. From her twilight dress, neither dawn nor dark,
					apparently she is a widow just breaking the chrysalis of her mourning. A small
					gilt testament is in her hand, which she has just been reading.
					Half-relinquished, she holds the book in reverie, her finger inserted at the
					xiii. of 1st Corinthians, to which chapter possibly her attention might have
					recently been turned, by witnessing the scene of the monitory mute and his
					slate.

The sacred page no longer meets her eye; but, as at evening, when for a time the
					western hills shine on though the sun be set, her thoughtful face retains its
					tenderness though the teacher is forgotten.

Meantime, the expression of the stranger is such as ere long to attract her
					glance. But no responsive one. Presently, in her somewhat inquisitive survey,
					her volume drops. It is restored. No encroaching politeness in the act, but
					kindness, unadorned. The eyes of the lady sparkle. Evidently, she is not now
					unprepossessed. Soon, bending over, in a low, sad tone, full of deference, the
					stranger breathes, "Madam, pardon my freedom, but there is something in that
					face which strangely draws me. May I ask, are you a sister of the Church ?"

"Why—really—you—"

In concern for her embarrassment, he hastens to relieve it, but, without seeming
					so to do. "It is very solitary for a brother here," eying the showy ladies
					brocaded in the background, "I find none to mingle souls with. It may be
					wrong—I know it is—but I cannot force myself to be easy with
					the people of the world. <pb n="68"/> I prefer the company, however silent, of a
					brother or sister in good standing. By the way, madam, may I ask if you have
					confidence?"

"Really, sir—why, sir—really—I—"

"Could you put confidence in me for instance ?"

"Really, sir—as much—I mean, as one may wisely put in
					a—a—stranger, an entire stranger, I had almost said,"
					rejoined the lady, hardly yet at ease in her affability, drawing aside a little
					in body, while at the same time her heart might have been drawn as far the other
					way. A natural struggle between charity and prudence.

"Entire stranger!" with a sigh. "Ah, who would be a stranger? In vain, I wander;
					no one will have confidence in me."

"You interest me," said the good lady, in mild surprise. "Can I any way befriend
					you ?"

"'No one can befriend me, who has not confidence."

"But I—I have—at least to that degree—I mean
					that—"

"Nay, nay, you have none-none at all. Pardon, I see it. No confidence. Fool, fond
					fool that I am to seek it!"

"You are unjust, sir," rejoins the good lady with heightened interest; "but it
					may be that something untoward in your experiences has unduly biased you. Not
					that I would cast reflections. Believe me, I—yes, yes—I may
					say—that—that—"

"That you have confidence ? Prove it. Let me have twenty dollars." <pb n="69"/>

"Twenty dollars!"

"There, I told you, madam, you had no confidence."

The lady was, in an extraordinary way, touched. She sat in a sort of restless
					torment, knowing not which way to turn. She began twenty different sentences,
					and left off at the first syllable of each. At last, in desperation, she hurried
					out, "Tell me, sir, for what you want the twenty dollars ?"

"And did I not—" then glancing at her half-mourning, "for the widow and
					the fatherless. I am traveling agent of the Widow and Orphan Asylum, recently
					founded among the Seminoles."

"And why did you not tell me your object before ?" As not a little relieved.
					"Poor souls—Indians, too—those cruelly-used Indians. Here,
					here; how could I hesitate. I am so sorry it is no more."

"Grieve not for that, madam," rising and folding up the bank-notes. "This is an
					inconsiderable sum, I admit, but," taking out his pencil and book, "though I
					here but register the amount, there is another register, where is set down the
					motive. Good-bye; you have confidence. Yea, you can say to me as the apostle
					said to the Corinthians, I rejoice that I have confidence in you in all
					things."'

				<pb n="70"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="9" id="d14">
				CHAPTER IX: TWO BUSINESS MEN TRANSACT A LITTLE BUSINESS.

Pray, sir, have you seen a gentleman with a weed hereabouts, rather a saddish
					gentleman ? Strange where he can have gone to. I was talking with him not twenty
					minutes since."

By a brisk, ruddy-cheeked man in a tasseled traveling-cap, carrying under his arm
					a ledger-like volume, the above words were addressed to the collegian before
					introduced, suddenly accosted by the rail to which not long after his retreat,
					as in a previous chapter recounted, he had returned, and there remained.

"Have you seen him, sir ?"

Rallied from his apparent diffidence by the genial jauntiness of the stranger,
					the youth answered with unwonted promptitude: "Yes, a person with a weed was
					here not very long ago."

"Saddish ?"

"Yes, and a little cracked, too, I should say."

"It was he. Misfortune, I fear, has disturbed his brain. Now quick, which way did
					he go ?"

"Why just in the direction from which you came, the gangway yonder."

"Did he ? Then the man in the gray coat, whom I <pb n="71"/> just met, said
					right: he must have gone ashore. How unlucky!"

He stood vexedly twitching at his cap-tassel, which fell over by his whisker, and
					continued: "Well, I am very sorry. In fact, I had something for him
					here."—Then drawing nearer, "you see, he applied to me for relief, no,
					I do him injustice, not that, but he began to intimate, you understand. Well,
					being very busy just then, I declined; quite rudely, too, in a cold, morose,
					unfeeling way, I fear. At all events, not three minutes afterwards I felt
					self-reproach, with a kind of prompting, very peremptory, to deliver over into
					that unfortunate man's hands a ten-dollar bill. You smile. Yes, it may be
					superstition, but I can't help it; I have my weak side, thank God. Then again,"
					he rapidly went on, "we have been so very prosperous lately in our
					affairs—by we, I mean the Black Rapids Coal Company—that,
					really, out of my abundance, associative and individual, it is but fair that a
					charitable investment or two should be made, don't you think so?"

"Sir," said the collegian without the least embarrassment, "do I understand that
					you are officially connected with the Black Rapids Coal Company ?"

"Yes, I happen to be president and transfer-agent."

"You are ?"

"Yes, but what is it to you? You don't want to invest ?"

"Why, do you sell the stock?"

"Some might be bought, perhaps; but why do you ask? you don't want to invest?"
						<pb n="72"/>

"But supposing I did," with cool self-collectedness, "could you do up the thing
					for me, and here ?"

"Bless my soul," gazing at him in amaze, "really, you are quite a business man.
					Positively, I feel afraid of you."

"Oh, no need of that.—You could sell me some of that stock, then ?"

"I don't know, I don't know. To be sure, there are a few shares under peculiar
					circumstances bought in by the Company; but it would hardly be thing to convert
					this boat into the Company's office. I think you had better defer investing.
					So," with an indifferent air, "you have seen the unfortunate man I spoke of ?"

"Let the unfortunate man go his ways.—What is that large book you have
					with you ?"

"My transfer-book. I am subpoenaed with it to court."

"Black Rapids Coal Company," obliquely reading the gilt inscription on the back;
					"I have heard much of it. Pray do you happen to have with you any statement of
					the condition of your company."

"A statement has lately been printed."

"Pardon me, but I am naturally inquisitive. Have you a copy with you ?"

"I tell you again, I do not think that it would be suitable to convert this boat
					into the Company's office. —That unfortunate man, did you relieve him
					at all?"

"Let the unfortunate man relieve himself.—Hand me the statement."

"Well, you are such a business-man, I can hardly deny you. Here," handing a
					small, printed pamphlet. <pb n="73"/>

The youth turned it over sagely.

"I hate a suspicious man," said the other, observing him; "but I must say I like
					to see a cautious one."

"I can gratify you there," languidly returning the pamphlet; "for, as I said
					before, I am naturally inquisitive; I am also circumspect. No appearances can
					deceive me. Your statement," he added "tells a very fine story; but pray, was
					not your stock a little heavy a while ago ? downward tendency ? Sort of low
					spirits among holders on the subject of that stock ?"

"Yes, there was a depression. But how came it? who devised it? The bears,' sir.
					The depression of our stock was solely owing to the growling, the hypocritical
					growling, of the bears."

"How, hypocritical ?"

"Why, the most monstrous of all hypocrites are these bears: hypocrites by
					inversion; hypocrites in the simulation of things dark instead of bright; souls
					that thrive, less upon depression, than the fiction of depression; professors of
					the wicked art of manufacturing depressions; spurious Jeremiahs; who, the
					lugubrious day done, return, like sham Lazaruses among the beggars, to make
					merry over the gains got by their pretended sore heads—scoundrelly
					bears!"

"You are warm against these bears ?"

"If I am, it is less from the remembrance of their stratagems as to our stock,
					than from the persuasion that these same destroyers of confidence, and gloomy
					philosophers of the stock-market, though false in themselves, are yet true types
					of most destroyers of <pb n="74"/> confidence and gloomy philosophers, the world
					over. Fellows who, whether in stocks, politics, bread-stuffs, morals,
					metaphysics, religion—be it what it may—trump up their black
					panics in the naturally-quiet brightness, solely with a view to some sort of
					covert advantage. That corpse of calamity which the gloomy philosopher parades,
					is but his Good-Enough-Morgan."

"I rather like that," knowingly drawled the youth. "I fancy these gloomy souls as
					little as the next one. Sitting on my sofa after a champagne dinner, smoking my
					plantation cigar, if a gloomy fellow come to me—what a bore!"

"You tell him it's all stuff, don't you?"

"I tell him it ain't natural. I say to him, you are happy enough, and you know
					it; and everybody else is as happy as you, and you know that, too; and we shall
					all be happy after we are no more, and you know that, too; but no, still you
					must have your sulk."

"And do you know whence this sort of fellow gets his sulk ? not from life; for
					he's often too much of a recluse; or else too young to have seen anything of it.
					No, he gets it from some of those old plays he sees on the stage, or some of
					those old books he finds up in garrets. Ten to one, he has lugged home from
					auction a musty old Seneca, and sets about stuffing himself with that stale old
					hay; and, thereupon, thinks it looks wise and antique to be a croaker, thinks
					it's taking a stand-way above his kind."

"Just so," assented the youth. "I've lived some, and <pb n="75"/> seen a good
					many such ravens at second hand. By the way, strange how that man with the weed,
					you were inquiring for, seemed to take me for some soft sentimentalist, only
					because I kept quiet, and thought, because I had a copy of Tacitus with me, that
					I was reading him for his gloom, instead of his gossip. But I let him talk. And,
					indeed, by my manner humored him."

"You shouldn't have done that, now. Unfortunate man, you must have made quite a
					fool of him."

"His own fault if I did. But I like prosperous fellows, comfortable fellows;
					fellows that talk comfortably and prosperously, like you. Such fellows are
					generally honest. And, I say now, I happen to have a superfluity in my pocket,
					and I'll just—"

"—Act the part of a brother to that unfortunate man ?"

"Let the unfortunate man be his own brother. What are you dragging him in for all
					the time? One would think you didn't care to register any transfers, or dispose
					of any stock—mind running on something else. I say I will invest."

"Stay, stay, here come some uproarious fellows—this way, this way."

And with off-handed politeness the man with the book escorted his companion into
					a private little haven removed from the brawling swells without.

Business transacted, the two came forth, and walked the deck.

"Now tell me, air," said he with the book, "how comes it that a young gentleman
					like you, a sedate <pb n="76"/> student at the first appearance, should dabble
					in stocks and that sort of thing ?"

"There are certain sophomorean errors in the world," drawled the sophomore,
					deliberately adjusting his shirt-collar, "not the least of which is the popular
					notion touching the nature of the modern scholar, and the nature of the modern
					scholastic sedateness."

"So it seems, so it seems. Really, this is quite a new leaf in my experience."

"Experience, sir," originally observed the sophomore, "is the only teacher."
					"Hence am I your pupil; for it's only when experience speaks, that I can endure
					to listen to speculation."

"My speculations, sir," dryly drawing himself up, "have been chiefly governed by
					the maxim of Lord Bacon; I speculate in those philosophies which come home to my
					business and bosom—pray, do you know of any other good stocks ?"

"You wouldn't like to be concerned in the New Jerusalem, would you ?" "New
					Jerusalem ?"

"Yes, the new and thriving city, so called, in northern Minnesota. It was
					originally founded by certain fugitive Mormons. Hence the name. It stands on the
					Mississippi. Here, here is the map," producing a roll. "There—there,
					you see are the public buildings—here the landing—there the
					park—yonder the botanic gardens—and this, this little dot
					here, is a perpetual fountain, you understand. You observe there are twenty <pb
						n="77"/> asterisks. Those are for the lyceums. They have lignum-vitF
					rostrums."

"And are all these buildings now standing ?"

"All standing—bona fide."

"These marginal squares here, are they the water-lots ?"

"Water-lots in the city of New Jerusalem ? All terra firma—you don't
					seem to care about investing, though ?"

"Hardly think I should read my title clear, as the law students say," yawned the
					collegian.

"Prudent—you are prudent. Don't know that you are wholly out, either.
					At any rate, I would rather have one of your shares of coal stock than two of
					this other. Still, considering that the first settlement was by two fugitives,
					who had swum over naked from the opposite shore—it's a surprising
					place. It is, bona-fide.—But dear me, I must go. Oh, if by possibility
					you should come across that unfortunate man—"

"—In that case," with drawling impatience, "I will send for the
					steward, and have him and his misfortunes consigned overboard."

"Ha ha !—now were some gloomy philosopher here, some theological bear,
					forever taking occasion to growl down the stock of human nature (with ulterior
					views, d'ye see, to a fat benefice in the gift of the worshipers of Ariamius),
					he would pronounce that the sign of a hardening heart and a softening brain.
					Yes, that would be his sinister construction. But it's nothing more than the
					oddity of a genial humor—genial but dry. Confess it. Good-bye."

				<pb n="78"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="10" id="d15">
				CHAPTER X.<lb/> IN THE CABIN.

STOOLS, settees, sofas, divans, ottomans; occupying them are clusters of men, old
					and young, wise and simple; in their hands are cards spotted with diamonds,
					spades, clubs, hearts; the favorite games are whist, cribbage and brag. Lounging
					in arm-chairs or sauntering among the marble-topped tables, amused with the
					scene, are the comparatively few, who, instead of having hands in the games, for
					the most part keep their hands in their pockets. These may be the philosophes.
					But here and there, with a curious expression, one is reading a small sort of
					handbill of anonymous poetry, rather wordily entitled:— <q>
						<lg type="ode">
							<l>ODE</l>
							<l>ON THE INTIMATIONS</l>
							<l>OF</l>
							<l>DISTRUST IN MAN,</l>
							<l>UNWILLINGLY INFERRED FROM REPEATED REPULSES,</l>
							<l>IN DISINTERESTED ENDEAVORS</l>
							<l>TO PROCURE HIS</l>
							<l>CONFIDENCE."</l>
						</lg>
					</q>

On the floor are many copies, looking as if fluttered down from a balloon. The
					way they came there was this: A somewhat elderly person, in the quaker dress,
						<pb n="79"/> had quietly passed through the cabin, and, much in the manner
					of those railway book-peddlers who precede their proffers of sale by a
					distribution of puffs, direct or indirect, of the volumes to follow, had,
					without speaking, handed about the odes, which, for the most part, after a
					cursory glance, had been disrespectfully tossed aside, as no doubt, the
					moonstruck production of some wandering rhapsodist.

In due time, book under arm, in trips the ruddy man with the traveling-cap, who,
					lightly moving to and fro, looks animatedly about him, with a yearning sort of
					gratulatory affinity and longing, expressive of the very soul of sociality; as
					much as to say, "Oh, boys, would that I were personally acquainted with each
					mother's son of you, since what a sweet world, to make sweet acquaintance in, is
					ours, my brothers; yea, and what dear, happy dogs are we all!"

And just as if he had really warbled it forth, he makes fraternally up to one
					lounging stranger or another, exchanging with him some pleasant remark.

"Pray, what have you there?" he asked of one newly accosted, a little, dried-up
					man, who looked as if he never dined.

"A little ode, rather queer, too," was the reply," of the same sort you see
					strewn on the floor here."

"I did not observe them. Let me see;" picking one up and looking it over. "Well
					now, this is pretty; plaintive, especially the opening:— <q>
						<lg type="couplet">
							<l>'Alas for man, he hath small sense</l>
							<l>Of genial trust and confidence.'</l>
						</lg>
					</q>
					<pb n="80"/>

If it be so, alas for him, indeed. Runs off very smoothly, sir. Beautiful pathos.
					But do you think the sentiment just ?"

"As to that," said the little dried-up man, " I think it a kind of queer thing
					altogether, and yet I am almost ashamed to add, it really has set me to thinking
					yes and to feeling. Just now, somehow, I feel as it were trustful and genial. I
					don't know that ever I felt so much before. I am naturally numb in my
					sensibilities; but this ode, in its way, works on my numbness not unlike a
					sermon, which, by lamenting over my lying dead in trespasses and sins, thereby
					stirs me up to be all alive in well-doing."

"Glad to hear it, and hope you will do well, as the doctors say. But who snowed
					the odes about here ?"

"I cannot say; I have not been here long."

"Wasn't an angel, was it ? Come, you say you feel genial, let us do as the rest,
					and have cards."

"Thank you, I never play cards."

"A bottle of wine ?"

"Thank you, I never drink wine."

"Cigars ?"

"Thank you, I never smoke cigars."

"Tell stories ?"

"To speak truly, I hardly think I know one worth telling."

"Seems to me, then, this geniality you say you feel waked in you, is as
					water-power in a land without mills. Come, you had better take a genial hand at
					the <pb n="81"/> cards. To begin, we will play for as small a sum as you please;
					just enough to make it interesting."

"Indeed, you must excuse me. Somehow I distrust cards."

"What, distrust cards? Genial cards? Then for once I join with our sad Philomel
					here:— <q>
						<lg type="couplet">
							<l>Alas for man, he hath small sense</l>
							<l>Of genial trust and confidence.'</l>
						</lg>
					</q> Good-bye!"

Sauntering and chatting here and there, again, he with the book at length seems
					fatigued, looks round for a seat, and spying a partly-vacant settee drawn up
					against the side, drops down there; soon, like his chance neighbor, who happens
					to be the good merchant, becoming not a little interested in the scene more
					immediately before him; a party at whist; two cream-faced, giddy, unpolished
					youths, the one in a red cravat, the other in a green, opposed to two bland,
					grave, handsome, self-possessed men of middle age, decorously dressed in a sort
					of professional black, and apparently doctors of some eminence in the civil law.

By-and-by, after a preliminary scanning of the new comer next him the good
					merchant, sideways leaning over, whispers behind a crumpled copy of the Ode
					which he holds: "Sir, I don't like the looks of those two, do you ?"

"Hardly," was the whispered reply; "those colored cravats are not in the best
					taste, at least not to mine; but my taste is no rule for all."

"You mistake; I mean the other two, and I don't <pb n="82"/> refer to dress, but
					countenance. I confess I am not familiar with such gentry any further than
					reading about them in the papers—but those two are—are
					sharpers, aint they ?"

"Far be from us the captious and fault-finding spirit, my dear sir."

"Indeed, sir, I would not find fault; I am little given that way; but certainly,
					to say the least, these two youths can hardly be adepts, while the opposed
					couple may be even more."

"You would not hint that the colored cravats would be so bungling as to lose, and
					the dark cravats so dextrous as to cheat ?—Sour imaginations, my dear
					sir. Dismiss them. To little purpose have you read the Ode you have there. Years
					and experience, I trust, have not sophisticated you. A fresh and liberal
					construction would teach us to regard those four players—indeed, this
					whole cabin-full of players—as playing at games in which every player
					plays fair, and not a player but shall win."

"Now, you hardly mean that; because games in which all may win, such games remain
					as yet in this world uninvented, I think."

"Come, come," luxuriously laying himself back, and casting a free glance upon the
					players, "fares all paid; digestion sound; care, toil, penury, grief, unknown;
					lounging on this sofa, with waistband relaxed, why not be cheerfully resigned to
					one's fate, nor peevishly pick holes in the blessed fate of the world ?"

Upon this, the good merchant, after staring long and <pb n="83"/> hard, and then
					rubbing his forehead, fell into meditation, at first uneasy, but at last
					composed, and in the end, once more addressed his companion: "Well, I see it's
					good to out with one's private thoughts now and then. Somehow, I don't know why,
					a certain misty suspiciousness seems inseparable from most of one's private
					notions about some men and some things; but once out with these misty notions,
					and their mere contact with other men's soon dissipates, or, at least, modifies
					them."

"You think I have done you good, then? may be, I have. But don't thank me, don't
					thank me. If by words, casually delivered in the social hour, I do any good to
					right or left, it is but involuntary influence—locust-tree sweetening
					the herbage under it; no merit at all; mere wholesome accident, of a wholesome
					nature.—Don't you see ?"

Another stare from the good merchant, and both were silent again.

Finding his book, hitherto resting on his lap, rather irksome there, the owner
					now places it edgewise on the settee, between himself and neighbor; in so doing,
					chancing to expose the lettering on the back—"Black Rapids Coal
					Company"—which the good merchant, scrupulously honorable, had much ado
					to avoid reading, so directly would it have fallen under his eye, had he not
					conscientiously averted it. On a sudden, as if just reminded of something, the
					stranger starts up, and moves away, in his haste leaving his book; which the
					merchant observing, without delay takes it up, and, <pb n="84"/> hurrying after,
					civilly returns it; in which act he could not avoid catching sight by an
					involuntary glance of part of the lettering.

"Thank you, thank you, my good sir," said the other, receiving the volume, and
					was resuming his retreat, when the merchant spoke: "Excuse me, but are you not
					in some way connected with the—the Coal Company I have heard of ?"

"There is more than one Coal Company that may be heard of; my good sir," smiled
					the other, pausing with an expression of painful impatience, disinterestedly
					mastered.

"But you are connected with one in particular.—The Black Rapids,' are
					you not?"

"How did you find that out?"

"Well, sir, I have heard rather tempting information of your Company."

"Who is your informant, pray," somewhat coldly.

"A—a person by the name of Ringman."

"Don't know him. But, doubtless, there are plenty who know our Company, whom our
					Company does not know; in the same way that one may know an individual, yet be
					unknown to him.—Known this Ringman long? Old friend, I
					suppose.—But pardon, I must leave you."

"Stay, sir, that—that stock."

"Stock ?"

"Yes, it's a little irregular, perhaps, but—"

"Dear me, you don't think of doing any business with me, do you? In my official
					capacity I have not <pb n="85"/> been authenticated to you. This transfer-book,
					now," holding it up so as to bring the lettering in sight, "how do you know that
					it may not be a bogus one ? And I, being personally a stranger to you, how can
					you have confidence in me ?"

"Because," knowingly smiled the good merchant, "if you were other than I have
					confidence that you are, hardly would you challenge distrust that way."

"But you have not examined my book."

"What need to, if already I believe that it is what it is lettered to be ?"

"But you had better. It might suggest doubts."

"Doubts, may be, it might suggest, but not knowledge; for how, by examining the
					book, should I think I knew any more than I now think I do; since, if it be the
					true book, I think it so already; and since if it be otherwise, then I have
					never seen the true one, and don't know what that ought to look like."

"Your logic I will not criticize, but your confidence I admire, and earnestly,
					too, jocose as was the method I took to draw it out. Enough, we will go to
					yonder table, and if there be any business which, either in my private or
					official capacity, I can help you do, pray command me."

				<pb n="86"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="11" id="d16">
				CHAPTER XI.<lb/> ONLY A PAGE OR SO.

THE transaction concluded, the two still remained seated, falling into familiar
					conversation, by degrees verging into that confidential sort of sympathetic
					silence, the last refinement and luxury of unaffected good feeling. A kind of
					social superstition, to suppose that to be truly friendly one must be saying
					friendly words all the time, any more than be doing friendly deeds continually.
					True friendliness, like true religion, being in a sort independent of works.

At length, the good merchant, whose eyes were pensively resting upon the gay
					tables in the distance, broke the spell by saying that, from the spectacle
					before them, one would little divine what other quarters of the boat might
					reveal. He cited the case, accidentally encountered but an hour or two previous,
					of a shrunken old miser, clad in shrunken old moleskin, stretched out, an
					invalid, on a bare plank in the emigrants' quarters, eagerly clinging to life
					and lucre, though the one was gasping for outlet, and about the other he was in
					torment lest death, or some other unprincipled cut-purse, should be the means of
					his losing it; by like feeble <pb n="87"/> tenure holding lungs and pouch, and
					yet knowing and desiring nothing beyond them; for his mind, never raised above
					mould, was now all but mouldered away. To such a degree, indeed, that he had no
					trust in anything, not even in his parchment bonds, which, the better to
					preserve from the tooth of time, he had packed down and sealed up, like brandy
					peaches, in a tin case of spirits.

The worthy man proceeded at some length with these dispiriting particulars. Nor
					would his cheery companion wholly deny that there might be a point of view from
					which such a case of extreme want of confidence might, to the humane mind,
					present features not altogether welcome as wine and olives after dinner. Still,
					he was not without compensatory considerations, and, upon the whole, took his
					companion to task for evincing what, in a good-natured, round-about way, he
					hinted to be a somewhat jaundiced sentimentality. Nature, in Shakespeare's
					words, had meal and bran; and, rightly regarded, was not to be condemned.

The other was not disposed to question the justice of Shakespeare's thought, but
					would hardly admit the propriety of the application in this instance, much less
					of the comment. So, after some further temperate discussion of the pitiable
					miser, finding that they could not entirely harmonize, the merchant cited
					another case, that of the negro cripple. But his companion suggested whether the
					alleged hardships of that alleged unfortunate might not exist more in the pity
					of the <pb n="88"/> observer than the experience of the observed. He knew
					nothing about the cripple, nor had seen him, but ventured to surmise that, could
					one but get at the real state of his heart, he would be found about as happy as
					most men, if not, in fact, full as happy as the speaker himself. He added that
					negroes were by nature a singularly cheerful race; no one ever heard of a
					native-born African Zimmermann or Torquemada; that even from religion they
					dismissed all gloom; in their hilarious rituals they danced, so to speak, and,
					as it were, cut pigeon-wings. It was improbable, therefore, that a negro,
					however reduced to his stumps by fortune, could be ever thrown off the legs of a
					laughing philosophy.

Foiled again, the good merchant would not desist, but ventured still a third
					case, that of the man with the weed, whose story, as narrated by himself, and
					confirmed and filled out by the testimony of a certain man in a gray coat, whom
					the merchant had afterwards met, he now proceeded to give; and that, without
					holding back those particulars disclosed by the second informant, but which
					delicacy had prevented the unfortunate man himself from touching upon.

But as the good merchant could, perhaps, do better justice to the man than the
					story, we shall venture to tell it in other words than his, though not to any
					other effect.

				<pb n="89"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="12" id="d17">
				CHAPTER XII.<lb/> STORY OF THE UNFORTUNATE MAN, FROM WHICH MAY BE GATHERED
					WHETHER OR NO HE HAS BEEN JUSTLY SO ENTITLED.

IT appeared that the unfortunate man had had for a wife one of those natures,
					anomalously vicious, which would almost tempt a metaphysical lover of our
					species to doubt whether the human form be, in all cases, conclusive evidence of
					humanity, whether, sometimes, it may not be a kind of unpledged and indifferent
					tabernacle, and whether, once for all to crush the saying of Thrasea, (an
					unaccountable one, considering that he himself was so good a man) that "he who
					hates vice, hates humanity," it should not, in self-defense, be held for a
					reasonable maxim, that none but the good are human.

Goneril was young, in person lithe and straight, too straight, indeed, for a
					woman, a complexion naturally rosy, and which would have been charmingly so, but
					for a certain hardness and bakedness, like that of the glazed colors on
					stone-ware. Her hair was of a deep, rich chestnut, but worn in close, short
					curls all round her head. Her Indian figure was not without its impairing effect
					on her bust, while her mouth would have been pretty but for a trace of
					moustache. Upon the whole, <pb n="90"/> aided by the resources of the toilet,
					her appearance at distance was such, that some might have thought her, if
					anything, rather beautiful, though of a style of beauty rather peculiar and
					cactus-like.

It was happy for Goneril that her more striking peculiarities were less of the
					person than of temper and taste. One hardly knows how to reveal, that, while
					having a natural antipathy to such things as the breast of chicken, or custard,
					or peach, or grape, Goneril could yet in private make a satisfactory lunch on
					hard crackers and brawn of ham. She liked lemons, and the only kind of candy she
					loved were little dried sticks of blue clay, secretly carried in her pocket.
					Withal she had hard, steady health like a squaw's, with as firm a spirit and
					resolution. Some other points about her were likewise such as pertain to the
					women of savage life. Lithe though she was, she loved supineness, but upon
					occasion could endure like a stoic. She was taciturn, too. From early morning
					till about three o'clock in the afternoon she would seldom speak—it
					taking that time to thaw her, by all accounts, into but talking terms with
					humanity. During the interval she did little but look, and keep looking out of
					her large, metallic eyes, which her enemies called cold as a cuttle-fish's, but
					which by her were esteemed gazelle-like; for Goneril was not without vanity.
					Those who thought they best knew her, often wondered what happiness such a being
					could take in life, not considering the happiness which is to be had by some
					natures in the very easy way of simply causing pain to those around them. Those
					who suffered from <pb n="91"/> Goneril's strange nature, might, with one of
					those hyberboles to which the resentful incline, have pronounced her some kind
					of toad; but her worst slanderers could never, with any show of justice, have
					accused her of being a toady. In a large sense she possessed the virtue of
					independence of mind. Goneril held it flattery to hint praise even of the
					absent, and even if merited; but honesty, to fling people's imputed faults into
					their faces. This was thought malice, but it certainly was not passion. Passion
					is human. Like an icicle-dagger, Goneril at once stabbed and froze; so at least
					they said; and when she saw frankness and innocence tyrannized into sad
					nervousness under her spell, according to the same authority, inly she chewed
					her blue clay, and you could mark that she chuckled. These peculiarities were
					strange and unpleasing; but another was alleged, one really incomprehensible. In
					company she had a strange way of touching, as by accident, the arm or hand of
					comely young men, and seemed to reap a secret delight from it, but whether from
					the humane satisfaction of having given the evil-touch, as it is called, or
					whether it was something else in her, not equally wonderful, but quite as
					deplorable, remained an enigma.

Needless to say what distress was the unfortunate man's, when, engaged in
					conversation with company, he would suddenly perceive his Goneril bestowing her
					mysterious touches, especially in such cases where the strangeness of the thing
					seemed to strike upon the touched person, notwithstanding good-breeding forbade
					his proposing the mystery, on the spot, as a subject of discussion for <pb
						n="92"/> the company. In these cases, too, the unfortunate man could never
					endure so much as to look upon the touched young gentleman afterwards, fearful
					of the mortification of meeting in his countenance some kind of more or less
					quizzingly-knowing expression. He would shudderingly shun the young gentleman.
					So that here, to the husband, Goneril's touch had the dread operation of the
					heathen taboo. Now Goneril brooked no chiding. So, at favorable times, he, in a
					wary manner, and not indelicately, would venture in private interviews gently to
					make distant allusions to this questionable propensity. She divined him. But, in
					her cold loveless way, said it was witless to be telling one's dreams,
					especially foolish ones; but if the unfortunate man liked connubially to rejoice
					his soul with such chimeras, much connubial joy might they give him. All this
					was sad—a touching case—but all might, perhaps, have been
					borne by the unfortunate man—conscientiously mindful of his
					vow—for better or for worse—to love and cherish his dear
					Goneril so long as kind heaven might spare her to him—but when, after
					all that had happened, the devil of jealousy entered her, a calm, clayey, cakey
					devil, for none other could possess her, and the object of that deranged
					jealousy, her own child, a little girl of seven, her father's consolation and
					pet; when he saw Goneril artfully torment the little innocent, and then play the
					maternal hypocrite with it, the unfortunate man's patient long-suffering gave
					way. Knowing that she would neither confess nor amend, and might, possibly,
					become even worse than she was, he thought it but duty as a <pb n="93"/> father,
					to withdraw the child from her; but, loving it as he did, he could not do so
					without accompanying it into domestic exile himself. Which, hard though it was,
					he did. Whereupon the whole female neighborhood, who till now had little enough
					admired dame Goneril, broke out in indignation against a husband, who, without
					assigning a cause, could deliberately abandon the wife of his bosom, and sharpen
					the sting to her, too, by depriving her of the solace of retaining her
					offspring. To all this, self-respect, with Christian charity towards Goneril,
					long kept the unfortunate man dumb. And well had it been had he continued so;
					for when, driven to desperation, he hinted something of the truth of the case,
					not a soul would credit it; while for Goneril, she pronounced all he said to be
					a malicious invention. Ere long, at the suggestion of some woman's-rights women,
					the injured wife began a suit, and, thanks to able counsel and accommodating
					testimony, succeeded in such a way, as not only to recover custody of the child,
					but to get such a settlement awarded upon a separation, as to make penniless the
					unfortunate man (so he averred), besides, through the legal sympathy she
					enlisted, effecting a judicial blasting of his private reputation. What made it
					yet more lamentable was, that the unfortunate man, thinking that, before the
					court, his wisest plan, as well as the most Christian besides, being, as he
					deemed, not at variance with the truth of the matter, would be to put forth the
					plea of the mental derangement of Goneril, which done, he could, with less of
					mortification to himself, and odium to her, reveal in self-defense those <pb
						n="94"/> eccentricities which had led to his retirement from the joys of
					wedlock, had much ado in the end to prevent this charge of derangement from
					fatally recoiling upon himself—especially, when, among other things,
					he alleged her mysterious touchings. In vain did his counsel, striving to make
					out the derangement to be where, in fact, if anywhere, it was, urge that, to
					hold otherwise, to hold that such a being as Goneril was sane, this was
					constructively a libel upon womankind. Libel be it. And all ended by the
					unfortunate man's subsequently getting wind of Goneril's intention to procure
					him to be permanently committed for a lunatic. Upon which he fled, and was now
					an innocent outcast, wandering forlorn in the great valley of the Mississippi,
					with a weed on his hat for the loss of his Goneril; for he had lately seen by
					the papers that she was dead, and thought it but proper to comply with the
					prescribed form of mourning in such cases. For some days past he had been trying
					to get money enough to return to his child, and was but now started with
					inadequate funds.

Now all of this, from the beginning, the good merchant could not but consider
					rather hard for the unfortunate man.

				<pb n="95"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="13" id="d18">
				CHAPTER XIII.<lb/> THE MAN WITH THE TRAVELING-CAP EVINCES MUCH HUMANITY, AND
					IN A WAY WHICH WOULD SEEM TO SHOW HIM TO BE ONE OF THE MOST LOGICAL OF
					OPTIMISTS.

YEARS ago, a grave American savan, being in London, observed at an evening party
					there, a certain coxcombical fellow, as he thought, an absurd ribbon in his
					lapel, and full of smart persiflage, whisking about to the admiration of as many
					as were disposed to admire. Great was the savan's disdain; but, chancing ere
					long to find himself in a corner with the jackanapes, got into conversation with
					him, when he was somewhat ill-prepared for the good sense of the jackanapes, but
					was altogether thrown aback, upon subsequently being whispered by a friend that
					the jackanapes was almost as great a savan as himself, being no less a personage
					than Sir Humphrey Davy.

The above anecdote is given just here by way of an anticipative reminder to such
					readers as, from the kind of jaunty levity, or what may have passed for such,
					hitherto for the most part appearing in the man with the traveling-cap, may have
					been tempted into a more or less hasty estimate of him; that such readers, when
						<pb n="96"/> they find the same person, as they presently will, capable of
					philosophic and humanitarian discourse—no mere casual sentence or two
					as heretofore at times, but solidly sustained throughout an almost entire
					sitting; that they may not, like the American savan, be thereupon betrayed into
					any surprise incompatible with their own good opinion of their previous
					penetration.

The merchant's narration being ended, the other would not deny but that it did in
					some degree affect him. He hoped he was not without proper feeling for the
					unfortunate man. But he begged to know in what spirit he bore his alleged
					calamities. Did he despond or have confidence?

The merchant did not, perhaps, take the exact import of the last member of the
					question; but answered, that, if whether the unfortunate man was becomingly
					resigned under his affliction or no, was the point, he could say for him that
					resigned he was, and to an exemplary degree: for not only, so far as known, did
					he refrain from any one-sided reflections upon human goodness and human justice,
					but there was observable in him an air of chastened reliance, and at times
					tempered cheerfulness.

Upon which the other observed, that since the unfortunate man's alleged
					experience could not be deemed very conciliatory towards a view of human nature
					better than human nature was, it largely redounded to his fair-mindedness, as
					well as piety, that under the dissuasives, apparently so, from philanthropy, he
					had not, in a moment of excitement, been warped over to the ranks of the
					misanthropes. He doubted not, also, <pb n="97"/> that with such a man his
					experience would, in the end, act by a complete and beneficent inversion, and so
					far from shaking his confidence in his kind, confirm it, and rivet it. Which
					would the more surely be the case, did he (the unfortunate man) at last become
					satisfied (as sooner or later he probably would be) that in the distraction of
					his mind his Goneril had not in all respects had fair play. At all events, the
					description of the lady, charity could not but regard as more or less
					exaggerated, and so far unjust. The truth probably was that she was a wife with
					some blemishes mixed with some beauties. But when the blemishes were displayed,
					her husband, no adept in the female nature, had tried to use reason with her,
					instead of something far more persuasive. Hence his failure to convince and
					convert. The act of withdrawing from her, seemed, under the circumstances,
					abrupt. In brief, there were probably small faults on both sides, more than
					balanced by large virtues; and one should not be hasty in judging. When the
					merchant, strange to say, opposed views so calm and impartial, and again, with
					some warmth, deplored the case of the unfortunate man, his companion, not
					without seriousness, checked him, saying, that this would never do; that, though
					but in the most exceptional case, to admit the existence of unmerited misery,
					more particularly if alleged to have been brought about by unhindered arts of
					the wicked, such an admission was, to say the least, not prudent; since, with
					some, it might unfavorably bias their most important persuasions. Not that those
					persuasions were legitimately servile to such <pb n="98"/> influences. Because,
					since the common occurrences of life could never, in the nature of things,
					steadily look one way and tell one story, as flags in the trade-wind; hence, if
					the conviction of a Providence, for instance, were in any way made dependent
					upon such variabilities as everyday events, the degree of that conviction would,
					in thinking minds, be subject to fluctuations akin to those of the
					stock-exchange during a long and uncertain war. Here he glanced aside at his
					transfer-book, and after a moment's pause continued. It was of the essence of a
					right conviction of the divine nature, as with a right conviction of the human,
					that, based less on experience than intuition, it rose above the zones of
					weather.

When now the merchant, with all his heart, coincided with this (as being a
					sensible, as well as religious person, he could not but do), his companion
					expressed satisfaction, that, in an age of some distrust on such subjects, he
					could yet meet with one who shared with him, almost to the full, so sound and
					sublime a confidence.

Still, he was far from the illiberality of denying that philosophy duly bounded
					was not permissible. Only he deemed it at least desirable that, when such a case
					as that alleged of the unfortunate man was made the subject of philosophic
					discussion, it should be so philosophized upon, as not to afford handles to
					those unblessed with the true light. For, but to grant that there was so much as
					a mystery about such a case, might by those persons be held for a tacit
					surrender of the question. And as for the apparent license temporarily permitted
					sometimes, to the bad over the good (as was by implication <pb n="99"/> alleged
					with regard to Goneril and the unfortunate man), it might be injudicious there
					to lay too much polemic stress upon the doctrine of future retribution as the
					vindication of present impunity. For though, indeed, to the right-minded that
					doctrine was true, and of sufficient solace, yet with the perverse the polemic
					mention of it might but provoke the shallow, though mischievous conceit, that
					such a doctrine was but tantamount to the one which should affirm that
					Providence was not now, but was going to be. In short, with all sorts of
					cavilers, it was best, both for them and everybody, that whoever had the true
					light should stick behind the secure Malakoff of confidence, nor be tempted
					forth to hazardous skirmishes on the open ground of reason. Therefore, he deemed
					it unadvisable in the good man, even in the privacy of his own mind, or in
					communion with a congenial one, to indulge in too much latitude of
					philosophizing, or, indeed, of compassionating, since this might beget an
					indiscreet habit of thinking and feeling which might unexpectedly betray him
					upon unsuitable occasions. Indeed, whether in private or public, there was
					nothing which a good man was more bound to guard himself against than, on some
					topics, the emotional unreserve of his natural heart; for, that the natural
					heart, in certain points, was not what it might be, men had been authoritatively
					admonished.

But he thought he might be getting dry.

The merchant, in his good-nature, thought otherwise, and said that he would be
					glad to refresh himself with such fruit all day. It was sitting under a ripe
					pulpit, <pb n="100"/> and better such a seat than under a ripe peach-tree.

The other was pleased to find that he had not, as he feared, been prosing; but
					would rather not be considered in the formal light of a preacher; he preferred
					being still received in that of the equal and genial companion. To which end,
					throwing still more of sociability into his manner, he again reverted to the
					unfortunate man. Take the very worst view of that case; admit that his Goneril
					was indeed, a Goneril; how fortunate to be at last rid of this Goneril; both by
					nature and by law ? If he were acquainted with the unfortunate man, instead of
					condoling with him, he would congratulate him. Great good fortune had this
					unfortunate man. Lucky dog, he dared say, after all.

To which the merchant replied, that he earnestly hoped it might be so, and at any
					rate he tried his best to comfort himself with the persuasion that, if the
					unfortunate man was not happy in this world, he would, at least, be so in
					another.

His companion made no question of the unfortunate man's happiness in both worlds;
					and, presently calling for some champagne, invited the merchant to partake, upon
					the playful plea that, whatever notions other than felicitous ones he might
					associate with the unfortunate man, a little champagne would readily bubble
					away.

At intervals they slowly quaffed several glasses in silence and thoughtfulness.
					At last the merchant's expressive face flushed, his eye moistly beamed, his lips
					trembled with an imaginative and feminine sensibility. <pb n="101"/> Without
					sending a single fume to his head, the wine seemed to shoot to his heart, and
					begin soothsaying there. "Ah," he cried, pushing his glass from him, "Ah, wine
					is good, and confidence is good; but can wine or confidence percolate down
					through all the stony strata of hard considerations, and drop warmly and ruddily
					into the cold cave of truth ? Truth will not be comforted. Led by dear charity,
					lured by sweet hope, fond fancy essays this feat; but in vain; mere dreams and
					ideals, they explode in your hand, leaving naught but the scorching behind !"

"Why, why, why !" in amaze, at the burst; "bless me, if In vino veritas be a true
					saying, then, for all the fine confidence you professed with me, just now,
					distrust, deep distrust, underlies it; and ten thousand strong, like the Irish
					Rebellion, breaks out in you now. That wine, good me, should do it! Upon my
					soul," half seriously, half humorously, securing the bottle, "you shall drink no
					more of it. Wine was meant to gladden the heart, not grieve it; to heighten
					confidence, not depress it."

Sobered, shamed, all but confounded, by this raillery, the most telling rebuke
					under such circumstances, the merchant stared about him, and then, with altered
					mien, stammeringly confessed, that he was almost as much surprised as his
					companion, at what had escaped him. He did not understand it; was quite at a
					loss to account for such a rhapsody popping out of him unbidden. It could hardly
					be the champagne; he felt his brain unaffected; in fact, if anything, the wine
					had acted upon <pb n="102"/> it something like white of egg in coffee,
					clarifying and brightening.

"Brightening? brightening it may be, but less like the white of egg in coffee,
					than like stove-lustre on a stove—black, brightening seriously, I
					repent calling for the champagne. To a temperament like yours, champagne is not
					to be recommended. Pray, my dear sir, do you feel quite yourself again ?
					Confidence restored ?"

"I hope so; I think I may say it is so. But we have had a long talk, and I think
					I must retire now."

So saying, the merchant rose, and making his adieus, left the table with the air
					of one, mortified at having been tempted by his own honest goodness,
					accidentally stimulated into making mad disclosures—to himself as to
					another—of the queer, unaccountable caprices of his natural heart.

			</div1>

			<div1 type="chapter" n="14" id="d19">
				<pb n="103"/>
				CHAPTER XIV: WORTH THE CONSIDERATION OF THOSE TO WHOM IT MAY PROVE WORTH
					CONSIDERING.

AS the last chapter was begun with a reminder looking forwards, so the present
					must consist of one glancing backwards.

To some, it may raise a degree of surprise that one so full of confidence, as the
					merchant has throughout shown himself, up to the moment of his late sudden
					impulsiveness, should, in that instance, have betrayed such a depth of
					discontent. He may be thought inconsistent, and even so he is. But for this, is
					the author to be blamed ? True, it may be urged that there is nothing a writer
					of fiction should more carefully see to, as there is nothing a sensible reader
					will more carefully look for, than that, in the depiction of any character, its
					consistency should be preserved. But this, though at first blush, seeming
					reasonable enough, may, upon a closer view, prove not so much so. For how does
					it couple with another requirement—equally insisted upon,
					perhaps—that, while to all fiction is allowed some play of invention,
					yet, fiction based on fact should never be contradictory to it; and is it not a
					fact, that, in real life, a consistent <pb n="104"/> character is a rara avis ?
					Which being so, the distaste of readers to the contrary sort in books, can
					hardly arise from any sense of their untrueness. It may rather be from
					perplexity as to understanding them. But if the acutest sage be often at his
					wits' ends to understand living character, shall those who are not sages expect
					to run and read character in those mere phantoms which flit along a page, like
					shadows along a wall? That fiction, where every character can, by reason of its
					consistency, be comprehended at a glance, either exhibits but sections of
					character, making them appear for wholes, or else is very untrue to reality;
					while, on the other hand, that author who draws a character, even though to
					common view incongruous in its parts, as the flying-squirrel, and, at different
					periods, as much at variance with itself as the butterfly is with the
					caterpillar into which it changes, may yet, in so doing, be not false but
					faithful to facts.

If season be judge, no writer has produced such inconsistent characters as nature
					herself has. It must call for no small sagacity in a reader unerringly to
					discriminate in a novel between the inconsistencies of conception and those of
					life as elsewhere. Experience is the only guide here; but as no one man can be
					coextensive with what is, it may be unwise in every case to rest upon it. When
					the duck-billed beaver of Australia was first brought stuffed to England, the
					naturalists, appealing to their classifications, maintained that there was, in
					reality, no such creature; the bill in the specimen must needs be, in some way,
					artificially stuck on. <pb n="105"/>

But let nature, to the perplexity of the naturalists, produce her duck-billed
					beavers as she may, lesser authors, some may bold, have no business to be
					perplexing readers with duck-billed characters. Always, they should represent
					human nature not in obscurity, but transparency, which, indeed, is the practice
					with most novelists, and is, perhaps, in certain cases, someway felt to be a
					kind of honor rendered by them to their kind. But whether it involve honor or
					otherwise might be mooted, considering that, if these waters of human nature can
					be so readily seen through, it may be either that they are very pure or very
					shallow. Upon the whole, it might rather be thought, that he, who, in view of
					its inconsistencies, says of human nature the same that, in view of its
					contrasts, is said of the divine nature, that it is past finding out, thereby
					evinces a better appreciation of it than he who, by always representing it in a
					clear light, leaves it to be inferred that he clearly knows all about it.

But though there is a prejudice against inconsistent characters in books, yet the
					prejudice bears the other way, when what seemed at first their consistency,
					afterwards, by the skill of the writer, turns out to be their good keeping. The
					great masters excel in nothing so much as in this very particular. They
					challenge astonishment at the tangled web of some character, and then raise
					admiration still greater at their satisfactory unraveling of it; in this way
					throwing open, sometimes to the understanding even of school misses, the last
					complications of that spirit which is affirmed <pb n="106"/> by its Creator to
					be fearfully and wonderfully made.

At least, something like this is claimed for certain psychological novelists; nor
					will the claim be here disputed. Yet, as touching this point, it may prove
					suggestive, that all those sallies of ingenuity, having for their end the
					revelation of human nature on fixed principles, have, by the best judges, been
					excluded with contempt from the ranks of the sciences—palmistry,
					physiognomy, phrenology, psychology. Likewise, the fact, that in all ages such
					conflicting views have, by the most eminent minds, been taken of mankind, would,
					as with other topics, seem some presumption of a pretty general and pretty
					thorough ignorance of it. Which may appear the less improbable if it be
					considered that, after poring over the best novels professing to portray human
					nature, the studious youth will still run risk of being too often at fault upon
					actually entering the world; whereas, had he been furnished with a true
					delineation, it ought to fare with him something as with a stranger entering,
					map in hand, Boston town; the streets may be very crooked, he may often pause;
					but, thanks to his true map, he does not hopelessly lose his way. Nor, to this
					comparison, can it be an adequate objection, that the twistings of the town are
					always the same, and those of human nature subject to variation. The grand
					points of human nature are the same to-day they were a thousand years ago. The
					only variability in them is in expression, not in feature.

But as, in spite of seeming discouragement, some <pb n="107"/> mathematicians are
					yet in hopes of hitting upon an exact method of determining the longitude, the
					more earnest psychologists may, in the face of previous failures, still cherish
					expectations with regard to some mode of infallibly discovering the heart of
					man.

But enough has been said by way of apology for whatever may have seemed amiss or
					obscure in the character of the merchant; so nothing remains but to turn to our
					comedy, or, rather, to pass from the comedy of thought to that of action.

				<pb n="108"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="15" id="d20">
				CHAPTER XV.<lb/> AN OLD MISER, UPON SUITABLE REPRESENTATIONS, IS PREVAILED
					UPON TO VENTURE AN INVESTMENT.

THE merchant having withdrawn, the other remained seated alone for a time, with
					the air of one who, after having conversed with some excellent man, carefully
					ponders what fell from him, however intellectually inferior it may be, that none
					of the profit may be lost; happy if from any honest word he has heard he can
					derive some hint, which, besides confirming him in the theory of virtue, may,
					likewise, serve for a finger-post to virtuous action.

Ere long his eye brightened, as if some such hint was now caught. He rises, book
					in hand, quits the cabin, and enters upon a sort of corridor, narrow and dim, a
					by-way to a retreat less ornate and cheery than the former; in short, the
					emigrants' quarters; but which, owing to the present trip being a down-river
					one, will doubtless be found comparatively tenantless. Owing to obstructions
					against the side windows, the whole place is dim and dusky; very much so, for
					the most part; yet, by starts, haggardly lit here and there by narrow,
					capricious sky-lights in the cornices. But there <pb n="109"/> would seem no
					special need for light, the place being designed more to pass the night in, than
					the day; in brief, a pine barrens dormitory, of knotty pine bunks, without
					bedding. As with the nests in the geometrical towns of the associate penguin and
					pelican, these bunks were disposed with Philadelphian regularity, but, like the
					cradle of the oriole, they were pendulous, and, moreover, were, so to speak,
					three-story cradles; the description of one of which will suffice for all.

Four ropes, secured to the ceiling, passed downwards through auger-holes bored in
					the corners of three rough planks, which at equal distances rested on knots
					vertically tied in the ropes, the lowermost plank but an inch or two from the
					floor, the whole affair resembling, on a large scale, rope book-shelves; only,
					instead of hanging firmly against a wall, they swayed to and fro at the least
					suggestion of motion, but were more especially lively upon the provocation of a
					green emigrant sprawling into one, and trying to lay himself out there, when the
					cradling would be such as almost to toss him back whence he came. In
					consequence, one less inexperienced, essaying repose on the uppermost shelf, was
					liable to serious disturbance, should a raw beginner select a shelf beneath.
					Sometimes a throng of poor emigrants, coming at night in a sudden rain to occupy
					these oriole nests, would—through ignorance of their
					peculiarity—bring about such a rocking uproar of carpentry, joining to
					it such an uproar of exclamations, that it seemed as if some luckless ship, with
					all its crew, was being dashed to pieces among the rocks. They were beds devised
						<pb n="110"/> by some sardonic foe of poor travelers, to deprive them of
					that tranquillity which should precede, as well as accompany,
					slumber.—Procrustean beds, on whose hard grain humble worth and
					honesty writhed, still invoking repose, while but torment responded. Ah, did any
					one make such a bunk for himself, instead of having it made for him, it might be
					just, but how cruel, to say, You must lie on it!

But, purgatory as the place would appear, the stranger advances into it; and,
					like Orpheus in his gay descent to Tartarus, lightly hums to himself an opera
					snatch.

Suddenly there is a rustling, then a creaking, one of the cradles swings out from
					a murky nook, a sort of wasted penguin-flipper is supplicatingly put forth,
					while a wail like that of Dives is heard:—"Water, water!"

It was the miser of whom the merchant had spoken.

Swift as a sister-of-charity, the stranger hovers over him:—

"My poor, poor sir, what can I do for you ?"

"Ugh, ugh—water!"

Darting out, he procures a glass, returns, and, holding it to the sufferer's
					lips, supports his head while he drinks: "And did they let you lie here, my poor
					sir, racked with this parching thirst ?"

The miser, a lean old man, whose flesh seemed salted cod-fish, dry as
					combustibles; head, like one whittled by an idiot out of a knot; flat, bony
					mouth, nipped between buzzard nose and chin; expression, flitting <pb n="111"/>
					between hunks and imbecile—now one, now the other—he made no
					response. His eyes were closed, his cheek lay upon an old white moleskin coat,
					rolled under his head like a wizened apple upon a grimy snow-bank.

Revived at last, he inclined towards his ministrant, and, in a voice disastrous
					with a cough, said:—"I am old and miserable, a poor beggar, not worth
					a shoe-string—how can I repay you ?"

"By giving me your confidence."

"Confidence!" he squeaked, with changed manner, while the pallet swung, "little
					left at my age, but take the stale remains, and welcome."

"Such as it is, though, you give it. Very good. Now give me a hundred dollars."

Upon this the miser was all panic. His hands groped towards his waist, then
					suddenly flew upward beneath his moleskin pillow, and there lay clutching
					something out of sight. Meantime, to himself he incoherently
					mumbled:—"Confidence ? Cant, gammon! Confidence ? hum, bubble
					!—Confidence ? fetch, gouge !—Hundred dollars
					?—hundred devils !" Half spent, he lay mute awhile, then feebly
					raising himself, in a voice for the moment made strong by the sarcasm, said, "A
					hundred dollars? rather high price to put upon confidence. But don't you see I
					am a poor, old rat here, dying in the wainscot ? You have served me; but, wretch
					that I am, I can but cough you my thanks,—ugh, ugh, ugh!"

This time his cough was so violent that its convulsions were imparted to the
					plank, which swung him <pb n="112"/> about like a stone in a sling preparatory
					to its being hurled.

"Ugh, ugh, ugh !"

"What a shocking cough. I wish, my friend, the herb-doctor was here now; a box of
					his Omni-Balsamic Reinvigorator would do you good."

"Ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"I've a good mind to go find him. He's aboard somewhere. I saw his long,
					snuff-colored surtout. Trust me, his medicines are the best in the world."

"Ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"Oh, how sorry I am."

"No doubt of it," squeaked the other again, "but go, get your charity out on
					deck. There parade the pursy peacocks; they don't cough down here in desertion
					and darkness, like poor old me. Look how scaly a pauper I am, clove with this
					churchyard cough. Ugh, ugh, ugh !"

"Again, how sorry I feel, not only for your cough, but your poverty. Such a rare
					chance made unavailable. Did you have but the sum named, how I could invest it
					for you. Treble profits. But confidence—I fear that, even had you the
					precious cash, you would not have the more precious confidence I speak of."

"Ugh, ugh, ugh !" flightily raising himself. "What's that? How, how? Then you
					don't want the money for yourself ?"

"My dear, dear sir, how could you impute to me <pb n="113"/> such preposterous
					self-seeking ? To solicit out of hand, for my private behoof, an hundred dollars
					from a perfect stranger ? I am not mad, my dear sir."

"How, how ?" still more bewildered, "do you, then, go about the world, gratis,
					seeking to invest people's money for them ?"

"My humble profession, sir. I live not for myself; but the world will not have
					confidence in me, and yet confidence in me were great gain."

"But, but," in a kind of vertigo, " what do—do you do—do with
					people's money ? Ugh, ugh ! How is the gain made ?"

"To tell that would ruin me. That known, every one would be going into the
					business, and it would be overdone. A secret, a mystery—all I have to
					do with you is to receive your confidence, and all you have to do with me is, in
					due time, to receive it back, thrice paid in trebling profits."

"What, what?" imbecility in the ascendant once more; "but the vouchers, the
					vouchers," suddenly hunkish again.

"Honesty's best voucher is honesty's face."

"Can't see yours, though," peering through the obscurity.

From this last alternating flicker of rationality, the miser fell back,
					sputtering, into his previous gibberish, but it took now an arithmetical turn.
					Eyes closed, he lay muttering to himself—

"One hundred, one hundred—two hundred, two hundred—three
					hundred, three hundred." <pb n="114"/>

He opened his eyes, feebly stared, and still more feebly said—

"It's a little dim here, ain't it ? Ugh, ugh! But, as well as my poor old eyes
					can see, you look honest."

"I am glad to hear that."

"If—if, now, I should put"—trying to raise himself, but
					vainly, excitement having all but exhausted him—"if; if now, I should
					put, put—"

"No if s. Downright confidence, or none. So help me heaven, I will have no
					half-confidences."

He said it with an indifferent and superior air, and seemed moving to go.

"Don't, don't leave me, friend; bear with me; age can't help some distrust; it
					can't, friend, it can't. Ugh, ugh, ugh ! Oh, I am so old and miserable. I ought
					to have a gaurdeean. Tell me, if—"

"If ? No more !"

"Stay ! how soon—ugh, ugh !—would my money be trebled ? How
					soon, friend ?"

"You won't confide. Good-bye !"

"Stay, stay," falling back now like an infant, "I confide, I confide; help,
					friend, my distrust!"

From an old buckskin pouch, tremulously dragged forth, ten hoarded eagles,
					tarnished into the appearance often old horn-buttons, were taken, and
					half-eagerly, half-reluctantly, offered.

"I know not whether I should accept this slack confidence," said the other
					coldly, receiving the gold, "but an eleventh-hour confidence, a sick-bed
					confidence, a <pb n="115"/> distempered, death-bed confidence, after all. Give
					me the healthy confidence of healthy men, with their healthy wits about them.
					But let that pass. All right. Good-bye!"

"Nay, back, back—receipt, my receipt ! Ugh, ugh, ugh ! Who are you?
					What have I done? Where go you? My gold, my gold ! Ugh, ugh, ugh!"

But, unluckily for this final flicker of reason, the stranger was now beyond
					ear-shot, nor was any one else within hearing of so feeble a call.

				<pb n="116"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="16" id="d21">
				CHAPTER XVI: A SICK MAN, AFTER SOME IMPATIENCE, IS INDUCED TO BECOME A PATIENT

THE sky slides into blue, the bluffs into bloom; the rapid Mississippi expands;
					runs sparkling and gurgling, all over in eddies; one magnified wake of a
					seventy-four. The sun comes out, a golden huzzar, from his tent, flashing his
					helm on the world. All things, warmed in the landscape, leap. Speeds the
					dædal boat as a dream.

But, withdrawn in a corner, wrapped about in a shawl, sits an unparticipating
					man, visited, but not warmed, by the sun—a plant whose hour seems
					over, while buds are blowing and seeds are astir. On a stool at his left sits a
					stranger in a snuff-colored surtout, the collar thrown back; his hand waving in
					persuasive gesture, his eye beaming with hope. But not easily may hope be
					awakened in one long tranced into hopelessness by a chronic complaint.

To some remark the sick man, by word or look, seemed to have just made an
					impatiently querulous answer, when, with a deprecatory air, the other resumed:

"Nay, think not I seek to cry up my treatment by <pb n="117"/> crying down that
					of others. And yet, when one is confident he has truth on his side, and that it
					is not on the other, it is no very easy thing to be charitable; not that temper
					is the bar, but conscience; for charity would beget toleration, you know, which
					is a kind of implied permitting, and in effect a kind of countenancing; and that
					which is countenanced is so far furthered. But should untruth be furthered ?
					Still, while for the world's good I refuse to further the cause of these mineral
					doctors, I would fain regard them, not as willful wrong-doers, but good
					Samaritans erring. And is this—I put it to you, sir—is this
					the view of an arrogant rival and pretender ?"

His physical power all dribbled and gone, the sick man replied not by voice or by
					gesture; but, with feeble dumb-show of his face, seemed to be saying "Pray leave
					me; who was ever cured by talk ?"

But the other, as if not unused to make allowances for such despondency,
					proceeded; and kindly, yet firmly:

"You tell me, that by advice of an eminent physiologist in Louisville, you took
					tincture of iron. For what ? To restore your lost energy. And how? Why, in
					healthy subjects iron is naturally found in the blood, and iron in the bar is
					strong; ergo, iron is the source of animal invigoration. But you being deficient
					in vigor, it follows that the cause is deficiency of iron. Iron, then, must be
					put into you; and so your tincture. Now as to the theory here, I am mute. But in
					modesty assuming its truth, and then, as a plain man viewing that theory in
					practice, I would respectfully question your <pb n="118"/> eminent physiologist:
					'Sir,' I would say, 'though by natural processes, lifeless natures taken as
					nutriment become vitalized, yet is a lifeless nature, under any circumstances,
					capable of a living transmission, with all its qualities as a lifeless nature
					unchanged ? If, sir, nothing can be incorporated with the living body but by
					assimilation, and if that implies the conversion of one thing to a different
					thing (as, in a lamp, oil is assimilated into flame), is it, in this view,
					likely, that by banqueting on fat, Calvin Edson will fatten? That is, will what
					is fat on the board prove fat on the bones? If it will, then, sir, what is iron
					in the vial will prove iron in the vein.' Seems that conclusion too confident?"

But the sick man again turned his dumb-show look, as much as to say, "Pray leave
					me. Why, with painful words, hint the vanity of that which the pains of this
					body have too painfully proved ?"

But the other, as if unobservant of that querulous look, went on:

"But this notion, that science can play farmer to the flesh, making there what
					living soil it pleases, seems not so strange as that other
					conceit—that science is now-a-days so expert that, in consumptive
					cases, as yours, it can, by prescription of the inhalation of certain vapors,
					achieve the sublimest act of omnipotence, breathing into all but lifeless dust
					the breath of life. For did you not tell me, my poor sir, that by order of the
					great chemist in Baltimore, for three weeks you were never driven out without a
					respirator, and for a given time of every day sat bolstered up in a sort of
					gasometer, inspiring <pb n="119"/> vapors generated by the burning of drugs ? as
					if this concocted atmosphere of man were an antidote to the poison of God's
					natural air. Oh, who can wonder at that old reproach against science, that it is
					atheistical ? And here is my prime reason for opposing these chemical
					practitioners, who have sought out so many inventions. For what do their
					inventions indicate, unless it be that kind and degree of pride in human skill,
					which seems scarce compatible with reverential dependence upon the power above ?
					Try to rid my mind of it as I may, yet still these chemical practitioners with
					their tinctures, and fumes, and braziers, and occult incantations, seem to me
					like Pharaoh's vain sorcerers, trying to beat down the will of heaven. Day and
					night, in all charity, I intercede for them, that heaven may not, in its own
					language, be provoked to anger with their inventions; may not take vengeance of
					their inventions. A thousand pities that you should ever have been in the hands
					of these Egyptians."

But again came nothing but the dumb-show look, as much as to say, "Pray leave me;
					quacks, and indignation against quacks, both are vain."

But, once more, the other went on: "How different we herb-doctors! who claim
					nothing, invent nothing; but staff in hand, in glades, and upon hillsides, go
					about in nature, humbly seeking her cures. True Indian doctors, though not
					learned in names, we are not unfamiliar with essences—successors of
					Solomon the Wise, who knew all vegetables, from the cedar of Lebanon, to the
					hyssop on the wall. Yes, Solomon was the first of <pb n="120"/> herb-doctors.
					Nor were the virtues of herbs unhonored by yet older ages. Is it not writ, that
					on a moonlight night, <q>
						<lg>
							<l>"Medea gathered the enchanted herbs</l>
							<l>That did renew old Æson ?"</l>
						</lg>
					</q> Ah, would you but have confidence, you should be the new AEson, and I your
					Medea. A few vials of my Omni-Balsamic Reinvigorator would, I am certain, give
					you some strength."

Upon this, indignation and abhorrence seemed to work by their excess the effect
					promised of the balsam. Roused from that long apathy of impotence, the
					cadaverous man started, and, in a voice that was as the sound of obstructed air
					gurgling through a maze of broken honey-combs, cried: "Begone! You are all
					alike. The name of doctor, the dream of helper, condemns you. For years I have
					been but a gallipot for you experimentizers to rinse your experiments into, and
					now, in this livid skin, partake of the nature of my contents. Begone! I hate
					ye."

"I were inhuman, could I take affront at a want of confidence, born of too bitter
					an experience of betrayers. Yet, permit one who is not without
					feeling—"

"Begone! Just in that voice talked to me, not six months ago, the German doctor
					at the water cure, from which I now return, six months and sixty pangs nigher my
					grave."

"The water-cure? Oh, fatal delusion of the well-meaning Preisnitz!—Sir,
					trust me—" <pb n="121"/>

"Begone!"

"Nay, an invalid should not always have his own way. Ah, sir, reflect how
					untimely this distrust in one like you. How weak you are; and weakness, is it
					not the time for confidence? Yes, when through weakness everything bids despair,
					then is the time to get strength by confidence." Relenting in his air, the sick
					man cast upon him a long glance of beseeching, as if saying, "With confidence
					must come hope; and how can hope be?"

The herb-doctor took a sealed paper box from his surtout pocket, and holding it
					towards him, said solemnly, "Turn not away. This may be the last time of
					health's asking. Work upon yourself; invoke confidence, though from ashes; rouse
					it; for your life, rouse it, and invoke it, I say."

The other trembled, was silent; and then, a little commanding himself, asked the
					ingredients of the medicine.

"Herbs."

"What herbs ? And the nature of them ? And the reason for giving them ?"

"It cannot be made known."

"Then I will none of you."

Sedately observant of the juiceless, joyless form before him, the herb-doctor was
					mute a moment, then said:—"I give up."

"How?"

"You are sick, and a philosopher."

"No, no;—not the last." <pb n="122"/> 122 THE CONFIDENCE-MAN.

"But, to demand the ingredient, with the reason for giving, is the mark of a
					philosopher; just as the consequence is the penalty of a fool. A sick
					philosopher is incurable."

"Why?"

"Because he has no confidence."

"How does that make him incurable?"

"Because either he spurns his powder, or, if he take it, it proves a blank
					cartridge, though the same given to a rustic in like extremity, would act like a
					charm. I am no materialist; but the mind so acts upon the body, that if the one
					have no confidence, neither has the other "

Again, the sick man appeared not unmoved. He seemed to be thinking what in candid
					truth could be said to all this. At length, "You talk of confidence. How comes
					it that when brought low himself, the herb-doctor, who was most confident to
					prescribe in other cases, proves least confident to prescribe in his own; having
					small confidence in himself for himself?" "But he has confidence in the brother
					he calls in. And that he does so, is no reproach to him, since he knows that
					when the body is prostrated, the mind is not erect. Yes, in this hour the
					herb-doctor does distrust himself, but not his art."

The sick man's knowledge did not warrant him to gainsay this. But he seemed not
					grieved at it; glad to be confuted in a way tending towards his wish.

"Then you give me hope ?" his sunken eye turned up.

"Hope is proportioned to confidence. How much confidence you give me, so much
					hope do I give you. <pb n="123"/> For this," lifting the box, " if all depended
					upon this, I should rest. It is nature's own."

"Nature !"

"Why do you start ?"

"I know not," with a sort of shudder," but I have heard of a book entitled
					'Nature in Disease."'

"A title I cannot approve; it is suspiciously scientific. 'Nature in Disease?' As
					if nature, divine nature, were aught but health; as if through nature disease is
					decreed! But did I not before hint of the tendency of science, that forbidden
					tree ? Sir, if despondency is yours from recalling that title, dismiss it. Trust
					me, nature is health; for health is good, and nature cannot work ill. As little
					can she work error. Get nature, and you get well. Now, I repeat, this medicine
					is nature's own."

Again the sick man could not, according to his light, conscientiously disprove
					what was said. Neither, as before, did he seem over-anxious to do so; the less,
					as in his sensitiveness it seemed to him, that hardly could he offer so to do
					without something like the appearance of a kind of implied irreligion; nor in
					his heart was he ungrateful, that since a spirit opposite to that pervaded all
					the herb-doctor's hopeful words, therefore, for hopefulness, he (the sick man)
					had not alone medical warrant, but also doctrinal.

"Then you do really think," hectically, " that if I take this medicine,"
					mechanically reaching out for it, "I shall regain my health ?"

"I will not encourage false hopes," relinquishing to <pb n="124"/> him the box,
					"I will be frank with you. Though frankness is not always the weakness of the
					mineral practitioner, yet the herb doctor must be frank, or nothing. Now then,
					sir, in your case, a radical cure—such a cure, understand, as should
					make you robust—such a cure, sir, I do not and cannot promise."

"Oh, you need not! only restore me the power of being something else to others
					than a burdensome care, and to myself a droning grief. Only cure me of this
					misery of weakness; only make me so that I can walk about in the sun and not
					draw the flies to me, as lured by the coming of decay. Only do
					that—but that."

"You ask not much; you are wise; not in vain have you suffered. That little you
					ask, I think, can be granted. But remember, not in a day, nor a week, nor
					perhaps a month, but sooner or later; I say not exactly when, for I am neither
					prophet nor charlatan. Still, if, according to the directions in your box there,
					you take my medicine steadily, without assigning an especial day, near or
					remote, to discontinue it, then may you calmly look for some eventual result of
					good. But again I say, you must have confidence."

Feverishly he replied that he now trusted he had, and hourly should pray for its
					increase. When suddenly relapsing into one of those strange caprices peculiar to
					some invalids, he added: "But to one like me, it is so hard, so hard. The most
					confident hopes so often have failed me, and as often have I vowed never, no,
					never, to trust them again. Oh," feebly wringing his hands, "you do not know,
					you do not know." <pb n="125"/>

"I know this, that never did a right confidence come to naught. But time is
					short; you hold your cure, to retain or reject."

"I retain," with a clinch, "and now how much ?"

"As much as you can evoke from your heart and heaven."

"How?—the price of this medicine ?"

"I thought it was confidence you meant; how much confidence you should have. The
					medicine,—that is half a dollar a vial. Your box holds six."

The money was paid.

"Now, sir," said the herb-doctor, "my business calls me away, and it may so be
					that I shall never see you again; if then—"

He paused, for the sick man's countenance fell blank.

"Forgive me," cried the other, "forgive that imprudent phrase never see you
					again.' Though I solely intended it with reference to myself, yet I had
					forgotten what your sensitiveness might be. I repeat, then, that it may be that
					we shall not soon have a second interview, so that hereafter, should another of
					my boxes be needed, you may not be able to replace it except by purchase at the
					shops; and, in so doing, you may run more or less risk of taking some not
					salutary mixture. For such is the popularity of the Omni-Balsamic
					Reinvigorator—thriving not by the credulity of the simple, but the
					trust of the wise—that certain contrivers have not been idle, though I
					would not, indeed, hastily affirm of them that they are aware of the sad
					consequences to the public. Homicides and murderers, some call those <pb n="126"
					/> contrivers; but I do not; for murder (if such a crime be possible) comes from
					the heart, and these men's motives come from the purse. Were they not in
					poverty, I think they would hardly do what they do. Still, the public interests
					forbid that I should let their needy device for a living succeed. In short, I
					have adopted precautions. Take the wrapper from any of my vials and hold it to
					the light, you will see water-marked in capitals the word 'confidence,' which is
					the countersign of the medicine, as I wish it was of the world. The wrapper
					bears that mark or else the medicine is counterfeit. But if still any lurking
					doubt should remain, pray enclose the wrapper to this address," handing a card,
					"and by return mail I will answer."

At first the sick man listened, with the air of vivid interest, but gradually,
					while the other was still talking, another strange caprice came over him, and he
					presented the aspect of the most calamitous dejection.

"How now ?" said the herb-doctor.

"You told me to have confidence, said that confidence was indispensable, and here
					you preach to me distrust. Ah, truth will out!"

"I told you, you must have confidence, unquestioning confidence, I meant
					confidence in the genuine medicine, and the genuine me."

"But in your absence, buying vials purporting to be yours, it seems I cannot have
					unquestioning confidence."

"Prove all the vials; trust those which are true." "But to doubt, to suspect, to
					prove—to have all this <pb n="127"/> wearing work to be doing
					continually—how opposed to confidence. It is evil!"

"From evil comes good. Distrust is a stage to confidence. How has it proved in
					our interview ? But your voice is husky; I have let you talk too much. You hold
					your cure; I leave you. But stay—when I hear that health is yours, I
					will not, like some I know, vainly make boasts; but, giving glory where all
					glory is due, say, with the devout herb-doctor, Japus in Virgil, when, in the
					unseen but efficacious presence of Venus, he with simples healed the wound of
					Æneas:— <q>
						<lg>
							<l>'This is no mortal work, no cure of mine,</l>
							<l>Nor art's effect, but done by power divine."'</l>
						</lg>
					</q>

				<pb n="128"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="17" id="d22">
				CHAPTER XVII.<lb/> TOWARDS THE END OF WHICH THE HERB-DOCTOR PROVES HIMSELF A
					FORGIVER OF INJURIES.

IN a kind of ante-cabin, a number of respectable looking people, male and female,
					way-passengers, recently come on board, are listlessly sitting in a mutually shy
					sort of silence.

Holding up a small, square bottle, ovally labeled with the engraving of a
					countenance full of soft pity as that of the Romish-painted Madonna, the
					herb-doctor passes slowly among them, benignly urbane, turning this way and
					that, saying:—

"Ladies and gentlemen, I hold in my hand here the Samaritan Pain Dissuader,
					thrice-blessed discovery of that disinterested friend of humanity whose portrait
					you see. Pure vegetable extract. Warranted to remove the acutest pain within
					less than ten minutes. Five hundred dollars to be forfeited on failure.
					Especially efficacious in heart disease and tic-douloureux. Observe the
					expression of this pledged friend of humanity.—Price only fifty
					cents."

In vain. After the first idle stare, his auditors—in pretty good
					health, it seemed—instead of encouraging <pb n="129"/> his politeness,
					appeared, if anything, impatient of it; and, perhaps, only diffidence, or some
					small regard for his feelings, prevented them from telling him so. But,
					insensible to their coldness, or charitably overlooking it, he more wooingly
					than ever resumed: "May I venture upon a small supposition? Have I your kind
					leave, ladies and gentlemen?"

To which modest appeal, no one had the kindness to answer a syllable.

"Well," said he, resignedly, "silence is at least not denial, and may be consent.
					Sly supposition is this: possibly some lady, here present, has a dear friend at
					home, a bed-ridden sufferer from spinal complaint. If so, what gift more
					appropriate to that sufferer than this tasteful little bottle of Pain
					Dissuader?"

Again he glanced about him, but met much the same reception as before. Those
					faces, alien alike to sympathy or surprise, seemed patiently to say, "We are
					travelers; and, as such, must expect to meet, and quietly put up with, many
					antic fools, and more antic quacks."

"Ladies and gentlemen," (deferentially fixing his eyes upon their now
					self-complacent faces) ladies and gentlemen, might I, by your kind leave,
					venture upon one other small supposition? It is this: that there is scarce a
					sufferer, this noonday, writhing on his bed, but in his hour he sat
					satisfactorily healthy and happy; that the Samaritan Pain Dissuader is the one
					only balm for that to which each living creature—who
					knows?—may be a draughted victim, present or prospective. In
					short:—Oh, Happiness on my right hand, and oh, <pb n="130"/> Security
					on my left, can ye wisely adore a Providence, and not think it wisdom to
					provide?—Provide!" (Uplifting the bottle.)

What immediate effect, if any, this appeal might have had, is uncertain. For just
					then the boat touched at a houseless landing, scooped, as by a land-slide, out
					of sombre forests; back through which led a road, the sole one, which, from its
					narrowness, and its being walled up with story on story of dusk, matted foliage,
					presented the vista of some cavernous old gorge in a city, like haunted Cock
					Lane in London. Issuing from that road, and crossing that landing, there stooped
					his shaggy form in the door-way, and entered the ante-cabin, with a step so
					burdensome that shot seemed in his pockets, a kind of invalid Titan in homespun;
					his beard blackly pendant, like the Carolina-moss, and dank with cypress dew;
					his countenance tawny and shadowy as an iron-ore country in a clouded day. In
					one hand he carried a heavy walking-stick of swamp-oak; with the other, led a
					puny girl, walking in moccasins, not improbably his child, but evidently of
					alien maternity, perhaps Creole, or even Camanche. Her eye would have been large
					for a woman, and was inky as the pools of falls among mountain-pines. An Indian
					blanket, orange-hued, and fringed with lead tassel-work, appeared that morning
					to have shielded the child from heavy showers. Her limbs were tremulous; she
					seemed a little Cassandra, in nervousness.

No sooner was the pair spied by the herb-doctor, than with a cheerful air, both
					arms extended like a host's, he <pb n="131"/> advanced, and taking the child's
					reluctant hand, said, trippingly: "On your travels, ah, my little May Queen?
					Glad to see you. What pretty moccasins. Nice to dance in." Then with a half
					caper sang— <q>
						<lg>
							<l>" Hey diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle;</l>
							<l>The cow jumped over the moon.'</l>
						</lg>
					</q> Come, chirrup, chirrup, my little robin !"

Which playful welcome drew no responsive playfulness from the child, nor appeared
					to gladden or conciliate the father; but rather, if anything, to dash the dead
					weight of his heavy-hearted expression with a smile hypochondriacally scornful.

Sobering down now, the herb-doctor addressed the stranger in a manly,
					business-like way—a transition which, though it might seem a little
					abrupt, did not appear constrained, and, indeed, served to show that his recent
					levity was less the habit of a frivolous nature, than the frolic condescension
					of a kindly heart.

"Excuse me," said he, "but, if I err not, I was speaking to you the other
					day;—on a Kentucky boat, wasn't it?"

"Never to me," was the reply; the voice deep and lonesome enough to have come
					from the bottom of an abandoned coal-shaft.

"Ah!—But am I again mistaken, (his eye falling on the swamp-oak stick,)
					or don't you go a little lame, sir ?"

"Never was lame in my life."

"Indeed? I fancied I had perceived not a limp, but <pb n="132"/> a hitch, a
					slight hitch;—some experience in these things—divined some
					hidden cause of the hitch—buried bullet, may be—some
					dragoons in the Mexican war discharged with such, you know.—Hard
					fate!" he sighed, "little pity for it, for who sees it?—have you
					dropped anything ?"

Why, there is no telling, but the stranger was bowed over, and might have seemed
					bowing for the purpose of picking up something, were it not that, as arrested in
					the imperfect posture, he for the moment so remained; slanting his tall stature
					like a mainmast yielding to the gale, or Adam to the thunder.

The little child pulled him. With a kind of a surge he righted himself, for an
					instant looked toward the herb-doctor; but, either from emotion or aversion, or
					both together, withdrew his eyes, saying nothing. Presently, still stooping, he
					seated himself, drawing his child between his knees, his messy hands tremulous,
					and still averting his face, while up into the compassionate one of the
					herb-doctor the child turned a fixed, melancholy glance of repugnance.

The herb-doctor stood observant a moment, then said:

"Surely you have pain, strong pain, somewhere; in strong frames pain is
					strongest. Try, now, my specific," (holding it up). "Do but look at the
					expression of this friend of humanity. Trust me, certain cure for any pain in
					the world. Won't you look?"

"No," choked the other.

"Very good. Merry time to you, little May Queen." <pb n="133"/>

And so, as if he would intrude his cure upon no one, moved pleasantly off, again
					crying his wares, nor now at last without result. A new-comer, not from the
					shore, but another part of the boat, a sickly young man, after some questions,
					purchased a bottle. Upon this, others of the company began a little to wake up
					as it were; the scales of indifference or prejudice fell from their eyes; now,
					at last, they seemed to have an inkling that here was something not undesirable
					which might be had for the buying.

But while, ten times more briskly bland than ever, the herb-doctor was driving
					his benevolent trade, accompanying each sale with added praises of the thing
					traded, all at once the dusk giant, seated at some distance, unexpectedly raised
					his voice with—

"What was that you last said?"

The question was put distinctly, yet resonantly, as when a great
					clock-bell—stunning admonisher—strikes one; and the stroke,
					though single, comes bedded in the belfry clamor.

All proceedings were suspended. Hands held forth for the specific were withdrawn,
					while every eye turned towards the direction whence the question came. But, no
					way abashed, the herb-doctor, elevating his voice with even more than wonted
					self-possession, replied—

"I was saying what, since you wish it, I cheerfully repeat, that the Samaritan
					Pain Dissuader, which I here hold in my hand, will either cure or ease any pain
					you please, within ten minutes after its application."

"Does it produce insensibility?" <pb n="134"/>

"By no means. Not the least of its merits is, that it is not an opiate. It kills
					pain without killing feeling."

"You lie! Some pains cannot be eased but by producing insensibility, and cannot
					be cured but by producing death."

Beyond this the dusk giant said nothing; neither, for impairing the other's
					market, did there appear much need to. After eying the rude speaker a moment
					with an expression of mingled admiration and consternation, the company silently
					exchanged glances of mutual sympathy under unwelcome conviction. Those who had
					purchased looked sheepish or ashamed; and a cynical-looking little man, with a
					thin flaggy beard, and a countenance ever wearing the rudiments of a grin,
					seated alone in a corner commanding a good view of the scene, held a rusty hat
					before his face.

But, again, the herb-doctor, without noticing the retort, overbearing though it
					was, began his panegyrics anew, and in a tone more assured than before, going so
					far now as to say that his specific was sometimes almost as effective in cases
					of mental suffering as in cases of physical; or rather, to be more precise, in
					cases when, through sympathy, the two sorts of pain co`perated into a climax of
					both—in such cases, he said, the specific had done very well. He cited
					an example: Only three bottles, faithfully taken, cured a Louisiana widow (for
					three weeks sleepless in a darkened chamber) of neuralgic sorrow for the loss of
					husband and child, swept off in one night by the last epidemic. For <pb n="135"
					/> the truth of this, a printed voucher was produced, duly signed.

While he was reading it aloud, a sudden side-blow all but felled him.

It was the giant, who, with a countenance lividly epileptic with hypochondriac
					mania, exclaimed—

"Profane fiddler on heart-strings! Snake!"

More he would have added, but, convulsed, could not; so, without another word,
					taking up the child, who had followed him, went with a rocking pace out of the
					cabin.

"Regardless of decency, and lost to humanity!" exclaimed the herb-doctor, with
					much ado recovering himself. Then, after a pause, during which he examined his
					bruise, not omitting to apply externally a little of his specific, and with some
					success, as it would seem, plained to himself:

"No, no, I won't seek redress; innocence is my redress. But," turning upon them
					all, "if that man's wrathful blow provokes me to no wrath, should his evil
					distrust arouse you to distrust? I do devoutly hope," proudly raising voice and
					arm, "for the honor of humanity—hope that, despite this coward
					assault, the Samaritan Pain Dissuader stands unshaken in the confidence of all
					who hear me!"

But, injured as he was, and patient under it, too, somehow his case excited as
					little compassion as his oratory now did enthusiasm. Still, pathetic to the
					last, he continued his appeals, notwithstanding the frigid regard of the
					company, till, suddenly interrupting himself, <pb n="136"/> as if in reply to a
					quick summons from without, he said hurriedly, "I come, I come," and so, with
					every token of precipitate dispatch, out of the cabin the herb-doctor went.

				<pb n="137"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="18" id="d23">
				CHAPTER XVIII.<lb/> INQUEST INTO THE TRUE CHARACTER OF THE HERB-DOCTOR.

"SHA'N'T see that fellow again in a hurry," remarked an auburn-haired gentleman,
					to his neighbor with a hook-nose. "Never knew an operator so completely
					unmasked."

"But do you think it the fair thing to unmask an operator that way?"

"Fair? It is right."

"Supposing that at high 'change on the Paris Bourse, Asmodeus should lounge in,
					distributing hand-bills, revealing the true thoughts and designs of all the
					operators present—would that be the fair thing in Asmodeus? Or, as
					Hamlet says, were it to consider the thing too curiously?' "

"We won't go into that. But since you admit the fellow to be a knave—"

"I don't admit it. Or, if I did, I take it back. Shouldn't wonder if, after all,
					he is no knave at all, or, but little of one. What can you prove against him ?"

"I can prove that he makes dupes."

"Many held in honor do the same; and many, not wholly knaves, do it too." <pb
						n="138"/>

"How about that last ?"

"He is not wholly at heart a knave, I fancy, among whose dupes is himself. Did
					you not see our quack friend apply to himself his own quackery? A fanatic quack;
					essentially a fool, though effectively a knave."

Bending over, and looking down between his knees on the floor, the auburn-haired
					gentleman meditatively scribbled there awhile with his cane, then, glancing up,
					said:

"I can't conceive how you, in any way, can hold him a fool. How he
					talked—so glib, so pat, so well."

"A smart fool always talks well; takes a smart fool to be tonguey."

In much the same strain the discussion continued—the hook-nosed
					gentleman talking at large and excellently, with a view of demonstrating that a
					smart fool always talks just so. Ere long he talked to such purpose as almost to
					convince.

Presently, back came the person of whom the auburn-haired gentleman had predicted
					that he would not return. Conspicuous in the door-way he stood, saying, in a
					clear voice, "Is the agent of the Seminole Widow and Orphan Asylum within here?"

No one replied.

"Is there within here any agent or any member of any charitable institution
					whatever?"

No one seemed competent to answer, or, no one thought it worth while to. <pb
						n="139"/>

"If there be within here any such person, I have in my hand two dollars for him."

Some interest was manifested.

"I was called away so hurriedly, I forgot this part of my duty. With the
					proprietor of the Samaritan Pain Dissuader it is a rule, to devote, on the spot,
					to some benevolent purpose, the half of the proceeds of sales. Eight bottles
					were disposed of among this company. Hence, four half-dollars remain to charity.
					Who, as steward, takes the money ?"

One or two pair of feet moved upon the floor, as with a sort of itching; but
					nobody rose.

"Does diffidence prevail over duty? If, I say, there be any gentleman, or any
					lady, either, here present, who is in any connection with any charitable
					institution whatever, let him or her come forward. He or she happening to have
					at hand no certificate of such connection, makes no difference. Not of a
					suspicious temper, thank God, I shall have confidence in whoever offers to take
					the money."

A demure-looking woman, in a dress rather tawdry and rumpled, here drew her veil
					well down and rose; but, marking every eye upon her, thought it advisable, upon
					the whole, to sit down again.

"Is it to be believed that, in this Christian company, there is no one charitable
					person? I mean, no one connected with any charity? Well, then, is there no
					object of charity here ?"

Upon this, an unhappy-looking woman, in a sort of mourning, neat, but sadly worn,
					hid her face behind a <pb n="140"/> meagre bundle, and was heard to sob.
					Meantime, as not seeing or hearing her, the herb-doctor again spoke, and this
					time not unpathetically :

"Are there none here who feel in need of help, and who, in accepting such help,
					would feel that they, in their time, have given or done more than may ever be
					given or done to them? Man or woman, is there none such here ?"

The sobs of the woman were more audible, though she strove to repress them. While
					nearly every one's attention was bent upon her, a man of the appearance of a
					day-laborer, with a white bandage across his face, concealing the side of the
					nose, and who, for coolness' sake, had been sitting in his red-flannel
					shirt-sleeves, his coat thrown across one shoulder, the darned cuffs drooping
					behind—this man shufflingly rose, and, with a pace that seemed the
					lingering memento of the lock-step of convicts, went up for a duly-qualified
					claimant.

"Poor wounded huzzar!" sighed the herb-doctor, and dropping the money into the
					man's clam-shell of a hand turned and departed.

The recipient of the alms was about moving after, when the auburn-haired
					gentleman staid him: "Don't be frightened, you; but I want to see those coins.
					Yes, yes; good silver, good silver. There, take them again, and while you are
					about it, go bandage the rest of yourself behind something. D'ye hear? Consider
					yourself, wholly, the scar of a nose, and be off with yourself."

Being of a forgiving nature, or else from emotion not <pb n="141"/> daring to
					trust his voice, the man silently, but not without some precipitancy, withdrew.

"Strange;" said the auburn-haired gentleman, returning to his friend, "the money
					was good money."

"Aye, and where your fine knavery now? Knavery to devote the half of one's
					receipts to charity? He's a fool I say again."

"Others might call him an original genius."

"Yes, being original in his folly. Genius? His genius is a cracked pate, and, as
					this age goes, not much originality about that."

"May he not be knave, fool, and genius altogether?"

"I beg pardon," here said a third person with a gossiping expression who had been
					listening, "but you are somewhat puzzled by this man, and well you may be."

"Do you know anything about him?" asked the hooked-nosed gentleman.

"No, but I suspect him for something."

"Suspicion. We want knowledge."

"Well, suspect first and know next. True knowledge comes but by suspicion or
					revelation. That's my maxim."

"And yet," said the auburn-haired gentleman, "since a wise man will keep even
					some certainties to himself, much more some suspicions, at least he will at all
					events so do till they ripen into knowledge."

"Do you hear that about the wise man?" said the hook-nosed gentleman, turning
					upon the new comer. "Now what is it you suspect of this fellow?"

"I shrewdly suspect him," was the eager response, <pb n="142"/> "for one of those
					Jesuit emissaries prowling all over our country. The better to accomplish their
					secret designs, they assume, at times, I am told, the most singular masques;
					sometimes, in appearance, the absurdest."

This, though indeed for some reason causing a droll smile upon the face of the
					hook-nosed gentleman, added a third angle to the discussion, which now became a
					sort of triangular duel, and ended, at last, with but a triangular result.

				<pb n="143"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="19" id="d24">
				CHAPTER XIX.<lb/> A SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.

"MEXICO? Molino del Rey? Resaca de la Palma?"

"Resaca de la Tombs!"

Leaving his reputation to take care of itself, since, as is not seldom the case,
					he knew nothing of its being in debate, the herb-doctor, wandering towards the
					forward part of the boat, had there espied a singular character in a grimy old
					regimental coat, a countenance at once grim and wizened, interwoven paralyzed
					legs, stiff as icicles, suspended between rude crutches, while the whole rigid
					body, like a ship's long barometer on gimbals, swung to and fro, mechanically
					faithful to the motion of the boat. Looking downward while he swung, the cripple
					seemed in a brown study.

As moved by the sight, and conjecturing that here was some battered hero from the
					Mexican battle-fields, the herb-doctor had sympathetically accosted him as
					above, and received the above rather dubious reply. As, with a half moody, half
					surly sort of air that reply was given, the cripple, by a voluntary jerk,
					nervously increased his swing (his custom when seized by emotion), so that <pb
						n="144"/> one would have thought some squall had suddenly rolled the boat
					and with it the barometer.

"Tombs? my friend," exclaimed the herb-doctor in mild surprise." You have not
					descended to the dead, have you? I had imagined you a scarred campaigner, one of
					the noble children of war, for your dear country a glorious sufferer. But you
					are Lazarus, it seems."

"Yes, he who had sores."

"Ah, the other Lazarus. But I never knew that either of them was in the army,"
					glancing at the dilapidated regimentals.

"That will do now. Jokes enough."

"Friend," said the other reproachfully, "you think amiss. On principle, I greet
					unfortunates with some pleasant remark, the better to call off their thoughts
					from their troubles. The physician who is at once wise and humane seldom
					unreservedly sympathizes with his patient. But come, I am a herb-doctor, and
					also a natural bone-setter. I may be sanguine, but I think I can do something
					for you. You look up now. Give me your story. Ere I undertake a cure, I require
					a full account of the case."

"You can't help me," returned the cripple gruffly. "Go away."

"You seem sadly destitute of—"

"No I ain't destitute; to-day, at least, I can pay my way."

"The Natural Bone-setter is happy, indeed, to hear that. But you were premature.
					I was deploring your destitution, not of cash, but of confidence. You think <pb
						n="145"/> the Natural Bone-setter can't help you. Well, suppose he can't,
					have you any objection to telling him your story. You, my friend, have, in a
					signal way, experienced adversity. Tell me, then, for my private good, how,
					without aid from the noble cripple, Epictetus, you have arrived at his heroic
					sang-froid in misfortune."

At these words the cripple fixed upon the speaker the hard ironic eye of one
					toughened and defiant in misery, and, in the end, grinned upon him with his
					unshaven face like an ogre.

"Come, come, be sociable—be human, my friend. Don't make that face; it
					distresses me."

"I suppose," with a sneer, "you are the man I've long heard of—The
					Happy Man."

"Happy? my friend. Yes, at least I ought to be. My conscience is peaceful. I have
					confidence in everybody. I have confidence that, in my humble profession, I do
					some little good to the world. Yes, I think that, without presumption, I may
					venture to assent to the proposition that I am the Happy Man—the Happy
					Bone-setter."

"Then you shall hear my story. Many a month I have longed to get hold of the
					Happy Man, drill him, drop the powder, and leave him to explode at his leisure."

"What a demoniac unfortunate," exclaimed the herb-doctor retreating. "Regular
					infernal machine!"

"Look ye," cried the other, stumping after him, and with his horny hand catching
					him by a horn button, "my name is Thomas Fry. Until my—" <pb n="146"/>

—"Any relation of Mrs. Fry?" interrupted the other. "I still correspond
					with that excellent lady on the subject of prisons. Tell me, are you anyway
					connected with my Mrs. Fry?" "Blister Mrs. Fry! What do them sentimental souls
					know of prisons or any other black fact? I'll tell ye a story of prisons. Ha,
					ha!"

The herb-doctor shrank, and with reason, the laugh being strangely startling.

"Positively, my friend," said he, "you must stop that; I can't stand that; no
					more of that. I hope I have the milk of kindness, but your thunder will soon
					turn it."

"Hold, I haven't come to the milk-turning part yet. My name is Thomas Fry. Until
					my twenty-third year I went by the nickname of Happy
					Tom—happy—ha, ha! They called me Happy Tom, d'ye see?
					because I was so good-natured and laughing all the time, just as I am
					now—ha, ha!"

Upon this the herb-doctor would, perhaps, have run, but once more the hyFna
					clawed him. Presently, sobering down, he continued:

"Well, I was born in New York, and there I lived a steady, hard-working man, a
					cooper by trade. One evening I went to a political meeting in the
					Park—for you must know, I was in those days a great patriot. As bad
					luck would have it, there was trouble near, between a gentleman who had been
					drinking wine, and a pavior who was sober. The pavior chewed tobacco, and the
					gentleman said it was beastly in him, and pushed him, <pb n="147"/> wanting to
					have his place. The pavior chewed on and pushed back. Well, the gentleman
					carried a sword-cane, and presently the pavior was down—skewered."

"How was that ?"

"Why you see the pavior undertook something above his strength."

"The other must have been a Samson then. 'Strong as a pavior,' is a proverb."

"So it is, and the gentleman was in body a rather weakly man, but, for all that,
					I say again, the pavior undertook something above his strength."

"What are you talking about ? He tried to maintain his rights, didn't he?"

"Yes; but, for all that, I say again, he undertook something above his strength."

"I don't understand you. But go on."

"Along with the gentleman, I, with other witnesses, was taken to the Tombs. There
					was an examination, and, to appear at the trial, the gentleman and witnesses all
					gave bail—I mean all but me."

"And why didn't you ?"

"Couldn't get it."

"Steady, hard-working cooper like you; what was the reason you couldn't get bail
					?"

"Steady, hard-working cooper hadn't no friends. Well, souse I went into a wet
					cell, like a canal-boat splashing into the lock; locked up in pickle, d'ye see?
					against the time of the trial."

"But what had you done ?" <pb n="148"/>

"Why, I hadn't got any friends, I tell ye. A worse crime than murder, as ye'll
					see afore long."

"Murder? Did the wounded man die?"

"Died the third night."

"Then the gentleman's bail didn't help him. Imprisoned now, wasn't he?"

"Had too many friends. No, it was I that was imprisoned.—But I was
					going on: They let me walk about the corridor by day; but at night I must into
					lock. There the wet and the damp struck into my bones. They doctored me, but no
					use. When the trial came, I was boosted up and said my say."

"And what was that ?"

"My say was that I saw the steel go in, and saw it sticking in."

"And that hung the gentleman."

"Hung him with a gold chain! His friends called a meeting in the Park, and
					presented him with a gold watch and chain upon his acquittal."

"Acquittal ?"

"Didn't I say he had friends?"

There was a pause, broken at last by the herb-doctor's saying: "Well, there is a
					bright side to everything. If this speak prosaically for justice, it speaks
					romantically for friendship! But go on, my fine fellow."

"My say being said, they told me I might go. I said I could not without help. So
					the constables helped me, asking where would I go? I told them back to the
					Tombs.' I knew no other place. 'But where are your friends?' said they. 'I have
					none.' So they put me <pb n="149"/> into a hand-barrow with an awning to it, and
					wheeled me down to the dock and on board a boat, and away to Blackwell's Island
					to the Corporation Hospital. There I got worse—got pretty much as you
					see me now. Couldn't cure me. After three years, I grew sick of lying in a
					grated iron bed alongside of groaning thieves and mouldering burglars. They gave
					me five silver dollars, and these crutches, and I hobbled off. I had an only
					brother who went to Indiana, years ago. I begged about, to make up a sum to go
					to him; got to Indiana at last, and they directed me to his grave. It was on a
					great plain, in a log-church yard with a stump fence, the old gray roots
					sticking all ways like moose-antlers. The bier, set over the grave, it being the
					last dug, was of green hickory; bark on, and green twigs sprouting from it. Some
					one had planted a bunch of violets on the mound, but it was a poor soil (always
					choose the poorest soils for grave-yards), and they were all dried to tinder. I
					was going to sit and rest myself on the bier and think about my brother in
					heaven, but the bier broke down, the legs being only tacked. So, after driving
					some hogs out of the yard that were rooting there, I came away, and, not to make
					too long a story of it, here I am, drifting down stream like any other bit of
					wreck."

The herb-doctor was silent for a time, buried in thought. At last, raising his
					head, he said: "I have considered your whole story, my friend, and strove to
					consider it in the light of a commentary on what I believe to be the system of
					things; but it so jars with all, <pb n="150"/> it so incompatible with all, that
					you must pardon me, if I honestly tell you, I cannot believe it." "That don't
					surprise me."

"How?"

"Hardly anybody believes my story, and so to most I tell a different story."

"How, again ?"

"Wait here a bit and I'll show ye."

With that, taking off his rag of a cap, and arranging his tattered regimentals
					the best he could, off he went stumping among the passengers in an adjoining
					part of the deck, saying with a jovial kind of air: "Sir, a shilling for Happy
					Tom, who fought at Buena Vista. Lady, something for General Scott's soldier,
					crippled in both pins at glorious Contreras." Now, it so chanced that, unbeknown
					to the cripple, a prim-looking stranger had overheard part of his story.
					Beholding him, then, on his present begging adventure, this person, turning to
					the herb-doctor, indignantly said: "Is it not too bad, sir, that yonder rascal
					should lie so?"

"Charity never faileth, my good sir," was the reply. "The vice of this
					unfortunate is pardonable. Consider, he lies not out of wantonness."

"Not out of wantonness. I never heard more wanton lies. In one breath to tell you
					what would appear to be his true story, and, in the next, away and falsify it."

"For all that, I repeat he lies not out of wantonness. A ripe philosopher, turned
					out of the great Sorbonne of hard times, he thinks that woes, when told to
					strangers <pb n="151"/> for money, are best sugared. Though the inglorious
					lockjaw of his knee-pans in a wet dungeon is a far more pitiable ill than to
					have been crippled at glorious Contreras, yet he is of opinion that this lighter
					and false ill shall attract, while the heavier and real one might repel."

"Nonsense; he belongs to the Devil's regiment; and I have a great mind to expose
					him."

"Shame upon you. Dare to expose that poor unfortunate, and by
					heaven—don't you do it, sir."

Noting something in his manner, the other thought it more prudent to retire than
					retort. By-and-by, the cripple came back, and with glee, having reaped a pretty
					good harvest.

"There," he laughed, " you know now what sort of soldier I am."

"Aye, one that fights not the stupid Mexican, but a foe worthy your
					tactics—Fortune!"

"Hi, hi!" clamored the cripple, like a fellow in the pit of a sixpenny theatre,
					then said, "don't know much what you meant, but it went off well."

This over, his countenance capriciously put on a morose ogreness. To kindly
					questions he gave no kindly answers. Unhandsome notions were thrown out about
					"free Ameriky," as he sarcastically called his country. These seemed to disturb
					and pain the herb-doctor, who, after an interval of thoughtfulness, gravely
					addressed him in these words:

"You, my worthy friend, to my concern, have reflected upon the government under
					which you live and <pb n="152"/> suffer. Where is your patriotism? Where your
					gratitude? True, the charitable may find something in your case, as you put it,
					partly to account for such reflections us coming from you. Still, be the facts
					how they may, your reflections are none the less unwarrantable. Grant, for the
					moment, that your experiences are as you give them; in which case I would admit
					that government might be thought to have more or less to do with what seems
					undesirable in them. But it is never to be forgotten that human government,
					being subordinate to the divine, must needs, therefore, in its degree, partake
					of the characteristics of the divine. That is, while in general efficacious to
					happiness, the world's law may yet, in some cases, have, to the eye of reason,
					an unequal operation, just as, in the same imperfect view, some inequalities may
					appear in the operations of heaven's law; nevertheless, to one who has a right
					confidence, final benignity is, in every instance, as sure with the one law as
					the other. I expound the point at some length, because these are the
					considerations, my poor fellow, which, weighed as they merit, will enable you to
					sustain with unimpaired trust the apparent calamities which are yours."

"What do you talk your hog-latin to me for?" cried the cripple, who, throughout
					the address, betrayed the most illiterate obduracy; and, with an incensed look,
					anew he swung himself.

Glancing another way till the spasm passed, the other continued:

"Charity marvels not that you should be somewhat <pb n="153"/> hard of
					conviction, my friend, since you, doubtless, believe yourself hardly dealt by;
					but forget not that those who are loved are chastened."

"Mustn't chasten them too much, though, and too long, because their skin and
					heart get hard, and feel neither pain nor tickle."

"To mere reason, your case looks something piteous, I grant. But never despond;
					many things—the choicest—yet remain. You breathe this
					bounteous air, are warmed by this gracious sun, and, though poor and friendless,
					indeed, nor so agile as in your youth, yet, how sweet to roam, day by day,
					through the groves, plucking the bright mosses and flowers, till forlornness
					itself becomes a hilarity, and, in your innocent independence, you skip for
					joy."

"Fine skipping with these 'ere horse-posts—ha ha!"

"Pardon; I forgot the crutches. My mind, figuring you after receiving the benefit
					of my art, overlooked you as you stand before me."

"Your art? You call yourself a bone-setter—a natural bone-setter, do
					ye? Go, bone-set the crooked world, and then come bone-set crooked me."

"Truly, my honest friend, I thank you for again recalling me to my original
					object. Let me examine you," bending down; "ah, I see, I see; much such a case
					as the negro's. Did you see him? Oh no, you came aboard since. Well, his case
					was a little something like yours. I prescribed for him, and I shouldn't wonder
					at all if, in a very short time, he were able to walk almost as well as myself.
					Now, have you no confidence in my art ?" <pb n="154"/>

"Ha, ha!"

The herb-doctor averted himself; but, the wild laugh dying away, resumed:

"I will not force confidence on you. Still, I would fain do the friendly thing by
					you. Here, take this box; just rub that liniment on the joints night and
					morning. Take it. Nothing to pay. God bless you. Good-bye."

"Stay," pausing in his swing, not untouched by so unexpected an act;
					"stay—thank'ee—but will this really do me good? Honor
					bright, now; will it? Don't deceive a poor fellow," with changed mien and
					glistening eye.

"Try it. Good-bye."

"Stay, stay! Sure it will do me good?"

"Possibly, possibly; no harm in trying. Good-bye."

"Stay, stay; give me three more boxes, and here's the money."

"My friend," returning towards him with a sadly pleased sort of air, "I rejoice
					in the birth of your confidence and hopefulness. Believe me that, like your
					crutches, confidence and hopefulness will long support a man when his own legs
					will not. Stick to confidence and hopefulness, then, since how mad for the
					cripple to throw his crutches away. You ask for three more boxes of my liniment.
					Luckily, I have just that number remaining. Here they are. I sell them at
					half-a-dollar apiece. But I shall take nothing from you. There; God bless you
					again; good-bye." <pb n="155"/>

"Stay," in a convulsed voice, and rocking himself, "stay, stay! You have made a
					better man of me. You have borne with me like a good Christian, and talked to me
					like one, and all that is enough without making me a present of these boxes.
					Here is the money. I won't take nay. There, there; and may Almighty goodness go
					with you."

As the herb-doctor withdrew, the cripple gradually subsided from his hard rocking
					into a gentle oscillation. It expressed, perhaps, the soothed mood of his
					reverie.

				<pb n="156"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="20" id="d25">
				CHAPTER XX.<lb/> REAPPEARANCE OF ONE WHO MAY BE REMEMBERED.

THE herb-doctor had not moved far away, when, in advance of him, this spectacle
					met his eye. A dried-up old man, with the stature of a boy of twelve, was
					tottering about like one out of his mind, in rumpled clothes of old moleskin,
					showing recent contact with bedding, his ferret eyes, blinking in the sunlight
					of the snowy boat, as imbecilely eager, and, at intervals, coughing, he peered
					hither and thither as if in alarmed search for his nurse. He presented the
					aspect of one who, bed-rid, has, through overruling excitement, like that of a
					fire, been stimulated to his feet.

"You seek some one," said the herb-doctor, accosting him. "Can I assist you ?"

"Do do; I am so old and miserable," coughed the old man. "Where is he? This long
					time I've been trying to get up and find him. But I haven't any friends, and
					couldn't get up till now. Where is he?"

"Who do you mean?" drawing closer, to stay the further wanderings of one so
					weakly.

"Why, why, why," now marking the other's dress, "why you, yes you—you,
					you—ugh, ugh, ugh !" <pb n="157"/>

"I ?"

"Ugh, ugh, ugh!—you are the man he spoke of. Who is he ?"

"Faith, that is just what I want to know."

"Mercy, mercy !" coughed the old man, bewildered, "ever since seeing him, my head
					spins round so. I ought to have a guardeean. Is this a snuff-colored surtout of
					yours, or ain't it? Somehow, can't trust my senses any more, since trusting
					him—ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"Oh, you have trusted somebody? Glad to hear it. Glad to hear of any instance of
					that sort. Reflects well upon all men. But you inquire whether this is a
					snuff-colored surtout. I answer it is; and will add that a herb-doctor wears
					it."

Upon this the old man, in his broken way, replied that then he (the herb-doctor)
					was the person he sought—the person spoken of by the other person as
					yet unknown. He then, with flighty eagerness, wanted to know who this last
					person was, and where he was, and whether he could be trusted with money to
					treble it.

"Aye, now, I begin to understand; ten to one you mean my worthy friend, who, in
					pure goodness of heart, makes people's fortunes for them—their
					everlasting fortunes, as the phrase goes—only charging his one small
					commission of confidence. Aye, aye; before intrusting funds with my friend, you
					want to know about him. Very proper—and, I am glad to assure you, you
					need have no hesitation; none, none, just none in the world; bona fide, none.
					Turned me in a trice a hundred dollars the other day into as many eagles." <pb
						n="158"/>

"Did he? did he? But where is he? Take me to him."

"Pray, take my arm! The boat is large! We may have something of a hunt! Come on!
					Ah, is that he?"

"Where ? where ?"

"O, no; I took yonder coat-skirts for his. But no, my honest friend would never
					turn tail that way. Ah !—"

"Where? where?"

"Another mistake. Surprising resemblance. I took yonder clergyman for him. Come
					on!"

Having searched that part of the boat without success, they went to another part,
					and, while exploring that, the boat sided up to a landing, when, as the two were
					passing by the open guard, the herb-doctor suddenly rushed towards the
					disembarking throng, crying out: "Mr. Truman, Mr. Truman! There he
					goes—that's he. Mr. Truman, Mr. Truman!—Confound that
					steam-pipe. Mr. Truman! for God's sake, Mr. Truman!—No,
					no.—There, the plank's in—too late—we're off."

With that, the huge boat, with a mighty, walrus wallow, rolled away from the
					shore, resuming her course.

"How vexatious!" exclaimed the herb-doctor, returning. "Had we been but one
					single moment sooner.—There he goes, now, towards yon hotel, his
					portmanteau following. You see him, don't you ?"

"Where? where?"

"Can't see him any more. Wheel-house shot between. I am very sorry. I should have
					so liked you <pb n="159"/> to have let him have a hundred or so of your money.
					You would have been pleased with the investment, believe me."

"Oh, I have let him have some of my money," groaned the old man.

"You have? My dear sir," seizing both the miser's hands in both his own and
					heartily shaking them. "My dear sir, how I congratulate you. You don't know."

"Ugh, ugh! I fear I don't," with another groan. His name is Truman, is it ?"

"John Truman."

"Where does he live?"

"In St. Louis."

"Where's his office?"

"Let me see. Jones street, number one hundred and—no,
					no—anyway, it's somewhere or other up-stairs in Jones street."

"Can't you remember the number? Try, now."

"One hundred—two hundred—three hundred—"

"Oh, my hundred dollars! I wonder whether it will be one hundred, two hundred,
					three hundred, with them! Ugh, ugh! Can't remember the number?"

"Positively, though I once knew, I have forgotten, quite forgotten it. Strange.
					But never mind. You will easily learn in St. Louis. He is well known there."

"But I have no receipt—ugh, ugh! Nothing to show—don't know
					where I stand—ought to have a guardeean—ugh, ugh! Don't know
					anything. Ugh, ugh!" <pb n="160"/>

"Why, you know that you gave him your confidence, don't you?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well, then?"

"But what, what—how, how—ugh, ugh!"

"Why, didn't he tell you?"

"No."

"What! Didn't he tell you that it was a secret, a mystery?"

"Oh—yes."

"Well, then?"

"But I have no bond."

"Don't need any with Mr. Truman. Mr. Truman's word is his bond."

"But how am I to get my profits—ugh, ugh!—and my money back?
					Don't know anything. Ugh, ugh!"

"Oh, you must have confidence."

"Don't say that word again. Makes my head spin so. Oh, I'm so old and miserable,
					nobody caring for me, everybody fleecing me, and my head spins so—ugh,
					ugh!—and this cough racks me so. I say again, I ought to have a
					guardeean."

"So you ought; and Mr. Truman is your guardian to the extent you invested with
					him. Sorry we missed him just now. But you'll hear from him. All right. It's
					imprudent, though, to expose yourself this way. Let me take you to your berth."

Forlornly enough the old miser moved slowly away with him. But, while descending
					a stairway, he was seized with such coughing that he was fain to pause. <pb
						n="161"/>

"That is a very bad cough."

"Church-yard—ugh, ugh!—church-yard cough.—Ugh!"

"Have you tried anything for it?"

"Tired of trying. Nothing does me any good—ugh! ugh! Not even the
					Mammoth Cave. Ugh! ugh! Denned there six months, but coughed so bad the rest of
					the coughers—ugh! ugh!—black-balled me out. Ugh, ugh!
					Nothing does me good."

"But have you tried the Omni-Balsamic Reinvigorator, sir?"

"That's what that Truman—ugh, ugh!—said I ought to take.
					Yarb-medicine; you are that yarb-doctor, too?"

"The same. Suppose you try one of my boxes now. Trust me, from what I know of Mr.
					Truman, he is not the gentleman to recommend, even in behalf of a friend,
					anything of whose excellence he is not conscientiously satisfied."

"Ugh!—how much?"

"Only two dollars a box."

"Two dollars? Why don't you say two millions? ugh, ugh! Two dollars, that's two
					hundred cents; that's eight hundred farthings; that's two thousand mills; and
					all for one little box of yarb-medicine. My head, my head!—oh, I ought
					to have a guardeean for my head. Ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"Well, if two dollars a box seems too much, take a dozen boxes at twenty dollars;
					and that will be getting four boxes for nothing, and you need use none but those
						<pb n="162"/> four, the rest you can retail out at a premium, and so cure
					your cough, and make money by it. Come, you had better do it. Cash down. Can
					fill an order in a day or two. Here now," producing a box; "pure herbs."

At that moment, seized with another spasm, the miser snatched each interval to
					fix his half distrustful, half hopeful eye upon the medicine, held alluringly
					up. "Sure—ugh! Sure it's all nat'ral? Nothing but yarbs? If I only
					thought it was a purely nat'ral medicine now—all yarbs—ugh,
					ugh!—oh this cough, this cough—ugh, ugh!—shatters
					my whole body. Ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"For heaven's sake try my medicine, if but a single box. That it is pure nature
					you may be confident. Refer you to Mr. Truman."

"Don't know his number—ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh! Oh this cough. He did speak
					well of this medicine though; said solemnly it would cure me—ugh, ugh,
					ugh, ugh!—take off a dollar and I'll have a box."

"Can't sir, can't."

"Say a dollar-and-half. Ugh!"

"Can't. Am pledged to the one-price system, only honorable one."

"Take off a shilling—ugh, ugh!"

"Can't."

"Ugh, ugh, ugh—I'll take it.—There."

Grudgingly he handed eight silver coins, but while still in his hand, his cough
					took him, and they were shaken upon the deck. <pb n="163"/>

One by one, the herb-doctor picked them up, and, examining them, said: "these are
					not quarters, these are pistareens; and clipped, and sweated, at that." "Oh
					don't be so miserly—ugh, ugh!—better a beast than a
					miser—ugh, ugh!"

"Well, let it go. Anything rather than the idea of your not being cured of such a
					cough. And I hope, for the credit of humanity, you have not made it appear worse
					than it is, merely with a view to working upon the weak point of my pity, and so
					getting my medicine the cheaper. Now, mind, don't take it till night. Just
					before retiring is the time. There, you can get along now, can't you? I would
					attend you further, but I land presently, and must go hunt up my luggage."

				<pb n="164"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="21" id="d26">
				CHAPTER XXI.<lb/> A HARD CASE.

"YARBS, yarbs; natur, natur; you foolish old file you! He diddled you with that
					hocus-pocus, did he? Yarbs and natur will cure your incurable cough, you think."

It was a rather eccentric-looking person who spoke; somewhat ursine in aspect;
					sporting a shaggy spencer of the cloth called bear's-skin; a high-peaked cap of
					raccoon-skin, the long bushy tail switching over behind; raw-hide leggings; grim
					stubble chin; and to end, a double-barreled gun in hand—a Missouri
					bachelor, a Hoosier gentleman, of Spartan leisure and fortune, and equally
					Spartan manners and sentiments; and, as the sequel may show, not less
					acquainted, in a Spartan way of his own, with philosophy and books, than with
					wood-craft and rifles.

He must have overheard some of the talk between the miser and the herb-doctor;
					for, just after the withdrawal of the one, he made up to the other—now
					at the foot of the stairs leaning against the baluster there—with the
					greeting above.

"Think it will cure me?" coughed the miser in echo; <pb n="165"/> "why shouldn't
					it? The medicine is nat'ral yarbs, pure yarbs; yarbs must cure me."

"Because a thing is nat'ral, as you call it, you think it must be good. But who
					gave you that cough? Was it, or was it not, nature?"

"Sure, you don't think that natur, Dame Natur, will hurt a body, do you?"

"Natur is good Queen Bess; but who's responsible for the cholera?"

"But yarbs, yarbs; yarbs are good?"

"What's deadly-nightshade? Yarb, ain't it ?"

"Oh, that a Christian man should speak agin natur and yarbs—ugh, ugh,
					ugh!—ain't sick men sent out into the country; sent out to natur and
					grass?"

"Aye, and poets send out the sick spirit to green pastures, like lame horses
					turned out unshod to the turf to renew their hoofs. A sort of yarb-doctors in
					their way, poets have it that for sore hearts, as for sore lungs, nature is the
					grand cure. But who froze to death my teamster on the prairie? And who made an
					idiot of Peter the Wild Boy?" "Then you don't believe in these 'ere
					yarb-doctors?"

"Yarb-doctors? I remember the lank yarb-doctor I saw once on a hospital-cot in
					Mobile. One of the faculty passing round and seeing who lay there, said with
					professional triumph, "Ah, Dr. Green, your yarbs don't help ye now, Dr. Green.
					Have to come to us and the mercury now, Dr. Green.—Natur! Y-a-r-b-s!"

"Did I hear something about herbs and herb-doctors?" here said a flute-like
					voice, advancing. <pb n="166"/>

It was the herb-doctor in person. Carpet-bag in hand, he happened to be strolling
					back that way.

"Pardon me," addressing the Missourian, "but if I caught your words aright, you
					would seem to have little confidence in nature; which, really, in my way of
					thinking, looks like carrying the spirit of distrust pretty far."

"And who of my sublime species may you be?" turning short round upon him,
					clicking his rifle-lock, with an air which would have seemed half cynic, half
					wild-cat, were it not for the grotesque excess of the expression, which made its
					sincerity appear more or less dubious.

"One who has confidence in nature, and confidence in man, with some little modest
					confidence in himself."

"That's your Confession of Faith, is it? Confidence in man, eh? Pray, which do
					you think are most, knaves or fools ?"

"Having met with few or none of either, I hardly think I am competent to answer."

"I will answer for you. Fools are most."

"Why do you think so?"

"For the same reason that I think oats are numerically more than horses. Don't
					knaves munch up fools just as horses do oats ?"

"A droll, sir; you are a droll. I can appreciate drollery—ha, ha, ha!"

"But I'm in earnest."

"That's the drollery, to deliver droll extravagance with an earnest
					air—knaves munching up fools as horses <pb n="167"/>
					oats.—Faith, very droll, indeed, ha, ha, ha! Yes, I think I understand
					you now, sir. How silly I was to have taken you seriously, in your droll
					conceits, too, about having no confidence in nature. In reality you have just as
					much as I have."

"I have confidence in nature? I? I say again there is nothing I am more
					suspicious of. I once lost ten thousand dollars by nature. Nature embezzled that
					amount from me; absconded with ten thousand dollars' worth of my property; a
					plantation on this stream, swept clean away by one of those sudden shiftings of
					the banks in a freshet; ten thousand dollars' worth of alluvion thrown broad off
					upon the waters."

"But have you no confidence that by a reverse shifting that soil will come back
					after many days?—ah, here is my venerable friend," observing the old
					miser, "not in your berth yet? Pray, if you will keep afoot, don't lean against
					that baluster; take my arm."

It was taken; and the two stood together; the old miser leaning against the
					herb-doctor with something of that air of trustful fraternity with which, when
					standing, the less strong of the Siamese twins habitually leans against the
					other.

The Missourian eyed them in silence, which was broken by the herb-doctor.

"You look surprised, sir. Is it because I publicly take under my protection a
					figure like this? But I am never ashamed of honesty, whatever his coat."

"Look you," said the Missourian, after a scrutinizing pause, "you are a queer
					sort of chap. Don't know <pb n="168"/> exactly what to make of you. Upon the
					whole though, you somewhat remind me of the last boy I had on my place."

"Good, trustworthy boy, I hope?"

"Oh, very! I am now started to get me made some kind of machine to do the sort of
					work which boys are supposed to be fitted for."

"Then you have passed a veto upon boys?"

"And men, too."

"But, my dear sir, does not that again imply more or less lack of
					confidence?—(Stand up a little, just a very little, my venerable
					friend; you lean rather hard.)—No confidence in boys, no confidence in
					men, no confidence in nature. Pray, sir, who or what may you have confidence
					in?"

"I have confidence in distrust; more particularly as applied to you and your
					herbs."

"Well," with a forbearing smile, "that is frank. But pray, don't forget that when
					you suspect my herbs you suspect nature."

"Didn't I say that before?"

"Very good. For the argument's sake I will suppose you are in earnest. Now, can
					you, who suspect nature, deny, that this same nature not only kindly brought you
					into being, but has faithfully nursed you to your present vigorous and
					independent condition? Is it not to nature that you are indebted for that
					robustness of mind which you so unhandsomely use to her scandal? Pray, is it not
					to nature that you owe the very eyes by which you criticise her?" <pb n="169"/>

"No! for the privilege of vision I am indebted to an oculist, who in my tenth
					year operated upon me in Philadelphia. Nature made me blind and would have kept
					me so. My oculist counterplotted her."

"And yet, sir, by your complexion, I judge you live an out-of-door life; without
					knowing it, you are partial to nature; you fly to nature, the universal mother."

"Very motherly! Sir, in the passion-fits of nature, I've known birds fly from
					nature to me, rough as I look; yes, sir, in a tempest, refuge here," smiting the
					folds of his bearskin. "Fact, sir, fact. Come, come, Mr. Palaverer, for all your
					palavering, did you yourself never shut out nature of a cold, wet night? Bar her
					out? Bolt her out? Lint her out?"

"As to that," said the herb-doctor calmly, "much may be said."

"Say it, then," ruffling all his hairs. "You can't, sir, can't." Then, as in
					apostrophe: "Look you, nature! I don't deny but your clover is sweet, and your
					dandelions don't roar; but whose hailstones smashed my windows?"

"Sir,'' with unimpaired affability, producing one of his boxes, "I am pained to
					meet with one who holds nature a dangerous character. Though your manner is
					refined your voice is rough; in short, you seem to have a sore throat. In the
					calumniated name of nature, I present you with this box; my venerable friend
					here has a similar one; but to you, a free gift, sir. Through her
					regularly-authorized agents, of whom I happen to <pb n="170"/> be one, Nature
					delights in benefiting those who most abuse her. Pray, take it."

"Away with it! Don't hold it so near. Ten to one there is a torpedo in it. Such
					things have been. Editors been killed that way. Take it further off, I say."

"Good heavens! my dear sir—"

"I tell you I want none of your boxes," snapping his rifle.

"Oh, take it—ugh, ugh! do take it," chimed in the old miser; "I wish he
					would give me one for nothing."

"You find it lonely, eh," turning short round; "gulled yourself, you would have a
					companion."

"How can he find it lonely," returned the herb-doctor, "or how desire a
					companion, when here I stand by him; I, even I, in whom he has trust. For the
					gulling, tell me, is it humane to talk so to this poor old man? Granting that
					his dependence on my medicine is vain, is it kind to deprive him of what, in
					mere imagination, if nothing more, may help eke out, with hope, his disease? For
					you, if you have no confidence, and, thanks to your native health, can get along
					without it, so far, at least, as trusting in my medicine goes; yet, how cruel an
					argument to use, with this afflicted one here. Is it not for all the world as if
					some brawny pugilist, aglow in December, should rush in and put out a
					hospital-fire, because, forsooth, he feeling no need of artificial heat, the
					shivering patients shall have none? Put it to your conscience, sir, and you will
					admit, that, whatever be the nature of this afflicted one's trust, you, <pb
						n="171"/> in opposing it, evince either an erring head or a heart amiss.
					Come, own, are you not pitiless?"

"Yes, poor soul," said the Missourian, gravely eying the old man—"yes,
					it is pitiless in one like me to speak too honestly to one like you. You are a
					late sitter-up in this life; past man's usual bed-time; and truth, though with
					some it makes a wholesome breakfast, proves to all a supper too hearty. Hearty
					food, taken late, gives bad dreams."

"What, in wonder's name—ugh, ugh!—is he talking about?" asked
					the old miser, looking up to the herb-doctor.

"Heaven be praised for that!" cried the Missourian.

"Out of his mind, ain't he?" again appealed the old miser.

"Pray, sir," said the herb-doctor to the Missourian, "for what were you giving
					thanks just now?"

"For this: that, with some minds, truth is, in effect, not so cruel a thing after
					all, seeing that, like a loaded pistol found by poor devils of savages, it
					raises more wonder than terror—its peculiar virtue being unguessed,
					unless, indeed, by indiscreet handling, it should happen to go off of itself."

"I pretend not to divine your meaning there," said the herb-doctor, after a
					pause, during which he eyed the Missourian with a kind of pinched expression,
					mixed of pain and curiosity, as if he grieved at his state of mind, and, at the
					same time, wondered what had brought him to it, "but this much I know," he
					added, "that the general cast of your thoughts is, to say the least, <pb n="172"
					/> unfortunate. There is strength in them, but a strength, whose source, being
					physical, must wither. You will yet recant."

"Recant ?"

"Yes, when, as with this old man, your evil days of decay come on, when a hoary
					captive in your chamber, then will you, something like the dungeoned Italian we
					read of, gladly seek the breast of that confidence begot in the tender time of
					your youth, blessed beyond telling if it return to you in age."

"Go back to nurse again, eh? Second childhood, indeed. You are soft."

"Mercy, mercy!" cried the old miser, "what is all this!—ugh, ugh! Do
					talk sense, my good friends. Ain't you," to the Missourian, "going to buy some
					of that medicine?"

"Pray, my venerable friend," said the herb-doctor, now trying to straighten
					himself, "don't lean quite so hard; my arm grows numb; abate a little, just a
					very little."

"Go," said the Missourian, "go lay down in your grave, old man, if you can't
					stand of yourself. It's a hard world for a leaner."

"As to his grave," said the herb-doctor, "that is far enough off, so he but
					faithfully take my medicine."

"Ugh, ugh, ugh!—He says true. No, I ain't—ugh! a going to die
					yet—ugh, ugh, ugh! Many years to live yet, ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"I approve your confidence," said the herb-doctor; "but your coughing distresses
					me, besides being <pb n="173"/> injurious to you. Pray, let me conduct you to
					your berth. You are best there. Our friend here will wait till my return, I
					know."

With which he led the old miser away, and then, coming back, the talk with the
					Missourian was resumed.

"Sir," said the herb-doctor, with some dignity and more feeling, "now that our
					infirm friend is withdrawn, allow me, to the full, to express my concern at the
					words you allowed to escape you in his hearing. Some of those words, if I err
					not, besides being calculated to beget deplorable distrust in the patient,
					seemed fitted to convey unpleasant imputations against me, his physician."

"Suppose they did?" with a menacing air.

"Why, then—then, indeed," respectfully retreating, "I fall back upon my
					previous theory of your general facetiousness. I have the fortune to be in
					company with a humorist—a wag."

"Fall back you had better, and wag it is," cried the Missourian, following him
					up, and wagging his raccoon tail almost into the herb-doctor's face, "look you!"

"At what?"

"At this coon. Can you, the fox, catch him?"

"If you mean," returned the other, not unselfpossessed, "whether I flatter myself
					that I can in any way dupe you, or impose upon you, or pass myself off upon you
					for what I am not, I, as an honest man, answer that I have neither the
					inclination nor the power to do aught of the kind." <pb n="174"/>

"Honest man? Seems to me you talk more like a craven."

"You in vain seek to pick a quarrel with me, or put my affront upon me. The
					innocence in me heals me."

"A healing like your own nostrums. But you are a queer man—a very queer
					and dubious man; upon the whole, about the most so I ever met."

The scrutiny accompanying this seemed unwelcome to the diffidence of the
					herb-doctor. As if at once to attest the absence of resentment, as well as to
					change the subject, he threw a kind of familiar cordiality into his air, and
					said: "So you are going to get some machine made to do your work? Philanthropic
					scruples, doubtless, forbid your going as far as New Orleans for slaves?"

"Slaves?" morose again in a twinkling, "won't have 'em! Bad enough to see whites
					ducking and grinning round for a favor, without having those poor devils of
					niggers congeeing round for their corn. Though, to me, the niggers are the freer
					of the two. You are an abolitionist, ain't you?" he added, squaring himself with
					both hands on his rifle, used for a staff, and gazing in the herb-doctor's face
					with no more reverence than if it were a target. "You are an abolitionist, ain't
					you?"

"As to that, I cannot so readily answer. If by abolitionist you mean a zealot, I
					am none; but if you mean a man, who, being a man, feels for all men, slaves
					included, and by any lawful act, opposed to nobody's interest, and therefore,
					rousing nobody's enmity, would willingly abolish suffering (supposing it, in its
					degree, <pb n="175"/> to exist) from among mankind, irrespective of color, then
					am I what you say."

"Picked and prudent sentiments. You are the moderate man, the invaluable
					understrapper of the wicked man. You, the moderate man, may be used for wrong,
					but are useless for right."

From all this," said the herb-doctor, still forgivingly, "I infer, that you, a
					Missourian, though living in a slave-state, are without slave sentiments."

"Aye, but are you? Is not that air of yours, so spiritlessly enduring and
					yielding, the very air of a slave? Who is your master, pray; or are you owned by
					a company?"

"My master?"

"Aye, for come from Maine or Georgia, you come from a slave-state, and a
					slave-pen, where the best breeds are to be bought up at any price from a
					livelihood to the Presidency. Abolitionism, ye gods, but expresses the
					fellow-feeling of slave for slave ."

"The back-woods would seem to have given you rather eccentric notions," now with
					polite superiority smiled the herb-doctor, still with manly intrepidity
					forbearing each unmanly thrust, "but to return; since, for your purpose, you
					will have neither man nor boy, bond nor free, truly, then some sort of machine
					for you is all there is left. My desires for your success attend you,
					sir.—Ah!" glancing shoreward, "here is Cape Giradeau; I must leave
					you."

				<pb n="176"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="22" id="d27">
				CHAPTER XXII.<lb/> IN THE POLITE SPIRIT OF THE TUSCULAN DISPUTATIONS.

—"'PHILOSOPHICAL INTELLIGENCE OFFICE'—novel idea! But how did
					you come to dream that I wanted anything in your absurd line, eh?"

About twenty minutes after leaving Cape Giradeau, the above was growled out over
					his shoulder by the Missourian to a chance stranger who had just accosted him; a
					round-backed, baker-kneed man, in a mean five-dollar suit, wearing, collar-wise
					by a chain, a small brass plate, inscribed P. I. O., and who, with a sort of
					canine deprecation, slunk obliquely behind.

"How did you come to dream that I wanted anything in your line, eh?"

"Oh, respected sir," whined the other, crouching a pace nearer, and, in his
					obsequiousness, seeming to wag his very coat-tails behind him, shabby though
					they were, "oh, sir, from long experience, one glance tells me the gentleman who
					is in need of our humble services."

"But suppose I did want a boy—what they jocosely call a good
					boy—how could your absurd office help me?—Philosophical
					Intelligence Office?" <pb n="177"/>

"Yes, respected sir, an office founded on strictly philosophical and
					physio—"

"Look you—come up here—how, by philosophy or physiology
					either, make good boys to order? Come up here. Don't give me a crick in the
					neck. Come up here, come, sir, come," calling as if to his pointer. "Tell me,
					how put the requisite assortment of good qualities into a boy, as the assorted
					mince into the pie?"

"Respected sir, our office—"

"You talk much of that office. Where is it? On board this boat?"

"Oh no, sir, I just came aboard. Our office—"

"Came aboard at that last landing, eh? Pray, do you know a herb-doctor there?
					Smooth scamp in a snuff-colored surtout?"

"Oh, sir, I was but a sojourner at Cape Giradeau. Though, now that you mention a
					snuff-colored surtout, I think I met such a man as you speak of stepping ashore
					as I stepped aboard, and 'pears to me I have seen him somewhere before. Looks
					like a very mild Christian sort of person, I should say. Do you know him,
					respected sir?"

"Not much, but better than you seem to. Proceed with your business."

With a low, shabby bow, as grateful for the permission, the other began: "Our
					office—"

"Look you," broke in the bachelor with ire, "have you the spinal complaint? What
					are you ducking and groveling about? Keep still. Where's your office?" <pb
						n="178"/>

"The branch one which I represent, is at Alton, sir, in the free state we now
					pass," (pointing somewhat proudly ashore).

"Free, eh? You a freeman, you flatter yourself? With those coat-tails and that
					spinal complaint of servility? Free? Just cast up in your private mind who is
					your master, will you?"

"Oh, oh, oh! I don't understand—indeed—indeed. But, respected
					sir, as before said, our office, founded on principles wholly new—"

"To the devil with your principles! Bad sign when a man begins to talk of his
					principles. Hold, come back, sir; back here, back, sir, back! I tell you no more
					boys for me. Nay, I'm a Mede and Persian. In my old home in the woods I'm
					pestered enough with squirrels, weasels, chipmunks, skunks. I want no more wild
					vermin to spoil my temper and waste my substance. Don't talk of boys; enough of
					your boys; a plague of your boys; chilblains on your boys! As for Intelligence
					Offices: I've lived in the East, and know 'em. Swindling concerns kept by
					low-born cynics, under a fawning exterior wreaking their cynic malice upon
					mankind. You are a fair specimen of 'em."

"Oh dear, dear, dear!"

"Dear? Yes, a thrice dear purchase one of your boys would be to me. A rot on your
					boys!"

"But, respected sir, if you will not have boys, might we not, in our small way,
					accommodate you with a man?"

"Accommodate? Pray, no doubt you could <pb n="179"/> accommodate me with a
					bosom-friend too, couldn't you? Accommodate! Obliging word accommodate: there's
					accommodation notes now, where one accommodates another with a loan, and if he
					don't pay it pretty quickly, accommodates him with a chain to his foot.
					Accommodate! God forbid that I should ever be accommodated. No, no. Look you, as
					I told that cousin-german of yours, the herb-doctor, I'm now on the road to get
					me made some sort of machine to do my work. Machines for me. My cider-mill-does
					that ever steal my cider? My mowing-machine—does that ever lay a-bed
					mornings? My corn-husker—does that ever give me insolence? No:
					cider-mill, mowing-machine, corn-husker—all faithfully attend to their
					business. Disinterested, too; no board, no wages; yet doing good all their lives
					long; shining examples that virtue is its own reward—the only
					practical Christians I know."

"Oh dear, dear, dear, dear!"

"Yes, sir:—boys? Start my soul-bolts, what a difference, in a moral
					point of view, between a corn-husker and a boy! Sir, a corn-husker, for its
					patient continuance in well-doing, might not unfitly go to heaven. Do you
					suppose a boy will?"

"A corn-husker in heaven! (turning up the whites of his eyes). Respected sir,
					this way of talking as if heaven were a kind of Washington patent-office
					museum—oh, oh, oh!—as if mere machine-work and puppet-work
					went to heaven—oh, oh, oh! Things incapable of free agency, to receive
					the eternal reward of well-doing—oh, oh, oh!" <pb n="180"/>

"You Praise-God-Barebones you, what are you groaning about? Did I say anything of
					that sort? Seems to me, though you talk so good, you are mighty quick at a hint
					the other way, or else you want to pick a polemic quarrel with me."

"It may be so or not, respected sir," was now the demure reply; "but if it be, it
					is only because as a soldier out of honor is quick in taking affront, so a
					Christian out of religion is quick, sometimes perhaps a little too much so, in
					spying heresy."

"Well," after an astonished pause, "for an unaccountable pair, you and the
					herb-doctor ought to yoke together."

So saying, the bachelor was eying him rather sharply, when he with the brass
					plate recalled him to the discussion by a hint, not unflattering, that he (the
					man with the brass plate) was all anxiety to hear him further on the subject of
					servants.

"About that matter," exclaimed the impulsive bachelor, going off at the hint like
					a rocket, "all thinking minds are, now-a-days, coming to the
					conclusion—one derived from an immense hereditary
					experience—see what Horace and others of the ancients say of
					servants—coming to the conclusion, I say, that boy or man, the human
					animal is, for most work-purposes, a losing animal. Can't be trusted; less
					trustworthy than oxen; for conscientiousness a turn-spit dog excels him. Hence
					these thousand new inventions—carding machines, horse-shoe machines,
					tunnel-boring machines, reaping machines, apple-paring machines, boot-blacking
					machines, <pb n="181"/> sewing machines, shaving machines, run-of-errand
					machines, dumb-waiter machines, and the Lord-only-knows-what machines; all of
					which announce the era when that refractory animal, the working or serving man,
					shall be a buried by-gone, a superseded fossil. Shortly prior to which glorious
					time, I doubt not that a price will be put upon their peltries as upon the
					knavish possums,' especially the boys. Yes, sir (ringing his rifle down on the
					deck), I rejoice to think that the day is at hand, when, prompted to it by law,
					I shall shoulder this gun and go out a boy-shooting."

"Oh, now! Lord, Lord, Lord!—But our office, respected sir, conducted as
					I ventured to observe—"

"No, sir," bristlingly settling his stubble chin in his coon-skins. "Don't try to
					oil me; the herb-doctor tried that. My experience, carried now through a
					course—worse than salivation—a course of five and thirty
					boys, proves to me that boyhood is a natural state of rascality."

"Save us, save us!"

"Yes, sir, yes. My name is Pitch; I stick to what I say. I speak from fifteen
					years' experience; five and thirty boys; American, Irish, English, German,
					African, Mulatto; not to speak of that China boy sent me by one who well knew my
					perplexities, from California; and that Lascar boy from Bombay. Thug! I found
					him sucking the embryo life from my spring eggs. All rascals, sir, every soul of
					them; Caucasian or Mongol. Amazing the endless variety of rascality in human
					nature of the juvenile sort. I remember that, having <pb n="182"/> discharged,
					one after another, twenty-nine boys—each, too, for some wholly
					unforeseen species of viciousness peculiar to that one peculiar boy—I
					remember saying to myself : Now, then, surely, I have got to the end of the
					list, wholly exhausted it; I have only now to get me a boy, any boy different
					from those twenty-nine preceding boys, and he infallibly shall be that virtuous
					boy I have so long been seeking. But, bless me! this thirtieth boy—by
					the way, having at the time long forsworn your intelligence offices, I had him
					sent to me from the Commissioners of Emigration, all the way from New York,
					culled out carefully, in fine, at my particular request, from a standing army of
					eight hundred boys, the flowers of all nations, so they wrote me, temporarily in
					barracks on an East River island—I say, this thirtieth boy was in
					person not ungraceful; his deceased mother a lady's maid, or something of that
					sort; and in manner, wily, in a plebeian way, a perfect Chesterfield; very
					intelligent, too— quick as a flash. But, such suavity! Please sir!
					please sir!' always bowing and saying, Please sir.' In the strangest way, too,
					combining a filial affection with a menial respect. Took such warm, singular
					interest in my affairs. Wanted to be considered one of the family—sort
					of adopted son of mine, I suppose. Of a morning, when I would go out to my
					stable, with what childlike good nature he would trot out my nag, Please sir, I
					think he's getting fatter and fatter.' But, he don't look very clean, does he?'
					unwilling to be downright harsh with so affectionate a lad; and he seems a
					little hollow inside the <pb n="183"/> haunch there, don't he? or no, perhaps I
					don't see plain this morning.' 'Oh, please sir, it's just there I think he's
					gaining so, please.' Polite scamp! I soon found he never gave that wretched nag
					his oats of nights; didn't bed him either. Was above that sort of chambermaid
					work. No end to his willful neglects. But the more he abused my service, the
					more polite he grew."

"Oh, sir, some way you mistook him."

"Not a bit of it. Besides, sir, he was a boy who under a Chesterfieldian exterior
					hid strong destructive propensities. He cut up my horse-blanket for the bits of
					leather, for hinges to his chest. Denied it point-blank. After he was gone,
					found the shreds under his mattress. Would slyly break his hoe-handle, too, on
					purpose to get rid of hoeing. Then be so gracefully penitent for his fatal
					excess of industrious strength. Offer to mend all by taking a nice stroll to the
					nighest settlement—cherry-trees in full bearing all the
					way—to get the broken thing cobbled. Very politely stole my pears, odd
					pennies, shillings, dollars, and nuts; regular squirrel at it. But I could prove
					nothing. Expressed to him my suspicions. Said I, moderately enough, A little
					less politeness, and a little more honesty would suit me better.' He fired up;
					threatened to sue for libel. I won't say anything about his afterwards, in Ohio,
					being found in the act of gracefully putting a bar across a rail-road track, for
					the reason that a stoker called him the rogue that he was. But enough: polite
					boys or saucy boys, white boys or black boys, smart boys or lazy boys, Caucasian
					boys or Mongol boys—all are rascals." <pb n="184"/>

"Shocking, shocking!" nervously tucking his frayed cravat-end out of sight.
					"Surely, respected sir, you labor under a deplorable hallucination. Why, pardon
					again, you seem to have not the slightest confidence in boys. I admit, indeed,
					that boys, some of them at least, are but too prone to one little foolish foible
					or other. But, what then, respected sir, when, by natural laws, they finally
					outgrow such things, and wholly ?"

Having until now vented himself mostly in plaintive dissent of canine whines and
					groans, the man with the brass-plate seemed beginning to summon courage to a
					less timid encounter. But, upon his maiden essay, was not very encouragingly
					handled, since the dialogue immediately continued as follows:

"Boys outgrow what is amiss in them? From bad boys spring good men? Sir, 'the
					child is father of the man;' hence, as all boys are rascals, so are all men.
					But, God bless me, you must know these things better than I; keeping an
					intelligence office as you do; a business which must furnish peculiar facilities
					for studying mankind. Come, come up here, sir; confess you know these things
					pretty well, after all. Do you not know that all men are rascals, and all boys,
					too?"

"Sir," replied the other, spite of his shocked feelings seeming to pluck up some
					spirit, but not to an indiscreet degree, "Sir, heaven be praised, I am far, very
					far from knowing what you say. True," he thoughtfully continued, "with my
					associates, I keep an intelligence office, and for ten years, come October,
					have, one way or other, been concerned in that line; for no small <pb n="185"/>
					period in the great city of Cincinnati, too; and though, as you hint, within
					that long interval, I must have had more or less favorable opportunity for
					studying mankind—in a business way, scanning not only the faces, but
					ransacking the lives of several thousands of human beings, male and female, of
					various nations, both employers and employed, genteel and ungenteel, educated
					and uneducated; yet—of course, I candidly admit, with some random
					exceptions, I have, so far as my small observation goes, found that mankind thus
					domestically viewed, confidentially viewed, I may say; they, upon the
					whole—making some reasonable allowances for human
					imperfection—present as pure a moral spectacle as the purest angel
					could wish. I say it, respected sir, with confidence.

"Gammon! You don't mean what you say. Else you are like a landsman at sea: don't
					know the ropes, the very things everlastingly pulled before your eyes.
					Serpent-like, they glide about, traveling blocks too subtle for you. In short,
					the entire ship is a riddle. Why, you green ones wouldn't know if she were
					unseaworthy ; but still, with thumbs stuck back into your arm-holes, pace the
					rotten planks, singing, like a fool, words put into your green mouth by the
					cunning owner, the man who, heavily insuring it, sends his ship to be
					wrecked— <q>
						<l>'A wet sheet and a flowing sea!'—</l>
					</q> and, sir, now that it occurs to me, your talk, the whole of it, is but a
					wet sheet and a flowing sea, and <pb n="186"/> an idle wind that follows fast,
					offering a striking contrast to my own discourse."

"Sir," exclaimed the man with the brass-plate, his patience now more or less
					tasked, "permit me with deference to hint that some of your remarks are
					injudiciously worded. And thus we say to our patrons, when they enter our office
					full of abuse of us because of some worthy boy we may have sent
					them—some boy wholly misjudged for the time. Yes, sir, permit me to
					remark that you do not sufficiently consider that, though a small man, I may
					have my small share of feelings."

"Well, well, I didn't mean to wound your feelings at all. And that they are
					small, very small, I take your word for it. Sorry, sorry. But truth is like a
					thrashing-machine; tender sensibilities must keep out of the way. Hope you
					understand me. Don't want to hurt you. All I say is, what I said in the first
					place, only now I swear it, that all boys are rascals."

"Sir," lowly replied the other, still forbearing like an old lawyer badgered in
					court, or else like a good-hearted simpleton, the butt of mischievous wags,
					"Sir, since you come back to the point, will you allow me, in my small, quiet
					way, to submit to you certain small, quiet views of the subject in hand?"

"Oh, yes!" with insulting indifference, rubbing his chin and looking the other
					way. "Oh, yes; go on."

"Well, then, respected sir," continued the other, now assuming as genteel an
					attitude as the irritating set of his pinched five-dollar suit would permit;
					"well, then, sir, the peculiar principles, the strictly philosophical <pb
						n="187"/> principles, I may say," guardedly rising in dignity, as he
					guardedly rose on his toes, "upon which our office is founded, has led me and my
					associates, in our small, quiet way, to a careful analytical study of man,
					conducted, too, on a quiet theory, and with an unobtrusive aim wholly our own.
					That theory I will not now at large set forth. But some of the discoveries
					resulting from it, I will, by your permission, very briefly mention; such of
					them, I mean, as refer to the state of boy-hood scientifically viewed."

"Then you have studied the thing? expressly studied boys, eh? Why didn't you out
					with that before?"

"Sir, in my small business way, I have not conversed with so many masters,
					gentlemen masters, for nothing. I have been taught that in this world there is a
					precedence of opinions as well as of persons. You have kindly given me your
					views, I am now, with modesty, about to give you mine."

"Stop flunkying—go on."

"In the first place, sir, our theory teaches us to proceed by analogy from the
					physical to the moral. Are we right there, sir? Now, sir, take a young boy, a
					young male infant rather, a man-child in short—what sir, I
					respectfully ask, do you in the first place remark?"

"A rascal, sir! present and prospective, a rascal!"

"Sir, if passion is to invade, surely science must evacuate. May I proceed? Well,
					then, what, in the first place, in a general view, do you remark, respected sir,
					in that male baby or man-child?"

The bachelor privily growled, but this time, upon the <pb n="188"/> whole, better
					governed himself than before, though not, indeed, to the degree of thinking it
					prudent to risk an articulate response.

"What do you remark? I respectfully repeat." But, as no answer came, only the
					low, half-suppressed growl, as of Bruin in a hollow trunk, the questioner
					continued: "Well, sir, if you will permit me, in my small way, to speak for you,
					you remark, respected sir, an incipient creation; loose sort of sketchy thing; a
					little preliminary rag-paper study, or careless cartoon, so to speak, of a man.
					The idea, you see, respected sir, is there; but, as yet, wants filling out. In a
					word, respected sir, the man-child is at present but little, every way; I don't
					pretend to deny it; but, then, he promises well, does he not? Yes, promises very
					well indeed, I may say. (So, too, we say to our patrons in reference to some
					noble little youngster objected to for being a dwarf:) But, to advance one step
					further," extending his thread-bare leg, as he drew a pace nearer, "we must now
					drop the figure of the rag-paper cartoon, and borrow one—to use
					presently, when wanted—from the horticultural kingdom. Some bud,
					lily-bud, if you please. Now, such points as the new-born man-child
					has—as yet not all that could be desired, I am free to
					confess—still, such as they are, there they are, and palpable as those
					of an adult. But we stop not here," taking another step. "The man-child not only
					possesses these present points, small though they are, but,
					likewise—now our horticultural image comes into play—like
					the bud of the lily, he contains concealed rudiments of others; that is, <pb
						n="189"/> points at present invisible, with beauties at present dormant."

"Come, come, this talk is getting too horticultural and beautiful altogether. Cut
					it short, cut it short!"

"Respected sir," with a rustily martial sort of gesture, like a decayed
					corporal's, "when deploying into the field of discourse the vanguard of an
					important argument, much more in evolving the grand central forces of a new
					philosophy of boys, as I may say, surely you will kindly allow scope adequate to
					the movement in hand, small and humble in its way as that movement may be. Is it
					worth my while to go on, respected sir?"

"Yes, stop flunkying and go on."

Thus encouraged, again the philosopher with the brass-plate proceeded:

"Supposing, sir, that worthy gentleman (in such terms, to an applicant for
					service, we allude to some patron we chance to have in our eye), supposing,
					respected sir, that worthy gentleman, Adam, to have been dropped overnight in
					Eden, as a calf in the pasture; supposing that, sir—then how could
					even the learned serpent himself have foreknown that such a downy-chinned little
					innocent would eventually rival the goat in a beard? Sir, wise as the serpent
					was, that eventuality would have been entirely hidden from his wisdom."

"I don't know about that. The devil is very sagacious. To judge by the event, he
					appears to have understood man better even than the Being who made him." <pb
						n="190"/>

"For God's sake, don't say that, sir! To the point. Can it now with fairness be
					denied that, in his beard, the man-child prospectively possesses an appendix,
					not less imposing than patriarchal; and for this goodly beard, should we not by
					generous anticipation give the man-child, even in his cradle, credit? Should we
					not now, sir? respectfully I put it."

"Yes, if like pig-weed he mows it down soon as it shoots," porcinely rubbing his
					stubble-chin against his coon-skins.

"I have hinted at the analogy," continued the other, calmly disregardful of the
					digression; "now to apply it. Suppose a boy evince no noble quality. Then
					generously give him credit for his prospective one. Don't you see? So we say to
					our patrons when they would fain return a boy upon us as unworthy: 'Madam, or
					sir, (as the case may be) has this boy a beard?' 'No.' 'Has he, we respectfully
					ask, as yet, evinced any noble quality?' 'No, indeed.' Then, madam, or sir, take
					him back, we humbly beseech; and keep him till that same noble quality sprouts;
					for, have confidence, it, like the beard, is in him."'

"Very fine theory," scornfully exclaimed the bachelor, yet in secret, perhaps,
					not entirely undisturbed by these strange new views of the matter; "but what
					trust is to be placed in it?" "The trust of perfect confidence, sir. To proceed.
					Once more, if you please, regard the man-child."

"Hold!" paw-like thrusting out his bearskin arm, "don't intrude that man-child
					upon me too often. He <pb n="191"/> who loves not bread, dotes not on dough. As
					little of your man-child as your logical arrangements will admit."

"Anew regard the man-child," with inspired intrepidity repeated he with the
					brass-plate, "in the perspective of his developments, I mean. At first the
					man-child has no teeth, but about the sixth month—am I right, sir?"

"Don't know anything about it."

"To proceed then: though at first deficient in teeth, about the sixth month the
					man-child begins to put forth in that particular. And sweet those tender little
					puttings-forth are."

"Very, but blown out of his mouth directly, worthless enough."

"Admitted. And, therefore, we say to our patrons returning with a boy alleged not
					only to be deficient in goodness, but redundant in ill: The lad, madam or sir,
					evinces very corrupt qualities, does he?' No end to them.' But, have confidence,
					there will be; for pray, madam, in this lad's early childhood, were not those
					frail first teeth, then his, followed by his present sound, even, beautiful and
					permanent set. And the more objectionable those first teeth became, was not
					that, madam, we respectfully submit, so much the more reason to look for their
					speedy substitution by the present sound, even, beautiful and permanent ones.'
					'True, true, can't deny that.' Then, madam, take him back, we respectfully beg,
					and wait till, in the now swift course of nature, dropping those transient moral
						<pb n="192"/> blemishes you complain of, he replacingly buds forth in the
					sound, even, beautiful and permanent virtues."'

"Very philosophical again," was the contemptuous reply—the outward
					contempt, perhaps, proportioned to the inward misgiving. "Vastly philosophical,
					indeed, but tell me—to continue your analogy—since the
					second teeth followed—in fact, came from—the first, is there
					no chance the blemish may be transmitted?"

"Not at all." Abating in humility as he gained in the argument. "The second teeth
					follow, but do not come from, the first; successors, not sons. The first teeth
					are not like the germ blossom of the apple, at once the father of, and
					incorporated into, the growth it foreruns; but they are thrust from their place
					by the independent undergrowth of the succeeding set—an illustration,
					by the way, which shows more for me than I meant, though not more than I wish."

"What does it show?" Surly-looking as a thunder-cloud with the inkept unrest of
					unacknowledged conviction.

"It shows this, respected sir, that in the case of any boy, especially an ill
					one, to apply unconditionally the saying, that the child is father of the man',
					is, besides implying an uncharitable aspersion of the race, affirming a thing
					very wide of—"

"—Your analogy," like a snapping turtle.

"Yes, respected sir."

"But is analogy argument? You are a punster."

"Punster, respected sir?" with a look of being aggrieved. <pb n="193"/>

"Yes, you pun with ideas as another man may with words." "Oh well, sir, whoever
					talks in that strain, whoever has no confidence in human reason, whoever
					despises human reason, in vain to reason with him. Still, respected sir,"
					altering his air, "permit me to hint that, had not the force of analogy moved
					you somewhat, you would hardly have offered to contemn it."

"Talk away," disdainfully; "but pray tell me what has that last analogy of yours
					to do with your intelligence office business?"

"Everything to do with it, respected sir. From that analogy we derive the reply
					made to such a patron as, shortly after being supplied by us with an adult
					servant, proposes to return him upon our hands; not that, while with the patron,
					said adult has given any cause of dissatisfaction, but the patron has just
					chanced to hear something unfavorable concerning him from some gentleman who
					employed said adult long before, while a boy. To which too fastidious patron,
					we, taking said adult by the hand, and graciously reintroducing him to the
					patron, say: Far be it from you, madam, or sir, to proceed in your censure
					against this adult, in anything of the spirit of an ex-post-facto law. Madam, or
					sir, would you visit upon the butterfly the sins of the caterpillar? In the
					natural advance of all creatures, do they not bury themselves over and over
					again in the endless resurrection of better and better? Madam, or sir, take back
					this adult; he may have been a caterpillar, but is now a butterfly.'" <pb
						n="194"/>

"Pun away; but even accepting your analogical pun, what does it amount to? Was
					the caterpillar one creature, and is the butterfly another? The butterfly is the
					caterpillar in a gaudy cloak; stripped of which, there lies the impostor's long
					spindle of a body, pretty much worm-shaped as before."

"You reject the analogy. To the facts then. You deny that a youth of one
					character can be transformed into a man of an opposite character. Now
					then—yes, I have it. There's the founder of La Trappe, and Ignatius
					Loyola; in boyhood, and someway into manhood, both devil-may-care bloods, and
					yet, in the end, the wonders of the world for anchoritish self-command. These
					two examples, by-the-way, we cite to such patrons as would hastily return rakish
					young waiters upon us. Madam, or sir—patience; patience,' we say;
					'good madam, or sir, would you discharge forth your cask of good wine, because,
					while working, it riles more or less? Then discharge not forth this young
					waiter; the good in him is working.' 'But he is a sad rake.' Therein is his
					promise; the rake being crude material for the saint."'

"Ah, you are a talking man—what I call a wordy man. You talk, talk."

"And with submission, sir, what is the greatest judge, bishop or prophet, but a
					talking man? He talks, talks. It is the peculiar vocation of a teacher to talk.
					What's wisdom itself but table-talk? The best wisdom in this world, and the last
					spoken by its teacher, did it not literally and truly come in the form of
					table-talk?" <pb n="195"/>

"You, you you!" rattling down his rifle.

"To shift the subject, since we cannot agree. Pray, what is your opinion,
					respected sir, of St. Augustine?"

"St. Augustine? What should I, or you either, know of him? Seems to me, for one
					in such a business, to say nothing of such a coat, that though you don't know a
					great deal, indeed, yet you know a good deal more than you ought to know, or
					than you have a right to know, or than it is safe or expedient for you to know,
					or than, in the fair course of life, you could have honestly come to know. I am
					of opinion you should be served like a Jew in the middle ages with his gold;
					this knowledge of yours, which you haven't enough knowledge to know how to make
					a right use of, it should be taken from you. And so I have been thinking all
					along."

"You are merry, sir. But you have a little looked into St. Augustine I suppose."

"St. Augustine on Original Sin is my text book. But you, I ask again, where do
					you find time or inclination for these out-of-the-way speculations? In fact,
					your whole talk, the more I think of it, is altogether unexampled and
					extraordinary."

"Respected sir, have I not already informed you that the quite new method, the
					strictly philosophical one, on which our office is founded, has led me and my
					associates to an enlarged study of mankind. It was my fault, if I did not,
					likewise, hint, that these studies directed always to the scientific procuring
					of good servants of all sorts, boys included, for the kind gentlemen, our
					patrons <pb n="196"/> —that these studies, I say, have been conducted
					equally among all books of all libraries, as among all men of all nations. Then,
					you rather like St. Augustine, sir?"

"Excellent genius!"

"In some points he was; yet, how comes it that under his own hand, St. Augustine
					confesses that, until his thirtieth year, he was a very sad dog?"

"A saint a sad dog ?"

"Not the saint, but the saint's irresponsible little forerunner—the
					boy."

"All boys are rascals, and so are all men," again flying off at his tangent; "my
					name is Pitch; I stick to what I say."

"Ah, sir, permit me—when I behold you on this mild summer's eve, thus
					eccentrically clothed in the skins of wild beasts, I cannot but conclude that
					the equally grim and unsuitable habit of your mind is likewise but an eccentric
					assumption, having no basis in your genuine soul, no more than in nature
					herself."

"Well, really, now—really," fidgeted the bachelor, not unaffected in
					his conscience by these benign personalities, "really, really, now, I don't know
					but that I may have been a little bit too hard upon those five and thirty boys
					of mine."

"Glad to find you a little softening, sir. Who knows now, but that flexile
					gracefulness, however questionable at the time of that thirtieth boy of yours,
					might have been the silky husk of the most solid qualities of maturity. It might
					have been with him as with the ear of the Indian corn." <pb n="197"/>

"Yes, yes, yes," excitedly cried the bachelor, as the light of this new
					illustration broke in, " yes, yes; and now that I think of it, how often I've
					sadly watched my Indian corn in May, wondering whether such sickly, half-eaten
					sprouts, could ever thrive up into the stiff, stately spear of August."

"A most admirable reflection, sir, and you have only, according to the analogical
					theory first started by our office, to apply it to that thirtieth boy in
					question, and see the result. Had you but kept that thirtieth boy—been
					patient with his sickly virtues, cultivated them, hoed round them, why what a
					glorious guerdon would have been yours, when at last you should have had a St.
					Augustine for an ostler."

"Really, really—well, I am glad I didn't send him to jail, as at first
					I intended."

"Oh that would have been too bad. Grant he was vicious. The petty vices of boys
					are like the innocent kicks of colts, as yet imperfectly broken. Some boys know
					not virtue only for the same reason they know not French; it was never taught
					them. Established upon the basis of parental charity, juvenile asylums exist by
					law for the benefit of lads convicted of acts which, in adults, would have
					received other requital. Why? Because, do what they will, society, like our
					office, at bottom has a Christian confidence in boys. And all this we say to our
					patrons."

"Your patrons, sir, seem your marines to whom you may say anything," said the
					other, relapsing. "Why do knowing employers shun youths from asylums, <pb
						n="198"/> though offered them at the smallest wages? I'll none of your
					reformado boys."

"Such a boy, respected sir, I would not get for you, but a boy that never needed
					reform. Do not smile, for as whooping-cough and measles are juvenile diseases,
					and yet some juveniles never have them, so are there boys equally free from
					juvenile vices. True, for the best of boys' measles may be contagious, and evil
					communications corrupt good manners; but a boy with a sound mind in a sound
					body—such is the boy I would get you. If hitherto, sir, you have
					struck upon a peculiarly bad vein of boys, so much the more hope now of your
					hitting a good one."

"That sounds a kind of reasonable, as it were—a little so, really. In
					fact, though you have said a great many foolish things, very foolish and absurd
					things, yet, upon the whole, your conversation has been such as might almost
					lead one less distrustful than I to repose a certain conditional confidence in
					you, I had almost added in your office, also. Now, for the humor of it,
					supposing that even I, I myself, really had this sort of conditional confidence,
					though but a grain, what sort of a boy, in sober fact, could you send me? And
					what would be your fee?"

"Conducted," replied the other somewhat loftily, rising now in eloquence as his
					proselyte, for all his pretenses, sunk in conviction, "conducted upon principles
					involving care, learning, and labor, exceeding what is usual in kindred
					institutions, the Philosophical Intelligence Office is forced to charges
					somewhat higher than <pb n="199"/> customary. Briefly, our fee is three dollars
					in advance. As for the boy, by a lucky chance, I have a very promising little
					fellow now in my eye—a very likely little fellow, indeed."

"Honest?"

"As the day is long. Might trust him with untold millions. Such, at least, were
					the marginal observations on the phrenological chart of his head, submitted to
					me by the mother."

"How old?"

"Just fifteen."

"Tall? Stout?"

"Uncommonly so, for his age, his mother remarked."

"Industrious?"

"The busy bee."

The bachelor fell into a troubled reverie. At last, with much hesitancy, he
					spoke:

"Do you think now, candidly, that—I say
					candidly—candidly—could I have some small,
					limited—some faint, conditional degree of confidence in that boy?
					Candidly, now?"

"Candidly, you could."

"A sound boy? A good boy?"

"Never knew one more so."

The bachelor fell into another irresolute reverie; then said: "Well, now, you
					have suggested some rather new views of boys, and men, too. Upon those views in
					the concrete I at present decline to determine. Nevertheless, for the sake
					purely of a scientific experiment, I will try that boy. I don't think him an
					angel, <pb n="200"/> mind. No, no. But I'll try him. There are my three dollars,
					and here is my address. Send him along this day two weeks. Hold, you will be
					wanting the money for his passage. There," handing it somewhat reluctantly.

"Ah, thank you. I had forgotten his passage;" then, altering in manner, and
					gravely holding the bills, continued: "Respected sir, never willingly do I
					handle money not with perfect willingness, nay, with a certain alacrity, paid.
					Either tell me that you have a perfect and unquestioning confidence in me (never
					mind the boy now) or permit me respectfully to return these bills."

"Put 'em up, put 'em up!"

"Thank you. Confidence is the indispensable basis of all sorts of business
					transactions. Without it, commerce between man and man, as between country and
					country, would, like a watch, run down and stop. And now, supposing that against
					present expectation the lad should, after all, evince some little undesirable
					trait, do not, respected sir, rashly dismiss him. Have but patience, have but
					confidence. Those transient vices will, ere long, fall out, and be replaced by
					the sound, firm, even and permanent virtues. Ah," glancing shoreward, towards a
					grotesquely-shaped bluff, "there's the Devil's Joke, as they call it; the bell
					for landing will shortly ring. I must go look up the cook I brought for the
					inn-keeper at Cairo."

				<pb n="201"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="23" id="d28">
				CHAPTER XXIII.<lb/> IN WHICH THE POWERFUL EFFECT OF NATURAL SCENERY IS EVINCED
					IN THE CASE OF THE MISSOURIAN, WHO, IN VIEW OF THE REGION ROUND-ABOUT CAIRO, HAS
					A RETURN OF HIS CHILLY FIT.

AT Cairo, the old established firm of Fever & Ague is still settling up
					its unfinished business; that Creole grave-digger, Yellow Jack—his
					hand at the mattock and spade has not lost its cunning; while Don Saturninus
					Typhus taking his constitutional with Death, Calvin Edson and three undertakers,
					in the morass, snuffs up the mephitic breeze with zest.

In the dank twilight, fanned with mosquitoes, and sparkling with fire-flies, the
					boat now lies before Cairo. She has landed certain passengers, and tarries for
					the coming of expected ones. Leaning over the rail on the inshore side, the
					Missourian eyes through the dubious medium that swampy and squalid domain; and
					over it audibly mumbles his cynical mind to himself, as Apemantus' dog may have
					mumbled his bone. He bethinks him that the man with the brass-plate was to land
					on this villainous bank, and for that cause, if no other, begins to suspect him.
					Like one beginning to rouse himself from a dose of chloroform treacherously
					given, he <pb n="202"/> half divines, too, that he, the philosopher, had
					unwittingly been betrayed into being an unphilosophical dupe. To what
					vicissitudes of light and shade is man subject! He ponders the mystery of human
					subjectivity in general. He thinks he perceives with Crossbones, his favorite
					author, that, as one may wake up well in the morning, very well, indeed, and
					brisk as a buck, I thank you, but ere bed-time get under the weather, there is
					no telling how—so one may wake up wise, and slow of assent, very wise
					and very slow, I assure you, and for all that, before night, by like trick in
					the atmosphere, be left in the lurch a ninny. Health and wisdom equally
					precious, and equally little as unfluctuating possessions to be relied on.

But where was slipped in the entering wedge? Philosophy, knowledge,
					experience—were those trusty knights of the castle recreant? No, but
					unbeknown to them, the enemy stole on the castle's south side, its genial one,
					where Suspicion, the warder, parleyed. In fine, his too indulgent, too artless
					and companionable nature betrayed him. Admonished by which, he thinks he must be
					a little splenetic in his intercourse henceforth.

He revolves the crafty process of sociable chat, by which, as he fancies, the man
					with the brass-plate wormed into him, and made such a fool of him as insensibly
					to persuade him to waive, in his exceptional case, that general law of distrust
					systematically applied to the race. He revolves, but cannot comprehend, the
					operation, still less the operator. Was the man a trickster, it must be more for
					the love than the lucre. <pb n="203"/> Two or three dirty dollars the motive to
					so many nice wiles? And yet how full of mean needs his seeming. Before his
					mental vision the person of that threadbare Talleyrand, that impoverished
					Machiavelli, that seedy Rosicrucian—for something of all these he
					vaguely deems him—passes now in puzzled review. Fain, in his disfavor,
					would he make out a logical case. The doctrine of analogies recurs. Fallacious
					enough doctrine when wielded against one's prejudices, but in corroboration of
					cherished suspicions not without likelihood. Analogically, he couples the
					slanting cut of the equivocator's coat-tails with the sinister cast in his eye;
					he weighs slyboot's sleek speech in the light imparted by the oblique import of
					the smooth slope of his worn boot-heels; the insinuator's undulating flunkyisms
					dovetail into those of the flunky beast that windeth his way on his belly.

From these uncordial reveries he is roused by a cordial slap on the shoulder,
					accompanied by a spicy volume of tobacco-smoke, out of which came a voice, sweet
					as a seraph's:

"A penny for your thoughts, my fine fellow."

				<pb n="204"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="24" id="d29">
				CHAPTER XXIV.<lb/> A PHILANTHROPIST UNDERTAKES TO CONVERT A MISANTHROPE, BUT
					DOES NOT GET BEYOND CONFUTING HIM.

"HANDS off!" cried the bachelor, involuntarily covering dejection with
					moroseness.

"Hands off? that sort of label won't do in our Fair. Whoever in our Fair has fine
					feelings loves to feel the nap of fine cloth, especially when a fine fellow
					wears it."

"And who of my fine-fellow species may you be? From the Brazils, ain't you?
					Toucan fowl. Fine feathers on foul meat."

This ungentle mention of the toucan was not improbably suggested by the
					parti-hued, and rather plumagy aspect of the stranger, no bigot it would seem,
					but a liberalist, in dress, and whose wardrobe, almost anywhere than on the
					liberal Mississippi, used to all sorts of fantastic informalities, might, even
					to observers less critical than the bachelor, have looked, if anything, a little
					out of the common; but not more so perhaps, than, considering the bear and
					raccoon costume, the bachelor's own appearance. In short, the stranger sported a
					vesture barred with various hues, that of the cochineal <pb n="205"/>
					predominating, in style participating of a Highland plaid, Emir's robe, and
					French blouse; from its plaited sort of front peeped glimpses of a flowered
					regatta-shirt, while, for the rest, white trowsers of ample duck flowed over
					maroon-colored slippers, and a jaunty smoking-cap of regal purple crowned him
					off at top; king of traveled good-fellows, evidently. Grotesque as all was,
					nothing looked stiff or unused; all showed signs of easy service, the least
					wonted thing setting like a wonted glove. That genial hand, which had just been
					laid on the ungenial shoulder, was now carelessly thrust down before him,
					sailor-fashion, into a sort of Indian belt, confining the redundant vesture; the
					other held, by its long bright cherry-stem, a Nuremburgh pipe in blast, its
					great porcelain bowl painted in miniature with linked crests and arms of
					interlinked nations-a florid show. As by subtle saturations of its mellowing
					essence the tobacco had ripened the bowl, so it looked as if something similar
					of the interior spirit came rosily out on the cheek. But rosy pipe-bowl, or rosy
					countenance, all was lost on that unrosy man, the bachelor, who, waiting a
					moment till the commotion, caused by the boat's renewed progress, had a little
					abated, thus continued:

"Hark ye," jeeringly eying the cap and belt, "did you ever see Signor Marzetti in
					the African pantomime ?"

"No;—good performer?"

"Excellent; plays the intelligent ape till he seems it. With such naturalness can
					a being endowed with an immortal spirit enter into that of a monkey. But <pb
						n="206"/> where's your tail? In the pantomime, Marzetti, no hypocrite in his
					monkery, prides himself on that."

The stranger, now at rest, sideways and genially, on one hip, his right leg
					cavalierly crossed before the other, the toe of his vertical slipper pointed
					easily down on the deck, whiffed out a long, leisurely sort of indifferent and
					charitable puff, betokening him more or less of the mature man of the world, a
					character which, like its opposite, the sincere Christian's, is not always swift
					to take offense; and then, drawing near, still smoking, again laid his hand,
					this time with mild impressiveness, on the ursine shoulder, and not unamiably
					said: "That in your address there is a sufficiency of the fortiter in re few
					unbiased observers will question; but that this is duly attempered with the
					suaviter in modo may admit, I think, of an honest doubt. My dear fellow,"
					beaming his eyes full upon him, "what injury have I done you, that you should
					receive my greeting with a curtailed civility?"

"Off hands;" once more shaking the friendly member from him. "Who in the name of
					the great chimpanzee, in whose likeness, you, Marzetti, and the other chatterers
					are made, who in thunder are you?"

"A cosmopolitan, a catholic man; who, being such, ties himself to no narrow
					tailor or teacher, but federates, in heart as in costume, something of the
					various gallantries of men under various suns. Oh, one roams not over the
					gallant globe in vain. Bred by it, is a fraternal and fusing feeling. No man is
					a stranger. You accost anybody. Warm and confiding, you wait not for <pb n="207"
					/> measured advances. And though, indeed, mine, in this instance, have met with
					no very hilarious encouragement, yet the principle of a true citizen of the
					world is still to return good for ill.—My dear fellow, tell me how I
					can serve you."

"By dispatching yourself, Mr. Popinjay-of-the-world, into the heart of the Lunar
					Mountains. You are another of them. Out of my sight!"

"Is the sight of humanity so very disagreeable to you then? Ah, I may be foolish,
					but for my part, in all its aspects, I love it. Served up B la Pole, or B la
					Moor, B la Ladrone, or B la Yankee, that good dish, man, still delights me; or
					rather is man a wine I never weary of comparing and sipping; wherefore am I a
					pledged cosmopolitan, a sort of London-Dock-Vault connoisseur, going about from
					Teheran to Natchitoches, a taster of races; in all his vintages, smacking my
					lips over this racy creature, man, continually. But as there are teetotal
					palates which have a distaste even for Amontillado, so I suppose there may be
					teetotal souls which relish not even the very best brands of humanity. Excuse
					me, but it just occurs to me that you, my dear fellow, possibly lead a solitary
					life."

"Solitary ?" starting as at a touch of divination.

"Yes: in a solitary life one insensibly contracts oddities,—talking to
					one's self now."

"Been eaves-dropping, eh ?"

"Why, a soliloquist in a crowd can hardly but be overheard, and without much
					reproach to the hearer." <pb n="208"/>

"You are an eaves-dropper."

"Well. Be it so."

"Confess yourself an eaves-dropper?"

"I confess that when you were muttering here I, passing by, caught a word or two,
					and, by like chance, something previous of your chat with the
					Intelligence-office man;—a rather sensible fellow, by the way; much of
					my style of thinking; would, for his own sake, he were of my style of dress.
					Grief to good minds, to see a man of superior sense forced to hide his light
					under the bushel of an inferior coat.—Well, from what little I heard,
					I said to myself, Here now is one with the unprofitable philosophy of disesteem
					for man. Which disease, in the main, I have observed—excuse
					me—to spring from a certain lowness, if not sourness, of spirits
					inseparable from sequestration. Trust me, one had better mix in, and do like
					others. Sad business, this holding out against having a good time. Life is a
					pic-nic en costume; one must take a part, assume a character, stand ready in a
					sensible way to play the fool. To come in plain clothes, with a long face, as a
					wiseacre, only makes one a discomfort to himself, and a blot upon the scene.
					Like your jug of cold water among the wine-flasks, it leaves you unelated among
					the elated ones. No, no. This austerity won't do. Let me tell you
					too—en confiance—that while revelry may not always merge
					into ebriety, soberness, in too deep potations, may become a sort of
					sottishness. Which sober sottishness, in my way of thinking, is only to be cured
					by beginning at the other end of the horn, to tipple a little." <pb n="209"/>

"Pray, what society of vintners and old topers are you hired to lecture for?"

"I fear I did not give my meaning clearly. A little story may help. The story of
					the worthy old woman of Goshen, a very moral old woman, who wouldn't let her
					shoats eat fattening apples in fall, for fear the fruit might ferment upon their
					brains, and so make them swinish. Now, during a green Christmas, inauspicious to
					the old, this worthy old woman fell into a moping decline, took to her bed, no
					appetite, and refused to see her best friends. In much concern her good man sent
					for the doctor, who, after seeing the patient and putting a question or two,
					beckoned the husband out, and said: 'Deacon, do you want her cured?' Indeed I
					do.' Go directly, then, and buy a jug of Santa Cruz.' "Santa Cruz ? my wife
					drink Santa Cruz ?' Either that or die.' But how much?' As much as she can get
					down.' But she'll get drunk!' That's the cure.' Wise men, like doctors, must be
					obeyed. Much against the grain, the sober deacon got the unsober medicine, and,
					equally against her conscience, the poor old woman took it; but, by so doing,
					ere long recovered health and spirits, famous appetite, and glad again to see
					her friends; and having by this experience broken the ice of arid abstinence,
					never afterwards kept herself a cup too low."

This story had the effect of surprising the bachelor into interest, though hardly
					into approval.

"If I take your parable right," said he, sinking no little of his former
					churlishness, "the meaning is, that <pb n="210"/> one cannot enjoy life with
					gusto unless he renounce the too-sober view of life. But since the too-sober
					view is, doubtless, nearer true than the too-drunken; I, who rate truth, though
					cold water, above untruth, though Tokay, will stick to my earthen jug."

"I see," slowly spirting upward a spiral staircase of lazy smoke, "I see; you go
					in for the lofty."

"How ?"

"Oh, nothing! but if I wasn't afraid of prosing, I might tell another story about
					an old boot in a pie-man's loft, contracting there between sun and oven an
					unseemly, dry-seasoned curl and warp. You've seen such leathery old garretteers,
					haven't you? Very high, sober, solitary, philosophic, grand, old boots, indeed;
					but I, for my part, would rather be the pieman's trodden slipper on the ground.
					Talking of piemen, humble-pie before proud-cake for me. This notion of being
					lone and lofty is a sad mistake. Men I hold in this respect to be like roosters;
					the one that betakes himself to a lone and lofty perch is the hen-pecked one, or
					the one that has the pip."

"You are abusive !" cried the bachelor, evidently touched.

"Who is abused? You, or the race? You won't stand by and see the human race
					abused? Oh, then, you have some respect for the human race."

"I have some respect for myself," with a lip not so firm as before.

"And what race may you belong to? now don't you see, my dear fellow, in what
					inconsistencies one involves <pb n="211"/> himself by affecting disesteem for
					men. To a charm, my little stratagem succeeded. Come, come, think better of it,
					and, as a first step to a new mind, give up solitude. I fear, by the way, you
					have at some time been reading Zimmermann, that old Mr. Megrims of a Zimmermann,
					whose book on Solitude is as vain as Hume's on Suicide, as Bacon's on Knowledge;
					and, like these, will betray him who seeks to steer soul and body by it, like a
					false religion. All they, be they what boasted ones you please, who, to the
					yearning of our kind after a founded rule of content, offer aught not in the
					spirit of fellowly gladness based on due confidence in what is above, away with
					them for poor dupes, or still poorer impostors."

His manner here was so earnest that scarcely any auditor, perhaps, but would have
					been more or less impressed by it, while, possibly, nervous opponents might have
					a little quailed under it. Thinking within himself a moment, the bachelor
					replied: "Had you experience, you would know that your tippling theory, take it
					in what sense you will, is poor as any other. And Rabelais's pro-wine Koran no
					more trustworthy than Mahomet's anti-wine one." "Enough," for a finality
					knocking the ashes from his pipe, "we talk and keep talking, and still stand
					where we did. What do you say for a walk? My arm, and let's a turn. They are to
					have dancing on the hurricane-deck to-night. I shall fling them off a Scotch
					jig, while, to save the pieces, you hold my loose change; and following that, I
					propose that you, my dear fellow, stack your <pb n="212"/> gun, and throw your
					bearskins in a sailor's hornpipe—I holding your watch. What do you say
					?"

At this proposition the other was himself again, all raccoon.

"Look you," thumping down his rifle, "are you Jeremy Diddler No.3?" "Jeremy
					Diddler? I have heard of Jeremy the prophet, and Jeremy Taylor the divine, but
					your other Jeremy is a gentleman I am unacquainted with."

"You are his confidential clerk, ain't you ?"

"Whose, pray? Not that I think myself unworthy of being confided in, but I don't
					understand."

"You are another of them. Somehow I meet with the most extraordinary metaphysical
					scamps to-day. Sort of visitation of them. And yet that herb-doctor Diddler
					somehow takes off the raw edge of the Diddlers that come after him."

"Herb-doctor? who is he?"

"Like you—another of them."

"Who?" Then drawing near, as if for a good long explanatory chat, his left hand
					spread, and his pipe-stem coming crosswise down upon it like a ferule, "You
					think amiss of me. Now to undeceive you, I will just enter into a little
					argument and—"

"No you don't. No more little arguments for me. Had too many little arguments
					to-day."

"But put a case. Can you deny—I dare you to deny—that the man
					leading a solitary life is peculiarly exposed to the sorriest misconceptions
					touching strangers?" <pb n="213"/>

"Yes, I do deny it," again, in his impulsiveness, snapping at the controversial
					bait, "and I will confute you there in a trice. Look, you—"

"Now, now, now, my dear fellow," thrusting out both vertical palms for double
					shields, "you crowd me too hard. You don't give one a chance. Say what you will,
					to shun a social proposition like mine, to shun society in any way, evinces a
					churlish nature—cold, love-less; as, to embrace it, shows one warm and
					friendly, in fact, sunshiny."

Here the other, all agog again, in his perverse way, launched forth into the
					unkindest references to deaf old worldlings keeping in the deafening world; and
					gouty gluttons limping to their gouty gormandizings; and corseted coquets
					clasping their corseted cavaliers in the waltz, all for disinterested society's
					sake; and thousands, bankrupt through lavishness, ruining themselves out of pure
					love of the sweet company of man—no envies, rivalries, or other
					unhandsome motive to it.

"Ah, now," deprecating with his pipe, " irony is so unjust; never could abide
					irony; something Satanic about irony. God defend me from Irony, and Satire, his
					bosom friend."

"A right knave's prayer, and a right fool's, too," snapping his rifle-lock.

"Now be frank. Own that was a little gratuitous. But, no, no, you didn't mean; it
					any way, I can make allowances. Ah, did you but know it, how much pleasanter to
					puff at this philanthropic pipe, than still to keep fumbling at that
					misanthropic rifle. As for your <pb n="214"/> worldling, glutton, and coquette,
					though, doubtless, being such, they may have their little foibles—as
					who has not?—yet not one of the three can be reproached with that
					awful sin of shunning society; awful I call it, for not seldom it presupposes a
					still darker thing than itself—remorse."

"Remorse drives man away from man? How came your fellow-creature, Cain, after the
					first murder, to go and build the first city? And why is it that the modern Cain
					dreads nothing so much as solitary confinement?"

"My dear fellow, you get excited. Say what you will, I for one must have my
					fellow-creatures round me. Thick, too—I must have them thick."

"The pick-pocket, too, loves to have his fellow-creatures round him. Tut, man! no
					one goes into the crowd but for his end; and the end of too many is the same as
					the pick-pocket's—a purse."

"Now, my dear fellow, how can you have the conscience to say that, when it is as
					much according to natural law that men are social as sheep gregarious. But grant
					that, in being social, each man has his end, do you, upon the strength of that,
					do you yourself, I say, mix with man, now, immediately, and be your end a more
					genial philosophy. Come, let's take a turn."

Again he offered his fraternal arm; but the bachelor once more flung it off, and,
					raising his rifle in energetic invocation, cried: "Now the high-constable catch
					and confound all knaves in towns and rats in grain-bins, and <pb n="215"/> if in
					this boat, which is a human grain-bin for the time, any sly, smooth,
					philandering rat be dodging now, pin him, thou high rat-catcher, against this
					rail."

"A noble burst! shows you at heart a trump. And when a card's that, little
					matters it whether it be spade or diamond. You are good wine that, to be still
					better, only needs a shaking up. Come, let's agree that we'll to New Orleans,
					and there embark for London—I staying with my friends nigh
					Primrose-hill, and you putting up at the Piazza, Covent Garden—
					Piazza, Covent Garden; for tell me—since you will not be a disciple to
					the full—tell me, was not that humor, of Diogenes, which led him to
					live, a merry-andrew, in the flower-market, better than that of the less wise
					Athenian, which made him a skulking scare-crow in pine-barrens? An injudicious
					gentleman, Lord Timon."

"Your hand!" seizing it.

"Bless me, how cordial a squeeze. It is agreed we shall be brothers, then?"

"As much so as a brace of misanthropes can be," with another and terrific
					squeeze. "I had thought that the moderns had degenerated beneath the capacity of
					misanthropy. Rejoiced, though but in one instance, and that disguised, to be
					undeceived."

The other stared in blank amaze.

"Won't do. You are Diogenes, Diogenes in disguise. I say—Diogenes
					masquerading as a cosmopolitan."

With ruefully altered mien, the stranger still stood mute awhile. At length, in a
					pained tone, spoke: "How hard the lot of that pleader who, in his zeal conceding
					too <pb n="216"/> much, is taken to belong to a side which he but labors,
					however ineffectually, to convert!" Then with another change of air: "To you, an
					Ishmael, disguising in sportiveness my intent, I came ambassador from the human
					race, charged with the assurance that for your mislike they bore no answering
					grudge, but sought to conciliate accord between you and them. Yet you take me
					not for the honest envoy, but I know not what sort of unheard-of spy. Sir," he
					less lowly added, "this mistaking of your man should teach you how you may
					mistake all men. For God's sake," laying both hands upon him, "get you
					confidence. See how distrust has duped you. I, Diogenes? I he who, going a step
					beyond misanthropy, was less a man-hater than a man-hooter? Better were I stark
					and stiff!"

With which the philanthropist moved away less lightsome than he had come, leaving
					the discomfited misanthrope to the solitude he held so sapient.

				<pb n="217"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="25" id="d30">
				CHAPTER XXV.<lb/> THE COSMOPOLITAN MAKES AN ACQUAINTANCE.

IN the act of retiring, the cosmopolitan was met by a passenger, who, with the
					bluff abord of the West, thus addressed him, though a stranger.

"Queer 'coon, your friend. Had a little skrimmage with him myself. Rather
					entertaining old 'coon, if he wasn't so deuced analytical. Reminded me somehow
					of what I've heard about Colonel John Moredock, of Illinois, only your friend
					ain't quite so good a fellow at bottom, I should think."

It was in the semicircular porch of a cabin, opening a recess from the deck, lit
					by a zoned lamp swung overhead, and sending its light vertically down, like the
					sun at noon. Beneath the lamp stood the speaker, affording to any one disposed
					to it no unfavorable chance for scrutiny; but the glance now resting on him
					betrayed no such rudeness.

A man neither tall nor stout, neither short nor gaunt; but with a body fitted, as
					by measure, to the service of his mind. For the rest, one less favored perhaps
					in his features than his clothes; and of these the beauty may have been less in
					the fit than the cut; to say nothing of <pb n="218"/> the fineness of the nap,
					seeming out of keeping with something the reverse of fine in the skin; and the
					unsuitableness of a violet vest, sending up sunset hues to countenance
					betokening a kind of bilious habit.

But, upon the whole, it could not be fairly said that his appearance was
					unprepossessing; indeed, to the congenial, it would have been doubtless not
					uncongenial; while to others, it could not fail to be at least curiously
					interesting, from the warm air of florid cordiality, contrasting itself with one
					knows not what kind of aguish sallowness of saving discretion lurking behind it.
					Ungracious critics might have thought that the manner flushed the man, something
					in the same fictitious way that the vest flushed the cheek. And though his teeth
					were singularly good, those same ungracious ones might have hinted that they
					were too good to be true; or rather, were not so good as they might be; since
					the best false teeth are those made with at least two or three blemishes, the
					more to look like life. But fortunately for better constructions, no such
					critics had the stranger now in eye; only the cosmopolitan, who, after, in the
					first place, acknowledging his advances with a mute salute—in which
					acknowledgment, if there seemed less of spirit than in his way of accosting the
					Missourian, it was probably because of the saddening sequel of that late
					interview—thus now replied: "Colonel John Moredock," repeating the
					words abstractedly; "that surname recalls reminiscences. Pray," with enlivened
					air, "was he anyway connected with the Moredocks of Moredock Hall,
					Northamptonshire, England?" <pb n="219"/>

"I know no more of the Moredocks of Moredock Hall than of the Burdocks of Burdock
					Hut," returned the other, with the air somehow of one whose fortunes had been of
					his own making; "all I know is, that the late Colonel John Moredock was a famous
					one in his time; eye like Lochiel's; finger like a trigger; nerve like a
					catamount's; and with but two little oddities—seldom stirred without
					his rifle, and hated Indians like snakes."

"Your Moredock, then, would seem a Moredock of Misanthrope Hall—the
					Woods. No very sleek creature, the colonel, I fancy."

"Sleek or not, he was no uncombed one, but silky bearded and curly headed, and to
					all but Indians juicy as a peach. But Indians—how the late Colonel
					John Moredock, Indian-hater of Illinois, did hate Indians, to be sure!"

"Never heard of such a thing. Hate Indians? Why should he or anybody else hate
					Indians? I admire Indians. Indians I have always heard to be one of the finest
					of the primitive races, possessed of many heroic virtues. Some noble women, too.
					When I think of Pocahontas, I am ready to love Indians. Then there's Massasoit,
					and Philip of Mount Hope, and Tecumseh, and Red-Jacket, and Logan-all heroes;
					and there's the Five Nations, and Araucanians—federations and
					communities of heroes. God bless me; hate Indians? Surely the late Colonel John
					Moredock must have wandered in his mind."

"Wandered in the woods considerably, but never wandered elsewhere, that I ever
					heard." <pb n="220"/>

"Are you in earnest? Was there ever one who so made it his particular mission to
					hate Indians that, to designate him, a special word has been
					coined—Indian-hater?"

"Even so."

"Dear me, you take it very calmly.—But really, I would like to know
					something about this Indian-hating. I can hardly believe such a thing to be.
					Could you favor me with a little history of the extraordinary man you
					mentioned?"

"With all my heart," and immediately stepping from the porch, gestured the
					cosmopolitan to a settee near by, on deck. "There, sir, sit you there, and I
					will sit here beside you—you desire to hear of Colonel John Moredock.
					Well, a day in my boyhood is marked with a white stone—the day I saw
					the colonel's rifle, powder-horn attached, hanging in a cabin on the West bank
					of the Wabash river. I was going westward a long journey through the wilderness
					with my father. It was nigh noon, and we had stopped at the cabin to unsaddle
					and bait. The man at the cabin pointed out the rifle, and told whose it was,
					adding that the colonel was that moment sleeping on wolf-skins in the corn-loft
					above, so we must not talk very loud, for the colonel had been out all night
					hunting (Indians, mind), and it would be cruel to disturb his sleep. Curious to
					see one so famous, we waited two hours over, in hopes he would come forth; but
					he did not. So, it being necessary to get to the next cabin before nightfall, we
					had at last to ride off without the wished-for satisfaction. Though, to tell the
						<pb n="221"/> truth, I, for one, did not go away entirely ungratified, for,
					while my father was watering the horses, I slipped back into the cabin, and
					stepping a round or two up the ladder, pushed my head through the trap, and
					peered about. Not much light in the loft; but off, in the further corner, I saw
					what I took to be the wolf-skins, and on them a bundle of something, like a
					drift of leaves; and at one end, what seemed a moss-ball; and over it,
					deer-antlers branched; and close by, a small squirrel sprang out from a
					maple-bowl of nuts, brushed the moss-ball with his tail, through a hole, and
					vanished, squeaking. That bit of woodland scene was all I saw. No Colonel
					Moredock there, unless that moss-ball was his curly head, seen in the back view.
					I would have gone clear up, but the man below had warned me, that though, from
					his camping habits, the colonel could sleep through thunder, he was for the same
					cause amazing quick to waken at the sound of footsteps, however soft, and
					especially if human."

"Excuse me," said the other, softly laying his hand on the narrator's wrist, "but
					I fear the colonel was of a distrustful nature—little or no
					confidence. He was a little suspicious minded, wasn't he?"

"Not a bit. Knew too much. Suspected nobody, but was not ignorant of Indians.
					Well: though, as you may gather, I never fully saw the man, yet, have I, one way
					and another, heard about as much of him as any other; in particular, have I
					heard his history again and again from my father's friend, James Hall, the
					judge, you know. In every company being called upon to <pb n="222"/> give this
					history, which none could better do, the judge at last fell into a style so
					methodic, you would have thought he spoke less to mere auditors than to an
					invisible amanuensis; seemed talking for the press; very impressive way with him
					indeed. And I, having an equally impressible memory, think that, upon a pinch, I
					can render you the judge upon the colonel almost word for word."

"Do so, by all means," said the cosmopolitan, well pleased.

"Shall I give you the judge's philosophy, and all?"

"As to that," rejoined the other gravely, pausing over the pipe-bowl he was
					filling, "the desirableness, to a man of a certain mind, of having another man's
					philosophy given, depends considerably upon what school of philosophy that other
					man belongs to. Of what school or system was the judge, pray?"

"Why, though he knew how to read and write, the judge never had much schooling.
					But, I should say he belonged, if anything, to the free-school system. Yes, a
					true patriot, the judge went in strong for free-schools."

"In philosophy? The man of a certain mind, then, while respecting the judge's
					patriotism, and not blind to the judge's capacity for narrative, such as he may
					prove to have, might, perhaps, with prudence, waive an opinion of the judge's
					probable philosophy. But I am no rigorist; proceed, I beg; his philosophy or
					not, as you please."

"Well, I would mostly skip that part, only, to begin, some reconnoitering of the
					ground in a philosophical <pb n="223"/> way the judge always deemed
					indispensable with strangers. For you must know that Indian-hating was no
					monopoly of Colonel Moredock's; but a passion, in one form or other, and to a
					degree, greater or less, largely shared among the class to which he belonged.
					And Indian-hating still exists; and, no doubt, will continue to exist, so long
					as Indians do. Indian-hating, then, shall be my first theme, and Colonel
					Moredock, the Indian-hater, my next and last."

With which the stranger, settling himself in his seat, commenced—the
					hearer paying marked regard, slowly smoking, his glance, meanwhile, steadfastly
					abstracted towards the deck, but his right ear so disposed towards the speaker
					that each word came through as little atmospheric intervention as possible. To
					intensify the sense of hearing, he seemed to sink the sense of sight. No
					complaisance of mere speech could have been so flattering, or expressed such
					striking politeness as this mute eloquence of thoroughly digesting attention.

				<pb n="224"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="26" id="d31">
				CHAPTER XXVI.<lb/> CONTAINING THE METAPHYSICS OF INDIAN-HATING, ACCORDING TO
					THE VIEWS OF ONE EVIDENTLY NOT SO PREPOSSESSED AS ROUSSEAU IN FAVOR OF SAVAGES.

"THE judge always began in these words: 'The backwoodsman's hatred of the Indian
					has been a topic for some remark. In the earlier times of the frontier the
					passion was thought to be readily accounted for. But Indian rapine having mostly
					ceased through regions where it once prevailed, the philanthropist is surprised
					that Indian-hating has not in like degree ceased with it. He wonders why the
					backwoodsman still regards the red man in much the same spirit that a jury does
					a murderer, or a trapper a wild cat—a creature, in whose behalf mercy
					were not wisdom; truce is vain; he must be executed.

" A curious point,' the judge would continue, which perhaps not everybody, even
					upon explanation, may fully understand; while, in order for any one to approach
					to an understanding, it is necessary for him to learn, or if he already know, to
					bear in mind, what manner of man the backwoodsman is; as for what manner of man
					the Indian is, many know, either from history or experience. <pb n="225"/>

"'The backwoodsman is a lonely man. He is a thoughtful man. He is a man strong
					and unsophisticated. Impulsive, he is what some might call unprincipled. At any
					rate, he is self-willed; being one who less hearkens to what others may say
					about things, than looks for himself, to see what are things themselves. If in
					straits, there are few to help; he must depend upon himself; he must continually
					look to himself. Hence self-reliance, to the degree of standing by his own
					judgment, though it stand alone. Not that he deems himself infallible; too many
					mistakes in following trails prove the contrary; but he thinks that nature
					destines such sagacity as she has given him, as she destines it to the 'possum.
					To these fellow-beings of the wilds their untutored sagacity is their best
					dependence. If with either it prove faulty, if the 'possum's betray it to the
					trap, or the backwoodsman's mislead him into ambuscade, there are consequences
					to be undergone, but no self-blame. As with the 'possum, instincts prevail with
					the backwoodsman over precepts. Like the 'possum, the backwoodsman presents the
					spectacle of a creature dwelling exclusively among the works of God, yet these,
					truth must confess, breed little in him of a godly mind. Small bowing and
					scraping is his, further than when with bent knee he points his rifle, or picks
					its flint. With few companions, solitude by necessity his lengthened lot, he
					stands the trial—no slight one, since, next to dying, solitude,
					rightly borne, is perhaps of fortitude the most rigorous test. But not merely is
					the backwoodsman content to be alone, but in so few cases <pb n="226"/> is
					anxious to be so. The sight of smoke ten miles off is provocation to one more
					remove from man, one step deeper into nature. Is it that he feels that whatever
					man may be, man is not the universe? that glory, beauty, kindness, are not all
					engrossed by him? that as the presence of man frights birds away, so, many
					bird-like thoughts? Be that how it will, the backwoodsman is not without some
					fineness to his nature. Hairy Orson as he looks, it may be with him as with the
					Shetland seal—beneath the bristles lurks the fur.

" Though held in a sort a barbarian, the backwoodsman would seem to America what
					Alexander was to Asia—captain in the vanguard of conquering
					civilization. Whatever the nation's growing opulence or power, does it not
					lackey his heels? Pathfinder, provider of security to those who come after him,
					for himself he asks nothing but hardship. Worthy to be compared with Moses in
					the Exodus, or the Emperor Julian in Gaul, who on foot, and bare-browed, at the
					head of covered or mounted legions, marched so through the elements, day after
					day. The tide of emigration, let it roll as it will, never overwhelms the
					backwoodsman into itself; he rides upon advance, as the Polynesian upon the comb
					of the surf.

" Thus, though he keep moving on through life, he maintains with respect to
					nature much the same unaltered relation throughout; with her creatures, too,
					including panthers and Indians. Hence, it is not unlikely that, accurate as the
					theory of the Peace Congress may be with respect to those two varieties of <pb
						n="227"/> beings, among others, yet the backwoodsman might be qualified to
					throw out some practical suggestions.

" As the child born to a backwoodsman must in turn lead his father's
					life—a life which, as related to humanity, is related mainly to
					Indians—it is thought best not to mince matters, out of delicacy; but
					to tell the boy pretty plainly what an Indian is, and what he must expect from
					him. For however charitable it may be to view Indians as members of the Society
					of Friends, yet to affirm them such to one ignorant of Indians, whose lonely
					path lies a long way through their lands, this, in the event, might prove not
					only injudicious but cruel. At least something of this kind would seem the maxim
					upon which backwoods' education is based. Accordingly, if in youth the
					backwoodsman incline to knowledge, as is generally the case, he hears little
					from his schoolmasters, the old chroniclers of the forest, but histories of
					Indian lying, Indian theft, Indian double-dealing, Indian fraud and perfidy,
					Indian want of conscience, Indian blood-thirstiness, Indian
					diabolism—histories which, though of wild woods, are almost as full of
					things unangelic as the Newgate Calendar or the Annals of Europe. In these
					Indian narratives and traditions the lad is thoroughly grounded. "As the twig is
					bent the tree's inclined." The instinct of antipathy against an Indian grows in
					the backwoodsman with the sense of good and bad, right and wrong. In one breath
					he learns that a brother is to be loved, and an Indian to be hated.

"'Such are the facts,' the judge would say, upon <pb n="228"/> which, if one seek
					to moralize, he must do so with an eye to them. It is terrible that one creature
					should so regard another, should make it conscience to abhor an entire race. It
					is terrible; but is it surprising? Surprising, that one should hate a race which
					he believes to be red from a cause akin to that which makes some tribes of
					garden insects green? A race whose name is upon the frontier a memento mori;
					painted to him in every evil light; now a horse-thief like those in Moyamensing;
					now an assassin like a New York rowdy; now a treaty-breaker like an Austrian;
					now a Palmer with poisoned arrows; now a judicial murderer and Jeffries, after a
					fierce farce of trial condemning his victim to bloody death; or a Jew with
					hospitable speeches cozening some fainting stranger into ambuscade, there to
					burk him, and account it a deed grateful to Manitou, his god. "'Still, all this
					is less advanced as truths of the Indians than as examples of the backwoodsman's
					impression of them—in which the charitable may think he does them some
					injustice. Certain it is, the Indians themselves think so; quite unanimously,
					too. The Indians, in deed, protest against the backwoodsman's view of them; and
					some think that one cause of their returning his antipathy so sincerely as they
					do, is their moral indignation at being so libeled by him, as they really
					believe and say. But whether, on this or any point, the Indians should be
					permitted to testify for themselves, to the exclusion of other testimony, is a
					question that may be left to the Supreme Court. At any rate, it has been
					observed that when an Indian becomes a genuine <pb n="229"/> proselyte to
					Christianity (such cases, however, not being very many; though, indeed, entire
					tribes are sometimes nominally brought to the true light,) he will not in that
					case conceal his enlightened conviction, that his race's portion by nature is
					total depravity; and, in that way, as much as admits that the backwoodsman's
					worst idea of it is not very far from true; while, on the other hand, those red
					men who are the greatest sticklers for the theory of Indian virtue, and Indian
					loving-kindness, are sometimes the arrantest horse-thieves and tomahawkers among
					them. So, at least, avers the backwoodsman. And though, knowing the Indian
					nature, as he thinks he does, he fancies he is not ignorant that an Indian may
					in some points deceive himself almost as effectually as in bush-tactics he can
					another, yet his theory and his practice as above contrasted seem to involve an
					inconsistency so extreme, that the backwoodsman only accounts for it on the
					supposition that when a tomahawking red-man advances the notion of the benignity
					of the red race, it it but part and parcel with that subtle strategy which he
					finds so useful in war, in hunting, and the general conduct of life.'

"In further explanation of that deep abhorrence with which the backwoodsman
					regards the savage, the judge used to think it might perhaps a little help, to
					consider what kind of stimulus to it is furnished in those forest histories and
					traditions before spoken of. In which behalf, he would tell the story of the
					little colony of Wrights and Weavers, originally seven cousins from Virginia,
					who, after successive removals with their families, <pb n="230"/> at last
					established themselves near the southern frontier of the Bloody Ground,
					Kentucky: 'They were strong, brave men; but, unlike many of the pioneers in
					those days, theirs was no love of conflict for conflict's sake. Step by step
					they had been lured to their lonely resting-place by the ever-beckoning
					seductions of a fertile and virgin land, with a singular exemption, during the
					march, from Indian molestation. But clearings made and houses built, the bright
					shield was soon to turn its other side. After repeated persecutions and eventual
					hostilities, forced on them by a dwindled tribe in their
					neighborhood—persecutions resulting in loss of crops and cattle;
					hostilities in which they lost two of their number, illy to be spared, besides
					others getting painful wounds—the five remaining cousins made, with
					some serious concessions, a kind of treaty with Mocmohoc, the
					chief—being to this induced by the harryings of the enemy, leaving
					them no peace. But they were further prompted, indeed, first incited, by the
					suddenly changed ways of Mocmohoc, who, though hitherto deemed a savage almost
					perfidious as Caesar Borgia, yet now put on a seeming the reverse of this,
					engaging to bury the hatchet, smoke the pipe, and be friends forever; not
					friends in the mere sense of renouncing enmity, but in the sense of kindliness,
					active and familiar.

"But what the chief now seemed, did not wholly blind them to what the chief had
					been; so that, though in no small degree influenced by his change of bearing,
					they still distrusted him enough to covenant with him, <pb n="231"/> among other
					articles on their side, that though friendly visits should be exchanged between
					the wigwams and the cabins, yet the five cousins should never, on any account,
					be expected to enter the chief's lodge together. The intention was, though they
					reserved it, that if ever, under the guise of amity, the chief should mean them
					mischief, and effect it, it should be but partially; so that some of the five
					might survive, not only for their families' sake, but also for retribution's.
					Nevertheless, Mocmohoc did, upon a time, with such fine art and pleasing
					carriage win their confidence, that he brought them all together to a feast of
					bear's meat, and there, by stratagem, ended them. Years after, over their
					calcined bones and those of all their families, the chief, reproached for his
					treachery by a proud hunter whom he had made captive, jeered out, "Treachery?
					pale face! 'Twas they who broke their covenant first, in coming all together;
					they that broke it first, in trusting Mocmohoc."'

"At this point the judge would pause, and lifting his hand, and rolling his eyes,
					exclaim in a solemn enough voice, Circling wiles and bloody lusts. The acuteness
					and genius of the chief but make him the more atrocious.'

"After another pause, he would begin an imaginary kind of dialogue between a
					backwoodsman and a questioner:

"'But are all Indians like Mocmohoc?—Not all have proved such; but in
					the least harmful may lie his germ. There is an Indian nature. "Indian blood is
					in me," is the half-breed's threat.—But are not some Indians
					kind?— <pb n="232"/>

Yes, but kind Indians are mostly lazy, and reputed simple—at all
					events, are seldom chiefs; chiefs among the red men being taken from the active,
					and those accounted wise. Hence, with small promotion, kind Indians have but
					proportionate influence. And kind Indians may be forced to do unkind biddings.
					So "beware the Indian, kind or unkind," said Daniel Boone, who lost his sons by
					them.—But, have all you backwoodsmen been some way victimized by
					Indians?—No.—Well, and in certain cases may not at least
					some few of you be favored by them?—Yes, but scarce one among us so
					self-important, or so selfish-minded, as to hold his personal exemption from
					Indian outrage such a set-off against the contrary experience of so many others,
					as that he must needs, in a general way, think well of Indians; or, if he do, an
					arrow in his flank might suggest a pertinent doubt.

"'In short,' according to the judge, if we at all credit the backwoodsman, his
					feeling against Indians, to be taken aright, must be considered as being not so
					much his own account as on others', or jointly on both accounts. True it is,
					scarce a family he knows but some member of it, or connection, has been by
					Indians maimed or scalped. What avails, then, that some one Indian, or some two
					or three, treat a backwoodsman friendly-like? He fears me, he thinks. Take my
					rifle from me, give him motive, and what will come? Or if not so, how know I
					what involuntary preparations may be going on in him for things as unbeknown in
					present time to him as me—a sort of chemical preparation in the soul .
						<pb n="233"/> for malice, as chemical preparation in the body for malady.'

"Not that the backwoodsman ever used those words, you see, but the judge found
					him expression for his meaning. And this point he would conclude with saying,
					that, 'what is called a "friendly Indian" is a very rare sort of creature; and
					well it was so, for no ruthlessness exceeds that of a "friendly Indian" turned
					enemy. A coward friend, he makes a valiant foe.

"'But, thus far the passion in question has been viewed in a general way as that
					of a community. When to his due share of this the backwoodsman adds his private
					passion, we have then the stock out of which is formed, if formed at all, the
					Indian-hater par excellence.'

"The Indian-hater par excellence the judge defined to be one who, having with his
					mother's milk drank in small love for red men, in youth or early manhood, ere
					the sensibilities become osseous, receives at their hand some signal outrage,
					or, which in effect is much the same, some of his kin have, or some friend. Now,
					nature all around him by her solitudes wooing or bidding him muse upon this
					matter, he accordingly does so, till the thought develops such attraction, that
					much as straggling vapors troop from all sides to a storm-cloud, so straggling
					thoughts of other outrages troop to the nucleus thought, assimilate with it, and
					swell it. At last, taking counsel with the elements, he comes to his resolution.
					An intenser Hannibal, he makes a vow, the hate of which is a vortex from whose
					suction scarce the <pb n="234"/> remotest chip of the guilty race may reasonably
					feel secure. Next, he declares himself and settles his temporal affairs. With
					the solemnity of a Spaniard turned monk, he takes leave of his kin; or rather,
					these leave-takings have something of the still more impressive finality of
					death-bed adieus. Last, he commits himself to the forest primeval; there, so
					long as life shall be his, to act upon a calm, cloistered scheme of strategical,
					implacable, and lonesome vengeance. Ever on the noiseless trail; cool,
					collected, patient; less seen than felt; snuffing, smelling—a
					Leather-stocking Nemesis. In the settlements he will not be seen again; in eyes
					of old companions tears may start at some chance thing that speaks of him; but
					they never look for him, nor call; they know he will not come. Suns and seasons
					fleet; the tiger-lily blows and falls; babes are born and leap in their mothers'
					arms; but, the Indian-hater is good as gone to his long home, and "Terror" is
					his epitaph.'

"Here the judge, not unaffected, would pause again, but presently resume: 'How
					evident that in strict speech there can be no biography of an Indian-hater par
					excellence, any more than one of a sword-fish, or other deep-sea denizen; or,
					which is still less imaginable, one of a dead man. The career of the
					Indian-hater par excellence has the impenetrability of the fate of a lost
					steamer. Doubtless, events, terrible ones, have happened, must have happened;
					but the powers that be in nature have taken order that they shall never become
					news.

"'But, luckily for the curious, there is a species of diluted Indian-hater, one
					whose heart proves not so steely <pb n="235"/> as his brain. Soft enticements of
					domestic life too often draw him from the ascetic trail; a monk who apostatizes
					to the world at times. Like a mariner, too, though much abroad, he may have a
					wife and family in some green harbor which he does not forget. It is with him as
					with the Papist converts in Senegal; fasting and mortification prove hard to
					bear.'

"The judge, with his usual judgment, always thought that the intense solitude to
					which the Indian-hater consigns himself, has, by its overawing influence, no
					little to do with relaxing his vow. He would relate instances where, after some
					months' lonely scoutings, the Indian-hater is suddenly seized with a sort of
					calenture; hurries openly towards the first smoke, though he knows it is an
					Indian's, announces himself as a lost hunter, gives the savage his rifle, throws
					himself upon his charity, embraces him with much affection, imploring the
					privilege of living a while in his sweet companionship. What is too often the
					sequel of so distempered a procedure may be best known by those who best know
					the Indian. Upon the whole, the judge, by two and thirty good and sufficient
					reasons, would maintain that there was no known vocation whose consistent
					following calls for such self-containings as that of the Indian-hater par
					excellence. In the highest view, he considered such a soul one peeping out but
					once an age.

"For the diluted Indian-hater, although the vacations he permits himself impair
					the keeping of the character, yet, it should not be overlooked that this is the
					man who, by his very infirmity, enables us to form surmises, <pb n="236"/>
					however inadequate, of what Indian-hating in its perfection is."

"One moment," gently interrupted the cosmopolitan here, "and let me refill my
					calumet."

Which being done, the other proceeded:—

				<pb n="237"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="27" id="d32">
				CHAPTER XXVII.<lb/> SOME ACCOUNT OF A MAN OF QUESTIONABLE MORALITY, BUT WHO,
					NEVERTHELESS, WOULD SEEM ENTITLED TO THE ESTEEM OF THAT EMINENT ENGLISH MORALIST
					WHO SAID HE LIKED A GOOD HATER.

"COMING to mention the man to whose story all thus far said was but the
					introduction, the judge, who, like you, was a great smoker, would insist upon
					all the company taking cigars, and then lighting a fresh one himself, rise in
					his place, and, with the solemnest voice, say—'Gentlemen, let us smoke
					to the memory of Colonel John Moredock;' when, after several whiffs taken
					standing in deep silence and deeper reverie, he would resume his seat and his
					discourse, something in these words:

"'Though Colonel John Moredock was not an Indian-hater par excellence, he yet
					cherished a kind of sentiment towards the red man, and in that degree, and so
					acted out his sentiment as sufficiently to merit the tribute just rendered to
					his memory.

"'John Moredock was the son of a woman married thrice, and thrice widowed by a
					tomahawk. The three successive husbands of this woman had been pioneers, and
					with them she had wandered from wilderness to wilderness, always on the
					frontier. With nine children, <pb n="238"/> she at last found herself at a
					little clearing, afterwards Vincennes. There she joined a company about to
					remove to the new country of Illinois. On the eastern side of Illinois there
					were then no settlements; but on the west side, the shore of the Mississippi,
					there were, near the mouth of the Kaskaskia, some old hamlets of French. To the
					vicinity of those hamlets, very innocent and pleasant places, a new Arcadia,
					Mrs. Moredock's party was destined; for thereabouts, among the vines, they meant
					to settle. They embarked upon the Wabash in boats, proposing descending that
					stream into the Ohio, and the Ohio into the Mississippi, and so, north-wards,
					towards the point to be reached. All went well till they made the rock of the
					Grand Tower on the Mississippi, where they had to land and drag their boats
					round a point swept by a strong current. Here a party of Indians, lying in wait,
					rushed out and murdered nearly all of them. The widow was among the victims with
					her children, John excepted, who, some fifty miles distant, was following with a
					second party.

" He was just entering upon manhood, when thus left in nature sole survivor of
					his race. Other youngsters might have turned mourners; he turned avenger. His
					nerves were electric wires—sensitive, but steel. He was one who, from
					self-possession, could be made neither to flush nor pale. It is said that when
					the tidings were brought him, he was ashore sitting beneath a hemlock eating his
					dinner of venison—and as the tidings were told him, after the first
					start he kept on eating, but slowly and deliberately, chewing the wild news <pb
						n="239"/> with the wild meat, as if both together, turned to chyle, together
					should sinew him to his intent. From that meal he rose an Indian-hater. He rose;
					got his arms, prevailed upon some comrades to join him, and without delay
					started to discover who were the actual transgressors. They proved to belong to
					a band of twenty renegades from various tribes, outlaws even among Indians, and
					who had formed themselves into a maurauding crew. No opportunity for action
					being at the time presented, he dismissed his friends; told them to go on,
					thanking them, and saying he would ask their aid at some future day. For upwards
					of a year, alone in the wilds, he watched the crew. Once, what he thought a
					favorable chance having occurred—it being midwinter, and the savages
					encamped, apparently to remain so—he anew mustered his friends, and
					marched against them; but, getting wind of his coming, the enemy fled, and in
					such panic that everything was left behind but their weapons. During the winter,
					much the same thing happened upon two subsequent occasions. The next year he
					sought them at the head of a party pledged to serve him for forty days. At last
					the hour came. It was on the shore of the Mississippi. From their covert,
					Moredock and his men dimly descried the gang of Cains in the red dusk of
					evening, paddling over to a jungled island in mid-stream, there the more
					securely to lodge; for Moredock's retributive spirit in the wilderness spoke
					ever to their trepidations now, like the voice calling through the garden.
					Waiting until dead of night, the whites swam the river, towing after them a raft
					laden <pb n="240"/> with their arms. On landing, Moredock cut the fastenings of
					the enemy's canoes, and turned them, with his own raft, adrift; resolved that
					there should be neither escape for the Indians, nor safety, except in victory,
					for the whites. Victorious the whites were; but three of the Indians saved
					themselves by taking to the stream. Moredock's band lost not a man.

" Three of the murderers survived. He knew their names and persons. In the course
					of three years each successively fell by his own hand. All were now dead. But
					this did not suffice. He made no avowal, but to kill Indians had become his
					passion. As an athlete, he had few equals; as a shot, none; in single combat,
					not to be beaten. Master of that woodland-cunning enabling the adept to subsist
					where the tyro would perish, and expert in all those arts by which an enemy is
					pursued for weeks, perhaps months, without once suspecting it, he kept to the
					forest. The solitary Indian that met him, died. When a murder was descried, he
					would either secretly pursue their track for some chance to strike at least one
					blow; or if, while thus engaged, he himself was discovered, he would elude them
					by superior skill.

" Many years he spent thus; and though after a time he was, in a degree, restored
					to the ordinary life of the region and period, yet it is believed that John
					Moredock never let pass an opportunity of quenching an Indian. Sins of
					commission in that kind may have been his, but none of omission.

" It were to err to suppose,' the judge would say, that this gentleman was
					naturally ferocious, or peculiarly <pb n="241"/> possessed of those qualities,
					which, unhelped by provocation of events, tend to withdraw man from social life.
					On the contrary, Moredock was an example of something apparently
					self-contradicting, certainly curious, but, at the same time, undeniable:
					namely, that nearly all Indian-haters have at bottom loving hearts; at any rate,
					hearts, if anything, more generous than the average. Certain it is, that, to the
					degree in which he mingled in the life of the settlements, Moredock showed
					himself not without humane feelings. No cold husband or colder father, he; and,
					though often and long away from his household, bore its needs in mind, and
					provided for them. He could be very convivial; told a good story (though never
					of his more private exploits), and sung a capital song. Hospitable, not backward
					to help a neighbor; by report, benevolent, as retributive, in secret; while, in
					a general manner, though sometimes grave—as is not unusual with men of
					his complexion, a sultry and tragical brown—yet with nobody, Indians
					excepted, otherwise than courteous in a manly fashion; a moccasined gentleman,
					admired and loved. In fact, no one more popular, as an incident to follow may
					prove.

"'His bravery, whether in Indian fight or any other, was unquestionable. An
					officer in the ranging service during the war of 1812, he acquitted himself with
					more than credit. Of his soldierly character, this anecdote is told: Not long
					after Hull's dubious surrender at Detroit, Moredock with some of his rangers
					rode up at night to a log-house, there to rest till morning. The horses being
					attended to, supper over, and sleeping-places assigned <pb n="242"/> the troop,
					the host showed the colonel his best bed, not on the ground like the rest, but a
					bed that stood on legs. But out of delicacy, the guest declined to monopolize
					it, or, indeed, to occupy it at all; when, to increase the inducement, as the
					host thought, he was told that a general officer had once slept in that bed.
					"Who, pray?" asked the colonel. "General Hull." "Then you must not take
					offense," said the colonel, buttoning up his coat, "but, really, no coward's
					bed, for me, however comfortable." Accordingly he took up with valor's
					bed—a cold one on the ground.

" At one time the colonel was a member of the territorial council of Illinois,
					ends at the formation of the state government, was pressed to become candidate
					for governor, but begged to be excused. And, though he declined to give his
					reasons for declining, yet by those who best knew him the cause was not wholly
					unsurmised. In his official capacity he might be called upon to enter into
					friendly treaties with Indian tribes, a thing not to be thought of. And even did
					no such contingency arise, yet he felt there would be an impropriety in the
					Governor of Illinois stealing out now and then, during a recess of the
					legislative bodies, for a few days' shooting at human beings, within the limits
					of his paternal chief-magistracy. If the governorship offered large honors, from
					Moredock it demanded larger sacrifices. These were incompatibles. In short, he
					was not unaware that to be a consistent Indian-hater involves the renunciation
					of ambition, with its objects—the pomps and glories of the world; and
					since religion, pronouncing <pb n="243"/> such things vanities, accounts it
					merit to renounce them, therefore, so far as this goes, Indian-hating, whatever
					may be thought of it in other respects, may be regarded as not wholly without
					the efficacy of a devout sentiment.'"

Here the narrator paused. Then, after his long and irksome sitting, started to
					his feet, and regulating his disordered shirt-frill, and at the same time
					adjustingly shaking his legs down in his rumpled pantaloons, concluded: "There,
					I have done; having given you, not my story, mind, or my thoughts, but
					another's. And now, for your friend Coonskins, I doubt not, that, if the judge
					were here, he would pronounce him a sort of comprehensive Colonel Moredock, who,
					too much spreading his passion, shallows it."

				<pb n="244"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="28" id="d33">
				CHAPTER XXVIII.<lb/> MOOT POINTS TOUCHING THE LATE COLONEL JOHN MOREDOCK.

"CHARITY, charity!" exclaimed the cosmopolitan, "never a sound judgment without
					charity. When man judges man, charity is less a bounty from our mercy than just
					allowance for the insensible lee-way of human fallibility. God forbid that my
					eccentric friend should be what you hint. You do not know him, or but
					imperfectly. His outside deceived you; at first it came near deceiving even me.
					But I seized a chance, when, owing to indignation against some wrong, he laid
					himself a little open; I seized that lucky chance, I say, to inspect his heart,
					and found it an inviting oyster in a forbidding shell. His outside is but put
					on. Ashamed of his own goodness, he treats mankind as those strange old uncles
					in romances do their nephews—snapping at them all the time and yet
					loving them as the apple of their eye."

"Well, my words with him were few. Perhaps he is not what I took him for. Yes,
					for aught I know, you may be right."

"Glad to hear it. Charity, like poetry, should be cultivated, if only for its
					being graceful. And now, since <pb n="245"/> you have renounced your notion, I
					should be happy would you, so to speak, renounce your story, too. That story
					strikes me with even more incredulity than wonder. To me some parts don't hang
					together. If the man of hate, how could John Moredock be also the man of love?
					Either his lone campaigns are fabulous as Hercules'; or else, those being true,
					what was thrown in about his geniality is but garnish. In short, if ever there
					was such a man as Moredock, he, in my way of thinking, was either misanthrope or
					nothing; and his misanthropy the more intense from being focused on one race of
					men. Though, like suicide, man-hatred would seem peculiarly a Roman and a
					Grecian passion—that is, Pagan; yet, the annals of neither Rome nor
					Greece can produce the equal in man-hatred of Colonel Moredock, as the judge and
					you have painted him. As for this Indian-hating in general, I can only say of it
					what Dr. Johnson said of the alleged Lisbon earthquake: 'Sir, I don't believe
					it."'

"Didn't believe it? Why not? Clashed with any little prejudice of his?"

"Doctor Johnson had no prejudice; but, like a certain other person," with an
					ingenuous smile, "he had sensibilities, and those were pained."

"Dr. Johnson was a good Christian, wasn't he ?"

"He was."

"Suppose he had been something else."

"Then small incredulity as to the alleged earthquake."

"Suppose he had been also a misanthrope?" <pb n="246"/>

"Then small incredulity as to the robberies and murders alleged to have been
					perpetrated under the pall of smoke and ashes. The infidels of the time were
					quick to credit those reports and worse. So true is it that, while religion,
					contrary to the common notion, implies, in certain cases, a spirit of slow
					reserve as to assent, infidelity, which claims to despise credulity, is
					sometimes swift to it."

"You rather jumble together misanthropy and infidelity."

"I do not jumble them; they are coordinates. For misanthropy, springing from the
					same root with disbelief of religion, is twin with that. It springs from the
					same root, I say; for, set aside materialism, and what is an atheist, but one
					who does not, or will not, see in the universe a ruling principle of love; and
					what a misanthrope, but one who does not, or will not, see in man a ruling
					principle of kindness? Don't you see? In either case the vice consists in a want
					of confidence."

"What sort of a sensation is misanthropy?"

"Might as well ask me what sort of sensation is hydrophobia. Don't know; never
					had it. But I have often wondered what it can be like. Can a misanthrope feel
					warm, I ask myself; take ease? be companionable with himself? Can a misanthrope
					smoke a cigar and muse? How fares he in solitude? Has the misanthrope such a
					thing as an appetite? Shall a peach refresh him? The effervescence of champagne,
					with what eye does he behold it? Is summer good to <pb n="247"/> him? Of long
					winters how much can he sleep? What are his dreams? How feels he, and what does
					he, when suddenly awakened, alone, at dead of night, by fusilades of thunder?"

"Like you," said the stranger, "I can't understand the misanthrope. So far as my
					experience goes, either mankind is worthy one's best love, or else I have been
					lucky. Never has it been my lot to have been wronged, though but in the smallest
					degree. Cheating, backbiting, superciliousness, disdain, hard-heartedness, and
					all that brood, I know but by report. Cold regards tossed over the sinister
					shoulder of a former friend, ingratitude in a beneficiary, treachery in a
					confidant—such things may be; but I must take somebody's word for it.
					Now the bridge that has carried me so well over, shall I not praise it?"

"Ingratitude to the worthy bridge not to do so. Man is a noble fellow, and in an
					age of satirists, I am not displeased to find one who has confidence in him, and
					bravely stands up for him."

"Yes, I always speak a good word for man; and what is more, am always ready to do
					a good deed for him."

"You are a man after my own heart," responded the cosmopolitan, with a candor
					which lost nothing by its calmness. "Indeed," he added, "our sentiments agree
					so, that were they written in a book, whose was whose, few but the nicest
					critics might determine."

"Since we are thus joined in mind," said the stranger, "why not be joined in
					hand?" <pb n="248"/>

"My hand is always at the service of virtue," frankly extending it to him as to
					virtue personified.

"And now," said the stranger, cordially retaining his hand, "you know our fashion
					here at the West. It may be a little low, but it is kind. Briefly, we being
					newly-made friends must drink together. What say you?"

"Thank you; but indeed, you must excuse me."

"Why?"

"Because, to tell the truth, I have to-day met so many old friends, all
					free-hearted, convivial gentlemen, that really, really, though for the present I
					succeed in mastering it, I am at bottom almost in the condition of a sailor who,
					stepping ashore after a long voyage, ere night reels with loving welcomes, his
					head of less capacity than his heart."

At the allusion to old friends, the stranger's countenance a little fell, as a
					jealous lover's might at hearing from his sweetheart of former ones. But
					rallying, he said: "No doubt they treated you to something strong; but
					wine—surely, that gentle creature, wine; come, let us have a little
					gentle wine at one of these little tables here. Come, come." Then essaying to
					roll about like a full pipe in the sea, sang in a voice which had had more of
					good-fellowship, had there been less of a latent squeak to it: <q>
						<lg>
							<l>"Let us drink of the wine of the vine benign,</l>
							<l>That sparkles warm in Zausovine."</l>
						</lg>
					</q>

The cosmopolitan, with longing eye upon him, stood as sorely tempted and wavering
					a moment; then, abruptly <pb n="249"/> stepping towards him, with a look of
					dissolved surrender, said: "When mermaid songs move figure-heads, then may
					glory, gold, and women try their blandishments on me. But a good fellow, singing
					a good song, he woos forth my every spike, so that my whole hull, like a ship's,
					sailing by a magnetic rock, caves in with acquiescence. Enough: when one has a
					heart of a certain sort, it is in vain trying to be resolute."

				<pb n="250"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="29" id="d34">
				CHAPTER XXIX.<lb/> THE BOON COMPANIONS.

THE wine, port, being called for, and the two seated at the little table, a
					natural pause of convivial expectancy ensued; the stranger's eye turned towards
					the bar near by, watching the red-checked, white-aproned man there, blithely
					dusting the bottle, and invitingly arranging the salver and glasses; when, with
					a sudden impulse turning round his head towards his companion, he said, "Ours is
					friendship at first sight, ain't it?"

"It is," was the placidly pleased reply : "and the same may be said of friendship
					at first sight as of love at first sight: it is the only true one, the only
					noble one. It bespeaks confidence. Who would go sounding his way into love or
					friendship, like a strange ship by night, into an enemy's harbor?"

"Right. Boldly in before the wind. Agreeable, how we always agree. By-the-way,
					though but a formality, friends should know each other's names. What is yours,
					pray?"

"Francis Goodman. But those who love me, call me Frank. And yours?" <pb n="251"/>

"Charles Arnold Noble. But do you call me Charlie."

"I will, Charlie; nothing like preserving in manhood the fraternal familiarities
					of youth. It proves the heart a rosy boy to the last."

"My sentiments again. Ah!"

It was a smiling waiter, with the smiling bottle, the cork drawn; a common quart
					bottle, but for the occasion fitted at bottom into a little bark basket, braided
					with porcupine quills, gayly tinted in the Indian fashion. This being set before
					the entertainer, he regarded it with affectionate interest, but seemed not to
					understand, or else to pretend not to, a handsome red label pasted on the
					bottle, bearing the capital letters, P. W.

"P. W.," said he at last, perplexedly eying the pleasing poser, "now what does P.
					W. mean?"

"Shouldn't wonder," said the cosmopolitan gravely, "if it stood for port wine.
					You called for port wine, didn't you?"

"Why so it is, so it is!"

"I find some little mysteries not very hard to clear up," said the other, quietly
					crossing his legs.

This commonplace seemed to escape the stranger's hearing, for, full of his
					bottle, he now rubbed his somewhat sallow hands over it, and with a strange kind
					of cackle, meant to be a chirrup, cried: "Good wine, good wine; is it not the
					peculiar bond of good feeling?" Then brimming both glasses, pushed one over,
					saying, with what seemed intended for an air of fine disdain: "Ill betide those
					gloomy skeptics who maintain that <pb n="252"/> now-a-days pure wine is
					unpurchasable; that almost every variety on sale is less the vintage of
					vineyards than laboratories; that most bar-keepers are but a set of male
					Brinvilliarses, with complaisant arts practicing against the lives of their best
					friends, their customers."

A shade passed over the cosmopolitan. After a few minutes' down-cast musing, he
					lifted his eyes and said: "I have long thought, my dear Charlie, that the spirit
					in which wine is regarded by too many in these days is one of the most painful
					examples of want of confidence. Look at these glasses. He who could mistrust
					poison in this wine would mistrust consumption in Hebe's cheek. While, as for
					suspicions against the dealers in wine and sellers of it, those who cherish such
					suspicions can have but limited trust in the human heart. Each human heart they
					must think to be much like each bottle of port, not such port as this, but such
					port as they hold to. Strange traducers, who see good faith in nothing, however
					sacred. Not medicines, not the wine in sacraments, has escaped them. The doctor
					with his phial, and the priest with his chalice, they deem equally the
					unconscious dispensers of bogus cordials to the dying."

"Dreadful!"

"Dreadful indeed," said the cosmopolitan solemnly. "These distrusters stab at the
					very soul of confidence. If this wine," impressively holding up his full glass,
					" if this wine with its bright promise be not true, how shall man be, whose
					promise can be no brighter? But if wine be false, while men are true, whither
					shall fly convivial <pb n="253"/> geniality? To think of sincerely-genial souls
					drinking each other's health at unawares in perfidious and murderous drugs!"

"Horrible!"

"Much too much so to be true, Charlie. Let us forget it. Come, you are my
					entertainer on this occasion, and yet you don't pledge me. I have been waiting
					for it."

"Pardon, pardon," half confusedly and half ostentatiously lifting his glass. "I
					pledge you, Frank, with my whole heart, believe me," taking a draught too
					decorous to be large, but which, small though it was, was followed by a slight
					involuntary wryness to the mouth.

"And I return you the pledge, Charlie, heart-warm as it came to me, and honest as
					this wine I drink it in," reciprocated the cosmopolitan with princely kindliness
					in his gesture, taking a generous swallow, concluding in a smack, which, though
					audible, was not so much so as to be unpleasing.

"Talking of alleged spuriousness of wines," said he, tranquilly setting down his
					glass, and then sloping back his head and with friendly fixedness eying the
					wine, "perhaps the strangest part of those allegings is, that there is, as
					claimed, a kind of man who, while convinced that on this continent most wines
					are shams, yet still drinks away at them; accounting wine so fine a thing, that
					even the sham article is better than none at all. And if the temperance people
					urge that, by this course, he will sooner or later be undermined in health, he
					answers, 'And do you think I don't know that? But health <pb n="254"/> without
					cheer I hold a bore; and cheer, even of the spurious sort, has its price, which
					I am willing to pay."'

"Such a man, Frank, must have a disposition ungovernably bacchanalian."

"Yes, if such a man there be, which I don't credit. It is a fable, but a fable
					from which I once heard a person of less genius than grotesqueness draw a moral
					even more extravagant than the fable itself. He said that it illustrated, as in
					a parable, how that a man of a disposition ungovernably good-natured might still
					familiarly associate with men, though, at the same time, he believed the greater
					part of men false-hearted—accounting society so sweet a thing that
					even the spurious sort was better than none at all. And if the Rochefoucaultites
					urge that, by this course, he will sooner or later be undermined in security, he
					answers, And do you think I don't know that? But security without society I hold
					a bore; and society, even of the spurious sort, has its price, which I am
					willing to pay."'

"A most singular theory," said the stranger with a slight fidget, eying his
					companion with some inquisitiveness, "indeed, Frank, a most slanderous thought,"
					he exclaimed in sudden heat and with an involuntary look almost of being
					personally aggrieved.

"In one sense it merits all you say, and more," rejoined the other with wonted
					mildness, "but, for a kind of drollery in it, charity might, perhaps, overlook
					something of the wickedness. Humor is, in fact, so blessed a thing, that even in
					the least virtuous product of the <pb n="255"/> human mind, if there can be
					found but nine good jokes, some philosophers are clement enough to affirm that
					those nine good jokes should redeem all the wicked thoughts, though plenty as
					the populace of Sodom. At any rate, this same humor has something, there is no
					telling what, of beneficence in it, it is such a catholicon and
					charm—nearly all men agreeing in relishing it, though they may agree
					in little else—and in its way it undeniably does such a deal of
					familiar good in the world, that no wonder it is almost a proverb, that a man of
					humor, a man capable of a good loud laugh—seem how he may in other
					things—can hardly be a heartless scamp."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the other, pointing to the figure of a pale pauper-boy on
					the deck below, whose pitiableness was touched, as it were, with ludicrousness
					by a pair of monstrous boots, apparently some mason's discarded ones, cracked
					with drouth, half eaten by lime, and curled up about the toe like a bassoon.
					"Look—ha, ha, ha!"

"I see," said the other, with what seemed quiet appreciation, but of a kind
					expressing an eye to the grotesque, without blindness to what in this case
					accompanied it, "I see; and the way in which it moves you, Charlie, comes in
					very apropos to point the proverb I was speaking of. Indeed, had you intended
					this effect, it could not have been more so. For who that heard that laugh, but
					would as naturally argue from it a sound heart as sound lungs? True, it is said
					that a man may smile, and smile, and smile, and be a villain; <pb n="256"/> but
					it is not said that a man may laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and be one, is it,
					Charlie?"

"Ha, ha, ha!—no no, no no."

"Why Charlie, your explosions illustrate my remarks almost as aptly as the
					chemist's imitation volcano did his lectures. But even if experience did not
					sanction the proverb, that a good laugher cannot be a bad man, I should yet feel
					bound in confidence to believe it, since it is a saying current among the
					people, and I doubt not originated among them, and hence must be true; for the
					voice of the people is the voice of truth. Don't you think so?"

"Of course I do. If Truth don't speak through the people, it never speaks at all;
					so I heard one say."

"A true saying. But we stray. The popular notion of humor, considered as index to
					the heart, would seem curiously confirmed by Aristotle—I think, in his
					"Politics," (a work, by-the-by, which, however it may be viewed upon the whole,
					yet, from the tenor of certain sections, should not, without precaution, be
					placed in the hands of youth)—who remarks that the least lovable men
					in history seem to have had for humor not only a disrelish, but a hatred; and
					this, in some cases, along with an extraordinary dry taste for practical
					punning. I remember it is related of Phalaris, the capricious tyrant of Sicily,
					that he once caused a poor fellow to be beheaded on a horse-block, for no other
					cause than having a horse-laugh."

"Funny Phalaris!"

"Cruel Phalaris!" <pb n="257"/>

As after fire-crackers, there was a pause, both looking downward on the table as
					if mutually struck by the contrast of exclamations, and pondering upon its
					significance, if any. So, at least, it seemed; but on one side it might have
					been otherwise: for presently glancing up, the cosmopolitan said: "In the
					instance of the moral, drolly cynic, drawn from the queer bacchanalian fellow we
					were speaking of, who had his reasons for still drinking spurious wine, though
					knowing it to be such—there, I say, we have an example of what is
					certainly a wicked thought, but conceived in humor. I will now give you one of a
					wicked thought conceived in wickedness. You shall compare the two, and answer,
					whether in the one case the sting is not neutralized by the humor, and whether
					in the other the absence of humor does not leave the sting free play. I once
					heard a wit, a mere wit, mind, an irreligious Parisian wit, say, with regard to
					the temperance movement, that none, to their personal benefit, joined it sooner
					than niggards and knaves; because, as he affirmed, the one by it saved money and
					the other made money, as in ship-owners cutting off the spirit ration without
					giving its equivalent, and gamblers and all sorts of subtle tricksters sticking
					to cold water, the better to keep a cool head for business."

"A wicked thought, indeed!" cried the stranger, feelingly.

"Yes," leaning over the table on his elbow and genially gesturing at him with his
					forefinger: "yes, and, as I said, you don't remark the sting of it?"

"I do, indeed. Most calumnious thought, Frank!" <pb n="258"/>

"No humor in it?"

"Not a bit!"

"Well now, Charlie," eying him with moist regard, "let us drink. It appears to me
					you don't drink freely."

"Oh, oh—indeed, indeed—I am not backward there. I protest, a
					freer drinker than friend Charlie you will find nowhere," with feverish zeal
					snatching his glass, but only in the sequel to dally with it. "By-the-way,
					Frank," said he, perhaps, or perhaps not, to draw attention from himself,
					"by-the-way, I saw a good thing the other day; capital thing; a panegyric on the
					press. It pleased me so, I got it by heart at two readings. It is a kind of
					poetry, but in a form which stands in something the same relation to blank verse
					which that does to rhyme. A sort of free-and-easy chant with refrains to it.
					Shall I recite it?"

"Anything in praise of the press I shall be happy to hear," rejoined the
					cosmopolitan, "the more so," he gravely proceeded, "as of late I have observed
					in some quarters a disposition to disparage the press."

"Disparage the press?"

"Even so; some gloomy souls affirming that it is proving with that great
					invention as with brandy or eau-de-vie, which, upon its first discovery, was
					believed by the doctors to be, as its French name implies, a panacea—a
					notion which experience, it may be thought, has not fully verified."

"You surprise me, Frank. Are there really those who so decry the press? Tell me
					more. Their reasons." <pb n="259"/>

"Reasons they have none, but affirmations they have many; among other things
					affirming that, while under dynastic despotisms, the press is to the people
					little but an improvisatore, under popular ones it is too apt to be their Jack
					Cade. In fine, these sour sages regard the press in the light of a Colt's
					revolver, pledged to no cause but his in whose chance hands it may be; deeming
					the one invention an improvement upon the pen, much akin to what the other is
					upon the pistol; involving, along with the multiplication of the barrel, no
					consecration of the aim. The term 'freedom of the press' they consider on a par
					with freedom of Colt's revolver. Hence, for truth and the right, they hold, to
					indulge hopes from the one is little more sensible than for Kossuth and Mazzini
					to indulge hopes from the other. Heart-breaking views enough, you think; but
					their refutation is in every true reformer's contempt. Is it not so?"

"Without doubt. But go on, go on. I like to hear you," flatteringly brimming up
					his glass for him.

"For one," continued the cosmopolitan, grandly swelling his chest, "I hold the
					press to be neither the people's improvisatore, nor Jack Cade; neither their
					paid fool, nor conceited drudge. I think interest never prevails with it over
					duty. The press still speaks for truth though impaled, in the teeth of lies
					though intrenched. Disdaining for it the poor name of cheap diffuser of news, I
					claim for it the independent apostle-ship of Advancer of Knowledge:—
					the iron Paul! Paul, I say; for not only does the press advance knowledge, <pb
						n="260"/> but righteousness. In the press, as in the sun, resides, my dear
					Charlie, a dedicated principle of beneficent force and light. For the Satanic
					press, by its coappearance with the apostolic, it is no more an aspersion to
					that, than to the true sun is the coappearance of the mock one. For all the
					baleful-looking parhelion, god Apollo dispenses the day. In a word, Charlie,
					what the sovereign of England is titularly, I hold the press to be
					actually—Defender of the Faith!— defender of the faith in
					the final triumph of truth over error, metaphysics over superstition, theory
					over falsehood, machinery over nature, and the good man over the bad. Such are
					my views, which, if stated at some length, you, Charlie, must pardon, for it is
					a theme upon which I cannot speak with cold brevity. And now I am impatient for
					your panegyric, which, I doubt not, will put mine to the blush."

"It is rather in the blush-giving vein," smiled the other; "but such as it is,
					Frank, you shall have it."

"Tell me when you are about to begin," said the cosmopolitan, "for, when at
					public dinners the press is toasted, I always drink the toast standing, and
					shall stand while you pronounce the panegyric."

"Very good, Frank; you may stand up now."

He accordingly did so, when the stranger likewise rose, and uplifting the ruby
					wine-flask, began.

				<pb n="261"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="30" id="d35">
				CHAPTER XXX.<lb/> OPENING WITH A POETICAL EULOGY OF THE PRESS AND CONTINUING
					WITH TALK INSPIRED BY THE SAME.

" Praise be unto the press, not Faust's, but Noah's; let us extol and magnify the
					press, the true press of Noah, from which breaketh the true morning. Praise be
					unto the press, not the black press but the red; let us extol and magnify the
					press, the red press of Noah, from which cometh inspiration. Ye pressmen of the
					Rhineland and the Rhine, join in with all ye who tread out the glad tidings on
					isle Madeira or Mitylene.—Who giveth redness of eyes by making men
					long to tarry at the fine print?—Praise be unto the press, the rosy
					press of Noah, which giveth rosiness of hearts, by making men long to tarry at
					the rosy wine.—Who hath babblings and contentions? Who, without cause,
					inflicteth wounds? Praise be unto the press, the kindly press of Noah, which
					knitteth friends, which fuseth foes.—Who may be bribed?—Who
					may be bound?—Praise be unto the press, the free press of Noah, which
					will not lie for tyrants, but make tyrants speak the truth.—Then
					praise be unto the press, the frank old press of Noah; then let us extol and
					magnify the press, the brave old press of Noah; <pb n="262"/> then let us with
					roses garland and enwreath the press, the grand old press of Noah, from which
					flow streams of knowledge which give man a bliss no more unreal than his pain."'

"You deceived me," smiled the cosmopolitan, as both now resumed their seats; "you
					roguishly took advantage of my simplicity; you archly played upon my enthusiasm.
					But never mind; the offense, if any, was so charming, I almost wish you would
					offend again. As for certain poetic left-handers in your panegyric, those I
					cheerfully concede to the indefinite privileges of the poet. Upon the whole, it
					was quite in the lyric style—a style I always admire on account of
					that spirit of Sibyllic confidence and assurance which is, perhaps, its prime
					ingredient. But come," glancing at his companion's glass, "for a lyrist, you let
					the bottle stay with you too long."

"The lyre and the vine forever!" cried the other in his rapture, or what seemed
					such, heedless of the hint, "the vine, the vine! is it not the most graceful and
					bounteous of all growths? And, by its being such, is not something
					meant—divinely meant? As I live, a vine, a Catawba vine, shall be
					planted on my grave!"

"A genial thought; but your glass there."

"Oh, oh," taking a moderate sip, " but you, why don't you drink?"

"You have forgotten, my dear Charlie, what I told you of my previous
					convivialities to-day."

"Oh," cried the other, now in manner quite abandoned to the lyric mood, not
					without contrast to the easy sociability of his companion. "Oh, one can't drink
					too <pb n="263"/> much of good old wine—the genuine, mellow old port.
					Pooh, pooh! drink away."

"Then keep me company."

"Of course," with a flourish, taking another sip,—"suppose we have
					cigars. Never mind your pipe there; a pipe is best when alone. I say, waiter,
					bring some cigars—your best."

They were brought in a pretty little bit of western pottery, representing some
					kind of Indian utensil, mummy-colored, set down in a mass of tobacco leaves,
					whose long, green fans, fancifully grouped, formed with peeps of red the sides
					of the receptacle.

Accompanying it were two accessories, also bits of pottery, but smaller, both
					globes; one in guise of an apple flushed with red and gold to the life, and,
					through a cleft at top, you saw it was hollow. This was for the ashes. The
					other, gray, with wrinkled surface, in the likeness of a wasp's nest, was the
					match-box.

"There," said the stranger, pushing over the cigar-stand, "help yourself, and I
					will touch you off," taking a match. "Nothing like tobacco," he added, when the
					fumes of the cigar began to wreathe, glancing from the smoker to the pottery, "I
					will have a Virginia tobacco-plant set over my grave beside the Catawba vine."

"Improvement upon your first idea, which by itself was good—but you
					don't smoke."

"Presently, presently—let me fill your glass again. You don't drink."

"Thank you; but no more just now. Fill your glass." <pb n="264"/>

"Presently, presently; do you drink on. Never mind me. Now that it strikes me,
					let me say, that he who, out of superfine gentility or fanatic morality, denies
					himself tobacco, suffers a more serious abatement in the cheap pleasures of life
					than the dandy in his iron boot, or the celibate on his iron cot. While for him
					who would fain revel in tobacco, but cannot, it is a thing at which
					philanthropists must weep, to see such an one, again and again, madly returning
					to the cigar, which, for his incompetent stomach, he cannot enjoy, while still,
					after each shameful repulse, the sweet dream of the impossible good goads him on
					to his fierce misery once more—poor eunuch!"

"I agree with you," said the cosmopolitan, still gravely social, "But you don't
					smoke."

"Presently, presently, do you smoke on. As I was saying about—"

"But why don't you smoke—come. You don't think that tobacco, when in
					league with wine, too much entrances the latter's vinous quality—in
					short, with certain constitutions tends to impair self-possession, do you?"

"To think that, were treason to good fellowship," was the warm disclaimer. "No,
					no. But the fact is, there is an unpropitious flavor in my mouth just now. Ate
					of a diabolical ragout at dinner, so I shan't smoke till I have washed away the
					lingering memento of it with wine. But smoke away, you, and pray, don't forget
					to drink. By-the-way, while we sit here so companionably, giving loose to any
					companionable nothing, your uncompanionable friend, Coonskins, is, by <pb
						n="265"/> pure contrast, brought to recollection. If he were but here now,
					he would see how much of real heart-joy he denies himself by not hob-a-nobbing
					with his kind."

"Why," with loitering emphasis, slowly withdrawing his cigar, "I thought I had
					undeceived you there. I thought you had come to a better understanding of my
					eccentric friend."

"Well, I thought so, too; but first impressions will return, you know. In truth,
					now that I think of it, I am led to conjecture from chance things which dropped
					from Coonskins, during the little interview I had with him, that he is not a
					Missourian by birth, but years ago came West here, a young misanthrope from the
					other side of the Alleghanies, less to make his fortune, than to flee man. Now,
					since they say trifles sometimes effect great results, I shouldn't wonder, if
					his history were probed, it would be found that what first indirectly gave his
					sad bias to Coonskins was his disgust at reading in boy-hood the advice of
					Polonius to Laertes—advice which, in the selfishness it inculcates, is
					almost on a par with a sort of ballad upon the economies of money-making, to be
					occasionally seen pasted against the desk of small retail traders in New
					England."

"I do hope now, my dear fellew," said the cosmopolitan with an air of bland
					protest, "that, in my presence at least, you will throw out nothing to the
					prejudice of the sons of the Puritans."

"Hey-day and high times indeed," exclaimed the other, nettled, "sons of the
					Puritans forsooth! And who be Puritans, that I, an Alabamaian, must do them <pb
						n="266"/> reverence? A set of sourly conceited old Malvolios, whom
					Shakespeare laughs his fill at in his comedies."

"Pray, what were you about to suggest with regard to Polonius," observed the
					cosmopolitan with quiet forbearance, expressive of the patience of a superior
					mind at the petulance of an inferior one; "how do you characterize his advice to
					Laertes?"

"As false, fatal, and calumnious," exclaimed the other, with a degree of ardor
					befitting one resenting a stigma upon the family escutcheon, "and for a father
					to give his son—monstrous. The case you see is this: The son is going
					abroad, and for the first. What does the father? Invoke God's blessing upon him?
					Put the blessed Bible in his trunk? No. Crams him with maxims smacking of my
					Lord Chesterfield, with maxims of France, with maxims of Italy."

"No, no, be charitable, not that. Why, does he not among other things
					say:— <q>
						<lg>

							<l>'The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,</l>
							<l>Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel'?</l>
						</lg>
					</q> Is that compatible with maxims of Italy?"

"Yes it is, Frank. Don't you see? Laertes is to take the best of care of his
					friends—his proved friends, on the same principal that a wine-corker
					takes the best of care of his proved bottles. When a bottle gets a sharp knock
					and don't break, he says, Ah, I'll keep that bottle.' Why? Because he loves it?
					No, he has particular use for it." <pb n="267"/>

"Dear, dear!" appealingly turning in distress, "that—that kind of
					criticism is—is—in fact—it won't do."

"Won't truth do, Frank? You are so charitable with everybody, do but consider the
					tone of the speech. Now I put it to you, Frank; is there anything in it
					hortatory to high, heroic, disinterested effort? Anything like 'sell all thou
					hast and give to the poor?' And, in other points, what desire seems most in the
					father's mind, that his son should cherish nobleness for himself, or be on his
					guard against the contrary thing in others? An irreligious warner,
					Frank—no devout counselor, is Polonius. I hate him. Nor can I bear to
					hear your veterans of the world affirm, that he who steers through life by the
					advice of old Polonius will not steer among the breakers."

"No, no—I hope nobody affirms that," rejoined the cosmopolitan, with
					tranquil abandonment; sideways reposing his arm at full length upon the table.
					"I hope nobody affirms that; because, if Polonius' advice be taken in your
					sense, then the recommendation of it by men of experience would appear to
					involve more or less of an unhandsome sort of reflection upon human nature. And
					yet," with a perplexed air, "your suggestions have put things in such a strange
					light to me as in fact a little to disturb my previous notions of Polonius and
					what he says. To be frank, by your ingenuity you have unsettled me there, to
					that degree that were it not for our coincidence of opinion in general, I should
					almost think I was now at length beginning to feel the ill effect of an immature
					mind, too much consorting with a <pb n="268"/> mature one, except on the ground
					of first principles in common."

"Really and truly," cried the other with a kind of tickled modesty and pleased
					concern, "mine is an understanding too weak to throw out grapnels and hug
					another to it. I have indeed heard of some great scholars in these days, whose
					boast is less that they have made disciples than victims. But for me, had I the
					power to do such things, I have not the heart to desire."

"I believe you, my dear Charlie. And yet, I repeat, by your commentaries on
					Polonius you have, I know not how, unsettled me; so that now I don't exactly see
					how Shakespeare meant the words he puts in Polonius' mouth."

"Some say that he meant them to open people's eyes; but I don't think so.?"

"Open their eyes ?" echoed the cosmopolitan, slowly expanding his; "what is there
					in this world for one to open his eyes to? I mean in the sort of invidious sense
					you cite?"

"Well, others say he meant to corrupt people's morals; and still others, that he
					had no express intention at all, but in effect opens their eyes and corrupts
					their morals in one operation. All of which I reject."

"Of course you reject so crude an hypothesis; and yet, to confess, in reading
					Shakespeare in my closet, struck by some passage, I have laid down the volume,
					and said: 'This Shakespeare is a queer man.' At times seeming irresponsible, he
					does not always seem reliable. There appears to be a certain—what
					shall I call it?—hidden <pb n="269"/> sun, say, about him, at once
					enlightening and mystifying. Now, I should be afraid to say what I have
					sometimes thought that hidden sun might be."

"Do you think it was the true light?" with clandestine geniality again filling
					the other's glass.

"I would prefer to decline answering a categorical question there. Shakespeare
					has got to be a kind of deity. Prudent minds, having certain latent thoughts
					concerning him, will reserve them in a condition of lasting probation. Still, as
					touching avowable speculations, we are permitted a tether. Shakespeare himself
					is to be adored, not arraigned; but, so we do it with humility, we may a little
					canvass his characters. There's his Autolycus now, a fellow that always puzzled
					me. How is one to take Autolycus? A rogue so happy, so lucky, so triumphant, of
					so almost captivatingly vicious a career that a virtuous man reduced to the
					poor-house (were such a contingency conceivable), might almost long to change
					sides with him. And yet, see the words put into his mouth: Oh,' cries Autolycus,
					as he comes galloping, gay as a buck, upon the stage, oh,' he laughs, oh what a
					fool is Honesty, and Trust, his sworn brother, a very simple gentleman.' Think
					of that. Trust, that is, confidence—that is, the thing in this
					universe the sacredest—is rattlingly pronounced just the simplest. And
					the scenes in which the rogue figures seem purposely devised for verification of
					his principles. Mind, Charlie, I do not say it is so, far from it; but I do say
					it seems so. Yes, Autolycus would seem a needy varlet acting upon the persuasion
					that less is to be got by invoking pockets <pb n="270"/> than picking them, more
					to be made by an expert knave than a bungling beggar; and for this reason, as he
					thinks, that the soft heads outnumber the soft hearts. The devil's drilled
					recruit, Autolycus is joyous as if he wore the livery of heaven. When disturbed
					by the character and career of one thus wicked and thus happy, my sole
					consolation is in the fact that no such creature ever existed, except in the
					powerful imagination which evoked him. And yet, a creature, a living creature,
					he is, though only a poet was his maker. It may be, that in that paper-and-ink
					investiture of his, Autolycus acts more effectively upon mankind than he would
					in a flesh-and-blood one. Can his influence be salutary? True, in Autolycus
					there is humor; but though, according to my principle, humor is in general to be
					held a saving quality, yet the case of Autolycus is an exception; because it is
					his humor which, so to speak, oils his mischievousness. The bravadoing
					mischievousness of Autolycus is slid into the world on humor, as a pirate
					schooner, with colors flying, is launched into the sea on greased ways."

"I approve of Autolycus as little as you," said the stranger, who, during his
					companion's commonplaces, had seemed less attentive to them than to maturing
					with in his own mind the original conceptions destined to eclipse them. "But I
					cannot believe that Autolycus, mischievous as he must prove upon the stage, can
					be near so much so as such a character as Polonius."

"I don't know about that," bluntly, and yet not impolitely, returned the
					cosmopolitan; "to be sure, <pb n="271"/> accepting your view of the old
					courtier, then if between him and Autolycus you raise the question of
					unprepossessingness, I grant you the latter comes off best. For a moist rogue
					may tickle the midriff, while a dry worldling may but wrinkle the spleen."

"But Polonius is not dry," said the other excitedly; "he drules. One sees the
					fly-blown old fop drule and look wise. His vile wisdom is made the viler by his
					vile rheuminess. The bowing and cringing, time-serving old sinner—is
					such an one to give manly precepts to youth? The discreet, decorous, old
					dotard-of-state; senile prudence; fatuous soullessness! The ribanded old dog is
					paralytic all down one side, and that the side of nobleness. His soul is gone
					out. Only nature's automatonism keeps him on his legs. As with some old trees,
					the bark survives the pith, and will still stand stiffly up, though but to rim
					round punk, so the body of old Polonius has outlived his soul."

"Come, come," said the cosmopolitan with serious air, almost displeased; "though
					I yield to none in admiration of earnestness, yet, I think, even earnestness may
					have limits. To human minds, strong language is always more or less distressing.
					Besides, Polonius is an old man—as I remember him upon the
					stage—with snowy locks. Now charity requires that such a
					figure—think of it how you will—should at least be treated
					with civility. Moreover, old age is ripeness, and I once heard say, Better ripe
					than raw."'

"But not better rotten than raw!" bringing down his hand with energy on the
					table. <pb n="272"/>

"Why, bless me," in mild surprise contemplating his heated comrade," how you fly
					out against this unfortunate Polonius—a being that never was, nor will
					be. And yet, viewed in a Christian light," he added pensively, "I don't know
					that anger against this man of straw is a whit less wise than anger against a
					man of flesh. Madness, to be mad with anything." "That may be, or may not be,"
					returned the other, a little testily, perhaps; "but I stick to what I said, that
					it is better to be raw than rotten. And what is to be feared on that head, may
					be known from this: that it is with the best of hearts as with the best of
					pears—a dangerous experiment to linger too long upon the scene. This
					did Polonius. Thank fortune, Frank, I am young, every tooth sound in my head,
					and if good wine can keep me where I am, long shall I remain so."

"True," with a smile. "But wine, to do good, must be drunk. You have talked much
					and well, Charlie; but drunk little and indifferently—fill up."

"Presently, presently," with a hasty and preoccupied air. "If I remember right,
					Polonius hints as much as that one should, under no circumstances, commit the
					indiscretion of aiding in a pecuniary way an unfortunate friend. He drules out
					some stale stuff about 'loan losing both itself and friend,' don't he? But our
					bottle; is it glued fast? Keep it moving, my dear Frank. Good wine, and upon my
					soul I begin to feel it, and through me old Polonius—yes, this wine, I
					fear, is what excites me so against that detestable old dog without a tooth."

Upon this, the cosmopolitan, cigar in mouth, slowly <pb n="273"/> raised the
					bottle, and brought it slowly to the light, looking at it steadfastly, as one
					might at a thermometer in August, to see not how low it was, but how high. Then
					whiffing out a puff, set it down, and said: "Well, Charlie, if what wine you
					have drunk came out of this bottle, in that case I should say that
					if—supposing a case—that if one fellow had an object in
					getting another fellow fuddled, and this fellow to be fuddled was of your
					capacity, the operation would be comparatively inexpensive. What do you think,
					Charlie?"

"Why, I think I don't much admire the supposition," said Charlie, with a look of
					resentment; "it ain't safe, depend upon it, Frank, to venture upon too jocose
					suppositions with one's friends."

"Why, bless you, Frank, my supposition wasn't personal, but general. You mustn't
					be so touchy."

"If I am touchy it is the wine. Sometimes, when I freely drink, it has a touchy
					effect on me, I have observed."

"Freely drink? you haven't drunk the perfect measure of one glass, yet. While for
					me, this must be my fourth or fifth, thanks to your importunity; not to speak of
					all I drank this morning, for old acquaintance' sake. Drink, drink; you must
					drink."

"Oh, I drink while you are talking," laughed the other; "you have not noticed it,
					but I have drunk my share. Have a queer way I learned from a sedate old uncle,
					who used to tip off his glass unperceived. Do you fill up, and my glass, too.
					There! Now away with that stump, and have a new cigar. Good fellow-ship <pb
						n="274"/> forever!" again in the lyric mood. "Say, Frank, are we not men? I
					say are we not human? Tell me, were they not human who engendered us, as before
					heaven I believe they shall be whom we shall engender? Fill up, up, up, my
					friend. Let the ruby tide aspire, and all ruby aspirations with it! Up, fill up!
					Be we convivial. And conviviality, what is it? The word, I mean; what expresses
					it? A living together. But bats live together, and did you ever hear of
					convivial bats?"

"If I ever did," observed the cosmopolitan, "it has quite slipped my
					recollection."

"But why did you never hear of convivial bats, nor anybody else? Because bats,
					though they live together, live not together genially. Bats are not genial
					souls. But men are; and how delightful to think that the word which among men
					signifies the highest pitch of geniality, implies, as indispensable auxiliary,
					the cheery benediction of the bottle. Yes, Frank, to live together in the finest
					sense, we must drink together. And so, what wonder that he who loves not wine,
					that sober wretch has a lean heart—a heart like a wrung-out old
					bluing-bag, and loves not his kind? Out upon him, to the rag-house with him,
					hang him—the ungenial soul!"

"Oh, now, now, can't you be convivial without being censorious? I like easy,
					unexcited conviviality. For the sober man, really, though for my part I
					naturally love a cheerful glass, I will not prescribe my nature as the law to
					other natures. So don't abuse the sober <pb n="275"/> man. Conviviality is one
					good thing, and sobriety is another good thing. So don't be one-sided."

"Well, if I am one-sided, it is the wine. Indeed, indeed, I have indulged too
					genially. My excitement upon slight provocation shows it. But yours is a
					stronger head; drink you. By the way, talking of geniality, it is much on the
					increase in these days, ain't it?"

"It is, and I hail the fact. Nothing better attests the advance of the
					humanitarian spirit. In former and less humanitarian ages—the ages of
					amphitheatres and gladiators—geniality was mostly confined to the
					fireside and table. But in our age—the age of joint-stock companies
					and free-and-easies—it is with this precious quality as with precious
					gold in old Peru, which Pizarro found making up the scullion's sauce-pot as the
					Inca's crown. Yes, we golden boys, the moderns, have geniality
					everywhere—a bounty broadcast like noonlight."

"True, true; my sentiments again. Geniality has invaded each department and
					profession. We have genial senators, genial authors, genial lecturers, genial
					doctors, genial clergymen, genial surgeons, and the next thing we shall have
					genial hangmen."

"As to the last-named sort of person," said the cosmopolitan, "I trust that the
					advancing spirit of geniality will at last enable us to dispense with him. No
					murderers—no hangmen. And surely, when the whole world shall have been
					genialized, it will be as out of place to talk of murderers, as in a
					Christianized world to talk of sinners." <pb n="276"/>

"To pursue the thought," said the other, "every blessing is attended with some
					evil, and—"

"Stay," said the cosmopolitan, "that may be better let pass for a loose saying,
					than for hopeful doctrine."

"Well, assuming the saying's truth, it would apply to the future supremacy of the
					genial spirit, since then it will fare with the hangman as it did with the
					weaver when the spinning-jenny whizzed into the ascendant. Thrown out of
					employment, what could Jack Ketch turn his hand to? Butchering?"

"That he could turn his hand to it seems probable; but that, under the
					circumstances, it would be appropriate, might in some minds admit of a question.
					For one, I am inclined to think—and I trust it will not be held
					fastidiousness—that it would hardly be suitable to the dignity of our
					nature, that an individual, once employed in attending the last hours of human
					unfortunates, should, that office being extinct, transfer himself to the
					business of attending the last hours of unfortunate cattle. I would suggest that
					the individual turn valet—a vocation to which he would, perhaps,
					appear not wholly inadapted by his familiar dexterity about the person. In
					particular, for giving a finishing tie to a gentleman's cravat, I know few who
					would, in all likelihood, be, from previous occupation, better fitted than the
					professional person in question."

"Are you in earnest?" regarding the serene speaker with unaffected curiosity;
					"are you really in earnest?"

"I trust I am never otherwise," was the mildly earnest reply; "but talking of the
					advance of geniality, I <pb n="277"/> am not without hopes that it will
					eventually exert its influence even upon so difficult a subject as the
					misanthrope."

"A genial misanthrope! I thought I had stretched the rope pretty hard in talking
					of genial hangmen. A genial misanthrope is no more conceivable than a surly
					philanthropist."

"True," lightly depositing in an unbroken little cylinder the ashes of his cigar,
					"true, the two you name are well opposed."

"Why, you talk as if there was such a being as a surly philanthropist."

"I do. My eccentric friend, whom you call Coonskins, is an example. Does he not,
					as I explained to you, hide under a surly air a philanthropic heart? Now, the
					genial misanthrope, when in the process of eras, he shall turn up, will be the
					converse of this; under an affable air, he will hide a misanthropical heart. In
					short, the genial misanthrope will be a new kind of monster, but still no small
					improvement upon the original one, since, instead of making faces and throwing
					stones at people, like that poor old crazy man, Timon, he will take steps,
					fiddle in hand, and set the tickled world a' dancing. In a word, as the progress
					of Christianization mellows those in manner whom it cannot mend in mind, much
					the same will it prove with the progress of genialization. And so, thanks to
					geniality, the misanthrope, reclaimed from his boorish address, will take on
					refinement and softness—to so genial a degree, indeed, that it may
					possibly fall out that the misanthrope <pb n="278"/> of the coming century will
					be almost as popular as, I am sincerely sorry to say, some philanthropists of
					the present time would seem not to be, as witness my eccentric friend named
					before."

"Well," cried the other, a little weary, perhaps, of a speculation so abstract,
					"well, however it maybe with the century to come, certainly in the century which
					is, whatever else one may be, he must be genial or he is nothing. So fill up,
					fill up, and be genial!"

"I am trying my best," said the cosmopolitan, still calmly companionable. "A
					moment since, we talked of Pizarro, gold, and Peru; no doubt, now, you remember
					that when the Spaniard first entered Atahalpa's treasure-chamber, and saw such
					profusion of plate stacked up, right and left, with the wantonness of old
					barrels in a brewer's yard, the needy fellow felt a twinge of misgiving, of want
					of confidence, as to the genuineness of an opulence so profuse. He went about
					rapping the shining vases with his knuckles. But it was all gold, pure gold,
					good gold, sterling gold, which how cheerfully would have been stamped such at
					Goldsmiths' Hall. And just so those needy minds, which, through their own
					insincerity, having no confidence in man-kind, doubt lest the liberal geniality
					of this age be spurious. They are small Pizarros in their way—by the
					very princeliness of men's geniality stunned into distrust of it."

"Far be such distrust from you and me, my genial friend," cried the other
					fervently; "fill up, fill up!"

"Well, this all along seems a division of labor," <pb n="279"/> smiled the
					cosmopolitan. "I do about all the drinking, and you do about all—the
					genial. But yours is a nature competent to do that to a large population. And
					now, my friend," with a peculiarly grave air, evidently fore-shadowing something
					not unimportant, and very likely of close personal interest; "wine, you know,
					opens the heart, and—"

"Opens it!" with exultation, "it thaws it right out. Every heart is ice-bound
					till wine melt it, and reveal the tender grass and sweet herbage budding below,
					with every dear secret, hidden before like a dropped jewel in a snow-bank, lying
					there unsuspected through winter till spring."

"And just in that way, my dear Charlie, is one of my little secrets now to be
					shown forth."

"Ah!" eagerly moving round his chair, "what is it?"

"Be not so impetuous, my dear Charlie. Let me explain. You see, naturally, I am a
					man not overgifted with assurance; in general, I am, if anything, diffidently
					reserved; so, if I shall presently seem otherwise, the reason is, that you, by
					the geniality you have evinced in all your talk, and especially the noble way in
					which, while affirming your good opinion of men, you intimated that you never
					could prove false to any man, but most by your indignation at a particularly
					illiberal passage in Polonius' advice—in short, in short," with
					extreme embarrassment, "how shall I express what I mean, unless I add that by
					your whole character you impel me to throw myself upon your nobleness; in one
					word, put confidence in you, a generous confidence?" <pb n="280"/>

"I see, I see," with heightened interest, "something of moment you wish to
					confide. Now, what is it, Frank? Love affair?"

"No, not that."

"What, then, my dear Frank? Speak—depend upon me to the last. Out with
					it."

"Out it shall come, then," said the cosmopolitan "I am in want, urgent want, of
					money."

				<pb n="281"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="31" id="d36">
				CHAPTER XXXI.<lb/> A METAMORPHOSIS MORE SURPRISING THAN ANY IN OVID.

"IN want of money!" pushing back his chair as from a suddenly-disclosed man-trap
					or crater.

"Yes," naively assented the cosmopolitan, "and you are going to loan me fifty
					dollars. I could almost wish I was in need of more, only for your sake. Yes, my
					dear Charlie, for your sake; that you might the better prove your noble
					kindliness, my dear Charlie."

"None of your dear Charlies," cried the other, springing to his feet, and
					buttoning up his coat, as if hastily to depart upon a long journey.

"Why, why, why?" painfully looking up.

"None of your why, why, whys!" tossing out a foot, "go to the devil, sir! Beggar,
					impostor!—never so deceived in a man in my life."

				<pb n="282"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="32" id="d37">
				CHAPTER XXXII.<lb/> SHOWING THAT THE AGE OF MAGIC AND MAGICIANS IS NOT YET
					OVER.

WHILE speaking or rather hissing those words, the boon companion underwent much
					such a change as one reads of in fairy-books. Out of old materials sprang a new
					creature. Cadmus glided into the snake.

The cosmopolitan rose, the traces of previous feeling vanished; looked
					steadfastly at his transformed friend a moment, then, taking ten half-eagles
					from his pocket, stooped down, and laid them, one by one, in a circle round him;
					and, retiring a pace, waved his long tasseled pipe with the air of a
					necromancer, an air heightened by his costume, accompanying each wave with a
					solemn murmur of cabalistical words.

Meantime, he within the magic-ring stood suddenly rapt, exhibiting every symptom
					of a successful charm—a turned cheek, a fixed attitude, a frozen eye;
					spell-bound, not more by the waving wand than by the ten invincible talismans on
					the floor.

"Reappear, reappear, reappear, oh, my former friend! Replace this hideous
					apparition with thy blest shape, and be the token of thy return the words, 'My
					dear Frank."' <pb n="283"/>

"My dear Frank," now cried the restored friend, cordially stepping out of the
					ring, with regained self-possession regaining lost identity, "My dear Frank,
					what a funny man you are; full of fun as an egg of meat. How could you tell me
					that absurd story of your being in need? But I relish a good joke too well to
					spoil it by letting on. Of course, I humored the thing; and, on my side, put on
					all the cruel airs you would have me. Come, this little episode of fictitious
					estrangement will but enhance the delightful reality. Let us sit down again, and
					finish our bottle."

"With all my heart," said the cosmopolitan, dropping the necromancer with the
					same facility with which he had assumed it. "Yes," he added, soberly picking up
					the gold pieces, and returning them with a chink to his pocket, "yes, I am
					something of a funny man now and then; while for you, Charlie," eying him in
					tenderness, "what you say about your humoring the thing is true enough; never
					did man second a joke better than you did just now. You played your part better
					than I did mine; you played it, Charlie, to the life."

"You see, I once belonged to an amateur play company; that accounts for it. But
					come, fill up, and let's talk of something else."

"Well," acquiesced the cosmopolitan, seating himself, and quietly brimming his
					glass, "what shall we talk about?"

"Oh, anything you please," a sort of nervously accommodating.

"Well, suppose we talk about Charlemont?" <pb n="284"/>

"Charlemont? What's Charlemont? Who's Charlemont?"

"You shall hear, my dear Charlie," answered the cosmopolitan. "I will tell you
					the story of Charlemont, the gentleman-madman."

				<pb n="285"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="33" id="d38">
				CHAPTER XXXIII.<lb/> WHICH MAY PASS FOR WHATEVER IT MAY PROVE TO BE WORTH.

BUT ere be given the rather grave story of Charlemont, a reply must in civility
					be made to a certain voice which methinks I hear, that, in view of past
					chapters, and more particularly the last, where certain antics appear, exclaims:
					How unreal all this is! Who did ever dress or act like your cosmopolitan? And
					who, it might be returned, did ever dress or act like harlequin?

Strange, that in a work of amusement, this severe fidelity to real life should be
					exacted by any one, who, by taking up such a work, sufficiently shows that he is
					not unwilling to drop real life, and turn, for a time, to something different.
					Yes, it is, indeed, strange that any one should clamor for the thing he is weary
					of; that any one, who, for any cause, finds real life dull, should yet demand of
					him who is to divert his attention from it, that he should be true to that
					dullness.

There is another class, and with this class we side, who sit down to a work of
					amusement tolerantly as they sit at a play, and with much the same expectations
					and feelings. They look that fancy shall evoke scenes different from those of
					the same old crowd round the custom-house <pb n="286"/> counter, and same old
					dishes on the boarding-house table, with characters unlike those of the same old
					acquaintances they meet in the same old way every day in the same old street.
					And as, in real life, the proprieties will not allow people to act out
					themselves with that unreserve permitted to the stage; so, in books of fiction,
					they look not only for more entertainment, but, at bottom, even for more
					reality, than real life itself can show. Thus, though they want novelty, they
					want nature, too; but nature unfettered, exhilarated, in effect transformed. In
					this way of thinking, the people in a fiction, like the people in a play, must
					dress as nobody exactly dresses, talk as nobody exactly talks, act as nobody
					exactly acts. It is with fiction as with religion: it should present another
					world, and yet one to which we feel the tie. If, then, something is to be
					pardoned to well-meant endeavor, surely a little is to be allowed to that writer
					who, in all his scenes, does but seek to minister to what, as he understands it,
					is the implied wish of the more indulgent lovers of entertainment, before whom
					harlequin can never appear in a coat too parti-colored, or cut capers too
					fantastic.

One word more. Though every one knows how bootless it is to be in all cases
					vindicating one's self, never mind how convinced one may be that he is never in
					the wrong; yet, so precious to man is the approbation of his kind, that to rest,
					though but under an imaginary censure applied to but a work of imagination, is
					no easy thing. The mention of this weakness will explain why <pb n="287"/> all
					such readers as may think they perceive something inharmonious between the
					boisterous hilarity of the cosmopolitan with the bristling cynic, and his
					restrained good-nature with the boon-companion, are now referred to that chapter
					where some similar apparent inconsistency in another character is, on general
					principles, modestly endeavored to be apologized for.

				<pb n="288"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="34" id="d39">
				CHAPTER XXXIV.<lb/> IN WHICH THE COSMOPOLITAN TELLS THE STORY OF THE
					GENTLEMAN-MADMAN.

"CHARLEMONT was a young merchant of French descent, living in St.
					Louis—a man not deficient in mind, and possessed of that sterling and
					captivating kindliness, seldom in perfection seen but in youthful bachelors,
					united at times to a remarkable sort of gracefully devil-may-care and witty
					good-humor. Of course, he was admired by everybody, and loved, as only mankind
					can love, by not a few. But in his twenty-ninth year a change came over him.
					Like one whose hair turns gray in a night, so in a day Charlemont turned from
					affable to morose. His acquaintances were passed without greeting; while, as for
					his confidential friends, them he pointedly, unscrupulously, and with a kind of
					fierceness, cut dead.

"One, provoked by such conduct, would fain have resented it with words as
					disdainful; while another, shocked by the change, and, in concern for a friend,
					magnanimously overlooking affronts, implored to know what sudden, secret grief
					had distempered him. But <pb n="289"/> from resentment and from tenderness
					Charlemont alike turned away.

"Ere long, to the general surprise, the merchant Charlemont was gazetted, and the
					same day it was reported that he had withdrawn from town, but not before placing
					his entire property in the hands of responsible assignees for the benefit of
					creditors.

"Whither he had vanished, none could guess. At length, nothing being heard, it
					was surmised that he must have made away with himself—a surmise,
					doubtless, originating in the remembrance of the change some months previous to
					his bankruptcy—a change of a sort only to be ascribed to a mind
					suddenly thrown from its balance.

"Years passed. It was spring-time, and lo, one bright morning, Charlemont lounged
					into the St. Louis coffee-houses-gay, polite, humane, companionable, and dressed
					in the height of costly elegance. Not only was he alive, but he was himself
					again. Upon meeting with old acquaintances, he made the first advances, and in
					such a manner that it was impossible not to meet him half-way. Upon other old
					friends, whom he did not chance casually to meet, he either personally called,
					or left his card and compliments for them; and to several, sent presents of game
					or hampers of wine.

"They say the world is sometimes harshly unforgiving, but it was not so to
					Charlemont. The world feels a return of love for one who returns to it as he
					did. Expressive of its renewed interest was a whisper, an inquiring whisper, how
					now, exactly, so long after <pb n="290"/> his bankruptcy, it fared with
					Charlemont's purse. Rumor, seldom at a loss for answers, replied that he had
					spent nine years in Marseilles in France, and there acquiring a second fortune,
					had returned with it, a man devoted henceforth to genial friendships.

"Added years went by, and the restored wanderer still the same; or rather, by his
					noble qualities, grew up like golden maize in the encouraging sun of good
					opinions. But still the latent wonder was, what had caused that change in him at
					a period when, pretty much as now, he was, to all appearance, in the possession
					of the same fortune, the same friends, the same popularity. But nobody thought
					it would be the thing to question him here.

"At last, at a dinner at his house, when all the guests but one had successively
					departed; this remaining guest, an old acquaintance, being just enough under the
					influence of wine to set aside the fear of touching upon a delicate point,
					ventured, in a way which perhaps spoke more favorably for his heart than his
					tact, to beg of his host to explain the one enigma of his life. Deep melancholy
					overspread the before cheery face of Charlemont; he sat for some moments
					tremulously silent; then pushing a full decanter towards the guest, in a choked
					voice, said: 'No, no! when by art, and care, and time, flowers are made to bloom
					over a grave, who would seek to dig all up again only to know the
					mystery?—The wine.' When both glasses were filled, Charlemont took
					his, and lifting it, added lowly: 'If ever, in days to come, you shall see ruin
					at hand, and, thinking you <pb n="291"/> understand mankind, shall tremble for
					your friendships, and tremble for your pride; and, partly through love for the
					one and fear for the other, shall resolve to be beforehand with the world, and
					save it from a sin by prospectively taking that sin to yourself, then will you
					do as one I now dream of once did, and like him will you suffer; but how
					fortunate and how grateful should you be, if like him, after all that had
					happened, you could be a little happy again.'

"When the guest went away, it was with the persuasion, that though outwardly
					restored in mind as in fortune, yet, some taint of Charlemont's old malady
					survived, and that it was not well for friends to touch one dangerous string."

				<pb n="292"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="35" id="d40">
				CHAPTER XXXV.<lb/> IN WHICH THE COSMOPOLITAN STRIKINGLY EVINCES THE
					ARTLESSNESS OF HIS NATURE.

"WELL, what do you think of the story of Charlemont?" mildly asked he who had
					told it.

"A very strange one," answered the auditor, who had been such not with perfect
					ease, "but is it true?"

"Of course not; it is a story which I told with the purpose of every
					story-teller—to amuse. Hence, if it seem strange to you, that
					strangeness is the romance; it is what contrasts it with real life; it is the
					invention, in brief, the fiction as opposed to the fact. For do but ask
					yourself, my dear Charlie," lovingly leaning over towards him, "I rest it with
					your own heart now, whether such a forereaching motive as Charlemont hinted he
					had acted on in his change—whether such a motive, I say, were a sort
					of one at all justified by the nature of human society? Would you, for one, turn
					the cold shoulder to a friend—a convivial one, say, whose
					pennilessness should be suddenly revealed to you?"

"How can you ask me, my dear Frank? You know I would scorn such meanness." But
					rising somewhat disconcerted—"really, early as it is, I think I must
						<pb n="293"/> retire; my head," putting up his hand to it, "feels
					unpleasantly; this confounded elixir of logwood, little as I drank of it, has
					played the deuce with me."

"Little as you drank of this elixir of logwood? Why, Charlie, you are losing your
					mind. To talk so of the genuine, mellow old port. Yes, I think that by all means
					you had better away, and sleep it off. There—don't
					apologize—don't explain—go, go—I understand you
					exactly. I will see you to-morrow."

				<pb n="294"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="36" id="d41">
				CHAPTER XXXVI.<lb/> IN WHICH THE COSMOPOLITAN IS ACCOSTED BY MYSTIC, WHEREUPON
					ENSUES PRETTY MUCH SUCH TALK AS MIGHT BE EXPECTED.

As, not without some haste, the boon companion withdrew, a stranger advanced, and
					touching the cosmopolitan, said: "I think I heard you say you would see that man
					again. Be warned; don't you do so."

He turned, surveying the speaker; a blue-eyed man, sandy-haired, and
					Saxon-looking; perhaps five and forty; tall, and, but for a certain angularity,
					well made; little touch of the drawing-room about him, but a look of plain
					propriety of a Puritan sort, with a kind of farmer dignity. His age seemed
					betokened more by his brow, placidly thoughtful, than by his general aspect,
					which had that look of youthfulness in maturity, peculiar sometimes to habitual
					health of body, the original gift of nature, or in part the effect or reward of
					steady temperance of the passions, kept so, perhaps, by constitution as much as
					morality. A neat, comely, almost ruddy cheek, coolly fresh, like a red
					clover-blossom at coolish dawn—the color of warmth preserved by the
					virtue of chill. Toning the whole man, was one-knows-not-what of shrewdness and
					mythiness, strangely jumbled; <pb n="295"/> in that way, he seemed a kind of
					cross between a Yankee peddler and a Tartar priest, though it seemed as if, at a
					pinch, the first would not in all probability play second fiddle to the last.

"Sir," said the cosmopolitan, rising and bowing with slow dignity, "if I cannot
					with unmixed satisfaction hail a hint pointed at one who has just been clinking
					the social glass with me, on the other hand, I am not disposed to underrate the
					motive which, in the present case, could alone have prompted such an intimation.
					My friend, whose seat is still warm, has retired for the night, leaving more or
					less in his bottle here. Pray, sit down in his seat, and partake with me; and
					then, if you choose to hint aught further unfavorable to the man, the genial
					warmth of whose person in part passes into yours, and whose genial hospitality
					meanders through you—be it so."

"Quite beautiful conceits," said the stranger, now scholastically and
					artistically eying the picturesque speaker, as if he were a statue in the Pitti
					Palace; "very beautiful:" then with the gravest interest, "yours, sir, if I
					mistake not, must be a beautiful soul—one full of all love and truth;
					for where beauty is, there must those be."

"A pleasing belief," rejoined the cosmopolitan, beginning with an even air, "and
					to confess, long ago it pleased me. Yes, with you and Schiller, I am pleased to
					believe that beauty is at bottom incompatible with ill, and therefore am so
					eccentric as to have confidence in the latent benignity of that beautiful
					creature, the <pb n="296"/> rattle-snake, whose lithe neck and burnished maze of
					tawny gold, as he sleekly curls aloft in the sun, who on the prairie can behold
					without wonder?"

As he breathed these words, he seemed so to enter into their spirit—as
					some earnest descriptive speakers will—as unconsciously to wreathe his
					form and sidelong crest his head, till he all but seemed the creature described.
					Meantime, the stranger regarded him with little surprise, apparently, though
					with much contemplativeness of a mystical sort, and presently said: "When
					charmed by the beauty of that viper, did it never occur to you to change
					personalities with him? to feel what it was to be a snake? to glide unsuspected
					in grass? to sting, to kill at a touch; your whole beautiful body one iridescent
					scabbard of death? In short, did the wish never occur to you to feel yourself
					exempt from knowledge, and conscience, and revel for a while in the care-free,
					joyous life of a perfectly instinctive, unscrupulous, and irresponsible
					creature?"

"Such a wish," replied the other, not perceptibly disturbed, "I must confess,
					never consciously was mine. Such a wish, indeed, could hardly occur to ordinary
					imaginations, and mine I cannot think much above the average."

"But now that the idea is suggested," said the stranger, with infantile
					intellectuality, "does it not raise the desire?"

"Hardly. For though I do not think I have any uncharitable prejudice against the
					rattle-snake, still, I should not like to be one. If I were a rattle-snake now,
						<pb n="297"/> there would be no such thing as being genial with
					men—men would be afraid of me, and then I should be a very lonesome
					and miserable rattle-snake."

"True, men would be afraid of you. And why? Because of your rattle, your hollow
					rattle—a sound, as I have been told, like the shaking together of
					small, dry skulls in a tune of the Waltz of Death. And here we have another
					beautiful truth. When any creature is by its make inimical to other creatures,
					nature in effect labels that creature, much as an apothecary does a poison. So
					that whoever is destroyed by a rattle-snake, or other harmful agent, it is his
					own fault. He should have respected the label. Hence that significant passage in
					Scripture, 'Who will pity the charmer that is bitten with a serpent?'"

"I would pity him," said the cosmopolitan, a little bluntly, perhaps.

"But don't you think," rejoined the other, still maintaining his passionless air,
					"don't you think, that for a man to pity where nature is pitiless, is a little
					presuming?"

"Let casuists decide the casuistry, but the compassion the heart decides for
					itself. But, sir," deepening in seriousness, "as I now for the first realize,
					you but a moment since introduced the word irresponsible in a way I am not used
					to. Now, sir, though, out of a tolerant spirit, as I hope, I try my best never
					to be frightened at any speculation, so long as it is pursued in honesty, yet,
					for once, I must acknowledge that you do really, in the point cited, cause me
					uneasiness; because <pb n="298"/> a proper view of the universe, that view which
					is suited to breed a proper confidence, teaches, if I err not, that since all
					things are justly presided over, not very many living agents but must be some
					way accountable."

"Is a rattle-snake accountable?" asked the stranger with such a preternaturally
					cold, gemmy glance out of his pellucid blue eye, that he seemed more a
					metaphysical merman than a feeling man; "is a rattle-snake accountable?"

"If I will not affirm that it is," returned the other, with the caution of no
					inexperienced thinker, "neither will I deny it. But if we suppose it so, I need
					not say that such accountability is neither to you, nor me, nor the Court of
					Common Pleas, but to something superior."

He was proceeding, when the stranger would have interrupted him; but as reading
					his argument in his eye, the cosmopolitan, without waiting for it to be put into
					words, at once spoke to it: "You object to my supposition, for but such it is,
					that the rattle-snake's accountability is not by nature manifest; but might not
					much the same thing be urged against man's? A reductio ad absurdum, proving the
					objection vain. But if now," he continued, "you consider what capacity for
					mischief there is in a rattle-snake (observe, I do not charge it with being
					mischievous, I but say it has the capacity), could you well avoid admitting that
					that would be no symmetrical view of the universe which should maintain that,
					while to man it is forbidden to kill, without judicial cause, his fellow, yet
					the rattle-snake <pb n="299"/> has an implied permit of unaccountability to
					murder any creature it takes capricious umbrage at—man
					included?—But," with a wearied air, "this is no genial talk; at least
					it is not so to me. Zeal at unawares embarked me in it. I regret it. Pray, sit
					down, and take some of this wine."

"Your suggestions are new to me," said the other, with a kind of condescending
					appreciativeness, as of one who, out of devotion to knowledge, disdains not to
					appropriate the least crumb of it, even from a pauper's board; "and, as I am a
					very Athenian in hailing a new thought, I cannot consent to let it drop so
					abruptly. Now, the rattle-snake—"

"Nothing more about rattle-snakes, I beseech," in distress; "I must positively
					decline to reNnter upon that subject. Sit down, sir, I beg, and take some of
					this wine."

"To invite me to sit down with you is hospitable," collectedly acquiescing now in
					the change of topics; "and hospitality being fabled to be of oriental origin,
					and forming, as it does, the subject of a pleasing Arabian romance, as well as
					being a very romantic thing in itself—hence I always hear the
					expressions of hospitality with pleasure. But, as for the wine, my regard for
					that beverage is so extreme, and I am so fearful of letting it sate me, that I
					keep my love for it in the lasting condition of an untried abstraction. Briefly,
					I quaff immense draughts of wine from the page of Hafiz, but wine from a cup I
					seldom as much as sip."

The cosmopolitan turned a mild glance upon the <pb n="300"/> speaker, who, now
					occupying the chair opposite him, sat there purely and coldly radiant as a
					prism. It seemed as if one could almost hear him vitreously chime and ring. That
					moment a waiter passed, whom, arresting with a sign, the cosmopolitan bid go
					bring a goblet of ice-water. "Ice it well, waiter," said he; "and now," turning
					to the stranger, "will you, if you please, give me your reason for the warning
					words you first addressed to me?"

"I hope they were not such warnings as most warnings are," said the stranger;
					"warnings which do not forewarn, but in mockery come after the fact. And yet
					something in you bids me think now, that whatever latent design your impostor
					friend might have had upon you, it as yet remains unaccomplished. You read his
					label."

"And what did it say? 'This is a genial soul.' So you see you must either give up
					your doctrine of labels, or else your prejudice against my friend. But tell me,"
					with renewed earnestness, "what do you take him for? What is he?"

"What are you? What am I? Nobody knows who anybody is. The data which life
					furnishes, towards forming a true estimate of any being, are as insufficient to
					that end as in geometry one side given would be to determine the triangle."

"But is not this doctrine of triangles someway inconsistent with your doctrine of
					labels?"

"Yes; but what of that? I seldom care to be consistent. In a philosophical view,
					consistency is a certain <pb n="301"/> level at all times, maintained in all the
					thoughts of one's mind. But, since nature is nearly all hill and dale, how can
					one keep naturally advancing in knowledge without submitting to the natural
					inequalities in the progress? Advance into knowledge is just like advance upon
					the grand Erie canal, where, from the character of the country, change of level
					is inevitable; you are locked up and locked down with perpetual inconsistencies,
					and yet all the time you get on; while the dullest part of the whole route is
					what the boatmen call the 'long level'—a consistently-flat surface of
					sixty miles through stagnant swamps."

"In one particular," rejoined the cosmopolitan, "your simile is, perhaps,
					unfortunate. For, after all these weary lockings-up and lockings-down, upon how
					much of a higher plain do you finally stand? Enough to make it an object? Having
					from youth been taught reverence for knowledge, you must pardon me if, on but
					this one account, I reject your analogy. But really you some-way bewitch me with
					your tempting discourse, so that I keep straying from my point unawares. You
					tell me you cannot certainly know who or what my friend is; pray, what do you
					conjecture him to be?"

"I conjecture him to be what, among the ancient Egyptians, was called a
					—" using some unknown word.

"A —! And what is that?"

"A — is what Proclus, in a little note to his third book on the
					theology of Plato, defines as — —" coming out with a
					sentence of Greek. <pb n="302"/>

Holding up his glass, and steadily looking through its transparency, the
					cosmopolitan rejoined: "That, in so defining the thing, Proclus set it to modern
					understandings in the most crystal light it was susceptible of, I will not
					rashly deny; still, if you could put the definition in words suited to
					perceptions like mine, I should take it for a favor."

"A favor!" slightly lifting his cool eyebrows; "a bridal favor I understand, a
					knot of white ribands, a very beautiful type of the purity of true marriage; but
					of other favors I am yet to learn; and still, in a vague way, the word, as you
					employ it, strikes me as unpleasingly significant in general of some poor,
					unheroic submission to being done good to."

Here the goblet of iced-water was brought, and, in compliance with a sign from
					the cosmopolitan, was placed before the stranger, who, not before expressing
					acknowledgments, took a draught, apparently refreshing—its very
					coldness, as with some is the case, proving not entirely uncongenial.

At last, setting down the goblet, and gently wiping from his lips the beads of
					water freshly clinging there as to the valve of a coral-shell upon a reef, he
					turned upon the cosmopolitan, and, in a manner the most cool, self-possessed,
					and matter-of-fact possible, said: "I hold to the metempsychosis; and whoever I
					may be now, I feel that I was once the stoic Arrian, and have inklings of having
					been equally puzzled by a word in the current language of that former time, very
					probably answering to your word favor." <pb n="303"/>

"Would you favor me by explaining?" said the cosmopolitan, blandly.

"Sir," responded the stranger, with a very slight degree of severity, "I like
					lucidity, of all things, and am afraid I shall hardly be able to converse
					satisfactorily with you, unless you bear it in mind."

The cosmopolitan ruminatingly eyed him awhile, then said: "The best way, as I
					have heard, to get out of a labyrinth, is to retrace one's steps. I will
					accordingly retrace mine, and beg you will accompany me. In short, once again to
					return to the point: for what reason did you warn me against my friend?"

"Briefly, then, and clearly, because, as before said, I conjecture him to be
					what, among the ancient Egyptians—"

"Pray, now," earnestly deprecated the cosmopolitan, "pray, now, why disturb the
					repose of those ancient Egyptians? What to us are their words or their thoughts?
					Are we pauper Arabs, without a house of our own, that, with the mummies, we must
					turn squatters among the dust of the Catacombs?"

"Pharaoh's poorest brick-maker lies proudlier in his rags than the Emperor of all
					the Russias in his hollands," oracularly said the stranger; "for death, though
					in a worm, is majestic; while life, though in a king, is contemptible. So talk
					not against mummies. It is a part of my mission to teach mankind a due reverence
					for mummies."

Fortunately, to arrest these incoherencies, or rather, to vary them, a haggard,
					inspired-looking man now <pb n="304"/> approached—a crazy beggar,
					asking alms under the form of peddling a rhapsodical tract, composed by himself,
					and setting forth his claims to some rhapsodical apostle-ship. Though ragged and
					dirty, there was about him no touch of vulgarity; for, by nature, his manner was
					not unrefined, his frame slender, and appeared the more so from the broad,
					untanned frontlet of his brow, tangled over with a disheveled mass of raven
					curls, throwing a still deeper tinge upon a complexion like that of a shriveled
					berry. Nothing could exceed his look of picturesque Italian ruin and
					dethronement, heightened by what seemed just one glimmering peep of reason,
					insufficient to do him any lasting good, but enough, perhaps, to suggest a
					torment of latent doubts at times, whether his addled dream of glory were true.

Accepting the tract offered him, the cosmopolitan glanced over it, and, seeming
					to see just what it was, closed it, put it in his pocket, eyed the man a moment,
					then, leaning over and presenting him with a shilling, said to him, in tones
					kind and considerate: "I am sorry, my friend, that I happen to be engaged just
					now; but, having purchased your work, I promise myself much satisfaction in its
					perusal at my earliest leisure."

In his tattered, single-breasted frock-coat, buttoned meagerly up to his chin,
					the shatter-brain made him a bow, which, for courtesy, would not have misbecome
					a viscount, then turned with silent appeal to the stranger. But the stranger sat
					more like a cold prism than ever, while an expression of keen Yankee cuteness,
					now replacing his former mystical one, lent added icicles to his <pb n="305"/>
					aspect. His whole air said: "Nothing from me." The repulsed petitioner threw a
					look full of resentful pride and cracked disdain upon him, and went his way.

"Come, now," said the cosmopolitan, a little reproachfully, "you ought to have
					sympathized with that man; tell me, did you feel no fellow-feeling? Look at his
					tract here, quite in the transcendental vein."

"Excuse me," said the stranger, declining the tract, "I never patronize
					scoundrels."

"Scoundrels?"

"I detected in him, sir, a damning peep of sense—damning, I say; for
					sense in a seeming madman is scoundrelism. I take him for a cunning vagabond,
					who picks up a vagabond living by adroitly playing the madman. Did you not
					remark how he flinched under my eye?"

"Really," drawing a long, astonished breath, "I could hardly have divined in you
					a temper so subtlely distrustful. Flinched? to be sure he did, poor fellow; you
					received him with so lame a welcome. As for his adroitly playing the madman,
					invidious critics might object the same to some one or two strolling magi of
					these days. But that is a matter I know nothing about. But, once more, and for
					the last time, to return to the point: why sir, did you warn me against my
					friend? I shall rejoice, if, as I think it will prove, your want of confidence
					in my friend rests upon a basis equally slender with your distrust of the
					lunatic. Come, why did you warn me? Put it, I beseech, in few words, and those
					English."

"I warned you against him because he is suspected <pb n="306"/> for what on these
					boats is known—so they tell me—as a Mississippi operator."

"An operator, ah? he operates, does he? My friend, then is something like what
					the Indians call a Great Medicine, is he? He operates, he purges, he drains off
					the repletions."

"I perceive, sir," said the stranger, constitutionally obtuse to the pleasant
					drollery, "that your notion, of what is called a Great Medicine, needs
					correction. The Great Medicine among the Indians is less a bolus than a man in
					grave esteem for his politic sagacity."

"And is not my friend politic? Is not my friend sagacious? By your own
					definition, is not my friend a Great Medicine?"

"No, he is an operator, a Mississippi operator; an equivocal character. That he
					is such, I little doubt, having had him pointed out to me as such by one
					desirous of initiating me into any little novelty of this western region, where
					I never before traveled. And, sir, if I am not mistaken, you also are a stranger
					here (but, indeed, where in this strange universe is not one a stranger?) and
					that is a reason why I felt moved to warn you against a companion who could not
					be otherwise than perilous to one of a free and trustful disposition. But I
					repeat the hope, that, thus far at least, he has not succeeded with you, and
					trust that, for the future, he will not."

"Thank you for your concern; but hardly can I equally thank you for so steadily
					maintaining the hypothesis of my friend's objectionableness. True, I but made
					his <pb n="307"/> acquaintance for the first to-day, and know little of his
					antecedents; but that would seem no just reason why a nature like his should not
					of itself inspire confidence. And since your own knowledge of the gentleman is
					not, by your account, so exact as it might be, you will pardon me if I decline
					to welcome any further suggestions unflattering to him. Indeed, sir," with
					friendly decision, "let us change the subject."

				<pb n="308"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="37" id="d42">
				CHAPTER XXVII.<lb/> THE MYSTICAL MASTER INTRODUCES THE PRACTICAL DISCIPLE.

"BOTH, the subject and the interlocutor," replied the stranger rising, and
					waiting the return towards him of a promenader, that moment turning at the
					further end of his walk.

"Egbert!" said he, calling.

Egbert, a well-dressed, commercial-looking gentleman of about thirty, responded
					in a way strikingly deferential, and in a moment stood near, in the attitude
					less of an equal companion apparently than a confidential follower.

"This," said the stranger, taking Egbert by the hand and leading him to the
					cosmopolitan, "this is Egbert, a disciple. I wish you to know Egbert. Egbert was
					the first among mankind to reduce to practice the principles of Mark
					Winsome—principles previously accounted as less adapted to life than
					the closet. Egbert," turning to the disciple, who, with seeming modesty, a
					little shrank under these compliments, "Egbert, this," with a salute towards the
					cosmopolitan, "is, like all of us, a stranger. I wish you, Egbert, to know this
					brother stranger; be communicative with him. Particularly if, <pb n="309"/> by
					anything hitherto dropped, his curiosity has been roused as to the precise
					nature of my philosophy, I trust you will not leave such curiosity ungratified.
					You, Egbert, by simply setting forth your practice, can do more to enlighten one
					as to my theory, than I myself can by mere speech. Indeed, it is by you that I
					myself best understand myself. For to every philosophy are certain rear parts,
					very important parts, and these, like the rear of one's head, are best seen by
					reflection. Now, as in a glass, you, Egbert, in your life, reflect to me the
					more important part of my system. He, who approves you, approves the philosophy
					of Mark Winsome."

Though portions of this harangue may, perhaps, in the phraseology seem
					self-complaisant, yet no trace of self-complacency was perceptible in the
					speaker's manner, which throughout was plain, unassuming, dignified, and manly;
					the teacher and prophet seemed to lurk more in the idea, so to speak, than in
					the mere bearing of him who was the vehicle of it.

"Sir," said the cosmopolitan, who seemed not a little interested in this new
					aspect of matters, "you speak of a certain philosophy, and a more or less occult
					one it may be, and hint of its bearing upon practical life; pray, tell me, if
					the study of this philosophy tends to the same formation of character with the
					experiences of the world?"

"It does; and that is the test of its truth; for any philosophy that, being in
					operation contradictory to the ways of the world, tends to produce a character
					at odds <pb n="310"/> with it, such a philosophy must necessarily be but a cheat
					and a dream."

"You a little surprise me," answered the cosmopolitan; "for, from an occasional
					profundity in you, and also from your allusions to a profound work on the
					theology of Plato, it would seem but natural to surmise that, if you are the
					originator of any philosophy, it must needs so partake of the abstruse, as to
					exalt it above the comparatively vile uses of life."

"No uncommon mistake with regard to me," rejoined the other. Then meekly standing
					like a Raphael: "If still in golden accents old Memnon murmurs his riddle, none
					the less does the balance-sheet of every man's ledger unriddle the profit or
					loss of life. Sir," with calm energy, "man came into this world, not to sit down
					and muse, not to befog himself with vain subtleties, but to gird up his loins
					and to work. Mystery is in the morning, and mystery in the night, and the beauty
					of mystery is everywhere; but still the plain truth remains, that mouth and
					purse must be filled. If, hitherto, you have supposed me a visionary, be
					undeceived. I am no one-ideaed one, either; no more than the seers before me.
					Was not Seneca a usurer? Bacon a courtier? and Swedenborg, though with one eye
					on the invisible, did he not keep the other on the main chance? Along with
					whatever else it may be given me to be, I am a man of serviceable knowledge, and
					a man of the world. Know me for such. And as for my disciple here," turning
					towards him, "if you look to find any soft Utopianisms and last year's sunsets
					in him, I smile to think how he <pb n="311"/> will set you right. The doctrines
					I have taught him will, I trust, lead him neither to the mad-house nor the
					poor-house, as so many other doctrines have served credulous sticklers.
					Furthermore," glancing upon him paternally, "Egbert is both my disciple and my
					poet. For poetry is not a thing of ink and rhyme, but of thought and act, and,
					in the latter way, is by any one to be found anywhere, when in useful action
					sought. In a word, my disciple here is a thriving young merchant, a practical
					poet in the West India trade. There," presenting Egbert's hand to the
					cosmopolitan, "I join you, and leave you," With which words, and without bowing,
					the master withdrew.

				<pb n="312"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="38" id="d43">
				CHAPTER XXXVIII.<lb/> THE DISCIPLE UNBENDS, AND CONSENTS TO ACT A SOCIAL PART.

IN the master's presence the disciple had stood as one not ignorant of his place;
					modesty was in his expression, with a sort of reverential depression. But the
					presence of the superior withdrawn, he seemed lithely to shoot up erect from
					beneath it, like one of those wire men from a toy snuff-box.

He was, as before said, a young man of about thirty. His countenance of that
					neuter sort, which, in repose, is neither prepossessing nor disagreeable; so
					that it seemed quite uncertain how he would turn out. His dress was neat, with
					just enough of the mode to save it from the reproach of originality; in which
					general respect, though with a readjustment of details, his costume seemed
					modeled upon his master's. But, upon the whole, he was, to all appearances, the
					last person in the world that one would take for the disciple of any
					transcendental philosophy; though, indeed, something about his sharp nose and
					shaved chin seemed to hint that if mysticism, as a lesson, ever came in his way,
					he might, with the characteristic knack of a true <pb n="313"/> New-Englander,
					turn even so profitless a thing to some profitable account.

"Well," said he, now familiarly seating himself in the vacated chair, "what do
					you think of Mark? Sublime fellow, ain't he?"

"That each member of the human guild is worthy respect my friend," rejoined the
					cosmopolitan, "is a fact which no admirer of that guild will question; but that,
					in view of higher natures, the word sublime, so frequently applied to them, can,
					without confusion, be also applied to man, is a point which man will decide for
					himself; though, indeed, if he decide it in the affirmative, it is not for me to
					object. But I am curious to know more of that philosophy of which, at present, I
					have but inklings. You, its first disciple among men, it seems, are peculiarly
					qualified to expound it. Have you any objections to begin now?"

"None at all," squaring himself to the table. "Where shall I begin? At first
					principles?"

"You remember that it was in a practical way that you were represented as being
					fitted for the clear exposition. Now, what you call first principles, I have, in
					some things, found to be more or less vague. Permit me, then, in a plain way, to
					suppose some common case in real life, and that done, I would like you to tell
					me how you, the practical disciple of the philosophy I wish to know about,
					would, in that case, conduct."

"A business-like view. Propose the case."

"Not only the case, but the persons. The case is this: There are two friends,
					friends from childhood, <pb n="314"/> bosom-friends; one of whom, for the first
					time, being in need, for the first time seeks a loan from the other, who, so far
					as fortune goes, is more than competent to grant it. And the persons are to be
					you and I: you, the friend from whom the loan is sought—I, the friend
					who seeks it; you, the disciple of the philosophy in question—I, a
					common man, with no more philosophy than to know that when I am comfortably warm
					I don't feel cold, and when I have the ague I shake. Mind, now, you must work up
					your imagination, and, as much as possible, talk and behave just as if the case
					supposed were a fact. For brevity, you shall call me Frank, and I will I call
					you Charlie. Are you agreed?"

"Perfectly. You begin."

The cosmopolitan paused a moment, then, assuming a serious and care-worn air,
					suitable to the part to be enacted, addressed his hypothesized friend.

				<pb n="315"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="39" id="d44">
				CHAPTER XXXIX.<lb/> THE HYPOTHETICAL FRIENDS.

"CHARLIE, I am going to put confidence in you."

"You always have, and with reason. What is it Frank?"

"Charlie, I am in want—urgent want of money."

"That's not well."

"But it will be well, Charlie, if you loan me a hundred dollars. I would not ask
					this of you, only my need is sore, and you and I have so long shared hearts and
					minds together, however unequally on my side, that nothing remains to prove our
					friendship than, with the same inequality on my side, to share purses. You will
					do me the favor, won't you?"

"Favor? What do you, mean by asking me—to do you a favor?"

"Why, Charlie, you never used to talk so."

"Because, Frank, you on your side, never used to talk so."

"But won't you loan me the money?"

"No, Frank."

"Why?"

"Because my rule forbids. I give away money, but <pb n="316"/> never loan it; and
					of course the man who calls himself my friend is above receiving alms. The
					negotiation of a loan is a business transaction. And I will transact no business
					with a friend. What a friend is, he is socially and intellectually; and I rate
					social and intellectual friendship too high to degrade it on either side into a
					pecuniary make-shift. To be sure there are, and I have, what is called business
					friends; that is, commercial acquaintances, very convenient persons. But I draw
					a red-ink line between them and my friends in the true sense—my
					friends social and intellectual. In brief, a true friend has nothing to do with
					loans; he should have a soul above loans. Loans are such unfriendly
					accommodations as are to be had from the soulless corporation of a bank, by
					giving the regular security and paying the regular discount."

"An unfriendly accommodation? Do those words go together handsomely?"

"Like the poor farmer's team, of an old man and a cow-not handsomely, but to the
					purpose. Look, Frank, a loan of money on interest is a sale of money on credit.
					To sell a thing on credit may be an accommodation, but where is the
					friendliness? Few men in their senses, except operators, borrow money on
					interest, except upon a necessity akin to starvation. Well, now, where is the
					friendliness of my letting a starving man have, say, the money's worth of a
					barrel of flour upon the condition that, on a given day, he shall let me have
					the money's worth of a barrel and a half of flour; especially if I add this
					further proviso, that if he fail so <pb n="317"/> to do, I shall then, to secure
					to myself the money's worth of my barrel and his half barrel, put his heart up
					at public auction, and, as it is cruel to part families, throw in his wife's and
					children's?"

"I understand," with a pathetic shudder; "but even did it come to that, such a
					step on the creditor's part, let us, for the honor of human nature, hope, were
					less the intention than the contingency."

"But, Frank, a contingency not unprovided for in the taking beforehand of due
					securities."

"Still, Charlie, was not the loan in the first place a friend's act?"

"And the auction in the last place an enemy's act. Don't you see? The enmity lies
					couched in the friendship, just as the ruin in the relief."

"I must be very stupid to-day, Charlie, but really, I can't understand this.
					Excuse me, my dear friend, but it strikes me that in going into the philosophy
					of the subject, you go somewhat out of your depth."

"So said the incautious wader-out to the ocean; but the ocean replied: 'It is
					just the other way, my wet friend,' and drowned him."

"That, Charlie, is a fable about as unjust to the ocean, as some of Aesop's are
					to the animals. The ocean is a magnanimous element, and would scorn to
					assassinate a poor fellow, let alone taunting him in the act. But I don't
					understand what you say about enmity couched in friendship, and ruin in relief."

"I will illustrate, Frank. The needy man is a train slipped off the rail. He who
					loans him money on interest <pb n="318"/> is the one who, by way of
					accommodation, helps get the train back where it belongs; but then, by way of
					making all square, and a little more, telegraphs to an agent, thirty miles
					a-head by a precipice, to throw just there, on his account, a beam across the
					track. Your needy man's principle-and-interest friend is, I say again, a friend
					with an enmity in reserve. No, no, my dear friend, no interest for me. I scorn
					interest."

"Well, Charlie, none need you charge. Loan me without interest."

"That would be alms again."

"Alms, if the sum borrowed is returned?"

"Yes: an alms, not of the principle, but the interest."

"Well, I am in sore need, so I will not decline the alms. Seeing that it is you,
					Charlie, gratefully will I accept the alms of the interest. No humiliation
					between friends."

"Now, how in the refined view of friendship can you suffer yourself to talk so,
					my dear Frank. It pains me. For though I am not of the sour mind of Solomon,
					that, in the hour of need, a stranger is better than a brother; yet, I entirely
					agree with my sublime master, who, in his Essay on Friendship, says so nobly,
					that if he want a terrestrial convenience, not to his friend celestial (or
					friend social and intellectual) would he go; no: for his terrestrial
					convenience, to his friend terrestrial (or humbler business-friend) he goes.
					Very lucidly he adds the reason: Because, for the superior nature, which on no
					account can ever descend to do good, to be annoyed <pb n="319"/> with requests
					to do it, when the inferior one, which by no instruction can ever rise above
					that capacity, stands always inclined to it—this is unsuitable."

"Then I will not consider you as my friend celestial, but as the other."

"It racks me to come to that; but, to oblige you, I'll do it. We are business
					friends, business is business. You want to negotiate a loan. Very good. On what
					paper? Will you pay three per cent. a month? Where is your security?"

"Surely, you will not exact those formalities from your old
					schoolmate—him with whom you have so often sauntered down the groves
					of Academe, discoursing of the beauty of virtue, and the grace that is in
					kindliness—and all for so paltry a sum. Security? Our being
					fellow-academics, and friends from childhood up, is security."

"Pardon me, my dear Frank, our being fellow-academics is the worst of securities;
					while, our having been friends from childhood up is just no security at all. You
					forget we are now business friends."

"And you, on your side, forget, Charlie, that as your business friend I can give
					you no security; my need being so sore that I cannot get an indorser."

"No indorser, then, no business loan."

"Since then, Charlie, neither as the one nor the other sort of friend you have
					defined, can I prevail with you how if, combining the two, I sue as both?"

"Are you a centaur?"

"When all is said then, what good have I of your friendship, regarded in what
					light you will?" <pb n="320"/>

"The good which is in the philosophy of Mark Winsome, as reduced to practice by a
					practical disciple."

"And why don't you add, much good may the philosophy of Mark Winsome do me? Ah,"
					turning invokingly, "what is friendship, if it be not the helping hand and the
					feeling heart, the good Samaritan pouring out at need the purse as the vial!"
					"Now, my dear Frank, don't be childish. Through tears never did man see his way
					in the dark. I should hold you unworthy that sincere friendship I bear you,
					could I think that friendship in the ideal is too lofty for you to conceive. And
					let me tell you, my dear Frank, that you would seriously shake the foundations
					of our love, if ever again you should repeat the present scene. The philosophy,
					which is mine in the strongest way, teaches plain-dealing. Let me, then, now, as
					at the most suitable time, candidly disclose certain circumstances you seem in
					ignorance of. Though our friendship began in boyhood, think not that, on my side
					at least, it began injudiciously. Boys are little men, it is said. You, I
					juvenilely picked out for my friend, for your favorable points at the time; not
					the least of which were your good manners, handsome dress, and your parents'
					rank and repute of wealth. In short, like any grown man, boy though I was, I
					went into the market and chose me my mutton, not for its leanness, but its
					fatness. In other words, there seemed in you, the schoolboy who always had
					silver in his pocket, a reasonable probability that you would never stand in
					dean need of fat succor; and if my early impression has not been verified by the
					event, <pb n="321"/> it is only because of the caprice of fortune producing a
					fallibility of human expectations, however discreet."

"Oh, that I should listen to this cold-blooded disclosure!"

"A little cold blood in your ardent veins, my dear Frank, wouldn't do you any
					harm, let me tell you. Cold-blooded? You say that, because my disclosure seems
					to involve a vile prudence on my side. But not so. My reason for choosing you in
					part for the points I have mentioned, was solely with a view of preserving
					inviolate the delicacy of the connection. For—do but think of
					it—what more distressing to delicate friendship, formed early, than
					your friend's eventually, in manhood, dropping in of a rainy night for his
					little loan of five dollars or so? Can delicate friendship stand that? And, on
					the other side, would delicate friendship, so long as it retained its delicacy,
					do that? Would you not instinctively say of your dripping friend in the entry,
					'I have been deceived, fraudulently deceived, in this man; he is no true friend
					that, in platonic love to demand love-rites?"'

"And rites, doubly rights, they are, cruel Charlie!"

"Take it how you will, heed well how, by too importunately claiming those rights,
					as you call them, you shake those foundations I hinted of. For though, as it
					turns out, I, in my early friendship, built me a fair house on a poor site; yet
					such pains and cost have I lavished on that house, that, after all, it is dear
					to me. No, I would not lose the sweet boon of your friendship, Frank. But
					beware." <pb n="322"/>

"And of what? Of being in need? Oh, Charlie! you talk not to a god, a being who
					in himself holds his own estate, but to a man who, befog a man, is the sport of
					fate's wind and wave, and who mounts towards heaven or sinks towards hell, as
					the billows roll him in trough or on crest."

"Tut! Frank. Man is no such poor devil as that comes to—no poor
					drifting sea-weed of the universe. Man has a soul; which, if he will, puts him
					beyond fortune's finger and the future's spite. Don't whine like fortune's
					whipped dog, Frank, or by the heart of a true friend, I will cut ye."

"Cut me you have already, cruel Charlie, and to the quick. Call to mind the days
					we went nutting, the times we walked in the woods, arms wreathed about each
					other, showing trunks invined like the trees:—oh, Charlie!"

"Pish! we were boys."

"Then lucky the fate of the first-born of Egypt, cold in the grave ere maturity
					struck them with a sharper frost.—Charlie ?"

"Fie! you're a girl."

"Help, help, Charlie, I want help!"

"Help? to say nothing of the friend, there is something wrong about the man who
					wants help. There is somewhere a defect, a want, in brief, a need, a crying
					need, somewhere about that man."

"So there is, Charlie.—Help, Help!"

"How foolish a cry, when to implore help, is itself the proof of undesert of it."
						<pb n="323"/>

"Oh, this, all along, is not you, Charlie, but some ventriloquist who usurps your
					larynx. It is Mark Winsome that speaks, not Charlie."

"If so, thank heaven, the voice of Mark Winsome is not alien but congenial to my
					larynx. If the philosophy of that illustrious teacher find little response among
					mankind at large, it is less that they do not possess teachable tempers, than
					because they are so unfortunate as not to have natures predisposed to accord
					with him."

"Welcome, that compliment to humanity," exclaimed Frank with energy, "the truer
					because unintended. And long in this respect may humanity remain what you affirm
					it. And long it will; since humanity, inwardly feeling how subject it is to
					straits, and hence how precious is help, will, for selfishness' sake, if no
					other, long postpone ratifying a philosophy that banishes help from the world.
					But Charlie, Charlie! speak as you used to; tell me you will help me. Were the
					case reversed, not less freely would I loan you the money than you would ask me
					to loan it."

"I ask? I ask a loan? Frank, by this hand, under no circumstances would I accept
					a loan, though without asking pressed on me. The experience of China Aster might
					warn me."

"And what was that?"

"Not very unlike the experience of the man that built himself a palace of
					moon-beams, and when the moon set was surprised that his palace vanished with
					it. I will tell you about China Aster. I wish I could do so in my own words, but
					unhappily the original <pb n="324"/> story-teller here has so tyrannized over
					me, that it is quite impossible for me to repeat his incidents without sliding
					into his style. I forewarn you of this, that you may not think me so maudlin as,
					in some parts, the story would seem to make its narrator. It is too bad that any
					intellect, especially in so small a matter, should have such power to impose
					itself upon another, against its best exerted will, too. However, it is
					satisfaction to know that the main moral, to which all tends, I fully approve.
					But, to begin."

				<pb n="325"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="40" id="d45">
				CHAPTER XL.<lb/> IN WHICH THE STORY OF CHINA ASTER IS AT SECOND-HAND TOLD BY
					ONE WHO, WHILE NOT DISAPPROVING THE MORAL, DISCLAIMS THE SPIRIT OF THE STYLE.

"CHINA ASTER was a young candle-maker of Marietta, at the mouth of the
					Muskingum—one whose trade would seem a kind of subordinate branch of
					that parent craft and mystery of the hosts of heaven, to be the means,
					effectively or otherwise, of shedding some light through the darkness of a
					planet benighted. But he made little money by the business. Much ado had poor
					China Aster and his family to live; he could, if he chose, light up from his
					stores a whole street, but not so easily could he light up with prosperity the
					hearts of his household.

"Now, China Aster, it so happened, had a friend, Orchis, a shoemaker; one whose
					calling it is to defend the understandings of men from naked contact with the
					substance of things: a very useful vocation, and which, spite of all the
					wiseacres may prophesy, will hardly go out of fashion so long as rocks are hard
					and flints will gall. All at once, by a capital prize in a lottery, this useful
					shoemaker was raised from a bench to a sofa. A small nabob was the shoemaker
					now, and the understandings of men, let them shift for themselves. Not <pb
						n="326"/> that Orchis was, by prosperity, elated into heartlessness. Not at
					all. Because, in his fine apparel, strolling one morning into the candlery, and
					gayly switching about at the candle-boxes with his gold-headed
					cane—while poor China Aster, with his greasy paper cap and leather
					apron, was selling one candle for one penny to a poor orange-woman, who, with
					the patronizing coolness of a liberal customer, required it to be carefully
					rolled up and tied in a half sheet of paper-lively Orchis, the woman being gone,
					discontinued his gay switchings and said: 'This is poor business for you, friend
					China Aster; your capital is too small. You must drop this vile tallow and hold
					up pure spermaceti to the world. I tell you what it is, you shall have one
					thousand dollars to extend with. In fact, you must make money, China Aster. I
					don't like to see your little boy paddling about without shoes, as he does.'

"'Heaven bless your goodness, friend Orchis,' replied the candle-maker, 'but
					don't take it illy if I call to mind the word of my uncle, the blacksmith, who,
					when a loan was offered him, declined it, saying: "To ply my own hammer, light
					though it be, I think best, rather than piece it out heavier by welding to it a
					bit off a neighbor's hammer, though that may have some weight to spare;
					otherwise, were the borrowed bit suddenly wanted again, it might not split off
					at the welding, but too much to one side or the other."'

"Nonsense, friend China Aster, don't be so honest; your boy is barefoot. Besides,
					a rich man lose by a poor man? Or a friend be the worse by a friend? <pb n="327"
					/> China Aster, I am afraid that, in leaning over into your vats here, this
					morning, you have spilled out your wisdom. Hush! I won't hear any more. Where's
					your desk? Oh, here.' With that, Orchis dashed off a check on his bank, and
					off-handedly presenting it, said: 'There, friend China Aster, is your one
					thousand dollars; when you make it ten thousand, as you soon enough will (for
					experience, the only true knowledge, teaches me that, for every one, good luck
					is in store), then, China Aster, why, then you can return me the money or not,
					just as you please. But, in any event, give yourself no concern, for I shall
					never demand payment.'

"Now, as kind heaven will so have it that to a hungry man bread is a great
					temptation, and, therefore, he is not too harshly to be blamed, if, when freely
					offered, he take it, even though it be uncertain whether he shall ever be able
					to reciprocate; so, to a poor man, proffered money is equally enticing, and the
					worst that can be said of him, if he accept it, is just what can be said in the
					other case of the hungry man. In short, the poor candle-maker's scrupulous
					morality succumbed to his unscrupulous necessity, as is now and then apt to be
					the case. He took the check, and was about carefully putting it away for the
					present, when Orchis, switching about again with his gold-headed cane, said:
					'By-the-way, China Aster, it don't mean anything, but suppose you make a little
					memorandum of this; won't do any harm, you know.' So China Aster gave Orchis his
					note for one thousand dollars on demand. Orchis took it, and <pb n="328"/>
					looked at it a moment, 'Pooh, I told you, friend China Aster, I wasn't going
					ever to make any demand.' Then tearing up the note, and switching away again at
					the candle-boxes, said, carelessly; 'Put it at four years.' So China Aster gave
					Orchis his note for one thousand dollars at four years. 'You see I'll never
					trouble you about this,' said Orchis, slipping it in his pocket-book, 'give
					yourself no further thought, friend China Aster, than how best to invest your
					money. And don't forget my hint about spermaceti. Go into that, and I'll buy all
					my light of you,' with which encouraging words, he, with wonted, rattling
					kindness, took leave.

"China Aster remained standing just where Orchis had left him; when, suddenly,
					two elderly friends, having nothing better to do, dropped in for a chat. The
					chat over, China Aster, in greasy cap and apron, ran after Orchis, and said:
					'Friend Orchis, heaven will reward you for your good intentions, but here is
					your check, and now give me my note.'

"'Your honesty is a bore, China Aster,' said Orchis, not without displeasure. 'I
					won't take the check from you.'

"'Then you must take it from the pavement, Orchis,' said China Aster; and,
					picking up a stone, he placed the check under it on the walk.

"'China Aster,' said Orchis, inquisitively eying him, 'after my leaving the
					candlery just now, what asses dropped in there to advise with you, that now you
					hurry after me, and act so like a fool? Shouldn't wonder if it was those two old
					asses that the boys nickname Old Plain Talk and Old Prudence.' <pb n="329"/>

"'Yes, it was those two, Orchis, but don't call them names.'

"'A brace of spavined old croakers. Old Plain Talk had a shrew for a wife, and
					that's made him shrewish; and Old Prudence, when a boy, broke down in an
					apple-stall, and that discouraged him for life. No better sport for a knowing
					spark like me than to hear Old Plain Talk wheeze out his sour old saws, while
					Old Prudence stands by, leaning on his staff, wagging his frosty old pow, and
					chiming in at every clause.'

"'How can you speak so, friend Orchis, of those who were my father's friends?'

"'Save me from my friends, if those old croakers were Old Honesty's friends. I
					call your father so, for every one used to. Why did they let him go in his old
					age on the town? Why, China Aster, I've often heard from my mother, the
					chronicler, that those two old fellows, with Old Conscience—as the
					boys called the crabbed old quaker, that's dead now—they three used to
					go to the poor-house when your father was there, and get round his bed, and talk
					to him for all the world as Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar did to poor old pauper
					Job. Yes, Job's comforters were Old Plain Talk, and Old Prudence, and Old
					Conscience, to your poor old father. Friends? I should like to know who you call
					foes? With their everlasting croaking and reproaching they tormented poor Old
					Honesty, your father, to death.'

"At these words, recalling the sad end of his worthy parent, China Aster could
					not restrain some tears. Upon which Orchis said: 'Why, China Aster, you are the
						<pb n="330"/> dolefulest creature. Why don't you, China Aster, take a bright
					view of life? You will never get on in your business or anything else, if you
					don't take the bright view of life. It's the ruination of a man to take the
					dismal one.' Then, gayly poking at him with his gold-headed cane, 'Why don't
					you, then? Why don't you be bright and hopeful, like me? Why don't you have
					confidence, China Aster?'

"'I'm sure I don't know, friend Orchis,' soberly replied China Aster, 'but may be
					my not having drawn a lottery-prize, like you, may make some difference.'

"'Nonsense! before I knew anything about the prize I was gay as a lark, just as
					gay as I am now. In fact, it has always been a principle with me to hold to the
					bright view.'

"Upon this, China Aster looked a little hard at Orchis, because the truth was,
					that until the lucky prize came to him, Orchis had gone under the nickname of
					Doleful Dumps, he having been beforetimes of a hypochondriac turn, so much so as
					to save up and put by a few dollars of his scanty earnings against that rainy
					day he used to groan so much about.

"'I tell you what it is, now, friend China Aster,' said Orchis, pointing down to
					the check under the stone, and then slapping his pocket, 'the check shall lie
					there if you say so, but your note shan't keep it company. In fact, China Aster,
					I am too sincerely your friend to take advantage of a passing fit of the blues
					in you. You shall reap the benefit of my friendship.' With which, <pb n="331"/>
					buttoning up his coat in a jiffy, away he ran, leaving the check behind.

"At first, China Aster was going to tear it up, but thinking that this ought not
					to be done except in the presence of the drawer of the check, he mused a while,
					and picking it up, trudged back to the candlery, fully resolved to call upon
					Orchis soon as his day's work was over, and destroy the check before his eyes.
					But it so happened that when China Aster called, Orchis was out, and, having
					waited for him a weary time in vain, China Aster went home, still with the
					check, but still resolved not to keep it another day. Bright and early next
					morning he would a second time go after Orchis, and would, no doubt, make a sure
					thing of it, by finding him in his bed; for since the lottery-prize came to him,
					Orchis, besides becoming more cheery, had also grown a little lazy. But as
					destiny would have it, that same night China Aster had a dream, in which a being
					in the guise of a smiling angel, and holding a kind of cornucopia in her hand,
					hovered over him, pouring down showers of small gold dollars, thick as kernels
					of corn. 'I am Bright Future, friend China Aster,' said the angel, 'and if you
					do what friend Orchis would have you do, just see what will come of it.' With
					which Bright Future, with another swing of her cornucopia, poured such another
					shower of small gold dollars upon him, that it seemed to bank him up all round,
					and he waded about in it like a maltster in malt.

"Now, dreams are wonderful things, as everybody knows—so wonderful,
					indeed, that some people stop not <pb n="332"/> short of ascribing them directly
					to heaven; and China Aster, who was of a proper turn of mind in everything,
					thought that in consideration of the dream, it would be but well to wait a
					little, ere seeking Orchis again. During the day, China Aster's mind dwelling
					continually upon the dream, he was so full of it, that when Old Plain Talk
					dropped in to see him, just before dinner-time, as he often did, out of the
					interest he took in Old Honesty's son, China Aster told all about his vision,
					adding that he could not think that so radiant an angel could deceive; and,
					indeed, talked at such a rate that one would have thought he believed the angel
					some beautiful human philanthropist. Something in this sort Old Plain Talk
					understood him, and, accordingly, in his plain way, said: 'China Aster, you tell
					me that an angel appeared to you in a dream. Now, what does that amount to but
					this, that you dreamed an angel appeared to you? Go right away, China Aster, and
					return the check, as I advised you before. If friend Prudence were here, he
					would say just the same thing.' With which words Old Plain Talk went off to find
					friend Prudence, but not succeeding, was returning to the candlery himself,
					when, at distance mistaking him for a dun who had long annoyed him, China Aster
					in a panic barred all his doors, and ran to the back part of the candlery, where
					no knock could be heard.

"By this sad mistake, being left with no friend to argue the other side of the
					question, China Aster was so worked upon at last, by musing over his dream, that
					nothing would do but he must get the check cashed, and <pb n="333"/> lay out the
					money the very same day in buying a good lot of spermaceti to make into candles,
					by which operation he counted upon turning a better penny than he ever had
					before in his life; in fact, this he believed would prove the foundation of that
					famous fortune which the angel had promised him.

"Now, in using the money, China Aster was resolved punctually to pay the interest
					every six months till the principal should be returned, howbeit not a word about
					such a thing had been breathed by Orchis; though, indeed, according to custom,
					as well as law, in such matters, interest would legitimately accrue on the loan,
					nothing to the contrary having been put in the bond. Whether Orchis at the time
					had this in mind or not, there is no sure telling; but, to all appearance, he
					never so much as cared to think about the matter, one way or other.

"Though the spermaceti venture rather disappointed China Aster's sanguine
					expectations, yet he made out to pay the first six months' interest, and though
					his next venture turned out still less prosperously, yet by pinching his family
					in the matter of fresh meat, and, what pained him still more, his boys'
					schooling, he contrived to pay the second six months' interest, sincerely
					grieved that integrity, as well as its opposite, though not in an equal degree,
					costs something, sometimes.

"Meanwhile, Orchis had gone on a trip to Europe by advice of a physician; it so
					happening that, since the lottery-prize came to him, it had been discovered to
					Orchis that his health was not very firm, though he had <pb n="334"/> never
					complained of anything before but a slight ailing of the spleen, scarce worth
					talking about at the time. So Orchis, being abroad, could not help China Aster's
					paying his interest as he did, however much he might have been opposed to it;
					for China Aster paid it to Orchis's agent, who was of too business-like a turn
					to decline interest regularly paid in on a loan.

"But overmuch to trouble the agent on that score was not again to be the fate of
					China Aster; for, not being of that skeptical spirit which refuses to trust
					customers, his third venture resulted, through bad debts, in almost a total
					loss—a bad blow for the candle-maker. Neither did Old Plain Talk, and
					Old Prudence neglect the opportunity to read him an uncheerful enough lesson
					upon the consequences of his disregarding their advice in the matter of having
					nothing to do with borrowed money. 'It's all just as I predicted,' said Old
					Plain Talk, blowing his old nose with his old bandana. 'Yea, indeed is it,'
					chimed in Old Prudence, rapping his staff on the floor, and then leaning upon
					it, looking with solemn forebodings upon China Aster. Low-spirited enough felt
					the poor candle-maker; till all at once who should come with a bright face to
					him but his bright friend, the angel, in another dream. Again the cornucopia
					poured out its treasure, and promised still more. Revived by the vision, he
					resolved not to be down-hearted, but up and at it once more—contrary
					to the advice of Old Plain Talk, backed as usual by his crony, which was to the
					effect, that, under present circumstances, the best thing China Aster could do,
					would be to <pb n="335"/> wind up his business, settle, if he could, all his
					liabilities, and then go to work as a journeyman, by which he could earn good
					wages, and give up, from that time henceforth, all thoughts of rising above
					being a paid subordinate to men more able than himself, for China Aster's career
					thus far plainly proved him the legitimate son of Old Honesty, who, as every one
					knew, had never shown much business-talent, so little, in fact, that many said
					of him that he had no business to be in business. And just this plain saying
					Plain Talk now plainly applied to China Aster, and Old Prudence never disagreed
					with him. But the angel in the dream did, and, maugre Plain Talk, put quite
					other notions into the candle-maker.

"He considered what he should do towards reestablishing himself. Doubtless, had
					Orchis been in the country, he would have aided him in this strait. As it was,
					he applied to others; and as in the world, much as some may hint to the
					contrary, an honest man in misfortune still can find friends to stay by him and
					help him, even so it proved with China Aster, who at last succeeded in borrowing
					from a rich old farmer the sum of six hundred dollars, at the usual interest of
					money-lenders, upon the security of a secret bond signed by China Aster's wife
					and himself, to the effect that all such right and title to any property that
					should be left her by a well-to-do childless uncle, an invalid tanner, such
					property should, in the event of China Aster's failing to return the borrowed
					sum on the given day, be the lawful possession of the money-lender. True, it was
					just as much as China Aster could possibly do to induce his wife, a careful <pb
						n="336"/> woman, to sign this bond; because she had always regarded her
					promised share in her uncle's estate as an anchor well to windward of the hard
					times in which China Aster had always been more or less involved, and from
					which, in her bosom, she never had seen much chance of his freeing himself. Some
					notion may be had of China Aster's standing in the heart and head of his wife,
					by a short sentence commonly used in reply to such persons as happened to sound
					her on the point. 'China Aster,' she would say, 'is a good husband, but a bad
					business man!' Indeed, she was a connection on the maternal side of Old Plain
					Talk's. But had not China Aster taken good care not to let Old Plain Talk and
					Old Prudence hear of his dealings with the old farmer, ten to one they would, in
					some way, have interfered with his success in that quarter.

"It has been hinted that the honesty of China Aster was what mainly induced the
					money-lender to befriend him in his misfortune, and this must be apparent; for,
					had China Aster been a different man, the money-lender might have dreaded lest,
					in the event of his failing to meet his note, he might some way prove
					slippery—more especially as, in the hour of distress, worked upon by
					remorse for so jeopardizing his wife's money, his heart might prove a traitor to
					his bond, not to hint that it was more than doubtful how such a secret security
					and claim, as in the last resort would be the old farmer's, would stand in a
					court of law. But though one inference from all this may be, that had China
					Aster been something else than what he was, he would not have <pb n="337"/> been
					trusted, and, therefore, he would have been effectually shut out from running
					his own and wife's head into the usurer's noose; yet those who, when everything
					at last came out, maintained that, in this view and to this extent, the honesty
					of the candle-maker was no advantage to him, in so saying, such persons said
					what every good heart must deplore, and no prudent tongue will admit.

"It may be mentioned, that the old farmer made China Aster take part of his loan
					in three old dried-up cows and one lame horse, not improved by the glanders.
					These were thrown in at a pretty high figure, the old money-lender having a
					singular prejudice in regard to the high value of any sort of stock raised on
					his farm. With a great deal of difficulty, and at more loss, China Aster
					disposed of his cattle at public auction, no private purchaser being found who
					could be prevailed upon to invest. And now, raking and scraping in every way,
					and working early and late, China Aster at last started afresh, nor without
					again largely and confidently extending himself. However, he did not try his
					hand at the spermaceti again, but, admonished by experience, returned to tallow.
					But, having bought a good lot of it, by the time he got it into candles, tallow
					fell so low, and candles with it, that his candles per pound barely sold for
					what he had paid for the tallow. Meantime, a year's unpaid interest had accrued
					on Orchis' loan, but China Aster gave himself not so much concern about that as
					about the interest now due to the old farmer. But he was glad that the principal
						<pb n="338"/> there had yet some time to run. However, the skinny old fellow
					gave him some trouble by coming after him every day or two on a scraggy old
					white horse, furnished with a musty old saddle, and goaded into his shambling
					old paces with a withered old raw hide. All the neighbors said that surely Death
					himself on the pale horse was after poor China Aster now. And something so it
					proved; for, ere long, China Aster found himself involved in troubles mortal
					enough.

At this juncture Orchis was heard of. Orchis, it seemed, had returned from his
					travels, and clandestinely married, and, in a kind of queer way, was living in
					Pennsylvania among his wife's relations, who, among other things, had induced
					him to join a church, or rather semi-religious school, of Come-Outers; and what
					was still more, Orchis, without coming to the spot himself, had sent word to his
					agent to dispose of some of his property in Marietta, and remit him the
					proceeds. Within a year after, China Aster received a letter from Orchis,
					commending him for his punctuality in paying the first year's interest, and
					regretting the necessity that he (Orchis) was now under of using all his
					dividends; so he relied upon China Aster's paying the next six months' interest,
					and of course with the back interest. Not more surprised than alarmed, China
					Aster thought of taking steamboat to go and see Orchis, but he was saved that
					expense by the unexpected arrival in Marietta of Orchis in person, suddenly
					called there by that strange kind of capriciousness lately characterizing him.
					No sooner did China Aster hear of <pb n="339"/> his old friend's arrival than he
					hurried to call upon him. He found him curiously rusty in dress, sallow in
					cheek, and decidedly less gay and cordial in manner, which the more surprised
					China Aster, because, in former days, he had more than once heard Orchis, in his
					light rattling way, declare that all he (Orchis) wanted to make him a perfectly
					happy, hilarious, and benignant man, was a voyage to Europe and a wife, with a
					free development of his inmost nature.

"Upon China Aster's stating his case, his rusted friend was silent for a time;
					then, in an odd way, said that he would not crowd China Aster, but still his
					(Orchis') necessities were urgent. Could not China Aster mortgage the candlery?
					He was honest, and must have moneyed friends; and could he not press his sales
					of candles? Could not the market be forced a little in that particular? The
					profits on candles must be very great. Seeing, now, that Orchis had the notion
					that the candle-making business was a very profitable one, and knowing sorely
					enough what an error was here, China Aster tried to undeceive him. But he could
					not drive the truth into Orchis—Orchis being very obtuse here, and, at
					the same time, strange to say, very melancholy. Finally, Orchis glanced off from
					so unpleasing a subject into the most unexpected reflections, taken from a
					religious point of view, upon the unstableness and deceitfulness of the human
					heart. But having, as he thought, experienced something of that sort of thing,
					China Aster did not take exception to his friend's observations, <pb n="340"/>
					but still refrained from so doing, almost as much for the sake of sympathetic
					sociality as anything else. Presently, Orchis, without much ceremony, rose, and
					saying he must write a letter to his wife, bade his friend good-bye, but without
					warmly shaking him by the hand as of old.

"In much concern at the change, China Aster made earnest inquiries in suitable
					quarters, as to what things, as yet unheard of, had befallen Orchis, to bring
					about such a revolution; and learned at last that, besides traveling, and
					getting married, and joining the sect of Come-Outers, Orchis had somehow got a
					bad dyspepsia, and lost considerable property through a breach of trust on the
					part of a factor in New York. Telling these things to Old Plain Talk, that man
					of some knowledge of the world shook his old head, and told China Aster that,
					though he hoped it might prove otherwise, yet it seemed to him that all he had
					communicated about Orchis worked together for bad omens as to his future
					forbearance—especially, he added with a grim sort of smile, in view of
					his joining the sect of Come-Outers; for, if some men knew what was their inmost
					natures, instead of coming out with it, they would try their best to keep it in,
					which, indeed, was the way with the prudent sort. In all which sour notions Old
					Prudence, as usual, chimed in.

"When interest-day came again, China Aster, by the utmost exertions, could only
					pay Orchis' agent a small part of what was due, and a part of that was made up
					by his children's gift money (bright tenpenny pieces <pb n="341"/> and new
					quarters, kept in their little money-boxes), and pawning his best clothes, with
					those of his wife and children, so that all were subjected to the hardship of
					staying away from church. And the old usurer, too, now beginning to be
					obstreperous, China Aster paid him his interest and some other pressing debts
					with money got by, at last, mortgaging the candlery.

"When next interest-day came round for Orchis, not a penny could be raised. With
					much grief of heart, China Aster so informed Orchis' agent. Meantime, the note
					to the old usurer fell due, and nothing from China Aster was ready to meet it;
					yet, as heaven sends its rain on the just and unjust alike, by a coincidence not
					unfavorable to the old farmer, the well-to-do uncle, the tanner, having died,
					the usurer entered upon possession of such part of his property left by will to
					the wife of China Aster. When still the next interest-day for Orchis came round,
					it found China Aster worse off than ever; for, besides his other troubles, he
					was now weak with sickness. Feebly dragging himself to Orchis' agent, he met him
					in the street, told him just how it was; upon which the agent, with a grave
					enough face, said that he had instructions from his employer not to crowd him
					about the interest at present, but to say to him that about the time the note
					would mature, Orchis would have heavy liabilities to meet, and therefore the
					note must at that time be certainly paid, and, of course, the back interest with
					it; and not only so, but, as Orchis had had to allow the interest for good part
					of the time, he hoped that, for the back interest, China Aster <pb n="342"/>
					would, in reciprocation, have no objections to allowing interest on the interest
					annually. To be sure, this was not the law; but, between friends who accommodate
					each other, it was the custom.

"Just then, Old Plain Talk with Old Prudence turned the corner, coming plump upon
					China Aster as the agent left him; and whether it was a sun-stroke, or whether
					they accidentally ran against him, or whether it was his being so weak, or
					whether it was everything together, or how it was exactly, there is no telling,
					but poor China Aster fell to the earth, and, striking his head sharply, was
					picked up senseless. It was a day in July such a light and heat as only the
					midsummer banks of the inland Ohio know. China Aster was taken home on a door;
					lingered a few days with a wandering mind, and kept wandering on, till at last,
					at dead of night, when nobody was aware, his spirit wandered away into the other
					world.

"Old Plain Talk and Old Prudence, neither of whom ever omitted attending any
					funeral, which, indeed, was their chief exercise—these two were among
					the sincerest mourners who followed the remains of the son of their ancient
					friend to the grave.

"It is needless to tell of the executions that followed; how that the candlery
					was sold by the mortgagee; how Orchis never got a penny for his loan; and how,
					in the case of the poor widow, chastisement was tempered with mercy; for, though
					she was left penniless, she was not left childless. Yet, unmindful of the
					alleviation, a spirit of complaint, at what she impatiently called the
					bitterness <pb n="343"/> of her lot and the hardness of the world, so preyed
					upon her, as ere long to hurry her from the obscurity of indigence to the deeper
					shades of the tomb.

"But though the straits in which China Aster had left his family had, besides
					apparently dimming the world's regard, likewise seemed to dim its sense of the
					probity of its deceased head, and though this, as some thought, did not speak
					well for the world, yet it happened in this case, as in others, that, though the
					world may for a time seem insensible to that merit which lies under a cloud,
					yet, sooner or later, it always renders honor where honor is due; for, upon the
					death of the widow, the freemen of Marietta, as a tribute of respect for China
					Aster, and an expression of their conviction of his high moral worth, passed a
					resolution, that, until they attained maturity, his children should be
					considered the town's guests. No mere verbal compliment, like those of some
					public bodies; for, on the same day, the orphans were officially installed in
					that hospitable edifice where their worthy grandfather, the town's guest before
					them, had breathed his last breath.

"But sometimes honor may be paid to the memory of an honest man, and still his
					mound remain without a monument. Not so, however, with the candle-maker. At an
					early day, Plain Talk had procured a plain stone, and was digesting in his mind
					what pithy word or two to place upon it, when there was discovered, in China
					Aster's otherwise empty wallet, an epitaph, written, probably, in one of those
					disconsolate hours, attended with more or less mental aberration, perhaps, so
					frequent <pb n="344"/> with him for some months prior to his end. A memorandum
					on the back expressed the wish that it might be placed over his grave. Though
					with the sentiment of the epitaph Plain Talk did not disagree, he himself being
					at times of a hypochondriac turn—at least, so many said—yet
					the language struck him as too much drawn out; so, after consultation with Old
					Prudence, he decided upon making use of the epitaph, yet not without verbal
					retrenchments. And though, when these were made, the thing still appeared wordy
					to him, nevertheless, thinking that, since a dead man was to be spoken about, it
					was but just to let him speak for himself, especially when he spoke sincerely,
					and when, by so doing, the more salutary lesson would be given, he had the
					retrenched inscription chiseled as follows upon the stone. <q rend="center">
						<lg>
							<l>'HERE LIE</l>
							<l>THE REMAINS OF</l>
							<l>CHINA ASTER THE CANDLE-MAKER,</l>
							<l>WHOSE CAREER</l>
							<l>WAS AN EXAMPLE OF THE TRUTH OF SCRIPTURE, AS FOUND</l>
							<l>IN THE</l>
							<l>SOBER PHILOSOPHY</l>
							<l>OF</l>
							<l>SOLOMON THE WISE;</l>
							<l>FOR HE WAS RUINED BY ALLOWING HIMSELF TO BE PERSUADED,</l>
							<l>AGAINST HIS BETTER SENSE,</l>
							<l>INTO THE FREE INDULGENCE OF CONFIDENCE,</l>
							<l>AND</l>
							<l>AN ARDENTLY BRIGHT VIEW OF LIFE,</l>
							<l>TO THE EXCLUSION</l>
							<l>OF</l>
							<l>THAT COUNSEL WHICH COMES BY HEEDING</l>
							<l>THE</l>
							<l>OPPOSITE VIEW.'</l>
						</lg>
					</q>

"This inscription raised some talk in the town, and was rather severely
					criticised by the capitalist—one of a <pb n="345"/> very cheerful
					turn—who had secured his loan to China Aster by the mortgage; and
					though it also proved obnoxious to the man who, in town-meeting, had first moved
					for the compliment to China Aster's memory, and, indeed, was deemed by him a
					sort of slur upon the candle-maker, to that degree that he refused to believe
					that the candle-maker himself had composed it, charging Old Plain Talk with the
					authorship, alleging that the internal evidence showed that none but that
					veteran old croaker could have penned such a jeremiade—yet, for all
					this, the stone stood. In everything, of course, Old Plain Talk was seconded by
					Old Prudence; who, one day going to the grave-yard, in great-coat and
					over-shoes—for, though it was a sunshiny morning, he thought that,
					owing to heavy dews, dampness might lurk in the ground—long stood
					before the stone, sharply leaning over on his staff, spectacles on nose,
					spelling out the epitaph word by word; and, afterwards meeting Old Plain Talk in
					the street, gave a great rap with his stick, and said: 'Friend, Plain Talk, that
					epitaph will do very well. Nevertheless, one short sentence is wanting.' Upon
					which, Plain Talk said it was too late, the chiseled words being so arranged,
					after the usual manner of such inscriptions, that nothing could be interlined.
					'Then,' said Old Prudence, 'I will put it in the shape of a postscript.'
					Accordingly, with the approbation of Old Plain Talk, he had the following words
					chiseled at the left-hand corner of the stone, and pretty low down: <q>
						<l>'The root of all was a friendly loan.'"</l>
					</q>

				<pb n="346"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="41" id="d46">
				CHAPTER XLI.<lb/> ENDING WITH A RUPTURE OF THE HYPOTHESIS.

"WITH what heart," cried Frank, still in character, "have you told me this story?
					A story I can no way approve; for its moral, if accepted, would drain me of all
					reliance upon my last stay, and, therefore, of my last courage in life. For,
					what was that bright view of China Aster but a cheerful trust that, if he but
					kept up a brave heart, worked hard, and ever hoped for the best, all at last
					would go well? If your purpose, Charlie, in telling me this story, was to pain
					me, and keenly, you have succeeded; but, if it was to destroy my last
					confidence, I praise God you have not."

"Confidence?" cried Charlie, who, on his side, seemed with his whole heart to
					enter into the spirit of the thing, "what has confidence to do with the matter?
					That moral of the story, which I am for commending to you, is this: the folly,
					on both sides, of a friend's helping a friend. For was not that loan of Orchis
					to China Aster the first step towards their estrangement? And did it not bring
					about what in effect was the enmity of Orchis? I tell you, Frank, true
					friendship, like other precious things, is not rashly to be meddled with. And
						<pb n="347"/> what more meddlesome between friends than a loan? A regular
					marplot. For how can you help that the helper must turn out a creditor? And
					creditor and friend, can they ever be one? no, not in the most lenient case;
					since, out of lenity to forego one's claim, is less to be a friendly creditor
					than to cease to be a creditor at all. But it will not do to rely upon this
					lenity, no, not in the best man; for the best man, as the worst, is subject to
					all mortal contingencies. He may travel, he may marry, he may join the
					Come-Outers, or some equally untoward school or sect, not to speak of other
					things that more or less tend to new-cast the character. And were there nothing
					else, who shall answer for his digestion, upon which so much depends?"

"But Charlie, dear Charlie—"

"Nay, wait.—You have hearkened to my story in vain, if you do not see
					that, however indulgent and right-minded I may seem to you now, that is no
					guarantee for the future. And into the power of that uncertain personality
					which, through the mutability of my humanity, I may hereafter become, should not
					common sense dissuade you, my dear Frank, from putting yourself? Consider. Would
					you, in your present need, be willing to accept a loan from a friend, securing
					him by a mortgage on your homestead, and do so, knowing that you had no reason
					to feel satisfied that the mortgage might not eventually be transferred into the
					hands of a foe? Yet the difference between this man and that man is not so great
					as the difference between what the same man be to-day and <pb n="348"/> what he
					may be in days to come. For there is no bent of heart or turn of thought which
					any man holds by virtue of an unalterable nature or will. Even those feelings
					and opinions deemed most identical with eternal right and truth, it is not
					impossible but that, as personal persuasions, they may in reality be but the
					result of some chance tip of Fate's elbow in throwing her dice. For, not to go
					into the first seeds of things, and passing by the accident of parentage
					predisposing to this or that habit of mind, descend below these, and tell me, if
					you change this man's experiences or that man's books, will wisdom go surety for
					his unchanged convictions? As particular food begets particular dreams, so
					particular experiences or books particular feelings or beliefs. I will hear
					nothings of that fine babble about development and its laws; there is no
					development in opinion and feeling but the developments of time and tide. You
					may deem all this talk idle, Frank; but conscience bids me show you how
					fundamental the reasons for treating you as I do."

"But Charlie, dear Charlie, what new notions are these? I thought that man was no
					poor drifting weed of the universe, as you phrased it; that, if so minded, he
					could have a will, a way, a thought, and a heart of his own? But now you have
					turned everything upside down again, with an inconsistency that amazes and
					shocks me."

"Inconsistency? Bah !"

"There speaks the ventriloquist again," sighed Frank, in bitterness. <pb n="349"
					/>

Illy pleased, it may be, by this repetition of an allusion little flattering to
					his originality, however much so to his docility, the disciple sought to carry
					it off by exclaiming: "Yes, I turn over day and night, with indefatigable pains,
					the sublime pages of my master, and unfortunately for you, my dear friend, I
					find nothing there that leads me to think otherwise than I do. But enough: in
					this matter the experience of China Aster teaches a moral more to the point than
					anything Mark Winsome can offer, or I either."

"I cannot think so, Charlie; for neither am I China Aster, nor do I stand in his
					position. The loan to China Aster was to extend his business with; the loan I
					seek is to relieve my necessities."

"Your dress, my dear Frank, is respectable; your cheek is not gaunt. Why talk of
					necessities when nakedness and starvation beget the only real necessities?"

"But I need relief, Charlie; and so sorely, that I now conjure you to forget that
					I was ever your friend, while I apply to you only as a fellow-being, whom,
					surely, you will not turn away."

"That I will not. Take off your hat, bow over to the ground, and supplicate an
					alms of me in the way of London streets, and you shall not be a sturdy beggar in
					vain. But no man drops pennies into the hat of a friend, let me tell you. If you
					turn beggar, then, for the honor of noble friendship, I turn stranger."

"Enough," cried the other, rising, and with a toss of his shoulders seeming
					disdainfully to throw off the character <pb n="350"/> he had assumed. "Enough. I
					have had my fill of the philosophy of Mark Winsome as put into action. And
					moonshiny as it in theory may be, yet a very practical philosophy it turns out
					in effect, as he himself engaged I should find. But, miserable for my race
					should I be, if I thought he spoke truth when he claimed, for proof of the
					soundness of his system, that the study of it tended to much the same formation
					of character with the experiences of the world.—Apt disciple! Why
					wrinkle the brow, and waste the oil both of life and the lamp, only to turn out
					a head kept cool by the under ice of the heart? What your illustrious magian has
					taught you, any poor, old, broken-down, heart-shrunken dandy might have lisped.
					Pray, leave me, and with you take the last dregs of your inhuman philosophy. And
					here, take this shilling, and at the first wood-landing buy yourself a few chips
					to warm the frozen natures of you and your philosopher by."

With these words and a grand scorn the cosmopolitan turned on his heel, leaving
					his companion at a loss to determine where exactly the fictitious character had
					been dropped, and the real one, if any, resumed. If any, because, with pointed
					meaning, there occurred to him, as he gazed after the cosmopolitan, these
					familiar lines: <q>
						<lg>
							<l>"All the world's a stage,</l>
							<l>And all the men and women merely players,</l>
							<l>Who have their exits and their entrances,</l>
							<l>And one man in his time plays many parts."</l>
						</lg>
					</q>

				<pb n="351"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="42" id="d47">
				CHAPTER XLII. <lb/> UPON THE HEEL OF THE LAST SCENE THE COSMOPOLITAN ENTERS
					THE BARBER'S SHOP, A BENEDICTION ON HIS LIPS.

"BLESS you, barber!"

Now, owing to the lateness of the hour, the barber had been all alone until
					within the ten minutes last passed; when, finding himself rather dullish company
					to himself, he thought he would have a good time with Souter John and Tam
					O'Shanter, otherwise called Somnus and Morpheus, two very good fellows, though
					one was not very bright, and the other an arrant rattle-brain, who, though much
					listened to by some, no wise man would believe under oath.

In short, with back presented to the glare of his lamps, and so to the door, the
					honest barber was taking what are called cat-naps, and dreaming in his chair; so
					that, upon suddenly hearing the benediction above, pronounced in tones not
					unangelic, starting up, half awake, he stared before him, but saw nothing, for
					the stranger stood behind. What with cat-naps, dreams, and bewilderments,
					therefore, the voice seemed a sort of spiritual manifestation to him; so that,
					for the moment, <pb n="352"/> he stood all agape, eyes fixed, and one arm in the
					air.

"Why, barber, are you reaching up to catch birds there with salt?"

"Ah!" turning round disenchanted, "it is only a man, then."

"Only a man? As if to be but man were nothing. But don't be too sure what I am.
					You call me man, just as the townsfolk called the angels who, in man's form,
					came to Lot's house; just as the Jew rustics called the devils who, in man's
					form, haunted the tombs. You can conclude nothing absolute from the human form,
					barber."

"But I can conclude something from that sort of talk, with that sort of dress,"
					shrewdly thought the barber, eying him with regained self-possession, and not
					without some latent touch of apprehension at being alone with him. What was
					passing in his mind seemed divined by the other, who now, more rationally and
					gravely, and as if he expected it should be attended to, said: "Whatever else
					you may conclude upon, it is my desire that you conclude to give me a good
					shave," at the same time loosening his neck-cloth. "Are you competent to a good
					shave, barber?"

"No broker more so, sir," answered the barber, whom the business-like proposition
					instinctively made confine to business-ends his views of the visitor.

"Broker? What has a broker to do with lather? A broker I have always understood
					to be a worthy dealer in certain papers and metals." <pb n="353"/>

"He, he!" taking him now for some dry sort of joker, whose jokes, he being a
					customer, it might be as well to appreciate, "he, he! You understand well
					enough, sir. Take this seat, sir," laying his hand on a great stuffed chair,
					high-backed and high-armed, crimson-covered, and raised on a sort of dais, and
					which seemed but to lack a canopy and quarterings, to make it in aspect quite a
					throne, "take this seat, sir."

"Thank you," sitting down; "and now, pray, explain that about the broker. But
					look, look—what's this?" suddenly rising, and pointing, with his long
					pipe, towards a gilt notification swinging among colored fly-papers from the
					ceiling, like a tavern sign, "No Trust?" "No trust means distrust; distrust
					means no confidence. Barber," turning upon him excitedly, "what fell
					suspiciousness prompts this scandalous confession? My life!" stamping his foot,
					"if but to tell a dog that you have no confidence in him be matter for affront
					to the dog, what an insult to take that way the whole haughty race of man by the
					beard! By my heart, sir! but at least you are valiant; backing the spleen of
					Thersites with the pluck of Agamemnon."

"Your sort of talk, sir, is not exactly in my line," said the barber, rather
					ruefully, being now again hopeless of his customer, and not without return of
					uneasiness; "not in my line, sir," he emphatically repeated.

"But the taking of mankind by the nose is; a habit, barber, which I sadly fear
					has insensibly bred in you a disrespect for man. For how, indeed, may respectful
					conceptions of him coexist with the perpetual habit of <pb n="354"/> taking him
					by the nose? But, tell me, though I, too, already see the import of your
					notification, I do not, as yet, perceive the object. What is it?"

"Now you speak a little in my line, sir," said the barber, not unrelieved at this
					return to plain talk; ''that notification I find very useful, sparing me much
					work which would not pay. Yes, I lost a good deal, off and on, before putting
					that up," gratefully glancing towards it.

"But what is its object? Surely, you don't mean to say, in so many words, that
					you have no confidence? For instance, now," flinging aside his neck-cloth,
					throwing back his blouse, and reseating himself on the tonsorial throne, at
					sight of which proceeding the barber mechanically filled a cup with hot water
					from a copper vessel over a spirit-lamp, "for instance, now, suppose I say to
					you, 'Barber, my dear barber, unhappily I have no small change by me to-night,
					but shave me, and depend upon your money to-morrow'—suppose I should
					say that now, you would put trust in me, wouldn't you? You would have
					confidence?"

"Seeing that it is you, sir," with complaisance replied the barber, now mixing
					the lather, "seeing that it is you, sir, I won't answer that question. No need
					to."

"Of course, of course—in that view. But, as a supposition—you
					would have confidence in me, wouldn't you?"

"Why—yes, yes."

"Then why that sign?"

"Ah, sir, all people ain't like you," was the smooth <pb n="355"/> reply, at the
					same time, as if smoothly to close the debate, beginning smoothly to apply the
					lather, which operation, however, was, by a motion, protested against by the
					subject, but only out of a desire to rejoin, which was done in these words:

"All people ain't like me. Then I must be either better or worse than most
					people. Worse, you could not mean; no, barber, you could not mean that; hardly
					that. It remains, then, that you think me better than most people. But that I
					ain't vain enough to believe; though, from vanity, I confess, I could never yet,
					by my best wrestlings, entirely free myself; nor, indeed, to be frank, am I at
					bottom over anxious to—this same vanity, barber, being so harmless, so
					useful, so comfortable, so pleasingly preposterous a passion."

"Very true, sir; and upon my honor, sir, you talk very well. But the lather is
					getting a little cold, sir."

"Better cold lather, barber, than a cold heart. Why that cold sign? Ah, I don't
					wonder you try to shirk the confession. You feel in your soul how ungenerous a
					hint is there. And yet, barber, now that I look into your eyes—which
					somehow speak to me of the mother that must have so often looked into them
					before me—I dare say, though you may not think it, that the spirit of
					that notification is not one with your nature. For look now, setting business
					views aside, regarding the thing in an abstract light; in short, supposing a
					case, barber; supposing, I say, you see a stranger, his face accidentally
					averted, but his visible part very respectable-looking; what now,
					barber—I put it to your conscience, to your <pb n="356"/>
					charity—what would be your impression of that man, in a moral point of
					view? Being in a signal sense a stranger, would you, for that, signally set him
					down for a knave?"

"Certainly not, sir; by no means," cried the barber, humanely resentful.

"You would upon the face of him—"

"Hold, sir," said the barber, "nothing about the face; you remember, sir, that is
					out of sight."

"I forgot that. Well then, you would, upon the back of him, conclude him to be,
					not improbably, some worthy sort of person; in short, an honest man; wouldn't
					you?"

"Not unlikely I should, sir."

"Well now—don't be so impatient with your brush,
					barber—suppose that honest man meet you by night in some dark corner
					of the boat where his face would still remain unseen, asking you to trust him
					for a shave—how then?"

"Wouldn't trust him, sir."

"But is not an honest man to be trusted?"

"Why—why—yes, sir."

"There! don't you see, now?"

"See what?" asked the disconcerted barber, rather vexedly.

"Why, you stand self-contradicted, barber; don't you?"

"No," doggedly.

"Barber," gravely, and after a pause of concern, "the enemies of our race have a
					saying that insincerity <pb n="357"/> is the most universal and inveterate vice
					of man—the lasting bar to real amelioration, whether of individuals or
					of the world. Don't you now, barber, by your stubbornness on this occasion, give
					color to such a calumny?"

"Hity-tity!" cried the barber, losing patience, and with it respect;
					"stubbornness?" Then clattering round the brush in the cup, "Will you be shaved,
					or won't you?"

"Barber, I will be shaved, and with pleasure; but, pray, don't raise your voice
					that way. Why, now, if you go through life gritting your teeth in that fashion,
					what a comfortless time you will have."

"I take as much comfort in this world as you or any other man," cried the barber,
					whom the other's sweetness of temper seemed rather to exasperate than soothe.

"To resent the imputation of anything like unhappiness I have often observed to
					be peculiar to certain orders of men," said the other pensively, and half to
					himself, "just as to be indifferent to that imputation, from holding happiness
					but for a secondary good and inferior grace, I have observed to be equally
					peculiar to other kinds of men. Pray, barber," innocently looking up, "which
					think you is the superior creature?"

"All this sort of talk," cried the barber, still unmollified, "is, as I told you
					once before, not in my line. In a few minutes I shall shut up this shop. Will
					you be shaved?"

"Shave away, barber. What hinders?" turning up his face like a flower. <pb
						n="358"/>

The shaving began, and proceeded in silence, till at length it became necessary
					to prepare to relather a little—affording an opportunity for resuming
					the subject, which, on one side, was not let slip.

"Barber," with a kind of cautious kindliness, feeling his way, "barber, now have
					a little patience with me; do; trust me, I wish not to offend. I have been
					thinking over that supposed case of the man with the averted face, and I cannot
					rid my mind of the impression that, by your opposite replies to my questions at
					the time, you showed yourself much of a piece with a good many other
					men—that is, you have confidence, and then again, you have none. Now,
					what I would ask is, do you think it sensible standing for a sensible man, one
					foot on confidence and the other on suspicion? Don't you think, barber, that you
					ought to elect? Don't you think consistency requires that you should either say
					'I have confidence in all men,' and take down your notification; or else say, 'I
					suspect all men,' and keep it up."

This dispassionate, if not deferential, way of putting the case, did not fail to
					impress the barber, and proportionately conciliate him. Likewise, from its
					pointedness, it served to make him thoughtful; for, instead of going to the
					copper vessel for more water, as he had purposed, he halted half-way towards it,
					and, after a pause, cup in hand, said: "Sir, I hope you would not do me
					injustice. I don't say, and can't say, and wouldn't say, that I suspect all men;
					but I do say that strangers are not to be trusted, and so," pointing up to the
					sign, "no trust." <pb n="359"/>

"But look, now, I beg, barber," rejoined the other deprecatingly, not presuming
					too much upon the barber's changed temper; "look, now; to say that strangers are
					not to be trusted, does not that imply something like saying that mankind is not
					to be trusted; for the mass of mankind, are they not necessarily strangers to
					each individual man? Come, come, my friend," winningly, "you are no Timon to
					hold the mass of mankind untrustworthy. Take down your notification; it is
					misanthropical; much the same sign that Timon traced with charcoal on the
					forehead of a skull stuck over his cave. Take it down, barber; take it down
					to-night. Trust men. Just try the experiment of trusting men for this one little
					trip. Come now, I'm a philanthropist, and will insure you against losing a
					cent."

The barber shook his head dryly, and answered, "Sir, you must excuse me. I have a
					family."

				<pb n="360"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="43" id="d48">
				CHAPTER XLIII.<lb/> VERY CHARMING.

"SO you are a philanthropist, sir," added the barber with an illuminated look;
					"that accounts, then, for all. Very odd sort of man the philanthropist. You are
					the second one, sir, I have seen. Very odd sort of man, indeed, the
					philanthropist. Ah, sir," again meditatively stirring in the shaving-cup," I
					sadly fear, lest you philanthropists know better what goodness is, than what men
					are." Then, eying him as if he were some strange creature behind cage-bars, "So
					you are a philanthropist, sir."

"I am Philanthropos, and love mankind. And, what is more than you do, barber, I
					trust them."

Here the barber, casually recalled to his business, would have replenished his
					shaving-cup, but finding now that on his last visit to the water-vessel he had
					not replaced it over the lamp, he did so now; and, while waiting for it to heat
					again, became almost as sociable as if the heating water were meant for
					whisky-punch; and almost as pleasantly garrulous as the pleasant barbers in
					romances.

"Sir." said he, taking a throne beside his customer <pb n="361"/> (for in a row
					there were three thrones on the dais, as for the three kings of Cologne, those
					patron saints of the barber), "sir, you say you trust men. Well, I suppose I
					might share some of your trust, were it not for this trade, that I follow, too
					much letting me in behind the scenes."

"I think I understand," with a saddened look; "and much the same thing I have
					heard from persons in pursuits different from yours—from the lawyer,
					from the congressman, from the editor, not to mention others, each, with a
					strange kind of melancholy vanity, claiming for his vocation the distinction of
					affording the surest inlets to the conviction that man is no better than he
					should be. All of which testimony, if reliable, would, by mutual corroboration,
					justify some disturbance in a good man's mind. But no, no; it is a
					mistake—all a mistake."

"True, sir, very true," assented the barber.

"Glad to hear that," brightening up.

"Not so fast, sir," said the barber; "I agree with you in thinking that the
					lawyer, and the congressman, and the editor, are in error, but only in so far as
					each claims peculiar facilities for the sort of knowledge in question; because,
					you see, sir, the truth is, that every trade or pursuit which brings one into
					contact with the facts, sir, such trade or pursuit is equally an avenue to those
					facts."

"How exactly is that?"

"Why, sir, in my opinion—and for the last twenty years I have, at odd
					times, turned the matter over some in <pb n="362"/> my mind—he who
					comes to know man, will not remain in ignorance of man. I think I am not rash in
					saying that; am I, sir?"

"Barber, you talk like an oracle—obscurely, barber, obscurely."

"Well, sir," with some self-complacency, "the barber has always been held an
					oracle, but as for the obscurity, that I don't admit."

"But pray, now, by your account, what precisely may be this mysterious knowledge
					gained in your trade? I grant you, indeed, as before hinted, that your trade,
					imposing on you the necessity of functionally tweaking the noses of mankind, is,
					in that respect, unfortunate, very much so; nevertheless, a well-regulated
					imagination should be proof even to such a provocation to improper conceits. But
					what I want to learn from you, barber, is, how does the mere handling of the
					outside of men's heads lead you to distrust the inside of their hearts?"

"What, sir, to say nothing more, can one be forever dealing in macassar oil, hair
					dyes, cosmetics, false moustaches, wigs, and toupees, and still believe that men
					are wholly what they look to be? What think you, sir, are a thoughtful barber's
					reflections, when, behind a careful curtain, he shaves the thin, dead stubble
					off a head, and then dismisses it to the world, radiant in curling auburn? To
					contrast the shamefaced air behind the curtain, the fearful looking forward to
					being possibly discovered there by a prying acquaintance, with the cheerful
					assurance and challenging pride with which <pb n="363"/> the same man steps
					forth again, a gay deception, into the street, while some honest, shock-headed
					fellow humbly gives him the wall. Ah, sir, they may talk of the courage of
					truth, but my trade teaches me that truth sometimes is sheepish. Lies, lies,
					sir, brave lies are the lions!"

"You twist the moral, barber; you sadly twist it. Look, now; take it this way: A
					modest man thrust out naked into the street, would he not be abashed? Take him
					in and clothe him; would not his confidence be restored? And in either case, is
					any reproach involved? Now, what is true of the whole, holds proportionately
					true of the part. The bald head is a nakedness which the wig is a coat to. To
					feel uneasy at the possibility of the exposure of one's nakedness at top, and to
					feel comforted by the consciousness of having it clothed—these
					feelings, instead of being dishonorable to a bold man, do, in fact, but attest a
					proper respect for himself and his fellows. And as for the deception, you may as
					well call the fine roof of a fine chateau a deception, since, like a fine wig,
					it also is an artificial cover to the head, and equally, in the common eye,
					decorates the wearer.—I have confuted you, my dear barber; I have
					confounded you."

"Pardon," said the barber, " but I do not see that you have. His coat and his
					roof no man pretends to palm off as a part of himself, but the bald man palms
					off hair, not his, for his own."

"Not his, barber? If he have fairly purchased his hair, the law will protect him
					in its ownership, even <pb n="364"/> against the claims of the head on which it
					grew. But it cannot be that you believe what you say, barber; you talk merely
					for the humor. I could not think so of you as to suppose that you would
					contentedly deal in the impostures you condemn "

"Ah, sir, I must live."

"And can't you do that without sinning against your conscience, as you believe?
					Take up some other calling."

"Wouldn't mend the matter much, sir."

"Do you think, then, barber, that, in a certain point, all the trades and
					callings of men are much on a par? Fatal, indeed," raising his hand,
					"inexpressibly dreadful, the trade of the barber, if to such conclusions it
					necessarily leads. Barber," eying him not without emotion, "you appear to me not
					so much a misbeliever, as a man misled. Now, let me set you on the right track;
					let me restore you to trust in human nature, and by no other means than the very
					trade that has brought you to suspect it."

"You mean, sir, you would have me try the experiment of taking down that
					notification," again pointing to it with his brush; "but, dear me, while I sit
					chatting here, the water boils over."

With which words, and such a well-pleased, sly, snug, expression, as they say
					some men have when they think their little stratagem has succeeded, he hurried
					to the copper vessel, and soon had his cup foaming up with white bubbles, as if
					it were a mug of new ale.

Meantime, the other would have fain gone on with <pb n="365"/> the discourse; but
					the cunning barber lathered him with so generous a brush, so piled up the foam
					on him, that his face looked like the yeasty crest of a billow, and vain to
					think of talking under it, as for a drowning priest in the sea to exhort his
					fellow-sinners on a raft. Nothing would do, but he must keep his mouth shut.
					Doubtless, the interval was not, in a meditative way, unimproved; for, upon the
					traces of the operation being at last removed, the cosmopolitan rose, and, for
					added refreshment, washed his face and hands; and having generally readjusted
					himself, began, at last, addressing the barber in a manner different, singularly
					so, from his previous one. Hard to say exactly what the manner was, any more
					than to hint it was a sort of magical; in a benign way, not wholly unlike the
					manner, fabled or otherwise, of certain creatures in nature, which have the
					power of persuasive fascination—the power of holding another creature
					by the button of the eye, as it were, despite the serious disinclination, and,
					indeed, earnest protest, of the victim. With this manner the conclusion of the
					matter was not out of keeping; for, in the end, all argument and expostulation
					proved vain, the barber being irresistibly persuaded to agree to try, for the
					remainder of the present trip, the experiment of trusting men, as both phrased
					it. True, to save his credit as a free agent, he was loud in averring that it
					was only for the novelty of the thing that he so agreed, and he required the
					other, as before volunteered, to go security to him against any loss that might
					ensue; but still the fact remained, that he engaged to trust men, a thing he had
					before said he <pb n="366"/> would not do, at least not unreservedly. Still the
					more to save his credit, he now insisted upon it, as a last point, that the
					agreement should be put in black and white, especially the security part. The
					other made no demur; pen, ink, and paper were provided, and grave as any notary
					the cosmopolitan sat down, but, ere taking the pen, glanced up at the
					notification, and said: "First down with that sign, barber—Timon's
					sign, there; down with it."

This, being in the agreement, was done—though a little
					reluctantly—with an eye to the future, the sign being carefully put
					away in a drawer.

"Now, then, for the writing," said the cosmopolitan, squaring himself. "Ah," with
					a sigh, "I shall make a poor lawyer, I fear. Ain't used, you see, barber, to a
					business which, ignoring the principle of honor, holds no nail fast till
					clinched. Strange, barber," taking up the blank paper, "that such flimsy stuff
					as this should make such strong hawsers; vile hawsers, too. Barber," starting
					up, "I won't put it in black and white. It were a reflection upon our joint
					honor. I will take your word, and you shall take mine."

"But your memory may be none of the best, sir. Well for you, on your side, to
					have it in black and white, just for a memorandum like, you know."

"That, indeed! Yes, and it would help your memory, too, wouldn't it, barber?
					Yours, on your side, being a little weak, too, I dare say. Ah, barber! how
					ingenious we human beings are; and how kindly we reciprocate each other's little
					delicacies, don't we? What better <pb n="367"/> proof, now, that we are kind,
					considerate fellows, with responsive fellow-feelings—eh, barber? But
					to business. Let me see. What's your name, barber?"

"William Cream, sir."

Pondering a moment, he began to write; and, after some corrections, leaned back,
					and read aloud the following: <q rend="center">
						<lg>
							<l>"AGREEMENT</l>
							<l>"Between</l>
							<l>"FRANK GOODMAN, Philanthropist, and Citizen of the World,</l>
							<l>"and</l>
							<l>"WILLIAM CREAM, Barber of the Mississippi steamer,
							Fidèle.</l>
						</lg>
					</q>
					<q>"The first hereby agrees to make good to the last any loss that may come from
						his trusting mankind, in the way of his vocation, for the residue of the
						present trip; PROVIDED that William Cream keep out of sight, for the given
						term, his notification of 'No TRUST,' and by no other mode convey any, the
						least hint or intimation, tending to discourage men from soliciting trust
						from him, in the way of his vocation, for the time above specified; but, on
						the contrary, he do, by all proper and reasonable words, gestures, manners,
						and looks, evince a perfect confidence in all men, especially strangers;
						otherwise, this agreement to be void.</q>
					<q>"Done, in good faith, this 1st day of April, 18—, at a quarter to
						twelve o'clock, P. M., in the shop of said William Cream, on board the said
						boat, Fidèle."</q>

"There, barber; will that do?"

"That will do," said the barber, "only now put down your name."

Both signatures being affixed, the question was started by the barber, who should
					have custody of the instrument; which point, however, he settled for himself, by
					proposing that both should go together to the captain, <pb n="368"/> and give
					the document into his hands—the barber hinting that this would be a
					safe proceeding, because the captain was necessarily a party disinterested, and,
					what was more, could not, from the nature of the present case, make anything by
					a breach of trust. All of which was listened to with some surprise and concern.

"Why, barber," said the cosmopolitan, "this don't show the right spirit; for me,
					I have confidence in the captain purely because he is a man; but he shall have
					nothing to do with our affair; for if you have no confidence in me, barber, I
					have in you. There, keep the paper yourself," handing it magnanimously.

"Very good," said the barber, "and now nothing remains but for me to receive the
					cash."

Though the mention of that word, or any of its singularly numerous equivalents,
					in serious neighborhood to a requisition upon one's purse, is attended with a
					more or less noteworthy effect upon the human countenance, producing in many an
					abrupt fall of it—in others, a writhing and screwing up of the
					features to a point not undistressing to behold, in some, attended with a blank
					pallor and fatal consternation—yet no trace of any of these symptoms
					was visible upon the countenance of the cosmopolitan, notwithstanding nothing
					could be more sudden and unexpected than the barber's demand.

"You speak of cash, barber; pray in what connection?"

"In a nearer one, sir," answered the barber, less blandly, "than I thought the
					man with the sweet voice <pb n="369"/> stood, who wanted me to trust him once
					for a shave, on the score of being a sort of thirteenth cousin."

"Indeed, and what did you say to him?"

"I said, 'Thank you, sir, but I don't see the connection.'"

"How could you so unsweetly answer one with a sweet voice?"

"Because, I recalled what the son of Sirach says in the True Book: 'An enemy
					speaketh sweetly with his lips;' and so I did what the son of Sirach advises in
					such cases: 'I believed not his many words.'"

"What, barber, do you say that such cynical sort of things are in the True Book,
					by which, of course, you mean the Bible?"

"Yes, and plenty more to the same effect. Read the Book of Proverbs."

"That's strange, now, barber; for I never happen to have met with those passages
					you cite. Before I go to bed this night, I'll inspect the Bible I saw on the
					cabin-table, to-day. But mind, you mustn't quote the True Book that way to
					people coming in here; it would be impliedly a violation of the contract. But
					you don't know how glad I feel that you have for one while signed off all that
					sort of thing."

"No, sir; not unless you down with the cash."

"Cash again! What do you mean?"

"Why, in this paper here, you engage, sir, to insure me against a certain loss,
					and—"

"Certain? Is it so certain you are going to lose?"

"Why, that way of taking the word may not be <pb n="370"/> I amiss, but I didn't
					mean it so. I meant a certain loss; you understand, a CERTAIN loss; that is to
					say, a certain loss. Now then, sir, what use your mere writing and saying you
					will insure me, unless beforehand you place in my hands a money-pledge,
					sufficient to that end?"

"I see; the material pledge."

"Yes, and I will put it low; say fifty dollars."

"Now what sort of a beginning is this? You, barber, for a given time engage to
					trust man, to put confidence in men, and, for your first step, make a demand
					implying no confidence in the very man you engage with. But fifty dollars is
					nothing, and I would let you have it cheerfully, only I unfortunately happen to
					have but little change with me just now."

"But you have money in your trunk, though?"

"To be sure. But you see—in fact, barber, you must be consistent. No, I
					won't let you have the money now; I won't let you violate the inmost spirit of
					our contract, that way. So good-night, and I will see you again."

"Stay, sir"—humming and hawing—"you have forgotten
					something."

"Handkerchief?—gloves? No, forgotten nothing. Good-night."

"Stay, sir—the—the shaving."

"Ah, I did forget that. But now that it strikes me, I shan't pay you at present.
					Look at your agreement; you must trust. Tut! against loss you hold the
					guarantee. Good-night, my dear barber." <pb n="371"/>

With which words he sauntered off, leaving the barber in a maze, staring after.

But it holding true in fascination as in natural philosophy, that nothing can act
					where it is not, so the barber was not long now in being restored to his
					self-possession and senses; the first evidence of which perhaps was, that,
					drawing forth his notification from the drawer, he put it back where it
					belonged; while, as for the agreement, that he tore up; which he felt the more
					free to do from the impression that in all human probability he would never
					again see the person who had drawn it. Whether that impression proved
					well-founded or not, does not appear. But in after days, telling the night's
					adventure to his friends, the worthy barber always spoke of his queer customer
					as the man-charmer—as certain East Indians are called
					snake-charmers—and all his friends united in thinking him QUITE AN
					ORIGINAL.

				<pb n="372"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="44" id="d49">
				CHAPTER XLIV.<lb/> IN WHICH THE LAST THREE WORDS OF THE LAST CHAPTER ARE MADE
					THE TEXT OF DISCOURSE, WHICH WILL BE SURE OF RECEIVING MORE OR LESS ATTENTION
					FROM THOSE READERS WHO DO NOT SKIP IT.

"QUITE AN ORIGINAL:" A phrase, we fancy, rather oftener used by the young, or the
					unlearned, or the untraveled, than by the old, or the well-read, or the man who
					has made the grand tour. Certainly, the sense of originality exists at its
					highest in an infant, and probably at its lowest in him who has completed the
					circle of the sciences.

As for original characters in fiction, a grateful reader will, on meeting with
					one, keep the anniversary of that day. True, we sometimes hear of an author who,
					at one creation, produces some two or three score such characters; it may be
					possible. But they can hardly be original in the sense that Hamlet is, or Don
					Quixote, or Milton's Satan. That is to say, they are not, in a thorough sense,
					original at all. They are novel, or singular, or striking, or captivating, or
					all four at once.

More likely, they are what are called odd characters; but for that, are no more
					original, than what is called <pb n="373"/> an odd genius, in his way, is. But,
					if original, whence came they? Or where did the novelist pick them up?

Where does any novelist pick up any character? For the most part, in town, to be
					sure. Every great town is a kind of man-show, where the novelist goes for his
					stock, just as the agriculturist goes to the cattle-show for his. But in the one
					fair, new species of quadrupeds are hardly more rare, than in the other are new
					species of characters—that is, original ones. Their rarity may still
					the more appear from this, that, while characters, merely singular, imply but
					singular forms so to speak, original ones, truly so, imply original instincts.

In short, a due conception of what is to be held for this sort of personage in
					fiction would make him almost as much of a prodigy there, as in real history is
					a new law-giver, a revolutionizing philosopher, or the founder of a new
					religion.

In nearly all the original characters, loosely accounted such in works of
					invention, there is discernible something prevailingly local, or of the age;
					which circumstance, of itself, would seem to invalidate the claim, judged by the
					principles here suggested.

Furthermore, if we consider, what is popularly held to entitle characters in
					fiction to being deemed original, is but something, personal—confined
					to itself. The character sheds not its characteristic on its surroundings,
					whereas, the original character, essentially such, is like a revolving Drummond
					light, raying away from itself <pb n="374"/> all round it—everything
					is lit by it, everything starts up to it (mark how it is with Hamlet), so that,
					in certain minds, there follows upon the adequate conception of such a
					character, an effect, in its way, akin to that which in Genesis attends upon the
					beginning of things.

For much the same reason that there is but one planet to one orbit, so can there
					be but one such original character to one work of invention. Two would conflict
					to chaos. In this view, to say that there are more than one to a book, is good
					presumption there is none at all. But for new, singular, striking, odd,
					eccentric, and all sorts of entertaining and instructive characters, a good
					fiction may be full of them. To produce such characters, an author, beside other
					things, must have seen much, and seen through much: to produce but one original
					character, he must have had much luck.

There would seem but one point in common between this sort of phenomenon in
					fiction and all other sorts: it cannot be born in the author's
					imagination—it being as true in literature as in zoology, that all
					life is from the egg.

In the endeavor to show, if possible, the impropriety of the phrase, Quite an
					Original, as applied by the barber's friends, we have, at unawares, been led
					into a dissertation bordering upon the prosy, perhaps upon the smoky. If so, the
					best use the smoke can be turned to, will be, by retiring under cover of it, in
					good trim as may be, to the story.

				<pb n="375"/>

			</div1>
			<div1 type="chapter" n="45" id="d50">
				CHAPTER XLV.<lb/> THE COSMOPOLITAN INCREASES IN SERIOUSNESS.

IN the middle of the gentlemen's cabin burned a solar lamp, swung from the
					ceiling, and whose shade of ground glass was all round fancifully variegated, in
					transparency, with the image of a horned altar, from which flames rose,
					alternate with the figure of a robed man, his head encircled by a halo. The
					light of this lamp, after dazzlingly striking on marble, snow-white and
					round—the slab of a centre-table beneath—on all sides went
					rippling off with ever-diminishing distinctness, till, like circles from a stone
					dropped in water, the rays died dimly away in the furthest nook of the place.

Here and there, true to their place, but not to their function, swung other
					lamps, barren planets, which had either gone out from exhaustion, or been
					extinguished by such occupants of berths as the light annoyed, or who wanted to
					sleep, not see.

By a perverse man, in a berth not remote, the remaining lamp would have been
					extinguished as well, had not a steward forbade, saying that the commands of the
					captain required it to be kept burning till the natural <pb n="376"/> light of
					day should come to relieve it. This steward, who, like many in his vocation, was
					apt to be a little free-spoken at times, had been provoked by the man's
					pertinacity to remind him, not only of the sad consequences which might, upon
					occasion, ensue from the cabin being left in darkness, but, also, of the
					circumstance that, in a place full of strangers, to show one's self anxious to
					produce darkness there, such an anxiety was, to say the least, not becoming. So
					the lamp—last survivor of many—burned on, inwardly blessed
					by those in some berths, and inwardly execrated by those in others.

Keeping his lone vigils beneath his lone lamp, which lighted his book on the
					table, sat a clean, comely, old man, his head snowy as the marble, and a
					countenance like that which imagination ascribes to good Simeon, when, having at
					last beheld the Master of Faith, he blessed him and departed in peace. From his
					hale look of greenness in winter, and his hands ingrained with the tan, less,
					apparently, of the present summer, than of accumulated ones past, the old man
					seemed a well-to-do farmer, happily dismissed, after a thrifty life of activity,
					from the fields to the fireside—one of those who, at
					three-score-and-ten, are fresh-hearted as at fifteen; to whom seclusion gives a
					boon more blessed than knowledge, and at last sends them to heaven untainted by
					the world, because ignorant of it; just as a country-man putting up at a London
					inn, and never stirring out of it as a sight-seer, will leave London at last
					without once being lost in its fog, or soiled by its mud.

Redolent from the barber's shop, as any bridegroom <pb n="377"/> tripping to the
					bridal chamber might come, and by his look of cheeriness seeming to dispense a
					sort of morning through the night, in came the cosmopolitan; but marking the old
					man, and how he was occupied, he toned himself down, and trod softly, and took a
					seat on the other side of the table, and said nothing. Still, there was a kind
					of waiting expression about him.

"Sir," said the old man, after looking up puzzled at him a moment, "sir," said
					he, "one would think this was a coffee-house, and it was war-time, and I had a
					newspaper here with great news, and the only copy to be had, you sit there
					looking at me so eager."

"And so you have good news there, sir—the very best of good news."

"Too good to be true," here came from one of the curtained berths.

"Hark!" said the cosmopolitan. "Some one talks in his sleep."

"Yes," said the old man, "and you—you seem to be talking in a dream.
					Why speak you, sir, of news, and all that, when you must see this is a book I
					have here—the Bible, not a newspaper?"

"I know that; and when you are through with it—but not a moment
					sooner—I will thank you for it. It belongs to the boat, I
					believe—a present from a society."

"Oh, take it, take it!"

"Nay, sir, I did not mean to touch you at all. I simply stated the fact in
					explanation of my waiting here—nothing more. Read on, sir, or you will
					distress me." <pb n="378"/>

This courtesy was not without effect. Removing his spectacles, and saying he had
					about finished his chapter, the old man kindly presented the volume, which was
					received with thanks equally kind. After reading for some minutes, until his
					expression merged from attentiveness into seriousness, and from that into a kind
					of pain, the cosmopolitan slowly laid down the book, and turning to the old man,
					who thus far had been watching him with benign curiosity, said: "Can you, my
					aged friend, resolve me a doubt—a disturbing doubt?"

"There are doubts, sir," replied the old man, with a changed countenance, "there
					are doubts, sir, which, if man have them, it is not man that can solve them."

"True; but look, now, what my doubt is. I am one who thinks well of man. I love
					man. I have confidence in man. But what was told me not a half-hour since? I was
					told that I would find it written—'Believe not his many
					words—an enemy speaketh sweetly with his lips'—and also I
					was told that I would find a good deal more to the same effect, and all in this
					book. I could not think it; and, coming here to look for myself, what do I read?
					Not only just what was quoted, but also, as was engaged, more to the same
					purpose, such as this: 'With much communication he will tempt thee; he will
					smile upon thee, and speak thee fair, and say What wantest thou? If thou be for
					his profit he will use thee; he will make thee bear, and will not be sorry for
					it. Observe and take good heed. When thou hearest these things, awake in thy
					sleep."' <pb n="379"/>

"Who's that describing the confidence-man?" here came from the berth again.

"Awake in his sleep, sure enough, ain't he?" said the cosmopolitan, again looking
					off in surprise. "Same voice as before, ain't it? Strange sort of dreamy man,
					that. Which is his berth, pray?"

"Never mind him, sir," said the old man anxiously, "but tell me truly, did you,
					indeed, read from the book just now?"

"I did," with changed air, "and gall and wormwood it is to me, a truster in man;
					to me, a philanthropist."

"Why," moved, "you don't mean to say, that what you repeated is really down
					there? Man and boy, I have read the good book this seventy years, and don't
					remember seeing anything like that. Let me see it," rising earnestly, and going
					round to him.

"There it is; and there—and there"—turning over the leaves,
					and pointing to the sentences one by one; "there—all down in the
					'Wisdom of Jesus, the Son of Sirach.'"

"Ah!" cried the old man, brightening up, "now I know. Look," turning the leaves
					forward and back, till all the Old Testament lay flat on one side, and all the
					New Testament flat on the other, while in his fingers he supported vertically
					the portion between, "look, sir, all this to the right is certain truth, and all
					this to the left is certain truth, but all I hold in my hand here is apocrypha."

"Apocrypha?"

"Yes; and there's the word in black and white," <pb n="380"/> pointing to it.
					"And what says the word? It says as much as 'not warranted;' for what do college
					men say of anything of that sort? They say it is apocryphal. The word itself,
					I've beard from the pulpit, implies something of uncertain credit. So if your
					disturbance be raised from aught in this apocrypha," again taking up the pages,
					"in that case, think no more of it, for it's apocrypha."

"What's that about the Apocalypse?" here, a third time, came from the berth.

"He's seeing visions now, ain't he?" said the cosmopolitan, once more looking in
					the direction of the interruption. "But, sir," resuming, "I cannot tell you how
					thankful I am for your reminding me about the apocrypha here. For the moment,
					its being such escaped me. Fact is, when all is bound up together, it's
					sometimes confusing. The uncanonical part should be bound distinct. And, now
					that I think of it, how well did those learned doctors who rejected for us this
					whole book of Sirach. I never read anything so calculated to destroy man's
					confidence in man. This son of Sirach even says—I saw it but just now:
					'Take heed of thy friends;' not, observe, thy seeming friends, thy hypocritical
					friends, thy false friends, but thy friends, thy real friends—that is
					to say, not the truest friend in the world is to be implicitly trusted. Can
					Rochefoucault equal that? I should not wonder if his view of human nature, like
					Machiavelli's, was taken from this Son of Sirach. And to call it
					wisdom—the Wisdom of the Son of Sirach! Wisdom, indeed! What an ugly
					thing wisdom must <pb n="381"/> be! Give me the folly that dimples the cheek,
					say I, rather than the wisdom that curdles the blood. But no, no; it ain't
					wisdom; it's apocrypha, as you say, sir. For how can that be trustworthy that
					teaches distrust?"

"I tell you what it is," here cried the same voice as before, only more in less
					of mockery, "if you two don't know enough to sleep, don't be keeping wiser men
					awake. And if you want to know what wisdom is, go find it under your blankets."

"Wisdom?" cried another voice with a brogue; arrah, and is't wisdom the two geese
					are gabbling about all this while? To bed with ye, ye divils, and don't be after
					burning your fingers with the likes of wisdom.

"We must talk lower," said the old man; "I fear we have annoyed these good
					people."

"I should be sorry if wisdom annoyed any one," said the other; "but we will lower
					our voices, as you say. To resume: taking the thing as I did, can you be
					surprised at my uneasiness in reading passages so charged with the spirit of
					distrust?"

"No, sir, I am not surprised," said the old man; then added: "from what you say,
					I see you are something of my way of thinking—you think that to
					distrust the creature, is a kind of distrusting of the Creator. Well, my young
					friend, what is it? This is rather late for you to be about. What do you want of
					me?"

These questions were put to a boy in the fragment of an old linen coat,
					bedraggled and yellow, who, coming <pb n="382"/> in from the deck barefooted on
					the soft carpet, had been unheard. All pointed and fluttering, the rags of the
					little fellow's red-flannel shirt, mixed with those of his yellow coat, flamed
					about him like the painted flames in the robes of a victim in auto-da-fe. His
					face, too, wore such a polish of seasoned grime, that his sloe-eyes sparkled
					from out it like lustrous sparks in fresh coal. He was a juvenile peddler, or
					marchand, as the polite French might have called him, of travelers'
					conveniences; and, having no allotted sleeping-place, had, in his wanderings
					about the boat, spied, through glass doors, the two in the cabin; and, late
					though it was, thought it might never be too much so for turning a penny.

Among other things, he carried a curious affair—a miniature mahogany
					door, hinged to its frame, and suitably furnished in all respects but one, which
					will shortly appear. This little door he now meaningly held before the old man,
					who, after staring at it a while said: "Go thy ways with thy toys, child."

"Now, may I never get so old and wise as that comes to," laughed the boy through
					his grime; and, by so doing, disclosing leopard-like teeth, like those of
					Murillo's wild beggar-boy's.

"The divils are laughing now, are they?" here came the brogue from the berth.
					"What do the divils find to laugh about in wisdom, begorrah? To bed with ye, ye
					divils, and no more of ye."

"You see, child, you have disturbed that person," said the old man; "you mustn't
					laugh any more." <pb n="383"/>

"Ah, now," said the cosmopolitan, "don't, pray, say that; don't let him think
					that poor Laughter is persecuted for a fool in this world."

"Well," said the old man to the boy, "you must, at any rate, speak very low."

"Yes, that wouldn't be amiss, perhaps," said the cosmopolitan; "but, my fine
					fellow, you were about saying something to my aged friend here; what was it?"

"Oh," with a lowered voice, coolly opening and shutting his little door, "only
					this: when I kept a toy-stand at the fair in Cincinnati last month, I sold more
					I than one old man a child's rattle."

"No doubt of it," said the old man. "I myself often buy such things for my little
					grandchildren."

"But these old men I talk of were old bachelors."

The old man stared at him a moment; then, whispering to the cosmopolitan:
					"Strange boy, this; sort of simple, ain't he? Don't know much, hey?"

"Not much," said the boy, "or I wouldn't be so ragged."

"Why, child, what sharp ears you have!" exclaimed the old man.

"If they were duller, I would hear less ill of myself," said the boy.

"You seem pretty wise, my lad," said the cosmopolitan; "why don't you sell your
					wisdom, and buy a coat?"

"Faith," said the boy, "that's what I did to-day, and this is the coat that the
					price of my wisdom bought. <pb n="384"/> But won't you trade? See, now, it is
					not the door I want to sell; I only carry the door round for a specimen, like.
					Look now, sir," standing the thing up on the table, "supposing this little door
					is your state-room door; well," opening it, "you go in for the night; you close
					your door behind you—thus. Now, is all safe?"

"I suppose so, child," said the old man.

"Of course it is, my fine fellow," said the cosmopolitan.

"All safe. Well. Now, about two o'clock in the morning, say, a soft-handed
					gentleman comes softly and tries the knob here—thus; in creeps my
					soft-handed gentlemen; and hey, presto! how comes on the soft cash?"

"I see, I see, child," said the old man; "your fine gentleman is a fine thief,
					and there's no lock to your little door to keep him out;" with which words he
					peered at it more closely than before.

"Well, now," again showing his white teeth, "well, now, some of you old folks are
					knowing 'uns, sure enough; but now comes the great invention," producing a small
					steel contrivance, very simple but ingenious, and which, being clapped on the
					inside of the little door, secured it as with a bolt. "There now," admiringly
					holding it off at arm's-length, "there now, let that soft-handed gentleman come
					now a' softly trying this little knob here, and let him keep a' trying till he
					finds his head as soft as his hand. Buy the traveler's patent lock, sir, only
					twenty-five cents." <pb n="385"/>

"Dear me," cried the old man, "this beats printing. Yes, child, I will have one,
					and use it this very night."

With the phlegm of an old banker pouching the change, the boy now turned to the
					other: "Sell you one, sir?"

"Excuse me, my fine fellow, but I never use such blacksmiths' things."

"Those who give the blacksmith most work seldom do," said the boy, tipping him a
					wink expressive of a degree of indefinite knowingness, not uninteresting to
					consider in one of his years. But the wink was not marked by the old man, nor,
					to all appearances, by him for whom it was intended.

"Now then," said the boy, again addressing the old man. "With your traveler's
					lock on your door to-night, you will think yourself all safe, won't you?"

"I think I will, child."

"But how about the window?"

"Dear me, the window, child. I never thought of that. I must see to that."

"Never you mind about the window," said the boy, "nor, to be honor bright, about
					the traveler's lock either, (though I ain't sorry for selling one), do you just
					buy one of these little jokers," producing a number of suspender-like objects,
					which he dangled before the old man; "money-belts, sir; only fifty cents."

"Money-belt? never heard of such a thing."

"A sort of pocket-book," said the boy, "only a safer sort. Very good for
					travelers." <pb n="386"/>

"Oh, a pocket-book. Queer looking pocket-books though, seems to me. Ain't they
					rather long and narrow for pocket-books?"

"They go round the waist, sir, inside," said the boy "door open or locked, wide
					awake on your feet or fast asleep in your chair, impossible to be robbed with a
					money-belt."

"I see, I see. It would be hard to rob one's money-belt. And I was told to-day
					the Mississippi is a bad river for pick-pockets. How much are they?"

"Only fifty cents, sir."

"I'll take one. There!"

"Thank-ee. And now there's a present for ye," with which, drawing from his breast
					a batch of little papers, he threw one before the old man, who, looking at it,
					read "Counterfeit Detector."

"Very good thing," said the boy, "I give it to all my customers who trade
					seventy-five cents' worth; best present can be made them. Sell you a money-belt,
					sir?" turning to the cosmopolitan.

"Excuse me, my fine fellow, but I never use that sort of thing; my money I carry
					loose."

"Loose bait ain't bad," said the boy, "look a lie and find the truth; don't care
					about a Counterfeit Detector, do ye? or is the wind East, d'ye think?"

"Child," said the old man in some concern, "you mustn't sit up any longer, it
					affects your mind; there, go away, go to bed."

"If I had some people's brains to lie on, I would," said the boy, "but planks is
					hard, you know." <pb n="387"/>

"Go, child—go, go!"

"Yes, child,—yes, yes," said the boy, with which roguish parody, by way
					of cong,, he scraped back his hard foot on the woven flowers of the carpet, much
					as a mischievous steer in May scrapes back his horny hoof in the pasture; and
					then with a flourish of his hat—which, like the rest of his tatters,
					was, thanks to hard times, a belonging beyond his years, though not beyond his
					experience, being a grown man's cast-off beaver—turned, and with the
					air of a young Caffre, quitted the place.

"That's a strange boy," said the old man, looking after him. "I wonder who's his
					mother; and whether she knows what late hours he keeps?"

"The probability is," observed the other, "that his mother does not know. But if
					you remember, sir, you were saying something, when the boy interrupted you with
					his door."

"So I was.—Let me see," unmindful of his purchases for the moment,
					"what, now, was it? What was that I was saying? Do you remember?"

"Not perfectly, sir; but, if I am not mistaken, it was something like this: you
					hoped you did not distrust the creature; for that would imply distrust of the
					Creator."

"Yes, that was something like it," mechanically and unintelligently letting his
					eye fall now on his purchases.

"Pray, will you put your money in your belt to-night?"

"It's best, ain't it?" with a slight start. "Never <pb n="388"/> too late to be
					cautious. 'Beware of pick-pockets' is all over the boat."

"Yes, and it must have been the Son of Sirach, or some other morbid cynic, who
					put them there. But that's not to the purpose. Since you are minded to it, pray,
					sir, let me help you about the belt. I think that, between us, we can make a
					secure thing of it."

"Oh no, no, no !" said the old man, not unperturbed, "no, no, I wouldn't trouble
					you for the world," then, nervously folding up the belt, "and I won't be so
					impolite as to do it for myself, before you, either. But, now that I think of
					it," after a pause, carefully taking a little wad from a remote corner of his
					vest pocket, "here are two bills they gave me at St. Louis, yesterday. No doubt
					they are all right; but just to pass time, I'll compare them with the Detector
					here. Blessed boy to make me such a present. Public benefactor, that little
					boy!"

Laying the Detector square before him on the table, he then, with something of
					the air of an officer bringing by the collar a brace of culprits to the bar,
					placed the two bills opposite the Detector, upon which, the examination began,
					lasting some time, prosecuted with no small research and vigilance, the
					forefinger of the right hand proving of lawyer-like efficacy in tracing out and
					pointing the evidence, whichever way it might go.

After watching him a while, the cosmopolitan said in a formal voice, "Well, what
					say you, Mr. Foreman; guilty, or not guilty?—Not guilty, ain't it?"

"I don't know, I don't know," returned the old man, <pb n="389"/> perplexed,
					"there's so many marks of all sorts to go by, it makes it a kind of uncertain.
					Here, now, is this bill," touching one, "it looks to be a three dollar bill on
					the Vicksburgh Trust and Insurance Banking Company. Well, the Detector
					says—"

"But why, in this case, care what it says? Trust and Insurance! What more would
					you have?"

"No; but the Detector says, among fifty other things, that, if a good bill, it
					must have, thickened here and there into the substance of the paper, little wavy
					spots of red; and it says they must have a kind of silky feel, being made by the
					lint of a red silk handkerchief stirred up in the paper-maker's
					vat—the paper being made to order for the company."

"Well, and is—"

"Stay. But then it adds, that sign is not always to be relied on; for some good
					bills get so worn, the red marks get rubbed out. And that's the case with my
					bill here—see how old it is—or else it's a counterfeit, or
					else—I don't see right—or else—dear, dear
					me—I don't know what else to think."

"What a peck of trouble that Detector makes for you now; believe me, the bill is
					good; don't be so distrustful. Proves what I've always thought, that much of the
					want of confidence, in these days, is owing to these Counterfeit Detectors you
					see on every desk and counter. Puts people up to suspecting good bills. Throw it
					away, I beg, if only because of the trouble it breeds you."

"No; it's troublesome, but I think I'll keep it.—Stay, <pb n="390"/>
					now, here's another sign. It says that, if the bill is good, it must have in one
					corner, mixed in with the vignette, the figure of a goose, very small, indeed,
					all but microscopic; and, for added precaution, like the figure of Napoleon
					outlined by the tree, not observable, even if magnified, unless the attention is
					directed to it. Now, pore over it as I will, I can't see this goose."

"Can't see the goose? why, I can; and a famous goose it is. There" (reaching over
					and pointing to a spot in the vignette).

"I don't see it—dear me—I don't see the goose. Is it a real
					goose?"

"A perfect goose; beautiful goose."

"Dear, dear, I don't see it."

"Then throw that Detector away, I say again; it only makes you purblind; don't
					you see what a wild-goose chase it has led you? The bill is good. Throw the
					Detector away."

"No; it ain't so satisfactory as I thought for, but I must examine this other
					bill."

"As you please, but I can't in conscience assist you any more; pray, then, excuse
					me."

So, while the old man with much painstakings resumed his work, the cosmopolitan,
					to allow him every facility, resumed his reading. At length, seeing that he had
					given up his undertaking as hopeless, and was at leisure again, the cosmopolitan
					addressed some gravely interesting remarks to him about the book before him,
					and, presently, becoming more and more grave, said, as he turned the large
					volume slowly over on the table, <pb n="391"/> and with much difficulty traced
					the faded remains of the gilt inscription giving the name of the society who had
					presented it to the boat, "Ah, sir, though every one must be pleased at the
					thought of the presence in public places of such a book, yet there is something
					that abates the satisfaction. Look at this volume; on the outside, battered as
					any old valise in the baggage-room; and inside, white and virgin as the hearts
					of lilies in bud."

"So it is, so it is," said the old man sadly, his attention for the first
					directed to the circumstance.

"Nor is this the only time," continued the other, "that I have observed these
					public Bibles in boats and hotels. All much like this—old without, and
					new within. True, this aptly typifies that internal freshness, the best mark of
					truth, however ancient; but then, it speaks not so well as could be wished for
					the good book's esteem in the minds of the traveling public. I may err, but it
					seems to me that if more confidence was put in it by the traveling public, it
					would hardly be so."

With an expression very unlike that with which he had bent over the Detector, the
					old man sat meditating upon his companion's remarks a while; and, at last, with
					a rapt look, said: "And yet, of all people, the traveling public most need to
					put trust in that guardianship which is made known in this book."

"True, true," thoughtfully assented the other.

"And one would think they would want to, and be glad to," continued the old man
					kindling; "for, in <pb n="392"/> all our wanderings through this vale, how
					pleasant, not less than obligatory, to feel that we need start at no wild
					alarms, provide for no wild perils; trusting in that Power which is alike able
					and willing to protect us when we cannot ourselves."

His manner produced something answering to it in the cosmopolitan, who, leaning
					over towards him, said sadly: "Though this is a theme on which travelers seldom
					talk to each other, yet, to you, sir, I will say, that I share something of your
					sense of security. I have moved much about the world, and still keep at it;
					nevertheless, though in this land, and especially in these parts of it, some
					stories are told about steamboats and railroads fitted to make one a little
					apprehensive, yet, I may say that, neither by land nor by water, am I ever
					seriously disquieted, however, at times, transiently uneasy; since, with you,
					sir, I believe in a Committee of Safety, holding silent sessions over all, in an
					invisible patrol, most alert when we soundest sleep, and whose beat lies as much
					through forests as towns, along rivers as streets. In short, I never forget that
					passage of Scripture which says, 'Jehovah shall be thy confidence.' The traveler
					who has not this trust, what miserable misgivings must be his; or, what vain,
					short-sighted care must he take of himself."

"Even so," said the old man, lowly.

"There is a chapter," continued the other, again taking the book, "which, as not
					amiss, I must read you. But this lamp, solar-lamp as it is, begins to burn
					dimly." `"So it does, so it does," said the old man with <pb n="393"/> changed
					air, "dear me, it must be very late. I must to bed, to bed! Let me see," rising
					and looking wistfully all round, first on the stools and settees, and then on
					the carpet, "let me see, let me see;—is there anything I have
					forgot,—forgot? Something I a sort of dimly remember. Something, my
					son—careful man—told me at starting this morning, this very
					morning. Something about seeing to— something before I got into my
					berth. What could it be? Something for safety. Oh, my poor old memory!"

"Let me give a little guess, sir. Life-preserver?"

"So it was. He told me not to omit seeing I had a life-preserver in my
					state-room; said the boat supplied them, too. But where are they? I don't see
					any. What are they like?"

"They are something like this, sir, I believe," lifting a brown stool with a
					curved tin compartment underneath; "yes, this, I think, is a life-preserver,
					sir; and a very good one, I should say, though I don't pretend to know much
					about such things, never using them myself."

"Why, indeed, now! Who would have thought it? that a life-preserver? That's the
					very stool I was sitting on, ain't it?"

"It is. And that shows that one's life is looked out for, when he ain't looking
					out for it himself. In fact, any of these stools here will float you, sir,
					should the boat hit a snag, and go down in the dark. But, since you want one in
					your room, pray take this one," handing it to him. "I think I can recommend this
					one; the <pb n="394"/> tin part," rapping it with his knuckles, "seems so
					perfect—sounds so very hollow."

"Sure it's quite perfect, though?" Then, anxiously putting on his spectacles, he
					scrutinized it pretty closely—"well soldered? quite tight?"

"I should say so, sir; though, indeed, as I said, I never use this sort of thing,
					myself. Still, I think that in case of a wreck, barring sharp-pointed timbers,
					you could have confidence in that stool for a special providence."

"Then, good-night, good-night; and Providence have both of us in its good
					keeping."

"Be sure it will," eying the old man with sympathy, as for the moment he stood,
					money-belt in hand, and life-preserver under arm, "be sure it will, sir, since
					in Providence, as in man, you and I equally put trust. But, bless me, we are
					being left in the dark here. Pah! what a smell, too."

"Ah, my way now," cried the old man, peering before him, "where lies my way to my
					state-room?"

"I have indifferent eyes, and will show you; but, first, for the good of all
					lungs, let me extinguish this lamp."

The next moment, the waning light expired, and with it the waning flames of the
					horned altar, and the waning halo round the robed man's brow; while in the
					darkness which ensued, the cosmopolitan kindly led the old man away. Something
					further may follow of this Masquerade.

			</div1>

	</text>
</TEI.2>