that he was speaking to either of

But suddenly there was a kind of creaking and soft thumping and the voices changed. Father Jackson’s voice was even more strongly in charge, now, than before, although it did not seem that he was arguing, or informing, or trying to bring comfort, or even that he was speaking to either of the two women. Most of its theatrical resonance had left it, and all of its dominance. He seemed to be speaking as if to someone at least as much more assured and strong than he was, as he was more assured and strong than their mother was, and his voice had something of their mother’s humbleness. Yet it was a very confident voice, as if it were sure that the person who was being addressed would approve what was said and what was asked, and would not rebuff him as he had rebuffed their mother. And in some way the voice was even more authoritative than before, as if Father Jackson were speaking not for himself but for, as well as to, the person he addressed, and were speaking with the power of that person as well as in manly humility before that person. Clearly, also, the voice loved its own sound, inseparably from its love of the sound and contour of the words it spoke, as naturally as a fine singer delights inseparably in his voice and in the melody he is singing. And clearly, although not one word was audible to the children, the voice was not mistaken in this love. Not a word was distinct from where they stood, but the shapes and rhythms and the inflections were as lovely and as bemusing as any songs they had ever heard. In general rhythm, Rufus began to realize, it was not unlike the prayers that Dr. Whittaker said; and he realized, then, that Father Jackson also was praying. But where Dr. Whittaker gave his words and phrases special emphasis and personal coloring, as though they were matters which required argument and persuasion, Father Jackson spoke almost wholly without emphasis and with only the subtlest coloring, as if the personal emotion, the coloring, were cast against the words from a distance, like echoes. He spoke as if all that he said were in every idea and in every syllable final, finished, perfected beyond disquisition long before he was born; and truth and eternity dwelt like clearest water in the rhythms of his language and in the contours of his voice; his voice accepted and bore this language like the bed of a brook. They looked at each other once more; Rufus could see that Catherine did not understand. “He’s saying his prayers,” he whispered.

But most of the time they only

Once in a while when these voices came to crises in their subdued turmoil Rufus and Catherine looked into each other’s cold, bright eyes which brightened and chilled the more with every intensification of the man’s voice, and every softening and defeat of their mother’s voice. But most of the time they only stared at the knob on their mother’s door, shifting delicately on the stairs whenever they became cramped. They could not conceive of what was being done to their mother, but in his own way each was sure that it was something evil, to which she was submitting almost without a struggle, and by which she was deceived. Rufus repeatedly saw himself flinging open the door and striding in, a big stone in his hand, and saying, “You stop hurting my mother.” Catherine knew only that a tall stranger in black, with a frightening jaw and a queer hat, a man whom she hated and feared, had broken into their house, had been welcomed first by Aunt Hannah and then by her mother herself, had sat in her father’s chair as if he thought he belonged there, talked meanly to her in words she could not understand, and was now doing secret and cruel things to her mother while Aunt Hannah looked on. If Daddy was here he would kill him. She wished Daddy would hurry up and come and kill him and she wanted to see it. But Rufus realized that his Aunt Hannah and even his mother were on Father Jackson’s side and against him, and that they would just put him out of the room and punish him terribly and go right on with whatever awful thing it was they were doing. And Catherine remembered, with a jolt, that Daddy would not come back because he was down at Grandma’s and Grandpa’s and now they would see him again and then they would never see him any more until heaven.

it seemed to say unpleasant things as if

Taking great care not to creak, they stole up to the middle of the stairs. They could hear no words, only the tilt and shape of voices: their mother’s, still so curiously shrouded, so submissive, so gentle; it seemed to ask questions and to accept answers. The man’s voice was subdued and gentle but rang very strongly with the knowledge that it was right and that no other voice could be quite as right; it seemed to say unpleasant things as if it felt they were kind things to say, or again, as if it did not care whether or not they were kind because in any case they were right, it seemed to make statements, to give information, to counter questions with replies which were beyond argument or even discussion, and to try to give comfort whether what it was saying could give comfort or not. Now and again their mother’s way of questioning sounded to the children as if she wondered whether something could be fair, could possibly be true, could be so cruel, but whenever such tones came into their mother’s voice the man’s voice became still more ringing and overbearing, or still more desirous to comfort, or both; and their mother’s next voice was always very soft. Aunt Hannah’s voice was almost as clear and light as always, but there was now in it also a kind of sweetness and of sorrow they had not heard in it before. Mainly she seemed only to agree with Father Jackson, to add her voice to his, though much more kindly, in this overpowering of their mother. But now and again it seemed to explain more fully, and more gently, something which he had just explained, and twice it questioned almost as their mother questioned, but with more spirit, with an edge almost of bitterness or temper. And on these two occasions Father Jackson’s voice shifted and lost a bit of its vibrancy, and for a moment he talked as rapidly in a circle, seeming to assure them that of course he did not at all mean what they had thought he meant, but only, that (and then the voice would begin to gather assurance) ; they must realize (and now it had almost its old drive); in fact, of course—and now he was back again, and seemed to be saying precisely what he had said before, only with still more authority and still less possibility of disagreement. And then their Aunt Hannah murmured agreement in an oddly cool, remote tone, and their mother’s voice of acceptance was scarcely audible at all.

beginning to turn cold in the pit

Catherine said nothing. “Is it?” Father Jackson asked Rufus. “I don’t know,” Rufus replied. “I consider that a thoroughly uncivil answer to a civil question,” said Father Jackson. “Yes,” Rufus said, beginning to turn cold in the pit of his stomach. What was “uncivil”? “You agree,” Father Jackson said. “Say, ‘yes, Father.’ ” “Yes, Father,” Rufus said. “Then you are aware of your incivility. It is deliberate and calculated,” Father Jackson said. “No,” Rufus said. He could not understand the words but clearly he was being accused. Father Jackson leaned back in their father’s chair and closed his eyes and folded his hands. After a moment he opened his eyes and said, “Little boy, little sister” (he nudged his long blue chin towards Catherine), “this is neither the time nor place for reprimands.” His hands unfolded; he leaned forward, tapping his right kneecap with his right forefinger, and frowning fiercely, said in a voice which sounded very gentle but was not, “But I just want to tell ...” They heard Hannah on the stairs. “Children,” he said, rising, “this must wait another time.” He pointed his jaw at Hannah, raising his eyebrows. “Will you come up, Father?” she asked in a shut voice. Without looking again at the children, he followed her upstairs. They looked each other in the eyes; their mouths hung open; they listened. It was as they had begun to expect it would be: the steps of two along the upper hallway, the opening of their mother’s door, their mother’s strangely shrouded voice, the closing of the door: silence.

But he still looked as if he were

When they turned Father Jackson was frowning again and looking at them just as he had looked at his nails. He quickly smiled, though not as nicely as he had smiled at Jesus, and changed his way of looking so that it did not seem that he was curious whether they were really clean. But he still looked as if he were displeased about something. They both looked back, wondering what he was displeased about. Was Catherine wetting her panties, Rufus wondered; he looked at her but she looked all right to him. What was Rufus doing that the man looked so unpleasant, Catherine wondered. She looked at him, but all he was doing was looking at the man. They both looked at him, wishing that if he was displeased with them he would tell them why instead of looking like that, and wishing that he would sit in some other chair. He looked at both of them, feeling that their rude staring was undermining his gaze and his silence, by which he had intended to impress them into a sufficiently solemn and receptive state for the things he intended to say to them; and wondering whether or no he should reprimand them. Surely, he decided, if they lack manners even at such a time as this, this is the time to speak of it. “Children must not stare at their elders,” he said. “That is ill-bred.” “Huh?” both of them asked. What’s “stare,” they wondered; “elders”; “ill-bred”? “Say, ‘Sir,’ or ‘I beg your pardon, Father.’ ” “Sir?” Rufus said. “You,” Father Jackson said to Catherine. “Sir?” Catherine said. “You must not stare at people—look at them, as you are looking at me.” “Oh,” Rufus said. Catherine’s face turned red. “Say, ‘Excuse me, Father.’ ” “Excuse me, Father.” “You,” Father Jackson said to Catherine. Catherine became still redder. “Excuse me, Father,” Rufus whispered. “No prompting, please,” Father Jackson broke in, in a voice pitched for a large class. “Come now, little girl, it is never too soon to learn to be little ladies and little gentlemen, is it?”

The hat rack was in plain sight

“You were right, Miss Lynch. Absolutely.” He looked around, his head gliding, his hat in his hand. “Now little man,” he said, “if you’ll kindly relieve me of my hat.” “Rufus,” said Hannah. “Take Father’s hat to the hat rack.” Bewildered, he did so. The hat rack was in plain sight. “Now Father, if you won’t mind waiting just a moment,” Hannah said, showing him in to the sitting room. “Rufus: Catherine: sit here with Father. Excuse me,” she added, and she hastened upstairs. Father Jackson strode efficiently across the room, sat in their father’s chair, crossed his knees narrowly, and looked, frowning, at the carefully polished toe of his right shoe. They watched him, and Rufus wondered whether to tell him whose chair it was. Father Jackson held his long, heavily veined right hand palm outward, at arm’s length, and, frowning, examined his nails. He certainly wouldn’t have sat in it, Rufus felt, if he had known whose chair it was, so it would be mean not to tell him. But if he was told now, it would make him feel bad, Rufus thought. Catherine noticed, with interest, that outside the purple vest he wore a thin gold chain; on the chain was a small gold crucifix. Father Jackson changed knees and, frowning, examined the carefully polished toe of his left shoe. Better not tell him, Rufus thought; it would be mean. How do you get such a blue face, Catherine wondered; I wish my face was blue, not red. Father Jackson, frowning, looked all around the room and smiled, faintly, as his gaze came to rest on some point above and beyond the heads of the children. Both turned to see what he was smiling at, but there was nothing there except the picture of Jesus when Jesus was a little boy, staying up late in his nightgown and talking to all the wise men in the temple. “Oh,” Rufus realized; “that’s why.”

He had a black glaring collar like

They heard loud feet on the porch, and the doorbell rang. Upstairs they heard their mother cry “Oh, goodness!” They ran to the door. He blocked Catherine away from the knob and opened it. A man stood there, almost as tall as Daddy. He had a black glaring collar like Dr. Whittaker but wore a purple vest. He wore a long shallow hat and he had a long, sharp, bluish chin almost like a plow. He carried a small, shining black suitcase. He seemed to be as disconcerted and displeased as they were. He said, “Oh, good morning,” in a voice that had echoes in it and, frowning, glanced once again at the number along the side of the door. “Of course,” he said, with a smile they did not understand. “You’re Rufus and Catherine. May I come in?” And without waiting for their assent or withdrawal (for they were blocking the door) he strode forward, parting them with firm hands and saying “Isn’t Miss L ...” They heard Aunt Hannah’s voice behind them on the stairs, and turned. “Father?” she said, peering against the door’s light. “Come right in.” And she came up as he quickly removed his oddly shaped hat, and they shook hands. “This is Father Jackson, Rufus and Catherine,” she said. “He has come specially from Chattanooga. Father, this is Rufus, and this is Catherine.” “Yes, we’ve already introduced ourselves,” said Father Jackson, as if he thought it was funny. That’s a lie, Rufus reflected. Father Jackson left one hand at rest for a moment on Catherine, then removed it as if he had forgotten her. “And where is Mrs. Follet?” he asked, almost whispering “Mrs. Follet.” “If you’ll just wait a moment, Father, she isn’t quite ready.” “Of course.” He leaned towards Aunt Hannah and said, in a grinding, scarcely audible voice, “Is she—chuff-chuff-chuff?” “Oh yes,” Hannah replied. “But does she Whehf-wheff-whehf-whef-tized?” “I’m afraid not, Father,” said Hannah, gravely. “I wasn’t quite sure enough, myself, to tell her. I’m sorry to burden you with it but I felt I should leave that to you.”

then he would certainly speak of that

And he had a sister who was half an orphan too. Half and half equals a whole. Together they made a whole orphan. He felt that it was not worth mentioning, that he was half an orphan, although he privately considered it a good deal better than nothing; and that also, he would not volunteer the fact that he and his sister together made a whole orphan. But if anyone teased either of them about not being an orphan at all, then he would certainly speak of that. He decided that Catherine should be warned of this, so that if they were teased, they could back each other up. “Both of us together is a whole orphan,” he said. “Huh?” “Don’t say ‘huh,’ say, ‘What is it, Rufus?’ ” “I will not!” “You will so. Mama says to.” “She does not.” “She does so. When I say ‘huh’ she says, ‘Don’t say “huh,” say “What is it, Mother?’ ” When you say ‘huh’ she tells you the same thing. So don’t say ‘huh.’ Say, ‘What is it, Rufus?’ ” “I won’t say it to you.” “Yes, you will.” “No, I won’t.” “Yes, you will, because Mama said for us to be good. If you don’t I’ll tell her on you.” “You tell her and I’ll tell on you.” “Tell on me for what?” “Listening at the door.” “No you won’t.” “I will so.” “You will not.” “I will so.” He thought it over. “All right, don’t say it, and I won’t tell on you if you won’t tell on me.” “I will if you tell on me.” “I said I won’t, didn’t I? Not if you don’t tell on me.” “I won’t if you don’t tell on me.” “All right.” They glared at each other.

far away and everyone talks about them now

“And Rufus.” She looked at him very searchingly; without quite knowing why, he felt he had been discovered in a discreditable secret. “Don’t be sorry you’re not an orphan. You be thankful. Orphans sound lucky to you because they’re far away and everyone talks about them now. But they’re very, very unhappy little children. Because nobody loves them. Do you understand?” He nodded, ashamed of himself and secretly disappointed. “Now run along,” she said. They left the room. Aunt Hannah met them on the stairs. “Go into the liv—sitting room for a while like good children,” she said. “I’ll be right down.” And as they reached the bottom of the stairs they heard their mother’s door open and close. They sat, looking at their father’s chair, thinking. Catherine felt more virtuous and less troubled than she had for some time, for she had watched Rufus being scolded, all to himself, and it more than wiped out her unhappiness at his telling her to come along when of course she was coming and he had no right even if she wasn’t. But she couldn’t see how anyone could look as if they were asleep and not wake up, and something else her mother had said—she tried hard to remember what it was—troubled her more deeply than that. And what was a norphan? Rufus felt that his mother was seriously displeased with him. It was the wrong time to ask her. Maybe he ought not to have asked her at all. But he did want to know. He had not been sure whether or not he was an orphan, or the right kind of orphans. If he claimed he was an orphan in school and it turned out that he was not, people would all laugh at him. But if he really was an orphan he wanted to know, so he would be able to say he was, and get the benefit. What was the good of being an orphan if nobody else knew it? Well, so he was not an orphan. Yet his father was dead. Not his mother, too, though. Only his father. But one was dead. One and one makes two. One-half of two equals one. He was half an orphan, no matter what his mother said.

and she raised her head and opened her

Suddenly she pressed her lips tightly together and they trembled violently. She clenched her cheekbone against her left shoulder, squeezing their hands with her trembling hands, and tears slipped from her tightly shut eyes. Rufus watched her with awe, Catherine with forlorn worry. She suddenly hissed out, “Just-a-minute,” with her eyes still closed, startling and shocking Catherine, so that she looked as if she were ready to cry. But before Catherine could commit herself to crying, her hands relaxed, pressing them gently, and she raised her head and opened her clear eyes, saying, “Now Mother must get dressed, and I want you to take Catherine downstairs, Rufus, and both of you be very quiet and good till I come down. And don’t make any bother for Aunt Hannah, because she’s been wonderful to all of us and she’s worn out. “You be good,” she said, smiling and looking at them in turn. “I’ll be down in a little while.” “Come on, Catherine,” Rufus said. “I’m coming,” Catherine replied, looking at him as if he had spoken of her unjustly. “Mama”; Rufus stopped near the door. Catherine hesitated, bewildered. “Yes, Rufus?” “Are we orphans, now?” “Orphans?” “Like the Belgians,” he informed her. “French. When you haven’t got any daddy or mamma because they’re killed in the war you’re an orphan and other children send you things and write you letters.” She must have been unfamiliar with the word, for she seemed to have to think very hard before she answered. Then she said, “Of course you’re not orphans, Rufus, and I don’t want you going around saying that you are. Do you hear me? Because it isn’t so. Orphans haven’t got either a father or a mother, you see, and nobody to take care of them or love them. You see? That’s why other children send things. But you both have your mother. So you aren’t orphans. Do you see? Do you?” He nodded; Catherine nodded because he did.

just as we will always think of him

She stroked Catherine’s hair away from her face. “No, Catherine, not ever, in any way we can see and talk to. Daddy’s soul will always be thinking of us, just as we will always think of him, but we will never see him again, after today.” Catherine looked at her very intently; her face began to redden. “You must learn to believe that and know it, darling Catherine. It’s so.” She seemed to be about to cry; she swallowed; and Catherine seemed to accept it as true. “We’ll always remember him,” she told both of them. “Always. And he’ll be thinking of us. Every day. He’s waiting for us in heaven. And someday, if we’re good, when God comes for us, He’ll take us to heaven too and we’ll see Daddy there, and all be together again, forever and ever.” Amen, Rufus almost said; then realized that this was not a prayer. “But when we see Daddy today, children, his soul won’t be there. It’ll just be Daddy’s body. Very much as you’ve always seen him. But because his soul has been taken away, he will be lying down, and he will lie very still. It will be just as if he were asleep, so you must both be just as quiet as if he were asleep and you didn’t want to wake him. Quieter.” “But I do,” said Catherine. “But Catherine, you can’t, dear, you mustn’t even think of trying. Because Daddy is dead now, and when you are dead that means you go to sleep and you never wake up—until God wakes you.” “Well when will He?” “We don’t know, Rufus, but probably a long, long time from now. Long after we are all dead.” Rufus wondered what was the good of that, then, but he was sure he should not ask. “So I don’t want you to wonder about it, children. Daddy may seem very queer to you, because he’s so still, but that’s—just simply the way he’s got to look.”

she said above them

She watched them look at her; they did not move. Her face altered as if a very low light had gone on behind it. “Come here, my darlings,” she said, and smiled, and squatted with her hands out towards them. Rufus came shyly; Catherine ran. She took one of them in each arm. “There, my darlings,” she said above them, “there, there, my dear ones. Mother’s here. Mother’s here. Mother has wanted to see you more, these last days; a lot more: she just—couldn’t, Rufus and Catherine. Just couldn’t do it.” When she said “couldn’t” she held them very tightly and they knew they were loved. “Little Catherine”—and she held Catherine’s head still more tightly to her—“bless her soul! and Rufus”—she held him away and looked into his eyes—“you both know how much Mother loves you, with all her heart and soul, all her life—you know, don’t you? Don’t you?” Rufus, puzzled but moved, nodded politely, and again she caught him to her. “Of course you do,” she said, as if she were not speaking to them. “Of course you do. “Now,” she said, after a moment. She stood up and drew them by their hands to the bed. They sat down and she sat in a chair and looked at them for a few seconds without speaking. “Now,” she said again. “I want to tell you about Daddy, because this morning, soon now, we’re all going down to Grampa’s and Grandma’s, and see him once more, and tell him good-bye.” Catherine’s face brightened; her mother shook her head and placed a quieting hand on Catherine’s knees, saying, “No, Catherine, it won’t be like you think, that’s what I must tell you about him. So listen very carefully, you too, Rufus.” She waited until she was sure they were listening carefully. “You both understand what has happened to Daddy, don’t you. That something happened in the auto, and God took him from us, very quickly, without any pain, and took him away to heaven. You understand that, don’t you?” They nodded. “And you understand, that when God takes you away to heaven you can never come back?” “Never come back?” Catherine asked.

She took his dark blue tie and

She gave Rufus a new white shirt from which he slowly and with fascination drew the pins, running them between his teeth as he watched Aunt Hannah help Catherine into her new dress, which was white, speckled with small dark blue flowers. Catherine stood holding the hem and looking at the skirt and at her white-stockinged feet, which she could see through the skirt. “And now your necktie,” Aunt Hannah said. She took his dark blue tie and made expert motions beneath his chin while alternately he tried to watch her hands and looked into her intent eyes behind their heavy lenses. Her eyes looked stern and sad and exhausted. Then she cleaned their nails and combed and brushed their hair, and put a clean handkerchief in Rufus’ breast pocket and blacked their shoes. “Now wait a moment,” she said, leaving the room. They heard her rap softly on their mother’s door. “Mary?” she said. “Yes,” they heard dimly. “The children are ready. Shall I bring them in?” “Yes do, Hannah; thank you.” “Come in now and see your mother,” she told them from the door. They followed her in. “Oh, they look very nice;” she exclaimed, in a voice so odd that it seemed to the children that she must be sorry that they did. Yet by her face they could see that she was not sorry. “Hannah, thank you so much, I don’t know what I’d have ...” But Hannah had left the room and closed the door. They stood and looked at her with curiosity. Her eyes seemed larger and brighter than usual; her hair was done up as carefully as if she were going to a party. She wore her wrapper and where it opened in front they could see that she had on something dull and black underneath. Her face was like folded gray cloths.

All the noises of their eating and from the

They were told they could eat, that morning, in their nightgowns and wrappers. Their mother still wasn’t there, and Aunt Hannah talked even less than at any meal before. They too were very quiet. They felt that this was an even more special day than day before yesterday. All the noises of their eating and from the street were especially clear, but seemed to come from a distance. They looked steadily at their plates and ate very carefully. First thing after breakfast Aunt Hannah said, “Now come with me, children,” and they followed her into the bathroom. There she washed their faces and hands and arms, and behind the ears, and their necks, and up each nostril, carefully and gently with soap and warm water; she did not get soap in the eyes of either of them, or hurt their skins with the washcloth. Then she took them into the bedroom and opened the bureaus and took out everything bran clean, from the skin out, and told Rufus to get his clothes on and to ask for help if he wanted it, and started dressing Catherine. Rufus began to see the connection between all this and the bath, the night before. When he had on his underclothes she brought out new black stockings and his Sunday serge. While she was helping Catherine on with her stockings, which were also new but white, the phone rang and she said, “Now sit still and be good. I’ll be straight back,” and hustled from the room. They heard her say, rather loudly and distinctly, up the hall, “I’m getting it, Mary,” then her feet, fast on the stairs. They sat very still, looking at the open door, and tried to hear. They found they could hear quite distinctly, for Hannah spoke to the telephone as she did to her deaf brother and sister-in-law. They heard: “Hello ... Hello ... Yes ... Father?”, and when they heard the word “Father” they looked at each other with curiosity and with an uneasy premonition. They heard “Yes ... yes ... yes ... yes ... yes ... yes, Father ... yes ... yes, as well as could be expected ... yes ... yes ... Thank you. I’ll tell her ... yes ... yes ... very well ... yes ... The Highland Avenue ... yes ... yes ... any ... yes ... any car to the corner of Church and Gay, then transfer to the Highland—yes—very well ... yes ... Thank you ... we’ll be waiting ... yes ... no ... yes, Father ... yes F— ... good b ... yes, Father ... Thank you ... goo— ... yes ... Thank you ... good-bye ... good-bye.” They heard her let out a long, tired, angry breath and they could hear her joints snapping as she sprinted up the stairs. They were sitting exactly where she had left them. Rufus thought, Maybe she will say we were good children, but without a word she finished with Catherine’s stockings.

all you can show off about

Showing off to people because he is dead. He wants me to get along with them. So I tell them he is dead and they look up to me, they don’t tease me. Showing off because he’s dead, that’s all you can show off about. Any other thing they’d tease me and I wouldn’t fight back. How would your daddy like it? But he likes me to get along with them. That’s why I—went out—showed off. He felt so uneasy, deep inside his stomach, that he could not think about it any more. He wished he hadn’t done it. He wished he could go back and not do anything of the kind. He wished his father could know about it and tell him that yes he was bad but it was all right he didn’t mean to be bad. He was glad his father didn’t know because if his father knew he would think even worse of him than ever. But if his father’s soul was around, always, watching over them, then he knew. And that was worst of anything because there was no way to hide from a soul, and no way to talk to it, either. He just knows, and it couldn’t say anything to him, and he couldn’t say anything to it. It couldn’t whip him either, but it could sit and look at him and be ashamed of him. “I didn’t mean it,” he said aloud. “I didn’t mean to do bad.” I wanted to show you my cap, he added, silently. He looked at his father’s morsechair. Not a mark on his body. He still looked at the chair. With a sense of deep stealth and secrecy he finally went over and stood beside it. After a few moments, and after listening most intently, to be sure that nobody was near, he smelled of the chair, its deeply hollowed seat, the arms, the back. There was only a cold smell of tobacco and, high along the back, a faint smell of hair. He thought of the ash tray on its weighted strap on the arm; it was empty. He ran his finger inside it; there was only a dim smudge of ash. There was nothing like enough to keep in his pocket or wrap up in a paper. He looked at his finger for a moment and licked it; his tongue tasted of darkness.

and would fain move beyond it

In this, the all-fascinating bacon is concealed, for which the children evince more concern; their eyes begin to shine brighter, their watchfulness becomes more intent. Presently a negro begins to withdraw the meat, and as he commences action the jargon gets louder, until we are deafened, and would fain move beyond it. Just then, the important driver, with hand extended, commands,-"Order!" at the very top of his loud voice. All is again still; the man returns to his duty. The meat is somewhat oily and rancid, but Balam cuts it as if it were choice and scarce. Another driver weighs it in a pair of scales he holds in his hands; while still another, cutting the same as before, throws it upon some chaff at the door, as if it were a bone thrown to a hungry dog. How humbly the recipient picks it up and carries it to his or her cabin! Not unfrequently the young "imps" will scramble for it, string it upon skewers, and with great nonchalance throw it over their shoulders, and walk off. If it bathe their backs with grease so much more the comfort. Those little necessaries which add so much to the negro's comfort, and of which he is so fond, must be purchased with the result of his extra energy. Even this allowance may serve the boasted hospitality; but the impression that there is a pennyworth of generosity for every pound of parsimony, forces itself upon us. On his little spot, by moonlight or starlight, the negro must cultivate for himself, that his family may enjoy a few of those fruits of which master has many. How miserable is the man without a spark of generosity in his soul; and how much more miserable the man who will not return good for good's worth! To the negro, kindness is a mite inspiring the impulses of a simple heart, and bringing forth great good. Let us again beg the reader to return with us to those conspicuous cottages near the court-yard, and in which we will find several of our characters. We cross the threshold of one, and are accosted by a female who, speaking in musical accents, invites us to sit down. She has none of Afric's blood in her veins;-no! her features are beautifully olive, and the intonation of her voice discovers a different origin. Her figure is tall and well-formed; she has delicately-formed hands and feet, long, tapering fingers, well-rounded limbs, and an oval face, shaded with melancholy.

and a third unfolds the scheme by which the

Negroes have gathered into motley groups around two weatherbeaten store-houses--the overseer has retired to his apartment-when they wait the signal from the head driver, who figures as master of ceremonies. One sings:---"Jim Crack corn, an' I don't care, Fo'h mas'r's gone away! way! way!" Another is croaking over the time he saved on his task, a third is trying to play a trick with the driver (come the possum over him), and a third unfolds the scheme by which the extra for whiskey and molasses was raised. Presenting a sable pot pourri, they jibber and croak among themselves, laugh and whistle, go through the antics of the "break-down" dance, make the very air echo with the music of their incomprehensible jargon. We are well nigh deafened by it, and yet it excites our joy. We are amused and instructed; we laugh because they laugh, our feelings vibrate with theirs, their quaint humour forces itself into our very soul, and our sympathy glows with their happy anticipations. The philosophy of their jargon is catching to our senses; we listen that we may know their natures, and learn good from their simplicity. He is a strange mortal who cannot learn something from a fool! The happy moment has arrived: "Ho, boys!" is sounded,-the doors open, the negroes stop their antics and their jargon; stores are exposed, and with one dinning mutter all press into a half-circle at the doors, in one of which stands the huge figure of Balam, the head driver. He gives a scanning look at the circle of anxious faces; he would have us think the importance of the plantation centred in his glowing black face. There he stands-a measure in his hand-while another driver, with an air of less dignity, cries out, with a stentorian voice, the names of the heads of families, and the number of children belonging thereto. Thus, one by one, the name being announced in muddled accents, they step forward, and receive their corn, or rice, as may be. In pans and pails they receive it, pass it to the younger members of the family; with running and scampering, they carry the coarse allotment to their cabin with seeming cheerfulness. Marston, esteemed a good master, always gives bacon, and to receive this the negroes will gather round the store a second time.

to keep in order numerous growing

Near these cabins, mere specks in the distance, are two large sheds, under which are primitive mills, wherein negroes grind corn for their humble meal. Returning from the field at night, hungry and fatigued, he who gets a turn at the mill first is the luckiest fellow. Now that the workpeople are busily engaged on the plantation, the cabins are in charge of two nurses, matronly-looking old bodies, who are vainly endeavouring to keep in order numerous growing specimens of the race too young to destroy a grub at the root of a cotton plant. The task is indeed a difficult one, they being as unruly as an excited Congress. They gambol round the door, make pert faces at old mamma, and seem as happy as snakes in the spring sun. Some are in a nude state, others have bits of frocks covering hapless portions of their bodies; they are imps of mischief personified, yet our heart bounds with sympathy for them. Alive with comicality, they move us, almost unconsciously, to fondle them. And yet we know not why we would fondle the sable "rascals." One knot is larking on the grass, running, toddling, yelling, and hooting; another, ankle-deep in mud, clench together and roll among the ducks, work their clawy fingers through the tufts of each other's crispy hair, and enjoy their childish sports with an air of genial happiness; while a third sit in a circle beside an oak tree, playing with "Dash," whose tail they pull without stint. "Dash" is the faithful and favourite dog; he rather likes a saucy young "nigger," and, while feeling himself equal to the very best in the clan, will permit the small fry, without resenting the injury, to pull his tail. It being "ration day," we must describe the serving, that being an interesting phase of plantation life.

cut to please the vanity of those anxious to

We pass the dilapidated gate, and reach it by a narrow passage through the garden, on each side of which is a piece of antique statuary, broken and defaced. Entering the lower veranda, we pace the quadrangle, viewing innumerable cuttings and carvings upon the posts: they are initials and full names, cut to please the vanity of those anxious to leave the Marston family a memento. Again we arrive at the back of the mansion where the quadrangle opens a courtyard filled with broken vines, blackened cedars, and venerable-looking leaks;-they were once much valued by the ancient and very respectable Marston family. A few yards from the left wing of the mansion are the "yard houses"-little, comely cabins, about twelve feet by twenty, and proportionately high. One is the kitchen: it has a dingy look, the smoke issuing from its chinks regardless of the chimney; while from its door, sable denizens, ragged and greasy, and straining their curious faces, issue forth. The polished black cook, with her ample figure, is foaming with excitement, lest the feast she is preparing for master's guests may fail to sustain her celebrity. Conspicuous among these cabins are two presenting a much neater appearance: they are brightly whitewashed, and the little windows are decorated with flowering plants. Within them there is an air of simple neatness and freshness we have seldom seen surpassed; the meagre furniture seems to have been arranged by some careful hand, and presents an air of cheerfulness in strange contrast with the dingy cabins around. In each there is a neatly arranged bed, spread over with a white cover, and by its side a piece of soft carpet. It is from these we shall draw forth the principal characters of our story. Upon a brick foundation, about twenty rods from the right wing of the mansion, stands a wood cottage, occupied by the overseer. Mr. John Ryan not being blessed with family, when Marston is not honoured with company takes his meals at the mansion. In the distance, to the left, is seen a long line of humble huts, standing upon piles, and occupied by promiscuous negro families:--we say promiscuous, for the marriage-tie is of little value to the master, nor does it give forth specific claim to parentage. The sable occupants are beings of uncertainty; their toil is for a life-time-a weary waste of hope and disappointment. Yes! their dreary life is a heritage, the conditions of which no man would share willingly. Victors of husbandry, they share not of the spoils; nor is the sweat of their brows repaid with justice.

At the extreme of this festooned walk

Planks and slabs are lain from the water's edge to the high ground on the ridge, upon which we ascend to the crown, a piece of natural soil rising into a beautiful convex of about six rods wide, extending to the garden gate. We wend our way to the mansion, leaving Pompe and his assistants in charge of our luggage, which they will see safely landed. The ridge forms a level walk, sequestered by long lines of huge oaks, their massive branches forming an arch of foliage, with long trailing moss hanging like mourning drapery to enhance its rural beauty. At the extreme of this festooned walk the mansion is seen dwindling into an almost imperceptible perspective. There is something grand and impressive in the still arch above us-something which revives our sense of the beauty of nature. Through the trunks of the trees, on our right and left, extensive rice fields are seen stretching far into the distance. The young blades are shooting above the surface of the water, giving it the appearance of a frozen sheet clothed with green, and protected from the river by a serpentine embankment. How beautiful the expanse viewed from beneath these hoary-headed oaks! On the surface and along the banks of the river aligators are sporting; moccason snakes twist their way along, and scouring kingfishers croak in the balmy air. If a venerable rattlesnake warn us we need not fear-being an honourable snake partaking of the old southerner's affected chivalry;-he will not approach disguised;-no! he will politely give us warning. But we have emerged from the mossy walk and reached a slab fence, dilapidated and broken, which encloses an area of an acre of ground, in the centre of which stands the mansion: the area seems to have been a garden, which, in former days, may have been cultivated with great care. At present it only presents a few beds rank with weeds. We are told the gardener has been dismissed in consideration of his more lucrative services in the corn-field. That the place is not entirely neglected, we have only to add that Marston's hogs are exercising an independent right to till the soil according to their own system. The mansion is a quadrangular building, about sixty feet long by fifty wide, built of wood, two stories high, having upper and lower verandas.

at the roots to give them strength

Running along the centre of the slope is a line of cotton-fields, in which the young plants, sickly in spots, have reached a stage when they require much nursing. Among them are men, women, and children, crouched on the ground like so many sable spectres, picking and pulling at the roots to give them strength. John Ryan has been keeping a sharp eye on them. He will salute you with an air of independence, tell you how he hated oppression and loved freedom, and how, at the present day, he is a great democrat. Now, whether John left his country for his country's good, is a question; but certain it is he dearly delights to ply the lash,-to whip mankind merely for amusement's sake. In a word, John has a good Irish heart within him, and he always lays particular emphasis on the good, when he tells us of its qualities; but let us rather charge to the State that spare use he makes of its gentler parts. John Ryan, his face indicating tyranny stereotyped, has just been placing drivers over each gang of workmen. How careful he was to select a trustworthy negro, whose vanity he has excited, and who views his position as dearly important. Our driver not unfrequently is the monster tyrant of his circle; but whether from inclination to serve the interests of his master, or a knowledge of the fierce system that holds him alike abject, we know not. At times he is more than obedient to his master's will. Excuse, reader, this distant view of the plantation at early spring, and follow us back to the Ashly. Here we will still continue along the river-bank, pass borders of thick jungle, flowering vines, and rows of stately pines, their tops moaning in the wind,-and soon find we have reached Marston's landing. This is situated at the termination of an elevated plat extending from thence to the mansion, nearly a mile distant. Three negroes lay basking on the bank; they were sent to wait our coming. Tonio! Murel! Pompe!-they ejaculate, calling one another, as we surprise them. They are cheerful and polite, are dressed in striped shirts and trousers, receive us with great suavity of manner, present master's compliments, tell us with an air of welcome that master will be "right glad" to see us, and conclude by making sundry inquiries about our passage and our "Missuses." Pompe, the "most important nigger" of the three, expresses great solicitude lest we get our feet in the mud. Black as Afric's purest, and with a face of great good nature, Pompe, in curious jargon, apologises for the bad state of the landing, tells us he often reminds Mas'r how necessary it is to have it look genteel. Pompe, more than master, is deeply concerned lest the dignity of the plantation suffer.

the scene presents a smouldering

Most of the slope is under a high state of cultivation, and on its upper edge is a newly cleared patch of ground, which negroes are preparing for the cotton-seed. Smoking piles burn here and there, burned stumps and trees point their black peaks upward in the murky atmosphere, half-clad negroes in coarse osnaburgs are busy among the smoke and fire: the scene presents a smouldering volcano inhabited by semi-devils. Among the sombre denizens are women, their only clothing being osnaburg frocks, made loose at the neck and tied about the waist with a string: with hoes they work upon the "top surface," gather charred wood into piles, and waddle along as if time were a drug upon life. Far away to the right the young corn shoots its green sprouts in a square plat, where a few negroes are quietly engaged at the first hoeing. Being tasked, they work with system, and expect, if they never receive, a share of the fruits. All love and respect Marston, for he is generous and kind to them; but system in business is at variance with his nature. His overseer, however, is just the reverse: he is a sharp fellow, has an unbending will, is proud of his office, and has long been reckoned among the very best in the county. Full well he knows what sort of negro makes the best driver; and where nature is ignorant of itself, the accomplishment is valuable. That he watches Marston's welfare, no one doubts; that he never forgets his own, is equally certain. From near mid-distance of the slope we see him approaching on a bay-coloured horse. The sun's rays are fiercely hot, and, though his features are browned and haggard, he holds a huge umbrella in one hand and the inseparable whip in the other. The former is his protector; the latter, his sceptre. John Ryan, for such is his name, is a tall, athletic man, whose very look excites terror. Some say he was born in Limerick, on the Emerald Isle, and only left it because his proud spirit would not succumb to the unbending rod England held over his poor bleeding country.

It was near this spot

ON the left bank of the Ashly River, in the State of South Carolina, and a few miles from its principal city, is a plantation once the property of Hugh Marston. It was near this spot, the brave Huguenots, fleeing religious and political persecution, founded their first American colony-invoked Heaven to guard their liberties-sought a refuge in a new world! And it was here the pious Huguenot forgot his appeals to high heaven-forgot what had driven him from his fatherland, and-unlike the pilgrim fathers who planted their standard on "New England's happy shore,"-became the first to oppress. It was here, against a fierce tyranny, the gallant Yamassee, A tribe of faithful and heroic Indians. loyal to his professed friend, struggled and died for his liberty. It was here the last remnant of his tribe fought the fierce battle of right over might! It was here, in this domain, destined to be the great and powerful of nations-the asylum of an old world's shelter seeking poor, and the proud embodiment of a people's sovereignty,-liberty was first betrayed! It was here men deceived themselves, and freedom proclaimers became freedom destroyers. And, too, it was here Spanish cupidity, murderous in its search for gold, turned a deaf ear to humanity's cries, slaughtered the friendly Indian, and drenched the soil with his innocent blood. And it is here, at this moment, slavery-fierce monster, threatening the peace of a happy people-runs riot in all its savage vicissitudes, denying man his commonest birthright. If history did but record the barbarous scenes yet enacted on the banks of this lovely stream, the contrast with its calm surface sweeping gently onward to mingle its waters with the great deep, would be strange indeed. How mellowed by the calm beauty of a summer evening, the one!-how stained with scenes of misery, torment, and death, the other! Let us beg the reader to follow us back to the time when Marston is found in possession of the plantation, and view it as it is when his friends gather round him to enjoy his bounteous hospitality. We have ascended the Ashly on a bright spring morning, and are at a jut covered with dark jungle, where the river, about twenty rods wide, sweeps slowly round ;-flowering brakes, waving their tops to and fro in the breeze, bedeck the river banks, and far in the distance, on the left, opens the broad area of the plantation. As we near it, a beautifully undulating slope presents itself, bounded on its upper edge by a long line of sombre-looking pines. Again we emerge beneath clustering foliage overhanging the river; and from out this-sovereign of a southern clime-the wild azalia and fair magnolia diffuse their fragrance to perfume the air. From the pine ridge the slope recedes till it reaches a line of jungle, or hedge, that separates it from the marshy bottom, extending to the river, against which it is protected by a dyke.

but feeling that he was an incumbrance to

After Captain Williams--for such was the name of the captain of the Three Sisters--left the plantation, no person appeared to care for him, and on the second day he was attacked with a fever, and sent to one of the negro cabins, where an old mulatto woman took care of him and nursed him as well as her scanty means would admit. The fever continued for seven days, when he became convalescent and able to walk out; but feeling that he was an incumbrance to those around him, he packed his clothes into a little bundle and started for Charleston on foot. He reached that city after four days' travelling over a heavy, sandy road, subsisting upon the charity of poor negroes, whom he found much more ready to supply his wants than the opulent planters. One night he, was compelled to make a pillow of his little bundle, and lay down in a corn-shed, where the planter, aroused by the noise of his dogs, which were confined in a kennel, came with a lantern and two negroes and discovered him. At first he ordered him off, and threatened to set the dogs upon him if he did not instantly comply with the order; but his miserable appearance affected the planter, and before he had gone twenty rods one of the negroes overtook him, and said his master had sent him to bring him back. He returned, and the negro made him a coarse bed in his cabin, and gave him some homony and milk. His hopes to see Manuel had buoyed him up through every fatigue, but when he arrived, and was informed at the jail that Manuel had left three days before, his disappointment was extreme. A few days after he shipped as cabin-boy on board a ship ready for sea and bound to Liverpool. Scarcely half-way across, he was compelled to resign himself to the sick-list. The disease had struck deep into his system, and was rapidly wasting him away. The sailors, one by one in turns, watched over him with tenderness and care. As soon as the ship arrived, he was sent to the hospital, and there he breathed his last as Manuel entered the sick-chamber. We leave Manuel and a few of his shipmates following his remains to the last resting-place of man.

a green curtain tacked over the frame of the window

The result was suggestive in the very atmosphere, which had a singular effect upon the senses. The room, newly-whitewashed, was darkened by a green curtain tacked over the frame of the window. Standing near the window were two wooden-stools and a little table, upon which burned the faint light of a small taper, arranged in a cup of oil, and shedding its feeble flickers on the evidences of a sick-chamber. There, on a little, narrow cot, lay the death-like form of his once joyous companion, with the old nurse sitting beside him, watching his last pulsation. Her arm encircled his head, while his raven locks curled over his forehead, and shadowed the beauty of innocence even in death. "Is he there? is he there?" inquired Manuel in a low tone. At the same time a low, gurgling noise sounded in his ears. The nurse started to her feet as if to inquire for what he came. "He is my companion-my companion," said Manuel. It was enough. The woman recognised the object of the little sufferer's anxiety. "Ah! it is Manuel. How often he has called that name for the last week!" said she. He ran to the bedside and grasped his little fleshless hand as it lay upon the white sheet, bathing his cold brow with kisses of grief. Life was gone-the spirit had winged its way to the God who gave it. Thus closed the life of poor Tommy Ward. He died as one resting in a calm sleep, far from the boisterous sound of the ocean's tempest, with God's love to shield his spirit in another and brighter world. Conclusion IN a preceding chapter, we left the poor boy on the plantation of Colonel Whaley, affected by a pulmonary disease, the seeds of which were planted on the night he was confined in the guard-house, and the signs of gradual decay evinced their symptoms.

I'm afraid you wouldn't know him now

"Gracious! that's my Tommy," said Manuel. "Where is he? He loves me as he does his life, and would run to me as a child would to its father. Little as he is, he has been a friend through my severest trials, and a companion in my pleasures." "Ah, poor child! I'm afraid you wouldn't know him now. He has suffered much since you saw him." "Is he not aboard? Where can I find him?" inquired Manuel, hastily. "No, he is not aboard; he is at the hospital in Dennison street. Go there to-morrow, and you will find him." Chapter 30 The Scene Of Anguish WE are sorry, that having traced the details of our narrative as they occurred, without adding for dramatic effect, we are constrained to conclude with a picture at once painful and harrowing to the feelings. We do this that we may be sustained by records, in what we have stated, rather than give one of those more popular conclusions which restore happiness and relieve the reader's feelings. Manuel retired to his berth, full of meditation. His little companion was before him, pictured in his child-like innocence and playfulness. He saw him in the youthful zeal and freshness of the night when he brought the well-laden haversack into his dreary cell, and which kind act was repaid by a night of suffering in the guard-house. There was too much of life and buoyancy in the picture his imagination called up, to reconcile the belief that any thing serious had befallen him; and yet the man spoke in a manner that aroused the intensity of his feelings. It was a whisper full of fearful forebodings, and filled his mind with anxious expectation. He could not sleep-the anxiety of his feelings had awakened a nervvous restlessness that awaited the return of morning with impatience. Morning came. He proceeded to the hospital and rang the bell. An aged gentleman came to the door, and to his questions about Tommy being there, answered in the affirmative, and called an attendant to show him the ward in which the little sufferer lay. He followed the attendant, and after ascending several flights of stairs and following a dark, narrow passage nearly to its end, was shown into a small, single-room on the right.

He went to his comfortable boarding-house

On the morning of the twentieth he arrived in New York. Here things wore a different aspect. There were no constables fettering him with irons, aggravating his feelings, and dragging him to a miseerable cell overrun with vermin. He had no scientific ordeal of the statutes to pass through, requiring the measure of his form and features; and he was a man again, with life and liberty, and the dark dread of the oppressor's power far from him. He went to his comfortable boarding-house, and laid his weary limbs down to rest, thanking God that he could now sleep in peace, and awake to liberty. His system was so reduced that he was unable to do duty, although he was anxious to proceed on his way to join the old owners, but wanted to work his way in the capacity of steward. Thus he remained in New York more than four weeks, gaining vigor and strength, and with a lingering hope that he should meet his little companion. On the twenty-first of June, being well recruited, he sailed for Liverpool, and after a remarkably calm passage of thirty-four days, arrived in the Mersey, and in forty-eight hours more the ship was safely within the Princess' Dock, and all hands ready to go on shore. In the same dock was a ship taking in cargo and passengers for Charleston, South Carolina. Manuel went on board, and found, in conversation with the steward, that she had sailed from that port on the 23d of May. A short conversation disclosed that they had been old shipmates from the Thames, on board of the Indiaman, Lord William Bentick, and were on board of that ship when an unfortunate circumstance occurred to her on entering a British North American port, many years ago. Here they sat recounting the many adventures through which they had passed since that period, the ships they had sailed in, the sufferings they had gone through, and the narrow escapes they had had for their lives, until past midnight. Manuel wound up by giving a detailed account of his sufferings in Charleston. "What!" said the steward of the Charleston ship, "then you must have known our cabin-boy, he belonged to the same vessel!" "What was his name?" inquired Manuel. "Tommy Ward! and as nice a little fellow as ever served the cabin; poor little fellow, we could hardly get him across."

He soon found himself gliding over

"We are abundantly repaid if we succeed in arousing public attention to the alarming and dangerous condition of our city. * * * Let inquiry be entered into. We boldly challenge it. It will lead to other and more astonishing developments than those we have revealed. (Signed) "A RESPONSIBLE CITIZEN." Chapter 29 Manuel's Arrival In New York WHEN we left Manuel, he was being hurried on board the steamship, as if he was a bale of infected goods. Through the kindness of the clerk in the consul's office, he was provided with a little box of stores to supply his wants on the passage, as it was known that he would have to "go forward." He soon found himself gliding over Charleston bar, and took a last look of what to him had been the city of injustice. On the afternoon of the second day, he was sitting upon the forward deck eating an orange that had been given to him by the steward of the ship, probably as a token of sympathy for his sickly appearance, when a number of passengers, acting upon the information of the clerk of the ship, gathered around him. One gentleman from Philadelphia, who seemed to take more interest in the man than any other of the passengers, expressed his indignation in no measured terms, that such a man should be imprisoned as a slave. "Take care," said a bystander, "there's a good many Southerners on board." "I don't care if every slaveholder in the South was on board, holding a knife at my throat; I'm on the broad ocean, where God spreads the breezes of freedom that man cannot enslave," said he, sitting down beside Manuel, and getting him to recount the details of his shipwreck and imprisonment. The number increased around him, and all listened with attention until he had concluded. One of the spectators asked him if he would have something good to eat? but he declined, pulling out the little box that the consul had sent him, and, opening it before them, showed it to be well-stored with little delicacies. The Philadelphian motioned that they take up a subscription for him, and almost simultaneously took his hat off and began to pass it around; but Manuel, mistaking the motive, told them that he never yet sought charity-that the consul had paid him his wages, and he had money enough to get home. But if he did not accept their contributions, he had their sympathies and their good wishes, which were more prized by him, because they were contrasted with the cold hospitality he had suffered in Charleston.

eyes and closing their lips when

"We have heard it intimated that when General Schnierle is a candidate for the mayoralty, they are regularly assessed for means to defray the expenses of the canvass. Instances are not wanting where amounts of money are paid monthly to General Schnierle's police as a reward for shutting their eyes and closing their lips when unlawful proceedings are in progress. We have at this moment in our possession a certificate from a citizen, sworn to before Mr. Giles, the magistrate, declaring that he, the deponent, heard one of the city police-officers (Sharlock) make a demand for money upon one of these shop-keepers, and promised that if he would pay him five dollars at stated intervals, 'none of the police-officers would trouble him.' This affidavit can be seen, if inquired for, at this office. Thus bribery is added to guilt, and those who should enforce the laws are made auxiliaries in their violation. Said one of these slave-destroyers to us, 'General Schnierle suits us very well. I have no trouble with General Schnierle'--remarks at once repugnant and suggestive. * * * We are told by one, that Mr. Hutchinson, when in power, fined him heavily (and, as he thought, unjustly) for selling liquor to a slave; hence he would not vote for him. An additional reason for this animosity toward Mr. Hutchinson arises from the fact that the names of offenders were always published during that gentleman's administration, while under that of General Schnierle they are screened from public view. On any Sunday evening, light may be seen in the shops of these dealers. If the passer-by will for a few moments stay his course, he will witness the ingress and egress of negroes; if he approach the door, he will hear noise as of card-playing and revelry within. And this is carried on unblushingly; is not confined to a shop here and a shop there, but may be observed throughout the city. The writer of this article, some Sundays since, witnessed from his upper window a scene of revelry and gambling in one of these drinking-shops, which will scarcely be credited. A party of negroes were seen around a card-table, with money beside them, engaged in betting; glasses of liquor were on the table, from which they ever and anon regaled themselves with all the nonchalance and affected mannerism of the most fashionable blades of the beau monde.

to impress you with the sovereignty of

This amount is exclusive of all the long scale of law charges and attorney's fees that were incurred, and is entirely the perquisite of the sheriff. Now, notwithstanding that high-sounding clamor about the laws of South Carolina, which every South Carolinian, in the redundance of his feelings, strives to impress you with the sovereignty of its justice, its sacred rights, and its pre-eminent reputation, we never were in a country or community where the privileges of a certain class were so much abused. Every thing is made to conserve popular favor, giving to those in influence power to do what they please with a destitute class, whether they be white or black. Official departments are turned into depots for miserable espionage, where the most unjust schemes are practised upon those whose voices cannot be heard in their own defence. A magistrate is clothed with, or assumes a power that is almost absolute, committing them without a hearing, and leaving them to waste in jail; then releasing them before the court sits, and charging the fees to the State; or releasing the poor prisoner on receiving "black mail" for the kindness; giving one man a peace-warrant to oppress another whom he knows cannot get bail; and where a man has served out the penalty of the crime for which he was committed, give a peace-warrant to his adversary that he may continue to vent his spleen upon him. In this manner, we have known a man who had served seven months' imprisonment for assault and battery, by an understanding between the magistrate and the plaintiff, continued in jail for several years upon a peace-warrant, issued by the magistrate from time to time, until at length he shot himself in jail. The man was a peaceable man, and of a social temperament. He had been offered the alternative of leaving the State, but he scorned to accept it. To show that we are correct in what we say respecting some of the Charleston officials, we insert an article which appeared in the Charleston Courier of Sept. 1, 1852:--[For the Courier.]

leaving behind an atmosphere of threat and disaster

He was the representative of McLean & Swazey, a college graduate of a type then new, though now much commoner, in the developing profession of advertising. He had read the peccant editorial with a genuine relish of its charm and skill, and had justly estimated it for what it was, an intellectual _jeu d'esprit_, the expression of a passing fancy for a tempting subject, not of a policy to be further pursued. "Enough has been said, I think, to define our position," said he. "All that we need is some assurance that Mr. Banneker's wit and skill will not be turned again to the profit of our competitors who, by the way, do _not_ advertise in The Patriot." Haring eagerly gave the assurance. He would have given assurance of Banneker's head on a salver to be rid of these persecuting autocrats. They withdrew, leaving behind an atmosphere of threat and disaster, dark, inglorious clouds of which Haring trailed behind him when he entered the office of the owner with his countenance of woe. His postulate was that Mr. Marrineal should go to his marplot editor and duly to him lay down the law; no more offending of the valuable department-store advertisers. No; nor of any others. Or he, Haring (greatly daring), would do it himself. Beside the sweating and agonizing business manager, Marrineal looked very cool and tolerant and mildly amused. "If you did that, Mr. Haring, do you appreciate what the result would be? We should have another editorial worse than the first, as soon as Mr. Banneker could think it out. No; you leave this to me. I'll manage it." His management took the negative form of a profound silence upon the explicit point. But on the following morning Banneker found upon his desk a complete analytical table showing the advertising revenue of the paper by classes, with a star over the department-store list, indicating a dated withdrawal of twenty-two thousand dollars a year. The date was of that day. Thus was Banneker enabled to figure out, by a simple process, the loss to himself of any class of advertising, or even small group in a class, dropping out of the paper. It was clever of Marrineal, he admitted to himself, and, in a way, disappointing. His proffered gage of battle had been refused, almost ignored. The issue was not to be joined when he was ready, but when Marrineal was ready, and on Marrineal's own ground. Very well, Banneker could be a good waiter. Meantime he had at least asserted his independence.

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paid for the getting out of

Intentionally be damned! Did he expect to carry their advertising on one page and ruin their business on another? Did he think they were putting money into The Patriot--a doubtful medium for their business, at best--to cut their own throats? They'd put it to him reasonably, now; who, after all, paid for the getting out of The Patriot? Wasn't it the advertisers? Certainly, certainly, gentlemen. Granted. Could the paper run a month, a fortnight, a week without advertising? No; no! It couldn't. No newspaper could. Then if the advertisers paid the paper's way, weren't they entitled to some say about it? Didn't it have a right to give 'em at least a fair show? Indeed, gentlemen, if he, Haring, were in control of the paper-- Then, why; why the _hell_ was a cub of an editor allowed to cut loose and jump their game that way? They could find other places to spend their money; yes, and get a better return for it. They'd see The Patriot, and so on, and so forth. Mr. Haring understood their feelings, sympathized, even shared them. Unfortunately the editorial page was quite out of his province. Whose province was it, then? Mr. Banneker's, eh? And to whom was Mr. Banneker responsible? Mr. Marrineal, alone? All right! They would see Mr. Marrineal. Mr. Haring was sorry, but Mr. Marrineal was out of town. (Fiction.) Well, in that case, Banneker. They'd trust themselves to show him which foot he got off on. They'd teach (two of them, in their stress of emotion, said "learn"; they were performing this in chorus) Banneker-- Oh, Mr. Banneker wasn't there, either. (Haring, very terrified, and having built up an early conception of the Wild West Banneker from the clean-up of the dock gang, beheld in his imagination dejected members of the committee issuing piecemeal from the doors and windows of the editorial office, the process being followed by an even more regrettable exodus of advertising from the pages of The Patriot.) Striving to be at once explanatory and propitiatory to all and sundry, Haring was reduced to inarticulate, choking interjections and paralytic motions of the hands, when a member of the delegation, hitherto silent, spoke up.

What the devil did The Patriot mean by it

Explosions of a powerful and resonant nature followed the publication of the fantastic, imaginative, and delightful mail-order catalogue editorial. In none of these senses, except the first, did it appeal to the advertising managers of the various department stores. They looked upon it as an outrage, an affront, a deliberate slap in the face for an established, vested, and prodigal support of the newspaper press. What the devil did The Patriot mean by it; The Patriot which sorely needed just their class of reputable patronage, and, after sundry contortions of rate-cutting, truckling, and offers of news items to back the advertising, was beginning to get it? They asked themselves, and, failing of any satisfactory answer, they asked The Patriot in no uncertain terms. Receiving vague and pained replies, they even went to the length of holding a meeting and sending a committee to wait upon the desperate Haring, passing over the advertising manager who was a mere figurehead in The Patriot office. Then began one of those scenes of bullying and browbeating to which every newspaper, not at once powerful and honest enough to command the fear and respect of its advertisers, is at some time subjected. Haring, the victim personifying the offending organ, was stretched upon the rack and put to the question. What explanation had he to offer of The Patriot's breach of faith? He had none, had the miserable business manager. No one could regret it more than he. But, really, gentlemen, to call it a breach of faith-- What else was it? Wasn't the paper turning on its own advertisers? Well; in a sense. But not-- But nothing! Wasn't it trying to undermine their legitimate business? Not intentionally, Mr. Haring was (piteously) sure.

provided it is legal and decent

Banneker had formulated for his own use and comfort the fallacy which has since become standard for all journalists unwilling or unable to face the issue of their own responsibility to the public. He now gave it forth confidently. "A newspaper, Io, is like a billboard. Any one has a right to hire it for purposes of exploiting and selling whatever he has to sell. In accepting the advertisement, provided it is legal and decent, the publisher accepts no more responsibility than the owner of the land on which a billboard stands. Advertising space is a free forum." "But when it affects the editorial attitude--" "That's the test," he put in quickly. "That's why I'm glad to print this editorial of ours. It's a declaration of independence." "Yes," she acquiesced eagerly. "If ever I use the power of my editorials for any cause that I don't believe in--yes, or for my own advantage or the advantage of my employer--that will be the beginning of surrender. But as long as I keep a free pen and speak as I believe for what I hold as right and against what I hold as wrong, I can afford to leave the advertising policy to those who control it. It isn't my responsibility.... It's an omen, Io; I was waiting for it. Marrineal and I are at a deadlock on the question of my control of the editorial page. This ought to furnish a fighting issue. I'm glad it came from you." "Oh, but if it's going to make trouble for you, I shall be sorry. And I was going to propose that we write one every Saturday." "Io!" he cried. "Does that mean--" "It means that I shall become a regular attendant at Mr. Errol Banneker's famous Saturday nights. Don't ask me what more it means." She rose and delivered the typed sheets into his hands. "I--I don't know, myself. Take me back to the others, Ban."

its prototype of the earlier years

He led the way to the remote austerities of the work-room. From a shelf he took down the fat, ornate pamphlet, now much increased in bulk over its prototype of the earlier years. With random finger he parted the leaves, here, there, again and still again, seeking auguries. "Ready?" he said. "Now, I shut my eyes--and we're in the shack again--the clean air of desert spaces--the click of the transmitter in the office that I won't answer, being more importantly engaged--the faint fragrance of _you_ permeating everything--youth--the unknown splendor of life--Now! Go!" Of that editorial, composed upon the unpromising theme of mail-order merchandising, the Great Gaines afterward said that it was a kaleidoscopic panorama set moving to the harmonic undertones of a song of winds and waters, of passion and the inner meanings of life, as if Shelley had rhapsodized a catalogue into poetic being and glorious significance. He said it was foolish to edit a magazine when one couldn't trust a cheap newspaper not to come flaming forth into literature which turned one's most conscientious and aspiring efforts into tinsel. He also said "Damn!" Io Welland (for it was Io Welland and not Io Eyre whom the soothsayer saw before him as he declaimed), instrument and inspiration of the achievement, said no word of direct praise. But as she wrote, her fingers felt as if they were dripping electric sparks. When, at the close, he asked, quite humbly, "Is that what you wanted?" she caught her breath on something like a sob. "I'll give you a title," she said, recovering herself. "Call it 'If there were Dreams to Sell.'" "Ah, that's good!" he cried. "My readers won't get it. Pinheads! They get nothing that isn't plain as the nose on their silly faces. Never mind. It's good for 'em to be puzzled once in a while. Teaches 'em their place.... I'll tell you who will understand it, though," he continued, and laughed queerly. "All the people who really matter will." "Some who matter a lot to The Patriot will. The local merchants who advertise with us. They'll be wild." "Why?" "They hate the mail-order houses with a deadly fear, because the cataloguers undersell them in a lot of lines. Won't Rome howl the day after this appears!" "Tell me about the relation between advertising and policy, Ban," invited Io, and summarized Willis Enderby's views.

bearing a glass of champagne and some

For a space Willis Enderby sat thinking. "Does Banneker know your--your intentions?" "No." "You mustn't let him, Io." "He won't know the intention. He may know the--the feeling back of it." A slow and glorious flush rose in her face, making her eyes starry. "I don't know that I can keep it from him, Cousin Billy. I don't even know that I want to. I'm an honest sort of idiot, you know." "God grant that he may prove as honest!" he half whispered. Presently Banneker, bearing a glass of champagne and some pate sandwiches for Io, supplanted the lawyer. "Are you the devotee of toil that common report believes, Ban?" she asked him lazily. "They say that you write editorials with one hand and welcome your guests with the other." "Not quite that," he answered. "To-night I'm not thinking of work. I'm not thinking of anything but you. It's very wonderful, your being here." "But I want you to think of work. I want to see you in the very act. Won't you write an editorial for me?" He shook his head. "This late? That would be cruelty to my secretary." "I'll take it down for you. I'm fairly fast on the typewriter." "Will you give me the subject, too?" "No more than fair," she admitted. "What shall it be? It ought to be something with memories in it. Books? Poetry?" she groped. "I've got it! Your oldest, favorite book. Have you forgotten?" "The Sears-Roebuck catalogue? I get a copy every season, to renew the old thrill." "What a romanticist you are!" said she softly. "Couldn't you write an editorial about it?" "Couldn't I? Try me. Come up to the den."

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At its worst

Enderby winced and chuckled simultaneously. "Probably not. It is doubtful whether he could find another rostrum of equal influence. And his influence is mainly for good. But since you seem to be interested in newspapers, Io"--he gave her another of his keen glances--"from The Patriot you can make a diagnosis of the disease from which modern journalism is suffering. A deep-seated, pervasive insincerity. At its worst, it is open, shameless hypocrisy. The public feels it, but is too lacking in analytical sense to comprehend it. Hence the unformulated, instinctive, universal distrust of the press. 'I never believe anything I read in the papers.' Of course, that is both false and silly. But the feeling is there; and it has to be reckoned with one day. From this arises an injustice, that the few papers which are really upright, honest, and faithful to their own standards, are tainted in the public mind with the double-dealing of the others. Such as The Patriot." "You use The Patriot for your purposes," Io pointed out. "When it stands for what I believe right. I only wish I could trust it." "Then you _really_ feel that you can't trust Mr. Banneker?" "Ah; we're back to that!" thought Enderby with uneasiness. Aloud he said: "It's a very pretty problem whether a writer who shares the profits of a hypocritical and dishonest policy can maintain his own professional independence and virtue. I gravely doubt it." "I don't," said Io, and there was pride in her avowal. "My dear," said the Judge gravely, "what does it all mean? Are you letting yourself become interested in Errol Banneker?" Io raised clear and steady eyes to the concerned regard of her old friend. "If I ever marry again, I shall marry him." "You're not going to divorce poor Delavan?" asked the other quickly. "No. I shall play the game through," was the quiet reply.

Being counsel for that bank

"Assume, for the sake of the argument, that he has nothing to do with them. You may have noticed a recent editorial against race-track gambling, with the suicide of a young bank messenger who had robbed his employer to pay his losses as text." "Well? Surely that kind of editorial makes for good." "Being counsel for that bank, I happen to know the circumstances of the suicide. The boy had pinned his faith to one of the race-track tipsters who advertise in The Patriot to furnish a list of sure winners for so much a week." "Do you suppose that Mr. Banneker knew that?" "Probably not. But he knows that his paper takes money for publishing those vicious advertisements." "Suppose he couldn't help it?" "Probably he can't." "Well, what would you have him do? Stop writing the editorials? I think it is evidence of his courage that he should dare to attack the evils which his own paper fosters." "That's one view of it, certainly," replied Enderby dryly. "A convenient view. But there are other details. Banneker is an ardent advocate of abstinence, 'Down with the Demon Rum!' The columns of The Patriot reek with whiskey ads. The same with tobacco." "But, Cousin Billy, you don't believe that a newspaper should shut out liquor and tobacco advertisements, do you?" The lawyer smiled patiently. "Come back on the track, Io," he invited. "That isn't the point. If a newspaper preaches the harm in these habits, it shouldn't accept money for exploiting them. Look further. What of the loan-shark offers, and the blue-sky stock propositions, and the damnable promises of the consumption and cancer quacks? You can't turn a page of The Patriot without stumbling on them. There's a smell of death about that money." "Don't all the newspapers publish the same kind of advertisements?" argued the girl. "Certainly not. Some won't publish an advertisement without being satisfied of its good faith. Others discriminate less carefully. But there are few as bad as The Patriot." "If Mr. Banneker were your client, would you advise him to resign?" she asked shrewdly.

The Patriot itself

"Well--in a way, I have," he returned hesitantly. "But with reservations," she interpreted. "What are they?" "One, only, but a big one. The Patriot itself. You see, Io, The Patriot is another matter." "Why is it another matter?" "Well, there's Marrineal, for example." "I don't know Mr. Marrineal. Evidently you don't trust him." "I trust nobody," disclosed the lawyer, a little sternly, "who is represented by what The Patriot is and does, whether it be Marrineal, Banneker, or another." His glance, wandering about the room, fell on Russell Edmonds, seated in a corner talking with the Great Gaines. "Unless it be Edmonds over there," he qualified. "All his life he has fought me as a corporation lawyer; yet I have the queer feeling that I could trust the inmost secret of my life to his honor. Probably I'm an old fool, eh?" Io devoted a moment's study to the lined and worn face of the veteran. "No. I think you're right," she pronounced. "In any case, he isn't responsible for The Patriot. He can't help it." "Don't be so cryptic, Cousin Billy. Can't help what? What is wrong with the paper?" "You wouldn't understand." "But I want to understand," said imperious Io. "As a basis to understanding, you'd have to read the paper." "I have. Everyday. All of it." He gave her a quick, reckoning look which she sustained with a slight deepening of color. "The advertisements, too?" She nodded. "What do you think of them?" "Some of them are too disgusting to discuss." "Did it occur to you to compare them with the lofty standards of our young friend's editorials?" "What has he to do with the advertisements?" she countered.

And you forgive me for cajoling your big

"Then Herbert and Esther can come in, can't they? They're waiting in the car for me to be rejected in disgrace. They've even bet on it." "They lose," answered Banneker with finality. "And you forgive me for cajoling your big, black Cerberus, because it's my first visit this year, and if I'm not nicely treated I'll never come again." "Your welcome includes full amnesty." "Then if you'll let me have one of my hands back--it doesn't matter which one, really--I'll signal the others to come in." Which, accordingly, she did. Banneker greeted Esther Forbes and Cressey, and waited for the trio until they came down. There was a stir as they entered. There was usually a stir in any room which Io entered. She had that quality of sending waves across the most placid of social pools. Willis Enderby was one of the first to greet her, a quick irradiation of pleasure relieving the austere beauty of his face. "I thought the castle was closed," he wondered. "How did you cross the inviolable barriers?" "I had the magic password," smiled Io. "Youth? Beauty? Or just audacity?" "Your Honor is pleased to flatter," she returned, drooping her eyes at him with a purposefully artificial effect. From the time when she was a child of four she had carried on a violent and highly appreciated flirtation with "Cousin Billy," being the only person in the world who employed the diminutive of his name. "You knew Banneker before? But, of course. Everybody knows Banneker." "It's quite wonderful, isn't it! He never makes an effort, I'm told. People just come to him. Where did you meet him?" Enderby told her. "We're allies, in a way. Though sometimes he is against us. He's doing yeoman work in this reform mayoralty campaign. If we elect Robert Laird, as I think we shall, it will be chiefly due to The Patriot's editorials." "Then you have confidence in Mr. Banneker?" she asked quickly.

that every guest represented

It became known as independent, honest, unafraid, radical (in Wall Street circles "socialistic" or even "anarchistic"), and, to the profession, as dangerous to provoke. Advertisers were, from time to time, alienated; public men, often of The Patriot's own trend of thought, opposed. Commercial associations even passed resolutions, until Banneker took to publishing them with such comment as seemed to him good and appropriate. Marrineal uttered no protest, though the unlucky Haring beat his elegantly waistcoated breast and uttered profane if subdued threats of resigning, which were for effect only; for The Patriot's circulation continued to grow and the fact to which every advertising expert clings as to the one solid hope in a vaporous calling, is that advertising follows circulation. Seldom did Banneker see his employer in the office, but Marrineal often came to the Saturday nights of The House With Three Eyes, which had already attained the fame of a local institution. As the numbers drawn to it increased, it closed its welcoming orbs earlier and earlier, and, once they were darkened, there was admittance only for the chosen few. It was a first Saturday in October, New York's homing month for its indigenous social birds and butterflies, when The House triply blinked itself into darkness at the untimely hour of eleven-forty-five. There was the usual heterogeneous crowd there, alike in one particular alone, that every guest represented, if not necessarily distinction, at least achievement in his own line. Judge Willis Enderby, many times invited, had for the first time come. At five minutes after midnight, the incorruptible doorkeeper sent an urgent message requesting Mr. Banneker's personal attention to a party who declined politely but firmly to be turned away. The host, answering the summons, found Io. She held out both hands to him. "Say you're glad to see me," she said imperatively. "Light up the three eyes," Banneker ordered the doorman. "Are you answered?" he said to Io. "Ah, that's very pretty," she approved. "It means 'welcome,' doesn't it?" "Welcome," he assented.

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He had no desire to break it

Ely Ives's analysis of Banneker's situation was in a measure responsible for Marrineal's proposition of the new deal to his editor. "He has accepted it," the owner told his purveyor of information. "But the real fight is to come." "Over the policy of the editorial page," opined Ives. "Yes. This is only a truce." As a truce Banneker also regarded it. He had no desire to break it. Nor, after it was established, did Marrineal make any overt attempt to interfere with his conduct of his column. After awaiting gage of battle from his employer, in vain, Banneker decided to leave the issue to chance. Surely he was not surrendering any principle, since he continued to write as he chose upon whatever topics he selected. Time enough to fight when there should be urged upon him either one of the cardinal sins of journalism, the _suppressio veri_ or the _suggestio falsi_, which he had more than once excoriated in other papers, to the pious horror of the hush-birds of the craft who had chattered and cheeped accusations of "fouling one's own nest." Opportunity was not lacking to Marrineal for objections to a policy which made powerful enemies for the paper; Banneker, once assured of his following, had hit out right and left. From being a weak-kneed and rather apologetic defender of the "common people," The Patriot had become, logically, under Banneker's vigorous and outspoken policy, a proponent of the side of labor against capital. It had hotly supported two important and righteous local strikes and been the chief agent in winning one. With equal fervor it had advocated a third strike whose justice was at best dubious and had made itself anathema, though the strike was lost, to an industrial group which was honestly striving to live up to honorable standards. It had offended a powerful ring of bankers and for a time embarrassed Marrineal in his loans. It had threatened editorial reprisals upon a combination of those feared and arrogant advertisers, the department stores, for endeavoring, with signal lack of success, to procure the suppression of certain market news.

thereby giving his factotum uncomfortably to

Too much master of his devious craft to betray discomfiture over another's superior knowledge of a subject which he had tried to make his own, Ely Ives remarked: "Then she was probably the real thing. The princess on vacation. You don't know who she was, I suppose," he added tentatively. Marrineal did not answer, thereby giving his factotum uncomfortably to reflect that he really must not expect payment for information and the information also. "I guess he'll bear watching." Ives wound up with his favorite philosophy. It was a few days after this that, by a special interposition of kindly chance, Ives, having returned from a trip out of town, saw Banneker and Io breakfasting in the station restaurant. To Marrineal he said nothing of this at the time; nor, indeed, to any one else. But later he took it to a very private market of his own, the breakfast-room of a sunny and secluded house far uptown, where lived, in an aroma of the domestic virtues, a benevolent-looking old gentleman who combined the attributes of the ferret, the leech, and the vulture in his capacity as editor of that famous weekly publication, The Searchlight. Ives did not sell in that mart; he traded for other information. This time he wanted something about Judge Willis Enderby, for he was far enough on the inside politically to see in him a looming figure which might stand in the way of certain projects, unannounced as yet, but tenderly nurtured in the ambitious breast of Tertius C. Marrineal. From the gently smiling patriarch he received as much of the unwritten records as that authority deemed it expedient to give him, together with an admonition, thrown in for good measure. "Dangerous, my young friend! Dangerous!" The passionate and patient collector thought it highly probable that Willis Enderby would be dangerous game. Certainly he did not intend to hunt in those fields, unless he could contrive a weapon of overwhelming caliber.

others can work him when the time comes

"He isn't the journalistic Puritan that he lets on to be. Look at that Harvey Wheelwright editorial," pointed out the acute Ives. "He don't believe what he wrote about Wheelwright; just did it for his own purposes. Well, if the oracle can work himself for his own purposes, others can work him when the time comes, if it's properly managed." Marrineal shook his head. "If there's a weakness in him I haven't found it." Ives put on a look of confidential assurance. "Be sure it's there. Only it isn't of the ordinary kind. Banneker is pretty big in his way. No," he pursued thoughtfully; "it isn't women, and it isn't Wall Street, and it isn't drink; it isn't even money, in the usual sense. But it's something. By the way, did I tell you that I'd found an acquaintance from the desert where Banneker hails from?" "No." Marrineal's tone subtly indicated that he should have been told at once. That sort of thing was, indeed, the basis on which Ives drew a considerable stipend from his patron's private purse, as "personal representative of Mr. Marrineal" for purposes unspecified. "A railroad man. From what he tells me there was some sort of love-affair there. A girl who materialized from nowhere and spent two weeks, mostly with the romantic station-agent. Might have been a princess in exile, by my informant, who saw her twice. More likely some cheap little skate of a movie actress on a bust." "A station-agent's taste in women friends--" began Marrineal, and forbore unnecessarily to finish. "Possibly it has improved. Or--well, at any rate, there was something there. My railroad man thinks the affair drove Banneker out of his job. The fact of his being woman-proof here points to its having been serious." "There was a girl out there about that time visiting Camilla Van Arsdale," remarked Marrineal carelessly; "a New York girl. One of the same general set. Miss Van Arsdale used to be a New Yorker and rather a distinguished one."

for and collating all possible advices concerning

In every phase of his employment, the ex-medical student had gathered curious and valuable lore. In fact he was one of those acquisitive persons who collect and hoard scandals, a miser of private and furtive information. His was the zeal of the born collector; something of the genius, too: he boasted a keen instinct. In his earlier and more precarious days he had formed the habit of watching for and collating all possible advices concerning those whom he worked for or worked against and branching from them to others along radiating lines of business, social, or family relationships. To him New York was a huge web, of sinister and promising design, dim, involved, too often impenetrable in the corners where the big spiders spin. He had two guiding maxims: "It may come in handy some day," and "They'll all bear watching." Before the prosperous time, he had been, in his devotion to his guiding principles, a practitioner of the detective arts in some of their least savory phases; had haunted doorsteps, lurked upon corners, been rained upon, snowed upon, possibly spat upon, even arrested; all of which he accepted, mournful but uncomplaining. One cannot whole-heartedly serve an ideal and come off scatheless. He was adroit, well-spoken, smooth of surface, easy of purse, untiring, supple, and of an inexhaustible good-humor. It was from the ex-medical student that Marrineal had learned of Banneker's offer from the Syndicate, also of his over-prodigal hand in money matters. "He's got to have the cash," was the expert's opinion upon Banneker. "There's your hold on him.... Quit? No danger. New York's in his blood. He's in love with life, puppy-love; his clubs, his theater first-nights, his invitations to big houses which he seldom accepts, big people coming to his House with Three Eyes. And, of course, his sense of power in the paper. No; he won't quit. How could he? He'll compromise." "Do you figure him to be the compromising sort?" asked Marrineal doubtfully.

and kisses her with an affection truly

The rotund figure and energetic face of Sister Slocum is seen, whisking about conspicuously among a bevy of sleek but rather lean gentlemen, studious of countenance, and in modest cloth. For each she has something cheerful to impart; each in his turn has some compliment to bestow upon her. Several nicely-dressed, but rather meek-looking ladies, two or three accompanied by their knitting work, have arranged themselves on a settee in front of the wise man in the spectacles.   Scarcely has the representative of our chivalry entered the room when Sister Slocum, with all the ardor of a lover of seventeen, runs to her with open arms, embraces her, and kisses her with an affection truly grateful. Choking to relate her curious adventure, she is suddenly heaped with adulations, told how the time of her coming was looked to, as an event of no common occurrence-how Brothers Sharp, Spyke, and Phills, expressed apprehensions for her safety this morning, each in turn offering in the kindest manner to get a carriage and go in pursuit. The good-natured fat man gets down from his high seat, and receives her with pious congratulations; the man in the spectacles looks askant, and advances with extended hand. To use a convenient phrase, she is received with open arms; and so meek and good is the aspect, that she finds her thoughts transported to an higher, a region where only is bliss. Provided with a seat in a conspicuous place, she is told to consider herself the guest of the society. Sundry ovations, Sister Slocum gives her to understand, will be made in her honor, ere long. The fact must here be disclosed that Sister Slocum had prepared the minds of those present for the reception of an embodiment of perfect generosity.   No sooner has Lady Swiggs time to breathe freely, than she changes the wondrous kind aspect of the assembly, and sends it into a paroxysm of fright, by relating her curious adventure among the denizens of the Points. Brother Spyke nearly makes up his mind to faint; the good-natured fat man turns pale; the wise man in the spectacles is seen to tremble; the neatly-attired females, so pious-demeanored, express their horror of such a place; and Sister Slocum stands aghast. "Oh! dear, Sister Swiggs," she says, "your escape from such a vile place is truly marvellous! Thank God you are with us once more." The good-natured fat man says, "A horrible world, truly!" and sighs. Brother Spyke shrugs his shoulders, adding, "No respectable person here ever thinks of going into such a place; the people there are so corrupt." Brother Sharp says he shudders at the very thought of such a place. He has heard much said of the dark deeds nightly committed in it-of the stubborn vileness of the dwellers therein.

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