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Uncle Max. 

A Novel. By Bosa Nouchette Carey, author of “ Not Like Other Girls,” 
“ Nellie’s Memories,” etc. 16mo. Half cloth. 50 cents. Paper cover. 25 cents. 

“Like all the previous stories by this author, 1 Uncle Max’ is refined, artistic, and 
decidedly fascinating. The situations are strong, the plot skilfully developed, and, above 
all, there is a purity of style and substance which makes the book elevating as well as 
interesting.” — Baltimore Evening News. 

“The whole book is perfectly enchanting, being one of those restful stories which 
leave an abiding sense of satisfaction with the reader.” — Boston Globe. 

Clinical Manual of Diseases of the Ear. 

By Laurence Turnbull, M.D., Ph.G., President of the Subsection of Otology 
of the British Medical Association at Cork ; Member of the Section of Otology, 
International Congress, Amsterdam. Second Revised Edition. In One Octavo 
Volume of over 500 Pages. With 114 Illustrations. $4.00. 

“ This manual is the most thorough on diseases of the ear that it has been our pleasure to 
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subject or not.” — St. Louis Medical Brief. 

“ The author has greatly improved his work in this edition, and we shall expect it to 
meet a greater demand than ever. It is well issued and worthy of a place in the library 
of all practitioners .” — The American Lancet , Detroit. 



Practical Lessons in Nursing. 

I- — The Nursing and Care op the Nervous and the Insane. By Chas. 
K. Mills, M.D., Professor of Diseases of the Mind and Nervous System in the 
Philadelphia Polyclinic and College for Graduates in Medicine ; Neurologist to 
the Philadelphia Hospital, etc. 12mo. Cloth. $1.00. 

11 It is a work which hundreds will read with profit, and which no nurse can afford to 
be without. The style is clear, lively, sympathetic, thoroughly scientific and interesting, 
earnest and vigorous.” — Philadelphia Teacher. 

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under my charge to obtain it.” — Jennie Dalziel , Head Nurse at Philadelphia Hospital. 

II. — Maternity ; Infancy ; Childhood. The Hygiene of Pregnancy ; the 
Nursing and Weaning of Infants; the Care of Children in- Health and Disease. 
Adapted Especially to the Use of Mothers or Those Intrusted with the Bringing 
up of Infants and Children, and Training Schools for Nurses, as an Aid to the 
Teaching of the Nursing of Women and Children. By John M. Keating, 
M.D. 12mo. Cloth. $1.00. 

“The first part of this book is intended for mothers, — giving them just that sound 
practical advice they so much need, the observance of which must result in healthier 
women and offspring. For her own sake and for the sake of her child, we wish every 
mother had a copy of this book. Doctors, recommend it to your lady patrons.” — Practice , 

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tion ; but what he cannot do this little work does admirably, as a glance at the list of con- 
tents will show.” — Archives of Gynsecology, N. Y. 

III. — Outlines for the Management of Diet ; or, The Regulation of Food to 
the Requirements of Health and the Treatment of Disease. By E. T. Bruen, 
M.D. 12mo. Cloth. $1.00. 

“ Dr. Edward Tunis Bruen, a Philadelphia physician of high repute in his profession, 
is the author of a little book entitled ‘Outlines for the Management of Diet,’ which is 
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requirements of health at different periods of life, tells how to reduce and how to increase 
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without it.” — Charleston News and Courier. 



Nervous Diseases and their Diagnosis. 

A Treatise Upon the Phenomena Produced by Diseases of the Nervous System, 
with Especial Reference to the Recognition of their Causes. By H. C. Wood, 
M.D., LL.D., Member of the National Academy of Science ; author of “ Treatise 
on Therapeutics,” “ Thermic Fever,” “ On Fever,” etc. 8vo. Extra cloth. $4.00. 
Sheep. $4.50. 

“ The work is one that is likely to be of great use, and it certainly marks an. advance 
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“ Lucid language, clear type, a full index, and, above all, the presentation of late 
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The distinguished author is widely recognized as one competent for his task.” — Albany 
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“Of all American works on nervous diseases which we have yet seen, this is the most 
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The Conception of the Infinite , and the Solution 

of the Mathematical Antinomies : A Study in Psychological Analysis. By 
George S. Fullerton, A.M., B.D., Adjunct Professor of Philosophy in the 
University of Pennsylvania. 12mo. Extra cloth. $1.00. 

“ This little treatise is a careful and suggestive examination of the theories of Hamil- 
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Charleston News and Courier. 



A Story for Girls. By Rosa Nouchette Carey, author of “Not Like Other 
Girls.” Illustrated. ■ 

Universal History. 

Being in Three 12mo volumes as follows: 

ANCIENT HISTORY. By George Rawlinson, M.A. 

MEDIAEVAL HISTORY. By George Thomas Stokes, D.D., Professor of 
History in the University of Dublin. 

MODERN HISTORY. By Arthur St. George Patton, B.A., of the Uni- 
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Elements of Modern Chemistry ( Wurtz). 

New Edition , Thoroughly Revised. Translated by W. H. Greene. 12mo. 
Cloth and sheep. 

Manual of North American Birds. 

For the Naturalist and Sportsman. Containing Concise Descriptions of every 
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of the Generic Characters. By Robert Ridgway, Curator Department of 
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$7.50. Sportsman’s Edition. Crown 8vo. Bound in leather. $7.50. 


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their Representative Genera. 




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T HE most interesting and startling event in the life of Mrs. John 
Stanley was that she was born in Boston, — a fact she always 
dilated upon, and always with increasing warmth, whenever she could 
make mentioning it possible. And, since Mrs. Stanley was a woman 
most fertile of resources, no one ever came within the radius of her 
brisk sharp voice without being, at least once, informed of this remark- 
able circumstance. 

Mrs. John Stanley’s husband was only a common farmer; com- 
fortably situated, it was true, but very much inferior to Mrs. Stanley, 
because he had never been outside of Arlington, the little Vermont 
town where the unkind Fates — unkind, at least, in the estimation of his 
wife — sent him into the world. 

A certain spiteful gossip, who had no regard for the delicate sensi- 
bilities of Mrs. John Stanley, declared that that estimable woman owed 
being born in Boston wholly to an accident ; that Mrs. John Stanley’s 
parents and grandparents, and their parents and grandparents, were 
born and reared in Vermont, on the very farm which belonged to the 
husband of the present Mrs. Stanley. These statements, of course, 
occasionally reached the ears of Mrs. Stanley, and on such occasions 
she would smile sweetly and sigh softly. To the still more relentless 
slander that her Boston nativity was due to the fact that it had taken 
place because her mother had at that especial time accompanied her 
husband on a trip which he made to Boston for the disposal of his 
hogs, the present Mrs. Stanley always elevated her nose with unmiti- 
gated scorn. Furthermore, she continued talking of “ Boston, where 
I was born,” as if that was the sole reason for according distinction 
to Boston, until, despite all slanderous statements and insinuations, it 




was the fashion of all Arlington to speak of Mrs. John Stanley as a 
“ Bosting” woman. 

The second important event in the life of Mrs. John Stanley — an 
event which did not take place in Boston — was: the birth of her son, 
about five years after her marriage. Mrs. Stanley, among her numerous 
other accomplishments and tastes, had dabbled somewhat in the classics, 
and she was, too, according to her iterations and reiterations, an enthu- 
siastic admirer of ancient heroes. So it was in no sense strange that 
she named her son Marcus Antonius, in the firm belief that if he wore 
the name he would also acquire the qualities and virtues of this once 
eminent Roman. 

The nerves of Mrs. Stanley, in consequence of her selecting so 
distinguished a name for her son, received two considerable shocks. 
The first was from the clergyman who christened the youthful object 
of Mrs. Stanley’s hopes and aspirations. This ancient but excellent 
man knew more about religion than he did about Latin, and the 
youngster’s name, as it fell from the clerical lips, was a study in pro- 
nunciation which, in spelling, would baffle even the excessively wide 
latitude of the laws of phonetics. The second jar upon the nerves 
of Mrs. Stanley was when her husband, a few days after the christen- 
ing, asserted his authority, for the first time since he had assumed the 
honored position of husband to Mrs. Stanley, and flatly declared that 
“ We’ll jest call this ’ere young un Mark, an’ nothin’ else, an’ leave off 
that air darned heathen nonsense.” 

Mrs. Stanley made vociferous remonstrance, but all in vain. Fail- 
ing, she consoled herself by the thought that her husband was not born 
in Boston, and so could not accept matters after the manner of people 
of true enlightenment. 

While her tears were drying, the stature of the boy gradually in- 
creased ; and in this was new sorrow for the lacerated heart and tortured 
soul of Mrs. Stanley. She was, at last, convinced of the sound judg- 
ment of her husband in insisting, years before, upon the simplification 
of the name of their son. It was now plainly apparent that Marcus 
Antonius would scarcely have fitted him : the plainer Mark was very 
much better. In spite of herself, the barometer of Mrs. Stanley’s ap- 
preciation of her son had, little by little, been lowering ever since she first 
cradled him upon her delighted and hopeful bosom. At first she had 
entertained for him aspirations toward the Presidency. Later develop- 
ments made her more modest, and she thought he might do better, 
owing to certain peculiarities she saw in him, as United States Senator. 
That hope, too, the unfoldings of his mind forced her to relinquish ; but 
she comforted herself, for nearly three years, by persistently maintaining 
that he would yet honor his native State as its governor. But after the 
hard-handed Fates wrung this cherished dream from her, she let slip, 
one after another, the long line of golden possibilities she had once 
deemed his to select from, and she was finally confronted by the incon- 
trovertible fact that Mark, taking him for all that he was worth, and 
making generous allowance at that, would, at most, be only a pro- 
nouncedly indifferent farmer. 

“ He dunno ’nough ter make a stun fence,” said his father, when 



Mark was twenty years old. “ Better sen’ ’im down ter Bosting, ole 
woman ; he mought ’mount ter somethin’ there.” 

There was, however, one thing which gratified Mrs. Stanley exceed- 
ingly. If he was nothing else, Mark Stanley was pious. This was in 
part because of a faint dash of Puritanism which he inherited from one 
of his mother’s Connecticut ancestors ; in part because of the excessively 
religious character of the musty and limited family library ; and in part 
because with his peculiar quality of intellect he could comprehend 
religion better than anything else. 

It was his interest in religion which, indirectly, changed the whole 
course of Mark Stanley’s life. 

Just before he attained majority, there was a religious revival at 
Bennington, which, if rumor might be relied upon, was likely to ex- 
tend throughout New England. So extensive a movement could not 
fail to call out all of Mark Stanley’s enthusiasm, and all through that 
winter he made regular trips to Bennington, once a week, to attend the 
“ protracted meeting.” He found it agreeable and convenient, on each 
of these trips, to stay in Bennington over-night, and in this way he 
soon made extensive additions to his circle of acquaintances. 

In Arlington, his own town, his father’s estimate of him was pretty 
generally accepted, as a father’s estimate usually is when it happens to 
be derogatory, and he was altogether ignored by the girls, who called 
him “Stanley’s calf.” In Bennington the case was very different. 
Female society was his not only for the taking, but it was thrust upon 
him, vigorously and vehemently, whether he wanted it or not. This was 
especially pleasing to him, and he was nothing dismayed by the fact 
that the most of the young women were “ factory-girls.” They were 
attentive to him, and that, since it was so entirely a new experience, 
was quite sufficient. 

The immediate result of all this was Mark’s announcement to his 
parents, the following spring, that he intended marrying a Bennington 
girl at once. Surprise, the first emotion which this admission en- 
gendered, was swiftly merged into consternation when the further dis- 
closure was made that the object of Mark’s adoration was a factory- 

Subsequent investigation concerning this young woman led to dis- 
coveries which wrenched the bosom of Mrs. John Stanley as nothing 
else ever had. 

Mary Harris, whom Mark proposed marrying, was possessed of 
uncommon beauty, and but little else. She was the daughter of a 
farmer, who, dying intestate, left his children to take care of them- 
selves. Mary had three brothers, all of whom were older than herself. 
Her mother had died when she was two years old, and so she had 
grown up with no very definite principles. She was not quite fifteen 
when her father died, a few weeks after which event she and her 
brothers had moved to Bennington, to work in the factories. The 
transition from the quiet, isolated farm, where, free and unrestrained, 
she had lived so entirely with her father and brothers, to the lively, 
bustling town, was a dangerous one for her, in every sense. It was 
a loose, lax life, without limit or outline, and, though it was new, 



strange, and almost incomprehensible to her at first, she soon ac- 
cepted it as a settled and definite whole, and that, too, without criti- 
cism or analysis. Her brothers loved her, and did everything in 
their power for her comfort ; but beyond that they gave her no 
thought. She was still free and unrestrained. Back on the farm, this 
freedom had done her no especial injury. Now, because of it, she was 
overshadowed with every variety of danger and calamity. Worst of 
all, it was all unintelligible to her. The very hopelessness and help- 
lessness of her position were increased — doubled, almost — because she 
was so painfully unconscious of its true significance. 

She escaped much which seemed almost predestined to befall her, 
but wholly because of the thorough ignorance which, in direct opposi- 
tion to what is usual under such circumstances, was her strongest safe- 

These five years in Bennington did most harm to Mary Harris be- 
cause in them the heedlessness and carelessness which, by force of cir- 
cumstances, were her earliest traits, were not only increased, but fastened 
upon her beyond shaking off. Her sins were of omission rather than 
of commission. She had done nothing for which she need blush, but her 
utter failure to grasp and understand the things of life, as they really 
are, deprived her of so much which is, in the best and truest sense, 
womanly, that she was practically unfitted for wife-hood. Living in 
the house with a woman who was a religious fanatic had warped and 
twisted her out of proportion in this way ; while the frequent and in- 
discriminate praising which her beauty had won for her had developed 
her vanity a long way in advance of nearly everything else. 

This was the woman whom Mark Stanley presented to his mother 
as his intended wife. 

Ever since his infancy, her son had been a succession of shocks, or, 
rather, one continuous shock, to Mrs. John Stanley. He had disap- 
pointed all her hopes,— fondest as well as slightest, — and now he was 
about inflicting upon her the severest shock and disappointment of all. 
After talking an hour with Mary Harris, Mrs. Stanley walked out of 
the girl's presence with set lips and a pale face. 

“Mark,” she said to her son, “what can you see in this Harris 
woman to love?” 

“ She is very pretty and very pious ; and ” 

But Mrs. Stanley turned away. Marcus Antonius indeed ! How 
could she have been fool enough to select such a name ? But the fault 
lay with her philosophy. She had expected more than was reasonable, 
and so was bound to meet with disappointment. 

A few weeks later Mark Stanley and Mary Harris were married. 
They went at once to New York, where, in accordance with a plan of 
Mrs. John Stanley's, they were to stay for a couple of months, so that 
Mary would have something else than Bennington gossip to talk of. 

Mark Stanley and his wife reached New York just as the California 
gold craze was at its height. He listened to the fabulous stories of the 
Western wonderland until he was wild with excitement and eager to 
join the vast army of gold-hunters. 

He wrote to his father for money, and received it with a promptness 



which startled him. To John Stanley it was the best way out of the 
difficulty. He looked upon Mark as a thorough failure. His wife, all 
along, had led him to expect great things from their son. And when 
Mark, after all, turned out like the general run of young men — per- 
haps a little below the general run — -he felt as if he had been imposed 
upon, and regarded his wife with contempt, and despised their son. 
Mrs. Stanley objected to her son’s wife because all of that which she 
counted womanly was lacking in the Bennington factory-girl. Her 
husband, less generous, hated “ that Harris gal” because, but for her, 
“ Mark mought hev got hitched ter somebody what had shekels.” If 
the young husband and wife were sent to California, something might 
come of it “ what ’ould set things straight ag’in.” 

That was why the money for which Mark asked came so quickly. 

There was a constant stream of emigrants pouring westward out of 
New York, and Mark Stanley and his pretty wife soon plunged into 
the midst of this enthusiastic tide. These two were happy and con- 
tented with each other, and it made but little difference to them 
whether any third person, no matter who, regarded them kindly or 

The swift railway-trains soon hurried them to the limits of- civiliza- 
tion, and the rest of their journey was more prolonged and fatiguing, as 
they went across the prairies, and up the great plains, with a wagon- 
train. One night, just as they had reached the very foot-hills of the 
Rocky Mountains, a storm of such remarkable violence that none of the 
would-be miners had ever experienced anything like it before suddenly 
swept down upon them. Their guides, hilarious because they had 
reached the mountains without molestation from the Indians, began 
pouring undue quantities of whiskey into their throats that morning, 
and before noon, even, they were helplessly drunk. At nightfall they 
were wholly incapacitated for making camp ready. Had they been 
sober, the calamity which followed might easily have been averted. As 
it was, when the storm was at its height, a war-party of Ute Indians 
suddenly swooped down upon the emigrants, and, with three excep- 
tions, murdered every man, woman, and child in the party. The 
exceptions were Mrs. Stanley, who was spared for her unusual beauty, 
Mark Stanley, and John Dubb, a youthful Maine wood-chopper of 
about seventeen years. The two men were saved because they were 
looked upon as good subjects for the torture-stake. 

As soon as the work of slaughter and thievery was over, the Utes 
pushed forward into the mountains, moving as rapidly as possible 
until daylight, when, for a couple of hours, they went into temporary 

When they resumed their wanderings, the party divided. Half a 
dozen of the hideously-painted warriors took the unfortunate Mary 
Stanley, and went directly south, and the others, with Mark Stanley 
and Dubb, moved northward for a day and a night, and then came out 
of the mountains upon the plains again. 

Mary Stanley was not allowed a single word of parting with her 
husband, and the two were crazed with grief at their cruel separation. 
He was glad of one thing : convinced that he was only saved for tor- 



ture, he felt that he could meet death easier if she was not forced to 
witness it. He understood, perfectly well, that she would be forced to 
accept some chief for a husband, — very likely the one who captured 
them; and he could only hope that death would speedily end her 
misery and suffering. 

At sunset, three nights after the massacre, an Indian scout came in, 
and the party who held Mark Stanley and John Dubb prisoners was 
immediately thrown into a turmoil by the news he brought. The fires 
were put out at once, and the whole camp was made ready for an ap- 
parently expected attack. The two prisoners were made to understand 
that any noise from them would result in their instant annihilation. 

All through the night Stanley lay sleepless, and almost breathless, 
wondering if those whom his captors awaited were soldiers, or only 
savages, like themselves. About two hours before daylight, when the 
Utes were sleeping, there was a sudden rush and a series of fiendish 
yells, which seemed to turn all of Stanley’s blood to ice. The Utes 
sprang up, with answering yells, but altogether too late. In spite of 
their vigilance, their enemies, one of the marauding plains tribes, had, 
by superior cunning, stolen in upon them ; and now, by force of 
superior numbers, the Utes were overcome. The murder of the emi- 
grants, three nights before, was now avenged, but Mark Stanley and 
John Dubb were prisoners to new captors. 

The Indians in whose hands the two survivors of the ill-fated 
party had now fallen started northward, skirting the edge of the moun- 
tains, at a slow pace. A week later they went into camp, where the 
main tributary of the North Platte leaves the mountains. A few days 
afterwards, Stanley and Dubb succeeded in making their escape. 
Dubb volunteered to help Stanley search for his wife, and the two men 
set out along the back track. It is needless to give the details of that 
long, weary search. Sometimes a small party of soldiers would help 
Stanley, but most of the time he and Dubb, assisted always by a 
competent guide, scoured the mountains alone. At the end of two 
years, which made a radical change in the character of Mark Stanley, 
the search for his wife was abandoned. 


To John Dubb the two years following his escape from the Indians 
were like the threading of an intricate and puzzling labyrinth, they 
were in such direct contrast to the kind of life he had known in the 
pine forests of Maine, where it was customary to take whatever hap- 
pened as a matter of course, and to make the most of it. In the 
wild, reckless, uncivilized West, and in the unqualified change in the 
character of Mark Stanley, Dubb saw a vast deal which he could not 
reconcile to the tenets of Maine woods philosophy. Dubb’s mental 
processes were somewhat peculiar. It can scarcely be said that he 
reasoned things out, for he lacked a logical mind ; but there were a few 
stolid principles, or fundamental laws, which, like all other Maine 
lumbermen, he applied to everything. Whatever came without the 
scope of this schedule of measurement he regarded gravely, sometimes 



suspiciously, and on extraordinary occasions — when circumstances were 
in an uncommon degree remarkable — with something as closely akin 
to horror as was in consonance with a man of Dubb’s disposition. 
According to his system of ethics, ill fortune should, whenever it was 
possible and practicable, be remedied : this, however, being sometimes 
out of the question, the unavoidable evil should then be uncomplain- 
ingly accepted as the best thing possible, under the circumstances, and, 
consequently, as exactly the right thing. To his calm, serene mind, the 
only actual, out-and-out evils were resistance of the inevitable, and 
complaint against the irresistible. Of course he never put this into 
words, and, in fact, it never even passed through his mind in the form 
of definite and tangible thought ; yet, in substance, he always felt it, 
and always acted upon it. 

Dubb never seemed surprised, — never startled ; but there were some 
things in this new and undreamed-of Western life which resisted 
encompassment within the limits of his principles of moral harmony • 
and chief among these was the transition which the character of Mark 
Stanley underwent between the time when Dubb first saw him, and 
the giving up of the search for Mrs. Stanley, two years afterwards. 

When the Stanleys were coming across the prairies, and up the 
plains, there were two things about Mark which made strong impres- 
sions upon Dubb. One of these was the young husband’s piety, and 
the other was his openly manifested affection for his wife. Conse- 
quently, when the Indians snatched Mrs. Stanley away, Dubb confi- 
dently expected that Mark would bear his affliction with Christian 
fortitude, and, furthermore, that nothing short of death would ever 
dissuade him from his pursuit for his abducted wife. 

In both of these more or less warrantable conclusions Dubb was 
disappointed. Mark Stanley did not bear the interruption of his do- 
mestic bliss with anything which bore the slightest resemblance to 
Christian fortitude ; and he would have given up the search for Mrs. 
Stanley in less than six months after the Utes took her from him, but 
for the intervention of Dubb. At first, Mark had taken the abduction 
of his wife with the extremest bitterness, and had declared that he 
would never rest until every one connected with the outrage had suffered 
vengeance at his hands. In a few weeks, however, he seemed pro- 
foundly indifferent as to her fate, and ceased to evince any further inter- 
est in the punishment of the Utes. In fact, he merely seemed bent on 
the hatching of excuses for omitting even further mention of his wife. 

On leaving the East, Mark Stanley had possessed himself of a 
comfortable sum of money. The journey westward, and the first six 
months of the search, had deprived him of about half of this, where- 
upon he declared that prolonging the search for his wife any further 
would be silly, useless, and that he could not afford it. » 

Dubb took him so severely to task for this that, as a result, the 
suspended search was resumed and continued for another six months, 
which entirely emptied Stanley’s purse, and took the most of Dubb’s 
money besides. At this time Mark Stanley was most persistent in his 
affirmations that it was foolish to make further expenditure of money 
and time in his wife’s behalf. But he finally yielded to Dubb’s influ- 



ence, and wrote back to his parents, in Vermont, for more money. Half 
of the amount he asked for came, but it came very reluctantly ; and 
Mark’s bitterness was about doubled in consequence. 

It must be admitted that the incidents of the search were very 
disheartening. Almost constant clues to the whereabouts of Mrs. Stan- 
ley were obtained, and, in each instance, following them yielded only 
disappointment. These rumors, which, at first, excited and exhilarated 
him with the most eager hopefulness, soon began having an opposite 
effect. In less than a year after the search for the missing woman was 
undertaken, any fresh bit of alleged news concerning her would only 
exasperate him into rage and fury. And so the brunt of the second 
year of the search fell upon Dubb. Before his eyes was ever the image 
of Mary Stanley, as he last saw her, when the Indians dragged her 
away, grief-stricken and terrified. To leave her to the cruel fate which 
unquestionably had overtaken her, while there was the slightest hope 
of finding her, was, to Dubb, the blackest crime conceivable. 

In answer to one of the guides, who called him a fool for chasing 
up and down the mountains after a woman whose husband was per- 
fectly indifferent as to what befell her, he said, — 

“ Fool enough, maybe, but that don’t make no matter. That poor 
woman, if she am alive, she be looking, all the while, for somebody for 
to come and git her out o’ these here mountings. And if he don’t care, 
that don’t count for nothing with us. She is white, and we am white, 
but we’d be a mighty sight redder nor these here Indian devils if we 
didn’t go and do all as we can do for her. And what be more, I don’t 
see as how as it’s any of your business. You am a guide. You am a 
man what works for money. You works for us, and you gits your 
money for all what you does. But we don’t pay you nothing for any 
talking, only about saving of her. And so you haven’t got no call 
for doing no other kind of talk.” 

Toward the close of the second year of the search, when Mark’s 
money was all gone, and Dubb’s money was rapidly dwindling, the 
former flatly refused to take another step in his wife’s behalf. Dubb 
let Mark rant and rail for a long time before he attempted curbing him ; 
but, as usual, Mark gave in, though with very bad grace. 

“ If, as you say,” he muttered, “ all this is the doings of Provi- 
dence, you can’t deny that Providence has made a bad mess of it. 
What you call the ‘ higher power’ has taken the matter out of my 
hands altogether, and I don’t see why I should concern myself about 
it any further.” 

But he did concern himself enough about it to write home for more 
money, making a strong point of the obligations he was under to Dubb. 
In fact, but for his desire to pay back the money he had borrowed of 
Dubb, he would not have written home at all. 

The answer to Mark’s letter was a very thick package, which led 
him to think that it contained the money he had asked for. Eagerly 
tearing the envelope open, he found that it owed its bulkiness to several 
closely-written sheets of paper, and to nothing else. The much-needed 
money was denied him, but this part of the letter was very brief. The 
most it of was devoted to telling Mark Stanley what a bitter disap- 



pointment he had always been to his parents. The calligraphy was his 
mother’s, but the substance of the letter seemed to have been dictated 
by his father. It closed with the following sententious paragraph : 

“ About your wife, your father entertains a slight doubt, which you 
cannot say is altogether groundless. In the first place, he thinks it 
almost incredible that she should have escaped the general fate of your 
party ; but, granting that, he doubts that the Indians abducted her, as 
you say. He believes that you are living together, and that you are 
using her pretended abduction as a means of extorting money from us. 
While we have this unpleasant feeling about the matter, you certainly 
cannot blame us for deferring further remittances. Furthermore, you 
certainly cannot blame us for so reasonable a doubt. This man Dubb, 
being, as you say, under twenty, is far too young to be intrusted with 
so large a sum of money as the one named by you. If you will tell 
us how to find his parents, or guardian, we will arrange what he has 
loaned in that way, which you cannot deny is very much better than 
sending it to you for him. If your wife is really gone, it may be the 
manifestation of a rebuke from on high, to you, for making a wife of 
so undesirable a person. Your father further suggests that, since such 
glowing accounts are daily reaching us of the fortunes which are being 
made in the California mines, you might proceed on there and obtain 
money for the relief of your wife — if she is lost — by some more repu- 
table means than by borrowing and begging. Trusting that something 
may arouse you to a proper sense of duty, that you will yet do credit 
to your family name, and that you will be reawakened to a sense of ap- 
preciation of your Christian training, we are, as ever, 

“ Your loving parents, 

“ John and Mrs. John Stanley.” 

After a few moments of sullen silence, in which his face grew very 
cold and hard, Mark Stanley read the letter from his parents to Dubb. 

“ It isn’t just quite exactly what you expected,” said Dubb, quietly. 

“ Damn them ! no !” cried Stanley, tearing the letter in fragments, 
and stamping them into the ground. “ It is a long way from what I 
expected, though it is exactly what I ought to have expected. Isn’t it 
sweet ? Isn’t it truly parental ? Remember my Christian training ! 
Do honor to my family name ! I wish to God they were here now ! 
I’d ” 

And then, in an uncontrollable paroxysm of rage, he vented out his 
emotions in a jargon of sounds which bore no resemblance to words. 
Dubb regarded him silently and complacently until the first violence of 
Mark’s tantrum was somewhat subsided, and then he said, — 

“ I don’t seem to be able to see what good you am to git out of 
taking on.” 

“ No good, sure enough ; but what am I to do ? This upsets the 
last stone in the heap. I ” 

“ It don’t upset these here mountings, as I can see,” interposed 
Dubb, glancing at the great snowy peaks which surrounded them. 

“ And what if it did ?” snarled Mark, half guessing Dubb’s mean- 
ing. “ What then ?” 



“ Maybe something, and maybe nothing; we am not just quite 
exactly able to tell. It might help us for to find your wife.” 

“ Find hell !” replied Mark. “ That’s about all we’ll ever find 
here ; and we are apt to find it mighty soon, if we don’t get out of it.” 

“ Likely as not,” assented Dubb, serenely ; “ just as likely as not, 
if that am the way it am meant to be. This isn’t so awfully a nice 
place, Marky, that I be wanting to stay here ; but we am staying here 
to find her, and that be what we must do before we git out.” 

It might have been Dubb’s lack of grammatical directness, or it 
might have been something in his manner, which subdued Mark ; any- 
way, he suddenly became calm, almost to passiveness, in his outward 
demeanor. Yet the pain-lines at the corners of his mouth were tightly 
drawn, and there was a pathetic bitterness in his tones, when he 
answered Dubb : 

“ You do not understand me, my friend, any more than my parents 
understand me. I would sacrifice what the preachers would call my 
immortal soul, if, by so doing, I could put my poor wife back where 
she was two years ago. But that is impossible. I never shall see her 
again. She is lost, forever, from me. I was sure of it within three 
months after they stole her away, and everything which has since hap- 
pened only the more fully convinces me that my idea was right. All 
through this long search, I have known how utterly useless it was. 
And so ” 

“ Wait a minute,” interrupted Dubb. “ Wait just a little minute, 
and tell me if it am not because you was all the while a-thinking that 
what we was doing wasn’t no use, that it has come out in just this here 
way ? Don’t you think it all went bad just because you had it in your 
mind that it would go bad ?” 

“ Sophistry, — downright sophistry,” said Mark, snapping his fingers, 
and frowning. 

“ It may be, it may very easily be,” replied Dubb, “ seeing that I 
don’t know what that thing am what you just said.” 

Mark resumed the thread of what he had begun saying, without 
explaining to Dubb the word which puzzled him. 

“ You see, Dubb,” he said, “ losing her and not being allowed to 
find her is all perfectly natural. It could not be any other way. Life, 
at best, is a thing that is all mixed up. Nobody ever finds it as they 
expect to. The trouble is all in the start. You are taught to believe 
a whole lot of things, and, when that is all firmly settled, all at once 
you begin finding out that these things you have been believing in are 
all wrong, — all lies. Then you set about hunting out things for your- 
self, and you only go over the same race-course on another horse : you 
put your faith in a lot of new things, only to find out that they, too, are 
false. Your lights all go out, and you stand all alone in the dark. 
You don’t dare move, because you can’t see what direction to go in. 
You can’t call out for help, because no one would hear you but those 
who have already deoeived you. If you asked new advice of them, 
they would only tell you new lies. Falsehood and deception are the 
pap and pabulum on which we are all suckled and fed. We get the 
wrong start, because we are given the wrong idea of life. All through 



childhood we are taught things which we have to spend all our lives 
as men and women in unlearning. There is where the great wrong 
comes in. Our parents start us out with the same false views which 
their parents started them out with. They were deceived. Their lives 
were lives of misery and disappointment, because they had false and 
impossible inducements held out. They expected the unattainable, 
missed, necessarily, the fulfilment of their hopes, and so put on, like 
so many garments, maturity and misery at the same time. And what 
then ? They simply keep their lips tight shut on all this, and go on 
and tell their children the same lies that were told them, and plunge 
their children into the same wretchedness which their false training 
forced them into. So it has always been ; so it will always be. No 
one is honest enough to tell the truth. Oh, God ! why does not 
some race breed men and women strong to speak out and end all this 
lying ?” 

Mark had spoken very rapidly, — some of the time almost breath- 
lessly ; and, though Dubb heard him, his slower methods of thought 
made it impossible for him to gather in the full force of what Mark 
had said, without a brief moment of reflection. 

“ Back in Maine,” he said, after a moment, “ I used to git lost in 
the woods, sometimes, because the needle in my compass used to git 
out of fix and point the wrong way. Are you sure there be nothing 
the matter with your compass ?” 

“ You want to know if I am quite sure I am speaking whereof I 
know,” Mark suggested. 

“ Well, not just quite exactly that, but something pretty near like 
it, maybe.” 

“ Listen,” said Mark, with a slight show of impatience, “ and 
judge for yourself. My parents were not only disappointed in each 
other, but in life as they found it. And they were, too, what the 
world calls Christian people. When I came into their home, I dis- 
appointed them, too. They set great hopes on me, but two entirely 
different sets of hopes, with no harmony between them. In a general 
way, they were agreed as to what they wished for me. Individually, 
they were wider apart than the two poles, on this. Had I been what 
my father wished, my mother would have hated me ; had I been what 
my mother wished, my father would have hated me ; as it turned out, 
there were so many cross-purposes in my early training, so much spoil- 
ing of broth by too many cooks, that I missed everything that they 
both wanted, and so they both hate me. Still worse, instead of trying 
to prepare me for life as it really is, — as they found it, — they tried to 
prepare me for life as their parents had told them that it was. Instead 
of fitting me to the world, they sought to fit the world to me. As a 
consequence, they made fresh bitterness for themselves, they spoiled my 
life, and they did both by trying to displace actual life with fictitious 
life. All this had its inception and its fostering out of falsehood and 
unreality, and it could not, possibly, have brought forth any less dam- 
nable fruit.” 

Dubb’s comprehension was quicker this time, and it kept exact 
pace with Mark Stanley’s spiteful, hastily articulated words. 



“ All this may be just as you say it am,” he answered, deliberately 
and calmly ; “ and I make no doubt that you be telling things as you 
know they am. But you can’t never go and change what am not to be 
changed. Maybe I be wrong; just as likely as not I be; but what I 
call being a man am standing what can’t be cured, and not making 
sore shoulders by chafing against the hame-sticks. Anyhow, I can’t 
seem to just exactly see what all this am to have to do with the finding 
of your wife.” 

For a moment, Mark was a little disturbed by what, to him, seemed 
the extraordinary stupidity of Dubb. But his answer was not long in 
coming, and it was delivered in a manner uncommonly cynical, even 
for Mark Stanley. 

“ Dubb,” he said, “ we may as well tear the rags off, and get down 
to the bare facts. I kept up this search for Mary more than three 
times as long as I wanted to, on your account. It only ends up in our 
both getting cleaned out of money, and in my parents calling me a 
thief, — or worse. Mary, if she is alive, is still with the Indians. We 
could never find her if we hunted for her all the rest of our days. And 
— and — I may as well say it, I don’t want to find her. The Indians 
have put all her happiness and mine at an end. We would only be 
wretched if we met, now. Life, henceforth, is hell for us both. We 
may as well spend the rest of our days in the conditions that what you 
call i Providence’ has sent upon us. I have spent the last day and dollar 
I shall ever spend on her account. She has gone to the devil, and so 
have I. To-night I shall start for California. As soon as I can, I 
will pay you what I owe you. In the mean while, I shall endeavor to 
carry out the suggestions in the last part of my mother’s last letter. I 
will do honor to the family name, turn to account my Christian training, 
and keep constantly in mind the fact that my parents, John and Mrs. 
John Stanley, still love me devotedly ! Dubb, old fellow, will you 
quit this God-forsaken country, and push on with me to California ?” 

Dubb shook his head. 

“ No,” he answered, with even more than his customary delibera- 
tion ; “ my money am not quite all gone, — there be a little of it left 
yet ; and while there am any of it, at all, I be going to stay here and 
keep on hunting for Mary Stanley. When my money am all gone, 
then I be going on to the mines to earn some more. I be just always 
going to keep right on looking for her, till I find her.” 

While Dubb was saying this, Stanley’s face underwent a dozen 
changes. It was to him so unaccountable, so remarkable, something so 
entirely beyond his grasp and comprehension, — this persistency, this 
wholly unexpected attitude which Dubb had assumed. Finally, with 
a deeply-drawn breath, Stanley recovered himself. With seemingly 
perfect composure, he gave Dubb his hand, bade him good-by, and 
walked slowly away, with his head inclined slightly forward, in the 
direction where his horse was tied. 

Dubb watched him very calmly, as he walked along up the side 
of the ravine, where they had been sitting on a boulder. 

“ He will come back ; Marky will come back,” he said, two or three 
times, to himself. 



Once and once only did Mark Stanley hesitate. When he was but 
a few paces from his horse, he suddenly came to a stand-still, and moved 
his arms as though he was fighting something out with himself. Then, 
putting his hands over his ears, as if to shut out voices which he feared 
to hear, Mark Stanley started forward on a dead run, untied his horse, 
sprang on it, and rode rapidly away, without once looking back at the 
expectant Dubb. 


While Stanley and Dubb were searching for the missing wife of 
the former, things in general, and especially mining-affairs, in California, 
had resolved themselves out of chaos into definite and tangible working 
order. Business was brisk and earnest ; its boundaries and limits were 
being extended daily, and all of the towns and camps in the new El 
Dorado were instinct with brisk and enthusiastic life. Buies, laws, and 
regulations governed everything, and any swerving or deviating from 
what was now looked upon as the“ proper thing” brought down rigorous 
condemnation upon whoever so offended. Two years before, at the time 
of the disaster to the emigrants with whom Dubb and Stanley crossed 
the plains, all California was rough, wild, and disorganized ; ruffians 
and adventurers had poured in, a considerable degree in advance of 
decent people, and as a consequence there was general lawlessness, and 
personal safety could only be wrenched from the Fates by power of 
efficient arms. 

This thing grew worse, first gradually, and then rapidly, until 
some five or six months before the search for Mrs. Stanley was aban- 
doned, when outraged California underwent what its best citizens called 
a “ revulsion of feeling.” The line between right and wrong was most 
pronouncedly drawn, and this important distinction was not only made, 
but the unconditional observance of it was smartly insisted upon. 
Crimes were gravely considered and duly classified, and severe penalties 
were solemnly affixed as the righteous accompaniment of each. For 
the time being, there was a premium on morality ; and villany, so long 
in the ascendency, was at a discount. This high, just, and lofty sense 
of public duty, dignity, and necessity prevailed, rigidly and vigorously, 
for something over three years, without the slightest lessening or relax- 
ing of the relentless general tension. Even then the modifications were 
insignificant, changes being rung in only to make the matter of govern- 
ment more practical : in fact, the fires which were kindled by that one 
general and tremendous outburst of popular indignation have never 
wholly subsided. 

It was when this intense feeling against law-breakers was at its 
height, that Mark Stanley, reckless and desperate, arrived in California. 

Two months had elapsed since he left Dubb and turned his face 
toward the land of gold. Several times, during his journey ings over and 
among the Sierras, was Mark strongly moved to go back, join Dubb, 
and once more enter into the search for Mary, never relinquishing it 
again until she was either found or her exact fate was determined. One 
night, when he was very much nearer to the California mines than he 
was to the spot where he last saw Mary, his mind was so full of this 



better feeling that she came to him in his sleep, and moved and figured 
in all of his dreams. He was so impressed by this that the next mornr- 
ing, on mounting his horse, he actually set out along the back track. 
His face now lost much of the hardness which, of late, it had taken 
on, and soon it fairly beamed with the enthusiasm his new resolutions 
had awakened in him. He sang a bit of an old love-song, talked 
cheeringly to his horse, and was much nearer happiness than he had 
been before in many months. 

“ Dear old Dubb, faithful old fellow, how glad he will be to see me 
coming back ! ” he said to himself, as he rode straight on, toward the 
east, in the full rays of the rising sun. “ Maybe he has already found 
her. If he has, how awfully it will make her feel to know that I gave 
up the search and left Dubb, alone, to look for her, or forsake her, as he 
pleases ! And it will be all the worse on account of the hard things I 
said to Dubb when I came away ; but then — he would never tell her 
that ! Why shouldn’t he, though ? I deserted her — I deserted him — 

I Go on, old horse ; go faster ! You cannot, if you do your best, 

keep pace with ” 

There was a rumble, a crash, the earth trembled, and Mark’s horse 
stood prancing in his tracks, refusing to go either forward or backward. 
Something caused Mark to look up at the rocky heights above him, 
and one glance sufficed to explain the trembling and rumbling of the 
earth, and the terror of the horse. A gigantic boulder, or fragment 
of rock, had, in some way, been set in motion, near the summit, and 
now it was bearing down upon him with resistless force. A moment 
more, and it would crush Mark Stanley and his unmanageable horse out 
of existence. With a wild cry of terror, the frightened man flung him- 
self backward off his horse, and the same instant the great rocky mass 
whizzed within ten feet of the horse’s very head, and went crashing 
and thundering down the steep mountain-side, on its way to the bottom 
of the cafion, half a mile below. 

Mark was safe from the boulder, but that was not his only danger. 
His horse, completely terrified by so unexpected a proceeding, suddenly 
wheeled around and plunged madly away toward the west. But, in so 
doing, the half-crazed brute, with his first plunge, planted both his 
fore-feet squarely upon the breast of his prostrate master, crushing out 
his consciousness. 

It was nearly noon when Mark Stanley came to. For fully ten 
minutes he could not understand what had happened and why he was 
lying there ; but a full realization of it all suddenly swept over him 
like a flash, and with it all of his old bitterness came back. This was 
about doubly intensified when he found that he could not rise, because 
of his injuries. The heat of the noonday sun, and a strong pull at his 
whiskey-flask, soon relaxed some of the stiffness of his bruised frame, 
but he found it impossible to walk, beyond a few steps, and there was 
no sign of his truant horse anywhere. 

He was certainly in a bad predicament. In his pouch was enough 
food for one meal, and he had his rifle and a few rounds of ammuni- 
tion ; but, bruised and wounded as he was, it would have been an impos- 
sibility for him to use his rifle, either in his defence, if that became neces- 



sary, or in the obtainment of more food. So far as he knew, there was 
no other living soul within a hundred miles of him. When the frag- 
ment of food he had left was gone, he must, unless Providence inter- 
vened, starve ; and his faith in Providence was now among the things 
that, were dead. 

There was no doubt of one thing, in his mind : the end had come. 
He might live there a day or two, and then, if his injuries did not 
wind up the brief period of his mortal career, starvation would. But 
he would not starve ; he still had his rifle ; he would hasten the hap- 
less termination of his miseries in that way. Then he looked down 
over the brink of shelf-like rock along which the trail wound at that 
point, and stared hard into the far depths below him, — almost beneath 
him, the face of the mountain was so precipitous at that point. He 
could, when hunger and pain made their final attack upon his endur- 
ance, fling himself over the rocky shelf and go on down in the straight, 
swift pathway of the boulder which had caused all of his present 
misery. It would be better, he thought, than standing there sullenly 
and shooting himself. At once, and without arguing the matter further 
within himself, he decided upon meeting death in that way. It was so 
much less repugnant than deliberately sending a bullet through his own 
heart or brain ; and, besides, it might not mutilate him ; and he had 
suddenly conceived a strong horror of self-mutilation. He could, too, 
carry out his purpose after nightfall, and so, to his mind, somewhat 
mitigate the significance of it by reason of shrouding it in darkness. 

Working his way, by slow and painful stages, to the extreme verge 
of the shelving rock, he looked, coolly and critically, straight down the 
face of the cliff upon whose brink he was lying. Exactly at that point 
the cliff was so straight, so wholly perpendicular, that a stone, which he 
dropped, fell fully a hundred feet before it struck the strange rocky 
wall ; and then it glanced and made another leap, downward, to so 
great a distance that ft was knocked into small particles when it struck 
the straight-faced cliff the second time. 

Mark watched the success of his experiment with grim satisfaction, 
his rigid features relaxing into a sort of grotesque smile. He calcu- 
lated his chances and probabilities with a complacency which was ter- 
rible. He knew that the rush consequent upon hurling himself a 
hundred feet through the air would rob him of consciousness before 
that swift, unnatural journey was accomplished, and that, if by any 
peculiarity of chance it did not, his first contact with the rock would 
award to him instant death. His dead body would then, in all prob- 
ability, glance off the straight surface of the cliff, just as the stone did. 
It would then, also like the stone, be knocked out of all possibility of 
identification with its former — or, to be more exact, its present — con- 

He had now worked himself up to such a pitch that he really 
enjoyed considering the various details and results of his plan. 

When he had fully settled it in his mind that he would make the 
fatal plunge, he set about reasoning out the best time for the enactment 
of his solitary little tragedy. It was to be done at night. He had 
food enough "for one meal. He would save the food until the next 
Vol. XL.— 23 



morning, when he would make of it not only his last breakfast, but his 
last meal. Then a second thought struck him. Why should he wait 
till the next night ? why not eat what food he had then, and fling him- 
self over the cliff that very night ? The sooner his physical and men- 
tal tortures were over, the better. 

It should be that night. 

From the brink of the shelf-topped cliff, he lay and watched the 
sun. It was about midway down its afternoon course, and he would 
never see it set again. That thought, too, afforded him grim pleasure. 
Then the pain in his chest made him faint with that peculiar kind of 
faintness which hunger best appeases. So he opened his pouch and 
began eating. It seemed to him that food never had tasted so good to 
him before. Perhaps it was because it was his last meal. 

His last meal. 

The thought enveloped him in a degree of dismal melancholy which, 
under the circumstances, was almost ludicrous. Really, it was the only 
association with life which he felt unwilling to sever. Mark Stanley 
set great store by his stomach. Even this, however, was insufficient 
to deter him from his purpose. In fact, when he gave it more thought, 
and duly considered the uncertainty of his ever having anything else 
to eat, it stiffened, rather than affected otherwise, the fixity of his 

When he had devoured his food, even to the last crumb, he looked 
at the sun, and estimated that, since there were yet three hours of sun- 
light, he had about five hours more of life before him. It would take 
two hours, after the sun was down, before the landscape would be en- 
wrapped in perfect darkness, — under the cover of which he intended 
leaping down the cliff into death. 

Just then his reflections were disturbed by the sound of approaching 
hoofs, along the trail, in the direction whence he had come. The air 
was so pure and clear, and the general silence so perfect, that sounds 
were distinctly audible the origin of which was a long distance off. 
Mark Stanley heard the noise of hoofs at least two minutes before he 
saw what was approaching him. 

His first thought was of Dubb. Had that singular, and to him 
incomprehensible, being, given up the search for Mary and decided to 
follow the husband of the lost and unfortunate wife ? Impossible ; for 
had Dubb bent his mind upon any such unlikely purpose, he would 
come from the east, and not from the west. Mark next thought of his 
runaway horse. Perhaps the cowardly beast had forgotten the fright 
which had visited such direful consequences upon its master, and now, 
again remembering that master, was coming back in search of him. 
Very likely. Indeed, most likely ; so Stanley thought. And almost 
at the instant he reached that conclusion, he crawled slowly back to 
where his rifle was lying ; and then, prostrating himself flat upon his 
stomach, he levelled his rifle over a horn of rock, pointing its muzzle 
so that it commanded the western approach of the trail. Whether he 
was moved to do this by a malicious feeling of vengeance against his 
horse, or whether he was afraid that the presence of the living beast 
would eventually weaken him in his suicidal resolution, it is impossible 


to say. That he was bent upon shooting the horse the instant it 
appeared, there can be no doubt. 

But when the horse for which Mark Stanley was watching finally 
did appear, the rifle was hastily uncocked and quietly deposited by its 
owner’s side. It was not Mark Stanley’s horse, and it was ridden by 
a man who looked as if he had reduced shooting to a fine art. Either 
of these reasons might have acted as an incentive against any experi- 
menting with his rifle on the part of Mark ; the two combined certainly 
made apathy in him a foregone conclusion. 

The stranger rode a magnificent horse, and across his arm was a 
fine rifle; but his dress was rough, soiled, and ragged, like that of 
the frontiersman in general ; and Mark had not yet sufficiently over- 
come his Eastern prejudices to regard whoever wore such a uniform 
without some feeling of suspicion. In this case the distrust was further 
warranted by the stranger’s deeply-grooved and sinister face. There 
were lines up and down his forehead, and also across it, in nearly every 
conceivable direction. His cheeks, or as much of them as his heavy 
brown beard exposed, were marked in the same erratic fashion. He 
was dark, almost to swarthiness, with sun-burn and tan ; and the 
queerest part of his remarkable physiognomy was the fact that his 
skin, in these singular lines, grooves, and creases, was about ten shades 
darker than it was at any other visible point. The effect was much as 
if he had had these depressions painted with a marking-brush. His 
eyes, too, had a droop which at first seemed sleepiness, but which at a 
second glance appeared more like craftiness. It gave one the impression 
that this uncanny droop was something which he had cultivated for the 
purpose of concealing, for some important reason of his own, the upper 
part of his eyes. This impression was materially heightened by the 
broad, shaggy brows which overhung his eyes, and also by the still 
more shaggy mass of tangled brown hair which straggled down, in 
wild, uncombed profusion, from his great square head. 

He was riding along with the utmost deliberation, and was seen by 
Mark several seconds before he saw Mark. In truth, he had such an 
effect upon the disordered nerves of Mark that that worthy earnestly 
hoped that the unknown horseman would pass by without seeing him. 
But he did not. 

“ Hullo, stranger,” said the horseman, suddenly reining his beast 
up. “ What seems to be the row ?” 

“ The row is that my horse walked all over me and then ran away 
and left me here to die,” answered Mark, rather feebly. 

“Wa’al, that’s too bad,” rejoined the man of the hair and rags, 
dismounting. “ Where does yer seem ter be hurted wust ?” 

Mark explained the circumstances, as briefly as he could, and 
allowed the stranger to open his clothes and examine him. 

“ Guess yer breathin’ appyrattus is kinder knocked outer tune, but 
they don’t ’pear to be no bones broken. I’ll jest put ye on my hoss 
an’ tote ye back to camp. ’Tain’t very fur from here, an’ it’ll be a dum 
sight more comfortable than lyin’ here.” 

“ To camp ! — why, are you a miner ? Am I in California, then ?” 
exclaimed Stanley. 



“ You bet, stranger. This is Californy. Look jest as fur as ye 
can, an’ ye can’t see nothin’ but Californy. An’, stranger, these ’ere 
mountings is jest chuck full o’ gold. Some on ’em, like enough, is the 
solid yaller stuff itself.” 

By this time the brawny fellow had picked Stanley up and set him 
on the horse. Then, climbing up behind Mark, he spoke to the horse, 
which, out of seeming deference to Mark’s injuries, moved cautiously 
along the trail toward the point where Mark had encamped the night 

“ Stop a moment, my friend,” said Mark, suddenly. 

“ What’s the matter? Does ridin’ hurt ye? Is yer pains an’ sich 
gittin’ wuss ? ’Cause if they am, I’ll jest put yer down here, an’ hustle 
quick inter camp, an’ git some o’ the boys ter come an’ help me tote yer 
the rest o’ the way in a rag. I’d ’a’ done it in the fust place, on’y 
I thought this ’ould be quicker.” And he dismounted as he finished 

“No, no; not that,” answered Mark : “I am comfortable enough, 
thanks to your kindness. But what is the use of your putting your- 
self to all this trouble? I have no money — and ” 

“ Let up, let up,” said the man, climbing back on his horse again. 
“ Who in thunder axed yer fur money ? Do yer think we fellers runs 
a nussery, or a hosspittle, an’ that I was out huntin’ up subjecks when 
I seen you? No, sir. This is Californy; an’ Californy is a white 
man’s country. Lots o’ things is free here, even ter preachin’. I’ll 
tote ye inter camp, an’ we’ll feed ye an’ fix ye up. When ye gits over 
bein’ danced on by yer hoss, ye can stake out yer little claim, an’ dig 
all the money ye wants, outen the rocks. Er, ef ye don’t like that, 
I’ll let yer work some in my claim. I’ll grub-stake ye, anyhow, an’, 
’casionally, I’ll chuck in some yaller dust.” 

“ What part of California are we in?” asked Mark, an hour after- 
wards, when, just as the sun was setting, the two men rode into the first 
mining-camp that Mark Stanley ever saw. 

“ This here is Red Mounting, an’ these is the Red Mounting mines,” 
was the answer. “ By the way, stranger, fur convenience, let me tell 
ver that they calls me Droopy in this country. ’Tain’t my real name, 
in course ; that is, I mean, it ain’t my christenin’-name ; but the boys 
calls me Droopy ’cause my eyes is kinder cut on a bias. ’Tain’t alius 
healthy ter ax a man his name, in this country, an’, in course, I don’t 
ax yer what yours is ; but yer can do as yer like ’bout tellin’ me what 
yer wants the boys ter call ye, though more likely ’n not they’ll hitch 
some new name to yer what yer mother wouldn’t know yer by.” 

Mark answered by telling Droopy his real name, but it was plain 
to see that Droopy did not believe him. 

The Red Mountain miners gave Mark Stanley a cordial greeting. 
In a few weeks he was entirely recovered from his injuries, and able to 
work. He soon decided that mining was not the avenue along which 
he would pass to fortune. It was hard work, and its profits were a 
matter of vast uncertainty. He reached Red Mountain in the early 
part of J une, and the last of August he left it for San Francisco. Be- 
fore going, he took Droopy into his confidence, telling every bit of his 



history from first to last, and ending it with the following summary 
and deductions : 

“ You see, Droopy, all ray troubles have come out of my believing 
in the religious rubbish which my parents taught me, and out of the 
sneaking, soulless way in which they used me. As a result, I married 
a woman whom, but for my parents and the false training which they 
gave me, I never would have even seen. Then they let me come West 
and lose my wife by a worse means than death. Why did they let me 
come ? Clearly, since they are rich, was it not their duty to keep me 
and my wife near them, instead of sending us out here, like so much 
baggage ? They made me exactly what I was, at that time, and the 
job didn’t suit them : so, to get rid of me, I was allowed to come 
West, without their ever having given me, as a defence and safeguard 
against mistakes and errors, the least practical knowledge of life.” 

“ Maybe,” interposed Droopy, “they didn’t give it because they 
didn’t have it ter give. Ye can’t get no blood outen a stun.” 

“ Nonsense,” continued Mark : “ their desire was to make me as 
artificial as the kind of life for which they designed me. Because I 
was born with natural impulses, and could not, for lack of genius, 
change them for unnatural ones, they hated me. Now my life is a 
wreck. It is worse than useless, so far as my ever doing any good 
is concerned. You might better have let me go over the cliff. It 
would have saved you trouble, — and disaster too, if I stayed here much 
longer. You see, I have only to get fond of a person to have some 
calamity befall them. It robbed my wife of what she held dearest ; 
it deprived Dubb of his money ; it would bring some similar thing on 
you, if I was not going away. As it is, half of the camp looks on you 
as a fool for doing so much for me. If I go, you may regain caste 

“ I ain’t got no idee what yer means by caste, but don’t yer go ter 
gettin’ yer vittals riled up with any notion ’bout me an’ the boys. If 
yer goin’, I’m right smart sorry, ’cause I likes yer, an’ I’ll miss yer, 
a heap. Ye’ve got a kinder pizen way o’ talkin,’ sometimes, but 1 
s’pose yer can’t help it. I’m powerful sorry ye ain’t had better luck 
a-minin’, but I hopes ye’ll jest strike it rich in Frisky. Like’s not 
ye’ll be guv’nor o’ Californy yet.” 

“ If I am, it will come to me from the devil,” said Mark, savagely : 
“ nothing like success ever comes to me from any other source. What- 
ever I try to do right, only goes wrong and gets me in trouble. It 
was so when I got married ; when I came West ; when I tried to find 
my lost wife ; when, after giving up the search, I decided to go back 
and try it again ; and, also, when I tried to earn a competence, honestly, 
here. Every other man in camp was making money, by the fistful, at 
my very side, every day ; I, as you well know, couldn’t earn my salt. 
But for your charity I would have starved. Now I am going to make 
money, by no matter what means. As to that, henceforth, I shall be 
indifferent. If riches come to me honestly, all right ; if dishonestly, 
all right ; but come they shall.” 

“Oh, pard, pard,” exclaimed Droopy, “that’s ag’in’ all sense and 
reason. I ain’t eddicated, an’ can’t rattle off things glib, like you ; 



but I knows jest a little bit better’n that. I don’t want ter hurt yer 
feelin’s by sayin’ onything onkind when yer goin’ away ; but I mus’ 
tell yer that yer makin’ a powerful mistake. Ye knows a dum sight 
better’n to go an’ say yer goin’ ter git money onyway. It’ll git ye 
behind stun walls an’ iron bars, or hitched on the eend of a rope, er 
shot so full o’ bullet-holes ye’ll look like a kullindur. If yer bent on 
devullin’, ye’d better skip back East. The road ter hell in this country 
is a mighty short one. Californy law is shorter and smarter nor a 
hornet’s tail. They is one thing in the Bible I alius foun’ true, an’ 
that is, honesty is the bes’ polursy ! It ain’t in the Bible ? Oh, well, 
’scuse my ignerrunce. It’s jest as true as if it was in the Bible. Now 
lis’en ter me, pard ; I’ll make a propersition to yer. Jest stay here, 
an’ work with me. Startin’ with ter-morrow, half o’ my claim, an’ so 
on, is yourn. We both ’ll jest pitch ir* an’ do all we can. Five year 
frum now, ef ye foller out my idees, ye’ll be a millinery — well, mil- 
lionaire, then, if that’s w r hat it is. What ye have ye’ll come by 
honestly, an’ then ye’ll feel all right about it. What d’ye say, pard ?” 

“ That you have the softest heart and head in the world,” said Mark, 
warmly. “ You are so generous that you take my breath. But I 
can’t accept what you offer. It would, to me, be lowering my man- 

“ The hell it would !” answered Droopy, losing a little of his temper. 
“ Ef yer goes on in the wild way yer jest was dilatin’ in, a minute 
ago, yer manhood ’ll git lowered in ’bout six feet o’ groun’, in a pine 
box. A man what says he’s goin’ ter have money onyhow, an’ then 
snuffs up his nose at an honest chance what’s gin him by a man what 
likes him, I can’t make out. Looky’ here : ef yer stays with me, an’ 
works the claim with me, an’ we makes it pay, an’ we on’y divides up 
what we makes arter this, it’s nothin’ more nor less nor a straight biz- 
ness transaction. The groun’ belongs ter nobody in pertickler, an’ is 
as much yourn as it is mine. Cornin’ down ter the finest p’int, the law 
on’y makes it mine ’cause I got here fust ; an’ you, ’cordin’ ter what 
yer jest said, don’t set no great stakes by law, so that needn’t gin ye any 
sleepless nights. Now, then, ef yer am the man I took yer fur, ye’ll 
jest gin up goin’ to Frisky, ter make yerself a hull lot o’ trouble, an’ 
stay here an’ salt down somethin’ yaller ag’in’ yer old age.” 

“ I am sorry, very sorry,” said Mark, “ that I can’t see it as you 
do, but it would not leave me either my self-respect or my independ- 
ence ” 

“ Come, now,” growled Droopy, thoroughly disgusted with Mark’s 
quibbling, and the lack of sincerity in his tone and manner ; “ why 
don’t yer come out squar’ an’ flat-footed an’ say what yer means, jest 
like a man ? Why don’t yer say that yer am too damned lazy to work, 
an’ that yer wants ter git inter stealin’, er gamblin’, er somethin’ else 
what’s easier? What yer says don’t hang at all together. Ef yer 
folks gin ye the wrong start, an’ I reckon they did, ye naturally had 
’nough sense ter set yerself straight at the same time when yer had 
’nough sense ter see as how it was wrong. That was the time ter start 
out swingin’ on yer own gate. If ye likes yer tea clear, an’ somebody 
puts in sugar, yer ain’t ’bleeged ter dump out the sugar an’ chuck in 



wormwood. If yer folks did make things bad for ye, yer didn't need 
ter make 'em wuss. They on'y gin ye a bad start. They aint bizzy 
with yer now. If ye stan' on a hill what's got a frog-pond at the 
bottom, an' somebody gives ye a boost an' tries ter send yer down inter 
the mud, yer ain't 'bleeged ter go no further nor the speedin' what they 
gin ye sends yer. Yer ain't got ter brace fur it, an' run on, as hard as 
ye can, an' jump in the frog-spawnin', on yer own account. That 
'ould be actin' like a dum fool, an' that's jest what yer doin' ! Life 
ain't a bowlin'-alley, an' ye ain't a ball what has been flung an' can’t 
git outen the track. Ye've had a bad start, but many a man has had a 
wuss one. Yourn can't even hold a candle to mine. But I don't go 
broodin' over hard luck. I jest spits on my han's, an' rolls up my 
sleeves, an' sails in, an' makes one thing work, ef another won't. Yer 
young an' smart ; an' now jest stay here, an' gin up this nonsense, for- 
git all this talk, an' we'll make a fortin outen this old mounting. Say, 
now, pard, will yer stay ? Put 'er there an' say yes." 

Stanley took Droopy's outstretched hand, and winced at the grip 
which the miner gave it. 

“ Ye'll stay — hallerluyer !" yelled Droopy. 

But Mark shook his head. 

“ I cannot," he said, shamefacedly. 

Droopy let the other's hand fall. 

a I'm diserp'inted," he said ; and then he walked slowly away. 


About two weeks after the departure of Mark Stanley from Bed 
Mountain, the California newspapers were all filled with one theme. 
Floyd Maydew, an important Eastern capitalist, was coming to San 
Francisco to interest himself in a stupendous mining-scheme. He 
would bring with him, besides an enormous amount of ready cash, an 
enormously beautiful daughter. Miss Maydew was young and talented, 
and, because of the delicate health of her father, she had made herself 
a thorough-going business-woman. She attended to the most of her 
father's banking-affairs, and was even a much shrewder adept in general 
financiering than Mr. Maydew himself, — which was saying a great deal. 
Indeed, such was his confidence in her ability and judgment that it was 
stated, on good authority, that none of the Maydew funds would be 
invested in California unless, after careful consideration, Miss Maydew 
was convinced that such an investment would be judicious. 

That being the case, all San Francisco was burning with eagerness 
to please and conciliate the pretty little lady. 

Among those most interested in bringing about a result so happy 
for California was Judge Desborough, one of the principal mine-owners 
and a noted dabbler in mining stocks. His anxiety was so openly 
expressed that it soon became almost as common a topic of conversation 
as the Maydews themselves. 

One evening, three or four days before the arrival of the Maydews, 
Judge Desborough had a caller, who did not give the servant who 
answered his ring either his name or his card. This was not at all 



remarkable, in the judge’s experience : so the unknown caller was 

He was a man with sandy hair, complexion, and beard, and he had 
large brown eyes ; which struck the judge as an unusual combination. 

“ Are you Judge Desborough?” asked the stranger, before seating 
himself in the chair to which the judge courteously pointed. 

“ I am,” was the answer, and then the stranger sat down. 

“ Before I tell you my name,” he said, “ I must ask if you have 
any particular interest in having the Maydews invest in a certain Cali- 
fornia mining-scheme ?” 

“ That, sir,” answered the judge, “ is a most extraordinary question.” 

“ Exactly,” agreed the stranger. “ It is more than that, — it is an 
impertinent question, — or it would be if it were not an outcome of 
more than ordinary circumstances. I have a reason for asking the 
question, which, if I am rightly informed, is even of more importance 
to you than it is to me. You are a lawyer, so you will respect me for 
not wishing to ‘ give my case away.’ If you are anxious to have the 
Maydew funds remain in California, I can be of incalculable service to 
you ; if you have no such interest, I will bid you good-evening, and 

The judge regarded his visitor with amazement, leaning toward him 
to scan him the more closely. 

“ Who the devil are you, and what kind of a trap are you trying to 
lead me into ?” he at length blurted out, scowling savagely. 

" You seem to see occasion for the use of violent language,” observed 
the stranger : “7 do not.” 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” exclaimed the judge, quickly ; “ but you 
clean surprised me out of my wits. You see, I don’t quite understand. 
Yes — I — I have the strongest reasons for wishing that the Maydews 
might stay here, or at least make the proposed investments.” 

“ Thank you,” returned the stranger, coolly ; “ now we will get to 
business. You are aware, of course, that there are no Maydew invest- 
ments which are not advised or approved by Miss Maydew. If she 
says so, the intended business here will be consummated : if she says 
otherwise, it will not. I suppose that you already understand that ?” 

“ Perfectly, sir ; perfectly.” 

“ Very good. Well, Judge Desborough, if Miss Maydew likes the 
prospects here, of her own accord, you will have no occasion for my 
services ; if she does not, however, take kindly to things, I can help 
you out.” 

“ You?” 

u j » 

“ How ?” 

“ All in good time, my dear sir : if your checkers are jumped off 
the board so fast, you won’t get any in the king-row.” 

“ Don’t fire analogy and hyperbole at me in that fashion, young 
man,” snarled the judge. 

“ The Maydews,” resumed the other, “ by reason of influence which 
I can bring to bear if I choose, will invest here in the much-talked-of 
mining-scheme. If, though, I use my influence the other way, they will 



take their money back East again, and stay there with it. I will be 
either a stepping-stone or a stumbling-block, as you will. If my 
services are enlisted, my fee will be fifty thousand dollars, payable, in 
gold, when it is proven to you that their investment is made by reason 
of my influence. Is there any analogy or hyperbole in that ?” 

The judge sat back in his chair, too much astonished to speak. For 
fully two minutes the two men sat and looked at each other in dead 

“ What may I call you?” asked the judge, finally, trying to over- 
come his embarrassment. 

“ You may call me by my name, — Mark Stanley, or, to be more 
precise about it, Marcus Antonius Stanley.” 

“ How much time, Mr. Stanley, will you give me to consider your 
remarkable proposition ?” inquired the judge, in tones which showed 
him to be wavering. 

“ Fifteen minutes,” said Mark, promptly. 

“ Isn’t that rather narrowing things down ?” 

“ It’s more time than you would allow me for a speech, if I was 
condemned for murder, in your court,” said Mark, frigidly. 

The judge’s face reddened a little. 

“ I will tell you what I will do, Mr. Stanley,” he said, after a brief 
pause. “ If you can bring about what you say, I will hand you, as 
soon as the important result is reached, one-half of what I expect to 
make out of the transaction, which will be twenty-five thousand dol- 

“ Desborough, Desborough,” said Mark, reflectively. “ It don’t 
sound like a Jewish name, but ” 

“ Damn you, sir,” cried the judge, springing up out of his chair, 
“ you are the most exasperating man I ever met.” 

“ Which, I suppose,” said Mark, rising, “is equivalent to telling 
me to go to the devil.” 

“ Not in the least, sir,” expostulated the judge, regaining his good 
humor ; “ not in the least, sir. This Maydew matter is one of such 
vast importance to me that I am forced to accept your terms, monstrous 
and extravagant as they are. We will have the agreement drawn up 
and signed to-night, and we will then deposit it, for safe-keeping, in 
whatever bank you please.” 

“ Why not make two copies of the agreement, and you keep one, 
and I the other ?” suggested Mark. 

“ Oh, no,” said the judge : “ I could not think of arming you with 
such a document. You might, for all I know, be a sharper, and use it 
against me in some blackmailing scheme. It would ruin me, if my 
friends and acquaintances saw my name to such a paper. ” 

“It would ruin me, also,” said Mark, “if my friends the Maydews 
saw my name to such a document. You seem to forget that I, also, 
have a reputation at stake.” 

“ In the East, maybe, but not here, Mr. Stanley : you are a total 
stranger here, even to me. I have an established local reputation at 
stake. It is as dear to me as a woman’s honor ; as dear as a woman’s 
honor, sir. Can’t you see the difference in our positions ? It is very 



manifest, Mr. Stanley ; very manifest. Why, sir, I don’t even know 
that a word that you have said to me is true ; you haven’t shown me 
that it is. Your whole purpose may be to get my name to a document 
that you can use to my detriment. You see, sir, you have given me 
only a stranger’s unsupported word for all of this extraordinary stuff. 
You have given me no proof, even, that your name is Stanley ; your 
name may not be Stanley ” 

“ No,” interrupted Mark, sarcastically ; “ my name may not be 
Stanley; it may be Smith. Very likely it is Smith. I’d call it Smith, 
anyhow, just to please you, if it wasn’t such a damned ordinary name. 
But we won’t argue the point further. Draw the agreement, and we 
will sign it, as you say. Its disposition can be arranged upon after- 

“ Certainly, sir, certainly,” assented the judge. “ Let me see ; our 
agreement is that you are to have, from me, the sum of fifty thousand 
dollars, if the Maydews, by reason of your influence, make such invest- 
ments here as the newspapers say that they contemplate making. If 
they fail to do this, or if I am not shown that the money which they 
may expend here would not have been so expended but for you, then, 
sir, then, Mr. Stanley, our contract is null, void, and dead. Is that 
satisfactory, sir? Will such a written instrument make you feel that 
you are duly protected ?” 

“ Yes. Draw it and sign it,” said Mark, “ and I will sign it also. 
To-morrow morning I will come here and accompany you to some 
bank, where we will leave this document, securely sealed, with the 
understanding that neither of us can remove it without the full consent 
of the other.” 

The judge smiled blandly. 

“ Mr. Stanley, I admire your thoroughness,” he said ; “ I most 
heartily admire your thoroughness.” 

When the agreement was drawn, Judge Desborough asked if he 
should read it aloud. 

“ I prefer reading it to myself,” replied Mark. “ My eyes, I have 
no doubt, will serve me quite as well as my ears.” 

Again the judge complimented what he called Mark Stanley’s un- 
erring sagacity. 

After the agreement was signed, the judge asked if Mark was 
willing to disclose the nature of his influence over the Maydews. 

“ When you see her, ask Miss Maydew if she ever heard of me,” 
answered Mark, as he picked up his hat and left the room. 

The next morning, at nine o’clock, Mark Stanley again rung Judge 
Desborough’s bell. 

“ Let me see, let me see, — oh, ah, it is Mr. Stanley,” said the judge, 
a little affectedly. 

“ Mr. Smith, you mean,” said Mark. 

The judge laughed, a nervous, cackling little laugh, without any 
mirth in it. 

“ Mr. Stanley, you are inclined to be a bit facetious ; and it is 
becoming in you, too, sir, — quite as becoming as your remarkable 



“ Have you got the paper ?” asked Mark. 

“The — the morning paper? Would you like to see it? I will 
find it for you.” 

“ I mean the paper which we drew up and signed here in this room, 
last night. I would like to see that. You may find that for me, if 
you will be so kind.” 

“ That ? Oh, yes ; that is in my pocket ; securely buttoned in, sir ; 
all ready to be deposited in the bank. The carriage is waiting for us 
at the door, now ; pardon my suggesting it, but suppose we set out for 
the bank at once.” 

“ In a moment,” said Mark. “ One thing at a time. I wish ” 

“ You wish some wine, sir,” interrupted the judge. “ Certainly, 
sir. How heedless of me not to have thought of it ! I will ring for 
it this instant, sir.” 

“ Spare yourself the exertion, judge. Hand me the agreement, if 
you please.” 

“You wish to ” 

“ I wish to see how it looks by daylight.” 

“ But, sir, it’s all securely sealed and endorsed, ready for deposit in 
the bank, sir. And, besides, it is getting late.” 

“All securely sealed, is it? All right, judge, we will break the 
seals, then, and seal them over again. You can take the value of the 
extra sealing-wax and time out of the fifty thousand, when you pay 

Very reluctantly, and with a very red face, the judge produced the 
package from his pocket, and suffered Mark to take it. 

The seals were broken, but, instead of the agreement between Mark 
Stanley and Judge Desborough, the package contained some mining 
notes and memoranda, which had nothing to do with Mark. 

“ You have made a slight mistake,” said Mark, coolly, tossing the 
document to the judge. 

By this time Judge Desborough’s face was purple, but he glanced 
at the paper with well-feigned surprise, though he looked as if he had 
been caught stealing a horse. 

“ How singular !” he exclaimed ; “ how very, very singular ! I 
can only account for it in one way, sir, and it is really a most shame- 
ful, I might almost say disgusting, way, too, sir. You see, Mr. Stanley, 
after you went away, last night, some of my friends came in. We had 
a few games, a few very innocent games, sir, but we poured too frequent 
and perhaps too copious libations, sir. Yes, sir ; we used a deal of 
wine, sir ; and it was very fine old wine, too, sir. I never have any 
other kind in my cellars, Mr. Stanley. Well, sir, wine always affects 
my sight, and a most lamentable annoyance it sometimes is to me, too, 
sir. So it proved last night. After my friends went away, I happened 
to think that leaving such a document as the one we drew, unsealed, in 
a compartment in an ordinary desk, would be a very injudicious pro- 
ceeding. So I went to my desk and got out this document, thinking, 
of course, that it was the one that you and I had drawn. Then I 
sealed it and put it in my coat-pocket. This morning, without dis- 
covering my mistake, I endorsed the envelope, exactly as you now see 



it. It is with feelings of the most profound humiliation, Mr. Stanley, 
that I confess to allowing cards and wine to run me into so embarrassing 
a mistake.” 

“ Under the circumstances,” said Mark, “ I think it a perfectly 
natural mistake.” 

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Stanley; yes, indeed, sir. I earnestly hope 
that there will be no feeling in your mind that I did this thing inten- 
tionally ?” 

“ Don’t speak of it,” smiled Mark : “ a man of established reputa- 
tion, like yourself, certainly would not act so contemptibly with an 
unknown stranger.” 

The judge’s face beamed. 

“ You do us both, honor and credit,” he said. “ You add another 
to your list of admirable attributes, — generosity. Sagacity, facetious- 
ness, generosity. A wonderful galaxy of virtues in so young a man, 
Mr. Stanley. Ah, my dear Mr. Stanley, we must know each other 
better. We must indeed.” 

A few days later the Maydews came, and to them were devoted the 
attentions of whoever was interested in California as a mining State. 
They were feasted, toasted, serenaded, flattered, worn out with pretty 
sayings and pretty doings. 

“ It’s because of our social position in the East,” said Mr. Maydew. 

“ It’s because of our money,” declared his fair daughter, with far 
more accurate foresight. 

All of this time, Mark Stanley kept delightfully in the background, 
and never once presented himself, either to Judge Desborough or to 
the Maydews. His so doing made the judge believe that Mark 
Stanley was an impostor. He could not understand why a man who 
seemed to be playing for such high stakes should keep so abominably 
still. But Mark was deeper than his legal associate thought : he was 
waiting until Miss Maydew found the attentions she was receiving 
nauseous. He did not have long to wait. In less than two weeks 
after her arrival in San Francisco, Miss Maydew regretted ever leaving 
the East. Before another week elapsed, she had so emphatically and 
so openly expressed this feeling that all California despaired of inter- 
esting the Maydews in Western mining-affairs. 

At this time, Mark and the judge met in the street, one day. The 
judge fairly bristled the moment he saw Mark. 

“ Well, sir,” he said, “ things have come to a fine pass, haven’t 
they? The Maydews are going back East again. If you have any 
of your boasted influence with them, why in hell don’t you exert it, 
sir ?” 

“ Softly, old man,” said Mark ; “ step softly and breathe low. 
Things are going just exactly as I knew they would, — just exactly as 
I wished them to. You people here have pitched in and made Cali- 
fornia intolerable to the Maydews. They are getting more and more 
sick of it, every day. When they can stand no more, and begin pack- 
ing their trunks to go home again, as they very soon will, then my 
tinje comes ; then I will have you just where I want you. Then you 
will squeal like a hog with his tail shut in a gate.” 



“ Good God, sir,” cried the judge, excitedly, “ that is exactly the 
state of things now ! They are getting ready to go East. The time 
for you to do something has come. I — I do squeal, sir ; I do squeal. 
Do you hear me, sir ? I do squeal. What is to be done, sir ? I — I 
am yours to command.” 

“ Now you are talking, old man,” rejoined Mark, but with an air 
of listlessness and indifference which was entirely out of keeping with 
his words. “ You must call on Miss Maydew to-night — are you lis- 
tening ?” 

“ Yes, yes ; go on, Mr. Stanley ; do go on, sir.” 

“ Very good. You are to call on her to-night; you are to see her 
alone ; you are to say to her that her old friend Mark Stanley is in this 
city, in distress. If your sight is not affected by wine, as it was the 
other night when you sealed up the wrong document, you are to note 
the effect of that disclosure upon her. You are also to make an ap- 
pointment for me to meet her to-morrow afternoon.” 

“ Why not make it to-morrow morning ?” exclaimed the impatient 
judge. “ What is the use of waiting until afternoon ? It’s clearly a 
waste of valuable, very valuable, time.” 

“ Because,” answered Mark, “ to-morrow morning I have a little 
business to transact with you, at the bank.” 

“ At the bank ? Do — do you want some money ?” 

“ Not quite yet. I want that document safely in my trousers- 
pocket before I stir a single step in this Maydew matter.” 

“ The document you and I drew up that night, Mr. Stanley ? Is 
that the one you mean ?” 

“ Certainly,” said Mark ; “ I am not at all interested in any other 
document which in any way concerns you.” 

“ But, Mr. Stanley,” expostulated the judge, “ I thought we had 
arranged upon leaving that at the bank until matters were settled, 
either one way or the other. Why should the plan be changed now ?” 

“ Because you are an infernal old scoundrel, and will cheat me out 
of my own skin unless I keep both eyes well on you,” answered Mark. 

“ Really, Mr. Stanley,” remonstrated the astonished judge, “you 
are putting it on too thick, — much too thick.” 

“ That,” was Mark’s reply, “ is because your little game is too 
thin, — much too thin. But now to open this keg of nails. If you 
surrender that document to me to-morrow morning, I will play out my 
hand and help you and the rest of California to scoop the Maydews in. 
If you don’t give me possession of that now important piece of paper, 
the Maydews may go back East, or where else they please, for all me, 
and you may go to the devil. I’ll even cheat you out of the price of 
that extra sealing-wax. No, no ; don’t say a word, now ; talking 
won’t do you a bit of good. Be at the bank at nine o’clock in the 
morning. Miss the appointment at your peril. What little there is 
to be said can be said then. Good-day, judge.” 

That night the judge called on Miss Maydew. She was bored by 
his call, and took no pains to conceal it. After about ten minutes she 
arose and asked to be excused. Then the judge asked if she knew 
Mark Stanley. At once she was all interest and animation. 



“ Know him? Yes. He saved my life, five years ago. What do 
you know about him ? Is he here ? Where can he be found, and 
what is he doing? Do answer me, will you?” 

“ I beg your pardon,” said the judge, “ but you crowded questions 
on me so fast, I had no chance to answer. He is here in San Francisco, 
and is in trouble, — out of money, I think. I can send him to you to- 
morrow afternoon.” 

“ Do,” commanded the girl ; “ or, if you fail, never let me see your 
face again. Mark Stanley, and here in California ! How delightful ! 
Here is at least one man who will talk to me of something else than 
mines, and investments, and business prospects. Be sure, Judge Des- 
borough, that you send him to me to-morrow afternoon, and as early in 
the afternoon as possible, too. Now good-night ; go away and leave 
me ; but don’t forget.” 

The judge went home, but he alternately blessed and cursed Mark 
Stanley, every step of the way. 

“ Saved her life, did he ? She wants to see him, does she ? He 
will get the fifty thousand of me ; he will get the girl ; he will get all 
of old Maydew’s money, by and by. And I am the innocent means 
by which they are brought together. And he called me a scoundrel, 
too, damn him !” 

And then the innocent means jumped up and down on the side- 
walk, for very rage, and swore himself out of breath. 

The next morning, Mark received the Maydew document, of the 
judge, at the bank ; and that afternoon he called on Miss Maydew. 
She gave him a reception which would have set Judge Desborough 
frantic had he witnessed it. Mr. Maydew hated Mark Stanley, because, 
when he had known him in Vermont, Mark Stanley was considered 
abnormally pious. Consequently, Miss Maydew said nothing to her 
father about the presence of Mark in the West. 

Every day, for the next two weeks, Miss Maydew and Mark Stan- 
ley went driving or sailing. She gave him the most of her time, and 
refused herself to nearly every one else. Mr. Maydew, a confirmed 
invalid, seldom went out of doors, and very rarely saw callers. No 
rumor of the relations between his daughter and Mark reached him. 
He intrusted everything to her, and supposed that business was the sole 
cause of her repeated absences from him. One day he asked if she had 
decided just what kind of investments they had best make, and she 
answered that she had, after due thought and investigation, made up 
her mind to carry out their original idea, which was to form a syndicate 
for the operation of a series of mines in various parts of the State. 

“ To do this,” she further explained, “ it will be necessary to make 
an investment of a million dollars, three days hence.” 

“ Our money is still all in drafts, is it not ?” he inquired. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, you had best notify the bank of your intention, in the 
morning, so that they will have the currency ready when you present 
your drafts for payment.” 

This suggestion was acted upon, and on the morning in question 
Miss Maydew armed herself with her drafts, kissed her father, and told 



him that she would return in an hour. At the end of three hours she 
was still absent. Judge Desborough and one or two others were sitting 
in the room with Mr. Maydew, awaiting the return of his daughter. 
All at once there was a rush of tramping feet and a tumult of excited 
voices in the corridor ; and, without knocking, Mr. May dew’s door was 
flung violently open, and then, closely followed by others, the proprietor 
of the hotel fairly leaped into the middle of the room, his face ghastly 
with horror. 

“ Good God, sir,” he cried, “ some awful work has been done ! 
Your daughter has been murdered. She is stone dead. Her body is 
down-stairs. They found her in her carriage with her throat cut from 
ear to ear. Mark Stanley went away with her. The driver says that 
they went to the bank together. They came out of the bank, chatting 
and laughing, and carrying a big package between them. Stanley told 
the driver to stop at his hotel, which is near the bank. When they 
got there, the driver says that Stanley got out and took the package 
with him, told the driver to wait a few minutes for him, and then went 
into the hotel. The driver waited over an hour, but Stanley didn’t 
come back. Then somebody saw blood dripping out of the carriage. 
They opened the door, and saw Miss Maydew lying there, as I said, 
with her throat cut. They are looking for Stanley everywhere, for of 
course they think he killed her.” 

“ Of course he did,” yelled Judge Desborough. “ He killed her, and 
then got away with all that money. I always knew that fellow was a 

“ You’d better shut up,” retorted the hotel-keeper : “ they found a 
paper in that carriage with your name on it, — a paper that shows that 
you are mixed up in this affair with Stanley.” 

“ The agreement ! — that damned agreement !” groaned the judge ; 
and he looked as if he was going to slide down into himself, like a 
collapsing drinking-cup. 

The sheriff hurried him off, and had the greatest difficulty in saving 
him from mob-rule. 

Mr. Maydew was completely overcome by the awful tragedy. His 
daughter had been his sole interest in life ; and now she was dead. He 
was very calm until he heard the whole story and all the accompanying 
incidents, and then he turned his face to the wall, and lay on his bed, 
moaning softly. 

“ Mark Stanley, Mark Stanley,” he said, occasionally. “ I thought 
they loved each other, years ago. He saved her life, then, and now he 
has destroyed what he saved.” 


Red Mountain is always at its best in September. From its lofty 
mines you see daylight come in long, shaking shafts of pink and gray, 
and you see it pass in clouds and mist-wreaths of amber and gold, — 
the latter as yellow and perfect as the bright metal which the pick and 
drill wrench from its rocky sides. There is everywhere the odor of 
spruce and redwood, and the wholesome atmosphere of healthfulness. 



The miners used to say that the old mountain which they so dearly 
loved always outdid itself in September, because that was the month in 
which they pitched their first camp there ; and no September, it was 
pretty generally agreed, was ever more delightful than this one, whose 
early days Mark Stanley made awful, in San Francisco, by the murder 
of Miss Maydew. 

The anniversary of the founding of the Red Mountain mining- 
camp fell, this year, upon the second Monday in the month ; and 
Droopy and several others had gone down to San Francisco for such 
essentials as were deemed indispensable to the proper celebration of the 
day, — such essentials being, principally, a better grade of whiskey than 
was in common use on Red Mountain. Droopy and his companions 
set out early enough on this important errand to enable them to get 
back the day before the eagerly-awaited anniversary ; but the day on 
which they were expected ‘came, and the day of the anniversary also, 
and still there was no sign of the whiskey commission. The Red 
Mountain miners were a good-natured, hilarious lot of men, not at all 
inclined to frown at trifles ; but it seemed to them that Droopy and the 
others were imposing upon the honor of the camp by interfering with 
the celebration of festivities of so remarkable and interesting a char- 

“ In my opinion,” said Tom Morris, who formerly was one of the 
veriest dandies who operated in Wall Street, but who was now one of 
the grimiest of the unkempt and the unwashed, — “ in my opinion, they 
have opened the keg somewhere between here and Frisco, and are 
running a little celebration on their own hook.” 

“ Likely,” chimed in a stalwart Texan, in whom the mention of 
whiskey awakened such pleasant memories that he took a strong pull 
from his flask. “ Some folks dunno when ter leave whiskey alone.” 
And then he proceeded to rinse the harsh sentiment out of his mouth 
and throat with another drink. 

When it was dark, a great fire was built in the middle of the camp, 
and, though the whiskey they had was of a questionable character, it 
was better than none : so it was decided to make the most of it, in true 
Western fashion. 

About an hour after the fire was built, when good spirits and bad 
spirits were aSout equally mixed, and every one was jolly, a solitary 
horseman rode into camp. There was something so irresistibly droll 
about this new-comer that everybody laughed when the great, glowing 
sheet of firelight illuminated his face and figure. 

Apparently, he was six feet and three or four inches in height, and 
the most of this plenitude of physical material seemed to be disposed 
of in arms, legs, and feet. What trunk he had was broad, but it was 
very much abbreviated in length, as if it had been originally intended 
for a much shorter man. The first impression which he gave, all the 
way through, was that he had been put together of odds and ends and 
remnants, and that the architect who planned him had run short of 
material before his colossal design was more than half carried out. 
His joints were so loose and lax that when he got off of his horse there 
was a sudden hush in the merriment, as if everybody was afraid that 



he was going to pieces. His eyes were large, and as blue as a California 
sky, but they were entirely devoid of lashes, and his brows were abso- 
lutely hairless. His nose was long and exceedingly crooked, and he had 
an unusually large mouth, with thick, pulpy-looking lips. His hair 
was of the color and fibre of that unknown substance of which gunny- 
sacks are made, and it grew so low down upon his narrow forehead 
that the effect was one which was decidedly original. His cheeks were 
broad, high, and flat, and his beard, which was the same color as his 
hair, looked as if it had been trimmed with dull shears for want of a 
razor. His sallow complexion indicated that he was a chronic sufferer 
from jaundice ; and his large stiff ears set straight out from his head, 
as though they were meant to catch the wind and so increase his mo- 
tive power. The horse he was on was several sizes too small for him ; 
and he leaned so far forward on the insufficient beast, and drew his legs 
up so closely under it, that the combination would have furnished a 
comic artist an excellent model for a burlesque Centaur. 

“ Am I in Californy ?” asked the stranger, when he had dismounted 
and straightened himself up. 

“ Did you see the back o’ that hoss ? It sprunged up nigh on ter 
six inches when he got off,” said the Texan. 

There was a general laugh, and the stranger’s question was forgotten 
until he repeated it : 

“ Am I in Californy ?” 

“ You bet,” was the general chorus. 

“ My name is Dubb,” said the stranger. “ I just dropped in here 
for to see if I can’t do something in these mines. I used to be 
a lumberman, up in Maine, and I have been a-living in the other 
side of these mountings, over among the Indians and soldiers, nigh on 
to three years. I ain’t afraid o’ work, and I’d like to stay here, and 
shift with the rest of you, and stand my share o’ what am hard and 

It was the longest speech Dubb had ever made, and when it was 
done he suddenly stepped back a couple of paces, as if trying to get 
out of the sound of his own voice. 

“ Pard,” said the Texan, “ ye don’t handsome very heavy, but they 
ain’t many on us what can brag much on beauty an’ sich ; but ye talks 
pootv straight, an’ so we’ll take yer on trial for a while.” 

There was a hearty burst of laughter, which Dubb failed to under- 

“ Let me be your dictionary,” said Tom Morris. “ You don’t seem 
to have caught the drift of Western ways yet, if you have been in this 
country three years. It is somewhat unusual for a man to ask per- 
mission to join a mining-camp; and that is the way the boys took what 
you said. This is a free country, and people here do about as they 
please. Join us, if you like ; go farther, if you like ; but don’t ask 
any one’s permission. Strike out straight from your shoulder, and 
don’t forget that California is a book without a preface. Do as you 
like, in all but three things : don’t bring any soap or tracts into camp, 
and don’t jump any other man’s claim. That is our code, in a nut- 

Vol. XL.— 24 



While he had been speaking, Droopy and his companions had entered 
camp ; but Dubb was attracting so much attention that the arrival of 
Droopy was unnoticed until he stepped forward, inside of the circle 
surrounding Dubb and Tom Morris. 

“ Halloo, Droopy,” exclaimed Morris : “ here’s a new man, just 
come among us. His name is Dubb, and he hails from down East.” 

“ Dubb ! Did yer say Dubb ?” demanded the astonished Droopy, 
stepping forward until his face was scarcely a foot from Dubb’s. 

“ Yes,” answered Dubb and Morris, both in a breath. 

“ Why, ain’t you the feller what was ’way over along the Platte, 
a-lookin’ for Mark Stanley’s wife ?” asked Droopy. 

Dubb fixed his big blue eyes squarely upon Droopy’s face, but that 
was the only evidence of surprise which he manifested. 

“ I was a-looking for her,” he answered ; “ but I got kinder short 
on for money ; so I had to move on and leave a couple o’ guides a-hunt- 
ing for her while I be somewhere looking out for more money. But 
how am it you knows about Mark Stanley and his woman ? Have he 
been here ? Am he here now ?” 

“ He lit inter these diggin’s ’long about the fust o’ the summer, an’ 
he stayed here till las’ month. Lordy ! I wishes as how he’d stayed 
longer : then he wouldn’t be in sich a pizen mess as he’s in now,” 
moaned Droopy, pathetically. 

“ What is it ? What’s the matter ?” inquired Dubb. 

“ Oh, Jeroosullum !” bawled Droopy, “ he’s gone an’ sot all Cali- 
forny ag’in’ ’im. He’s killed that Maydew woman, what had so much 
money, an’ he’s run off* with a million dollars, what belonged ter her 
an’ her dad.” 

Instantly the whole camp was in an uproar. Some were excited 
because they had taken a liking to Mark during his brief stay with 
them ; others, because it had been expected that Red Mountain would 
receive considerable benefit from the Maydew funds ; and others, still, 
condemned it from a moral point of view. Dubb, alone, was quiet, 
apparently unconcerned, absolutely emotionless. 

“ Did Stanley get away ?” queried Tom Morris, after the first out- 
burst of excitement had somewhat subsided. 

“ He got clean span away,” answered Droopy. “ The officers as 
took holt on the case said they never seed sich a git-out afore. Nobody 
knowed whar ter look fur ’im, an’ nobody ain’t ’peared ter find out.” 

“ And thereby,” said Morris, “ does Stanley evince greatness. The 
poor fool who commits a crime and gets caught is a scoundrel and 
villain : he deserves the full penalty of the law. But the man who 
commits a crime and escapes the law, he has genius ; he is full of the 
elements of greatness. Mark Stanley will yet be acknowledged as a 
very great man.” 

“ Maybe so in the East, but not in Californy,” cried Droopy, 
warmly. “ Murder is murder, here, an’ we never calls it by any other 
name ; an’ when we writes it we puts it all in cappertul letters, — big, 
red ones, too, like them air letters what they puts on a circus-bill.” 

“ I’ll wager a pound of dust, Droopy, my dear old grammar- 
mangler, that you yourself will yet call Mark Stanley a great man, and 



be as much in favor of him as you are against him now,” said Morris, 

“ By gosh, Til do it ! But you look ’ere, Tom Morris, I ain’t ag’in’ 
’im, an’ I never was ag’in’ ’im : I’m on’y ag’in’ what he’s done. An’ 
ef I was ag’in’ ’im, it’s no more ’n you was, all the while he was here. 
Don’t try ter pick me up, Tommy, when yer down yerself. An’ let 
me tell yer somethin’ more : they didn’t have no grammars an’ sich 
stuff when I was a boy. That was a heap o’ years ago. Yer fergits I 
ain’t sich a young, tender saplin’ as you am. I’ll jest take that bet 
’bout the pound o’ dust, though ; an’, ef I wins, I’ll buy a grammar 
with it.” 

Droopy was angry when he began, but he said so much that he 
talked himself into good humor again. An hour later, he and Morris 
were sitting by themselves, engaged in a confidential chat. He told 
Morris all about the Maydew murder, from which subject the conver- 
sation very naturally shifted to Dubb. 

“ I never seen sich a durned critter afore in all my life,” Droopy 
declared, vehemently. “ I dunno what ter think on ’im. Why, when 
I tole ’im ’bout Mark’s bein’ here, an’ what he said, an’ how he went 
away, an’ how he killed that air Maydew woman, who they says was 
more ’n half in love with Mark Stanley/ why, that air Dubb jest took 
it all in, like as if it didn’t ’meount ter nothin’. He never talked er 
acted as if he was s’prised, er sorry, er mad, er nothin’ ; an’ when I 
says to him as how I s’poses he won’t do no more dickerin’ ’bout Mark 
Stanley’s wife, he up an’ says, all quiet like, ’s if he’d been sayin’ it 
was a nice day, as how he ain’t goin’ ter stop lookin’ fur her till she’s 
foun’, livin’ er dead. An’ when I axes ’im what good it’ll do, when her 
husband’s next ter dead, he says that ain’t no reason fur leavin’ her 
among them air Injins. I axed him what he’d do with her ef she 
was foun’ alive, an’ he says as how that’ll all be jest as she says. Ain’t 
it funny ? Mark Stanley, nor Mark Stanley’s woman, ain’t neither on 
’em no kin ter Dubb, an’ they never seen each other till they was 
j’ined in that wagon-train ; an’ yet Dubb spen’s his money an’ his 
time fur her, when her own husband gin her up long ago an’ don’t 
consarn hisself ’bout her in no way. Now, then, Tom Morris, what 
d’ye think o’ sich a feller as that? What does yer call sich a critter?” 

“Call him, Droopy? I call him one of the few men whom the 
word noble fitly describes. T tell you, my boy, he is made of much 
better stuff than any of us. We all pride ourselves on our California 
disinterestedness and generosity ; but you and I both know that there 
isn’t another man in this camp who would do what Dubb has done for 
the Stanleys. I doubt if there are ten such men in the universe.” 

“ I b’lieves yer, Tom ; I b’lieves yer,” exclaimed Droopy : “ they 
don’t make many sich.” 

“ It makes me ashamed when I think how the whole camp — I with 
the rest — laughed at the queer figure he cut when he struck camp to- 
night,” confessed Morris. “ Of course he is grotesque enough to fur- 
nish a sufficient excuse for our fun ; but I didn’t dream that there was 
so much man under that dull, homely face of his. What arms and 
legs, and what a name, and what a rig-out all the way through !” 



“ Don’t yer think it ’ould be a pootty good mix if Mark Stanley’s 
’cuteness an’ Dubb’s idees o’ right an’ wrong could be rolled all up in 
one man?” 

“ The thought does you credit, Droopy. The combination would, 
indeed, be good. No woman, though, would ever love him, his person 
is so forbidding and uncouth.” 

“ Well, mebbe that is somethin’ what some other men might envy 
in ’im,” said Droopy, bitterly. 

Tom Morris laughed. 

“ Perhaps, Droopy, perhaps. There is one woman who ought to 
fall in love with him, if she ever finds out what he has done for her ; 
and that, of course, is Mark Stanley’s wife.” 

“ ’Twon’t do her no good ef she does,” muttered Droopy : “ she 
never’ll be nothin’ but Mark Stanley’s wife ter him. He says he wants 
ter take Mark Stanley’s claim, here, an’ work it, though Mark couldn’t 
git nothin’ outen it. I reckon it’s ’cause he thinks Mark Stanley never 
gits deep enough in anything ter touch bottom.” 

“ It’s my belief,” said Tom Morris, “ that Dubb wants Mark Stan- 
ley’s claim because Dubb is fond of Mark Stanley.” 


There was in Mark Stanley’s belt, when he left the Red Mountain 
mines, enough dust to keep him in comfort for a year, provided that he 
exercised due economy. This permitted ' him to reflect upon his past 
life, lay plans for the future, and employ the present in making a 
thorough scrutiny into the new, free, and, to him, almost incompre- 
hensible life which surrounded him. When he fell in with Miss May- 
dew, she, being informed by Judge Desborough that Mark was short 
of money, insisted upon his accepting as a present a liberal sum from 
her. He declined this as a gift, but expressed his willingness to receive 
it as a loan. As it amounted to several thousands of dollars, his future 
was now reasonably secure for a number of years. 

Thus protected so far as actual necessities were concerned, he 
devoted himself to pondering upon what he considered the vagaries 
and the probabilities of life. Two of his mother’s favorite aphorisms, 
“ Virtue has its reward,” and “ Be sure your sin will find you out,” 
had been constantly dinned into his ears through all his childhood and 
youth. These two sayings, more than anything else, had given form 
and complexion to his Vermont life. The promise and the threat 
about equally determined the course of his steps, and he had no doubt 
that both would be exemplified and illustrated in everything which he 
did. Consequently, when he aroused himself from the negative som- 
nolence of his earlier days and decided to enter into matrimony and 
the rest of the serious business of life, he watched, naturally, on every 
hand, for the fulfilment of what he had accepted as the two great laws 
of life. By this means his lines of thought were not only narrowed, 
but he was, practically, prevented from thinking at all. He dared do 
nothing but keep his mind fixed upon these two principles and shrink 
from the awful consequences of going against them. But when he had 



exchanged the depressing limits of his father’s house and his mother’s 
religion for the liberality and freedom of thought and action which he 
found in New York, his mind met with a severe shock. The first effect 
of the difference between what he found, and what he had been led to 
believe that he would find, in the great city, was bewildering and pain- 
ful. By it he was nearly reduced to idiocy. His wife saw, but could 
neither understand nor appreciate, the strange condition of her husband’s 
mind. At last, after they had left the city well behind them and had 
begun crossing the prairies, Mark Stanley’s mind made its first buffet 
against the restricting bars which hitherto had hindered its independent 
exercise. But this first revolt against old beliefs was by no means final. 
He could not all at once rid himself of that which he had so long 
accepted as the sole method and conduct of life. Again and again 
would he end these constant tumults by casting off the old hampering 
fears and doubts ; but it was not until the long journey over the prairies 
and up the plains was nearly accomplished that he felt that he had any 
right to exercise the functions of thought and judgment. But such a 
struggle — with a nature whose inherent boldness and stubbornness precept 
and maxim had always enslaved — could not fail to leave lasting scars. 
Mark Stanley rose above the puniness which had made his parents 
despise him, notwithstanding that it was a result of their teachings ; 
but the change was so pronounced, so remarkable, that it germinated 
and fostered in him a tendency to doubt and suspect everything with 
which he came in contact. He forced himself to accept the conclusion 
that there was no truth anywhere, and that the only evil in the whole 
universe was weakness. His attempts to explain away old things, and 
to thrust upon his wife the harsh theories which he had evolved out of 
the ashes of his dead faith, so seriously grieved and hurt her that lie 
found much difficulty in consoling her. He saw that she turned from 
the new principles, which he intended should govern the rest of his life, 
more because she could not comprehend them and him than because 
they were repugnant to her as the tenets of apostasy. It was plain that 
she would never be able to grasp the ideas with which his mind was 
now filled : in fact, unless he could reconcile himself to constant ex- 
pressions of disapproval, he would have to keep those ideas wholly 
from her. Before he had put aside the overpowering restraints of 
form and habit which, in the past, had made independent and original 
thought impossible to him, he had regarded himself as her inferior. 
Now, when he was rising into what he felt was a higher, clearer, 
worthier atmosphere, he saw, to his consternation, that his was the 
superior mind, and that she could never depart from the ways she had 
always known. She comprehended love better than anything else, and 
that now to him was even of less than secondary importance. He 
considered that they were mismatched ; and now, though he knew full 
well that it was wholly his fault, and that she had consented to marry 
him with genuine reluctance, he chafed against the bonds which held 
them together. It was his disposition to shirk responsibilities, and his 
disposition made no exception of this instance. He regarded uncon- 
genial persons and conditions very much as a club-man regards an ill- 
fitting garment ; and the comparison held good even so far as the matter 



of riddance. His wife was very beautiful and sweet, and when his 
mind was not absorbed with vital topics she still held him by the 
power of the old influences which first brought Mark Stanley to her 
feet. How long he would have tolerated her, and what the final out- 
come would have been, can, of course, be only conjectured ; but the 
Indians settled the question for him by carrying her off, soon after he 
discovered the change in his feelings toward her. With their separa- 
tion, some portion of his former love for her returned ; and had he 
found her at once he might have cherished her, the rest of their days, 
as tenderly as he did at first. But her continued absence, lessening, as 
it did, the influence of her magnificent personal charms, soon led him 
into thinking only of her intellectual qualities, and so, after a few 
months, he was glad of being relieved of her. 

His failure to find her, the attitude taken by his parents, and his 
lack of success in the mines, only widened the difference between the 
principles of his former life and those of his present life. The interest 
which Dubb and Droopy had manifested in him only tended, by some 
strange law of contradiction, to make him the more thoroughly despise 
everything which his parents had taught him was honest, virtuous, and 
right. On his way from Bed Mountain to San Francisco he had firmly 
resolved to go directly against every belief of his childhood and youth. 
Arriving in San Francisco, he soon saw that man’s foremost interest 
and aim was the obtainment of place. This no sooner impressed him 
than he swore that he would lift himself into success by the very first 
means which presented itself. Almost instantly, as if in answer to his 
new aspirations and to facilitate him in carrying into effect the substance 
of his oath, he heard of the expected coming of the Maydews. 

Here, then, was his chance. 

Five years before, the Maydews had spent a summer in Arlington, 
in a cottage near the Stanley farm. Miss Maydew was then a girl of 
fifteen. She was both a romp and a rose-bud, and her head was crammed 
full of healthy, pretty romance, which she drew from the books she 
read. When Mark Stanley first saw her, she was such a revelation to 
him, in beauty, that he stopped and stood stock-still in the church 
door, staring at her. For this his mother had sharply reproved him, 
declaring that Miss Maydew was a temptation of the devil, sent to 
wean him from paths of right. After that, Mark shunned her as if 
she had been a plague. Late in the summer, when she was romping 
beside the Battenkill, a mishap sent her, with a great splash, into one 
of the deepest pools in the beautiful little river. But for the chance 
presence of Mark, who brought her out on dry land, Miss Maydew 
would have drowned * for her feet were entangled in some tough 
aquatic vines, which held her fast. For this, she regarded him as a 
very great hero ; and her father had looked upon him with favor, 
until, in answer to Mr. Maydew’s profuse thanks, Mark had said, — 

“ Don’t thank me : thank the Lord. It was the Lord’s doings, and 
I was only the miserable instrument in His hands.” 

When Mark had said this, Mr. Maydew arose in disgust : piety in 
words was the one thing which he could not stand ; and no one ever 
dared mention Mark Stanley’s name to him again. Miss Maydew, 



however, took another view of the case. To her, Mark Stanley was a 
sort of rural Galahad ; and she assured him that he could depend upon 
her if he ever needed friendship. In fact, but for the dampening effect 
of his mother’s remark, which so closely associated the devil with Miss 
Maydew and so made her ineligible to Mark, there is no doubt but that 
he would at once have fallen desperately in love with the beautiful girl. 
Had he done so, she, unquestionably, would have reciprocated the feel- 
ing, because of the high opinon she entertained of what she considered 
his courage and heroism. Twice did she write to him after leaving 
Arlington, and both of these letters were immediately returned to her 
by the mother of her Galahad ; and with the second letter Mrs. John 
Stanley, over her mean, cramped little signature, declared that Miss 
Maydew was a “ brazen hussy.” After that, Mark Stanley never heard 
of Miss Maydew, until the California newspapers began discussing her 
imminent visit to San Francisco. 

Mark at once set about scheming. He must turn her coming to 
practical account in some way ; but how should he do it ? By borrow- 
ing a large sum of money of her and then absconding? No; that 
wonld result in unpleasant consequences, — which would be weak ; and 
weakness was now the sole thing which he considered evil. Then he 
decided to make the conditional compact with Judge Desborough, since 
he plainly foresaw that Miss Maydew would be certain to sicken of the 
importunings of the speculators and go home in disgust. This was 
the first definite plan which he formed concerning the Maydews, and it 
would have, likely, been the final one, had it not been for the unex- 
pected warmth with which Miss Maydew received him. Perhaps he 
was mistaken, and perhaps he was right, but in less than three days he 
was of the opinion that Miss Maydew was in love with him, and that 
she had been in love with him ever since the old days in Arlington. 
The confidence she reposed in him, and the interest which she mani- 
fested in everything that he said and did, justified him, to a certain ex- 
tent, in believing as he did. The idea delighted him ; not because he 
in any sense returned the feeling, but because it might be of assistance 
to him in his ambition to acquire great wealth suddenly. Mark Stanley 
was now so occupied with his abominable self-love that he had no in- 
terest in any one, beyond their capacity for serving him. 

Miss Maydew decided to make the investments which she and her 
father had contemplated making when they first came to San Francisco ; 
and she came to this conclusion wholly and entirely because Mark 
Stanley had advised it, even after she, personally, had decided against 
so doing. When she told him that the money for the investment was 
to be drawn on a certain day, he at once made up his mind that that 
day should be the last one of her life. 

The murder of Miss Maydew was deliberately planned. Mark 
Stanley knew perfectly well that he could not get the million dollars 
without killing her, and that he could not, under the circumstances, 
kill her without having her murder known. The thing to do, then, was 
to change his personality in ten minutes after leaving her dead body in 
the carriage. So he made all his arrangements beforehand, and made 
them so thoroughly, too, that none of them miscarried. He purchased 



a regulation Spanish suit, a large valise, — the latter of a second-hand 
dealer, so that its newness might not betray him, — and some peculiar 
cosmetics and chemicals. These he concealed in his room in the hotel 
where he was living. 

On leaving the bank, with Miss Maydew and the money, he ordered 
the driver to drive the carriage which they were in to his hotel. On 
the way he suddenly called her attention to some peculiar object in the 
street, and then, with the quickness of lightning, whipped out a knife 
with a razor-like edge and cut her throat, throwing her mantle over 
her at the same instant, to protect his person from her blood. So 
thoroughly had he rehearsed his devilish plan in his mind, beforehand, 
that he carried it out without the slightest deviation or excitement. 
The brutal deed was so dexterously done that the poor girl died almost 
instantly. He so disposed of Miss Maydew's bo<3y, on leaving the 
carriage, that had any one peered in through the window they would 
have thought her sleeping. 

When the carriage halted before the hotel, Mark, on alighting, bade 
the driver wait a few minutes for him, and then entered the hotel. 
There was neither haste nor appearance of haste in anything which he 
did. Once in his room, he deliberately shaved off his heavy, sandy 
beard and mustaches, and then proceeded to darken his hair and skin, 
or as much of the latter as was exposed. Even now he would have 
been safe from recognition ; but he quickly completed his disguise by 
exchanging the garments he had on for the Spanish dress with which he 
had provided himself the day before. He then hung the clothing which 
he had just discarded with the rest of his wardrobe, packed the great 
bundle of money, and a few papers which he wished to save, into the 
valise, and then, walking unconcernedly, he left his room and entered 
the hotel-office. To all practical purposes, Mark Stanley was now dead : 
he who had just left Mark Stanley's room, so strangely metamorphosed, 
was Don Hernando Altana, and as such he straightway scrawled his 
name in the hotel-register and was at once assigned a room adjoining 
the one which he had previously occupied. All this was accomplished 
in about half an hour, and the murder of Miss Maydew was still un- 

Mark Stanley had been very poor : Don Altana was very rich ; he 
was, also, very dark and very elegant, and not a soul would have 
suspected him of being anything else than he seemed. At the end of 
another hour, when he heard a mob of excited men rush into his former 
room, bent on the immediate destruction of Mark Stanley, the lips 
of the transformed man wreathed themselves into a triumphant smile. 
Later in the day he was one among the many who called to express 
sympathy for Mr. Maydew. He even carried his coolness and bravado 
so far as to go to the coroner's and inspect the lifeless remains of 
Miss Maydew. 

“ Any one else who could have done this thing would have done it," 
he said to himself, as he leaped into bed, that night. “ Life and death 
are mere matters of chance: both are beyond human control. The 
Indians and I were common benefactors, for all I know. They re- 
lieved me of a silly wife, I relieved Maydew of a silly daughter. So 



far as the general score goes, he and I are quits: only I get more out 
of it than the Indians did.” 

An hour later he was sleeping as calmly as a child ; and so he slept 
throughout the night. 


Dubb dropped into mining-ways as easily and naturally as if he had 
been a miner all his life. He asked but few questions, and made but 
few mistakes. Mark Stanley’s abandoned claim, which everybody had 
regarded, since Mark’s departure, as the unluckiest bit of dirt on Red 
Mountain, became, under the treatment which it received from Dubb, 
a valuable and tractable piece of mining-property. In less than a week 
after occupying it, Dubb struck rich “ pay-dirt and before a month 
had elapsed he succeeded in following these “ tailings” through a short, 
wavering patch of direct drift to an almost perpendicular vein which 
seemed practically inexhaustible. 

He took his good fortune quietly, just as he took everything else, 
and did not seem in the least elated by it. Except in some matter of 
frolic or indignation, the California miners of those days were not a 
very demonstrative lot : still, they could not comprehend the changeless 
and unbroken complacency of Dubb. The presence of danger, the 
contemplation of death, — joy, sorrow, and all the rest of the varying 
and multiplicate phenomena of life, — utterly failed to break in in any 
way upon this man’s unruffled serenity. He seemed, in every sense, 
impervious and unreachable. Nothing could piove him or touch him. 
There was no visible evidence that he saw any element of fun in the 
frequent pranks and jokes of the miners ; and the customary gravity, 
or earnestness, of his face was never in the slightest degree increased if 
any of his mining acquaintances chanced to be overtaken with misfor- 
tune. He never smiled, and he never frowned. No one ever heard a 
hasty or spirited word from him, and no one believed that it would be 
possible to make him angry. So far as any person could judge, there 
were two worlds for Dubb, — one internal and the other external ; and 
there was not, apparently, the slightest connection between the two. 

This, by the miners, was first attributed to a lack of intelligence ; 
then to selfishness ; then to piety. After that the classification of Dubb 
was given up as a hopeless impossibility, and he was taken as he was, 
and for what he was worth. 

“ He never gits off sermons an’ church-talk ; he never sees a feller 
in a hole ’ithout helpin’ on ’im out ; he takes in everything what’s goin’ 
on ; an’ he alius comes down with his ante, whether he plays his han’ 
er not,” declared Droopy, with exceeding warmth, one day when Dubb, 
soon after his arrival, was under discussion. “He ain’t quite the 
reg’lar article, mebbe ; and he may be better, an’ he may be wuss, nor 
the reg’lar article ; but he suits me a dum sight better nor some others 
what I knows on.” 

A month later, Droopy’s estimate of Dubb was accepted by all Red 
Mountain as the right one; and before winter set in, no man in camp 
was more popular than Dubb. 



His prosperity as a miner enabled him to redouble his efforts for the 
relief of Mrs. Stanley ; and nothing which could possibly be done for 
her discovery and rescue was left undone. Droopy and Tom Morris 
were alone in his confidence concerning his vigorous and uninterrupted 
efforts in behalf of Mrs. Stanley ; and they were of incalculable as- 
sistance to him in the important matters of making plans and nego- 
tiating with the guides who were prosecuting the search for the lost 
woman over near the head-waters of the Platte. It soon became ap- 
parent to Droopy that Dubb was being imposed upon by the frontiers- 
men, and that they were receiving his money without any attempt at 
making an honest return for it. The right kind of investigation proved 
this to be the case, and after that the conduct of the search was reor- 
ganized upon a basis which made shirking next to impossible. 

All through that winter, Dubb watched and waited for news from 
the Stanleys. Since the murder of Miss Maydew, Mark Stanley 
seemed to be as thoroughly and effectually lost as his wife. The 
officers of the law were as impotent in their endeavors at hunting 
down Mark as Dubb’s envoys were in their efforts at unearthing 
Mark’s wife. 

“ Blamed ef I b’lieves as how ony on us ’ll ever set eyes on either 
one on ’em ag’in,” remarked Droopy, one day toward spring. “ The 
Injins has killed her, long ago. She couldn’t never reconcile herself to 
none o’ their notions ; an’ when a woman keeps on a-kickin’ ag’in’ an 
Injin, ’tain’t very long afore he raises her ha’r. An’ as fur Mark — 
why, he jest skinned out o’ Californy long ago.” 

Dubb made no answer, but he seemed to be of about the same 

“ Why don’t ye gin it up, pard ?” asked Droopy, suddenly and 
earnestly. “ Ye’ve got the best claim on the hull mounting, an’ ye can’t 
’ford ter be wastin’ time an’ money tryin’ ter do somethin’ what ain’t 
ter be did. Ef they was any sight o’ findin’ this ’ere woman o’ Mark 
Stanley’s, I’d jest say keep it up, alius, till ye gits her. But they ain’t 
no sich sight. Ef she ain’t dead, she ain’t no’eres near where them 
fellers is a-huntin’ fur ’er. Why, Lordy, man, jest stop an’ think fur 
a minute. The prancin’-groun’ o’ them air Utes ain’t so mighty big 
but what you an’ Mark Stanley an’ them air guides ’ould ’a’ foun’ her 
in them air two year as you was all cadoodlin’ aroun’ that country. 
It’s nigh on ter a nother year sence he corned away, an’ it’s more’n six 
months sence you dropped in here on ole Red Mounting. Ef she was 
onywhar in that country, an’ was alive, she’d ’a’ been foun’ long afore 
this. Ef she am still a-livin’, she’s got clean outen that country ; an’ 
ef she am gone frum there, who in thunder knows where she is, an’ 
what the darn’s the use o’ looking fur ’er any fu’ther ? Leastwise, they 
ain’t no use o’ lookin’ fur ’er there, ’cause she ain’t there ; an’ ef ye 
don’t look there, where will yer look ? They can’t nothin’ but diser- 
p’intment come outen this thing, no way ye c’n fix it ; an’ that ain’t 
wuth the money what yer wastes on it. An’ then there’s yer claim 
a-needin’ yer ’tention the wust way. Come, pard, gin up the search ; 
gin up the search.” 

“ It don’t seem to me nowise as if the mine would spoil if it stood 



still,” answered Dubb ; “ and if nothing be done for her, she may die. 
The mine be not going to suffer if it am left alone, like she am.” 

u But what good does all this ’ere huntin’ an’ skirmishin’ among 
them ’ere Utes do her ? None o’ yer searchin’-gang has had a glimpse 
at her, or at ony one as has seen ’er, since the Injins toted her off. 
What c’n ye say ter that ?” 

“ They have not found her because they have not looked for her 
where she am.” 

“ But how c’n they tell where ter look ?” 

“ That am what they be searching for.” 

“Look ’ere, Dubb, I tells yer she am either dead er gone outen 
that country.” 

“ If that am so, they be some one in that country what knows that 
she am dead, or gone away.” 

“ An’ you purpozes,” interrogated Droopy, with rising impatience, 
“an’ you purpozes a-keepin’ them air fellers what ye have hired 
a-huntin’ till they finds her, er finds some one what knows as how 
she am gone dead, er gone outen the country ?” 

“Yes,” was the quiet answer. 

“Well, I’ll be damned !” exclaimed Droopy ; and Dubb looked as 
if he was perfectly willing that Droopy should dispose of himself ac- 
cording to his own tastes. “ An’ this mine o’ yourn a-needin’ yer hull 
’tention so much,” Droopy added, sorrowfully, after a brief silence. 

“ I be working the mine, Droopy ; I be working it hard, and it am 
paying me well.” 

“ Yes, but it oughter have yer hull ’tention, an’ not be goin’ it . 
snooks with this ’ere Stanley woman,” maintained Droopy, but with 
the feeling that he must seem as unreasonable to Dubb as Dubb seemed 
to him. 

The silence which followed was prolonged ; and to Droopy it was 
awkward and embarrassing. He felt that he had been injured, though 
he was uncertain as to whether he ought to blame Dubb, or himself, 
for his uncomfortable condition. Droopy did not like to give advice 
without having it either followed or systematically parried. Somehow, 
he could not get used to Dubb’s way of dealing with superfluous 
advice, Dubb had such a quiet but decisive way of arraying facts 
against whatever he found opposed to the plan or course he happened 
to be following. And facts, with Dubb, were hard, immovable things. 

Droopy’s embarrassment, or chagrin, or whatever it was, was speedily 
relieved by the appearance of a man who bore a letter for Dubb from 
some one at the fort near which the parting between him and Mark 
Stanley had taken place the year before. This letter was very brief. 
Dubb read it aloud : 

“ They have found her, and are bringing her to you. You may 
expect her almost as soon as you get this.” 

The “ her” alluded to was, undoubtedly, Mark Stanley’s wife ; but 
Dubb took the news as quietly as if he had reasons for believing that 
it referred to a cinnamon bear, and a dead one at that. Droopy re- 
garded him first with disgust, then with admiration, then with awe. 

“ I’ll be darned !” he muttered. 




Droopy hastened away to find Tom Morris, and, when he was gone, 
Dubb asked the messenger from the far-away fort on the Platte how 
far behind him the others were. 

“ ’Bout two days,” answered the man. 

“ Am they coming by the same trail what you come here by ?” 

“ In course : they ain’t no other trail, this time o’ the year, when the 
mountings am all slush-snow.” 

“ Can they come as fast, having her with them, as you come ?” 

“ Don’t see what difference she’ll make : she ain’t no very great 
shakes in p’int o’ size.” 

“ That be so,” assented Dubb ; “ that be so : she am rather small.” 

“ Well, I should say so,” growled the man, scornfully ; “ too — well, 
too powerful small ter make sich a heap o’ fuss about.” 

Dubb was about asking the man to explain himself more fully, but 
just then Droopy returned with Tom Morris, and the latter was so 
full of congratulatory expressions that there was no chance for saying 
anything else. Morris caught hold of both of Dubb’s hands and shook 
them heartily, his face beaming with smiles. 

“Well, well,” he said, “you were right, after all, Giant Great- 
Heart. Any man is right who succeeds. So long as we thought your 
quest hopeless, Droopy and I sort of pitied you. Now that you have 
succeeded, we think you great. We admire you. Dubb, my boy, we 
gaze on you with wonder. It is incredible that you were born in 
Maine: you are worthy of California herself. There must be some 
mistake : you must be a Californian, or else some California zephyr 
blew upon you the night you were born. You are as great as Mark 
Stanley himself will be, by and by. Eh, Droopy ?” 

Droopy grinned, and shook his head. 

“ Never’ll git me ter call Mark Stanley great,” he said. “ I shan’t 
furgit the bet, though.” 

“ Now, then,” continued Morris, “ there is another thing to be taken 
into consideration. When she gets here, what is to be done with her?” 

“ Let her settle that for herself,” answered Dubb. 

“Settle it fur herself!” exclaimed the messenger, in a choking 
voice, as if a pail of cold water was being poured over him. And 
then, more slowly, he repeated his exclamatory remark : “ Settle it fur 
herself !” 

“ Why not ?” demanded Morris. “ But then,” he added, “ it is so 
long since you’ve seen a female decently treated that there is, I suppose, 
some excuse for you.” 

“ She settle it fur herself!” again repeated the stranger. “ Well, I’ll 
be ” but he did not say what. 

“ Indigestion,” said Tom Morris, jerking his thumb toward the man 
from the Platte. “ It might be a good idea to feed him.” 

“ Hungry ?” inquired Droopy. 

The stranger nodded. 

While he was eating a hearty meal which was hastily prepared for 
him, he volunteered the information that his name was Bilkins. 



“I’ve heered quar things ’bout Red Mounting afore,” he muttered, 
half aloud and half to himself, “ but I never s’posed it was okkerpied 
by a pack o’ cussid idjuts.” 

Tom Morris, the only one who heard this impious commentary on 
Red Mountain, answered it by giving Bilkins a very large drink of 
whiskey, after which he refrained from the further discussion of the 
miners among whom chance had brought him. 

It was generally known in camp that Dubb had interests of some 
sort over in the Platte country : so the arrival of Bilkins excited but 
little curiosity or comment. The following morning he started back, 
along the trail, with Dubb, Droopy, and Tom Morris, to meet those 
whom he came to herald. 

Bilkins, by reason of too much experimenting with a brand of 
whiskey with whose calibre and penetration he was not familiar, 
was a little disabled that morning : so the party did not get a very 
early start. 

As they rode along, in single file, Dubb’s thoughts were wholly 
upon Mrs. Stanley. He remembered exactly how she looked, the first 
time he had ever seen her, back on the eastern verge of the prairies ; 
and he also remembered her agonized face when she was being dragged 
away from her husband by the Utes. He wondered if she was materi- 
ally changed, and if she still retained her beauty, which he had always 
regarded as the sole source of her influence over Mark Stanley. Dubb 
was not given to speculation or reflection, but this was such an ex- 
traordinary occasion that he was, consequently, warmed into something 
nearer to human enthusiasm than perhaps he had ever been before. 

A ride of something less than three hours brought them to the spot 
where Droopy found Mark Stanley when he was contemplating self- 

“ Here he lay,” said Droopy, " a-lookin’ down inter the canon, an’ 
figgerin’ out how long it ’ould take ter knock ’im inter kindlin’-wood 
ef he jumped off. I was right glad, then, ter think as how I got along 
’ere in time ter pick ’im up while he was all in one piece ; but I’ve been 
dum sorry about it a good many times sence. Right ag’in’ that rock 
his head was, an’ his rifle was by his side. When I fust seen that, I 
’lowed as how he was lyin’ there ter shoot whosumever corned along ; 
but when I seen his sick face I knowed better, an’ gin up the idee.” 

Dubb glanced at the spot designated by Droopy, but Bilkins pre- 
vented the saying of whatever he happened to have in mind, by sud- 
denly setting up a howl, and pointing up the trail, toward the east. 
Every one looked, and saw three horsemen coming, one of whom 
seemed to be carrying a bundle in his arms, and not a very large bundle 

“ There they am ! that’s them !” shouted Bilkins, attempting to 
hurry his horse forward ; but Tom Morris caught the beast by the bit 
and intercepted Bilkins. 

“ Them ? Who do you mean by them ?” he demanded. 

“ Why, them as you was cornin’ ter meet.” 

“ Where is she ?” asked Dubb. 

“ That middle feller’s got her on his lap.” 



All hands were excited now. 

“ Who has he got ?” yelled Tom Morris. 

“ Why, Mark Stanley’s baby, yon damned fool !” howled Bilkins, 
breaking away and riding forward. 


Twenty-four hours later, Tom Morris was on his way to San Fran- 
cisco. It was in the time of the late spring floods, when travelling in 
the Sierras is so dangerous that no one ventures to undertake unneces- 
sary journeys ; and so Red Mountain camp rang with wild conjectures 
as to the reason of Morris’s trip. 

He reached San Francisco in much less time than was generally 
deemed necessary for the accomplishment of the journey, and imme- 
diately after his arrival, without pausing for either rest or refresh- 
ments, he made two calls, — the first upon the editor of the leading 
newspaper in California, and the second upon a well-known lawyer, 
with whom he made an appointment for the following morning, after a 
brief interview. 

The result of the first call was made very clear in the next issue of 
the newspaper just alluded to, which contained the following story, in 
the first columns of its first page, after about twenty lines of display- 
type, which were disposed of in sensational and fantastic head-lines, all 
of which, with one exception, are best omitted. This one head-line, 
the first in the motley collection, was “ Mark Stanley’s Wife and the 
essential points in the story which it led ran thus : 

“ Of course our readers still remember the fiendish murder of the 
handsome and gifted daughter of the Hon. Floyd Maydew, and that 
this dastardly deed was committed by a low-lived villain whose name 
was Mark Stanley. This Stanley, it will also be remembered, came 
here from Vermont. We have just gotten hold of new information 
concerning him which proves that he was always a black-hearted 
scoundrel. It seems that he was a general Lothario in his native town, 
where his shocking disregard of morality, and even of decency, in- 
volved him in endless scrapes and difficulties. Hundreds of dollars 
were expended by his parents to extricate him from the toils of the 
various courts of justice before which his misdeeds were constantly 
bringing him. It is, perhaps, to this mistaken sense of kindness on 
the part of his pious and heart-broken parents that Stanley owes, in 
some degree, his downfall. But why say downfall, when from his 
very cradle he was always coarse, loud-mouthed, violent, and depraved ? 
He should have been born in California, where law is law, and where 
the histories of such men as Mark Stanley are only written upon head- 
stones, in our cemeteries. But to return to our story. Among his 
various deeds of lawlessness and deviltry, he became entangled with a 
noble young woman, whose distressed and stricken parents forced Stanley 
to vindicate their daughter by marriage, at the very muzzle of a shot- 
gun. It was now thought that he would abandon his former debauch- 
eries and settle down into respectable life. But no : he was too wholly 
lost to decency to make any attempt at mending his ways. No sooner 



was he married than he wanted to be unmarried. He did not dare attempt 
murder then : so he brought his lovely and adoring wife westward, — for 
a reason which is actually blood-curdling. His purpose was to abandon 
her among the Indians, which he did at the first possible moment. 
Once rid of her, he plunged into a life of the most reckless and revolt- 
ing crime among the mining-camps. This he continued for over two 
years, when he came here, murdered Miss Maydew, ran off with a 
million dollars of the Maydew funds, and forged Judge Desborough’s 
name to a document which nearly resulted in the lynching of that 
venerable and highly-respected citizen. It will be remembered that 
this forged document was gotten up by Stanley for the sake of preju- 
dicing public opinion into the belief that there was complicity be- 
tween the Vermont adventurer and the eminent Western judge, in the 
Maydew tragedy. The immediately ensuing scene in court, where 
Judge Desborough, with innocent face, streaming eyes, and faltering 
voice, explained that Stanley had sworn vengeance against him because 
he had refused to loan Stanley money without security, was one so 
touching and impressive that nothing can ever eradicate it from the 
minds of those who were present. Judge Desborough’s triumphant 
vindication was, very likely, the main impetus to his almost unanimous 
re-election to the Supreme Bench. But again we digress. Stanley’s 
escape is one of the most unaccountable misfortunes in the history of 
the gold country, and our able and efficient monitors of justice, order, 
and citizenship believe that he got off by concealing himself in the 
hold of some outward-bound vessel ; which ingenious theory does our 
efficient detectives great credit, and we have every reason for accepting 
it. But now for the strangest part of our story. With the same 
wagon-train which brought Mark Stanley and his wife from the nearest 
Eastern approach of civilization into the heart of the Indian country, 
was one John Dubb, a gentleman who formerly was an extensive 
lumber-operator in the far-away pine forests of Maine. Mr. Dubb is 
a talented, polished, and educated gentleman, who came West to bene- 
fit this great, new, and glorious country with peculiarly clear and 
advanced political views, which were dishearteningly hampered and 
fettered by the narrowness and prejudices of Maine. Mr. Dubb is a 
brilliant and fluent speaker, and those who have been favored with the 
opportunity of listening to his matchless oratory pronounce him one of 
the most ^gifted men in California. Mr. Dubb is very wealthy, and is 
owner and manager of one of the most promising and productive 
mines on Red Mountain ; and, as every one knows, the Red Mountain 
mines rank among the best in the country. Mr. Dubb is likely to 
achieve the same high measure of success in the mines which marked 
his notable operations in lumber. A gentleman of such great keenness 
and foresight could not, of course, fail to penetrate Mark Stanley, when 
they were coming up the plains together ; and Mr. Dubb was quick to 
perceive that Mrs. Stanley was yoked with an inferior and disreputable 
man. She won not only Mr. Dubb’s sympathy, but his warmest per- 
sonal friendship. Her desertion to the savage Utes was accomplished 
without its being discovered by Mr. Dubb for a considerable length of 
time. When he found out how shamefully she had been disposed of 



by her brutal husband, Mr. Dubb at once organized a rescue-party, and 
then was begun the most remarkable search yet recorded in the ro- 
mantic annals of Western history. For nearly three years did the 
chivalrous Mr. Dubb seek high and low for Mrs. Stanley; and only a 
few weeks ago did he and his indefatigable men get a positive clue to 
her whereabouts. Mrs. Stanley has been found ; and she tells a story 
which would make an angel weep. Despite her beauty, the Indians 
subjected her to every possible hardship. She was compelled to do 
the utmost drudgery, and soon her strength gave out completely. She 
was wholly unconscious that her capture by the Indians was premedi- 
tated by her husband, and fully believed that similar disaster over- 
took him. Four months after her capture, the tribe into which she 
had been exchanged being near Santa F6, she made her escape. Sick, 
discouraged, and worn out, she begged for admittance into a Spanish 
household, where, about two months later, she gave birth to a daughter. 
She concealed her identity, giving some other name than Stanley, until 
a few months ago, when the news of some of her husband’s appalling 
crimes reached her. Then her reserve was broken down, and for a few 
hours she was the next thing to a raving maniac. Before she regained 
her self-possession, she said so much that the Spanish family with 
whom she was living completely made her out, and at once com- 
municated with the military station on the Platte which was the head- 
quarters of the searching-party. But before Mr. Dubb’s men could 
reach Santa F6, Mrs. Stanley, ascertaining that they were coming, had 
fled — to this city, so the note which she left behind her stated. In 
that note she also expressed her profound and heart-felt gratitude to 
Mr. Dubb for all his generous kindness ; and she added that she had 
suffered so much at the hands of the savage Utes that she had de- 
termined never again to use her own name, or show herself where 
there was any possibility of her being seen by any one who ever before 
had known her. Of course the whole civilized Western world will 
sympathize with the cruelly- wronged and injured lady ; and these 
humble lines, we are sure, will reach the eyes of none who would not 
do Mrs. Stanley any service which she may require, if she ever comes 
forth from concealment. Since no recent information can be had con- 
cerning her child, it is generally believed that that unfortunate little 
morsel of flesh is now limp and cold in premature death. Or the sor- 
rowing mother may have taken her child away with her. As to this, 
of course, no one can tell. But we doubt if the history of the Stanley 
family is anything like all told yet. The recounting of its future 
details may yet fill great voluminous folios. What will its next phases 
be ? Mark Stanley is yet unhanged, and, though he is generally thought 
to be in some part of China or Japan, there is, as yet, no definite knowl- 
edge of his exact whereabouts. Mrs. Stanley’s purpose in coming to San 
Francisco suggests several theories: superior advantages for conceal- 
ment, which this city possesses over the little one-horse town of Santa 
F6; superior safety for her child, if that diminutive being be still 
living ; and lastly, and most probable, superior possibilities for wreak- 
ing vengeance upon Mark Stanley, her unworthy husband and cowardly 
deserter. It is believed, by some, that the prominence which Stanley 



got out of his association with Miss Maydew attracted Mrs. Stanley’s 
brothers here, and that they quietly overtook Mark, immediately after 
the Maydew murder, and ran a knife between his ribs. We hope this 
may be so, but we fear it is too good to be true. If it is, and the 
young men ever come to trial in this State, they will be acquitted on 
the ground of justifiable homicide. If Mrs. Stanley ever needs friends, 
there are three upon whom she can count in any emergency : we mean 
Mr. Dubb, of Red Mountain ; Don Hernando Altana, the distinguished 
Spanish gentleman whose recent investments have so materially bene- 
fited California, and who sits beside us now as we write ; and, lastly, 
the editor of this paper. For much of the material of which this 
report is composed, we are indebted to Mr. Thomas Morris, formerly a 
Wall Street speculator, but now a prominent and successful citizen of 
Red Mountain.” 

How much of the foregoing is directly chargeable to Tom Morris, 
and how much to the imagination of the energetic editor, cannot be said ; 
but there are abundant reasons for doubting that Morris vouchsafed 
anything which would have warranted so warped and biassed an account 
of Mark Stanley’s early life ; because, secretly, Morris admired Mark 
Stanley, and said no more against him than he was compelled to. Cer- 
tainly, too, he would never have made plain, droll Dubb out as such 
an ideal gentleman and politician. This story of Mark Stanley’s wife 
made a great stir, and caused general surprise ; but no one was more 
surprised by it than Tom Morris, as he read it the morning of its 
publication while his breakfast was being cooked. 

Two hours later, when he called on the lawyer with whom he had 
made the appointment the day before, he was greeted with considerable 

“ You are in some degree responsible for a magnificent sensation,” 
laughed the lawyer. 

“ So it seems,” answered Tom ; “ but it rather took my breath away, 
it was so entirely unlike what I thought it would be.” 

The lawyer laughed heartily. 

“Your conservative New York newspapers would have hardly 
given the matter that sort of treatment,” he said. 

“ I should say not.” 

“ How much of it can be swallowed without chewing ?” asked the 

“ The part concerning the finding of Mrs. Stanley, and her flight, — 
with the exception of that which pertains to the baby. In that I mis- 
led him, and it’s about the only part of the story which he printed as I 
told it to him.” 

“ Good !” laughed the lawyer : “ of all your truths he made lies, 
while your one lie he accepted as a fact. You should have lied to him 
all the way through. A lie, generally, is more successful than the truth. 
But now about the baby. That is the part of the affair which most 
deeply concerns me. You say you have it in camp now ?” 

“ Yes. Mrs. Stanley left it in Santa F6 as a gift to Dubb, — or, to 
be more explicit, as a charge to Dubb. She begs him to take the little 
creature and make such disposition of it as seems best to him, so long 
Vol. XL.— 25 



as it is kept out of Mark Stanley’s reach. She never wants her husband 
to see his daughter, or even to know that he has a daughter. A letter 
explaining all this was sent to Dubb from the little fort on the Platte. 
After this letter was sealed, a brief note was also written, and sealed 
separately, explaining that the child would follow closely after the 
messenger. Bilkins, the messenger, was a stupid lunk-head, and he 
lost the letter on the way, and only brought Dubb the somewhat vague 
note. Of course we thought that the female referred to was Mark’s 
wife. Imagine our surprise, then, when, on going out to meet her, we 
found that it was Mark’s baby instead. She is a sweet little thing, 
with a rather serious face. Dubb says she resembles her mother.” 

“ How did you manage about her in camp ?” asked the lawyer. 

“ As to whose child she is ?” 


“Oh, we told them she was Dubb’s daughter. Droopy and I 
thought it the best way. It gives Dubb a better chance to protect her ; 
it will keep the child out of Mark Stanley’s clutches ; and it will save 
her a good many heart-aches when she is grown up. We never intend 
telling her who she really is. Dubb has given her her mother’s name, 
and she is now Mary Dubb, — the prettiest child, with the homeliest 
name, in all California.” 

“ That was very wise, giving her Dubb’s name,” said the lawyer : 
“it will be better, all around. So you don’t think Mark’s parents 
would be likely to accept the child ?” 

“ Not from what Dubb says about them.” 

“ And still you desire me to inform them that they can have her if 
they wish ?” 

“ Dubb thinks that will be best.” 

“Very good. It shall be done. Dubb, you say, wants his will 
made, wholly in the child’s favor, and at once ?” 


“ But why such haste ?” 

“ As a safeguard against accidents. A miner’s life, you know, is 
always in his hands.” 

A few days later, little Mary was Dubb’s heiress. The answer from 
Mark’s parents was exactly what Dubb had conjectured that it would 
be. They flatly refused to even discuss the child. They may have 
been slightly influenced to assume so decisive a front by a frequent 
perusal of three San Francisco newspapers, all of which had come to 
them addressed in Mark’s handwriting. One contained an explicit 
account of the murder of Miss Maydew ; a second contained the pub- 
lication of the reward offered for Mark Stanley because of the said 
murder ; and the third paper was the one just quoted, concerning Mrs. 
Stanley’s discovery and flight. 


Time is ever a mighty magician, but his craft and cunning were never 
more strikingly evidenced than they were in California in the fourteen 
years which followed the events last narrated. San Francisco, in that 
time, underwent changes which are but inadequately described by the 



word remarkable. Commerce and finance were now established upon 
a basis more secure and substantial than any one would have ever 
dreamed of fourteen years before. The foundation which was then 
laid was now a magnificent structure, of unquestionably solid perma- 
nence ; and the name of California now inspired confidence and respect 
throughout the country, and was no longer associated with wild-cat 
speculation and bombastic brag. 

A majority of the mining-posts which at that time were rude, dis- 
organized camps were now thrifty and respectable towns ; and among 
these was Red Mountain. It still bore its old name, but it wore a 
brisk, wholesome, and business-like air. There were many new faces 
at Red Mountain, though there was still a goodly sprinkling of the 
“ old-timers.” In fact, the most of those who had gazed upon Mark 
Stanley, with wondering eyes, the night when Droopy first brought 
him into camp, still revelled in the inspiring healthfulness of the Red 
Mountain climate. 

“ Nobody never dies on Red Mounting,” said a brawny “ forty- 
niner” to a newly-arrived and nervous-looking " tenderfoot,” whose 
clothes fitted him so tightly that he looked as if he had been made for 
them, and not they for him. “ No, sir ; nobody never dies here. Why, 
we had ter kill a man ter start a graveyard.” 

Dubb was now the leading man of that region. His mine, the 
nest-egg of which had been Mark Stanley’s abandoned claim, had been 
a thorough success, and its resources were still a long way from exhaus- 
tion. He made Tom Morris his business manager, and Droopy his 
superintendent, about two years after his arrival at Red Mountain, or 
when he had found it necessary to go into mining on an extensive scale. 
The twelve years which followed, which brings matters up to the period 
under present discussion, made Dubb one of the richest men in the 
West; and, for all his prosperity, he was still, as of old, unassuming, 
unconcerned, and quiet. 

Political and social honors were offered him, but he always kept in 
the background. The fourteen years which had passed since prosperity 
first smiled on him changed Dubb in but one thing : he gradually grew 
out of the twisted grammar of the Maine woods, and picked up, a bit 
at a time, the quite as picturesque vernacular of the mining-camps in 
its stead. None of his other habits underwent evolution. He still 
trimmed his beard with shears, and he still wore coarse, ill-fitting 

Now that over him were thrown the spell and glamour of great 
riches, people seemed to see him with more kindly eyes than formerly , 
and his peculiar demeanor, which used to afford so much merriment 
was now spoken of as fitting and becoming dignity. Others went so 
far as to dilate upon his fine personal appearance, — the same ones, too, 
who had found him so comical and grotesque when he was poor. 

There were several barbers at Red Mountain, and their influence 
was plainly perceptible in the closely-cropped hair and neatly-trimmed 
beard of Tom Morris ; but the only effect of these tonsorial gentlemen 
upon Droopy was in the suspicious odor of perfumed bear’s-grease 
which was exhaled from his hair and beard, and in the latter’s unmiti- 



gated smoothness. His beard, so he said, had never been introduced to 
either shears or razor since he first set foot in California, and he wore 
his hair low down upon his shoulders. Now that he could afford it, 
he wore broadcloth,— and a great deal too much of it. His extravagant 
attire — extravagant, at least, for a mine-superintendent — was startlingly 
emphasized by an immense diamond which he wore in the front of 
his “ boiled shirt,” that chief derision of old mining-days. But, still, 
Droopy commanded respect : he was far too important a personage to 
be treated with anything short of respect. Tom Morris, equally potent 
and powerful in Bed Mountain affairs, dressed with becoming taste and 
neatness. When the two were together, Droopy’s magnificence was 
made all the more garish by Tom Morris’s simplicity. Both men were 
well preserved, and Droopy’s face still retained the grooves and serra- 
tions of old, and his eyelids still hung down in the same lop-sided way, 
— the way which had made Mark Stanley shudder when he and Droopy 
first met. 

Dubb and Dubb’s mine were Droopy’s joy and pride ; he talked 
of nothing else, and thought of nothing else, — excepting his diamond. 
Tom Morris also set great store by Dubb’s mine, but he was much 
more interested in Dubb’s charge, Mark Stanley’s daughter, — Mary 
Dubb, as she was now known. 

Dubb had judiciously intrusted the education of Mary to Tom 
Morris; and Tom’s influence over her had never been anything else 
than good. He found her earnest, intelligent, and eager ; and so her 
education was a matter of mutual enjoyment to both teacher and pupil. 
Morris was a college-bred man, but he had long since decided that 
ornate flourishes in the training of youth were entirely superfluous : so 
his aim was to give Mary a practical education, with no more of the 
ornamental than her tastes might demand when she was old enough to 
comprehend that indefinite quantity which is commonly described as a 
higher education. 

Consequently, when she was seventeen, Mary was thoroughly pre- 
pared for such of the exigencies of life as she was likely to encounter. 

Partly from inherent tastes, and partly from the influence of Morris, 
Mary became an omnivorous reader. Dubb, always ready to get what- 
ever Mary wanted or needed, had obtained for her such books as Tom 
Morris suggested, until she was possessed of a fine collection. This 
little library — or “ lyburry,” as Droopy called it — was one of the chief 
delights of Bed Mountain while it was still a rough camp; and it 
furnished the admiring miners almost as much food for conversation as 
little Mary herself. 

Mary, unconsciously, exerted a powerful influence over the Bed 
Mountain miners. At her approach, even when she was a wee, prat- 
tling child, a damper was put upon ribald or blasphemous talk; and the 
mention of her name had a similar effect. 

“ She am a angel,” Droopy had declared, soon after her arrival at 
Bed Mountain ; and, though the somewhat extravagant characterization 
was not generally accepted, she was quite as heartily respected, by the 
other miners, as a woman. Presents of every description, from toy 
cats to six-shooters, were unstintingly rained upon her, and before she 



was ten years old she had a collection of personal effects which, for 
miscellaneous character, unquestionably rivalled the belongings of any 
child in any other country under the sun. 

Morris gave more of his time to Mary than he gave to the manage- 
ment of the mine, though the latter certainly was not slighted ; and the 
effects of the association were, in every respect, desirable and happy. 
He was a susceptible man, — that is, susceptible in its best sense, — and 
from the time she was a toddling babe she had been steadily creeping 
into his heart, until, long before she was seventeen, she filled a daugh- 
ter’s place there, and had completely won him from the hideous appetite 
for whiskey which had ruined him in the East and had sent him to 
California but little better than an outcast and a confirmed drunkard, 
despised even by his once admiring family. 

She, too, was nearly as fond of him as she was of Dubb, and she 
generally called him “ Father Tom.” He gradually smoothed out the 
antagonistic elements in her nature, which she inherited from her 
parents, and taught her to be governed by reason rather than by im- 

Of Droopy she was also fond, while he fairly idolized her. When 
he was very young, he was, for a time, cabin-boy on a ship called the 
“ Queen Mary.” It was the most distinguished title in his narrow 
range of distinguished things, and he applied it to Mark Stanley’s child 
almost from the first moment he saw her. Could she have penetrated 
his inmost being, she never would have recognized the extravagantly 
magnified image which filled his microscopic heart as in any way 
associated with herself. When she first came to Red Mountain, being 
less than three years old, her capabilities for pronunciation were some- 
what limited, and she could not twist her tongue sufficiently to fetch 
out the name Droopy. Finally, after continuous wrestlings with the 
elusive sounds, she hit upon the combination “ Uncle Daddy,” which 
she straightway applied to the delighted Droopy, who in after-years 
begged her never to relinquish it for his more conventional appel- 

With Dubb — well, with him she was simply absolute empress. He 
only lived, breathed, worked for her. He loved her with that un- 
divided, unselfish love which glorifies rather than abases, and which is 
the rarest thing on earth. He was her unexpostulating slave, her genii of 
the lamp, who, at her will, would grant whatever she wished. The color 
in his great deep-blue eyes always darkened a little whenever she came 
near him ; and his quiet, subdued voice was always gentler and tenderer 
than common when he spoke to her. Still, he never smiled ; perhaps 
because some chance glimpse which he had had at himself in some 
unkind mirror had forced him to realize how ghastly a thing a smile 
would be upon his homely face : whatever it was, his face was always 
as grave and solemn as if upon him had been laid the depressing burden 
of all the sorrows of the world. Mary loved him as intensely as he 
loved her, but, except in point of degree, there was no similarity be- 
tween them in the matter of loving. She loved him as a daughter 
always loves her father : but his love for her seemed to have no con- 
sideration of earth or relationship in it. Though she felt its force, 



Mary could neither analyze nor comprehend it. She saw but one 
explanation of it. 

“I must be like my mother,” she thought; “ and how much he 
must have loved her !” 

Tom Morris understood it better, and Dubb’s love for Mary often 
made his eyes moist and his face luminous. To him it was the most 
beautiful thing which life held. 

“Dear, grand old Dubb,” he thought: “he loves her with the 
highest and noblest love I ever heard of. It is stronger than the love 
between husband and wife, because in it there is no consideration of 
reward or passion. And it is stronger than the love between parents 
and children, because in it there is no pride of offspring, and no sense 
of duty or possession. It is absolutely free, dispassionate, indestructi- 
ble. She could rise to no height which would make it more; she 
could fall to no depth which would make it less. I have never under- 
stood Dubb before, but I understand him now. He proves to me that 
the theory of the transmigration of souls is no idle fancy. Dubb was 
a prince, a god, in his former state ; and now he is grave, silent, reserved, 
because his splendid spirit is, this time, encumbered with the awkward 
natural habiliments of a clown. How fortunate for Mary that she fell 
into the hands of Dubb ! And how sad it will be for him, by and by, 
when some other man leads her away as his wife ! But no one will see 
the slightest outward sign of this in Dubb. Like everything else, it 
will be something which Mary wants, and so Mary will have it. It is 
only natural, though : great joy is ever built upon the disrupted dust 
of great anguish. Ah, God ! what a sad thing life is !” 

Tom’s ruminations were often pitched in this key, but he never 
gave them utterance. Since Dubb never talked about himself, there 
was no way of ascertaining upon just what principle, or set of princi- 
ples, he based his conduct of life ; but there is no doubt that his phi- 
losophy contained but few elements, and very simple elements at that. 
In mining vernacular it would have been, “We alius gits a squar’ deal 
frum Dubb.” One of Tom’s ideas, at least, was right, — pronouncedly 
right : Mary could not possibly have fallen into better hands. 

With these three men, Dubb, Morris, and Droopy, Mary was im- 
perial despot. She had only to speak, and either or all of them would 
hasten to do her bidding. The facilities for spoiling her were undenia- 
bly first-class ; yet Mary came a long way from being spoiled. She 
had her faults, to be sure, but they were thoroughly womanly faults, — 
which made them as charming as virtues. 

Perhaps the progress of woman from infancy to maturity was never 
before as it was in this case. 

For five years she had been the only female thing in camp ; and the 
first lot of women who came there were not of a kind calculated to be 
of assistance in her moral training. When these were displaced by 
better ones, Mary’s character was already formed, and she no longer 
had any actual need of woman’s society. 

Though so much of her life had been lived among men, Mary was 
not in the least masculine, either in thought or in manner. From the 
very first, Morris had appreciated the fact that his was a delicate and 



responsible position. He was decidedly a man of ideas and strong 
prejudices, — of crotchets, he sometimes feared, — and he experienced 
the utmost difficulty in refraining from engrafting the same views of 
life upon her. He dealt honestly by his charge, though, and only 
brought out her traits and tastes instead. Eagerly and earnestly he 
sought for all her feminine instincts ; and he managed these so deftly 
and discreetly that she not only grew into a decided woman, but into 
an unusually original woman. 

She was, also, a pretty woman. Growing up, as she did, in the 
wholesome, bracing atmosphere of Red Mountain, she was very unlike 
what she would have been had her womanly graces unfolded themselves 
in Vermont, her mother’s home. In form, Mary was round and plump, 
while her mother had been a woman of extreme slenderness. She had, 
too, the brown eyes of her father, instead of the blue eyes of her 
mother. Her mother’s face had been thin and pale, with only the 
faintest tinge of pink in her cheeks ; but Mary’s face was full, and it 
was rosy with the pleasing glow of perfect health. In one particular 
only was she exactly like her mother : both were favored with long, 
luxuriant, curling brown hair. Beyond her eyes, which were exactly 
like his, there was scarcely a trace of Mark Stanley about her ; and the 
vast difference in the climate between the widely-separated sections of 
country where she and her mother were reared made her so unlike even 
her maternal parent that no one could have possibly traced or guessed 
out her parentage. Dubb was glad of this, it made the matter of pro- 
tecting her from any possible sinister scheme of Mark so much easier. 

“ Seventeen year old,” he said to Tom Morris ; “ am it possible ? 
Why, her mother wa’n’t much older nor that when I first seen her, 
a-comin’ up the plains with Mark. She am a mighty sight prettier, 
too, nor her mother, our little Mary is. I think she am the prettiest 
woman I ever seen.” 

“You are right,” assented Tom; “ you are nearly always right. 
So far as I know, you never made but one mistake in your life, and 
that was when you accepted Mary as a daughter. I thought that it 
was right then, and I heartily advised it ; but I have been sorry, for 
many a year, that I did not oppose you with all my might : maybe it 
would have made a difference with things, and maybe it wouldn’t. 
Anyhow, I would feel better if I had entered my protest. As it is, 
you have made an unselfish sacrifice of your life for the sake of two 
women, neither of whom, as things now are, can ever reward you as 
you deserve. Mark Stanley has, by his baseness and selfishness, wrested 
from you a service for his family which is greater than man has a 
right to accept from man ; and now I hate him for it, though I was 
once fool enough to admire him. It would be all right, though, and I 
would be contented, if you were not, now, in a false position, which 
makes it impossible for you to make Mary what she should be, — not 
your adopted daughter, but your wife.” 

Tom had delivered himself of this speech in Dubb’s plain, unpre- 
tentious little office, where he and Dubb had been making up accounts. 
While Tom was speaking, Dubb was carelessly fumbling some papers, 
which employment he continued for several seconds after Tom’s last 



word had been said. His face underwent no change, and when he an- 
swered Tom his voice was as firm and even as ever : 

“ It ain’t to be supposed, Tom, that men what didn’t have the same 
kind of a start in life can alius see things alike. Two different ways, 
mebbe, am both right ways. What you says is your way, an’ so it am 
all right. It ain’t my way, though my way am right too. Mary am 
all right, an’ so am I. She am seventeen, as I said afore; a year 
younger nor the mine. That ole mine have let out a pile o’ money, 
Tom ; an’ I don’t b’lieve she have quit the business yet.” 

Tom Morris never made reference to the subject again, though he 
admired Dubb more than ever. 


Mark Stanley, under the protecting name of Don Hernando Altana, 
had nearly doubled his million of dollars in these fourteen years. He 
was a banker, and a member of several mining companies. In one of 
these he was associated with Mr. Maydew, who had managed to out- 
grow his grief for his lost daughter ; and in another company Mark 
had Judge Desborough for a partner. He had been cool, resolute, bold, 
but never reckless ; and all of his plans had worked just as he had 
wished them to. He was prosperous ; he was popular ; he was rich. 
What he had achieved vindicated him, he felt, — even justified him, — 
in forsaking the piety of youth for the impiety of his riper years. 

“ How else could I have got on ?” he often asked himself. “ Truly 
enough, Dubb got on, and he has made more money than I have ; but 
he started out in such a slow, prosy way. I never could have stood it ; 
I haven’t the patience for it. Not for the world would I change places 
with him, though he has made every penny of his great wealth — far 
greater wealth than mine — by the sheerest honesty, while the mass of 
mine has come of the damnedest rascality on record. It is, though, 
something worth living for to be a successful rascal, when all the world 
calls it impossible. I am prouder of it, too, than Dubb is of his hon- 
esty, — in this almighty law-abiding country, too, where legality, virtue, 
and uprightness are prated about until it makes one sick at the stomach. 
Talk about no one but an honest man being able to sleep ! Ye gods ! 
I’d like to see the man, woman, or child who sleeps sounder, or easier, 
than I do. I can eat, sleep, drink, make money, and enjoy myself 
generally. Who could ask for anything more than I have now? No 
one but a fool. Peace of mind ? No one has it altogether : I have it 
as completely as any one. Why shouldn’t I ? It is an outcome of 
satisfaction, and I am thoroughly satisfied with my lot. Nothing could 
induce me to have it otherwise. The million I cabbaged has done me 
more good than it would have done Maydew ; and he is better off with- 
out his daughter, just as I am better off without my wife. Women 
hamper one. You always expect that they are going to be one thing, 
and then they always turn out something else. They are so damned 
disappointing. Maydew has been more of a man, ever since I cut that 
girl’s throat, than he ever was before in his life. He was eternally 
grunting, and was getting absolutely helpless. Since then, he has helped 
himself and has more than made that million back again, — a thing he 



never would have done with her alive; and it’s so degrading and 
emasculate to have a woman make money for you. What a failure I 
would have been with that woman always hanging on me ! yes, yes, 
the Indians did me an almighty good turn when they ridded me of my 
wife. I wonder where she is now ? I suppose that my mother, my 
religion-coated, religion-dispensing, Boston-born mother, would say in 
hell, — to which tropical clime she used to relegate every one who 
didn’t walk in the track which she mapped out for them. How those 
fond parents of mine must enjoy the newspapers I occasionally send 
them, when I am being discussed as Mark Stanley ! I wonder if they 
don’t think I’ve done the family name great credit ? I wonder if they 
don’t think I’ve profited by my early Christian training ? Ha ! ha ! 
ha !” 

Mark lived in an elegant suite of rooms in the finest hotel in San 
Francisco, and was counted one of the shrewdest financiers in the State. 
His opinions were constantly being sought, and his advice was constantly 
being followed. 

“ Would this be so,” he would say to himself, “if I was such a 
fool as my father used to try to make me out ? Could a fool have 
gotten out of that Maydew affair as I did, and then kept out of the 
reach of suspicion and the law, ever since ? No, no, John Stanley; your 
son was no fool ; but he would have been made into a most thorough 
and genuine fool had he stayed very much longer with John and Mrs. 
John Stanley. Lord, what a pity it is that there isn’t some way by 
which she can manage to get her name first !” 

Among his other accomplishments, Mark was an expert gambler. 
Cards, dice, billiards, he mastered them all, and they all contributed to 
his coffers. The fast life he lived, and the exposure to which he con- 
stantly subjected himself, soon took the natural sandiness out of his 
hair and skin, leaving the first gray, and the second sufficiently dark, 
so that for several years he had been relieved of the unpleasant necessity 
of using dyes or stains on his skin. Now that this nuisance was abated, 
he was so thoroughly satisfied with himself that he had but one un- 
gratified wish. As much as he railed against women, he had, for years, 
felt the need of some one woman to whom he could turn for compan- 
ionship and sympathy. But the sort of woman he wanted he could 
not find. Sometimes he doubted if he ever would find such a one; 
and it was the sole regret of his life. 


Mary was born on the first day of May; and on the seventeenth 
anniversary of her birth, Tom Morris’s three daughters, and their brother 
Walter, a young man of twenty-five, made their first appearance at 
Bed Mountain. 

The Morris family had been detained en route, and did not reach 
the brisk little mining-town, where Tom had so long awaited them, 
until five days after they were due. Tom had not seen his children for 
nearly twenty years; and when he came away from the East they 
were scarcely more than babes. In the intervening time he had received 



many photographs of them, and had been able to judge something of 
their respective characters from the letters they had sent him ; yet his 
daughters were a disappointment to him. They were pretty, and gentle, 
and all that; but they seemed so dependent and superficial, — so in- 
capable of thinking and acting for themselves, — in fact, so wholly un- 
like Mary. His beloved pupil was so capable and self-reliant that for 
the last year, without knowing why, the conviction had grown upon 
him that his daughters would be something the same. Now that they 
were not, he felt, for a moment, some of Mark Stanley’s bitterness, and 
more than half believed that the Fates had dealt unfairly with him. 

With his son, Tom Morris was better pleased. Walter was a fine 
specimen of physical manhood, and was inclined to studiousness. His 
slightly-stooping shoulders, and pale, grave face, gave one the impres- 
sion that he had spent too much of his time over his books. 

“ Ye’ll git a tech o’ stronger color nor that, bimeby,” was Droopy’s 
greeting. “ This ’ere ole Californy am better nor liver pills an’ arsen- 
nick ter take that air bleachy look outen a man’s hide.” 

As Walter regarded the gay old miner closely, he thought that if 
California ever made his face like Droopy’s he would certainly resort to 
arsenic as a relief, even from existence. But he only smiled cordially 
on Droopy, and said, — 

“ I hope that you are right.” 

When the stage which brought Walter Morris and his sisters 
arrived at Red Mountain, the whole place was enthusiastic over the 
celebration of Mary’s birthday, — a feast-day in the Red Mountain 
calendar which the miners never forgot to observe. The festivities 
were at their height when Walter Morris stepped down from the stage; 
and one of his elegant and fastidious sisters covered her ears with her 
hands to shut out the “ horrid noise” made by the brass band which 
the miners had imported from San Francisco, at “ great expense,” to 
“ put the punctuation-marks in the programme,” as the local newspaper 
expressed it. 

“ What a magnificent woman, and what an outlandish man !” was 
Walter’s first remark when he saw Dubb and Mary, where they were 
viewing the merrymakers, from the hotel balcony. 

“ Hush,” cautioned Tom, “ or she will hear you : she has ears like 
a cat. That is my benefactor and his daughter.” 

An exclamation of surprise, almost of horror, burst from Walter’s 

“ It can’t be possible !” he cried. “ So lovely a woman the daughter 
of so ugly a man ! And you say she is only seventeen ? To what a 
tremendous extent do incongruities run in this new country of yours ! 
Tell me, father, have you many more such abnormalities as this ill- 
matched father and daughter ?” 

Droopy, who had for a moment been speaking with some one else, 
turned his attention to Walter again, in time to catch the word “ abnor- 

“ You bet,” he responded, heartily ; “ you bet. We raises ’em here 
by the hundred-acre lot, an’ we digs ’em outen the groun’ in dead 



Walter laughed, and Tom was relieved to find that Droopy had 
not discovered that Dubb and Mary were being discussed. Tom was 
nettled by his son’s criticism of Dubb. To be sure, he himself had 
never considered Dubb a beauty, but it was painful to hear his hero 
discussed in that fashion, even by Walter. It made Tom feel, all at 
once, that the old order of things had been unpleasantly broken in upon. 
The presence of his children would interrupt, to a greater or less extent, 
— and probably the former, — the harmonious relations which for so 
long had existed between himself and Dubb and Mary. His son and 
daughters would never regard his two friends as he did : all four would 
ridicule Dubb, and the girls, at least, would be jealous of Mary. He 
was sorry that he had not either left his family in the East very much 
longer, or brought them westward before their methods of life were fixed. 
And then another unhappy thought flashed over him : he was allowing 
Mary to displace his children, his own flesh and blood, in his affections. 
Was it right? In less than a second he clinched his fists, and gritted 
his teeth over a smothered oath. Mary was worth it, anyhow, right or 
wrong ; and he could not change what already was, nor would he if he 

His line of thought was suddenly interrupted by Dubb, who had 
stepped forward, with Mary, to greet the newly-arrived members of the 
Morris family. Droopy touched Tom on the shoulder. 

“ Straighten up, pard,” he whispered : “ here am Dubb an’ Queen 

Tom introduced Dubb and Mary to his children, and observed, with 
more or less disgust, that his daughters were disposed to look upon 
Mary with that degree of condescension which is so little removed from 
contempt, and mainly, too, because of the somewhat unconventional 
way in which she was dressed. Though this made Tom’s cheeks burn 
with resentment, he was, from one stand-point, glad of it : it distracted 
the attention of the three young women from certain peculiarities about 
the person of Dubb which they might have regarded with even more 
open contempt than they did the dress of Mary. 

At his first glimpse of Mary, Walter had been impressed as no 
woman had ever impressed him before. This was partly because of her 
beauty ; but even more than by that was he impressed with the certainty 
that she was a woman who did her own thinking, — something which 
Walter Morris had been led to believe was the rarest of all phenomena 
— in young women. 

“ Your father is one of my best friends, Mr. Morris,” said Mary, 
offering him her hand, with a smile, when they were introduced : 
u partly for his sake, and just a little for your own sake, I am glad to 
meet you.” 

“ Thank you,” he answered, bending low over her hand: “ the 
pleasantness of your welcome is worth the long journey here, even if 
there were no other recompense. My father’s letters have fully ac- 
quainted me with your relations with him ; and I am sure that neither 
you nor he can ever have better friends than each other.” 

“ What you say,” she responded, laughingly, “ is certainly an esti- 
mable compliment to me, but I am afraid that it is rather a doubtful 



one to your father.” And then, turning from him, she kissed each of 
his sisters. “ This may not be the Eastern way,” she said ; “ in fact, 
I am pretty sure that it is not; but I cannot be formal with the 
daughters of a man whom I owe so much as I do your father ; and in 
my father’s name, and also in my own, I bid you welcome to Red 

“ Hooray ! That’s the stuff !” shouted the admiring Droopy ; and 
the by-standers, impressed with the idea that there was something to 
“ hooray” about, proceeded to “ hooray” with lusty vehemence. 

“ Oh, what a dreadful place !” exclaimed Miss Millicent Morris, 
the elder of the three sisters, and the one whose sensitive nerves had 
been so cruelly shocked by the brass band. “ I am sure that we shall 
all be killed here.” 

“ I reckon not,” said the consoling Droopy : “ we never kills nothin’ 
but hoss-thieves in this country.” 

Mary could scarcely repress a smile, but she slipped a hand through 
one of the arms of Millicent Morris, and gently impelled her toward 
the hotel, signing for Morris to follow with the others. 

“ You are tired, dear,” she said, “ and all this is new to you. You 
will feel better after you rest and get acquainted with us. Come into 
the hotel.” 

Millicent looked up at the building they were about entering. 

“ A wooden hotel !” she gasped. 

“ Yes,” interposed Droopy : “ out here we on’y makes jails out o’ 


The next morning, at an unusually early hour for him, Droopy ap- 
peared at Dubb’s office. His bulky figure was more than ordinarily 
erect, which made his sleek but capacious broadcloths look as if a reef 
had been taken in them ; while his diamond seemed to emit a brighter 
radiance than ever before. Some of the creases appeared to have vanished 
from his face, and the innermost depths of the others wore a less dark- 
ling aspect. Certain scents and hirsute regularities made it evident 
that he had had recent contact with a barber, and the immaculate spot- 
lessness of his shirt-bosom was only secondary to the immaculate com- 
placency of his smile. 

“ What a gay-looking old cock you are, this morning !” said Tom 
Morris, who was alone in the office ; and an irrepressible grin illumi- 
nated his face as he spoke. “ What’s the matter with you ?” 

“ I’m in love,” answered Droopy, thrusting his hands into his 
trousers-pockets, and strutting up and down the office with comical 

Tom laughed uproariously, and slapped his thigh. 

“Why, Droopy,” he cried, “ you’ve got things a little mixed, 
haven’t you ? I thought that when a man was in love he was always 
solemn and downcast, and that he put all his clothes on in the wrong 
way, and forget his toilet altogether.” 

“ That’s an’ Eastern idee,” retorted Droopy, “ an’ a wrong one, like 
’most all Eastern idees. No, sir ; I ain’t got things mixed at all ; 



nary a mix. Why, when a man’s in love — a real genooine man, I 
mean — he gits slicker nor a painter ; an’ as fur downcast, — pooh, he 
feels as rizzy as ef he’d took a can o’ yeast.” 

“ Who is the happy woman ?” asked Tom. 

“ She ain’t happy. Nothin’ happy about her. She am the most 
mizzable woman on all Red Mounting,” groaned Droopy, with as- 
sumed compassion. 

“ Oh, then it’s an act of charity ?” 

u You bet ; an’ charity don’t ’mount ter nothin’ when yer blows 
about it, an’ so I can’t tell ye her name jest yet.” 

J ust then Dubb came in, and Droopy laid one finger across his lips, 
as if what he had just said was a state secret. 

“ So that is the way the cat is going to jump,” thought Tom : 
“ Droopy is in love with Mary. But why under the sun does he call 
her miserable ? There was never a happier, more contented woman on 
earth. What an ass, and what a presumptuous ass, he is, to be sure !” 

About the middle of the forenoon, Tom left the office and went to 
the hotel to look after his family. When he was gone, Droopy in- 
dulged in the familiarity of slapping Dubb across the shoulders. 

“ Say, pard, I’m in fur it,” he exclaimed. 

“ What am you in fur ?” asked Dubb. 

“ Love ; mattermony ; home without a mother ; my own vinin’ fig- 
tree, an’ all sich.” 

Dubb knew that Droopy would come down to his actual meaning 
quicker if no answer was made him, and so he busied himself with his 
papers in silence and in seeming forgetfulness. 

“ Say, pard,” broke out Droopy, at last, “ you seen Tom’s gals yis- 
turday, didn’t ye ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Wa’n’t that air Millercent jest stunnin’ ?” 

“ She am a pretty woman, Droopy.” 

“ ’Tain’t that I means, pard ; I ain’t took with her poottiness ; but 
that sorter wilted look an’ wilted way o’ hern, — like as ef she woi 
frost-bitten an’ then sot out in the sun. It went all over me like a 
streak o’ gin an’ merlasses ; an’ I kinder wanted ter cuddle ’er up an’ 
soothe ’er. Feared of a brass ban’ ! took sick when she seen a wooden 
hotel ! Oh, Lordy ! I don’t wonder they has sich ornery men in the 
East, ef they raises ’em frum that kind o’ wimmin ! She am so kinder 
bleached an’ buttermilky, she looks as ef she’d been run through one 
o’ them air machines what they uses ter suck the ile outen nutmegs. 
They ain’t much woman ’bout her ; an’ yet I’m awfully took with her : 
I s’pose it’s all ’cause I’m so dum sorry fur ’er. Lordy, they is more 
woman, such as a man wants, ter the nail on one o’ Mary’s leetlest toes 
nor they is to the hull o’ Millercent. Lookin’ at Millercent makes me 
think that they must git wimmin frum some furrin country, an’ that 
she ain’t no woman at all, but jest the empty case what some woman 
corned in. I’m goin’ ter marry her, though, an’ then I can keep off 
the brass ban’s an’ things.” 

Dubb took the matter very gravely. He never saw anything to 
laugh at in anything. 



“ But you see, Droopy,” he responded, “ she am not our kind.” 

“ Not our kind ! Ain’t Tom Morris our kind ? an’ ain’t she his 
gal ?” demanded Droopy, firing up. 

“ Tom am our kind only because he choosed ter make himself so. 
He wasn’t alius so.” 

“ Neither wor we,” expostulated Droopy ; “ neither wor we alius 
so. We am all what we am ’cause we choosed to be so.” 

“ In course, Droopy ; in course Tom feels that way ; but this am a 
question o’ Tom’s gals. Am they likely ter feel that way ?” 

“ I don’t give a damn,” growled Droopy ; “ I’m goin’ ter marry 
Millercent, anyhow.” 

“ Don’t you think Millicent’s father will have something to say 
about that ?” asked Mary, coming in unobserved, and pulling Droopy’s 

Droopy faced about, got very red, and then stammered out the 
opinion that he had no doubt but that Tom would be glad to get rid 
of her. 

Mary was not much given to sarcasm, but she could not resist asking 
Droopy if it was not a little inconsistent for him to expect Tom to set 
such slight value upon what he himself assumed to value so highly. 
Before Droopy could answer, before Mary had finished speaking, in 
fact, she caught sight of a package which was labelled “ Letters to John 
Dubb, from Mrs. Mark Stanley.” 

“ Who is Mrs. Mark Stanley ?” she asked, carelessly, slightly im- 
pressed with the name. 

Dubb, as usual, was calm and unruffled ; but upon Droopy the 
effect of the question was frightful. He started as if confronted with 
a ghost. 

“ Don’t you know ? She was your ” and then he clapped his 

hand over his mouth in time to keep back the word “ mother,” which 
so nearly escaped his lips. “ Oh, God !” he exclaimed, a moment later ; 
“ what a fool I am !” 

Dubb and Droopy exchanged glances. Mary regarded them with 
the most intense interest and surprise. Stepping forward, she placed 
one hand on Dubb’s downcast face, lifted it up, and turned it toward 

“ What is it, papa ? What does it all mean ? Is it anything which 
concerns me ?” she asked. 

“ It seems to consarn Droopy, mostly,” answered Dubb, evasively : 
“ mebbe you better go up ter the hotel, Mary, an’ see Tom’s gals. He 
jest went up.” 

Without another word, Mary left the office. She met Tom Morris 
in the hotel corridor, and walked straight up to him, with a very pale 

“ Why, Mary, what’s the matter ?” he asked. 

“Was my mother’s name Stanley?” she demanded, looking him 
squarely in the eyes. 

Her unexpected question took Tom completely off his guard, and 
his face betrayed his great surprise. In a moment he recovered him- 
self, and said, — 



“A woman named Stanley was connected with your childhood; 
but you must trust us, and not ask for an explanation which cannot yet 
be made.” 

He did not know how much she had discovered, and so did not 
know how else to answer her. Bursting into tears, she flung herself 
into his arms, just as Walter Morris appeared. 

“ So this is the lay of the land,” muttered Walter, retreating un- 
perceived. “ In love, are they ?” 


All through the week which followed the arrival of the younger 
members of the Morris family, three individual members of the Red 
Mountain fraternity were miserable, because of three very erroneous 

Droopy’s remarks to Tom Morris about being in love, and the mys- 
terious air which he assumed on the appearance of Dubb, led Morris 
into believing that the imaginative, emotional, and erratic Droopy had 
suddenly fallen in love with Mary and had conceived the notion of 
suing for her hand. This made Tom absolutely wretched. The idea 
was thoroughly abhorrent to him, and he both pitied and despised 
Droopy for entertaining such thoughts. 

Walter Morris, seeing the weeping Mary in the arms of his father, 
was convinced that there was a warmer feeling than friendship between 

“ Disgraceful !” he muttered to himself, over and over again ; “ he 
an old man and she only a young girl. Of course there is more admi- 
rable womanhood about her than there is about any other woman of 
twice her age whom I ever saw ; but, then, that don’t change her age. 
Why, my youngest sister is at least three years older than Mary Dubb. 
On his own account I don’t blame him ; she is lovely enough to turn 
any man’s head ; but he might have some deference for the feelings of 
his children. And it’s awful for a man of his age to think of marrying 
a girl so young.” 

This last objection was probably the strongest with Walter: he was 
half fascinated with Mary himself. The thought that she might marry 
his father was the supremest torture to him ; and as the days advanced, 
and the end of his first week at Red Mountain drew near, he got nearly 
beside himself because of his father’s supposed intentions. 

Mary had, perhaps, more reason than the others for her distress, 
though she, too, read the symbols wrongly. Until the morning when 
she saw the package of letters on Dubb’s desk, she had never heard the 
names of her father and mother mentioned. She was only interested, 
at the time she asked her unhappy question, because the name, Mrs. 
Mark Stanley, struck her as one which was somewhat unusual. Ex- 
cepting that she had seen it in books, Stanley was wholly a new name 
to her. She had asked the question out of the merest curiosity, and 
had no answer been made her, she would never have given Mrs. Mark 
Stanley a second thought. But the excitement and consternation of 
Droopy, and his bewildering words, led her to think that the unknown 



Mrs. Stanley was in some painful way connected with herself. Dubb’s 
evasiveness and Morris’s non-committal air combined to strengthen her 
impression. The truth would have been far less cruel to Mary than 
the theories which she formulated out of the possibilities in the case. 
She did not jump at any rash conclusion : she was not that kind of 
a woman. She looked at the matter from the several points of view 
which presented themselves to her ; but she was thoroughly misled by 
one thing, which hindered her from guessing the truth, even had there 
been no other obstacle in her way : she never once doubted that she was 
the daughter of John Dubb. After weighing the matter carefully, 
according to the limited light which she had, this demure philosopher 
of seventeen abandoned a score of seemingly improbable theories, which 
had suggested themselves to her, for one which she deemed most natural 
and likely. She decided that her father must have always been rich, 
and that her mother had married him for his money, and then, tiring 
of her plain, homely husband, had forsaken him for some finer, hand- 
somer man, who was named Mark Stanley. Divorces she knew were 
granted for very slight pretexts in those days, and she cleared her 
mother of the suspicion of adultery by supposing that the divorce 
conveniences were taken advantage of before Mrs. John Dubb became 
Mrs. Mark Stanley. 

“ Poor papa !” she moaned ; “ how he must have suffered ! That is 
why he never smiles, like other men. I wonder that he does not hate 
me, instead of loving me so. How I must have hurt him when I 
asked him who Mrs. Mark Stanley was !” 

And Mary suffered the keenest torture at the hands of this unsavory 
phantom of her own conjurement. 

These three impressions, all accepted of the Fates on one day, 
and all cherished for a week, in the most uncomfortable fashion, were, 
by some strange caprice of the Fates, all dispelled on another day, — 
almost simultaneously, in fact. 

Mary was sitting by herself near the useless shaft of a deserted 
mine. It was a spot both lonely and picturesque ; and of late, made 
melancholy by her depressing and unwholesome fancy, she had taken to 
strolling to it two or three times a day. A heap of discarded mining- 
paraphernalia and other rubbish protected her from passers-by on one 
hand, and a scrubby clump of stunted spruces shut out profane *eyes in 
every other direction. It was not, either, a place where she was likely 
to be troubled with any one, because the abandoned shaft bore the 
name of being haunted. 

It was late in the afternoon, and the warm air of mid-day was 
already giving place to the sharp chilliness which, even in warm 
weather, came at that altitude with twilight. She was just conscious 
of the change, and was about arising to go home, when she heard the 
sound of approaching voices : a moment later, she recognized them. It 
was Walter Morris and the hotel-keeper; the latter was showing his 
guest the “ sights” in and about the little town. 

“So this is the haunted shaft?” queried Walter. 

“ Yes : this is the spot where Bilkins is said to have been killed. 
He came here to bring a message to Mr. Dubb concerning Mark 



Stanley’s wife, when the Indians were supposed to hold her captive. 
Well, this poor fool of a Bilkins got wild about the camp, and came 
back here to make his fortune. He struck good deposits here, and 
would have got rich if some one from the Platte forks, who owed him 
a grudge, hadn't come along and killed him." 

“ I dont remember anything about Bilkins," said Walter, “ but I 
can repeat, almost word for word, the contents of some of my father's 
letters about Mark Stanley. Let me see : Stanley and his wife came 
West with the same wagon-train with which Dubb came. Isn't that 
right ?" 


“ And Stanley left his wife to the tender mercies of the Indians." 

“ Correct." 

“ And Dubb, purely for humanity's sake, and out of the kindness 
of his heart, undertook to rescue Mrs. Stanley." 

“ Exactly," said the hotel-man. “ Why, Mr. Morris, you have an 
admirable memory." 

“ Hold on," laughed Walter : “ you compliment me much too soon. 
My memory has already given out. I don't know what became of 
Mrs. Stanley." 

“ Neither does any one else, Mr. Morris : it's no case of bad memory 
at all. As soon as Mr. Dubb got a clue as to where she was, she 
skipped out, — on account of some fanciful notion she had about the 
mauling she got from the Indians, you know. Mr. Dubb was never 
able to find her again, though they say he gets letters from her some- 

“ Why don't he run her down, and marry her ?" demanded 

“ There are two good reasons for that, sir. One of 'em is that no 
one knows whether Mark Stanley is dead or alive ; and, then, those 
who are supposed to know say that Mr. Dubb still tenderly cherishes 
the memory of his last wife. She died in the East, and Miss Mary 
was sent here, to him, before she was three years old." 

By this time the men were out of hearing ; but Mary had heard 
enough to lift the aching burden off her heart. First the tears came 
into her eyes, then she smiled, and then she laughed, — long and 

“ How silly I have been !" she murmured, while her cheeks got 
twice as red as they normally were. “ How could I have worked my- 
self into such a stew ? What a nasty thing an imagination is ! I never 
will exercise mine again." 

And, still laughing at intervals, she hurried away home. 

She was flying about the house, singing like a bird, when Tom 
Morris suddenly came in. 

“Well, little girl," he said, “this is really refreshing. It's a long 
while since I've heard you sing like that before. What has come over 
you ? Has Droopy proposed ?" 

“Droopy? Uncle Daddy propose to me? Why, Father Tom, 
you are going mad." 

“ No, I'm not. The silly old fellow is in love." 

Vol. XL. — 26 



“ Yes, I know it.” 

“ And you are his gentle goddess.” 

“ No, no, no ; you were never so mistaken in all your life. It’s not 
me at all ; it's— oh, how can I tell you? You'll surely be angry.” 

“ No, Mary : go on.” 

“ It's the most absurd thing I ever heard of. He's in love with — 
with Millicent.” 

For a moment there was a shadow on Tom's face, and then, sitting 
back in his chair, he laughed with all his might. Mary joined him, 
and the two kept at it till exhaustion stopped them. 

“ Oh, Lord !” gasped Tom ; “ if I could only hear and see how he'd 
manage proposing to her !” And then he and Mary took fresh courage, 
and laughed again. 

“ Shall you consent?” asked Mary, when she could get breath 
enough to speak. 

“ Consent ? Certainly : it's the best way of settling him. Why, 
with all her high-flown notions, she’d scalp him if he ever hinted it to 
her.” And then Tom tried to laugh again, but failed from sheer lack 
of energy. 

“ Oh, Father Tom,” she broke out, all at once, “ I overheard some 
men talking, to-day, and found out that Mrs. Mary Stanley was merely 
a woman to whom papa was once very kind, and not his wife at all, as 
I imagined.” 

“ Certainly she wasn’t his wife,” answered Tom, delighted to find 
her suspicions set at ease. “ It is too bad you got nervous about it.” 

“ It don’t matter in the least now ; and you can be sure I shan't be 
such a goose again.” 

“ One funny consequence of your notion about Mrs. Stanley is that 
Walter saw you in my arms, that day, and thought we were making 
love to each other.” 

“ You and I, Father Tom?” 

“ Yes ; but don't let it distress you.” 

“ It don't ; it's almost as comical as Droopy's love-dream. Really, 
your son ought to be ashamed of himself.” 

Walter was passing under the parlor window at that very moment. 
He heard what Tom and Mary said, and he was ashamed of himself. 
Better still, he was undeceived. 


A little after noon, the next day, Mary went for another walk to 
Bilkins's deserted shaft. She was in capital spirits now, and she wanted 
to see how the scene of her melancholy broodings would seem to her, 
now that her unhappy illusion concerning Mrs. Mark Stanley was dis- 

Just before she reached the haunted shaft, she was aware that some 
one was hastening eagerly along after her. The light, nimble footsteps 
convinced her that it was no miner. More likely than not it was 
Walter Morris; and the thought of him made her also think of what 
Tom had said the night before ; and she laughed outright. 



“ What unwholesome things suspicions are !” she thought ; “ and 
in what wretched directions they lead one ! Things which one does not 
perfectly understand should never have a second thought. Speculation 
might almost be called the process of making something out of nothing. 
I believe that papa is the greatest philosopher of modern times. He 
never frets about anything, and what he does not understand he lets 
alone. Bacon, in expressing this idea, calls it the underlying principle 
of good breeding, and declares that no man, until he can do this, is a 
gentleman, no matter what station of life he is born into. According 
to that, how many men nowadays, I wonder, are gentlemen ? Certainly 
not Walter Morris.” 

Half a minute later, Walter Morris stepped to her side and raised 
his hat. 

u Pardon me for intruding,” he said, “ but you are going in my di- 
rection, and so I must beg for the honor of walking with you.” 

“ I shall be glad of your company,” she answered, with a smile. 
“ I am not very fond of my own society. It's apt to get monotonous.” 

“ Indeed !” he exclaimed ; “ why, I had every reason for thinking 
otherwise. I am sure that I have seen you walking up this way alone, 
very often, ever since I came to Bed Mountain.” 

“ You are trying to show me that I am inconsistent,” she laughed. 
“ Well, I don’t blame you. You mustn’t expect too much of my sex : 
women’s minds are apt to experience sudden changes. We are a fickle 
lot, you know. Seriously, Mr. Morris, something has been troubling 
me for the last few days, and it made me moody. That is why I came 
here so often, alone. It’s a good place to be glum in. Yesterday, by 
accident, I discovered that I had been giving myself unnecessary un- 
easiness, and that what I had conjectured to be true was wholly a mis- 
take. And to-day I actually came here to laugh at myself for being 
such a goose and to bid the dismal place good-by — until I get another 
fit of the blues.” 

“ Yesterday ? How strange !” said Walter : “ why, yesterday I 
was also relieved of further faith in a senseless piece of folly of my 
own. It certainly is very singular that peace of mind should come 
back to us so coincidentally ; is it not ?” 

She nodded her head, but did not speak. She was certain that 
nothing else but his fancy concerning herself and Tom could have given 
Walter uneasiness at Bed Mountain ; and then she suddenly remembered 
that while she and Tom had been talking, the evening before, there 
had been a noise under her window, which she had not investigated, 
and shortly afterwards Walter had joined them and was unusually 
affable. Had he heard what they were saying, as he passed the window ? 
She hoped so. It would disabuse his mind of an evil impression, and 
it would let him down a little from the lofty plane of flawless perfec- 
tion where her fancy had placed him. 

“ Here I am, speculating again,” she thought. “ I must take more 
assiduously to the reading of Bacon, and, also, must cultivate the 
womanly art of minding my own business.” 

They extended their walk a long way beyond the old shaft, going 
high up toward the summit of the mountain. Incidentally the walk 



brought out traits in Mary whose existence Walter had not even guessed 
before. When he first saw her, he thought her a most admirable woman ; 
but seeing her in his father’s arms the next day, and misunderstanding 
it, as he had, Walter’s interest in Mary had wholly subsided. In fact, 
he was the next thing to disgusted with her. Now he found her more 
charming than ever, and did everything in his power to make himself 
agreeable to her. 

Before they came home, he was helplessly in love. He saw 
that her range of reading had been extensive, and that she had touched 
nothing superficially. Whatever she had gone into at all, she had 
gone into deeply. She could talk, clearly and intelligently, of the 
things she had read ; her general views of the affairs of life were broad 
and generous, and her nature was as frank and open as the sunshine in 
which she had always lived. They held many views and had many 
tastes in common ; and where they differed he was now, lover-like, 
ready to admit that her ideas were nearest right. Perhaps they were ; 
but twenty-four hours before, he would have disagreed with whatever 
she might have said. 

Loving Mary made an immediate and radical change in Walter. 
The day before he had been bitter against his father for having brought 
him and his sisters away from the East. He had felt that all Western 
women were coarse, ignorant, and offensive, and that all Western men 
were rowdies, ruffians, and cut-throats. Now, succumbing to the 
witching spells of Mary, he saw everything differently. He revelled 
in the lack of conventionality at Red Mountain, and compared its stal- 
wart miners with the old Greeks before their lapse into degeneracy. 
And as for the women, he measured them all after the stature of Mary ; 
and so they were adorable. 

Bursting in upon his sisters, after leaving Mary at her door, he 
created consternation and panic by grouping everything pertaining to 
Red Mountain in one brief but sweeping bit of eulogy. 

“ Why, Walter, have you gone daft? Or are you in love with that 
Dubb girl ?” cried Millicent. 

“ In love ! Stuff! a woman with a boarding-school education never 
thinks of anything else,” he responded, his face flushing at what he 
now considered an unkind reference to Mary, though he had, until 
then, been saying far worse things of her, ever since his arrival at Red 

“ Goodness me, Walter !” expostulated Millicent ; “ what has come 
over you? I never heard you speak so slightingly of dear Aunt 
Jenkins’s seminary before.” 

“ Aunt Jenkins be damned !” he returned ; “ I have heard of nothing 
but her and her infernal sentimental rubbish for the last fifteen years. 
She is three thousand miles away, now, and I’m glad of it. Do give 
me a rest on Aunt Jenkins.” 

Millicent looked sad. 

“ I never heard you swear before,” she said : “if you do it again, 
I’ll leave the room.” 

“ You’ll have to, if you get rid of me,” he retorted, with true 
brotherly feeling, as he flung himself into the easiest chair in the room. 



“ I’ve come in to spend the evening with you ; and, as I am more than 
likely to swear at the mention of Aunt Jenkins, you had really best 
retire. You know you can’t keep her name off your lips for five 
minutes at a time.” 

“ This low, rowdy place is making you coarse,” sobbed Millicent. 
“ I wish we were all back East again. It’s perfectly horrible here. 
We don’t dare stir out of doors, for fear of being insulted by these 
vulgar people : do we, girls ?” 

“ No,” agreed the other sisters, who always said everything that 
Millicent wished them to, and who regarded her with so much awe that 
they had no existence separate from hers. 

“Well,” said Walter, blandly, as he clipped the end off a cigar, 
“if you young women persist in being silly, and staying in these 
rooms all the while, why, do it ; enjoy your undesirable exclusive- 
ness. I should think that common sense would make you stir out, 
for the good of your health. If you keep in so closely, and get sick, 
some of these dreadful creatures, as you call them, will have to take 
care of you.” 

“But, Walter, how can we go out? These people are not of our 
station. We can’t associate with ” 

“ Fiddlesticks !” exclaimed Walter. “Father wrote us, before we 
came here, that we must leave all social grades and distinctions behind 
us, in the East. If I can do so, you can ; you are certainly no more 
fastidious than I, — or, at least, you oughtn’t to be. May I sit here 
and smoke ?” 

“ You didn’t apologize for swearing : why should you for smoking ?” 
said Millicent, sarcastically, and with a look of triumph at her sisters. 

“ If it’s a conundrum, it’s a very stupid one, and I give it up,” re- 
marked Walter, lighting his cigar. 

“ It’s positively shocking, the effect this uncivil and uncivilized 
place is having on you,” declared Millicent. “ The others, here, are 
bad enough; but you might adhere to at least some relic of your 

“Decency? Decency? Is there any decency in you three girls 
staying here in this suite of rooms, refusing to go out, and turning up 
your three several noses at all overtures for your comfort which are 
made by the ladies of Bed Mountain ? Yes, ladies : don’t snuff up 
your noses at that. There are plenty of women here who both socially 
and intellectually are your superiors.” 

“ It can hardly be supposed that papa has had the whole place in 
training,” sneered Millicent, the other sisters sneering with her. 

“ I understand you,” said Walter, a little angrily ; “ but let me tell 
you that there are people here, from the East, who wouldn’t have used 
your beloved Aunt Jenkins for a door-mat. There are at least fifty fine 
families here, all of whom were Veady to receive you, all of whom you 
have snubbed. They are fools if they pay any further attention to 
you, you silly chits.” 

“ But, Walter, see how shockingly they dress. There isn’t a woman 
of taste in the whole town. What would our set say if we so far for- 
got our training as to mix with these dowdily-dressed women ?” 



“ There you go again ! — dress, dress, dress : it’s always dress. Dress 
must have filled a very large place in your ‘ training,’ as you call it. 
What has it amounted to, your so-called training ? It has simply made 
you in every way false and artificial. You never have a single healthy 
or natural thought. Dress and position, — position and dress, — straight 
ahead, backward, crosswise, — one never hears anything else from you 
than some combination of these two words. You girls were left in 
the East too long. I’ve often written father to that effect ; but your 
thundering Aunt Jenkins, and your own silly whining, always over- 
ruled me. Why, if I had come out here, and left you girls there, as 
Aunt Jenkins so often advised, you would have been nothing but three 
automatons ; and you’re not much else, as it is. All the originality 
and common sense you have, you owe to my staying there and railing 
at the rubbish you were learning. Aunt Jenkins fit you for life, in- 
deed ! she was never fitted for life herself, — nor fit for it, either, for 
that matter. You should have come out here fifteen years ago; then 
you would have known something about life as it is ; you would have 
been trained in a way befitting your father’s daughters, and then there 
would have been in you some knowledge of life, and less knowledge of 
Aunt Jenkins. But no, she persisted, and you, Millicent, aided and 
abetted her, in the idea that it was best for you to stay there with her 
and finish your education, — stay and graduate. Well, you had your 
way; you have all graduated; and what is the outcome? You, all 
three, are stuffed full of silly, petty, mean sophistry, and are so blinded 
to life itself that you can’t recognize it when you see it.” 

“Oh, Walter,” cried Millicent, aghast, “you are as coarse and vul- 
gar as that common fellow here that they call Droopy.” 

“ Whom they call Droopy, if you please,” corrected Walter : “ we 
never call a man a ‘that’ in actual life. Such English is strictly 
confined to the boarding-schools of the Aunt Jenkins breed. And as 
for Droopy, there’s nothing coarse or common about him. He is the 
soul of sterling manhood. No Aunt Jenkins about him. I never saw 
a man who could talk more sense. I wish he was here now.” 

“ Well, I jest am, an’ at yer sarvice, too,” said Droopy, opening the 
door without rapping, and coming in unannounced. “ I thought as how 
the gals might be lonesome, an’ so I corned in ter see ef I couldn’t make 
things a little cheery fur ’em. Yer dad an’ Dubb am doin’ up some 
figgerin’ down in the office, an’ I didn’t know you was here, Walty. 
Hope I ain’t in the way, gals ?” 

“Oh, certainly not,” responded Walter, chuckling in his inmost 
soul, as he sprang up and gave the grinning miner his hand. “ I’m 
delighted to see you, and so are the girls. It was very kind of you to 

“Very, indeed,” said Millicent, in tones which would have frozen 
up the infernal regions. * 

“Thanky,” said Droopy. “I come in through the office, down- 
stairs, an’ I ordered ’em ter send up a right smart smashin’ wine 
dinner. It’ll be along pootty soon. They can set a table right here, 
can’t they, Millicent ? Gosh, won’t it be nice ! In course I had ’em 
charge it ter me, Walty.” 




The last day of May was distinguished, at Red Mountain, by a 
visit from Mark Stanley and Judge Desborough. For a long time 
Mark had had an eye on Dubb’s mine, — still more on Dubb’s “ pile 
but he never could manage to lay a finger on either. Of late, since he 
had made up his mind that his lot would suit him better if some woman 
shared it with him, he had also had an eye on Mary, — Dubb’s daughter, 
as he believed her to be. 

And this was the reason of his visit to Red Mountain on the last 
day of the month which made Mary seventeen. 

The role of Don Hernando Altana, which he had played so success- 
fully ever since the hour of Miss Maydew’s murder, deceived Dubb, 
just as it had deceived every one else. Dubb believed that Mark 
Stanley, under his perfect and natural disguise, was Don Altana, and a 
genuine, veritable Spaniard. 

Mark was equally deceived in Mary. The vigorous, bracing cli- 
mate in which she had grown up had obliterated any trace of her parent- 
age, which, very likely, she would have retained in a climate similar to 
the one in which her parents had lived. Then, too, Mark had no 
idea that Dubb would have anything to do with anything like deception. 
In spite of all of Mark Stanley’s cool, wholesale scoundrelism and de- 
nunciation of his race, there was one being — and but just one being — 
in whom he had faith ; and this one favored person was Dubb. Mark 
believed in Dubb as fully as he believed in death ; and since Dubb 
had introduced Mary as his own daughter, no power on earth could 
have made Mark believe otherwise, so long as Dubb himself did not 
acknowledge the deception. 

It may be argued — and, no doubt, very justly, too — that Mark 
Stanley had not a single redeeming quality ; no honest praise, certainly, 
could be bestowed upon a man who could so wilfully and indifferently 
pollute and destroy the most sacred things of life : yet, if one redeem- 
ing quality can be accredited to him, it must be admitted that it was 
this unshakable faith which he had in Dubb. 

All California rung with praises of Don Altana ; everybody ad- 
mired his tact, his business capacity, his social qualities. He w r as 
lauded and lionized everywhere. Men and women, young and old, fell 
down and worshipped the modern golden calf. He was liked ; he was 
feared ; he was believed in ; he was the fashion. 

Dubb was the only exception to this. He did not like Don Altana. 
And yet, before this same Don Altana had found it discreet and healthy 
to call himself by some other name than Mark Stanley, Dubb had been 
devotedly fond of him. 

Perhaps the invisible taint of blood on Mark Stanley’s hands made 
the difference. Anyhow, while others chanted the virtues and perfec- 
tions of Don Altana, Dubb regarded him with distrust. 

Mark saw this, and could not account for it. Sometimes he thought 
that it was because his mask had not deceived Dubb; and then he 
would feel unsafe and insecure and wish that Dubb was dead. Yet 
Dubb was the one man against whom Mark Stanley, hardened as he 



was regarding every one else, could not raise his hand. It was a sub- 
ject which he did not like to let himself think about ; and yet, deep 
down in his heart, Mark Stanley knew perfectly well that he would 
suffer himself to be found out and hanged before he would harm a hair 
of Dubb’s head. He could no more understand it than he could un- 
derstand why Dubb disliked the man as Don Altana whom he had 
loved as Mark Stanley ; and Mark soon decided that the two were both 
pieces of the same puzzle ; and it was the only bit of mysticism which, 
hard materialist as he was, he would allow himself to indulge in. 

There was one thing which he did understand, without an atom 
of difficulty : he loved Mary, and he wanted to marry her. That he 
could eventually win Dubb’s consent he had no doubt. He felt that 
his social position assured him of that. Dubb, he knew, did not set 
much store by social laws ; and yet even Dubb could scarcely refuse 
the hand of his daughter to an eligible man without some grave or im- 
portant reason ; and Mark was quite positive that Dubb cherished no 
such reason. 

If he did, he should have a chance to deliver himself of it, at once. 

In deciding upon making overtures for the hand of Mary, Mark 
gave no thought to the girl whom, nearly nineteen years before, he had 
married in Vermont. She might be living, and she might be dead : it 
was immaterial to him which way it was. She was simply the wife of 
Mark Stanley ; and now that there was no longer a Mark Stanley, 
what had Mrs. Mark Stanley to do with Don Hernando Altana? 
Nothing, that he could see. Civil law, at least, would not interfere, 
and he regarded moral law as he did classical mythology, — as the 
emanation of brains which, at the time when these pretty things were 
invented, were not particularly crowded with anything else. In spite 
of moral law and Mrs. Mark Stanley, he should invite some clergyman 
to make Mary his wife, if she and her supposed father could be induced 
to consent to such a proceeding. The latter difficulty troubled him : 
moral law and consideration for Mrs. Mark Stanley did not. 

He had a new mining-scheme on hand, and he made this the out- 
ward reason for visiting Red Mountain at this particular time. His 
real reason he would spring upon Dubb when it seemed judicious. 
And so he and Judge Desborough talked mines and mining incessantly 
with Dubb and his advisers, as if there were nothing else under heaven 
worth talking about ; and no one, not even Judge Desborough, once 
imagined that the Spaniard from Vermont was burning to drop the 
discussion of matters pertaining to minerals, for matters pertaining to 
woman, and to one particular woman at that. 

Mark and the judge stayed at Red Mountain for three days, all of 
which time the two speculators devoted to the exposition and elabora- 
tion of plans for the financial betterment of California, the great 
Western half of the continent, and, apparently, all the rest of creation 
as well. 

To Droopy, who had an inherent fondness for lions, these were 
three days of such rare pleasure that they even diverted him from the 
annoyance of Millicent, upon whom he now called at least once a day, 
despite her frigidity and her frequent and pointed hints that she could 



get on very comfortably without him. He thoroughly enjoyed this 
visit from the alleged Don, and approved of every scheme which was 
submitted by him and the judge for the consideration of Dubb. 

Tom Morris, however, did not look upon Mark and the judge with 
so much favor. The first day of the siege of the speculators, Tom 
stood it very well ; the second day he got very tired of it ; and the 
third day he flatly opposed the two men from San Francisco in every- 
thing which they suggested or even hinted at. 

As usual, Dubb thought for himself ; or, rather, he exercised that 
unthinking but sagacious instinct of his, which always governed and 
directed him. He listened patiently, because he was never impatient; 
he was self-possessed, because nothing ever excited him ; he was respect- 
ful, because there is every reason for doubting that he knew how to be 
otherwise. In the afternoon of the third day of the business confer- 
ence with Mark and the judge, Dubb suddenly arose from his desk 
while the judge was in the midst of an harangue upon the advantages 
of certain combinations which he had been zealously advocating ever 
since his arrival at Red Mountain. When the judge had finished, — 
and justice enforces the admission that his remarks were considerably 
abbreviated, because his principal auditor was standing, — Dubb moved 
slowly toward the door. 

“ They be no use of our sayin’ all these ’ere things over again,” he 
said, quietly. “ These things as you tells me about am all right, I 
s’pose ; but they am not jest quite exactly in my way. All the money 
as I wants, I can git out o’ the mines what we be now workin’. These 
fixin’s o’ yourn pays, in course, or you an’ yer frien’s wouldn’t be 
workin’ at ’em all the hull time. They might pay me, too ; I might 
make more outen them nor I do outen the mine ; an’ I might make it 
faster, too ; but while I can git good outen the mine, I guesses as how 
I won’t do no dickerin’ in nothin’ else.” 

And then Dubb opened the door. 

Tom Morris was glad ; Droopy felt as if he was being cheated out 
of some of his personal rights; Judge Desborough felt chagrined; 
Mark Stanley was jubilant; it was just the chance he had longed for; 
it was exactly what he wanted. 

“ Sefior Dubb is right,” he said, springing to his feet; “ Sefior Dubb 
is perfectly right. The mines and their operation he thoroughly under- 
stands ; his success proves that. Syndicate and corporation manage- 
ment he does not understand. He knows human nature well enough 
to be sure that if he embarks in any scheme with us, our personal in- 
terests will come first and foremost with us. To him, investing with 
us is like storing money in a powder-magazine, which may, or may 
not, blow up. So he is wisest to keep out ; and I heartily congratulate 
him on his common sense.” 

“Good Lord!” groaned Judge Desborough; “ you’ve completely 
broken the camel’s back, now.” 

But Mark hurried past the judge and joined Dubb at the door. 

“ Come on, Sefior Dubb,” he said ; “ we will go to the hotel, and 
bury this hatchet, forever, in the best wine which Red Mountain 



“ I’ll go to the hotel with yer, Don Altanner,” said Dubb, u but 
ye’ll have ter drink alone. Drinkin’ never does me no good.” 

“ As you like,” responded Mark, slipping one hand through Dubb’s 
arm. “ I use too much wine, and I realize it every day : it makes me 
fat and beastly; and yet I haven’t sense enough to leave it alone. 
Sometimes I think that an unrestrained man, with social tastes, is the 
lowest order of animal : no beast, I am sure, would so abase and abuse 
himself as a man does.” 

By this time they were out of hearing of the office ; and, after a 
few more brief remarks on the too frequent and too general association 
of man and wine, Mark changed the subject very deftly : 

“ You, Sefior Dubb, have an incentive to cleanliness and moderate 
living which I wholly lack. I refer to your lovely daughter. What 
wouldn’t a man do for the sake of such a woman ? Had one like her 
been in my household all these years of my selfish bachelorhood, I would 
now be a very different man. Upon this possible, but non-existent, 
adored and adorable she, I should have lavished the affections which, 
as things are, I have wasted on stocks and syndicates and wine. 
Woman’s influence, for good or for bad, Sefior Dubb, is the strongest 
in the world. It is love for your charming daughter which has kept 
you clean, all these years, in this land of temptation ; and I saw plainly, 
half an hour ago, that it was solicitude for her which kept you from 
risking money in the ventures which Judge Desborough and I so im- 
perfectly described. You felt that it would be wrong to open to danger 
any portion of the results of that success which is the marvel of the 
State, and which you owe to the mutual love and pride between your 
daughter and yourself, more than you do to any one or to anything else. 
Am I not right ? Have I not guessed the truth, Sefior Dubb ?” 

“ Well,” answered Dubb, “ I can’t say but what it am somethin’ 
like that.” 

‘•I was certain of it !” exclaimed the pseudo-Spaniard, warmly; “I 
was convinced of it, an hour ago. Strange it is that I did not guess it 
before: I have seen so much of you and your admirable daughter. 
You have worked three times harder on her account, Sefior Dubb, than 
you would ever have worked on your own account. Ah, such women 
are the making of men. You cannot, not having always known me, 
comprehend the awful, the pitiable distance between what I am and 
what I would have been with a wife or daughter like this glorious woman 
for whom you have so zealously toiled. Even now it would not be 
too late ; for I well know my every vice and fault, and I well know 
that I could cast them all off and abandon them forever if only there 
was some loving and idolized woman to make the effort for. Holy 
Virgin ! how changed I would be ! But why do I tell you all this? 
why do I speak so freely, and unbosom myself so completely, when it 
can do me no good, and when, really, this lump of lead in my heart 
will be all the heavier now because some one shares my secret longing 
with me ? I scarcely know what has set me talking so to you, Sefior 
Dubb, unless it is because you give and receive that love which is the 
sole recompense for life, and which, though it may always be yours, can 
never be mine.” 



“ Why not?” asked Dubb ; and it was the very question for which 
Mark was fishing. 

“ Why not? You ask, why not?” he returned, with affected pain, 
which was quite as pathetic as if it had been genuine. “ But, Sefior 
Dubb, of course the question is natural, since you do not wholly under- 
stand me. Listen : I love a woman whom I have seen grow into her 
present magnificence from an equally splendid childhood. Her adored 
image has increased its stature in my heart, just as her beautiful reality 
has increased in the bosom of her father’s home. For five years I 
have loved her, and each year I love her more and more ; until now 
the mention of her name arrests me in whatever evil I may hold in 
contemplation. But my love is hopeless ; it must ever be hopeless ; 
because she is the light of her father’s eyes, his sole joy, and the 
pride of his heart. His life, without her, would be as dead and empty 
as mine is now. Could I, then, be cruel enough to make his pain my 
happiness ? Would I not be & brute to ask him for the dearest treasure 
of his life?” 

“ It am nat’ral for women to git married,” replied the unsuspecting 
Dubb. “ You oughter talk it over with him.” 

“ Sefior Dubb, you make me happy. I — I love your daughter.” 


Mary was sitting in her parlor, that night, talking with Walter 
Morris. Books, as usual, were the subject, but not the object, of the 
conversation. Walter, in the month which had slipped away since he 
first saw Mary, had constantly grown more and more fond of her. 
How fond, he did not know : he had never had any affairs of the heart, 
and so he did not realize how great was her unconscious hold upon him. 
With Mary it was much the same. Love, beyond the kind of love 
which she bore Dubb and Morris and Droopy, was a wholly unintel- 
ligible condition to her, — at least, by any tangible name. She knew 
that she found Walter Morris agreeable ; that everything which he said 
and did pleased her ; and that she missed him, more than she missed 
any one else, whenever he was away from her. That there was any 
element of love in this, or that love could, by any possibility, be a result 
of it, never once entered her head. 

There was no whit of sentimentality in either of them; and ro- 
mancing, about each other or about anything else, was entirely out of 
their province. Each was content and satisfied with present enjoyment ; 
and neither gave their possible or probable future any thought. 

It mattered but little to them what they talked about, so long as 
they talked ; and so books, generally, were the excuse which they made 
for delighting each other’s ears with the sound of each other’s voices, — 
as it was when Dubb came in from his unexpected conversation with 
Mark concerning Mary. 

He had often found them together in this way, and he was always 
glad of it, they always seemed to be enjoying themselves so thoroughly. 
Blind as they were to the fact that they were learning to love each 
other, they were no blinder to it than Dubb was : had it been otherwise, 



Mary would never have known that Don Altana had that night asked 
for the honor of her hand. Dubb was so fond of her, so thoroughly 
in earnest in his desire to add to her happiness, that he would have 
instantly consented to her marriage with whomever she wanted to call 
husband, — whether it was Walter Morris, Don Altana, or an Ethio- 
pian. But Dubb had not the slightest suspicion that anything could 
ever make Mary and Walter Morris anything more than friends to each 
other. On the other hand, he was so fond of Tom that nothing else 
would have suited him quite so well as to see Mary married to Tom’s 
son ; but this was something which he had regarded as entirely out of 
the question. Eastern people, he knew, generally looked down upon 
Western people ; and he had no doubt that Walter, coming to Bed 
Mountain, as he had, with an Eastern training, considered Mary his 
inferior. Truly enough, he gave Marv a great deal of his time ; but 
that, Dubb thought, was because Mary was the only woman at Bed 
Mountain who cared anything about the things which interested Walter. 
Dubb thought this very kind in Walter, and was genuinely grateful to 
him for showing Mary so much attention. Nothing could have made 
him believe that Walter meant this for anything beyond courteous at- 
tention to his father’s pupil. And as for Mary, Dubb did not believe 
that she had ever given love a thought. 

Entering the parlor, he said, — 

“ Mary, I want ter see ye, jest a minute ; Mr. Morris won’t mind.” 

Mary followed him out of the room. They went together into the 
cosey little den which was now her study and library ; though for many 
years it had been her school-room. 

It was the first time within her recollection that Dubb had ever 
wanted to say anything to her which he had not been perfectly willing 
to say in the presence of whoever might be around. The unusual pro- 
ceeding of calling her out filled her with misgivings, for a moment ; 
but she banished them when, stopping in the middle of the little room 
and facing her, he began stroking her hair, — the caress which he most 
frequently indulged in. 

“ What is it, papa ? Are you displeased with me for anything ?” 
she asked, smilingly. 

“No, child, it ain’t that: they’s somebody what wants ter marry 
ye, — when ye gits ready. I guesses ye like ’im, too. It’s Don Al- 

“ Don Hernando Altana ! He wants to marry me !” she exclaimed. 

“ Yes ; an’ I kinder thought it ’ould be good news to yer ; it alius 
seemed ter me as if ye liked him a good deal.” 

“ So I do, papa ; so I do ; he is a very fascinating man, and I 
like him immensely ; but I had never thought of him in that way, nor 
of any one else. I had never thought of being a wife at all.” 

“In course ye hadn’t, dearie; in course ye hadn’t; I knowed that 
the hull time. Ye needn’t, ef ye don’t want to; ’cause nobody ain’t 
goin’ ter make yer do nothin’ ag’in’ yer will.” 

“ It is so new and strange to me, papa ; I don’t know what I want. 
You must let me think about if a little. But isn’t he a great deal older 
than I am ?” 



“ ’Bout twenty year ; but that don’t make no matter, I s’pose. In 
course, think about it; take all the time yer wants. I’m goin’ out, 
now ; an’ you better run back an’ stay with Walter : he am a nice feller, 
Walter am. Don’t hurry none about Don Altanner ; ef he don’t know 
ter-morrer, afore he goes home, he can be writ to ; an’ that’ll do jest as 

And then Dubb went away and left her. With the swiftness of 
lightning, Mary’s thoughts went over all of the contingencies of the 
case as they then occurred to her. Somehow, in doing this, she entirely 
excluded Walter Morris from her thoughts. For the time being, he 
had dropped out of her memory, out of her existence, and she thought 
only of Don Altana and Dubb. 

She had known Don Altana ever since when, as a little child, he 
had held her on his knee and had told her fairy-stories, whenever he 
came to Red Mountain. That went back to the time when she was 
five years old ; and since then she had never had a recollection of him 
which was not pleasant. He was a man whose society she had always 
enjoyed. When she was grown up, and was too old and too large to be 
taken on his knee and held in his arms, after the old way, she was 
sorry. It was, in fact, the first sorrow of her childish heart, — the first 
thing, so far as she could remember, that she had ever cried about. 
And many a time, since then, she had looked longingly at him, and had 
earnestly wished that he would take her in his arms again and tell her 
delightful stories, just as he used to, before she had grown so pro- 
vokingly large. 

And he did, indeed, want to take her in his arms again, and tell 
her — well, perhaps far sweeter stories than he had ever told her yet. 
Had he loved her, all these years, when she was growing from a child 
into a woman ? It must be ; and her cheeks glowed and her eyes 
glistened with grateful tears. He loved her; this dark, handsome, 
fascinating man loved her ; and her heart gave an exultant leap at the 
thought. But did she love him ? She did not know. She could not 
tell, because she did not know what love was. She was sure that she 
was fond of him. He had always pleased her, and had always enter- 
tained her. He was, too, a fine, elegant, and polished gentleman, and 
was considered very great ; and she should be proud of him. Perhaps 
she loved him, too, but did not know it : she had read of such things : 
and she was certain that she could soon learn to love him. He was 
going home in the morning, and he had not even once called on her, 
this time, — a thing he had never failed to do before ; and all, probably, 
because he feared that it would embarrass her, if her decision happened 
to be against him. 

Why should it be against him ? He wanted her ; he was not in- 
different to her; and it seemed to be something which Dubb, also, 
wanted. That was the clincher, — that thought of Dubb. He had 
always done so much for her, and had asked so little in return, but 
always gave her her own way. She doubted if any other girl ever had 
such a father. Did she not owe it to him, then, to marry the man of 
his choice ? True, he had not said that Don Altana was his choice ; but 
he never said anything, in the way of a wish or a command. He had 



always let her say what should be done for her. The fact that he had 
mentioned the matter to her at all convinced her that he would be glad 
to carry the Don back a favorable answer ; and — well, if he wished 
it, it should be so : she would accept Don Altana for a husband. It 
would make Dubb happy, anyway ; and there seemed to be so little 
happiness in his life, that she felt bound to add to it. 

She listened. Dubb was at that very moment going out of the 
front door. She had gone over the whole ground so quickly that he had 
not yet had time to get out of the house ; and in less than two minutes 
after he had communicated the Don’s ambition, Mary’s little feet went 
flying through the hall, in hot pursuit of the only father she knew. 

“ Papa,” she called, from the open door. He was only two or three 
steps away. 

“ I have decided,” she whispered, as he returned. “ You may tell 
him that my answer is ‘ yes.’ ” 

He took her in his arms and kissed her, and then walked away. 
His kisses were rarely given, — never, in fact, except upon extraordinary 
occasions, or when he was highly gratified. Evidently, her decision 
suited him; and she was overjoyed at having made it. She stood 
motionless in the open door, listening intently until the sound of Dubb’s 
footsteps no longer came back to her. She had pleased him, — she had 
done the very thing he wished her to do — she was sure of it ; and she 
was happier than she had ever been before. Never before, in fact, had 
she felt strong emotion, as she felt this happiness now. 

But how nearly do joy and sorrow go hand in hand ! As she stood, 
listening for footsteps which had passed beyond her hearing, there came 
a slight noise from the parlor which reminded her of Walter. It was 
the first time she had thought of him since the recent question of wife- 
hood had been submitted to her. The first thought of him sent a 
radiant smile upon her face. She would go to him, and they would 
resume their pleasant talk where they had left it off when Dubb called 
her out. It was still very early, and they had three or four hours be- 
fore them, before he would be likely to go away. Talking with Walter 
would be all the sweeter, now that this new joy was in her heart. And 
then a second, and more troublesome, thought came : would she find so 
much pleasure in the society of Walter, now that it was soon to be her 
duty to find her sweetest pleasure in the society of another man? 
Pshaw ! of course she would ; she was getting silly : she enjoyed 
Walter ever so much more than she did Don Altana; and by no 
means would she give up the society of the man who pleased her most. 
What ! Did Walter give her most pleasure? And then a sharp pain 
went through her head. What had she done? Was it right for her to 
pledge herself to one man, when — when there was another man whose 
presence made her happier than the one whom she was to call husband? 
Then she was impressed with the sudden belief that the new life before 
her had made her nervous, and that she was torturing herself with im- 
aginary and wholly unnecessary woes. She all at once remembered how 
much she had harassed herself with groundless fancies concerning Mrs. 
Mark Stanley, and the recollection made her laugh, in spite of herself. 
It was a forlorn little laugh, true enough, with but little merriment to 



it ; still, it broke the perplexing chain of oppressing thoughts which 
had so nearly bewildered her past extrication. 

She must hasten back to Walter. What would he think? — she 
had been gone so long ; and then she realized that it was not so very 
long, after all, but only a matter of a few minutes, — less than five, 
altogether. How contradictory and confused everything seemed ! She 
could not understand it. Well, what if she couldn’t? She would be 
calmer by and by, and then everything would be all right again. 
Walter’s cheering talk would be the best thing possible to help her. 
She walked resolutely into the parlor. At the sight of his face, 
and at the sound of his voice, the smile which she had forced upon 
her lips died, the light went out of her eyes, and the color in her 
cheeks gave place to a deadly pallor. Something in her head felt 
queer and heavy, and the walls of the room seemed shaking and un- 
steady. The names of Don Altana and Walter Morris were clashing 
and clanking loudly in her ears, as if the syllables which composed them 
were being hammered out of great discordant bells. Even her sense of 
distance grew confused : some things seemed unnaturally near at hand, 
and others unnaturally far away. Two circles of light, moving in 
opposite directions, seemed to be revolving swiftly around Walter’s 
head, and she was certain that some horrible unseen force was bearing 
him gradually backward, out of her reach. She put out her hands to 
stop him ; and then there was a general chaos of lights and colors and 
sounds and shapes, and all so hopelessly intermingled that she could 
distinguish nothing which seemed to have form or limit. 

She was swaying to and fro, as if she was about falling ; and, with 
a cry of terror, he sprang forward and caught her by the hands. 

“ What is it?” he cried ; “ do tell me what the matter is.” 

His touch thrilled her, and partly brought her back to herself. 

“ You must not touch them,” she said, withdrawing her hands ; 
“ they are his ; I have just promised to marry him.” 

“ Whom?” gasped Walter. 

“ Don Altana,” she whispered. 

“ My God ! Shall you marry him ?” 

She tried to speak, but she could not. Her lips refused to open. 
She seemed to have suddenly grown numb ; she could not move, and 
there was no feeling in any part of her body. Her head fell helplessly 
forward upon her bosom ; and in that dumb sign he read her deter- 
mination. A tempest of uncountable thoughts whirled through his 
brain, but he could force none of them through his lips. An iron 
band seemed to be crushing his skull in. He put out his hands to 
her in dumb entreaty ; but she stood as if frozen to the floor, and did 
not see him. 

Then the pain in his head became so intense that he clasped his 
hands to his forehead, as if to relieve it, and started for the door ; but 
he only took one step forward, and then he sank back into a chair, in 
a stupor which the pain induced. 

The motion aroused her, and, suddenly facing around, she saw him. 
She fully understood it all, now, and, in a blind yearning desire to 
help him, she stepped forward and stood beside his chair. And then 



her strength gave way, and she fell helplessly forward, and sank in a 
limp, unconscious heap at his feet, with her head resting against his 

Presently the pain in his head spent itself somewhat, and he par- 
tially rallied from his stupor. The sight of the helpless and uncon- 
scious girl at his feet completely revived him. 

Leaning forward, he found that she was not in a dead faint, but was 
still breathing. He wondered where her room was. That was the 
best place for her now. Gathering her up in his arms, he carried her 
out into the hall and up the stairs. Directly over the parlor was a 
room from which a faint light streamed through the open door. Ad- 
vancing into it, he took his chances on its being hers, and laid her 
across the bed, which stood opposite the door. He unpinned her collar, 
so that there would be no danger of her suffocating. Already her nerves 
and muscles were twitching, and he knew that she would soon com- 
pletely regain consciousness. And then, with one fond look at her, he 
hastened toward the door. Then his resolution forsook him, and, 
going back, he bent over her until his lips nearly touched hers ; but, 
before they quite touched, he remembered that it would be cowardly 
to take such an advantage of her helplessness. Falling upon one knee, 
he kissed her hand, and then went away, overpowered with the con- 
sciousness that they loved each other, and that neither had discovered it 
in time. 


In the course of Dubb’s life there had been three things the doing 
of which he had deemed compulsory, — duties which, though hard and 
trying, perhaps, were still not to be shirked. The first of these was 
his departure from Maine, — the place where he was born, and the dearest 
spot in the world to him. Next, without question, without even in- 
ward remonstrance, he had accepted it as his duty to rescue Mark 
Stanley’s wife from the Indians, when her husband had gone away and 
left her to their tender mercies. Third, and last, he believed it to be 
his part in the economy of life to guard Mary from future danger of 
annoyance from her father, if he chanced to be alive. In Dubb’s mind 
there was no doubt that Mark would recognize his daughter if he ever 
saw her. The fact that Dubb called Mary his daughter would not, he 
felt certain, deceive Mark Stanley. 

Dubb’s experiences in Maine had not been overburdened with 
cheeriness. As an infant, he had been left parentless. A stony- 
hearted older brother had seized upon the family property, leaving 
John, then a child of two years, and another brother, but little older, 
to be cared for by an ancient and penurious aunt, who had stinted 
them on food and on everything else which had a negotiable value. 
When John was ten years old, he had forsaken his aunt, and had 
entered a lumber-camp, where he at least had enough to eat. He was 
a strong, healthy lad, and soon succeeded in earning a little — a very 
little — beyond his living. As soon as his aunt and his oldest brother 
discovered this, they joined issues with each other and wrested away 
from the boy the few dollars which he had earned. Disheartened by 



this treatment, he forsook the camp where he was then working, for 
one farther away, — where, a year later, his earnings were again seized. 
Then, accompanied by the brother next to him in order of birth, — the 
one who had gone, with him, to live with the aunt aforesaid, and who 
had stayed with her, all the while, ever since, — he started on a pilgrim- 
age to a lumber-camp in a remote part of the State. Here they were 
safe from the solicitude of their relatives, and here they remained for a 
year, in comparative peace and comfort ; and then Jonas, who was about 
three years older than John, became enamoured of a woman who for- 
merly had been an inmate of a dance-house, where she had served beer 
in the capacity of a floor-maid. After living a year with Jonas Dubb, 
she got tired of him, and made a formal transfer of her affections to 
his brother John. The latter was unused to the ways of women, be- 
yond his unpleasant familiarity with the severe ways of his aunt, and so 
he did not understand the advances of his brother’s wife, until she put 
them into words. Horrified, he fled to another part of Maine, where 
in a few weeks she followed him. Again he fled, and again she followed. 
When this was repeated for the third time, he quit the State and started 
for California. This episode, or series of episodes, with Mrs. Jonas 
Dubb, having, as they did, for a background the hardness of his oldest 
brother and his aunt, occasioned John a vast deal of worriment; and 
then, all at once, he made up his mind that worrying was profitless, 
and that the only way to live was to make the best of whatever hap- 
pened, — which principle he rigidly adhered to ever afterwards. 

When Mark Stanley’s wife had sent word that she never again 
wished to see any one who had ever known her before her trouble, he 
appreciated her distress and respected her delicacy. He had fled from 
Maine to escape the disgusting affections of his brother’s wife, because 
that was the thing which his sense of right and duty assured him was 
best. He next, in deference to her wishes, left Mrs. Mark Stanley to 
her own devices, because the same sense of right and duty impelled 
him in that direction. And now, since the comfort and happiness of 
Mary were his charge and his willingly-accepted mission, his sole ob- 
ject was to make her safe and secure against whatever contingency 
might confront her in the days which were still before her; and in 
weighing and considering this, he gave as much thought to possibilities 
as he did to probabilities, and nothing of importance in either category 
escaped him. 

As his daughter, Mary was comparatively safe ; as the wife of some 
man of established social position, she would be far safer. While she 
was unmarried, there was danger of her falling in love with some un- 
worthy man ; and he very well knew what the outcome of that would 
be. He was so wrapped up in her happiness that he could deny her 
nothing for which she asked. He could not say “ no” to her, and cause 
her present pain, even to save her from a future of sorrow which that 
same little “ no” would have shielded her from. That this was weak- 
ness, and unmanly weakness, too, he perfectly understood ; and he un- 
derstood, quite as well, that it was weakness against which he could 
offer no resistance. If she became the wife of Don Altana, there would 
be no need for further apprehension from this. She would, too, as the 
Vol. XL.— 27 



wife of Don Altana, be safer from any approach which her father might 
make than she would be as the daughter of John Dubb : provided that 
Mark Stanley, as it seemed almost certain that he would do, guessed 
out the secret of Mary’s parentage. 

And this was the way that the case had presented itself to Dubb 
when Mark Stanley, wearing the guise of a Spanish nobleman, laid suit 
for the hand of his own daughter in marriage. It cannot be said that 
Dubb thought the matter out in this way, because thinking was out of 
his line ; but this was the way in which he suddenly saw it, just as a 
piece of statuary is suddenly revealed to us by the lifting of the veil. 

Pie did not like Don Altana, personally ; but Mary liked him, and 
the world accepted him as an extraordinarily brilliant and successful 
man ; and that, practically, was sufficient. Mary’s speedy acceptance 
of the Don gave Dubb a sense of comfort which was extremely grati- 
fying. Not that he wanted to part with Mary ; far from it ; but he 
knew that she was likely to marry some day, and he very much doubted 
if any one better than Don Altana would ever seek her. And so, for 
once in his life, the measured regularity of his movements was sup- 
planted by something nearer haste than he had ever shown before, 
since the days when his aunt had accelerated his movements by virtue 
of a thorn-tree rod; and in an almost incredibly short time after 
leaving Mark at the hotel, Dubb rejoined him, and said, — 

“ Well, Don Altanner, she says as how as I shall say to you as her 
answer am ‘ yes’.” 

“ Good !” cried Mark. “ Good ! Seflor Dubb, your daughter, 
now my affianced wife, will do great honor and credit to the lovely and 
stately women who, in past centuries, have been wives and mothers in my 
proud old family. Senor Dubb, you have made me happy, — happier 
than any other man in California. Now, with me, there shall be no 
more cards, no more wine, no more clubs, no more gluttony ; there are 
still in me some remnants of manly decency, and I will spend the balance 
of my days in cleansing them from the moral and social slime with which 
they are now reeking, so that I may make myself something like worthy 
of your daughter’s love, respect, and obedience. To the little of good 
there is in me, shall be added the greater good which I shall draw from 
your daughter’s love : she shall teach me whatever she will, and I shall 
make myself what she wills. I shall give her half of my worldly 
possessions, as a wedding-present, and the rest of what I own shall 
also eventually be hers.” 

“ No matter ’bout that,” answered Dubb : “ they be enough money 
fur her, what I have made outen the mine. I don’t wanter say nothin’ 
what soun’s boasty and braggy, but the ole mine have gin out a pile o’ 
money, an’ it am all hern. In course, I’ll keep ’nough back ter keep 
me peggin’ on while I’m a-livin’ ; but arter that she’ll git it all.” 

“ Oh, Senor Dubb, Seflor Dubb, you must not speak of an 6 after’ 
to your life. We cannot spare you from California ; we should ” 

“They am lots o’ better men nor me in Californy,” interposed 
Dubb; “an’ they ain’t no man, nowhere, what am so big an’ so ne’ssary 
that they ain’t some other man, jest as big an’ jest as good, ter take 
his place.” 



Mark threw the half-smoked cigar, which he held in his fingers, 
away. So Mary was to be his wife. He was really happy, — much 
happier than he had been when he had fancied himself in love with 
Mary’s mother. He had gained two things : he had won Mary, the 
most charming woman he knew; and he had laid the corner-stone 
toward possessing himself of the enormous wealth of Dubb. After 
he and Mary were married, and D abb’s will was made, nothing would 
be easier than to dispose of Dubb. And then, like a knife-thrust, the 
old feeling went through him, — the consciousness that he could never 
let harm come to Dubb through him. As the full and final realization 
of this swept over him, he looked at the quiet, placid face of Dubb, and 
wondered what was the secret of its resistless power over him. Once, 
he had fancied that Dubb’s life stood between him and safety ; and yet, 
try as he would, he could not force himself to spill Dubb’s blood. 
Now, the life of Dubb would soon stand between him and millions ; 
and again he knew that it would be impossible for him ever to remove 
the barrier. And yet this was the man who had coolly and premedi- 
tatedly cut the throat of Miss Maydew, and who had committed scores 
of other crimes, scarcely less in magnitude, with equal coolness. As he 
thought them over, and then, also, thought what the prolonged existence 
of Dubb would keep from him, he cursed himself, inwardly, for his 
weakness, — the one human failing which Mark Stanley looked upon as 
a crime and a sin. 

“ They am one thing more,” said Dubb, after a few minutes’ silence, 
“ which I s’pose you orter know ; ’cause no man don’t wanter take no 
woman blind-like ; an’ I guess ye’d better be told now, when ye am 
here yet, an’ can back out ef yer wants ter.” 

“ No, Seiior Dubb,” said Mark, warmly ; “ I beg you to let any 
secret concerning the woman whom I so madly love stay a secret for the 
present. Be assured, Seiior Dubb, nothing could dissuade Hernando 
Altana from this marriage upon which his heart is so thoroughly fixed. 
Believe me, no taint or stain — and I am sure that there is none — could 
induce me to- relinquish the lovely prize which I have won, — nay, 
which you have so generously given me. Do not speak ; pray do not 
speak ; I am satisfied, — thoroughly satisfied ; nothing could make me 
more so ; and nothing could make me dissatisfied. Let this trivial 
thing, whatever it is, go unexplained, until she is my wife ; and it need 
never be told me then, unless you are certain that it will be best for her. 
Do not look surprised : think how much she has to pardon and condone 
in me. Let what you hint at compensate, in some degree, for my im- 
perfections ; let it be a test of my faith.” 

“ Oh, well,” said Dubb, a little more earnestly than common, 
“ they ain’t nothin’ ag’in’ ’er ; nothin’ at all ’n that way ” 

“ I knew — I knew it,” interrupted Mark ; “ be sure, I never thought 
there was anything against her ; but it wouldn’t in the least matter, 
though, if there was : I love her well enough to brook anything.” 

“ It’s on’y somethin’ ’bout her mother ” 

“ Please don’t say any more,” implored Mark ; “ I will esteem it a 
favor if you will leave unsaid what you just came so near saying, — at 
least, until I ask for the rest of it.” 



“ Oh, Lordy ! look a’ there !” shouted Droopy, suddenly, from across 
the room. 

Everybody looked. 

Walter Morris had just come in, and was hurrying through the 
room, as pale as a ghost, and with a face which was haggard in every 

“ Why, Walty,” bawled Droopy, “ye look as ef ye’d j’ined the 
Masons, an 7 had joined ’em backwards, an’ the goat had rode you, instid 
o’ your ridin’ the goat.” 


Mary opened her eyes before Walter was out of the house. She 
raised herself upon one elbow, and gazed about her, unable to under- 
stand why she was lying there, with her clothes on ; but when she heard 
him go out into the street and close the door it all came back to her. 
She remembered what had happened in the parlor, up to the time of her 
falling at his feet, and she guessed the rest. Quickly jumping from 
the bed, she sprang to the window, pushed open the shutters, and 
looked out. 

There he was, walking slowly away, his haste having spent itself as 
soon as he was out of the house. He was so near her that he could 
have heard her had she even whispered his name. She could not see 
his face, for his head was bent low ; but his clinched white hands were 
plainly visible to her from her chamber window ; and they betrayed 
liis suffering. 

Once, when he was a dozen paces away, she put out her hands and 
tried to call him back ; but her voice failed her, and no sound came 
through her parted lips. For a moment her inability to stop him 
nearly drove her mad : she wanted to tell him that he, and he alone, 
had a husband’s place in her heart, and that she would do whatever he 
said, — go with him wherever he wished, — if only he would not walk 
away so like a man whose soul was frozen within him.* His misery 
was all because of her : what right had she to let him suffer so ? She 
must call him back ; she would make him hear. And then, with their 
full force and meaning, those words of Dubb’s — cruel words they 
seemed now — came back to her : 

“ They am some one what wants ter marry yer. It am Don Al- 

And then she thought of the message she had sent back to the Don , 
— the message which now changed everything and put her and Walter 
Morris out of each other’s lives forever : 

“ Tell him that my answer is ‘ yes.’ ” 

If only she could recall those rash words, which she had uttered so 
hastily and so thoughtlessly, in entire forgetfulness of Walter Morris, 
— practically, in helpless unconsciousness of their significance, and 
with no other desire, at the moment, than to please Dubb ! But she 
could not. She had decided. She must keep her pledge, even if it 
cost both her and Walter Morris their lives. Why had she so foolishly 
ignored Dubb’s suggestion ? Why had she not waited until the next 



morning, at least, so that she could give the matter some of the 
thought and calm consideration which its importance demanded ? 

Suddenly a chill went over her, and she seemed turned to ice. 
Walter must never come back. She must never see him again : if she 

did and then the ice became fire, and her grief, agony, and perplexity 

completely overcame her, and, letting herself fall across the narrow 
window-bench, she burst into a tempest of tears and sobs. 

It was a mercy to her that no one passed the house, for she was in 
full view of the street. 

How long she lay there, she never knew. She was aroused by the 
sound of approaching feet. Leaning out of the window, she saw Dubb 
coming. She arose and closed the shutters. 

“ Papa must not see me now,” she said, aloud, as if there was some 
one present to hear her : “ he would guess everything.” 

And then she closed her chamber door, but not a moment too soon, 
for Dubb came in, up the stairs, and walked straight to her door and 

“Mary, can I see yer fur a minute?” he asked; “that is, ef ye 
ain’t gone ter bed.” 

“ I am up and dressed, papa,” she answered ; “ but I am excited 
and fussy over Don Altana’s proposal, and don’t feel like seeing any 
one. You will excuse me, won’t you, papa dear?” 

“Sartain, in course,” replied Dubb. “I orter knowed ye’d feel a 
little streaked jest now; it’s nat’ral an’ right. I tole him, an’ it made 
him awful happy. He am goin’ home ter-morrer, an’ I’m goin’ with 
him ; they be some business in San Francisker what I wants ter ’tend 
to, an’ now am a good time ter go, seein’ as lie’s goin’. I’ll be busy 
there four er five days, an’ I’ll git back jest as quick as I can, then. 
All I wanted was ter tell yer ’bout my goin’, an’ ter say good-by, an’ 
ter let yer know ’bout him. Ef ye wants anything while I’m gone, 
jest tell Tom er Droopy. Go ter bed now, dearie, an’ don’t git ter 
fidgetin’. Good-by, Mary.” 

“ Good-by, papa.” 

She was glad that the Don was going away without seeing her, but 
she could not help wondering why it was. She was also glad that Dubb 
was going away : it would be about ten days before he returned, and 
by that time she was sure that she would be herself again. In the 
mean time, she must send Walter Morris away. She could meet her 
fate easier if he was away from Red Mountain. 

Going to her table, she busied herself for a long time with her 
writing-materials. Sheet after sheet she tore up, as being too formal, or 
not formal enough ; at last she decided that it would be best to send 
him simply the following brief note : 

“ Mr. Morris : It is now midnight, — exactly four hours since you 
were generous enough to leave me. Will you not go a step farther with 
your generosity, and leave Red Mountain, at once, and stay until after 
I am married? You can make some misleading excuse to your family, 
and so save me at least a portion of my anguish. 

“Mary Dubb.” 



She read it over several times before sealing it. When she addressed 
the envelope, it seemed to her that she was writing his name in his 

“And, yet, what else can I do?” she sobbed. “What I have 
written sounds selfish, but it may make him think that I am not aware 
of his love for me, and that I am struggling against self-mortification. 
That will be best.” 

All through the night she walked up and down her chamber; 
and at the first sign of approaching daylight she went quietly out 
of the house, and walked in the direction of Bilkins’s deserted shaft. 
No one was stirring ; the whole place was in slumber : she got out of 
the little town unperceived, and wondered if she would ever sleep 

Beaching the shaft, she passed by it and hurried on along the same 
path which she and Walter had followed, a week after her birthday. 
How far back in the past that day seemed ! She felt as if ages had 
gone by since then. 

Higher and higher she went up into the mountain, until she reached 
the point where she and Walter had turned to go back home again. 
Then she seated herself on a boulder, and thought over the whole of 
her life. It had always been so happy and careless until now ; and 
now there was nothing in it but despair and desolation. She had but 
one thing to console her, and that was her conviction that she was 
pleasing Dubb. Suddenly a possibility flashed upon her that had here- 
tofore been unconsidered. What if she had misunderstood Dubb? 
What if he was indifferent as to whom she married, so long as she 
married well ? It seemed reasonable and probable : he had never in- 
sisted on her doing anything,' and why had she supposed that he cared 
about this on his own account? She would go straight back and tell 
him the truth, at all hazards. She would not marry Don Altana : 
Dubb should explain to him that her acceptance of the honor which 
he offered her had been made without consideration, and that it was a 
pledge which she could not keep without injustice to Don Altana, to 
Walter Morris, and to herself. The Don might despise her for her 
indecision, and Dubb might be hurt by her seeming fickleness ; but 
neither would be so bad as her marrying Don Altana under such 
circumstances ; nothing else could be so bad as that. Five minutes 
before, she had been firm in one purpose ; now she was firm in another. 
Then she had been sure that it was her duty to marry the Don ; now 
she was sure that it was her duty to break the engagement. 

With a cry of joy, she sprang up and began running down the 
mountain, so as to get home before the departure of Dubb and Don 
Altana. Part of the way her path lay along the steep side of a 
ravine, and once, in her haste, she came too near the edge, and went 
crashing down among the rocks below. Her head was dashed against 
one of them, and there she lay, senseless and bleeding. 

When she regained consciousness, she found herself in the arms of 
Walter Morris. He, too, had passed a restless night, and had been 
walking to quiet himself. Chance had brought him along the same 
pathway, almost immediately after her fall. He had given her brandy, 



and just as he had despaired of ever seeing her eyes open again, she 
Opened them. 

“ Walter !” she gasped, and then covered her face with her hands 
to hide her blushes. 

He helped her to a sitting posture, and then insisted upon her 
taking more brandy. Almost mechanically she obeyed him. 

She felt strangely confused and bewildered. Beyond a slight 
shaking-up, her fall had done her no harm ; but the presence of Walter 
embarrassed her as she had never been embarrassed before. She had 
called him by his first name, too, and that also troubled her. 

He made no attempt to force her into conversation, and, after a 
remark or two concerning her accident, he relapsed into a respectful 

“ If you can walk, I think we had best go home,” he said, after an 

She arose, and they walked away together without exchanging a 
word. When Mary reached home, Dubb was gone. 


There was one characteristic about Millicent Morris which, while it 
might not have been original, was certainly not directly chargeable to 
Aunt Jenkins’s seminary. She lived, inwardly, in a perpetual atmos- 
phere of romance. Fairy-tales had been her first style of literature, 
and she had abandoned these for the still more extravagant variety of 
wonder-tales which are commonly classified and specified as society 
novels. Beading them was, truly enough, one of the deadly things 
which Aunt Jenkins vociferously prohibited. But Aunt Jenkins had 
not, of course, been present during all the hours in the years in which 
Millicent’s mind had been supposed to be developing ; and whenever 
the periods of her absence had been so long as an hour, Millicent had 
devoted the hour to the devouring of some yellow-covered book with 
rose-colored contents. 

As a consequence, she was always looking out for some prince, or 
count, or senator, or millionaire, who was provokingly slow in coming. 
That he eventually would come, she had no doubt ; it was always so in 
the books she had read. To be exact, there was just one book which 
she had read, in which the fair and languishing maiden had, of her 
own free will and consent, been married to a plebeian, and had lived 
happily with him ever afterwards, just as such things frequently occur 
in life. But Millicent was hurt and shocked. The book cost her sev- 
eral sleepless nights, and no end of tears. More than that, she com- 
mitted the author’s name to memory, so that she might never read any 
more of his painful realism, and he was the only author whose name 
she ever did remember. But in all the rest of the delightful books she 
read, the languishing fair, after a suitable amount of languishing, was 
married to some man as charming, in his way, as his fair bride was in 

That Millicent herself would one day be such a fair bride, she had 
no doubt. She had often studied herself, — in the mirror, of course, — 



and she was certain that she lacked none of the essential requisites of 
the typical fair bride. But when the man — the slow-coming but in- 
dispensable auxiliary without whom no wistful woman can be made a 
bride — would put in an appearance, she had no idea. Recently, she 
had decided that she would seek him, if he did not soon seek her ; and 
the morning of Mary’s mishap on the mountain was the very time ap- 
pointed and selected by Millicent for her first excursion for the missing 

Quite early that morning she set out for a stroll among the numer- 
ous deserted claims, east of the town. She was partially inspired to 
resort to this expedient by something which Walter had said to her 
several weeks before, but whose meaning, strangely enough, had only 
just penetrated her mind. The substance of what he had remarked 
was that there were at least fifty families at Red Mountain which were 
equal to any family in the East. This being so, it did not seem im- 
probable to her that there was in some one of these families at least 
one eligible and marriageable man. 

And so she set out, hoping that chance would lead her to the com- 
bined objects of her quest, — an adventure and a man. And her faith 
was rewarded : she found both. 

When she had been walking for about an hour, and had come to the 
unhappy conclusion that she was expecting more of Red Mountain than 
Red Mountain could give her, she suddenly came upon what seemed to 
her one of the supremest marvels of that supremely marvellous country. 
It was a perfectly level patch of dull, dark red, which she mistook for 
solid rock. It was about twenty feet long by ten feet wide, and the 
surrounding soil sloped gradually down to it, just as the sides of a pan 
slope down toward the bottom. 

“ This,” she reflected, “ is the beautiful paint-stone with which the 
red warriors of the forest delight in painting themselves. I have heard 
that it is as slippery as oil ; and if I were only younger I would take a 
run and slide across it.” 

Sliding had been one of the favorite amusements of Millicent’s 
childhood, before she got into the tenacious clutches of Aunt Jenkins ; 
and it had been the very juvenile habit which she had relinquished with 
most regret, upon Aunt Jenkins’s declaration that it was not graceful. 
It was many a year since she had indulged in it ; and now that a seem- 
ing opportunity had presented itself, she could not resist it. 

Looking around, first, and making sure that she was entirely alone, 
she started back a step or two, held up her skirts, took a smart little 
run, and a considerable leap, — when she reached the edge of her sup- 
posed “ paint-stone” find, — and landed, up to her waist, in a mass of 
soft red clay, which frequent rains had settled in the little funnel-shaped 
hollow, and which the drainage of a neighboring mine kept constantly 
of the consistency of newly-made jelly. 

Perhaps she was too thoroughly startled to scream, perhaps it was 
owing to the training of Aunt Jenkins ; anyhow, no sound escaped her 
lips. She might not have fully appreciated her leaping capacity, and 
very likely she did not; but the little jump which she had given, when 
her feet left the solid ground, sent her squarely into the middle of the 



treacherous and deceiving clay-sink. She struggled a little, but it was 
no use ; she could not escape. For the time being, she was one of the 
immovable fixtures of the landscape ; and so she was unmistakably 
doomed to stay, unless some one came to her rescue. 

So overwhelmed and dismayed was she with the one half of her 
programme, the adventure, that, for the time being, she utterly forgot the 
other half of it, the man. But the Fates were kinder than Millicent ; 
they did not forget; and in due course of time the man was forth- 

The training of Aunt Jenkins had always been a drag on her ; it was 
a worse drag on her, even now, than the mud. To scream, to empty 
her pent-up distress in a noise loud enough to be heard by people of 
enough common sense to keep them from frequenting the clay- bed as a 
pleasure-resort, would, according to the Jenkinsonian tenets, be vulgar. 
Truly enough, she screamed, and she screamed frequently ; but her 
screams were so mild, refined, and spiritless that they were scarcely heard 
even by the birds in the trees above her geological discovery. 

There she stood, for half an hour, a perfect study in maidenly de- 
spondency. Her arms and her neck were about the only flexible por- 
tions of her anatomy which she could move ; the clay held the rest of 
her, hopelessly and immovably fast. And even then, environed as she 
was, she exercised the? extremest caution to keep her arms out of un- 
graceful positions. 

“ The test of thorough breeding,” Aunt Jenkins had often declared, 
“ is to recollect and exercise its unvarying laws under the most trying 

She was not exactly under the trying circumstances in the present 
case, but she was likely to be if she stayed there very much longer. She 
had no difficulty in recollecting the unvarying laws. Aunt Jenkins’s 
precept was thoroughly well learned ; and the result was an example 
of good breeding perfect enough to satisfy even the unvarying Aunt 
Jenkins herself, had she been there. 

When Millicent’s dejection was at high-water mark, and she was 
sure that no one would ever' find her, and that soon her flagging strength 
would give out and let her sink out of sight, altogether, into a grave 
in that miry clay, she heard a noise. A considerable noise, too, it was, 
as if a man, and a very large man, was coming. And now Millicent’s 
heart fluttered with a new distress : how could she, under such circum- 
stances, face a man ? She seemed to have entirely forgotten that she had 
been letting off those refined and inoffensive screams for the sake of 
attracting the attention of a man ; that her escape from the mud could 
only be engineered by a man ; and, in fact, that a man — or an insatia- 
ble longing for one — had been the prime mover in getting her into this 
unhappy scrape : and yet, now that there was every reason for believing 
that a man was coming, she closed her eyes, and covered them with her 
hands, to shut out the dreadful sight. 

A moment later, and the refined ears of Millicent were treated to 
the sound of a suppressed snort, such as a locomotive might make if 
stopped suddenly when under a full head of steam. Then there was a 
brief silence, after which Millicent heard something which sounded as 



if a whole battery of merriment was fizzling, like a bad fire-cracker, for 
want of a sufficient degree of explosive force. All this while, Milli- 
cent kept her eyes closed. Presently there was a brisk retreat, and then 
she opened her eyes in time to see Droopy vanishing over the little 
hill across which she had come to her clay prison. Scarcely was he 
out of sight when there came to her ears the most boisterous and up- 
roarious laughter she had ever heard ; and her cheeks burned with 
shame and rage. 

Her appearance, notwithstanding her distress, was too droll and 
comical for Droopy to stand, and he had to laugh in spite of himself. 
He had tried to retreat out of her hearing, but the mirthful paroxysm 
seized him too quickly. The knowledge that she could hear him 
checked his laughter speedily, and then he hastened back to her. 

Aunt Jenkins was forgotten now, and Millicent faced him with a 
blaze of rage. 

“ How dare you laugh at me ?” she demanded. “ I was never so 
insulted before in my life.” 

“ Pm sorry ; bet yer life Pm sorry,” he said, earnestly ; “ I wouldn’t 
’a’ laughed, on’y I run on yer so onexpected, an’ it laid me out. Let’s 
see : I must figger on some way o’ gittin’ ye out o’ that.” 

“ Don’t trouble yourself,” she answered, snappily : “ I am in no 
immediate danger. Go away, and leave me alone. I wouldn’t let you 
touch me for the world.” 

“ Wouldn’t ye?” he retorted, in the same tone. There was a 
decided vein of wickedness in Droopy, when it was properly appealed 
to ; and Millicent had touched the vibrant chord. “ So you wouldn’t 
let me touch ye, hey ? All right, I won’t. I’ll jest let ye stay there 
till that air clay gits up ter yer neck. If you like it, it suits me. I 
reckon it’s as good a way as any ter die.” 

“ Walter will find me, and save me,” she faltered. 

“ A heap he will. He an’ Mary am up yender, in the mounting, 
havin’ a good time.” 

“ I don’t believe it,” she cried. “ That coarse girl sent him a note, 
this morning, in which she apologized for too much forwardness ” 

“ How d’ye know ?” he demanded, savagely. 

“ Because I opened it, myself, and ” 

“ And read it,” he added, when she hesitated. “ In course they 
wasn’t nothin’ coarse ’bout that.” 

She burst into tears. The woman asserted itself, again. 

“ You are unkind to me ; you are brutal,” she moaned. “ You 
pretend to love me, and yet you stand there and triumph over me 
when I’m in trouble.” 

Droopy melted. 

“ I ain’t trumpin’ over ye. I’m sorry yer in trouble, an’ I’ll do 
all I can ter help you out.” 

“ Help me out of this nasty mud, then.” 

“ Will ye marry me, if I do?” 

“ Papa might not like it, you know.” 

“ Papa be — darned,” he grinned, delightedly. But he helped her 





Dubb and Mark Stanley set out for San Francisco at the very 
moment when Mary, opening her eyes, had found herself in the arms 
of Walter Morris. 

Mark demurred a little against leaving Red Mountain without a 
few words with Mary. 

“ Can’t help it,” said Dubb ; “ she am all kinder mixed up by this 
new idea, an’ she don’t jest exactly feel like seein’ any one, an’ so you’ve 
got ter wait.” 

“ It’s very strange,” whined Mark, who had had his own way so 
long that he did not relish being dictated to ; “ it certainly is very 
strange. You said last night that she seemed delighted ; and to-day 
you say she is nervous and excited and does not wish to be seen. I 
don’t like the look of it.” 

“ Look here, Don Altanner,” returned Dubb ; “ she am mine yet, 
an’ I ain’t goin’ ter have her bothered. Ye needn’t marry her ef yer 
don’t want ter ; they ain’t nobody what’s holdin’ ye ter yer bargain. 
She ain’t dead in love with yer ; she ain’t that kin’. I make no doubt 
they be lots o’ women what ’ould jump at the chance o’ marry in’ you, 
but Mary ain’t none o’ them. Ye don’t like things as they am, an’ 
that be your right ; she don’t want ter see nobody ter-day, an’ that be 
her right ; ef yer can’t bide by her right, ye can put the hull thing 
outen yer head, an’ let ’er alone. ’Twon’t bother me, an’ ’twon’t bother 
her ; an’ ef ye wants ter grin’ ’er down now, afore ye gits ’er at all, ye 
don’t love ’er so much that it’ll bother you.” 

“ Oh, Sefior Dubb, Sefior Dubb, I beg ten thousand pardons,” cried 
Mark, excitedly. “ You have administered to me a very just rebuke. I 
richly deserved it. You shall certainly have your own way. It was 
my lover’s haste and anxiety to see her — the queen of my heart — which 
made me seem dictatorial. It was not, believe me, any desire to assume 
authority or to enforce my will against hers. What she says shall 
always prevail. While I shall be her ever- watchful, ever-solicitous 
husband, I shall ever, also, be her obedient slave. Do not misunder- 
stand me ; do not feel offended with me.” 

“ It am all right,” answered Dubb : “ we understan’s each other 

The journey to San Francisco was made in good time, and without 
incident. Mark was smiling, generous, and cordial, and showed Dubb 
every possible attention, in seeming penance for his brusquerie concern- 
ing Mary. 

They arrived in San Francisco in the forenoon, and Mark was 
anxious to make over at once half of his property to Mary. 

“ Wait till you ’n’ she be married,” said Dubb : “ that’ll be time 

“ As you will, Sefior Dubb. I’ll tell you how we will fix it. You 
say that there is something concerning her mother, which it is necessary 
for me to know, so that my wife may be defended against some danger 
which you seem to think threatens her. Very good. You shall tell 
me all about it the morning after your daughter becomes my wife. At 



the same time, to please you, I will give her a deed of gift of one-lialf 
of my possessions, — instead of presenting her with the same now, as I 
wish to do.” 

In the evening, as they were walking about, they suddenly found 
themselves in the midst of a crowd which seemed to be greatly excited. 
There were several policemen in the crowd, and there was much noise 
of expostulation on both sides, — the people, apparently, being of the 
opinion that the officers were in the wrong. Over and above the rest 
of the tumult came an occasional sharp, feminine cry, as if some 
woman was suffering great pain. 

“ What am the matter?” asked Dubb. 

“A drunken woman pitched into Judge Desborough,” answered a 
by-stander ; “ the police tried to get her away, and she swore and 
showed fight. They clubbed her too hard, and I guess she is going to 
make a die of it.” 

“ Judge Desborough!” exclaimed Mark. “ Why, how singular! 
I always thought him afraid of women.” 

“ Not if what this woman says is true,” was the answer. 

“ Come on,” said Mark to Dubb ; “ let’s get farther into the crowd, 
and take a look at her.” 

They elbowed their way through, and finally succeeded in getting 
into the drug-store, where the unfortunate woman had been taken for 
medical aid. 

When Dubb saw her, for the first time in his life he was startled. 

She was in an awful condition ; her whole face was changed and 
distorted, by sin and vice and moral degradation ; yet she still wore 
upon that face at least a shadow of her once great beauty. 

It was Mrs. Mark Stanley. 

Dubb was no sooner startled than he was calm again. 

“ Can she git well ?” he asked of the doctors. 

The answer was, “ No : she is dying.” 

“ Let me talk with her a little, then,” he said : “ I used ter know 
her, eighteen years ago.” 

At the sound of Dubb’s voice the dying woman looked up into his 
face, a little carelessly, at first, and then her eyes suddenly became 
bright and set. 

“ Who are you ?” she asked. “ I know your face — no, don’t tell 
me; let me think. It’s Dubb! It’s John Dubb! the only friend I 
ever had !” 

“ Yes, Mary, it’s me. I’m powerful sorry ter see you here, 

“I’m not; it’s the best thing that could happen to me, now. I 
want to die. Oh, John, I’ve led such an awful life since I last saw 
you ! Many and many a time I’ve been sorry that the Indians didn’t 
kill me that night when we first reached the mountains, just as they did 
all the other women.” 

And she put her hands over her face and wept. Dubb was afraid 
she would spend all her strength in weeping, and so he asked, — 

“ Don’t ye want ter know ’bout yer baby ?” 

“Yes,” she said, eagerly; “do tell me about her, before I’m gone. 



Is she alive? And still with you ? Oh, God bless you, John ! She 
is seventeen now, isn’t she? Oh, John, won’t you marry her? You 
are so good and noble ; and you would never let the horrible life come 
to her that has come to me. Do promise me, — do promise a dying 
woman, and a dying mother, that you will be husband to her daughter.” 

“ I can’t, Mary, ’cause she am goin’ ter marry some one who am 
more her kind than I am. She am a lady, you see. I had ’er eddi- 
cated, an’ she am as han’some as you ever was. I couldn’t marry her, 
nohow, ’cause she thinks she am my daughter.” 

The grateful woman caught his hands and kissed them again and 

“ John,” she said, finally, “you have made me so happy and peace- 
ful that I believe you have saved my soul. Oh, it was grand of you, 
never to let my sweet babe know the miserable history of her parents. 
All my husband’s crimes, all my sin and shame, — they are dead and 
blotted out as far as she is concerned. And always keep her so, John. 
Never let her know. I wish, though, that you were to marry her. 
You must be fond of her, she has grown up so under your very eyes. 
How can you let another man take her away ?” 

“ It be hard, Mary ; it be mighty hard ; but it be for her good, an’ 
so I can do it. You see, Mary, I love her a good deal.” 

The dying woman lay and looked up into his face, until, somehow, 
the sin and vice seemed to go out of hers. Some of her beauty, as if in 
pity for her last moments, had come back again. 

“ What do you call her, John ?” 

“ Mary,” he answered ; and again she kissed his hands. 

“John,” she whispered, at length, “do you know if he — Mark — is 

“ No,” he responded, sadly. 

“ I hope he is still alive, so that you can find him, some day, and 
tell him that his wife forgave him before she died. Oh, John, I love 
him, yet. He is an awful criminal, and his baseness drove me into for- 
getting everything, even my womanhood, when I found him out. I 
came straight here from Santa F6, wild with agony and despair, hoping 
to find him and save him with my love. Never once did I get a sight 
or a trace of him. The man here, whom I trusted as a friend, hardened 
his heart against my helplessness and misery, and destroyed even my 
soul. After his treachery I kept sinking lower and lower, until to- 
night, in trying to kill this false friend, I came to this. Now, though, 
I forgive them all, — every one who has ever harmed me. You will 
try and find Mark, won’t you, John? You will tell him I died loving 
him ?” 

“ Yes, Mary ; I’ll tell him, if I ever sees him.” 

“ And my baby ; my daughter ; a young woman, she is, now, — you 
will be very sure that she is married to a good man ?” 

“ I’ll do the best I can by her.” 

For several minutes she was silent. There was silence in the room. 
The crowd outside was also strangely quiet. 

“ John,” she said, with a sudden start, as if she had been dozing 
and something had startled her, “ can you say the Lord’s prayer ?” 



“ Yes, Mary.” And unflinchingly, for all the crowd, Dubb knelt 
beside her and began the familiar petition. When he reached the part 
about the forgiveness of trespasses, her face brightened, and she clasped 
her hands together. But she did not hear the “Amen,” unless she 
could hear it from across the Beyond. 

When Dubb had left the dead woman, and was walking away, a 
hand was laid upon his shoulder. 

“ Hullo, Don Altanner,” he said, looking around ; “ I had clean 
forgotten you. Now you know what I wanted ter tell yer.” 

“ Yes ; I've found it out now ; I’ve found it out, too, more is the 
pity, in time to prevent my marrying my own daughter.” 

“ What do you mean ?” asked Dubb. 

“ Nothing, except that I am Mark Stanley.” 


Dubb got back to Red Mountain three days before he was expected. 
He went straight to the office, where he found Tom Morris, alone. 
Tom was looking very downcast, but, for all his perturbation, he could 
not help seeing that Dubb seemed ten years older than he did a few 
days before, when he went away. 

The two men shook hands, and then Tom, sitting down beside 
Dubb, said, — 

“Old friend, I’m afraid you have made a mistake about Mary. 
She does not love the man she has promised to marry, but gave the 
promise because she thought it would please you. And now it is 
breaking her heart.” 

“ Poor child ! poor baby !” said Dubb ; “ ef she’d on’y told me she 
didn’t want him, her heart ’ould ’a’ been onbothered. But she ain’t 
goin’ ter marry Don Altanner, ’cause they ain’t no Don Altanner, an’ 
the man what called himself so am goin’ ter Chiny, fur his health.” 

Droopy came in just then, and stood aghast at what Dubb had just 

“ Don Altanner,” continued Dubb, “ was nobody more nor less nor 
Mark Stanley.” 

“ Good God !” exclaimed Tom Morris. 

Droopy turned pale, despite the thickness of the tan and hair on his 

“An’ Judge Desborough have skipped the country, too,” added 
Dubb ; “ it am he what did so much harm to Mark’s wife, — what them 
air letters, yender, in the draw, telled us about. They am goin’ ter be 
quite a muss about it, in the courts, an’ so we’ve got ter git Mary 
outen this, in the East, where she don’t git hold o’ none o’ this stuff. 
I reckon Tom an’ me’d better go with her. You can stay here, Droopy, 
an’ run the mine. I’ll give ye half ye can make.” 

“ It am a big offer,” said Droopy, “ but I can’t ’cept it, ’cause I’ve 
got ter git outen these ’ere diggin’s, too.” 

“ What ! am you goin’ away ?” said Dubb, showing a little surprise. 

“ Yes,” answered Droopy, somewhat sheepishly : “ I’m goin’ ter git 
married ; I’m goin’ ter marry Millercent. We talked it over, but she 



wouldn’t agree, ’nless I’d tote her back to New York. Well, I 
wouldn’t, an’ she wouldn’t ; an’ so we jest sot an’ spit at each other, 
like two tom-cats on a back fence. An’ finally, says I, ‘ Call it Sher- 
cargo, an’ split the difference, an’ it’s a go ;’ and says she, ‘ It’s a whack.’ 
An’ that settles it. But Mary can go with us : we am goin’ as soon as 
yer can git a new super.” 

“ Mary might have some plan of her own to suggest about going 
East,” faltered Tom. 

“ I reckon she have,” seconded Droopy, with exceeding warmth 
and a very knowing grin. 

“ I don’t quite understan’,” said Dubb, looking first at Droopy and 
then at Tom. 

“ Here she am : let her speak for herself,” said Droopy, grinning 
more than ever. 

There was a swift patter of little feet, and then Mary flung herself 
into Dubb’s arms. For one moment the recollection of her mother’s 
words brought up the feeling in Dubb which had, he thought, been 
crushed out of him completely by his earnest solicitude for Mary; 
and now, and for the last time, he wanted to hold her fast forever, and 
call her wife. 

“ Oh, papa, I am so glad to see you !” she cried, kissing him again 
and again. 

“ An’ papa am glad ter see his little daughter, too,” he responded. 
The other dream was dead, now, and he was all father again. “ Don’t 
you want to go East ?” he added. “ Droopy, an’ Tom, an’ Tom’s gal, 
an’ I am goin’.” 

“ Can’t — can’t Walter go, too?” she whispered, blushing crimson, 
and burying her face in his rough coat. 

“ Sartin,” he answered ; and it was the first time she had ever seen 
him smile. 




T HERE are in England absolutely but two occupations open to 
the gentlewoman who must work and who is neither artistic, 
musical, nor literary, but merely a poor but well-educated lady. She 
must be a companion or a governess. This is what her people expect 
of her if she must work. 

If she elects to be a companion, she ties herself to the most trying 
duties. Few people want a companion unless they are old, or are losing 
their faculties, or else are lonely : very few happy persons want com- 

The young lady, then, ties herself down to cheering some doleful 
house, or becoming the slave of some person’s caprice, and sacrifices 
youth, health, and spirits — for what? For the immense sum of two 
hundred and fifty dollars a year ! Fifty pounds and her board. Not 
quite as much as we pay a general servant. 

What a sacrifice to the Moloch of gentility ! 

If one does not want to be a companion, she can be a governess ; 
and if she is a graduate of the College of Preceptors, and has diplomas 
for every known language, and can teach as much as the Encyclopaedia 
Britannica, she can earn one hundred pounds, or five hundred dollars, 
a year, and her board, — and is passing rich. If, on the other hand, 
she is merely a fairly-educated girl, and tries to teach because she does 
not know what else to do, she can earn as little as twenty pounds, or 
one hundred dollars, a year, and as much as forty pounds, or two 
hundred dollars. 

These badly-paid occupations are the only two open to gentle- 
women in England ; and woe betide the girl who steps outside them ! 
she ostracizes herself as completely as if she voluntarily herded with 

Under all circumstances a woman is terribly harassed by conven- 
tionalities and proprieties ; but it is almost impossible to imagine the 
obstacles and difficulties that are thrown across the path of an English 
girl. “ Men must work, and women must weep,” wrote Kingsley, 
with that sublime impracticability that characterizes most men ; and 
his sentiments seem to be but the echo of those of his countrymen. 
Englishmen don’t want their women to work : they would like to keep 
them in a state of mediaeval submission, with no soul above a tambour- 
frame, and have them fritter away their lives over some hideous piece 
of tapestry that might adorn their lord’s castle when finished, and 
therefore they refuse to recognize the fact that there are .nearly as many 
women workers as men nowadays, and determine that if a woman will 
be so annoying as to disgrace her family by working she shall find the 
path of her wrong-doing a thorny one. 

It is absolutely impossible for an ordinarily-endowed woman to 
make money in England. She can earn enough to live on, but never 


enough to lay by for a rainy day, and she has to look forward to an 
old age supported by charity, or (if very lucky in her youth) to being 
able to purchase a small annuity to save her from want. That is the 
goal she reaches after a long life of arduous work. That is the prize 
she strives for when, in the first freshness of youth, she starts out to work. 

People say, “ How can a well-brought-up woman so far forget her- 
self as to go on the stage ?” 

I do not propose here to defend the stage, — though it has been so 
good a friend to me, — but I will endeavor to prove by a logical se- 
quence of events that for a woman who has to earn her own living, and 
has any talent for it, it is the only profession that offers anything like 
adequate remuneration. 

No other profession is so well paid. Even in the lowest ranks of 
stage-work the pay is sufficient to live on comfortably and allow a 
margin for dress and saving. A chorus-singer will earn fifteen dollars 
a week, where a governess will earn barely four dollars, and a shop-girl 
six to eight dollars. 

In England a gentlewoman would rather die than go in a store. 
It is not genteel ! She cannot be a telegraph clerk, for the same reason. 
The only genteel things she can do are to teach or be a companion ; and 
a woman who has no taste for either of these delectable occupations 
turns to the stage as to a mother, and finds there the ready employment 
she can get nowhere else. 

On the stage she has the hope of getting on and making a fortune, 
and, above all, she finds herself among people who are willing to re- 
ceive her with open arms if she is pleasant. Here are no restrictions 
of purse or caste. All are her brothers and sisters, and it lies with her 
and her alone whether her new family shall respect and look up to her, 
or pass her down sadly to those poor silly ones who have missed the 
nobility of their aim and sacrificed all for a short life of foolish merri- 

No wonder that poor girls of the better classes go on the stage, when 
they see how much is to be done there, and then regard dispassionately 
the few other modes of earning a livelihood. 

My own experience might be of interest to girls situated as I was. 
It is not an extraordinary one. There are thousands of young ladies 
in England at this moment going through exactly the same fight with 
poverty and prejudice. 

At the age of seventeen, equipped with a smattering of languages, a 
fund of general information, and as meagre an education for teaching- 
purposes as can well be imagined, I set forth to help support an invalid 
mother and do my best to earn my own living. I obtained an engage- 
ment at a school about two miles from my home, which was situated in 
a small country town. I had fourteen pupils, of all ages from six to 
fifteen, and had to teach them for three hours every afternoon ; I had 
to walk back and forth in all weathers, received one hundred and 
twenty-five dollars a year, and was esteemed very lucky. A few 
months later I was offered another engagement, two miles farther on, 
for four hours every morning, salary two hundred dollars. I accepted 
with delight. It would just fit in with my other work ; and so every 
Vol. XL.— 28. 


day I taught seven hours, walked eight miles, and at the year’s end had 
received three hundred and twenty-live dollars for it. 

I was, unhappily for myself, a girl with a soul above such mechan- 
ical life, and when two years had gone by without varying the monotony 
I began to long for some change. 

Love or marriage never occurred to me. English society girls are 
brought up to make a good market, but the poor young gentlewoman 
is labelled Ineligible wherever she goes, and if she happens to have 
beauty is systematically shunned by mammas with sons. In England, 
too, there is not that freedom of intercourse between young men and 
girls which we find over here. No self-respecting girl would walk out 
alone with a young man, nor would she condescend to know a man 
whose family did not recognize her : therefore the managing mamma 
has it all her own way, and the poor young Ineligible becomes perfectly 
resigned to her fate and turns her thoughts to the problem of life. 

So I never dreamt of a Cophetua who was going to make all 
straight : I simply became thoroughly dissatisfied with my position and 
longed to change it. 

In my long lonely walks I had made a discovery. I had a voice ! 
I used to sing aloud as I walked through the fields, and my heart 
throbbed with joy as gradually the future cleared itself, and I saw my- 
self a great singer, no longer struggling and poor, but with wealth and 
position, and with thousands clamoring for a smile from her who was 
now only snubbed and overlooked. 

I spoke of my ambition at home. The consternation that ensued 
is indescribable. Shoals of aunts and uncles descended upon me, want- 
ing to know if I wished to disgrace the family, — if I was not contented 
with my present good luck. 

Then I lost my mother. After her death there was nothing to tie 
me to any kind of work, and in a short time I had decided to study 
singing, and found myself in London, that heaven of all aspiring 

Living now became a serious matter. All the relatives who had 
never assisted me told me I need not look to them for anything further. 
There was no home now to give me shelter : everything I had must be 
provided by myself. 

An elder sister came with me, and together we took apartments 
in a quiet square in Paddington, because the neighborhood was handy 
and cheap. We had a sitting-room and bedroom on the top floor, for 
which we paid ten shillings, or two dollars and fifty cents, a week. Our 
food cost us, on an average, fourteen shillings, or three dollars and fifty 
cents, a week, and was provided by us and cooked and sent up by the 
landlady. Six dollars a week we found would keep us, but would not 
pay for our laundry, our clothes, or our ’bus-fare. We had barely a 
five-pound note between us, for the funeral expenses had swallowed up 
everything. What was to be done ? and how were the singing-lessons 
to be paid for ? 

A way presented itself. My sister was a wonderful needle- woman, 
and a large lace-house on Regent Street needed some one to make the 
dainty fichus and neckwear which were always labelled “ confections” 


from Paris. My sister applied, and secured the Avork. One house 
sent her to another, and soon we girls had as much work as our busy 
fingers could do ; and the lessons were obtained and the board-question 
at rest. 

With what difficulty did I seize the moments of study ! I have 
passed the morning making the whole street echo with my scales, and 
then from mid-day have sat stitching away Avith my Italian book 
before me, or Avorking the sewing-machine in time to the solfeggio. 
Then late on into the night a light might have been seen streaming 
from our Avindow, and the hum-hum of the machine have been heard, 
telling its oavii tale of making up the time taken for study. 

We were busy and lonely, for we had wilfully floAvn in the face of 
decency and decorum, and no one called on us or recognized us : our 
fight had to be made alone. 

Time went- on. I had a voice: .my master decided it. I sang a 
little before people, and always with success. I was invited to sing at 
several out-of-town concerts, and began to feel that the hour of my 
triumph was at hand. 

Then came the stumbling-block. I spoke to my master of my 
hopes and aspirations, and was met with the question, — 

“ What influence have you ?” 

“Absolutely none.” 

“ Then it would be as well to give up singing in public as a pro- 
fession, and become a teacher.” 

To this I would not consent, but, after much thought, wrote to two 
friends who could assist me, and asked them to endeavor to obtain 
patronage for me. 

To a young singer in London patronage is as necessary as learning 
the scales. There are but two ways of getting within the charmed 
circle. The singer must pay a large price to some person who will 
become her manager, or she must get the patronage of a great lady 
who will make her her protegee, and push her forward at her own and 
her friends’ parties and concerts. 

It was this latter method I determined to adopt. My letters 
elicited replies : one brought an introduction to a lady of title and 
influence, the other to a lady who was the acknowledged leader of a 
musical set. I was overjoyed, presented my letters, and soon came 
the first nervous evening when I was invited to a soiree and had to 
sing before Mesdames Trebelli and Marie Poze, and Frederic Cowen. 

After this I found myself constantly invited to Lady This’s Drum 
or Mrs. So-and-So’s At Home. In all instances it was an understood 
thing that I Avas invited to sing. Sometimes I received two guineas, 
or ten dollars, for “ cab-fare ;” sometimes I was merely thanked ; but I 
was always expected to sing a certain number of songs and then go 

I began to find it rather expensive work, my dresses cost so much. 
I lost much time from the actual bread-and-butter work, and nothing 
tangible apparently resulted. 

One day I ventured to speak to my patroness, and mentioned ex- 
actly how I was situated. She kindly consulted several friends about 


me, and a short time afterwards I was summoned to sing to a rich 
gentleman whom my patroness had invited for my benefit. 

The gentleman appeared pleased with my voice, and olfered to send 
me to Italy to study for the Opera for three years. He would send me 
to Lamperti, and pay for lessons and board for one year : the second and 
third he expected me to earn enough to pay for my board by becoming 
one of Lamperti’s governesses, but he would continue to pay for my 
lessons, and when I made my dtbut I could repay him. 

The offer was magnificent, but could not be accepted without serious 
thought. I did what I had determined never to do : I held a family 

An English girl might just as well go drown herself as summon 
her relatives to get their advice or council on her doing anything that 
would bring her before the public. 

With one voice I was condemned. Had I not already done enough 
to disgrace them, without wanting to be an opera-singer? Was not 
my poor sister slaving night and day to support me in my outrageous 
conduct ? Why could I not lead a lady-like life, and be a respected 
and respectable governess ? But that I had rendered impossible by my 
misguided course ; no one would take a person who had been singing 
in public ; I had better make up my mind to become a music-teacher. 
One and all distinctly forbade my accepting the offer, and, impeaching 
the motives of all parties concerned, desired me to give up my visits to 
my patroness. 

It was a blow to me, but I been so long facing the practical side of 
life, and this all seemed so unreal, that I obeyed, and refused the offer. 

None followed. My patroness, annoyed at my ingratitude, dropped 
me. I was as it were stranded, — but not discouraged. 

1 went to my master, told him of the offer and my refusal, and 
asked if he could not tell me of some one who would bring me out. 
He told me he knew of a dozen, if I had the money to go to them. I 
asked if I could not go without paying, — if they might not think my 
voice good enough to speculate on. 

He laughed. My voice, he said, was good, but nothing extraordi- 
nary, and, even if it were, no one would speculate on it at my age. I 
might lose it by over-training, or I might marry. If I had no patron- 
age I had better teach. 

I suppose I was never more disheartened in my life. I continued 
to study, but not in the same whole-hearted manner. I absolutely did 
not know what to do. 

Then came another depression : the fashion changed ; lace ruffles 
went out, and with them our employment. We got fresh work, but 
badly paid and so little of it that there was not enough for both to do. 
Still, I could not make up my mind to be a governess, which seemed 
the only thing really open to me. 

I had so much time on my hands that I felt I must do something. 
I had always had a literary turn, and during off-hours in our country 
home had written many short stories for country papers. I thought I 
would try and write. Here was another occupation with a fortune at 
the end of it. 


I had quite a little success. I got stories in the London Journal. 
Then I had a great stroke of luck : I wrote some articles that were 
accepted by one of the best papers and made some slight stir. I thought 
my future was safe, and, though my poor sister and I had a hard 
struggle to make ends meet, we were hopeful. 

Then I brought out a book ; and again, just as I seemed to be getting 
on, came a dead-lock in my affairs. 

My articles and stories were no longer suitable, and I could get 
nothing accepted. This time there was no money to be paid to any 
one to advance me : it was simply a question of lasting out ; and we 
could not last. 

My sister married, and I kept up the struggle alone. Every week 
I paid out a little more of my capital, but nothing came in. I grew so 
desperate that I almost decided to give in and be a governess ; but I 
had too much strength of mind, thank God ! I felt, however, that the 
anxiety was wearing on me, and that I must find employment that 
would bring me a regular salary. 

With much tremor and uncertainty, I bethought me of the stage. 
If my voice with further cultivation would have been fit for grand 
opera, was it not now suitable for comic opera? 

I decided that it was, and made up my mind to try. 

I went to a manager and sang for him ; and never have I felt so 
humiliated as during that interview. 

I was shown into an office furnished like a woman’s boudoir, and 
kept waiting nearly an hour : then in came a little man with a red 
beard, who demanded, brusquely, — 

“ What do you want ?” 

I meekly explained. 

“ Any experience ?” 

“ None.” 

“ What’s your voice ?” 

“ Alto.” 

“ Stand up, please. H’m ! you’re big enough. Maybe you’ll do.” 
He rang a bell. A boy appeared. “ Ask Mr. Frank to step here.” 

A fair, handsome man entered. 

“ Frank, play something for Miss what’s your name? — to 


“ Frank” played, and I sang. Half through the song the red-bearded 
man interrupted me with — 

“ There ; that will do. What salary do you want ?” 

I had no idea, and said so. 

He rang the bell once more. “ Send Edwards in.” 

Edwards appeared. 

“ Edwards, take down this lady’s name, address, and voice. — Good- 
day, Miss If I want you I’ll write to you.” 

It was done in a flash of lightning, and I went home without the 
slightest hope of hearing any more from him. 

Some days after, to my surprise, I received a laconic summons to 
the office. 

I again waited an hour. Then in flashed the manager. 


“ Would you like to go to America ?” he asked. 

“ I would not care to ; but I want an engagement.” 

“ This is the only thing open. Want to go?” 


“ Then be at the theatre to-morrow at ten. Bring some music.” 

At ten I arrived, and found myself one of about fifty applicants. I 
sat and listened to numbers of voices being tried, — when again the 
manager appeared suddenly from nowhere in particular. 

“ Holtzmeyer here ?” 

I came forward. 

“Sing, please,” he ejaculated, and disappeared behind the linen 
covering of the boxes. In the middle of a cadenza he emerged. 

“ That’ll do. Come to my office. I’ll engage you if you want to 

Almost before I knew where I was, I had signed a contract to come 
to America to play small parts and understudy the contralto. 

The manager appeared most interested, and said that, as I was a 
stranger, he would see that his agent found me a good boarding-place 
and paid all expenses for me. 

“ Now,” said he, “ about salary. All you want is pocket-money. 
Will a pound a week buy your boots and gloves?” 

I laughed : I had never had so much to spend on them. 

“All right,” said he; and the contract was signed. 

Oh, what a storm raged when I broke it to my people ! I was dis- 
owned by more relatives than I ever knew I had. One aunt requested 
me never to expect her daughters to notice me again, and desired me 
not so much as to bow to them if I met them. I offered to break my 
contract if the family would undertake to give me my expenses and 
a pound a week pocket-money, but this no one desired to do, and the 
remark was considered ribald. So, amid general condemnation, I 
sailed, and landed in America that pernicious thing an actress. 

I had been in the country but a very short while when I learned 
that my salary, even for a beginner, was a very small one, and fortui- 
tous circumstances arose which in a very few weeks enabled me to give 
up my engagement and take another that brought me in thirty-five 
dollars a week. From that moment my salary steadily increased, and 
I learned from bitter experience that the stage only offered a woman 
entirely dependent on herself the means to earn a comfortable living. 

Is it not a hard thing that the only profitable channel open to 
women should be closed by the superstitious prejudice of the world ? 

The women of to-day must work. It is only right that they should 
choose the employment for which they are best adapted. How much 
wiser and kinder to let the worker ennoble the work, and allow the 
poor struggling girl all the social privileges that are the right of her 
happier and wealthier sister, than to force her to accept harassing and 
underpaid work at the risk of social degradation and ostracism ! 

Genie Holtzmeyer. 



I N the rooms of the Virginia Historical Society there is a portrait so 
blurred that the face is repulsive. It is the alleged portrait of a 
man described by his contemporary, William Wirt, as of “a figure 
large and portly ; his features uncommonly fine ; his dark eyes and his 
whole countenance lighted up with an expression of the most concilia- 
tory sensibility ; his attitudes dignified and commanding ; his gesture 
graceful and easy ; his voice perfect harmony ; and his whole manner 
that of an accomplished and engaging gentleman.” The portrait at 
Richmond, repudiated when painted, suffered all manner of ill usage ; 
and its fate resembles that of the man for whom its dauber meant it, — 
Edmund Randolph. Painted by partisanship as he was not, his name 
has been marred by every prejudice, and his fame left to his country in 
conventionalized disfigurement. The Centenary of our Constitution 
has already brought a gallery of fresh historical portraits of its leading 
framers, but one panel, like that of Falieri at Venice, is vacant; there 
is no portraiture of the statesman to whom the initiation and ratifica- 
tion of the Constitution were especially due, except a blackened effigy 
hung up by enemies in a moment of partisan passion. This traditional 
effigy of Edmund Randolph I have examined by the light of facts and 
documents to which historians appear to have had no access, with grow- 
ing conviction that the nation knows little of a very interesting figure 
of its early history. 

The Randolph family, before its appearance in Virginia, had gained 
distinction through Thomas Randolph the poet (1605-34), the friend 
of Ben Jonson and his circle. 

Such was his genius, like the eye’s quick wink, 

He could write sooner than another think ; 

His play was fancy’s flame, a lightning wit, 

So shot that it could sooner pierce than hit. 

A nephew of the brilliant Oxonian thus described by Feltham 
emigrated from Warwickshire and settled on Turkey Island in the 
James River, Virginia, with Mary Isham his wife. From these 
came branches so numerous that they were distinguished by their 
places of residence, and among their descendants were Chief- Justice 
Marshall, Jefferson, Lightfoot Lee, John Randolph of Roanoke, and 
Stith the historian. Sir John Randolph, King’s Attorney in Virginia 
a hundred and fifty years ago, was presently succeeded in that office by 
his son John, father of Edmund. Edmund was born August 10, 1753, 
at Williamsburg, — the old capital. Never did fairer prospect open be- 
fore youth than that which welcomed this heir of a wealthy and famous 
house when, at the age of eighteen, his career at William and Mary, 
then second to no American college, — culminated in an oration com- 
memorative of its Founders, which the faculty published (1771) in 


pamphlet form. Randolph had already a keen appetite for literature 
and metaphysics, and the hereditary passion for the law. After study 
in his father’s office, he entered, at his majority, on a promising practice. 

Soon this fair sky was overcast. The Revolution breaking out, 
young Randolph espoused its cause with ardor. When Washington 
became commander-in-chief he took the youth (August 15, 1775) to be 
an aide. He was recommended to Washington by Benjamin Harrison 
as “ one of the cleverest young men in America” and “ in high repute 
in Virginia.” Thus father and son parted forever, — one to retire with 
Lord Dunmore to England, the other to serve at the siege of Boston. 
His uncle, Peyton Randolph, President of the Continental Congress, 
at his death, October 22, 1775, left his estate to Edmund. In Jan- 
uary, 1776', Randolph was appointed one of the judges to sit on ques- 
tions relating to “ Tories” and their property. In July he was chosen 
Attorney-General of Virginia. On August 29 he married Elizabeth, 
daughter of Robert Carter Nicholas, State Treasurer. In the same 
year he was Mayor of Williamsburg, and also represented that city 
in the famous “ Convention of ’76,” which anticipated the Declaration 
of Independence and framed the first republican Constitution. These 
honors were heaped unsought on the youth of twenty-three. When, 
twelve years later, he was urging on his State ratification of the Con- 
stitution, he described himself as a “ child of the Revolution.” To 
that, indeed, his father had left him, and his shoulders broadened 
under the burden of its responsibilities. The estate inherited from 
his uncle was barely able to support its negroes, who, as Randolph re- 
fused to part families by selling any, made his bequest barren of 
income. But, as Hugh Blair Grigsby says, “ his success at the bar 
was extraordinary. Clients filled his office, and beset him on the way 
from the office to the court-house, with their papers in one hand and 
guineas in the other.” The “ beautiful speaker,” as Wirt called him, 
had also a beautiful home, and a wife whom he loved. “ She explored 
and studied my temper,” he says (MS.), “ and anticipated the means of 
gratifying even my caprices. Innumerable were the instances in which 
I have returned home dissatisfied with some of the scenes of the day 
abroad, and found an asylum in her readiness to partake of my diffi- 
culties and make them her own, or to divert by despising them.” 
Visiting lately his old mansion at Williamsburg, Tazewell Hall, — now 
owned by a Northern family of Hamiltons, — I recalled the sighs for 
its domestic charms audible in his correspondence while filling exalted 
stations. His home was broken up by his election to the Congress at 
Philadelphia, where he served 1779-1782. 

Randolph returned to Virginia to serve again as State Attorney. 
He had brought from Philadelphia new eyes for “the laxness and 
inefficacy of government” under the Confederation. His Virginian 
pride had been replaced by a national sentiment. The prospects of the 
great West engage his attention. In 1783 he is dreaming of a better 
government, and on March 7 submits to Madison his definition of 
a Constitution, — “ a compact in which the people themselves are the 
sole parties and which they alone can abrogate, delineating the degree 
to which they have parted with legislative, executive, and judiciary 


power, as well as prescribing how far each of the simple forms of 
government is to be pursued in acts of legislation.” (MS.) The 
Virginia House of Delegates (January 21, 1786) appointed him at the 
head of a commission of eight to meet those from other States at An- 
napolis, for the purpose of securing uniformity of commercial regula- 
tions in the country. There he united with Hamilton in preparing the 
memorial which summoned the States to the Convention which framed 
the Constitution. In the same year he was elected Governor of Vir- 
ginia by a large majority, over Richard Henry Lee. 

At every stage in the development of our nationality the influence 
of Randolph was paramount. The student of our constitutional history, 
looking back through the vista of a century, sees in the chain of causes 
that led to our Union two links especially salient : one was the An- 
napolis Convention, which convinced men representing divergent views 
and interests that they could unite for mutual aid ; the other was the 
consent of Washington to attend the Philadelphia Convention, securing 
for its work the sanction of his powerful name. Both of these were 
primarily due to Randolph. Two months before the Convention met, 
Washington was firm in his refusal to attend, — because of a previous 
refusal to meet with the “ Cincinnati” at Philadelphia in the same 
month, — but yielded to the Governor’s entreaties. Next to the name 
of Washington, in the Virginia delegation, stands that of Randolph. 
His republicanism, however, was of a type for which the world was 
hardly ripe. Randolph desired a government much like that which 
the present English House of Commons would be without a monarch or 
an hereditary house. The legislature elected by the people of the sev- 
eral States was to be — under the Constitution, as interpreted by the 
Judiciary — creator of all other powers. It was to elect, from men 
nominated by the State legislatures, their number proportioned to 
population, a body more permanent than itself, and composed of older 
men. The same popular House was to elect judges for life or good 
behavior; also an Executive Commission of several persons, who, in 
conjunction with the Judiciary, should form a council of revision on 
laws, with power to veto them unless passed by an increased majority. 
Randolph’s Republic was thus a democracy subjected to successive 
filtrations. From the ignorant or passionate populace to their execu- 
tive hand, the need of the nation was to pass through refining criti- 
cisms ; that executive was not to be a Head, but a Hand, with its own 
official fingers, obedient to the legislative brain controlled by the 
judicial independence. Despite the pleadings of Randolph and prayers 
of Franklin, the Convention accepted the frame which the Virgin- 
ians had submitted through their Governor and leader, only to establish 
within it a system which the small philosophical wing regarded as anti- 
republican. Randolph’s brilliant career in the Convention, could it 
have been observed by the outside world, would have filled the country 
with enthusiasm. Some of his sentences became proverbs in the 
Convention. “ Presidency is the foetus of Monarchy.” “ An Execu- 
tive should be independent, therefore it should consist of more than 
one man.” “ We have made a bold stroke for monarchy ; now we are 
doing the same for aristocracy.” The latter was said on the proposal 


that the Executive, if no choice were reached by the State electors, 
should be chosen by the Senate. The bicameral system had been ac- 
cepted by Randolph in the belief that a second chamber would check 
“ precipitate” legislation. It did not occur to him that on this feature 
the smaller States would fix their demand for inequality of repre- 
sentation. In Randolph’s Republic, as in Franklin’s, a Second 
Chamber was an anomaly, — at best a fifth wheel to his coach, which 
required only the State Legislature, the National Legislature, the 
Judiciary, and the Executive. The Vice-Presidency he viewed with 
an apprehension which must have arisen in thoughtful minds at various 
periods of our later history. He pleaded against the President’s power 
to pardon the crimes in which he would be most likely to participate. 
He opposed executive re-eligibility until after the office was lodged in 
an individual hand ; then he thought that a President debarred from 
legal re-election might be tempted to continue his power by coup 
d’ttat. In all these matters Randolph exhibited a philosophic insight 
which won the admiration of Franklin, who generally voted with him. 
Indeed, the clearness and force of Randolph’s argument several times 
won the Convention to his side ; but after such favorable votes the 
smaller States, or the semi-monarchical party, managed to work on 
committees outside and secured reversal of these victories. 

Of the fifty-five members who sat in the Convention the names of 
but thirty-nine were attached to the Constitution. Of the other sixteen 
three only remained to the end, and among these was Randolph. He 
had long before intimated to the Convention that he would not be able 
to sign the Constitution in the shape it was assuming, but he knew that 
it would, in substance, become the basis of the government. Though 
Randolph was then only thirty-four years of age, he had for eleven 
years been actively connected with the administrative affairs of the 
chief State in the Confederation, and was then its Governor. This 
enabled him to assist the Convention materially in all the details con- 
nected with judicial procedure, finance, and inter-State relations. It 
is now melancholy to reflect that the Convention passed so lightly 
over Randolph’s efforts to make the relative State and Federal powers 
definite and unmistakable. The clause he would have added in ink has 
since been written in blood. By remaining in the Convention Ran- 
dolph was able to secure modifications now generally approved, and 
he gained a prestige which enabled him to urge subsequent amend- 
ments. He agreed to sign if the Convention would add a provision 
for a second Convention after the sense of the country had been 
taken on the Constitution. This motion was seconded by Franklin, 
but failed ; and Randolph, though appealed to by his venerable 
friend, who uttered an encomium on his services and ability, refused to 
sign. He said, however, that he did not mean by this refusal to decide 
that he should oppose ratification of the Constitution by his State. He 
meant only to keep himself free to be governed by his. duty, as it 
should be prescribed by his future judgment. 

Randolph’s criticisms of the Constitution partly anticipated those 
of Mill, Bagehot, Karl Blind, Louis Blanc, and other republican 
authors of Europe. Indeed, a number of works have recently ap- 


peared in our own country, in advocacy of organic reforms, whose 
writers seem unconscious that they are repeating points made by 
Randolph a hundred years ago. But, while Randolph’s genius was 
philosophical, his public responsibilities made him practical. There 
was nothing of the “ irreconcilable” about him. His unpublished 
letters to Madison (for which I am indebted to Mr. McGuire, of Wash- 
ington) cast interesting light upon the further course of this leader 
of the recusants, on whom, more than any other, depended the imme- 
diate fate of the new Constitution. The Convention of 1787 adjourned 
finally on September 17. Randolph started with his wife on their 
Southern journey. From “ Bowling Green (Va.), September 30,” he 
writes to Madison, “ Baltimore resounds with friendship for the new 
Constitution, and Mr. Chase’s election depends, as it is said, upon his 
opinion concerning it. He waited on me with an expectation, I suspect, 
of learning something to foster his opposition. I was prepared, because 
I had heard of his harangue to the people of Wells Point the night 
before I saw him. It was represented to me that, after he had finished 
his speech, Col. Wm. [?] Smith and Mr. Zebulon Hollingsworth asked 
him whether he espoused the Constitution or not. He replied to this 
effect : ( Here, gentlemen, is a form of government’ (pulling out the 
Maryland Act) ‘ under which we have lived happily for more than 
ten years. Shall we make a new experiment precipitately ? Are we to 
pay taxes indefinitely, have our militia led from one end of the country 
to the other, and be dragooned by a standing army if we fail in the 
smallest article of duty ? But — I have not made up my mind.’ How- 
ever, in the discourse between us, although he discovered a tendency 
to reject the Constitution unless amended, he declared he would labor 
to establish a federal government. — In Bladensburg the Constitution 
is approved. In Alexandria the inhabitants are enthusiastic, and in- 
structions to force my dissenting colleague to assent to a convention are 
on the anvil. I wrote to him yesterday suggesting to him this expe- 
dient : to urge the calling of a convention as the first act of the Assembly : 
if they should wish amendments let them be stated and forwarded to the 
States. Before the meeting of the convention an answer may be ob- 
tained. If the proposed amendments be rejected, let the Constitution 
immediately operate : if approved by nine States, let the assent of our 
convention be given under the exceptions of the points amended. This 
will, I believe, blunt the opposition, which will be formidable, if they 
must take altogether or reject. The re-eligibility of the President and 
Senate has excited Mr. James Mercer’s resentment, and he positively 
objects to the Constitution without amendments. I learn nothing of 
Mr. Henry, nor of Mr. Pendleton, except that he is almost perfectly 

From Richmond (October 23, 1787) he writes to Madison, “The 
first raptures in favor of the Constitution were excessive. Every town 
resounded with applause. The conjectures of my reasons for refusing 
to sign were extraordinary, and so far malicious as to suppose that I 
was chagrined at not carrying every point in my own way, or that I 
sought for popularity. These were the effluvia until the Assembly 
met. A diversity of opinion appeared immediately on the convening 


of that body, which gave an evidence of the good fruit from one of 
the revised laws, by being punctual to the day. Among the heroes of 
the opposition were Mr. Henry, Mr. William Cabell, Col. Bland, and 
Mr. Franck Strother. A great ferment was kept up until Thursday 
last, when, contrary to my expectations, the debate for calling the con- 
vention was conducted with temper, and a vote passed unanimously for 
that purpose, to discuss and deliberate on the Constitution. This is a 
happy and politick resolution ; for I am thoroughly persuaded that if 
it had been propounded by the Legislature to the people as we pro- 
pounded it the Constitution would have been rejected and the spirit of 
the Union extinguished. At present the final event seems uncertain. 
There are many warm friends for taking the Constitution altogether, 
without the alteration of a letter; among these are Col. Nicholas 
and Mr. F. Corbin. But I suspect that the tide is turning. New ob- 
jections are daily started, and the opinions of Mr. Henry gain ground. 
He and I have had several animated discourses, but he recedes so far 
from me that we must diverge after a progress of half a degree further. 
An incidental question is allotted for to-morrow, by which it will be 
known how the party positively against the Constitution stands as to 
number. A motion was postponed until that day for repealing the 
laws against the recovery of British debts. Much of the repugnance 
to this motion will be founded on the danger of every defendant being 
hurried sooner or later to the seat of the federal government. This is 
the most vulnerable and odious part of the Constitution. I shall there- 
fore conclude, if the acts be repealed, that the majority of the Legisla- 
ture may be said to have overcome the most exceptionable points. — As 
to the recusants, we have been spoken of illiberally at least. Mr. 
Mason has declared in Assembly that, although he is for amendments, 
he will not quit the Union even if they should not be made. I have 
thought proper to postpone any explanation of myself, except in private, 
until everything is determined which may relate to the Constitution. 
I have prepared a letter, and shall send you a copy in a few days. I 
see the Pennsylvania papers abounding with eulogiums on some and 
execrations on others, whose opinions they know not substantially. — 
Mr. Pendleton, who is here, has expressed himself to this effect, — that 
this Constitution is very full of radical faults, and that he would adopt 
it with a protest as to its imperfections, in order that they may be 
corrected at a future day. The bar are generally against it ; so are the 
judges of the General Court. So is Wiley Jones, of North Carolina. 
In short, I am persuaded that there must be strong exertions made to 
carry it through, and my letter will not be the least conducive among 
the other supports to its adoption in the end. — Why would you not 
give me your opinion as to the scheme I proposed in my letter from 
the Bowling-green ? I am now convinced of the imperfections of the 
idea, but I wish to open to you without reserve the innermost thoughts 
of my soul, and was desirous of hearing something from you on this 
head. — Col. Mason has said nothing good, and you may rest your- 
self in safety in my hands, for I will certainly repel the smallest in- 
sinuation. You were elected by 126 out of 140; for the second year 
by 137 out of 140 ; so that, you see, circumcision and uncircumcision 


avail nothing. I sent your appointment on the other day. — The people 
of this town are still in rage for the Constitution, and Harrison among 
the most strenuous. I have inquired about reports concerning myself 
and if popularity had been my object, as some suppose, I should have 
overshot my mark. — Pardon this medley written in a crowd, and be 
assured of my most affectionate friendship.” 

During the winter antagonism to the Constitution consolidated itself; 
it became increasingly plain that the decision would mainly rest with 
Virginia. Governor Randolph’s adhesion was coupled with a demand 
for a second National Convention, which gave Madison and Washing- 
ton uneasiness. Madison urged on Randolph the indications that among 
those who desired amendments there was no concord as to what they 
should be. This opinion was confirmed by the result of the Massa- 
chusetts Convention. Mr. Gerry, of that State, stood with Randolph 
in refusing to sign the Constitution, but the amendments which he and 
Hancock had appended to the ratification of Massachusetts filled the 
Virginia Governor with disgust. Some of the amendments, he writes, 
are destructive of the essential idea of a national government, allowing 
it none but express powers, some are aimed at the Southern States, 
“ others milk and water.” The great questions which concerned Ran- 
dolph were not alluded to. He began to perceive, that few shared his 
philosophical interest in pure republicanism. His hopes from a second 
Convention had received a shock. He is still anxious on several points, 
however. “ Does not the exception as to a religious test imply that the 
Congress, by the general words, had power over religion ?” This ques- 
tion he puts to Madison, February 29, just after his nomination to the 
Virginia Convention ; concerning which he adds, “ nothing but a small 
degree of favour acquired by me independently of the Constitution could 
send me, my politicks not being sufficiently strenuous against the Con- 
stitution. Marshall is in danger.” Patrick Henry writes to him 
announcing his “ determination to oppose the Constitution even if only 
J a State should oppose.” 

The struggle in the Virginia Convention — which occupied nearly 
the whole of June, 1788 — was mainly a combat between Patrick Henry 
and Governor Randolph. In argumentative power they were nearly 
matched ; but Randolph was handicapped by his record in the National 
Convention, of which Mason was present to supply particulars. Henry 
was able to hurl at his antagonist arrows forged and feathered by him- 
self. The Governor had no shield save the peril of disunion. In the 
Union, he urged, amendments could be obtained ; out of it, none. 
Among the striking passages in the debate was one in which Randolph 
replied to the suggestion that, under the Constitution slavery might be 
abolished. It had been on Randolph’s motion that the word “ servi- 
tude” was struck out of the Constitution at Philadelphia ; and he now 
said, “ I hope there is none here who, considering the subject in the 
calm light of philosophy, will advance an objection dishonorable to 
Virginia, — that, at the moment they are securing the rights of their 
citizens, there is a spark of hope that those unfortunate men now held 
in bondage may, by the operation of the general government, be made 
free.” At the outset Governor Randolph announced that the accession 


of eight States — nine being required — had reduced the question before 
them to one of Union or no Union ; and, raising his arm, he cried, “ I 
will assent to the lopping off of this limb before I assent to the disso- 
lution of the Union.” At the close of the Convention he said, “Mr. 
Chairman, one parting word I humbly supplicate. The suffrage which 
I shall give in favor of the Constitution will be ascribed by malice to 
motives unknown to my breast. Although for every other act of my 
life I shall seek refuge in the mercy of God, for this I request only his 
justice. If, however, some future annalist should, in the spirit of party 
vengeance, deign to mention my name, let him recite these truths : that 
I went to the Federal Convention with the strongest affection for the 
Union ; that I acted there in full conformity with this affection ; that 
I refused to subscribe because I had, and still have, objections to the 
Constitution, and wished a free inquiry into its merits; and that the 
accession of eight States reduced our deliberations to the single question 
of Union or no Union.” 

This was said on June 25. Had there been a telegraph it would 
have informed the Convention that four days before New Hampshire 
had supplied the ninth State, and the majority of ten by which Virginia 
ratified would have been on the other side. Four States, representing 
more than a third of the population of the country, might have been 
left out of the new compact ; this being the situation desired by Jeffer- 
son, as quoted in the Convention. That Virginia was carried even by 
a small majority was unquestionably due to the eloquence and influence 
of its Governor. 

Randolph still desired a second Convention. Under date of August 
13 he writes to Madison, “Gov. Clinton’s letter to me for the calling 
of a Convention is this day published by my order. It will give con- 
tentment to many who are now dissatisfied.” “ I do indeed fear that 
the Constitution may be enervated if some of the States should prevail 
in all their amendments ; but if such be the will of America, who can 
withstand it?” To Madison’s misgivings he answers (September 3), 
“ Is there no danger that, if the respect which the large minorities at 
present command should be effaced by delay, the spirit of amendment 
will hereafter be treated as heretical ? I confess to you without reserve 
that I feel great distrust of some of those who will certainly be influ- 
ential agents in the government, and whom I suspect to be capable of 
making a wicked use of its defects. Do not charge me with undue 
suspicion ; but indeed the management in some stages of the Conven- 
tion created a disgustful apprehension of the views of some particular 
characters. I reverence Hamilton because he was honest and open in 
his views.” 

Governor Randolph was at this time preparing for the anxious 
work of inaugurating the new government in his State. The defeated 
malcontents were very angry. “ An hundred and seven members are 
assembled,” he writes (October 23), “ among whom is the leader of the 
opposition. I have not seen him, but I am told that he appears to be 
involved in gloomy mystery. Something is surely meditated against 
the new Constitution more animated, forcible, and violent than a simple 
application for calling a Convention. Whether the thing projected 


will issue forth in language only, or the substance of an act, I cannot 
divine. But I believe I may safely say that the elections will be pro- 
vided for, and that no obstruction will arise to the government, or 
rather will be attempted, — so far as a preparation for organizing it 
goes.” By skilful engineering, all dangers were escaped, and Randolph 
presently vacated the gubernatorial chair in a hopeful state of mind. 
“ There is a general calm in politicks,” he writes, March 27, 1789. 
“ The discontented themselves seem willing to wait with temper until 
Congress shall open their views. It gave me much pleasure to read 
your letter to Col. T. M. Randolph, as it shows a consciousness of 
amendments being necessary, and a disposition to procure them. Al- 
though I am convinced that nothing will soften the rancour of some 
men, I believe that a moderate and conciliatory conduct [on the part 
of] our federal rulers will detach from their virulence those who have 
been opposed from principle. A very injudicious and ill-written pub- 
lication which you have seen under the signature of Decius may impede 
perhaps this salutary effect, by keeping in a state of irritation those 
minds which are well affected to the object of his bitterness. His facts 
are of a trivial cast, and his assertions are not always correct ; and he 
thus becomes vulnerable in almost every part. The liberty of the press 
is indeed a blessing which ought not to be surrendered but with blood ; 
and yet it is not an ill-founded expectation in those who deserve well 
of their country that they should be assailed by an enemy in disguise, 
and have their characters deeply wounded before they can prepare for 
defence.” “If the peace of this country is interrupted by any un- 
toward event, one of three things will have a principal agency in the 
misfortune: the new Constitution; British debts; and Taxes.” “I 
feel here” (Williamsburg) “ a happiness to which I have hitherto 
been a stranger ; and which is not a little increased by having shaken 
off a dependence on those who think every man in office to be the 
servant of the legislature. I enjoy that opportunity, which I long 
sought in vain amid the tumult of business, of examining and settling 
my opinions.” 

Randolph and Patrick Henry, having resumed practice, were op- 
posed in important cases, and in August, 1789, contended for three 
days at Leesburg in a suit involving much property. In this Randolph 
was victorious. He was, indeed, easily head of the Southern bar. 
But his learning deserved a larger field than the county court. The 
office of State Attorney, which his father apd grandfather had held 
under the king, had in his hands become one of extreme importance by 
reason of the transformation of the government. He now took a lead- 
ing part in the readjustment of the procedure of the State, and had 
just finished reducing the eight volumes of its code to one when Wash- 
ington asked him to accept the position of Attorney-General in his first 
administration. This invitation was received in July, 1789, but, on 
account of his wife’s illness, could not be at Once accepted. Washington 
resolved, however, to keep the appointment open, and Randolph per- 
formed the duties of his office in Virginia, carrying with him a digested 
scheme when he went north in 1790. As the first Attorney-General, it 
fell to him to organize the national judiciary, and a larger task has 


never been undertaken by an American lawyer. His splendid services 
in this matter, and his clear opinions on the difficult cases arising out 
of the readjustment of State relations, endeared him more than ever to 
Washington, and when Jefferson retired from the State Department 
the place was offered to Randolph. It was accepted with reluctance. 
Nothing but his affection for Washington induced him to assume a 
post which Jefferson had found intolerable. (“ II [Jefferson] s’est 
retir6,” wrote the French minister, “ prudemment, pour n’etre point 
force a figurer malgre lui dans des scenes dont t6t ou tard on devoilera 
le secret.”) 

The so-called “ federal” and “ republican” principles, which had 
struggled like Jacob and Esau in the very womb of America, were 
now full-grown. The conflict raging between England and France 
was going on here also. American trade with both belligerents was 
involved, and each threatened the country with war if it did not break 
with the other. Washington was doing his best to steer, as he said, 
between Scylla and Charybdis. He sent a friend of the British side, 
Jay, to England ; a champion of France, Monroe, to Paris. In his 
own Cabinet he was trying to keep on good terms with both parties, 
but could hardly keep them from seizing each other by the throat. 
While it was Jefferson and Hamilton competing for the control of 
Washington, Jefferson complained that on his side they were “ one 
and a half against two and a half.” The halves were Washington and 
Randolph. Jefferson and Hamilton having retired, it fell to the lot of 
Randolph to deal with an issue on which the passions of the contend- 
ing parties were exasperated to the verge of civil war. This was the 
famous British Treaty. 

A combination of European monarchies had been formed to starve 
France. In pursuance of this “ boycott,” England had inserted into 
the Treaty an article forbidding the United States to export to Europe 
any of its staple products or those of the West Indies, the prohibition 
to last during his majesty’s war with France. Notwithstanding the cer- 
tainty of its unpopularity when revealed, the Senate ratified it, with a 
condition that this article should be suspended. But before signing it 
Washington received information that England had issued an order 
for the search of neutral ships in European waters, and seizure of all 
provisions found on them. The Treaty, having leaked out, along 
with this “ Provision Order,” — an invitation to join the monarchies in 
starving a republic by whose help our independence was won, — kindled 
popular fury. The Treaty was burned by mobs, the British minister 
insulted, and the President thrown into a cruel dilemma. France was 
enraged at the negotiation of such a Treaty and its consideration by her 
professed ally, and threatened war if it were ratified. England threat- 
ened war if it were not ratified. Those nations were represented here 
by jealous ambassadors. The people were divided into hostile British 
and French camps. Politics became an exchange of insults threatening 
to come to blows. The “ British party,” as the high federalists were 
now called, was represented in the Cabinet by Wolcott, Pickering, and 
Bradford ; whom Hammond, the English minister, kept in panic with 
menaces of war. They insisted that Washington should sign the Treaty 


without hesitation or reservation. Randolph urged the President to 
sign only if the “ Provision Order” were revoked. 

The Cabinet stood thus three to one in favor of the Treaty. But 
there was a factor in the situation of which the three new-comers into 
the Cabinet were ignorant. Washington had committed himself 
pretty far to the French side the year before. When Jay was sent 
to England, France grew suspicious, and her minister, Fauchet, had 
shaken the dust of Philadelphia from his feet. Washington had then 
commissioned Randolph to follow the angry ambassador into the 
country, to soothe and flatter him, so that he might pacify France, — 
where Monroe could hardly remain because of the anger at America. 
Fauchet was assured that Jay was sent to demand compensation 
for spoliations, and that the President did not sympathize with the 
British party in his Cabinet. While this soothing diplomacy was pro- 
ceeding, the Whiskey Rebellion at Pittsburg was troubling the country, 
— each party accusing the other of fomenting it for its own purposes, 
— and Washington suspected that the extreme federalists were not 
unwilling to utilize if they did not incite it. Much had been said 
and done in those days which, if published by the French, would 
have seriously compromised an administration which should sign a 
Treaty amounting to alliance with the British. The President dreaded 
a war with England more than one with France, but he feared 
civil war in America more than either, and this was mainly threatened 
from the enthusiastic partisans of France. Randolph was not one 
of these. His earlier French sympathies had cooled after the revolu- 
tionary massacres in Paris. The principle he had long urged on the 
President was, in his own words, that “ the United States should shake 
off all dependence on French and English interference in our affairs ; 
but that we ought not to deny or baffle the gratitude of the people to 
France, under the pretext of independence, in order to give a decisive 
preponderance to Great Britain.” His aim was to free our politics 
from that thraldom to European questions which had absorbed every 
hour of the nation's history. He had from the first curbed the en- 
thusiasm of Monroe at Paris. He had proposed (April 6, 1794) the 
special envoy to England, conquering Washington's fears that it might 
wound Pinckney's feelings. In regard to the British Treaty, his posi- 
tion was nearly that of Hamilton, who wrote advising Washington not 
to “ exchange” the Treaty with England until the “ Provision Order” 
were revoked. Washington's resolution not to sign without this condi- 
tion was attributed by three of his ministers to Randolph's influence, 
while, at the same moment, Jefferson and his party were raging against 
the Secretary of State as a renegade because he did not insist on tearing 
up the whole Treaty. Between the two parties thus glaring at each 
other stood Washington and Randolph, — those whom Jefferson sneered 
at as “ halves” now making a powerful whole. 

Such was the situation as the day approached when Washington 
must declare his ultimatum. He was at Mt. Vernon, and ordered 
Randolph to write a memorial to Great Britain demanding revocation 
of the obnoxious Order as a condition to affixing his signature. The 
“ British party” were in dismay. The British minister suggested to 
Vol. XL .— 29 


Randolph that the Order might be “ suspended” until after the Treaty 
was signed. This the Secretary refused, rather warmly, to advise. The 
President approved Randolph’s memorial on July 31, 1795. But 
fourteen days later he signed the British Treaty without the reservation 
which he had declared essential. 

What had occurred to cause this change of front in a fortnight ? 
Nothing in the public situation; but the bulwark of the President’s po- 
sition had been destroyed. Randolph had been politically assassinated, 
and under circumstances which disabled Washington from saving him 
or the policy for which they had battled together. On this incident, so 
prolific of results, and never fully investigated, we must dwell for a little. 

On March 28, a French vessel, the Jean Bart, had been captured by 
a British frigate, and with it dispatches from Fauchet, the French min- 
ister at Philadelphia, to his government. These were forwarded (June 
4) to Hammond, the British minister here, to be used at his discretion. 
English records, of which copies are before me, show that Hammond 
received a number of dispatches found on the Jean Bart. These he 
acknowledges, July 27, 1795, adding, “The originals of the French 
letters are peculiarly interesting, and will, I am persuaded, if properly 
treated, tend to effect an essential change in the public sentiment of this 
country with regard to the character and principles of certain individuals 
and to the real motives of their political conduct.” Investigations in 
the archives of the English Foreign Office have failed to discover any 
of the French dispatches intercepted except one — the one which appar- 
ently compromised Randolph and others. Hammond at once invited 
Wolcott, Secretary of the Treasury, — Randolph’s relentless enemy, — to 
dine, and secretly revealed to him this dispatch (No. 10), giving him a 

Fauchet’s dispatch 10 was dated October 31, 1794. It refers mainly 
to the Pittsburg Rebellion. The passages affecting Randolph were three : 
— 1. “ Besides, the precious ( prtcieuses ) confessions of Mr. Randolph 
alone throw a satisfactory light upon everything that comes to pass. 
These I have not yet communicated to my colleagues.” 2. “ Mr. Taylor, 
a republican member of the Senate, published towards the end of the ses- 
sion three pamphlets. ... In the last he asserts that the decrepid state of 
affairs resulting from that system” (Hamilton’s financiering) “ could not 
but presage, under a rising government, either a revolution or civil war. 
The first was preparing : the government, which had foreseen it, re- 
produced, under various forms, the demand of a disposable force which 
might put it in a respectable state of defence. Defeated in this 
measure, who can aver that it may not have hastened the local eruption 
in order to make an advantageous diversion, and to lay the more general 
storm which it saw rising ? Am I not authorized in forming this con- 
jecture from the conversation which the Secretary of State had with 
me and Le Blanc, alone, an account of which you have in my dispatch 
No. 3 ?” 3. “ In the mean time, although there was a certainty of 

having an army, yet it was necessary to assure themselves of co-oper- 
ators among the men whose patriotic reputation might influence their 
party, and whose lukewarmness or want of energy in the existing con- 
junctures might compromise the success of their plans. Of all the 


governors, whose duty it was to appear at the head of the requisitions, 
the Governor of Pennsylvania” (Mifflin) “ alone enjoyed the name of 
Republican : his opinion of the Secretary of the Treasury” (Hamilton) 
“ and of his system was known to be unfavorable. The Secretary of this 
State” (Dallas) u possessed great influence in the popular society of 
Pennsylvania, which in its turn influenced those of other States : of 
course he merited attention. It appears, therefore, that these men, with 
others unknown to me, all having without doubt Randolph at their 
head, were balancing to decide on their party. Two or three days 
before the proclamation was published, and of course before the Cabinet 
had resolved on its measures, Mr. Randolph came to see me with an air 
of great eagerness, and made to me the overtures of which I have given 
you an account in my No. 6. Thus with some thousands of dollars 
the” (French) “ Republic could have decided on civil war or on peace ! 
Thus the consciences of the pretended patriots of America have already 
their prices ( tarif ) !” 

When it had once been privately brought to Hamilton’s colleagues 
in the Cabinet that he was charged with official corruption, they 
hastened to tell him, and to hear his explanations. The same gentle- 
men now had to deal with the libel of a foreigner on Randolph, but 
the stakes were too high for nice considerations of honor to prevail. 
Wolcott was jubilant at the “ fortunate discovery,” as he called it, and 
writes to Hamilton, “ Feel no concern, for I see a clue which I know 
will conduct us through every labyrinth except that of war.” It 
would seem that even the prospect of war with France was a trifle to 
the Treasurer in that jubilant moment. The dispatch was not men- 
tioned, however, to Hamilton, nor to Washington. The explosion was 
skilfully arranged between the three ministers, — Wolcott, Pickering, 
and Bradford, — between whom it was kept a profound secret until the 
two most important witnesses, Hammond and Fauchet, should be out 
of the way, both being on the eve of departure for Europe. Sixteen 
days elapsed, after Hammond showed his bomb, before Washington 
heard of it, and twenty-four before it fell on the astounded Secretary. 
The British minister was then well out at sea, and Fauchet supposed 
to be still farther away. The dates are significant. On July 26 
Wolcott had been invited to dinner by Hammond and shown the dis- 
patch. On July 31 Washington was urged to return to Philadelphia, 
without being told why. On August 11 he arrives, and is shown the 
dispatch. August 17, Hammond sails from New York. August 19, 
Randolph is for the first time shown the dispatch. 

It will be observed that eight days had elapsed after the President 
had seen the dispatch before it was communicated to Randolph. 
During that time Washington’s behavior towards Randolph was 
remarkable. Regardless of his usual etiquette, he visited Randolph, in 
a friendly way, in his own house. He invited him to dine with a few 
chosen friends, and gave him the place of honor at the table. Indeed, 
Randolph twice enjoyed Washington’s hospitality during the eight 
days, and was treated with exceptional marks of friendship up to the 
fatal morning when, coming at an appointed time, he found the Presi- 
dent with the hostile Secretaries, was received with formality, and 


shown the Fauchet dispatch.* Randolph denied Fauchet’s statements, 
going over them categorically, without much feeling ; but when he found 
that the President had been consulting with his adversaries for a week 
without mentioning the matter to himself, and that he had not applied 
at the French Legation to inspect dispatches 3 and 6 (referred to in 
10 as giving particulars, and manifestly part of his case), he saw that 
he had been prejudged, and indignantly resigned his office. The last 
act of Randolph in the State Department had been performed the day 
before, August 18, when he had countersigned the President’s signature 
to the Treaty. Though astonished at this change, he had concluded 
that Washington had yielded to Hamilton’s advice, that the ratifica- 
tions should be signed, but not exchanged until the remonstrance was 
complied with. This seemed a compromise between himself and his 
colleagues, and he silently acquiesced. It may be added here that 
Randolph’s remonstrance was sufficiently vigorous to secure the repeal 
of the obnoxious Order. 

Randolph, of course, at once applied at the French Legation for the 
dispatches 3 and 6. Though their egotistical and pretentious style 
would go far to prove their falsity, considerations of space limit me to 
the bare citation of points affecting Randolph. In dispatch 3 the 
Secretary is represented as saying that the President “ is the mortal 
enemy of England, and the friend of France;” that some are man- 
oeuvring to make a monarch of him ; that he (Randolph) trusted in the 
ascendency which he daily acquired over the President, “ who consulted 
him in all affairs, and to whom he told the truth which his colleagues 
disguised from him.” In conclusion, Fauchet quotes four sentences 
from the instructions to Jay, expressive of the determination of the 
United States not to deviate from its treaties or engagements with 
France. This quotation, which, now that Jay’s instructions are known, 
appears a model of diplomatic selection, must be credited to Washing- 
ton, who suggested it, and the whole interview, for the soothing purposes 
already mentioned. In this dispatch there was nothing to compromise 
Randolph more than some “ bumptious” sentences so very Fauchetesque, 
so different from the Secretary’s severe dignity, that no man after read- 
ing a page of the latter could ascribe to him any sentence of the “ inter- 
view.” Nothing is plainer in this and in all of the Fauchet dispatches 
than that the man is attitudinizing. He was variously said to have 
been a lawyer and a strolling player before the French Revolution, and 
may have been both : casuistry and melodrama are combined in his 
dispatches. This will appear from the passage in dispatch 6, which 
must be quoted literally, as it contains the alleged “ overtures” of Ran- 

* “ And, finally, an attempt was made to embarrass him and take him by 
surprise, by inducing the President, whose mind they had thus poisoned, to put 
the letter suddenly in his hands and demand an immediate explanation and 
answer, — where the letter was written in French, filling fifteen pages, containing 
a variety of matter, some assertions and some conjecture and speculation, very 
desultory; and in which the passages in relation to Mr. Randolph are to be 
found in different places, mixed up with other matters so as to make it difficult 
to understand what Mr. Fauchet meant. These were the impressions made upon 
me by the Wolcott correspondence .” — From a letter of Chief-Justice Taney , 
January 29, 1856. 


dolph, referred to in 10. Referring still to the Whiskey Rebellion, 
Fauchet says, “ Scarce was the commotion known when the Secretary 
of State came to my house. All his countenance was grief. He 
requested of me a private conversation. It is all over, he said to me. 
A civil war is about to ravage our unhappy country. Four men by 
their talents, their influence, and their energy may save it. But, 
debtors of English merchants, they will be deprived of their liberty 
if they take the smallest step. Could you lend them instantaneously 
funds sufficient to shelter them from English persecution? This 
inquiry astonished me much. It was impossible for me to make a 
satisfactory answer. You know my want of power and my lack of 
pecuniary means. I shall draw myself from the affair by some com- 
monplace remarks, and throwing myself on the pure and unalterable 
principles of the Republic. I have never since heard of propositions 
of this nature.” 

This very particularly pure young man, on reaching France, sold 
both himself and the unalterable principles of the Republic to Bona- 
parte for office, wealth, and the title of Baron. But he did not reach 
home so soon as had been supposed. If one British ship intercepted 
Fauchet’ s dispatch which laid Randolph low, another intercepted 
Fauchet himself, so that the fallen Secretary could overtake him. 
Fauchet was waiting at Newport for a British man-of-war to leave the 
mouth of the harbor, in order that he might sail on the Medusa. It 
was a three days’ journey Randolph had to make, but he managed to 
secure an interview with Fauchet. Wolcott had already a spy there, 
who made the important discovery that Fauchet, while ignorant that 
any dispatch had been intercepted, was heard to express chagrin at the 
failure of his mission in profane denunciations of Randolph, at the 
same time praising Hamilton. These, being just the reverse of the ex- 
pressions which would have suited the anti-Randolph cry, were left to 
be revealed by Wolcott’s grandson to our later generation. Fauchet 
wrote his explanation on the Medusa, which weighed anchor the 
morning after Randolph’s arrival, and sent it ashore by a pilot. It was 
addressed to Adet, who had superseded him, so that Randolph did not 
read it until his return to Philadelphia. Among the manuscripts before 
me I find two notes relating to this journey, written to Senator Lang- 
don, of New Hampshire. The first is dated at Fairfield, Connecticut, 
September 7 : “ I write this short private and confidential letter for 

your own inspection only, to inform you that I am returning from 
Newport, where I have seen M. Fauchet. My object in this errand was 
to remove some very injurious impressions which an intercepted letter 
of his had cast upon myself and the republicans of our country. He 
has made explanations which will, if justice takes place, be satisfactory. 
When I get matters arranged I will again write to you. In the mean 
time, I will only say to you that a dart is aimed at me, and through me 
at many others. Let this rest with you till I lay before you fully the 
reasons of my resignation.” The second is dated at Philadelphia, 
October 2 : “ Since I wrote to you from Fairfield I have received your 
friendly favor; and hold myself justified in saying to you (as the fact 
is) that Mr. Fauchet has, by the most positive declarations, repelled all 


the insinuations arising from his letter. I expect soon to send you a 
statement of facts. But it is now manifest to me that the calumnies 
which have been circulated, and the malicious movements which have 
been made, were calculated, first, to operate in favor of the British 
interest in opposition to the friends of France; secondly, to destroy the 
friends of republicanism ; and thirdly, to remove me from office. The 
last, thank God, is accomplished. But God forbid that the first two 
should be ! Spain and France have certainly made peace.” 

It is probable that Randolph when he came to read Fauchet’s “ ex- 
planations” did not find them so “ satisfactory” as his “ declarations 
he accepted these without endorsing those. Fauchet explained that 
when he had complained to the Secretary of manoeuvres against France 
by British agents, “ he said to me that I ought to make efforts to obtain 
the proofs of this fact, and he added that, if I did so, the President 
would not hesitate to declare himself against all the manoeuvres which 
might be directed against the French Republic.” Randolph, he says, 
further suggested that he might for this purpose use some of the flour- 
contractors engaged by him (Fauchet) for France, and, as the said con- 
tractors might also be debtors to England, and liable to be harassed by 
process, perhaps by early payments to them on existing contracts these 
flour-merchants might be rendered “ independent of British persecu- 
tion.” “ But now, calling to mind all the circumstances to which 
the questions of Mr. Randolph call my attention, I have an intimate 
conviction that I was mistaken in the propositions which I supposed 
to have been made to me. I declare, moreover, that no name or sum 
was mentioned to me ; that Mr. Randolph never received, either directly 
or indirectly, by himself or by another for his use, one shilling from 
myself, by my order, or according to my knowledge, hearsay, or belief, 
from any other public officer of France. I declare that he never made 
to me in this respect a single overture ; and that no part of the above 
circumstance has the least relation to him personally.” 

Randolph did not base his “ Vindication” on the flour-merchant 
romance. The statements were preposterous. No man in his senses 
could have applied for money to a minister of notorious poverty, in 
discredit with his government, and whose accounts, always subjected to 
the inspection of two agents, were traceable. Fauchet was received by 
Washington in February, 1794, and throughout March was imploring 
the Cabinet through Randolph (the letters are before me) to relieve his 
pecuniary distress by an advance on the debt due France, which govern- 
ment is represented as embarrassed. The Cabinet must have known 
how ludicrous was the suggestion that Randolph could, at that very 
time, have been hoping to handle any French gold. Moreover, dis- 
patch 10 pointed the “ overtures” of dispatch 6 to the Governor and 
Secretary of Pennsylvania : the idea of bribing those men, to say noth- 
ing of doing it with “ some thousands of dollars,” could not have been 
entertained out of Bedlam. Finally, the dispatches attest throughout 
Randolph’s constant efforts to allay Fauchet’s fears and inspire him 
with confidence in the President, — the very reverse of what a venal aim 
would have required. As to the other charge, betraying Cabinet secrets, 
Randolph proved undeniably that his communications with Fauchet 


were all made in pursuance of the President’s direction, their substance 
invariably matters of previous consultation ; that Fauchet’s dispatches 
showed that he knew no secrets, and that Randolph, had he been per- 
fidious, could have sold him some that would have been worth much 
F rench gold. If Washington had sent for No. 3, he would have seen 
that, under a guise of communicative frankness, Randolph had left 
Fauchet without any faintest suspicion of the one thing he desired to 
know, — that Jay was negotiating the Treaty, under Randolph’s instruc- 
tions. The Fauchet dispatches show that this impecunious and ambi- 
tious diplomatist of thirty years was transmitting newspaper gossip to 
his ignorant superiors, pretending to receive it from high quarters, 
hoping to be kept in office, and also that he might have the handling 
of some of the cash with which France was buying up foreign support. 

Fauchet’s explanations and Randolph’s pamphlet form a sufficiently 
interesting chapter in the diplomatic history of the two Republics, but 
they are now unnecessary for the vindication of Randolph. In these 
latter years his witnesses have come from their graves. The letters 
and papers of the great men who participated in those events are now 
before the world. Jefferson, much as he disliked Randolph, declares 
(letter to Giles, December 31, 1795), “His narrative is so straight 
and plain that even those who did not know him will acquit him of 
the charge of bribery. Those who knew him had done it from the 
first.” Madison (letter to Jefferson, January 10, 1796) recognized the 
whole thing as part of “ the plan of running him down.” Wolcott him- 
self wrote to his father (November 19, 1795) of Fauchet’s “calumnies” 
at the very moment when he was using the calumniator to crush his 
opponent. Pickering too, having got into Randolph’s shoes, proceeded 
to brand Fauchet. For Randolph was not the only man compromised 
by Fauchet ; Hamilton too was involved in a way that could not be 
ascribed to the Secretary of State, and there was no escaping the taunt 
of Callender, — “ The friends of Alexander Hamilton want to recom- 
mend the veracity of Fauchet when he impeaches Randolph, and to dis- 
own it when he impeaches Hamilton.” These volumes of correspond- 
ence of the chief men of that era may be searched in vain for any 
reply to Randolph’s “ Vindication,” or denial of any of his assertions. 

After all, what did the charge against Randolph amount to ? It 
being undeniably proved that Fauchet knew no Cabinet secret whatever, 
there remains only the charge that “ to save his unhappy country from 
civil war” Randolph suggested that the French minister, whose country 
was also involved, should “ lend funds” to certain men able to save it 
if relieved of indebtedness to Englishmen. That is the whole of it. 
Absurd though it be, what if it were admitted ? The independence of 
this country was won by aid of French gold. Mr. Parnell is now 
fighting the cause of Ireland with American gold. That Washington 
himself, in the summer of 1794, feared a general revolt against the 
government is proved by instructions to Jay (August 18). Whatever 
means Randolph might have employed to “ save his country” would 
have been condoned by history, if not by his adversaries. But this 
object of Randolph’s alleged “ overtures” was not named in the inter- 
cepted dispatch ; it was contained in dispatch 6, referred to in the 


other, but not sent for by Washington, Wolcott, and Pickering (Brad- 
ford being now dead) while determining Randolph’s fate. 

Here the greatest name in American history is implicated. Here 
also lies the gravamen in Randolph’s case. There was really no case 
against Randolph, though a plausible one for the momentary purpose ; 
and it is certain that his shining name would long ago have emerged 
from its eclipse but for his unpardonable sin of speaking against Wash- 
ington and the assumption that his disgrace represented the President’s 
judgment. But Washington never dismissed Randolph from his ser- 
vice ; in his voluminous letters he never uttered a word against him ; and 
by the assumption that he passed such judgment on the Secretary a real 
stigma is cast upon Washington, whereas Randolph’s words were but the 
outburst of a wounded friend fancying he had been betrayed with a kiss. 
On the surface there was reason for Randolph’s wrath. Let us suppose 
the matter brought before Washington one simply affecting his friend’s 
honor. It is a charge brought from an interested foreign Legation 
through a fiery partisan who had been in his Cabinet six months, 
against an old friend and comrade who has served at his side from 
youth, — on his staff in the field, his private secretary, his fellow-worker 
in the affairs of Virginia, for nearly six years an unwearied worker in 
his administration. Washington has seen this man as a youth parting, 
as then supposed, with a large patrimony for his country’s cause, taking 
the undowered hand of Liberty, serving her chief for twenty years : he 
now finds him accused by acquaintances of yesterday, avowed adversaries 
both of the man and of his own policy. The accusation is based on an 
equivocal paragraph in the otherwise admittedly untruthful letter of a 
foreigner; which letter refers to previous ones — on file near by at a 
Legation interested to respond to Washington’s every request — for par- 
ticulars which might put a different face on the matter. What would 
a loyal friend, a just man, a gentleman, do under such circumstances? 
Would he make no effort to see documents obviously essential to the 
case? Would he conceal the charge from his friend, while conspiring 
with his friend’s adversaries, until their purpose was accomplished? 
Would he meanwhile lavish exceptional affection on his unsuspecting 
friend, exchanging hospitalities with him? Would he give the place 
of honor at his table to a man he meant to degrade as a traitor ? 

This was the apparent conduct which Randolph resented. “ Why,” 
he asked, bitterly, “ was all this stratagem observed towards him of 
whose fidelity you had never entertained a doubt?” Washington made 
no reply. Who has ever justified his conduct? It has never been de- 
fended ; it could not be denied ; and historians have simply suppressed 
this notable chapter in the career of Washington. 

I submit that it is susceptible of but one explanation consistent with 
the honor of Washington : he did not believe one word of the charges 
against Randolph. Jefferson, Randolph’s enemy, said no man who 
knew Randolph would believe them; and none knew him so well as 
Washington. But from the moment in which the intercepted dispatch 
was laid before him every step of the President was compulsory. It 
was brought from the British office to be held as a pistol at the head 
of the administration to compel an unconditional signature to the Treaty. 


The dispatch involved Washington equally with Randolph, unless the 
latter was delivered up as the scapegoat. Washington’s enemies were 
even more relentless than those of Randolph. That might be of little 
importance to him personally, but the peril of his administration was 
the peril of the country. In that critical week, when peace or war 
hung in the balance, — not only foreign but civil war, — a British bomb 
was suddenly revealed which no subsequent disclosure could deprive of 
its adequacy for immediate service. The intercepted dispatch could 
raise enough clamor about executive intrigue and French gold to ruin 
an administration already divided against itself. The bomb had a time- 
fuse, set to explode at a moment too late for discussion, to be averted 
from the administration only by rolling it under Randolph and the 
republicans. Washington could not save Randolph ; he could easily 
have shared his fate. The British party had conquered ; the President 
could now only send a remonstrance against the odious Provision Order 
where he meant to send a demand. But he resolved that no British 
sympathizer should write this remonstrance; on Randolph alone he 
could depend to do it vigorously ; and for that purpose, and to complete 
the transaction, he was compelled to keep the Secretary for a week in 
ignorance of his fate. 

It is plain, then, why Washington did not send for the other Fauchet 
dispatches. Washington would not even investigate Fauchet’s miserable 
insinuations against the best friend he had in the world. It was cruel 
enough that among them they had rendered necessary the sacrifice of 
that friend ; he would show them that his faith in their victim was 
unabated. He visited no minister but Randolph. At his table Ran- 
dolph had the place of honor, and was treated with a friendship which 
afterwards appeared to him as a mask. It was natural that it should 
so seem to the stricken statesman, but to share his view now were to fix 
on Washington a brand of treachery worse than any ascribed to Ran- 
dolph. In fact, Washington’s character is especially shown in this 
omitted passage of his history. Unable to rescue his friend, but prepared 
to utilize even that injustice for the security of his country, Washington 
afterwards refused to shelter his own personal reputation at Randolph’s 
cost. He could not, indeed, then, or at any period, have confessed his 
disbelief in the charges, after having based a change of policy on the 
disgrace of the “ French party” effected by those charges; but, the 
blow having fallen, Washington was prepared for any personal pen- 
ance; nor would he allow Randolph’s adversaries more than their 
pound of flesh. These desired to withhold from the forthcoming 
“ Vindication” parts of Fauchet’s dispatch involving Hamilton ; still 
more they desired to suppress Washington’s letter saying he would not 
sign the Treaty written just before he did sign it. Pickering, now in 
Randolph’s place, removed this damaging letter from the State Depart- 
ment and insolently refused the ex-Secretary’s demand for it. But 
Washington compelled its surrender. “You are at full liberty,” he 
wrote to Randolph, “ to publish without reserve any and every private 
and confidential letter I ever wrote you ; nay, more, — every word I 
ever uttered to, or in your presence, from which you can derive any 
advantage for your vindication.” 



Pickering endeavored to make up for Washington’s silence under 
Randolph’s Vindication by bequeathing an “ interview” much more 
discreditable to the President than to Randolph, and containing inaccu- 
racies Washington could never have committed. Several historians 
have sought to show that Washington did not change front under menace 
of the intercepted letter; but the original documents which I have 
obtained from England prove that such was the case. Hammond, 
writing home August 14, 1795, gloats over the chagrin of Randolph, 
and ascribes his own victory to “the declining influence of that gentle- 
man in the Councils of this country.” 

At no period up to his death could Washington have done justice 
to Randolph without seriously affecting the foreign relations of the 
country. If his treatment of Randolph was not hypocritical, he no 
doubt hoped that eventually his old comrade would see that during 
their last week together the kindness was real, the unkindness the 
mask. Those last actions would say to a calmer year, “I sacrificed 
you, but never doubted you.” Even so, probably, it was. After fifteen 
years of freedom and happiness, Randolph’s wife died, and his heart 
broke. Then, for the first time since they parted, did he refer to his 
trouble with Washington. On July 2, 1810, he wrote to Hon. Bush- 
rod Washington, “ If I could now present myself before your venerated 
uncle it would be my pride to confess my contrition that I suffered my 
irritation, be the cause what it might, to use some of those expressions 
respecting him which, at this moment of my indifference to the ideas 
of the world, I wish to recall, as being inconsistent with my subsequent 
convictions.” He added that it was his hope that he might yet recover 
strength enough to leave the world his sincere homage to Washington, 
and it was partly fulfilled by a fine passage in his History of Virginia, 
never published, which presents a very realistic and striking portrait of 
the soldier and the man. This was the last work with which he was 
occupied. Randolph died September 13, 1813. Without a word of 
elation he had seen the recoil on his adversaries of the blow that struck 
him down. For there never was a more suicidal victory. In that 
favorite of Virginia they drove from public life the Southerner with- 
out sectionalism, the anti-slavery Virginian, the one republican able 
to curb revolutionary democracy. Randolph and moderate republican- 
ism fallen, in their place rose Jefferson and a democratic imperialism 
under which those victorious federalists saw their party buried in the 
grave of their leader, with Aaron Burr’s bullet in his breast. 

Moncure D. Conway. 


~\T OT that I grieved you ; no remembered thorn 
±\ Left in your heart frets now my own repose. 

I only wonder — left so soon forlorn — 

Whether I could have found you one more rose. 

Alice Wellington Rollins. 




CAPTAIN ED. DOHERTY, the man who commanded the ex- 
\J pedition which captured John Wilkes Booth, has lately received 
a government appointment as Indian post-trader in Dakota. He is a 
tall, straight, broad-shouldered man of forty-six years. He has a dark 
complexion inclined to be florid, a broad open face, a high forehead, 
and hair as black as a piece of cannel coal. He talks well, and chats 
very entertainingly about his experiences at the time of the assassina- 
tion. He told me the story of Booth’s capture not long ago. 

Said he, “ Twenty-one years ago ! It does not seem as many days. 
The scenes of that time are photographed on my memory. I was 
sitting in Lafayette Park, talking with a brother officer. It was my 
day off, and I was rejoicing my soul in the bright rays of the spring 
sun. The trees had begun to leave. The first flowers were out in the 
park, and the grass was of its greenest. My friend and myself were 
talking to a couple of ladies, when an orderly came up and gave me a 
message. It was to report to Colonel Baker immediately. When I 
reached Colonel Baker’s head-quarters I was directed to take twenty- 
five men and proceed on the track of Booth to Fredericksburg. A 
very short time after this I had my detail at the Sixth Street wharf at 
Washington : there I found a steamboat, the John S. Ide, ready to 
carry us to Belle Plaine. Here we left the boat, and, landing our 
horses, we struck across to the Rappahannock at Port Conway. At 
the house by the Port we questioned the people, and finally got them to 
admit that the men we were in search of had passed onward. They 
had been met there by three of Moseby’s men, Bainbridge, Ruggles, 
and Jett, and had gone with them on to Garrett’s and Bowling Green. 
The keeper of the house told us that he was accustomed to guide people 
to Bowling Green, but that Jett was in love with the daughter of a 
tavern-keeper there, and he had offered to guide them, as he was going 
that way. Herold was a friend of Jett’s, and he told the men that 
Booth had killed the President and wanted to get on South. In a 
short time Booth came up on his crutch. It seems he had not been 
with Herold at this time, and he acknowledged to these men of Mose- 
by’s that he was the President’s assassin. The party then went on 
towards Bowling Green. 

“ Between Port Conway and Bowling Green lies the Garrett farm. 
Its buildings were not far from the road, and they consisted of an old 
frame house with a barn and outbuildings. When the party reached 
this house Booth stopped here, and was allowed to remain over-night, 
while Herold continued on to Bowling Green with the rest of the party. 
We left Port Conway and rode on towards Bowling Green. As we did 
so we passed the Garrett house, and I learned afterwards that Booth saw 
us as we passed. He was looking out of the window as we came up, 
and he snatched his carbine and veiled to Garrett to briner him his 



pistols. We passed on, however, without knowing this, and reached 
Bowling Green. I found here that Herold had left, but that Jett was 
sleeping in the tavern. I went up to Jett’s room, and told him that I 
knew all about his doings during the past few days ; that I was going 
to catechise him, and if I found him lying we would take him out and 
hang him. He was badly frightened, confessed that he had been with 
Booth, and consented to guide us back to Garrett’s farm, where Booth 
had stopped. We then started back for Garrett’s, and reached there in 
the early morning. We surrounded the place, and I went up to the 
door and knocked loudly upon it. In a moment the old man Garrett 
appeared, in very light attire, carrying a candle. He told me that the 
man I described had been there, but that after the cavalry had passed 
he had taken his crutch and hobbled off to the woods. In the mean 
time my men had been hunting about the place, and one of them called 
out to me that he had a man in the corn-crib. I went to the crib, and 
found that it was Garrett’s son, who said he was there to watch the 
men in the barn, fearing that they might steal the horses. I thus 
found that Booth and Herold were in the barn. Herold had returned 
from Bowling Green to Garrett’s. We surrounded the barn, and 
Boston Corbett was stationed at a place where there was a hole in the 
boards about two feet square. As soon as we surrounded the barn we 
heard men moving about in the hay. 

“ I told Booth that I knew it was he, and we carried on a short 
conversation before he was shot. He first asked. — 

“ ‘ Who are you ? You may be my friends/ 

“ On my answering, he replied, ‘ I am a cripple and alone. Give 
me a chance for my life. Draw your men up at fifty paces, and I will 
come out and fight you.’ 

“ I replied that I did not come there to fight. I said, ‘ I came 
here to capture you. I have fifty men, and I propose to do it.’ 

“ About this time he said, ‘ There is a man here who wants to sur- 
render awful bad,’ and with that the boy Herold came out. As Herold 
left, Booth made a movement as though to raise his carbine, and Bos- 
ton Corbett fired. The ball struck Booth just behind his ear, in about 
the same place where he struck the President. The bullet lodged in 
the vertebrae of his neck, and this part of his anatomy was afterwards 
cut out, and the bone with the ball in it was kept in the Medical Mu- 
seum at Washington. Just before Corbett fired, the straw at the back 
of the barn was lit by a detective, and as the blaze leaped upward I 
rushed in and seized Booth, throwing my arms around his waist under 
his uplifted arms, and dragging him out of the burning barn. We 
carried him to the porch of the Garrett farm-house, and he died within 
a few hours. 

“ We sent for a doctor ; but he could do nothing. Booth’s intellect 
was clear, but he was in great agony. He did not deny his crime. 
The only expression that he made was, ‘ Useless ! useless !’ He did 
not say, ‘ I died for my country,’ nor, ‘ Tell mother,’ as has been 
reported. At one time I offered him some water, and at another time 
brandy. He refused the brandy, but took the water. He could not 
swallow from a cup, and I soaked a towel and gave it to him to suck. 



Notwithstanding Booth’s rough travels, his clothes were at this time 
neat and clean. He had a fine physique, was tall and dark-faced. He 
had shaved off his mustache since he had left Washington, but his face 
was rough, as he had not used a razor for several days. His leg was 
in splinters, and the flesh was black. He had hobbled around upon a 
crutch of pine which a servant of Hr. Mudd’s had, I think, whittled 
out for him. After he died I took a horse-blanket, and, having got a 
needle from Miss Garrett, I sewed the body up in it. I then borrowed 
an old rickety wagon from a neighbor and carried him back to Belle 
Plaine, where the boat was still waiting for us, on the following morn- 
ing. I delivered the body to a naval officer on the Montauk, near the 
navy-yard. It was buried in the Capitol Prison ; but it was afterwards 
exhumed, and it now reposes, I think, at Baltimore.” 

“Ho you think Booth would have allowed himself to be taken 
alive ?” 

“No, I do not. He had told Herold that he would fight to the 
death ; and I am sure he meant what he said. The reward for his 
death of seventy-five thousand dollars was divided among his captors 
in the same way as a naval prize is divided. I received seven thousand 
five hundred dollars, and the men under me got smaller amounts. 
They were chiefly young men from New York State, thrifty fellows, 
with a good deal of German blood in them. Most of them bought 
lands with their money, and are now well-to-do farmers with fami- 

Frank O. Carpenter. 


A LL day upon the garden bright 
The sun shines strong, 

But in my heart there is no light, 

Nor any song. 

Voices of merry life go by 
Adown the street, 

But I am weary of the cry, 

And drift of feet. 

With all dear things that ought to please 
The hours are blest, 

And yet my soul is ill at ease, 

And cannot rest. 

Strange spirit, leave me not too long, 

Nor stint to give ; 

For if my soul have no sweet song 
It cannot live. 

A. Lampman. 





T HE new student, who, after leaving his hotel, gets his first sight of 
Johns Hopkins University, finds a number of large, presentable 
buildings, containing the general halls, libraries, lecture-rooms, etc., 
right in the heart of the busy city of Baltimore. And no retirement 
of moss-grown fronts seems to hide their life from the passers-by, but 
their doors open upon the pavement with democratic heartiness. Here 
is no Campus, no belt of lawn and terrace around the buildings, nor 
rows of “ immemorial elms” nor long avenues of approach. Probably 
the new man is used to such things in the home school or college which 
he has left to come here, and is struck with the splendid simplicity that 
greets him. As he enters the office in the main building, he meets the 
President of the university, who kindly welcomes him, and asks about 
his section of the country, and his studies and hopes, until he is some- 
what at home. He is soon introduced to his professors, and in a few 
hours has a general course of study blocked out for the session. 

Early in the first week of the year a general informal reception is 
given in Hopkins Hall, for the purpose of getting the new and old 
men acquainted with one another. In this large hall may be seen 
students from up and down the world. Strange faces and tongues 
greet the new-comer. The young Japanese who can barely break 
a few stubborn Saxon words in our presence may be escorted by his 
fellow-countryman who is at ease in French, German, or English, 
and who can meet on common ground with young men from Paris, 
Heidelberg, Bonn, London, New York, Chicago, San Francisco, New 
Orleans, or Toronto. The greater part of those assembled are “ grad- 
uate students,” — graduates either of Johns Hopkins or some other 
good institution, who have come here to pursue independent courses 
of study, or work towards the degree of Doctor of Philosophy. Be- 
sides these are the matriculates, or undergraduates. The unsophisti- 
cated collegian probably imagines that out of this gathering of men, 
graduates and undergraduates, is to be developed year after year the 
esprit de corps of the university life. What an effete idea these words 
convey to us ! Our conceptions of university life change at every step. 
Our old epithets of recognition and description fail, and must be modi- 

Here is something original, — a young university that has continued 
to live through its few years up to the letter and spirit of its ideal. 
Pioneer as the life is in a certain sense, let us look at it closely. It 
takes a number of weeks* residence and work here before a mere com- 
parison of the customs of this place with his former associations ceases 
to confuse the new student. 

Nearly all the old college backgrounds are changed or removed. 
That castle of the student’s sovereignty, the dormitory, and its refec- 



tory, are no more. We are cosmopolitans while we eat and sleep. We 
are out of reach of temptations to stolen visits to a chum’s room, or 
midnight spreads whose greatest charm is that they are out of order. 
Inspection, “ lights out,” or such annoyances we are happily free from. 
The students have their rooms and boarding-houses all over the city 
wherever they may choose. The freedom, the comfort, and quiet of 
this fashion are soon appreciated by one who has lodged in a large 
building with fifty or sixty other students. 

The Campus, or play-ground, is several miles off, on the grounds 
of Clifton, the estate of the founder of the university. This makes a 
quiet game, or an athletic match, somewhat like a picnic, a matter of 
a half-holiday. The half-hours or hours of exercise so necessary to 
the studious are passed in the gymnasium, after which those so inclined 
stroll out to the Parks or drop in at the libraries. Another feature 
that the visitor here does not find is a university periodical. The 
college newspaper or literary w r eekly has no existence. 

There is no division of matriculates into Freshman, Sophomore, 
Junior, and Senior classes. The scope of privileges and strifes based 
on such a division is narrowed to a poor margin of differences so little 
emphasized as to furnish no comfort to even self-asserting superiority. 
The matriculate courses of study are marked out for three years, and 
when the student is ready to be examined, and try for his degree, he is 
free to do so. Class jealousies and impositions are unknown. There 
is no approach to hazing or the terror of forced speeches at the dead of 
night. So far as the present writer has been able to discover, there is 
no working chapter of any secret fraternity here. There are no rival 
debating or literary societies, hotbeds of enthusiasm, where the frenzied 
young speakers may defy and deify one another. There is, however, 
one very flourishing literary organization, called the Hopkins House 
of Commons, in which “ bills” embodying various principles and public 
questions are passed under consideration according to the strictest parlia- 
mentary processes. The public session of this body in Hopkins Hall 
about once a year is a great treat to both university members and the 
general public. 

Much as we may at first miss certain representative features of 
average American college life, we soon accommodate ourselves to our 
surroundings, and are easily taught the lesson for which we come here. 
Between the governing and the governed there is no worry of police 
surveillance. One great source of enthusiasm lies in our community 
of interest. The student has an open field and the free year to develop 
himself by whatever proportion of work and recreation he may allow 
himself. He is a visitor made welcome in the city, to enrich himself 
by the treasures of a corporate bureau which is enthusiastically con- 
cerned that his stay shall be profitable and pleasant. And all the 
forces of the city seem to co-operate in the design. 

One great power of appeal playing between teachers and students is 
exercised through the “ advisers.” Each matriculate is expected to des- 
ignate one of his professors whom he will consider his adviser while at 
the university. The professor is to be consulted by the student as a 
personal friend and guide, whom he will find to be interested in all 



matters concerning his success as a student. In this way, more than 
any other, does the young man get a good view of the benignity and 
wisdom of his professor ; as the latter also obtains a direct knowledge 
of the pupil’s "aspirations and fears, and is enabled to conform the im- 
pulsive ardor that meets him into a hearty co-operation with the univer- 
sity’s efforts for its members. The “ advisers” act very considerately, 
yet very heroically sometimes. Though once in a while a pair of knit 
brows coming out of a study may announce positively that at least one 
person “ can’t see it that way,” on the other hand I have known a con- 
sultation to make sunshiny and hopeful what had seemed to one student 
a dark fruitless year, and relieve it of a trouble which, without the in- 
ducement of such confidential relationship, would never have been con- 
fessed through the whole college course. 

After the session has worn on a little and every one is settled well 
to his work, a pleasant diversion occurs in a number of grand recep- 
tions given by the President at his residence. Through these, the pro- 
fessors and students are still more generally introduced to each other. 
It should be understood that as a rule the student has had neither time 
nor opportunity to meet more than a few professors outside his own 
special department of study, and a very small proportion of the great 
number of students that do not attend the same lectures and recitations. 
With this last large body of gentlemen, whose names are not yet known 
to him, he is thrown in daily contact, in the libraries, the gymnasium, 
or the business office. He wishes to learn their names, have some con- 
versation with them, and feel quite at home whenever he meets them. 
At these receptions the opportunity is offered for becoming pleasantly 

Another friendly help by which this circle of acquaintances and 
pleasures is widened comes from the University Y. M. C. A. This 
association is very happy in entertaining all who come to its halls. 
On Sunday afternoons during the past year it has offered a series of 
entertaining and spiritual addresses by prominent clergymen and men 
of letters of Baltimore. Through earnest, devout students, this organi- 
zation sustains an active interest in various kinds of mission-work. On 
Sunday, all through the city its workers may be found as Sunday-school 
teachers, visitors of the sick and the poor, lecturers in mission-churches, 
leaders of classes in the penitentiary and jails, — enjoying the work, and 
learning profound lessons from actual life. 

A very interesting phase of our life here is the attendance of the 
students on the professor’s “ Privatissima,” — a good instance of how 
the American does sometimes import foreign customs to his own benefit. 
These are cosey meetings of students of some one department of study, 
usually held at the home of the professor of that study. His pupils 
gather around the doctor in his library, and listen to the statement of 
some new chapter of science, or the analysis of some complex philosophy. 
One of them will then probably present a paper, or give a review of a 
scientific journal or monograph. After about an hour the company 
moves to the drawing-room, where discussion is less formal, but where 
science is by no means ignored. Literature, music, and conversation is 
then the round for the evening, to which is added the corporeal com- 


fort of refreshments. Patterned to some extent after the Privatissima 
are the meetings held in turn at the rooms of the several members of a 
special branch of study. Here is no professor to bless or restrain. Here 
the young gods, no longer over-modest, work their will, and discuss 
grievances to vary the quiet of the steady search for truth. These 
gatherings are Bohemian, sometimes even Philistine; proper always, 
but by no means staid. At these times there is no lack of panaceas to 
drive dull care away. The Kentuckian passes around his “ vinaigrette,” 
and all examine the curious device ; the young American born in China 
brings out his jar of tea that he has brought straight from the heart of 
the Celestial Empire, and we make a simon-pure amber brew; the 
master of the evening then presents “ substantiate,” with cakes and con- 
fections manifold ; and finally the member from North Carolina bounti- 
fully furnishes us with his native country’s golden tobacco, wherewith 
we proceed to make ourselves happy. These are our veritable Nodes 

In the course of the year our hearts are made glad by an invitation 
to a reception given by some warm-hearted considerate citizen of Balti- 
more. Here we find, besides professors and students, ladies and gentle- 
men of this city, and distinguished visitors. Surely we are blest in 
having friends so full of encouragement and hearty cheer for our prog- 
ress as we have found the people of Baltimore to be. We are welcomed 
kindly at their homes, are introduced to their guests, and warned of the 
futility of very hard study, to such good purpose that we often lose the 
distinguishing mark of the pale cast of thought upon our faces. Then 
there is another power which exerts a wonderful influence against a 
suicidal application to books. For the flower of an ideal social environ- 
ment for a university, commend us to the young ladies of Baltimore. 
What is your taste ? Transcendentalism ? Literature ? Special theol- 
ogy? Palmistry? You need not be surprised to find some wise 
Minerva to accommodate you. Will you discourse on yachting ? driving ? 
base-ball ? or a military parade ? Every girl may be a ready authority. 
Is not this as it should be ? “ The wheel is come full circle.” Such 

light is quite approachable. It is no more difficult for a student of 
Johns Hopkins to become acquainted with any young lady than it 
would be for any other young gentleman residing in Baltimore to do so. 
In fact, the students are supposed to act in general as if this were their 
home city ; and we think the idea well carried out. For we have never 
known a case of viciously obstinate homesickness in our midst; and 
in the high tide of the year all traces of regret are put away into cosey 
oblivion. To those who have ever had little twinges of homesickness, 
this should speak volumes. 

The public lectures given during the fall in Hopkins Hall are of 
much interest to members of the university and their friends. The 
lectures treat of literature, science, and art, more or less exhaustively. 
They are delivered by both resident and non-resident lecturers on stated 
days during the week, and usually at five o’clock in the afternoon, when 
the regular lectures for the day are concluded. In the audience may 
be observed many .a fair listener, intent on the matter under consider- 
ation, and expecting to be equal to discussion on the subject at the close, 
Vol. XL.— 30 



whether it be the etiquette of the Nibelungenlied or the authenticity 
of some new archaeological specimen. 

Two Recesses are allowed during the year, — one in the fall, another 
in the spring. Each consists of about a week or ten days. On these 
occasions those who are not far from home like to take advantage of the 
opportunity and renew sweet memories by the family hearth. Others 
may accept the invitations of friends to spend the holidays with them, 
or else visit the Capitol, Mt. Vernon, or some of the many places and 
objects of national or special interest which are close at hand. What- 
ever he may do, the student need not feel at all lonely or abandoned, 
even if he cannot join the happy exodus. Christmas never comes to 
find his good-fellowship unchallenged. In spite of his local reputation, 
he is no hermit. He has usually gone abroad to come here ; and he 
explores while here. Various are his discoveries. He is not hampered 
by prescribed hours. No beadle or proctor waits for him. He is not 
passported to his privileges, but is considerately permitted to be his own 
friend. Not as a stranger do the museums and libraries of the city 
know him. He shows the homelikeness of thorough and sympathetic 
use of gifts. However exorbitant his wants, be he epicurean and gour- 
mand, he shall not go heartlessly through a Christmas or an Easter in 
Baltimore. The home of the soft-shell crab, the diamond-back terrapin, 
and the canvas-back duck scorns to harbor a connoisseur as a starve- 
ling ; and the large parks, with their lakes, fountains, trees, and flowers, 
the grand churches, with their wonderful music, and the busy streets, 
with the numberless beautiful faces, would defy even a listless aesthete 
to remain dreary under their influence. 

Two prominent days in the calendar are worthy of mention. The 
first is Commemoration Day. This falls on the 22d of February, and 
celebrates the inauguration of the President of the university. On this 
day the names of the successful candidates for degrees and honors are 
published and diplomas bestowed. A large audience is assembled, and 
listens to a formal address by the President, followed by one of the 
professors or a distinguished visitor. Often a grand reception in the 
evening prolongs the celebration and the day is rounded with great re- 
joicing. Commencement Day repeats this variously happy programme, 
and closes the work of the year. 

There are no groups, sets, or cliques, into which the students might 
be classified. No matter whether certain signs might suggest such cues 
as “ sport,” “ dude,” “ masher,” or what not, still we are forced to 
acknowledge that those under criticism for the most part prove their 
right to the title student. Probably that is the reason why there is no 
luxurious indulgence of nicknames among us. A collegian represents 
his father’s whole family. “ Hie jacet Joe, hie jacet Bill,” under these 
skies seems a barbaric “ In Memoriam.” 

The haunts of the student are not very shadowy or mysterious. 
The undergraduates have a room for themselves, where they congregate 
and compare opinions at unoccupied hours. The graduate student", if 
not in the laboratory or lecture-room, may be found in the seminary- 
room of his department. The seminary is quite an -institution among 
us. At stated times, usually every two weeks, the students of a de- 



partment assemble in their seminary-room with their professor, for 
specially advanced work. Original studies are reported on by the 
members, and papers are read upon themes previously announced. All 
confer together in a friendly enthusiastic spirit for the mutual good of 
the members and the furtherance of scientific progress in the depart- 
ment. All conveniences, such as books or apparatus, for reference or 
illustration, are near at hand. These hours are full of suggestions for 
original investigation. Many a learned thesis has been evolved from 
some dark, irrelevant question that has troubled these circles. For 
those who will carry the war into Africa there is always some region 
of the dark continent still unsatisfactorily explored. Another resort 
of the students is the club ; not one of those defamed thoroughly- 
equipped homes for bachelors, but a retreat where one can find pleasant 
company, or spend an ostensibly idle hour in a quiet corner over the 
latest magazine. Here are celebrated now and then the festivities of 
the Kneipe. The bibulous scholar boldly takes his plunge into the 
foam of old Gambrinus ; and some venturesome comrades go down in 
the billowy sea, while the remorseless crew howl their requiem in bar- 
barian song. It is given out that on rare occasions the forms of these 
unfortunates are caught from the depths in a comatose condition, and 
arranged supine upon the long table, whereupon the Babylonian or 
some other ancient and startling burial-service is intoned over them in 
all its severest and most classic detail. But we have not seen or heard 
this thing ; and it ,may be a canard. 

Athletics receives a fair and hearty recognition. The gymnasium 
is well patronized throughout the year. Base-ball, lacrosse, foot-ball, 
and the full round of field sports are cultivated at Clifton. Match games 
are frequently made up with other college teams, and the backing of 
the home-men is quite spirited. The exhibition of games and various 
athletic contests in the spring on the Clifton grounds arouses a lively 
interest, and is worthy of the enthusiasm that sustains it. f 

One’s annual expenses as a student here are moderate. Probably 
the greater number spend between five and six hundred dollars. Some 
whose circumstances make it expedient engage as " coaches” for other 
students, or find academies in which to teach, or else deliver public 
lectures while they continue their studies. These give but an incom- 
plete view of the many means by which deserving young men may 
meet a part of their expenses. 

Such is our life. It is new in a number of ways. We have no 
encumbrances of legendary custom to burden or handicap us. We are 
as free as an Olympian runner in the first heat of his race. We cannot 
tell what this university’s social life may be after fifty years have 
passed away. But we are willing to think it will be much as it is to- 
day. It is natural to suppose that as teacher or student friend passes 
away to meet those whom we already mourn, a mysterious body of 
council will appeal to our spirit of conservatism, and the words of 
every memorial tablet will read as a binding clause on our conduct. 

James Cummings. 




G O not, O perfect Day ! 

O Day so beautiful, so golden-bright. 

A little longer stay ! 

Soon in thy western window fades the light : 
Soon comes the Night ! 

Delay ! 

Go not, O perfect Day ! 

Go not, dear Life, away ! 

Dear Life, one’s cheerful friend and guest of yore. 

A little longer stay ! 

Soon wilt thou steal from us, and shut the door, 

And come no more ! 

Delay ! 

Go not, dear Life, away ! 

Robertson Trowbridge. 


Perhaps that vast constituency of lay readers, of which you speak with 
such charming certainty, is entitled to a word in the controversy between editors 
and authors ; because it is to them the mighty hotch-pot concocted by the editor, 
the author, and the devil is served, — which they devour, too, — God help ’em ! — 
to the bones and the rank dregs, whether they will or not, — a phenomenon as 
occult as the raison d'ttre of the black fly. In Japan I have eaten living fish, 
with the cold eye of the fish upon me in baleful melancholy, — because I was in 
the presence of royalty that loved live fish — because I was hungry — because I 
wanted to see what it was like — because I wanted to vaunt myself of the achieve- 
ment to less ichthyic friends. But later, in the privacy of my bed-chamber, I 
cursed live fish loud and deep. 

Is this parable a hint of the why we “peruse every line from the pens of 
authors of established reputation”? — in preference, too, to “the work of the 
cleverest tyros” ? 

Why should author and editor persist in serving us always hash because 
once, under the force of circumstances, we lied and said we liked hash? Or 
why, again, if they have once served us a rare tenderloin, over which we smacked 
our lips (metaphorically, of course), should they poke it at us with a shovel, — 
no longer rare, indeed, but common enough, and underdone, overdone, till we 
are wellnigh undone ? I confess I like something verdant now and then, if for no 
other reason than to invent a new oath for the new writer ; for we soon exhaust 



our Anathasian vocabularies upon the old ones. It is a question whether the 
second best of the literary hack is always ahead of the cleverest tyros. His 
work may be faultless in style ; but, great heaven ! how barren it sometimes is of 
ideas ! Naturally, too, the galled jade must wince. 

I do not sign this note, because I know some of the people I am going to 
name ; and because I have not the fear of the waste-basket before my eyes ; and 
because, after all, I have faith that I shall prick the tender cuticle which I have 
heard venomously called the editorial pachyderm, and this shall be glory enough. 
This leaves me free to cite sa?is peur the very cases upon which you have chal- 
lenged the whole world, — as I see them, of course ; leaving the rest of us to speak 
now or else forever hold their shameful peace. 

Stockton : One may read his “ Rudder Grange” again and again, and “ The 
Remarkable Wreck of the Thomas Hyke” (I believe that’s right) at least twice, 
and “ The Lady, or the Tiger,” once or more ; but “ The Discourager of Hesitancy” 
and “ The Transferred Ghost” not at all ; unless one wishes, prepense, to suffer 
the chill of a futile jest. And the dreary stretches of “The Hundredth Man” 
make my feeble mind ache, — I presume from aggravated vacuity. Of this latter 
a dim idea has penetrated me lately that in its arid photographic imbecility it 
aims to parody Mr. James, — one of the ad nauseam sort of jokes that only the 
joker can appreciate, — a sort of humorous solitaire. If this be true, I hope Mr. 
Stockton will not fatuously attempt to Explain the joke in the painful fashion 
that kills. Has he forgotten his “Bull Calf”? If not, perhaps he will be mer- 
ciful ; for even the judge who sends men to the scaffold begs the Lord to have 
mercy on their souls. 

Howells : Perhaps the most delightful of American writers. Almost I am 
persuaded to call him altogether lovely. And yet, and yet — over against “ A 
Modern Instance,” “ Silas Lapham,” and “ Indian Summer” stand “A Foregone 
Conclusion” and “ A Woman’s Reason.” But when Howells does not write with 
a visible weariness of the pen he is delightful. If he photographs, his camera is 
steady, and gives us a true genre effect sometimes through the gauze that softens 
and harmonizes the hard angularities of this life of ours. But for the most part 
there are trees that sough and whisper in our ears, turf that springs beneath our 
feet, and men and women whom we recognize for such through all their silly 
nothings, for of these — strange ! — men and women are mostly made. 

But, by way of contrast, take that society of New York into which Miss 
Magruder has just introduced Stella. Her camera was not steady. The features 
crop out at any place on the plate. No one, I think, would recognize the portrait. 
Its creation is clearly morganatic. And those cow-boys in knickerbockers and 
Tam O’ Shanter caps ! — shall we ever look upon their like again ? Her camera 
certainly had uncontrollable recollections of former doings with lawn-tennis lads 
and lassies. 

And what evil genius prompted the author of “ Marse Chan” to write of 
“ Soldiers of the Empire” ? Did Mr. Page personally know this soldier ? Sure 
no Frenchman ever knew such an one. And bad poetry? Whom the gods wish 
to destroy they first make to write poetry, I think. And of dialect stories gener- 
ally might we not with profit have surcease ? Is it not true that enough is better 
than a feast ? And do not Mr. R. M. Johnston’s people latterly talk as if they 
were stirred up with a stick and reminded of their proper business ? 

No, no, my dear sir : if you recruit your magazine largely from the ranks 
of authors of established reputation simply because of that reputation, and with- 



out due regard to merit, you practise upon us the basest of false pretences. Look ! 
You send us a great name, and behind it a tinkling cymbal or sounding brass. 
Is it not better to read behind an unknown name into such delights as “ Marse 
Chan,” “A Brother to Dragons,” or “ A Story of the Latin Quarter”? 

St. Inier. 

In the July number of Lippincott’s appeared one or two short articles from 
both authors and editors upon the difficulty of getting into print, — the biassed 
mind of the editor and his susceptibility to influence being the reason from the 
point of view of the author, and the number of contributions and their worth- 
lessness in the long run, from that of the editor. 

Both editor and author, however, were more or less down upon that wretched 
creature the amateur. 

It is in the interest of this long-suffering devotee that I address the question, 
How can one cease to be an amateur ? How become one of those professional 
and paid writers of whose contributions every editor will assure you he has a 
large stock always on hand ? 

The editor says, “ Write as well as Howells and James and Stockton.” But 
the trembling amateur acknowledges that he can’t, and to encourage him I would 
humbly venture to remark that few can. Our magazines are not wholly supplied 
(more’s the pity) by those gifted pens, but largely by others, and the amateur 
declares to himself he can write as well as these. 

To the amateur I would say, Don’t think to get in because you can write 
as well: you must write better. Also don’t write to please what you think suits 
the public taste. The public taste will have time to change several times before 
your manuscript will, in all human probability, see the light, even after it is 
accepted. If you can find out what the editor individually likes, never mind the 
public. Write something that will please him I An Amateur. 

I have been very much interested, instructed, and amused by your last 
“Monthly Gossip” article. Ah, you sly rogues of editors, how well you know 
what to put into your magazines ! I turned at once to that article, and found it 
quite a tidbit. What ! you really receive five thousand articles a year from con- 
tributors, or would-be contributors, and can kccept only two hundred of them ! 
Dear, dear me ! What an amount of hope deferred, of heart-burning and bitter 
disappointment, is represented by these figures ! Have you no poet to write an 
elegy or a lament on these unfortunate contributors, — these unsuccessful men of 
genius, shall I call them ? How I pity them ! I am awfully glad I am not one 
of them myself. I never offered you an article,’ thank heaven, and I probably 
never shall. Not that I distrust your judgment ; not that I think you are not as 
fair as another ; not that I wouldn’t like to shine, like the others, — the successful 
contributors, I mean ; but I don’t care to let my poor literary bantling run the 
one chance in twenty-five of floating on your stream; I don’t care to attempt 
something in which there is so little chance of being successful. I’d rather 
write for some less popular periodical, and be sure of having my articles accepted, 
than write with such a slim chance of acceptance for yours. 

But, seriously, Mr. Editor, what, in the name of all that is sensible, drives so 
many people into such an unprofitable business ? Is the hankering for literary 
fame such a wide-spread disease among Americans ? Is it the desire of gain, in 
a country where there are so many surer and easier ways of making money? 



What is it that has so drugged and glutted the literary market? Many persons 
imagine, I suppose, that this is an easy way of gaining money, and many others 
that it is an easy road to fame. For my part, I would rather be a successful 
pork-butcher than the most famous literary starveling alive. For what does 
the fame amount to, after all ? Of all our literary men of the present day, how 
many will ever be mentioned, think you, a hundred years hence? Not one in 
fifty. And what is a hundred years to a race whose history is now counted by 
the ten thousand? “ What fools,” indeed, “ these mortals be !” 

By the way, Mr. Editor, wouldn’t it be a good idea for these unsuccessful 
men of letters to club together and get up a magazine or a book composed en- 
tirely of “Rejected Contributions”? Suppose fifty such articles in a book with 
the title “ Rejected Articles offered to Harper’s, Scribner’s, Lippincott’s, and other 
Magazines.” I should just like to see what stuff these articles are made of, — what 
those things are that you unfeeling editors have so unceremoniously rejected. 
The venture might pay, like the Smith Brothers’ “ Rejected Addresses.” I 
know these were all written by two men, and were all in imitation of the style 
of various living authors; but might not these contributions be couched in a 
similar way? No doubt there are many pearls in the ocean of rejected literature. 
May not some of them have been “ cast before swine” ? Pray trot out some of 
these blue-pencilled articles, verbatim et literatim , that we may see what they are 
like, and whether the judgment of you editors, the Judicious, will be supported 
or confirmed by that of the multitude, the Vulgar. Robert Waters. 

In the above three articles the Editor has given a selection from several 
communications received in answer to certain remarks made in our July number, 
— deeming it unfair that the other side should not have the opportunity to be 
heard. He has always sympathized with Miss Baylor’s “ Aunt Sukie” who 
joined the Methodist church because it gave her a chance to jaw back at the 
preacher. Neither preacher nor editor sums up in himself all, nor indeed any 
considerable proportion of, the wisdom in the world ; but when these gentlemen 
occupy their respective pulpits they too often have all the jaw to themselves. 

However, it is to be feared that St. Inier’s amiable desire to pierce the 
editorial pachyderm has not been gratified. Nature is a kind mother. When 
a man first takes up an unfamiliar tool she sends him blisters to warn him that 
he should stop and think before he persists in its use. If she finds that he is in 
earnest, that he intends to persevere, she gathers up her energies and furnishes 
calluses that protect and strengthen his hand. The Editor of Lippincott's has 
gone through his blister period, and is now caparisoned with a defensive armor 
of calluses which the criticisms of his most esteemed contemporaries, the well- 
deserved rebukes of his correspondents, and even the stings of conscience, are 
powerless to pierce. 

There is one point made by St. Inier which is well taken, though he has 
misinterpreted a sentence which the Editor acknowledges lends itself to misin- 
terpretation. In speaking of authors of established reputation as compared 
with tyros, the Editor was right in classifying them as opposites, as the two great 
divisions of writers who submit articles to the magazines, but he might have 
paused to explain that there is an intermediate class, who are not yet “ authors 
of established reputation,” but who cannot either be called tyros or amateurs. 
Miss Rives was no tyro when she produced “ A Brother to Dragons,” nor Page 
when he produced “Marse Chan,” nor Mrs. Burnett when she produced “A 



Story of the Latin Quarter.” Yet it was by these stories that these writers lifted 
themselves above the unknown millions and established their reputation. This 
may at first sight seem like the vicious logic known as reasoning in a circle. But 
in truth it is not so. 

In no line of human work and endeavor is it more difficult to distinguish 
the professional from the amateur than in literature. In law, for instance, a 
student reads certain books with an attorney, passes an examination before a 
board of examiners, and receives a diploma which certifies that he is a member 
of the legal profession. In medicine, the student takes a prescribed course of 
study in a college, graduates, and is privileged to style himself a doctor. There 
are schools for artists, for actors, even for farmers ; there are no schools for 
literary men. There is not only no school, there is no obvious curriculum which 
they can pursue. The mental training which produces the professional man of 
letters (professional as distinguished from amateur) is a purely subjective one, 
and it may make no sign until a poem, a story, an essay, proves that the man 
has not mistaken his vocation. This is true of the greatest artists, as well as of 
the humblest of those whom St. Inier calls “ literary hacks.” A man cannot 
learn how to put the best that is in him in a form that will be recognizable to 
the reader without long years of secret travail, of delight amounting to pain in 
the works of some great writer or writers, of despairing attempts at emulation. 

Even a poet is made, not born, but he is made by such subtile and uncon- 
scious processes that they seem to date all the way back to his birth. 

It is possibly on account of this difficulty in differentiating the amateur iron? 
the professional, on account of the want of some external sign for deciding his 
own status, that the young aspirant is so innocently, so delightfully vain. A 
young doctor does not say, “I can assure you without vanity that I would 
manage your case better than Dr. Weir Mitchell or Dr. Hammond.” Nor does 
a young lawyer claim to be the superior of Evarts or Brewster. But a youth or 
a maiden making a first essay in literature sees nothing incongruous in assuring 
an editor or a publisher that, whatever its faults, the work is superior “ to the 
dismal trash which Henry James is foisting upon the public,” or “to the plati- 
tudes of Howells.” 

Goethe has an opportune anecdote in his autobiography. In early youth 
he had joined a party of boys who used to meet and compare verses of their 
own composition. “ Here occurred something strange, which long troubled me. 
I could not help regarding my own poems, be they what they might, as the best. 
But I soon observed that my competitors, who produced very poor things, were 
in the same case and thought no less of themselves.” He began, therefore, to 
doubt the soundness of his self-estimate, until the verses were all submitted to 
competent judges and his declared the best. This recognition of the general law 
of self-deception and its application to his own case is characteristic of Goethe, 
and it marks one great difference between the “ bom” author and the amateur. 

St. Inier’s criticisms, as criticisms, the Editor will not attempt to discuss. 
They are expressions of individual opinions, and nothing would be gained by 
asserting that the Editor’s opinions are different. But when, on the strength of 
his own criticisms, the saint accuses the Editor of practising “ the basest of false 
pretences,” it is just as well to point out where he is wrong. St. Inier does not like 
“A Foregone Conclusion.” Many people think it the best thing that Howells 
ever did. St. Inier does not like “ At Anchor.” The news companies will tell 
him that they have had unusual difficulty in supplying orders for the magazine 



containing this novel. St. Inier does not like “ The Transferred Ghost.” It has 
been one of the most popular of Stockton’s extravaganzas, has been copied and 
recopied, quoted, criticised, imitated. Supposing St. Inier had been the editor 
of a magazine, he would have made a mistake in following the dictates of his 
own judgment and declining it. The editor, too, must learn to recognize the 
law of self-deception. And this is where “ An Amateur” is in error when she 
suggests that writers should try and find out what the editor individually likes, 
aud write to please him. One editor of a magazine used to declare that he 
accepted the things he disliked , in the hopes of pleasing the public. And all 
editors make at least a conscientious effort to cater to the public. The formula, 
therefore, should be changed to read, “ Try and find o.ut what the editor believes 
to be the public taste, and write to suit that.” Of course, editors are human 
and fallible. They may misjudge the merits of an article, they may misjudge 
its popularity. They may be imbecile, but why accuse them of baseness ? 

With regard to a large number of “ authors of established reputation” there 
is a test of popularity which St. Inier entirely ignores. He intimates that many 
of their articles are read only because the base editor forces them down the 
public throat. But this does not explain why these same articles, collected into 
book-form, find a ready sale, — in these days, too, when publishers have learned 
by dreary experience that it is only in the case of very popular authors that col- 
lections of miscellaneous sketches and stories find any sale at all. Again, take 
a serial like “ The Hundredth Man.” St. Inier dislikes it. It is safe to predict 
that when published in book-form its sales will outrival those of many, many books 
that St. Inier does like. The masses may be wrong. St. Inier may be right. 
But magazines are published for the masses, and not for the saints. Remember 
that this entire discussion is based upon the merits of the editor as a caterer to 
the public, not as a patron of literature. 

In answer to Mr. Waters (who 'will please “ accept the assurance,” etc.), the 
Editor would say that there are undoubtedly a large number of pearls in the 
ocean of rejected literature. He often has a severe struggle with himself before 
he decides that an article is too long or too short, too special in its interests, too 
severely learned, too tragic, or is for any other reason unsuitable for his purposes. 
A certain proportion of these articles are by authors of established reputation. 
A certain proportion, again, find their way into other magazines. What is un- 
suitable for Lippincott's may be suitable for Harper's , or the Century , or Scribner's , 
and vice versa. And as to what induces so many people to write, he has no doubt 
that they are all — successful and unsuccessful alike — impelled by worthy and 
proper aims. The desire of fame, the wish to earn an honest livelihood, or to 
amuse and instruct your fellows, all of these are honorable motives. Some suc- 
ceed, many fail. But there would be fewer successes if fewer people were will- 
ing to take the risk of failure. It is true that the test of marksmanship is to 
hit the target, but it is better to begin by aiming high than by aiming low. 

Not failure, but low aim, is crime. 




T HE most prominent figure in the present literature of the United States is Mr. 

Howells. Even those who disagree with him cannot deny him that promi- 
nence so long as they retain their present fondness for disagreeing with him in 
print. In one of the most difficult and delightful walks of literature he is with- 
out a peer : he is the greatest American humorist. He has another of the rare 
marks of genius : he is sincere and genuine. His individuality breathes through 
all his writings. You can form from the latter some mental picture of the man. 
In this respect he differs from Henry James, who has progressed so far beyond 
“ the confidential attitude of Thackeray” that his personality entirely eludes us. 
You may like or dislike Mr. James’s writings without being either attracted or 
repelled by the man. Your feelings towards Mr. Howells, whether favorable or 
unfavorable, are distinctly personal ones. 

The series of critical papers which Mr. Howells is contributing to Harper's 
Magazine are entertaining and instructive, even to one who does not accept his 
conclusions. He has thought earnestly, and he says what he thinks, without re- 
gard to the prejudices or conventions or established principles he may offend. 
He is not afraid to adopt a little of the infallibilist air ; he is careless of the hard 
things that may be said against Sir Oracle. Towards the college of American 
novelists he cheerfully adopts the position of Dean. Above all, he is not afraid 
of being inconsistent, — the final test of genuineness and strength. Whether 
these papers have any great critical value may be doubted, in view of the frank- 
ness of their partisanship. A critic who “finds no fault” with Henry James’s 
“ Princess Casamassima” is certainly entirely alone in the present, and it is not 
likely that his solitude will be shared in the immediate future. 

An amusing instance of Mr. Howells’s inconsistency is afforded by his recent 
diatribes against critics and criticism. He says much that is very just. But his 
strictures on the limitations of modern criticism are strictures on the limitations 
of human nature. Critics are not very wise ; but neither is the rest of humanity. 
All men talk an immense amount of nonsense ; the wisest utters but one true 
word in a thousand. Critics, in order to have any influence at all, must be a 
little wiser than the unthinking masses whom they address. They can bring 
the masses up to their own low level and leave their higher education to higher 
influences. Human progress is not attained by leaps, but by slow toilsome as- 
cent of the rungs of a ladder whose summit is hid far, far up in the future. The 
lowest rung is as necessary as its fellow above it. But modern criticism, Mr. 
Howells proceeds, only amounts to this, — the critic likes or dislikes a certain per- 
formance, and he says so. Well, it is a good sign that critics are independent. 
Only out of the clash of many discordant opinions can the truth be evolved. 
Mr. Howells’s own criticisms are largely the announcements of individual prefer- 
ences, and derive their chief value from that fact. Again, the utterances of 
critics frequently give pain to their betters. But warfare, whether literal or lit- 



erary, involves the giving of pain to your opponents, and warfare is a necessary 
factor in the evolution of the race. An otherwise entirely amiable lady assured 
the Reviewer that Mr. Howells is the only person in the world to whom she 
would like to do a personal injury. He had only attacked her idols, but he must 
have inflicted much pain to raise such bitterness in so gentle a bosom. And 
still again, modern criticism cannot be content with disliking, it must make faces 
and call names. But Mr. Howells does not hesitate to stigmatize those who dis- 
agree with his estimate of Henry James as “ critical groundlings,” nor to speak 
disrespectfully not only of Rider Haggard, but of those who read his romances, 
“ The world,” he says, “ often likes to forget itself, and he brings on his heroes, 
his goblins, his feats, his hair-breadth escapes, his imminent deadly breaches, 
and the poor, foolish, childish old world renews the excitements of its nonage.” 
This looks like a neat method of making faces not only at Mr. Haggard, but at 
Andrew Lang, R. H. Hutton, and all his coterie of admirers. 

To be quite candid, the Reviewer himself, much as he prefers the novel of 
incident and emotion to that of photographic “ realism,” has found himself yawn- 
ing over “ Allan Quatermain” (Harper & Brothers). Perhaps this is because 
it is inferior to “ King Solomon’s Mines” or “ She.” And yet, and yet — there is 
the same direct, vivid narration, the same passion, the same affluence of imagi- 
nation, the same brilliant color just verging upon gaudiness. “ Allan Quater- 
main” carries on the fortunes of the band of adventurers who discovered King 
Solomon’s Mines. Somehow one gets weary of these tremendous Englishmen, 
who, with a dozen men or so, attack a camp of two hundred and fifty Maori and 
suffer not a savage to escape ; who are sucked in by underground rivers, who are 
nearly killed by magnificent flaming jets of natural gas, who are attacked by 
monstrous crabs of almost human intelligence, who discover a strange and 
wondrous land inhabited by a semi-civilized white race, who excite love and 
jealousy in the two beautiful queens, and introduce strife and a tremendous civil 
war into the mysterious country, — until’ at last the curtain falls upon the leader 
of the enterprise, Sir Henry Curtis, calmly seated with his bride, Queen Nylep- 
tha, upon the throne of a once more united Zu-Vendi-land. An old Zulu chief, 
Umslopogaas, who accompanies these heroes, is quite the most striking figure. 
He is drawn with all the careless vigor and generous, rollicking extravagance of 
the warriors in mediaeval romance, and is as thoroughly delightful as any paladin 
of them all. In the caricature of the little Frenchman, Alphonse, Mr. Haggard 
has been tempted to display his humor. Now, Mr. Haggard has no humor. 

To the end of “ Allan Quatermain” Mr. Haggard has appended, under the 
heading of “ Authorities,” a list of the persons and the books that have been of 
any assistance to him in the preparation of his novel. This is done to ward off 
the attacks of the literary detective, but it will probably be fruitless ; and in any 
event the literary detective is too small an animalcule to be deferred to in this 
way. What should be the main object of a writer?— a selfish desire to tickle his 
own vanity, or an altruistic pleasure in giving pleasure to his reader? If the 
latter, and if he succeeds, why should the reader inquire too curiously into the 
sources of his pleasure? In enjoying a dish you don’t care to know where its 
constituent elements came from. The Reviewer confesses that it is difficult for 
him to summon up any indignation over the most flagrant instances of plagia- 
rism. He is rejoiced that Shakespeare and MoliSre had so little literary con- 



science, — Shakespeare whom poor Greene called “ an upstart crow beautified with 
our feathers/’ and MoliSre who “ reconquered his own wherever he found it.” 
He is grateful to Owen Meredith for having transformed George Sand’s “ Lavinia” 
into “ Lucille to Charles Reade for having altered one of Maquet’s dramas into 
his novel of '“ White Lies;” to Thorny Hardy for having adapted a chapter from 
“ Georgia Scenes” so as to fit it into “ The Trumpet Major.” He is grateful to 
these authors for the pleasure they have given him, as it is more than likely he 
would never have come across the originals. And the original authors ought to 
have been unselfish enough to rejoice that their creations had given this addi- 
tional delight. “ What matters it to the world,” says Longfellow, “ whether I or 
you or another man did such a deed or wrote such a book, sobeit the deed and 
book were well done ?” And, a fortiori, what matters it who gets the credit ? 
The perfection of form which the proverbs of all nations have attained is owing 
to the fact that their rough edges have been gradually smoothed and polished as 
they passed from mouth to mouth without any autorial vanity to hinder their 
progress. The same is true of the popular ballads and epics : it may even be true 
of the “ Iliad” and the “ Odyssey.” In modern times a large proportion of the 
wise sayings of great authors, which have become embalmed as familiar quota- 
tions, can be traced back through many hands to the rude quarry from which 
they sprung. And as to incident, any one who has the smallest familiarity with 
comparative folk-lore and mythology is well aware that originality is impossible. 
Wiseacres have begun to see a resemblance between “ Allan Quatermain” and 
Mayo’s forgotten romance of “ Kaloolah.” There is a resemblance, undoubtedly ; 
but “Kaloolah,” in its turn, resembles “Peter Wilkins,” and “Peter Wilkins” 
resembles a number of mediaeval romances, and they can be traced to Eastern 
sources, and so on ad infinitum. Very likely Mr. Haggard never read “ Kaloolah,” 
as he asserts that he never read “ Peter Wilkins” before writing his story. In his 
recent article on “ Plagiarism” Mr. Andrew Lang says, “ It lately happened to 
me to see an illustration of an unpublished work, in which a wounded and dying 
warrior was using his last force to break, with singular consequences, the weapon 
that had been his lifelong companion. I knew (being bookish) the incident was 
perfectly familiar to me, but I could not remember where I had met it before. It 
haunted me like the names which you try to recover from faithless memory, and 
one day it flashed on me that this incident was at least eight hundred years old. 
But I leave (not its source, for the novelist, who is no book-man, had probably never 
tasted of that literary fountain), but the place of its early appearance, to be re- 
membered or discovered by any one who is curious enough to consult his memory 
or his library. But here another question arises : let it be granted that the novelist 
first found the situation where I found it, and is there any reason in the world 
why he should not make what is a thoroughly original use of it ? The imagina- 
tion or invention needed for this particular adaptation was at least as vivid and 
romantic as the original conception, which, again, might occur, and may have 
occurred, separately to minds in Japan and in Peru.” The novel in question is 
“ Allan Quatermain,” in which Umslopogaas treats his trusty battle-axe, Inkosi- 
kaas, exactly as Roland in the Carlovingian romance treats his wondrous sword 
Durandal. All which encourages the Reviewer to remark that if ever he finds it 
easier to steal brilliant things than to say them he may himself turn plagiarist. 

Miss Evangeline O’Connor has compiled and the Appletons have published 
“An Index to the Works of Shakespeare,” which will be found invaluable to all 



Shakespearian students who do not care for the larger and more exhaustive con- 
cordances of Mrs. Cowden Clarke or of Dr. Schmidt, and of the greatest assistance 
to the students who do possess those invaluable works. For, although in one as- 
pect of the Index it is a concordance to the more important passages in Shake- 
speare, and so but a condensation of the labors of Clarke and Schmidt, it contains 
distinctive and original features. For example, it is a dictionary of Shake- 
spearian characters, from Hamlet and Othello down to the nurses and lackeys 
who make but a single appearance, with references to all the scenes and acts in 
which they are on the stage, and with critical notices (not always selected with 
the nicest discrimination, yet useful and interesting, so far as they go) on the 
most important. Under the title of each play, also, critical notices are ap- 
pended and a short rhumb is presented of the history of the play, — the dates 
of composition, performance, and publication, the sources from which the plots 
have been derived, and other data of literary interest, in which the results of 
the most careful and recent Shakespearian researches have been turned to account. 

Perhaps “ The Yoke of the Thorah” may put an end to the criticism which 
has been fond of comparing Sidney Luska with Hugh Conway. The criticism 
was not only unjust in suggesting that an author of striking originality was an 
imitator, but also in subordinating him — as the imitator must always be subor- 
dinated — to a distinctly inferior writer. Sidney Luska is an artist, which Hugh 
Conway never was, though in “ A Family Affair” he gave promise that he might 
become one. Luska’s descriptions of phases of emotional feeling are unique in 
modern literature. His characters love, enjoy, and despair with a heartiness and 
an intensity that send the same thrill of emotion through the reader. When, for 
instance, he pictures his heroes under the spell of exquisite music, even the 
traitor, the strategist, and the despoiler to whom the concord of sweet sounds is 
an unknown tongue cannot help feeling strangely moved. He is almost the 
only writer now left who really respects a lover, who is willing to leave him to 
his illusions, who paints him in his divine innocence, naked and not ashamed 
in the Garden of Eden, without whispering to the spectator that the Garden is a 
fool’s paradise after all. These excellent qualities are manifest — more strikingly 
than ever, in fact — in “The Yoke of the Thorah,” and the gruesome or sensa- 
tional plot which made the unthinking liken “As It Was Written” and “Mrs. 
Peixada” to the works of Conway has been abandoned. “The Yoke of the 
Thorah” is a realistic story of modern life in New York. The scene is principally 
laid among the Jews, and the interest is furnished by the unsuccessful attempt 
of the hero to throw off the yoke of the Thorah — i.e. } of the Mosaic law — and 
marry a Christian. Elias Bacharach is only conventionally speaking a hero; 
his weakness and superstition prove his ruin ; but he is always lovable, and is 
drawn throughout with a firm, strong hand. His uncle, the Rabbi, is delightful, — 
in his calm, remorseless bigotry lending a touch of unconscious comedy to the 
tragedy for which he is mainly responsible. The background of Jewish life is 
carefully studied, and to many people will let in new light upon the domestic 
manners and customs of a peculiar and picturesque people. 

One of the literary authorities of Chicago, that Athens of the West, in a 
recent notice of Miss F. C. Baylor’s “ Behind the Blue Ridge” ( J. B. Lippincott 
Company), thinks that “ anybody who can read the story of poor old simple- 
hearted, shiftless ‘ Pap’ without tears, better go sell himself for hayseed at once.” 



Perhaps the Reviewer might accept this counsel were he sure that in the present 
fluctuations of the grain-market he could secure his proper value. For, to tell 
the truth, he has read the book without tears, though not without laughter. 
Humor, indeed, he finds to be a far more prominent characteristic in this author 
than pathos, though pathos is not wanting, as it never is in the case of a true 
humorist. It is the humor of genuine insight, of patient artistic fidelity to 
detail, but it is the humor of observation rather than of sympathy. The artist 
gives us sketches of a primitive lot of people, shut out by the mountains from 
contact with the outer world, in whose quaint dialect, uncouth ways, strange 
customs, creeds, and superstitions she has found infinite delight, and she makes 
us sharers of her delight. Her style is still as witty, as full of epigrammatic 
surprises, as when we first made her acquaintance in “ On Both Sides.” 

From the French publishers of K Art ( J. Rouam, Paris) a number of hand- 
some illustrated books have just been received. The handsomest of these is en- 
titled “Fantaisies dScoratives,” and consists of a portfolio containing forty-eight 
large engravings, printed in colors from designs by Habert-Dys, which can be 
used in the decoration of fans, parasols, baskets, and all manner of bric-a-brac, 
thus furnishing an agreeable diversion from the stereotyped designs now in 
current use, that are simply variations on the inventions of the old masters. M. 
Habert-Dys has a graceful fancy, a ready pencil, and an astonishing fertility of 
resource. The work, it appears, may be obtained in parts, with four engravings 
to every part, or the engravings will be sold separately. A large octavo, “ Les 
Styles,” by Paul Rouaix, is remarkable rather for the number of its illustrations 
(seven hundred in all) than for their excellence, but it affords a good resum'e, of 
the various styles, of architecture, painting, household decoration, jewelry, etc., 
which have in various ages prevailed among civilized nations. “ L’OrfAvrerie 
fran9aise,” by Germain Babst, is a handsomely-illustrated history of the gold- 
smith’s art in the eighteenth century, as represented by the productions of the 
Germain family ; and “ Le Meuble en France au seizieme Sidcle,” by Edmond 
Bonnaflb, is an interesting treatise on mediaeval French furniture. Besides these 
works, the Reviewer must record his acknowledgments for a series of biographies, 
“ Les Artistes c&ebres,” under the general editorship of M. Eugene Muntz, in which 
competent critics consider the lives and works of such artists as Donatello, For- 
tuny, Bernard Palissy, Jacques Callot, Prud’hon, Rembrandt, Boucher, Edelinck, 
Decamps, Phidias, Regnault, Fra Bartolommeo, etc. The series will be indefi- 
nitely extended. The illustrations that accompany these volumes are well en- 
graved, and the selection of subjects is such as to do justice to the artist under 

Of all the works that owe their origin to the Jubilee celebration, the most 
satisfactory — the only one, indeed, that has any permanent value — is “ The Reign 
of Queen Victoria : A Survey of Fifty Years of Progress.” It is in two large 
octavo volumes, illustrated with maps and diagrams, is edited by T. Humphrey 
Ward, and contains contributions on “The Army,” by General Viscount Wolse- 
ley, “The Navy,” by Lord Brassey, “The Administration of the Law,” by 
Lord Justice Bowen, “ Religion and the Churches,” by the Rev. Edwin Hatch, 
D.D., “Schools,” by Matthew Arnold, “Science,” by T. H. Huxley, “The 
Drama,” by William Archer, etc. The papers are all thoughtful and well 
written, and some of them are of unusual interest. 




The Conclusion of the Matter. — Seventeen years of steady and faithful 
trial upon sixty thousand different people has given ample opportunity to estab- 
lish for Compound Oxygen these several positions as true. It is the vital part of 
the atmosphere made very potent, being made magnetic during the process of 

Compound Oxygen has three distinct modes of action upon the human or- 
ganism : 1. Its mechanical action, in that it increases very much the respiratory 
function over that of ordinary breathing. This increased action is felt all over 
the body at once, because the lungs are just as universally present in the whole 
body by their rhythmical vibration as the heart is by the ramification of its 
blood-vessels. 2. Its chemical action, in that the solvent character of the atmos- 
phere is greatly increased by the magnetic property of the Compound Oxygen ; 
hence the blood is more efficiently purified by the more rapid solution and ejection 
of carbon — the worn-out tissues of the body ever present ; hence it dissolves and 
eliminates from the system many deleterious substances, which otherwise are very 
difficult of ejection. In this way it relieves the body of its poisonous foreign 
tenants, malaria, quinine, mercury, uric acid, excess of bile, and is the deadly 
enemy of the now dreaded bacilli. 3. Its vital action. This latter is vastly more 
important than the two former, and without it the Compound Oxygen would not 
work any such results as we have produced. Pure oxygen possesses the first two 
properties, but not this third one. 

This vital action is directly upon the brain, spinal marrow, and the ganglia 
of the sympathetic system of nerves. These great nervous centres seize upon 
this wonderful compound, appropriate it, and thereby become larger, more robust, 
and more active. 

As these centres generate all the vitality there is in the whole man (and 
normal vitality is health), is it strange that nearly all the maladies (these depend 
upon deficient, disordered vitality) — so multitudinous in their manifestations — 
should be made to give way before the steady march of our newly-generated 
vital forces? And, when the victory is won, the peace of sound health should 
be permanent. 

(Name sent, if desired.) 

(7 0., 60.) “ Chulafinne, Alabama, March 5, 18S7. 

“ It is now six weeks since I commenced the use of your Compound Oxygen 
Treatment, and with the exception of the slight attack I wrote you about in my 
last letter, I have had no asthma. I am feeling quite well, sleep well, appetite 
somewhat improved, can get up hill now without puffing, and I have lost one 
little companion who has not forsaken me before for ten years. I know he, she, 
or it is gone, because I don’t hear the whistling with which I was constantly re- 
minded of its presence. You just ought to know how an asthmatic enjoys (from 
Compound Oxygen) on retiring at night that there are eight (yes, as many as he 
may wish to indulge in) hours of sweet unbroken and refreshing sleep in store for 
him ; yes, a thing so unusual. How strange it does appear ! I am doing as well 



as I reckon any one could wish to. Shall continue the use of the Compound Oxy- 
gen. Will order again soon. Have already been paid ten thousand times for the 
expenditure .” 

Any one desiring to know more of this remarkable remedy can send to Drs. 
Starkey and Palen, 1529 Arch Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, for their, new 
Brochure, called “ Compound Oxygen ; its Mode of Action and Results,” which 
will be sent free by return mail. 

L. R. McCabe’s article, “ Literary and Social Recollections of W. D. 
Howells,” which was promised for the present number, has been unavoidably 
postponed, by press of matter, to the October number. 

Horsford’s Acid Phosphate Invaluable. — Dr. B. A. Cable, Dauphin, 
Pennsylvania, says, “ I find it invaluable in all cases for which it is recommended, 
and I cheerfully attest my appreciation of its excellence.” 

Mr. Wm. S. Walsh has written, and Mr. Hermann Faber has illustrated, 
a book on “ Faust, the Legend and the Poem,” which J. B. Lippincott Company 
have in press. It will be issued in handsome octavo form for the holiday season. 

Horsford’s Acid Phosphate Makes a Cooling Drink— Into a tumbler 
of ice- water put a teaspoonful of Acid Phosphate ; add sugar to the taste. 

Through a curious misunderstanding with Mr. John M. Ward, the article 
“ Is the Base-Ball Player a Chattel ?” appeared in some of the Sunday papers 
almost simultaneously with its publication in Lippincott’ s Magazine. 

Horsford’s Acid Phosphate for Dyspepsia. — Dr. J. C. Webster, Chi- 
cago, says, “ I consider it valuable in many forms of dyspepsia.” 

Professor L. M. Haupt will contribute an article to the October number of 
Lippincott’ s on “ The Reorganization of the Government Bureau of Public Civil 
Works.” Professor Haupt, who is a graduate of West Point, agrees with the 
recent strictures on the Academy made by Fred. Perry Powers, and believes that 
the corps of engineers in the government service can be reorganized on a far 
more efficient basis. 

Horsford’s Acid Phosphate in Headache and Mental Exhaustion. 
— Dr. N. S. Read, Chandlersville, Illinois, says, “ I think it a remedy of the 
highest value in mental and nervous exhaustion, attended with sick headache, 
dyspepsia, diminished vitality, etc.” 

J. Henri Browne, journalist and essayist, will contribute to Lippincott’ s 
for October a literary autobiography under the title “ The Lesson of Practicality.” 

Horsford’s Acid Phosphate a Good Tonic— Dr. R. Williams Le Roy, 
New York, says, “ It is a good general tonic, and worthy of trial.” 

Wrtford, = e6^ mjf 

G&ST in THE 

Hew Features 

at a cost t° members in the 
prefered occupations °f about 

%ZG a TEAR. 

in one payment or in installments, 
ene-half or °ne-guarter at proportionate ( 

$10,000 DEATH ^ ACCIDENT. 
$10,000 L°S>S of B9TH HANDS 

$10,000 FEET. 

$10,000 HAND t F oot 

$5,000 -.HAN Dor Fool. 

$5,000 ..-..BOTH EYES. 

$1,300 °NE EYE. 



CHARLES B. PEET. President 

JAttES R. PITCHER. Sec &G t n/W>fr 

i m 


Also, Best of Life Companies 



ACCIDENT POLICIES r Travel, ^Work, or Sport. 

in the Market. Indefeasible, 
Non-Forf citable, World-Wide. 


All Claims paid without Discount, and immediately 
on receipt of Satisfactory Proofs. 

Assets, $9, 111,000. Surplus, $ 2 , 129,000. 


JOHN E. MORRIS, Ass’t Sec. 

[Cut copyrighted by E. S. Tilton.] 


The Full 
Sura on Ac- 
cident Poli- 
cies will be 
paid in case 
of loss of 
both feet, 
both hands, 
a hand and 
a foot, or 
the entire 
sight of 
both eyes, 
by accident. 

the Princi- 
pal Sum 

for loss of a 
single hand 
or foot. 



( Adults’ and Children’s Sizes.) A prophylactic, as it will thoroughly clean between 
the teeth* Recommended by the most eminent dentists. P'or 
f sale by all dealers in Toilet Goods. Send for our circulars and direc- 

,io " 5 for Florence, 

0CT2j M |8aA- r 8 a 5 h viatic toothbrush J 


are working for the Health, Happiness , and Economies of the American people, and to the teachers, 
* * increase of salaries and quadrupled school capacity. 


Complete. Education, Thought, and Memory, by Seven Words. In Portfolio book-form, postpaid, 60 Cents. 




No. 431 Chestnut Street. 



CAPITAL ... $2,000,000 

SURPLUS - 1,500,000 

RECEIVERS, AGENTS, etc.; and for the faithful perform- 
ance of all such duties all its Capital and Surplus are liable. 




Protect your magazines or pamphlets 
by using a 



75 cents each, by mail, post-paid. 

Twenty-six sizes kept in stock. Send for a list and 
mention this publication. 


lO Murray St., New York. 



People of refined taste who 
desire exceptionally fine cigar 
ettes should use only our 
Straight Cut, put up in satin 
packets and boxes of 10s, 20s, ! 
50s, and 100s. 

14 Prize Medals. 




Nervousness, Lost sleep or interference with 
business. Directions simple. Terms low. Treat- 
ment sent on trial and NO PAY asked until you arc 
benefited. Can refer to hundreds of CUKES. 
, Particular! FREE. TULEj HUIvf A-lSTkl 




The protection of their Vaults for the preservation of 
WILLS offered gratuitously. 

Gold and Silver-Plate, Deeds, Mortgages, etc., received 
for safe-keeping under guarantee. 

LINDLEY SMYTH, President. 
WM P. HENRY, Seo'y and Treas. 

WM. L. BROWN, Jr., Ass’T SEO’Y AND Treas. 


Lindley Smyth, Charles W. Wharton, 

Henry N. Paul, Edward H. Coates, 

Alexander Biddle, Peter C. Hollis, 

Charles H. Hutohinson, John R. Fell, 

Anthony J. Antelo, William W. Justice, 

Charles S. Lewis, Craige Lippincott, 

George W. Childs. 

The Dana Bickford 


Knits everything required by the 
household, of any quality, texture, and 
weight desired. 


795 BROADWAY, N. Y. 
Agfnts Want eo. 


Your Monogram Rubber Stamp, with 
pads and indelible ink, 3 letter designs, 
$1.00; 2 letter designs, 50 cents. Three- 
Blade Knife, a novelty combined with 
your name, for marking linen, $1.00 by 
mail Agents send 10 cents for 80-page 

F. P. HAMMOND & CO., Aurora, 111. 


The Flynt Waist or True Corset, 

Pat. Jan. 6, 1874; Pat. Feb. 15, 1876. 

w pi 

* W 
ft <J 

g* • 
§ o g 

Sh « 

® M 

* H 



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Q it a, 

O „ o 
M 5 H 

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M W 
H tz{ o* 

3 m n> 
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2 o B 
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3 S- 

M 10 

^ 03 

No. 1 represents a high-necked garment. No. 2, a low- 
necked one, which admits of being high in the back, and 
low front. No. 3 is to illustrate our mode of adjusting 
the “ Flynt Hose Support" each side of the hip, also, the 
most correct way to apply the waist-bands for the drawers, 
under'and outside petticoats and dress skirt. No. 4 shows 
the Flynt Extension and Nursing Waist, appreciated by 
mothers. No. 5, the Misses’ Waist, with Hose Supports 
attached. No. 6, how we dress very little people. No. 7 
illustrates how the warp threads of the fabric cross at 
right angles in the back, insuring in every waist the 


4®* Our "Manual," containing 46 pages of reading 
matter, relating to the subject of Hygienic Modes of 
Under-dressing, mailed free to any physician or lady. 
Mrs. O. P. FLYNT, 319 Columbus Ave., Boston, Mass. 

For the months of July, August, September, 
and October, our 


have no equal. 

These suits are ready-made and rarely require 
any alterations; from their knitted texture they 
are especially adapted for the Seashore, the 
Mountains, Yachting, Lawn Tennis, Steamer 
wear, etc. 

The Tuxedo Knitted Suit, and 

The Little Tuxedo Knitted Suit, 

For Children’s wear, 



Broadway and 11th Street, New York. 


Children’s Stamping Outfits 

Containing 63 useful and pretty pat- 
terns, with materials and instructions 
for use. Price, only 35 cents each. 
Very instructive and amusing to the 
little folks. Every Fancy Goods dealer, 
who does Stamping, could well make 
use of one. Send 5 one-cent stamps 
for sample-copy of our 

Perfection Quarterly . 

It contains about 300 New Patterns at 
each issue. Liberal discount to the 

Hanington Sl Cowles, 

90 Walker St., New York. 









The American Cycles 

Descriptive Catalogue 


k-MFG. CO.35- 
Chicago, III. 
1st Manufacturers in America 


Press $ 3 . 00 . Circular Press $ 8 . 00 , News- 
paper Size, $ 44 . 00 . Type-setting easy. 
Printed directions. Send 2 stamps for our 
list of Presses, Type, etc., to factory. 

KELSEY & CO., Meriden, Conn. 

Please Mention this Magazine. 


37 Boulevard, de Strasbourg, 


Fleur de Lys Face Powder. 

Imparting to the Skin a soft and deli- 
cate whiteness. 

Absolutely free from all injurious sub- 
stances. Sold everywhere. 


10 Courtlandt Street , New York. 




The Sargent Manufacturing Company’s 



Fig. i. 

Fig. 3. 

Fig. 7. 

Figs 1 and 2. — Sargent's Monarch Re- 
clining Chair. As an ordinary easy-chair 
or for invalids' use it is the finest Reclining 
Chair in the world. Over 300 positions. 
Prices, #50 to $125. We have also a great 
variety of other styles of Reclining Chairs 
from $10 up. 

Fig. 3. — Sargent's Carrying Chairs. 

The occupant can be comfortably carried 
up and down stairs. Prices, #10 to $25. 

Fig. 4. — Sargent’ s Rolling Chairs. We 
represent but two of the largest assortment 
and the best make in the world. Prices 
#16 to #100. 

Fig. 5. — Sargent’s Invalids’ Beds. To 
form a correct idea of its completeness, you 
should send for our Catalogue. 

Fig. 6. — Sargent’ s Solid Comfort Back 
Rest and Folding Bed Tray. These are, 
indeed, of inestimable value in the sick- 
room. Prices* Back Rests, No. 1, plain, 

$4 ; No. 2, with arms, $5 ; No. 3, with head 
rests, $$ ; No. 4, with both arms and head 
rests, $ 6 . Trays, No. 1, 15x25 inches, $3; 

No. 2, 17x28 inches, $4 — in black walnut or 
ash. Mahogany gi extra. 

Fig. 7. — Earth Closets. Made under the 
Moule patents, which are unquestionably 
the best. Price, $35. 

Fig. 8. — Sargent’s Sanitary Commode. 

The only Commodes made which are abso- 
lutely odorless We make all kinds as well. Prices, $5 to $25. 

Fig. 9. — Sargent’s Table Universelle. A marvel of utility 
and beauty for the library or sick-room. 

Fig. 10 — A Place for the Dictionary. Adjustable as well to 
any book, any height or any angle. Price, $5. 

Fig. 11. — Dictionary Holder with Refer- 
ence-Book Revolving Case. One of the 
most useful and practical things for any- 
body’s use. Price, $g. 

Fig. 13. — The Perfection Adjustable 
Reading and Writing Desk. Can be at- 
tached to any chair. The only real good 
one in the market. Price, $3.50 to $5. 

Fig. 14. — The Cabinet Revolving Book- 
Case. Three sizes. Prices, $16, $19, and $22. 

NOTE. — These cuts can give but a faint idea of 
our extensive stock. We have the most complete 
stock of goods in the world for the comfort and 
luxury of both sick and well people. Our Cata- 
logue of 80 pages illustrates and explains every- 
thing in detail, with prices, etc. Sent free by ad- 


Fig. 4. 

Fig. 6. 

Fig. 9. 

Fig. 10. 

Fig. ii 

814 and 816 Broadway, New York. 

price, $6 up. Fig. 13. 

Fig. 14. 





Contains Illustrations, Descriptions, and 
Prices of all Materials and made-up 
Articles for Dress, House Fur- 
nishings, and Family Use. 

RIDLEY’S MAGAZINE is published 
quarterly, and proves a valuable 
and suggestive exponent of 
seasonable styles. 


Tlie Lowest Prices, of Complete Outfits for Infants, 
Children, Misses, Boys, Ladies, and Gentlemen. 

The Lowest Prices, for Trimmed and Untrimmed 
Hats and Bonnets, for Ladies and Children. 

The Lowest Prices, for Summer Underwear, for 
Ladies, Misses, and Children. 

The Lowest Prices, of all Kinds and Weights, of 
Summer Dress Goods. 

The Lowest Prices, for the Complete Furnishing of 
City Homes, and Country or Seaside Cottages. 

The Lowest Prices, for Tea and Dinner Sets of 
Crockery or China, for In- and Out-of-Town Service. 

The Lowest Prices, for literally everything, can 
glean desired information from 


50 Cents per Year Subscription Price. 
15 Cents a Single Copy. 




Everything that one may need for 
either Wear, Ornamentation, 
or House-Furnishing. 





Health, Exercise, and Pleasure, 

will do well to send for the New 
Spring Catalogue of 


Bicycles and Tricycles. 


Boston, New York, Chicago, Hartford. 

F. S. Frost. H. A. Lawrence. 


Importers, Wholesale and Retail 
Dealers in 

Artists’ Materials 


Supplies for Oil Color, Water Color, China, 
Lustra, and Tapestry Painting, Studies for 
all kinds of Art Work, Mathematical 
Instruments, Drawing Paper, T 
Squares, Architects’ and En- 
gineers’ Supplies in 



United States Agents for Albert Levy's Superior Qual- 
ity of Blue Process Papers, Ferro-Prussiate 
Tracing Cloth, and Architectural Photo- 
graphs. Send for Sample Books and 
illustrated Catalogue. 

. Jd^Mail orders receive prompt attention. “^0 


Grand and Allen Sts. f New York , 


» 13 '■§ 

H! M . 

tm , 22 S.fJ 

h 3 § C 

N H m |-.' T5 

mj te © *-* 

PS * « x 

or Magical lleautifier, 

removes Tan, Pimples, Freckles, 
Moth-Patches, Rash, 
ind Skin diseases, 
and every blemish 
on beauty, and defies 
detection. It has 
stood the test of 30 
years, and is so harm- 
less we taste it to be 
sure the preparation 
is properly made. 
Accept no counter- 
feit of similar name. 
The distinguished 
Dr. L. A. Saver said 

to a lady of the haul- 

ton (a putitmi/.. yuuxtuUteM mill use (hem, / recommend 

' Oouraud’ s Cream’ as the least harmful of all the Skin prepa- 
rations.” One bottle will last six months, using it every day. 
Also Poudre Subtile removes superfluous hair without injury 
to the skin. FERD. T. HOPKINS, Manager, 43 Bond 8t.,N.V 
For sale by all Druggists and Fancy Goods Dealers throughout 
the U.8., Canadas, and Europe. 4®” Beware of base imitations 
$1000 Reward for arrest and proof of any one selling the same. 



Cover your Windows with Patent 
Glacier Window Decoration. Every 
disagreeable window rendered beautiful. 
Suitable for Houses, Churches, Libraries, 
etc. Inquire from general dealers, or 
write to head office in Philadelphia, Jas. 
M. Mason, P. O. Box 107. Book, 300 
Illustrations and Sample, po>t-free, 50 





and all their imperfections, including Facial 
Development, Hair and Scalp, Superfluous 
Hair, Birth Marks, Moles. Warts, Moth, 
Freckles, Red Nose, Acne, B’lk Heads. Scars, 
1 Pitting and their treatment. Send 10c. for 
book of 50 pnges, 4th edition. Dr. John II. Woodbury, 
North Penrl St., Albany, IT. Y., Established 1870. 

Mark your 
Clothing ! 
Clear Rec 
ord of 
half a 

Most Reliable and Sim- 
plest for plain or deco- 
— rative 
Use a 

Sold by all Druggists, Stationers, 
News and Fancy Goods dealers. 




t3&~ (Watjir kn»t»rns Wanted.) Catalogue FREE. 
HARBACH ORGAN CO. 800 Fllb.rt st. Phllada.. Pa. 





and other preparations. 

B. 0. WILBIL & SMS, Chocolate Munul'r’s., Philadelphia, Pa. 


Perfect Fitting White Dress Shirt for 
60 cts.. unlaundried, or 75 et». laundried, 
postpaid. Send size of collar worn (13 to II 
inches.) Catalogue free. THE DEN SHIRT 
FACTORY. 147—149 N. 8th St..Philad’a. Pa 

IE" 1 O ]E6 






Water 5.50 

Ash (containing 1.39 per cent. Bone Phosphate of 

Lime) 2.32 

Total Albumenoids (from Egg Albumen) . . 19.25 

Fat ...» 5.49 

Sugar 41.67 

Starch (Gelatinized) 25.77 


It is well established that the best diet 
in cases of Cholera Infantum is egg al- 
bumen and sugar combined with a light 
This Food will be found more efficacious 

cereal, in the proportion above given, 
than any preparation of its kind. 

It is guaranteed to be absolutely free from drugs or medicines. 

It is not treated with Pepsin, Pancreatine, or any digestive ferment. 

It is the most economical Food on the market, on account of its concen- 
trated nutrition. 




Emerson Manufacturing Company, 











We make a specialty of fancy wood cases in Mahogany, Cocobola, 
Rosewood, French Walnut, etc. 

Our prices are reasonable, and terms easy if so desired. 

We don’t think you are acting wisely to deprive yourself and family the 
pleasures and advantages of music, when $10 monthly will purchase a first- 
class piano, and $5 monthly an elegant organ. 

We shall be glad to have you call and examine our fine stock, or will send 
you descriptive catalogues, if you will kindly write for such. 

For purity of material, and perfection of 
finish, our Toilet Soap takes the PALM. 

Pure PALM is entirely a vegetable Soap, 
more suitable for the skin than Soap made 
from animal fat. 

Test for Toilet Soap— P lace the tongue 
on the Soap for one or two minutes, if a 
stinging sensation is felt, such a Soap is not 
proper to use on the skin. 

Old Dry Blocks, 10 cents per block. 

Bars of Palm, 20 cents per pound. 

Pressed Cakes, $1.25 per dozen. 


532 St. John St., Philadelphia, Penna. 



Use after eating, for indiges* 
tion. A perfect substitute for 
tobacco. Ask your druggist or 
confectioner for Colgan’s gen- 

— uine and original “ Taffy Tolu,” 

manufactured by Colgan & McAfee, Louisville, Ky. 

Sample Bundle by mail on receipt of 6c. 


Leading Nos. 14, 048, 128, 130, 135, 333, 161 
For Sale by all Stationers. 


Works, Camden, N. J. 26 John St., New York 

to $8 a Day. Samples worth $1.50 Fkeh. 
Lines not under the Horse’s feet. Write BEEW- 



I honetic short hand 

Self-taught, Send for Catalog. Address 
The Phonographic Institute, fioeinnnti. 


^ Etcl 


ndreatWertern' ___ 


Breech-loading Double Shotgun at $10.50; Single-barrel 
Breech-loaders at $4.00 to $12.00 ; Breech-loading Rifles from 
$3.50 to $15.00; Double-barrel Muzzle-loading Shotguns at 
$5.50 to $20.00; Repeating Rifles, 16-shooter, $15.00 to $30.00; 
Revolvers from $1.00 to $20.00. Send 2 cents for Mammoth 
Illustrated Catalogue. Address 

(Mention this Magazine.) Pittsburg, Permit. 


|H Marvelous success. 

NPk. Insane Persons Restored 


L ■ H NerveRestorer 

^^for all Brain & N rrvk Diseases. Only sure 
cure for Nerve Affections. Fits, Epilepsy, etc. 
H Infallible if taken _ as directed. No Fits after 
^Mffrst day’s use. Treatise and $2 trial bottle free to 
H Fit patients, they paying- express charges on box when 
received. Send names, P. O. and express address of 
H afflicted to DR. KLINE, 911 Arch St.. Philadelphia. Pa. 

Frink’s Rupture Remedy 

will quickly cure any case of hernia or rupture. Ex- 
planations and testimonials free. Address 

O. FRINK, 234 Broadway, New York. 




- ON 


Published under the Auspices of the 

University of Pennsylvania. 

The Commission appointed by the University to 
investigate this important subject was composed 
as follows : — 









Coming from such a source, and from a Commis- 
sion impressed with the seriousness of their under- 
taking, the Report cannot fail to prove highly in- 
teresting and valuable to all who wish to have their 
doubts removed (and who does not?) about this 
absorbing question. 

Small Octavo. 160 pp. Bound in Cloth, $1.00. 




Patented Improved Lotta Bustle. 

For style, comfort, health, and durability, has no equal. 

Gives the latest Parisian fashion. 
Warranted to always regain its 
shape after pressure, no matter 
in what position the wearer may 
sit or recline. Avoid inferior 
imitations. See that each bustle 
is stamped “ Improved Lotta." 
Send for Price-list. COLUMBIA 
RUBBER CO., Sole Manufac- 
turers, Boston, Mass. 

For sale by all the leading dry goods houses. 

Is Good Health 

A desirable possession for wives and mothers? 
Then remember that Willcox & Gibbs Auto- 
matic Sewing Machine is the only one that 
can be used without serious risk to health. 

Willcoz Si Gibbs S. M. Co., 658 Broadway, N. Y. 

Philadelphia, cor. Chestnut and Fifteenth Sts. 

Author of “ Odd Hours of a Physician,” etc., etc. 

lGtno. Extra Cloth. $1.00. 

It is a very thorough and comprehensive discussion ot 
the subject, which will awaken considerable interest among 
thoughtful persons The author's method is ingenious 
and original, and, aiming as he does to reconcile the ap- 
parently unreconcilable, his conclusions will prove worthy 
of careful consideration. 

A New Novel by the “Duchess.” 




“Phyllis,” “Molly Bawn,” Etc. 

16mo, Half clotb, 50 cts. Paper cover, 25 cts. 

*** For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent by mail, 
postage prepaid, on receipt of the price, by 


715 and 717 Market St., Philadelphia. 






No, 6, Gold Blonde . 
No. 7, JLsh Blonde. 

No. 1 , Black. No. 3, Medium. Brown. 

trade mark 2, Bark Brown. No. 4 , Chestnut. 

PSICE $1.50 OB $3.00. No " 5 ’ Light Chestnut. 


Mention this Publication. IMPERIAL CHEMICAL MFC. CO., 54 lest 23d St., Hew York. 






ARIES’ that have objected to doing their own Stamping with the 
Perforated Patterns on account of the daub that is made by using 
the Powder and Paint , will appreciate these Transfer Patterns. 
All that is required to do the Stamping is to lay the Pattern on the Ma- 
terial to be Stamped; pass a Warm Iron over the back of the Pattern , 
and the Design is instantly transferred to the Material. They can 
be used for Stamping Felt, Velvet, Plush, Satin, Silk, Linen, 
and, in fact, all kinds of materials. You can save money by getting 
this Outfit, and doing your own Stamping. You can make money 
by doing Stamping for others. 

T his outfit contains Pat- 
terns for both Embroidery and 
Painting, including full sized De- 
signs for Scarfs, Tidies, Panels, Tray 
Cloths , Doilies, Crazy Patchwork, etc. 

Scarf Designs. 

illustration), 10 x 7 in. 
GOLDEN ROD, 10x7. 
POPPIES, 10x4%. 

WILD ROSE, 10x5. 

Fruit Resigns. 


Large Outlines. 

AN “OWL” MAID (see 
illustration), 6x10. 
HORN, 4x10. 



BUBBLES, 8x10. 


PALM FANS, 5x10. 




THEE DOWN,” 6x10. 




TREE (calling to kit- 

APPLE, 3x3%. 

ty, who sits up in the 


tree), 5x10. 





WILD ROSES, 4%x5. 

dog ( full size), 5x5. 






GIRL ( outline), 2x4% 




DAISIES, 4x5. 


Please notice all the Patterns are full working size. 

CHERRIES, 2%x4. 




C ALLA-LILY, 3x4%. 





VASE, 3x4. 





lOO Patterns in all. 

T his outfit also cojnpaiiws hriggs jxew oaxaluhu*, iw-yaRc 

reds of Illustrations of Briggs' Transfer Patterns; also, Bri ggs ’ Silk Guide: this Book gives a list 
of the Colors and Shades to be used in working Transfer Patterns. 7*T Wc send this Outfit by ^maih Postage 
paid, for $1.00 and 4 two-cent stamps [$1. OS.]. Address J. F. INGALLS, Lynn, M s. 



The Best Authority — the Accepted Usage of the Best Writers? 


Unabridged Qvarto 


With or without Denison’s Patent Index. 

Enlarged by the Addition of 


of nearly 1 2,000 personages, and 


noting and locating over 20,000 places. Containing also 

Over 12,500 New Words, recently added, together with a Table of 5000 Words 
in General Use, with their Synonymes. 


The National Standard of American Literature. 

Every edition of Longfellow, Holmes, Bryant, Irving, Whittier, and other eminent American authors, follows 
Worcester. “ It presents the usage of all great English writers.” It is the authority of the leading magazines and 
newspapers of the country and of the National Departments at Washington. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes says: 

“ Worcester’s Dictionary has constantly lain on my table for daily use, and Webster's reposed on my shelves 
fbr occasional consultation.” 

The Kecogmized Authority on Pronunciation. 

Worcester’ s Dictionary presents the accepted usage of our best public speakers, and has been regarded as the 
standard by our leading orators, Everett, Sumner, Phillips, Garfield, Hillard, and others. Most clergymen and 
lawyers use Worcester as authority on pronunciation. 

From Hon. Chas Sumner. 

“ The best authority." 

From Hon. Edward Everett. 

“ His orthography and pronunciation represent, as far 
as I am aware, the most approved usage of our language.” 

From Hon. James A. Garfield. 

“ The most reliable standard authority of the English 
language as it is now written and spoken.” 

From Hon. Alexander H. Stephens. 

“ Worcester’s Dictionary is the standard with me.” 



715 and 717 Market Street , Philadelphia . 



Presented by the Proprietors of PEARS’ Soap. 

Strobic Circles invented by Professor Silvanus P. Thompson, D.Sc., B.A. 

H OLD this Diagram by the right-hand bottom corner and 
give it a slight but rapid circular twisting motion, when 
each circle will separately revolve on its own axis . The inner 
cogged wheel will be seen to revolve in an opposite direction . 

Protected against infringement and solely controlled by The Leadenhall Press, E.C. 

2 9 

A Potent Remedy for 

Indigestion, Acute and Atonic Dyspepsia, Chronic and Gastro-Intestinal 
Catarrh, Vomiting in Pregnancy, Cholera Infantum, and in convales- 
cence from Acute Diseases. 

Over 5,000 Physicians have sent to us the most 
LIN, as a REMEDY for all diseases arising 
from improper digestion. 

For 20 years we have manufactured 
pressly for Physicians’ use, and 
for the past year DIGES- 
TYUN has been by 
them extensively pre 
scribed, and to-day 
it stands without 
a rival as a di- 

It is not a secret 
remedy, hut a sci- 
entific preparation, the 
formula of which is 
plainly printed on each bot- 
tle. Its great DIGESTIVE 
POWER is created by a careful 
and proper treatment of the ferments 
in manufacture. It is very agreeable to 
the taste, and acceptable to the most delicate 
stomach. For the reliability of our statements, 
we would respectfully refer to the WHOLESALE 
and RETAIL DRUGGISTS of the country, and 
PHYSICIANS generally. Sold by Druggists, or 

Price $1.00. 83 John. St., N. Y. 






When the hair has become thin, or 
dry and harsh, from sickness or other 
causes, use Barry’s Tricopherous. 

Where baldness has already taken 
place, rub Barry’sTricopherous briskly 
into the bald places, and also around 
the roots of the remaining hairs, and if 
the roots are not entirely extinct, the hair will revive and 
grow again, and nature, with the assistance of art and 
labor, will restore the hair, and add lustre and beauty to 
its appearance. 



Perfectly Combined In 


Skirt Supporting 


It is one of the most 
popular and satisfac- 
tory In the market. 

For sale by all lead 
lng dealers. 

Price by mail $1.30. 


CHADWICK, New Haven, Conn. 



It is an entirely new work of a thousand pages by the 
authority on household matters, in i vol., crown 8vo, 
cloth, $2 50. 

This book merits the highest praise. It has not been 
hastily written to meet a sudden popular demand, but is 
rather the result of conscientious labor in leisure hours 
for several years, and it will unquestionably be a welcome 
visitor in thousands of families all over the land in which 
Miss Parloa's name and fame alike are familiar, 


short, overflowing with good qualities, and is just the 
book that all housekeepers need to guide them in their 
daily duties, and to enable them to make their homes 

ESTES & LMJRIAT, Publishers, Boston. 

| Writing thorough ly taught 

"by mail or personally. 

Situations procured for pupils when competent, 
'end for circular. W. G. CHAFFEE, Oswego, N. Y. 

A fj THESE I and 99 other latest popular songs. Words 
iNii) and Music, only 10c. ! 

St. Louis Card Co., St. Louis, Mo. 


Storphine Habits, Ojtiuni- 
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Dr. J. C. Hoffman, Jefferson, Wis. 

CANN’S KIDNEY CUBE for Dropsy, Gravel, Bright’s Dis- 
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UTTPTTIBTi' Cure guaranteed by Dr. J.B. MAYER 
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T Vann your dtcellinys by this system. It insures a warm house day and 
niyht, and a sariny in fuel of 30 per cent, over other methods. 


A Hot Water Ap- 
paratus will heat 
with a low fire, 
while with a Steam 
Heating Apparatus 
no heat is given off 
until you have gen- 
erated steam, the 
amount of coal con- 
sumed in first rais- 
ing steam being 
practically wasted 
as far as heating 
the building is con- 

A Steam Appa- 
ratus requires con- 
stant attention, fox- 
should the fire be 
neglected and the 
temperature of the 
water in the boiler 
fall below 212° 
Fah., Boiling Point, 
Steam Radiators 
will cool instantly, 
although the fire 
may be burning and 
the fuel wasting, 
whereas the Hot 
Water System will 
continue to give 
out heat. The 
greatest fault with 
Steam Heating is 
the inability to keep 
down the tempera- 
ture in mild weath- 
er when but little 
heat is required. 

A Hot Water Ap- 
paratus can be reg- 
ulated to meet the 
requirements of the 
external tempera- 
ture; for instance, 
on a chilly day in 
Spring or Fall, 
when there is a 
desire for a little 
heat, you can get 
it from a Hot 
Water Apparatus 
at a temperature of 
the water say 100° 
to 120°, whereas 
with Steam Heat 
you have to raise 
the water to 212° 
Fah. and genei-ate 
steam, and in a very 
short time your 
rooms are over- 
heated and un- 

Equality of tem- 
perature in all 
parts of the build- 
ing, the heat being 
mild and pleasant. 

OPEN ro 



Jr juIkun <$■]•. i/oB/JJLEsH 


' Yorks at East Boston. 




It is noiseless in 
operation ; no snap- 
ping of pipes as with 
steam. It is abso- 
lutely safe; no dan- 
ger of explosion, as 
the apparatus is 
open to the atmos- 

The heat is con- 
ducive to health, as 
it is free from nox- 
ious and poisonous 
gases; the air being 
slowly warmed, is 
soft, not too dry, and 
exceedingly benefi- 
cial to those who 
suffer from chest or 
lungtroubles. Quot- 
ing from an article 
and J. W. Hayward, 
M.D., of England, 
published in Health 
and Comfort in 
House Building, 
they say: “As a 
proof of the health- 
fulness of Hot 
Water Heat, we may 
notice that one of 
us who had lived 
four years in a 
house heated by the 
Hot Water System 
is a general practi- 
tioner of medicine, 
which involves be- 
ing frequently 
called out at all 
hours of the day 
and night, yetnoin- 
creased liability to 
cold or delicacy of 
any kind has been 
observed; on the 
contrary, whereas, 
previously, when 
living in ordinary 
houses, he fre- 
quently suffered 
from bronchitis and 
quinsy, he has nev- 
er had either dis- 
ease since living in 
his present house, 
and a member of 
his family who had 
previously to spend 
several winters in a 
warm climate is 
now able to lemain 
at home and go 
about in the open 
air. For prevention 
of disease, we hold 
such a liouse a 
most important 



Works at EAST BOSTON: JOHN A. FISH, Managing Director. 


M. H. JOHNSON, 140 Centre Street, New York. 

RICE & WHITACRE MFG. CO., 42 and 44 West Monroe Street, Chicago. 

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how you dress your hair, 


COILED HICH on the head or 
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partially from nursing to SOLUBLE FOOD. 

DR. STUTZER, Food Analyst for 
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YEARS,” by Marion Harland, book of 64 
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A Popular Illustrated Monthly Magazine, Devoted to the Natural 
Sciences in their Widest Sense. 



EDWARD D. COPE, Philadelphia. J. S. KINGSLEY, Malden, Mass. 



The Best Scientific Magazine Published 

The editorial corps of the Naturalist consists of experts in special branches of 
science, and forms a combination such as has never been brought together on any similar 
periodical. The wide geographical distribution of the editors demonstrates that this jour- 
nal will continue to be, as heretofore, NATIONAL and NOT LOCAL in its character. 

The Naturalist aims to present the latest results of scientific research in language 
comprehensible to the ordinary reader, and as free from technicalities as possible. In its 
department of Notes and News it departs somewhat from this method, and gives condensed 
reports, as well as early publication of new discoveries and observations by specialists who 
desire it. 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publishers, 715 and 717 Market St., Philada. 




$3.00 per Annum. Single Copies, 30 Cents. 

Edited by WML PERRY WATSON, M.D., 



In addition to the many attractions which this magazine contains, an important work 

Diseases of the Heart and Circulation in Infancy and Adolescence, 


began in the February number of the present year, and is now running serially. It will 
probably he completed in this volume. 


Until October 1st, we will send a copy of either or both of the above magazines 
to any applicant who sends his address and states where he saw this notice. 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publishers, 715 and 717 Market St., Philadelphia. 






Principal Office, Albany, New York. 

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