TRIFLES

FOR THE

CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS. 

BY

H. S. ARMSTRONG. 

PHILADELPHIA:J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 1869. 

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

HENRY S. ARMSTRONG, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for theDistrict of Louisiana. 

TO

JAS. DAVIDSON HILL, OF NEW ORLEANS, A CHOSEN SCHOOL-FELLOW, A STANCH COMRADE IN ARMS, AND THE TRUE FRIEND OFLATER YEARS, THESE

"Trifles"

ARE AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. 

CONTENTS. 

THE OVERTURE 9

A CHRISTMAS MELODY 15

STORY OF A BEAST 29

LEAVES IN THE LIFE OF AN IDLER 45

MR. BUTTERBY RECORDS HIS CASE 71

DIAMONDS AND HEARTS 98

TRIFLES

FOR

THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS. 

THE OVERTURE. 

Christmas! What worldly care could ever lessen the joy of that eventfulday? At your first waking in the morning, when you lie gazing in drowsylistlessness at the brass ornament on your bed-tester, when the ring ofthe milkman is like a dream, and the cries of the bread-man andnewspaper-boy sound far off in the distance, it peals at you in thelaughter and gay greetings of the servants in the yard. Your senses arearoused by a promiscuous discharging of pistols, and you are filled witha vague thought that the whole city has been formed into a line ofskirmishers. You are startled by a noise on the front pavement, whichsounds like an energetic drummer beating the long roll on a barrel-head;and you have an indistinct idea that some improvident urchin (up sincethe dawn) has just expended his last fire-cracker. 

At length there is a stir in the room near you. You hear the patter oflittle feet on the stairs, and the sound of childish voices in thedrawing-room. What transports of admiration, what peals of joyousclamor, fall on your sleepy ears! The patter on the stairs sounds louderand louder, the ringing voices come nearer and nearer; you hear thelittle hands on your door-knob, and you hurry on your dressing-gown; forit is Christmas morning. 

What a wonderful time you have at breakfast! There are a half-dozensilver forks for ma, a new napkin-ring for you, and what astonishinghay-wagons and crying dolls for the children! Jane, the house-maid, isbeaming with happiness in a new collar and black silk apron; and Bridgetwill persist in wearing her silver thimble and carrying her newwork-basket, though they threaten utter destruction to thebeefsteak-plate. 

You sit an unusually long time over your coffee that morning, and say anunusual number of facetious things to everybody. You cover Jane withconfusion, and throw Bridget into an explosion of mirth, by slylyalluding to a blue-eyed young dray-man you one evening noticed seated onthe kitchen steps. Perhaps you venture a prediction on the miserableexistence he is some day destined to experience, --when a look from thelittle lady in the merino morning-wrapper checks you, and you confess toyourself that you are feeling uncommonly happy. 

At last the breakfast ends, and the children go out for a romp. Perhapsyou are a little taken aback when you are informed your easy-chair hasbeen removed to the library; but you see Bridget, still in securepossession of her thimble and work-basket, with a huge china bowl in onehand and an egg-beater in the other, looking very warm and very muchconfused, and you take your departure to your own domain, to con overthe morning papers. 

You hear an indistinct sound of the drawing of corks and beating ofeggs; of a great many dishes being taken out of the china-closet, and agood many orders being given in an undertone, --why is it women alwayswill speak in a whisper when there is a man about the house?--and youlose yourself in the "leader, " or the prices current. 

The skirmishers have evidently suffered disaster; for the firing becomesmore and more distant, and at length dies from your hearing. You arefavored with a call from the improvident little boy, who requests you togrant him the privilege of collecting such of his unexplodedfire-crackers as may be in your front yard, giving you, at the sametime, the interesting information that they are to be made into"spit-devils. " You are overwhelmed by a profound bow from the grocer'slad as he passes your window, and you invite him in and beg that he willhonor you by accepting half a dollar and a handful of doughnuts:--thelady in the merino morning-wrapper has provided a cake-basket full forthe occasion. You are also waited on by the milkman, who, you are gladto see, is really flesh and blood, and not, as you have sometimessupposed, an unearthly bell-ringer who visited this sublunary sphereonly at five A. M. , and then for the sole purpose of disturbingyour morning nap. You are also complimented by the wood-man andwood-sawyer, an English sailor with a wooden leg, who once nearlyswamped you in a tornado of nautical interjections, on your presentinghim a new pea-jacket. And then comes the German fruit-woman, whose firstcustomer you have the distinguished honor to be, and who, inconsequence, has taken breakfast in your kitchen for the last ten years. You remember that on one occasion she spoke of her little boy, namedHeinderich, who was suffering with his teeth; and when you hope thatHeinderich is better, you are surprised to learn that he is quite alarge boy, going to the public school, and that the lady in the merinomorning-wrapper has just sent him a new cap. 

The heaping pile of doughnuts gradually lessens, until finally there isnot one left. The last dish is evidently taken from the china-closet, and the whole house is filled with that portentous stillness whichcauses the mothers of mischievous offspring so much trepidation. 

You expect to see the merino morning-wrapper reconnoitering themovements of your own sweet pledges of affection; but she doesn't: youcan only hear the ticking of the little French clock on themantle-piece, and the spluttering of the coal as it bursts into a gassyflame between the bars of the grate, and you almost imagine Christmashas passed. You are deceived; for by-and-by you hear your children'sfootsteps as they skip over the garden-walk, and the sound of theirringing laughter as they rush in out of the cold, and their clamor riseslouder and gladder and more jubilant than ever. Grandpa! Who does notknow him, with his joyous face and hearty morning greeting? Howresplendent he looks in his broadcloth suit, his gold-headed cane andgreat blue overcoat! What quantities of almonds and raisins, of orangesand sweetmeats, those overcoat-pockets contain! What child ever livedwho did not believe grandpa's pocket a cornucopia for all juveniledesires? The day passes on. The turkey never looked browner or juicier, and the blaze on the pudding-sauce never burned bluer; the kissing underthe mistletoe was never more delightful, nor the blindman's-buff everplayed with a greater zest: but the merriest Christmas must end. Yourlittle girl, tired and sleepy, kneels at your feet, and you pass yourfingers through her soft curls, while she repeats her simple prayer:"God bless pa, God bless ma, God bless grandpa, God bless littlebrother, and God bless Santa Claus;" and you hope that God _will_ blessSanta Claus. You thank your Creator you _are_ the master of that quiethome and the father of those dear children, and go to your rest with aheart full of gratitude. You hope that all the newspaper-boys, and allthe milkmen and bread-men's children, and all the little boys and girlswho have no fathers or mothers or grandpas, and all the poor, and allthe sick, and all the blind, and all the distressed, have had a merryChristmas. 

At a time like this, when the security of your own reward relaxesscrutiny for the shortcomings of others, I would have you take up these"_Trifles_. "

A CHRISTMAS MELODY. 

The Prelude. 

"Twenty-nine dollars! Very well, Mr. John Redfield: I think you _have_cut your allowance a _little_ low. With bracelets, bonbons, and othergewgaws for your interesting friends, I must say your enjoyment of thisprospective Twenty-fifth of December is somewhat reduced. When a man hasskated over the frozen surface of society a little matter ofone-and-thirty years, it is just reasonable to hope he has reached thatdesideratum known as years of discretion. There is a little adagerelating to the immeasurably short time the feeble-minded enjoypecuniary advantages, which I think decidedly applicable to you. 

"A rather severe epigram, occurring in the Holy Scriptures, goes to showthe impossibility--even though the somewhat unsatisfactory argument ofthe pestle and mortar be resorted to--of separating the same class ofpeople from their rather confused ideas of the fitness of things. However, when the Mussulman, careering over Sahara, finds himself, by astumble of his horse, rolling in the sand, with his yataghan, pistols, and turban scattered around him, he rises quietly, and exclaims, 'Allahis great!' I know a Christian would have expended his wrath in a varietyof anathemas highly edifying, and close by wishing his unfortunate steedin a much warmer climate than the Mohammedan has any idea of. I am apoor church-man: let me emulate the philosophy of the simple child ofthe desert, and when I fall into trouble bear it patiently. 

"I wonder what the grim savage would do were he short of money in a landthronging with beggars and other blissful adjuncts of civilization? Woeunto every blind or club-foot man, and every one-armed or scalded woman, _I_ meet to-day! They shall work out their own salvation with fear andtrembling, or I'm an idiot. 

"Why, bless my soul, the fortunes bequeathed to all the novel-heroescreated this century, would not begin to supply them!"

Redfield shook his head decidedly when he came to this part of hismonologue, and put the gold and silver coins back into his pocket. 

"I hate poor people--I positively do! I despise their pale faces andcadaverous expression. I detest straggling little girls who come up toyou and say their mothers have been bedridden for three months, and alltheir little brothers and sisters are down with the fever. I know it'sa lie. I can detect at once the professional whine, and am certain thestory has been repeated by rote a hundred times that day; but for thelife of me I cannot put out from my mind the imaginary picture of thehalf-furnished room in some filthy back street, with a forlorn womanwith red hair stretched on a bed of straw, and half a dozen or morered-haired children piled about promiscuously. 

"There is a wretched little German girl, always managing to have a boileither on her forehead or the back of her neck, --I believe in my soulit's from overfeeding, --who follows my footsteps like a misanthropicvampire. By what ingenuity she manages to cajole me out of my money Iknow not, but I positively assert that in the last fortnight, accordingto her account, her unhappy mother has suffered from eleven differentincurable diseases. My God! what a complication of misfortune! Why notlet them starve? When a man is not capable of maintaining a family, whyin Heaven's name does he ever have one?

"I think I will follow the maxims of political economists and allrespectable members of society, and vote beggars a nuisance. I wonderhow many people to-day, praying for deliverance by Christ's 'agony andbloody sweat, ' by his 'cross and passion, ' his 'precious death andburial, ' his 'glorious resurrection and ascension, ' and the 'coming ofthe Holy Ghost, ' don't?

"This _is_ a charitable frame of mind to precede a Christmas morning. When did I contract the habit of talking to myself?

"I must be impressed with the two grand reasons of the man we all knowof: first, I like to talk to a sensible man, and second, I like to heara sensible man talk. 

"I wonder if there is not something under the surface in Sol Smith'scharity sermon? I rather like its pithy style:

"'He that giveth to the poor, lendeth to the Lord. Now, brethren, if youare satisfied with the security, down with the dust. '

"I once repeated it to a gaunt little parson, and his look ofunmitigated horror caused me to hide my diminished head. I knew from hismanner--he did not condescend a reply--what chamber in the Inferno wasbeing heated up for my especial benefit. Well, well! the sentiment isdoubtless creditable to his head and heart. 

"What a pity it is I am not one of the 'good' people! What anagonizingly cerulean expression I would wear, to be sure!

"I wonder why young mothers don't write for their children's first copyDante's inscription, and teach their baby lips to lisp of the world whathe says of hell. It's surprising to me that that parson is not crazed athis sense of the certain perdition into which everybody except himselfis hurrying. Perhaps, after all, there is something in the question ofLa Rochefoucauld, 'Is it not astonishing that we are not altogetheroverpowered at the misfortunes of our friends?' Well, man learnssomething every day. When I first saw a chicken take a billful of waterand hold up its head, in my childish simplicity I imagined it thankingGod: I afterward discovered it was only letting the water run down itsthroat. My mind, like good wine or bad butter, must be strengthening byage. 

"Why can't we take things quietly, as we did when we were boys? I expectI had a rather comfortable time of it then, though I did get whipped fortearing my clothes, and killing flies, which I used to do worse than anybald hornet. 

"Now, that youngster walking before me is whistling like a lark, and, bythe Lord Harry, he has scarcely a shoe to his foot!"

He was a poor boy, perhaps seven or eight years old. His face was paleand careworn, and though he whistled, it was a solemn kind of whistle, that sounded more like a lamentation than the outburst of childishgladness. His clothes were too thin and worn for his slight frame, forthe morning, though clear and bright, was frosty, and his little baretoes peeping out of his shoes were blue with the cold. He hurriedthrough the streets with a bundle of papers, but, even while intent ontheir sale, he had the walk of an old man, and his small shouldersstooped as though they bent under the weight of years. 

Redfield eyed him narrowly. 

"Paper, sir?"

"So, in this frenzied struggle after bread, you are an itinerant vendorof periodical literature?"

"You mean I sell papers, sir? Yes. I've only been at it three weeks. I'm'stuck' this morning. Haven't got a good beat yet. Paper, sir?"

"Have you no fears of risking your commercial character by appearing onthe streets in that unheard-of dress?"

The boy reddened. 

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

"My Lord!" groaned the philosopher; "here's another conspiracy againstmy unfortunate pocket-book! Why don't your mother take care of you?"

"She did, sir; but she sews for slop-shops, and has worked so much atnight that she's almost blind. "

"Worse and worse! and here's an outfitting establishment just across thestreet. When will I acquire anything like habits of prudence? Boy, " saidhe, fiercely, "you are a young vagabond, and deserve to starve. Yourmother should be put in the pillory for ever marrying. That's what theworld says, --and what I would think, if I wasn't a consummate ass. Wereyou ever blessed with a view of the most unmitigated simpleton the sunever shone upon? Look at me! Look good: I am worthy of a closeinspection. Now come along, and see to what extent my folly sometimescarries me. "

He caught the boy roughly by the arm, jerked rather than led him acrossthe street, and thrust him bodily among a crowd of astonished clerks whostood at the door of a clothing-house. 

"Take this young vagrant and put him into new boots, with woolen socks, some kind of a gray jacket and trowsers, and a hat that's fit for acivilized age. "

Seeing that Redfield was really in earnest, the proprietor obeyed theorder promptly, and in half an hour the boy reappeared, rather red, alittle uncertain, but decidedly altered for the better. 

"Now go, " cried the cynic, with a smile, and a shake of his hand, "andthank your stars the fool-killer did not come along before you. "

"Nineteen dollars and a half! Bless me! what am I coming to? It may belaying up treasures in heaven; but, by Jove, I had rather see it thanhear tell of it. "

The Refrain. 

It certainly was the dreariest 24th of December an unhappy boy ever hadthe misery of witnessing. In a vain endeavor to get up an excitement, Iexpended my last fire-cracker; but the continuous drizzle drowned outevery one. It was only four o'clock, and yet the fog hung like a pallover the windows, and the gas-men were lighting the lamps in the street. My mother, and an old schoolmate, Mrs. Mary Morton, adjourned to theprivacy of her bedroom; and, a pet navigation enterprise, conducted inthe gutter, having resulted in shipwreck and a severe sore throat, Ialso was permitted to enjoy its cosey quiet. John Redfield came in asthe evening advanced. He had been sick; and my mother, wheeling thelounge near the fire, made him lie down and have something warm todrink. He and Mrs. Morton were intimate with the family from my earliestrecollection. 

The four, in their childhood, lived near each other, among thepicturesque hills of Western Pennsylvania. They went to the same school, played in the same woods, and now, in mature life, retained the warmregard of the days gone by. I say four; for Mr. Redfield had asister, --Mrs. Hague, a pale, lovely little lady, who at one time visitedmy mother very often. There had been some estrangement between her andher brother, the particulars of which I never knew. She had married, years before, a worthless kind of a man, who kept a shoestore; but hebecame involved, the store was sold out by the sheriff and since thenboth were in a manner lost. 

John Redfield, though an abrupt man, and rather eccentric, had as kind aheart as any one I ever knew. He was connected with a newspaper in thecity, and wrote wonderful articles about police courts, that, somehow, sounded more like sermons than stories. In my early days, beforeGutenberg and his movable types came within the scope of my knowledge, Ibelieved he printed out the whole edition with a lead-pencil, andentertained most exalted ideas of his capacity. He had a passion forgiving boys painted boats. I must have received twenty--all exactlyalike--at various outbreaks of his generosity. He had the queerest wayof bestowing favors I almost ever saw. When he wished to make a boy apresent, he shoved it roughly into his pocket, and then started off asif the house was on fire. What brought up the subject I do not nowremember, but that evening Mrs. Morton persisted in talking about ClaraHague. She spoke of their childhood, of the old homestead, of thenutting, the apple-picking, the cider-making, and the hundred otheroccupations and amusements of their young life. 

She had a vivid power of description, and a charming simplicity in herchoice of words, that entertained even me; but I could see Mr. Redfieldwas troubled. He moved restlessly on the lounge, and once drew a shawlover his face. At last she touched on the shoestore, its doleful decayand downfall, and the years the unhappy woman had struggled on. At thishe started to go; but there was something in her manner that detainedhim. Her tone had been light and chatty before; and, though she spokewith proper gravity, it was sprightly rather than earnest. I did notnotice any striking change; and yet it seemed suddenly to assume thegentle impressiveness one sometimes fancies we should hear from thepulpit. 

"Whatever be her troubles, Clara has been a good sister to you. You werethe youngest; and a puny little fellow you were then, with all yourgreatness. Many and many a time, in your quarrels with other boys, haveI seen her get into no end of disgrace for defending you. Do you_remember_ that old log school-house, John? and our dinners under thetrees? What baskets of berries and bags of nuts we gathered in thosewoods! Do you remember the little run we used to cross, and the fish youcaught in the pool?

"And oh, John! do you remember that day we started home when it rained?You had been sick, and commenced to cry. We got under a big tree; but itwas November; the leaves had all blown down, and the rain beat throughthe branches. What disconsolate little people we were! And when you satdown on a flat stone, and declared you'd stay there and die, don't youremember how Clara went out in the bushes, and, taking off her littleflannel petticoat, put it around your shoulders for a cloak?"

The strong man quivered; his face convulsed, and the hot tears startedinto his eyes. 

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

He clutched up his hat, and was gone in an instant, and the two women, woman-like, stood sobbing in each other's arms. 

The Air. 

The thousand-and-one young gentlemen in blue neck-ties, who for atwelvemonth, in frantic strains, varying from _basso profundo_ to pipingtenor, had proclaimed their entire willingness to "_mourir pour lapatrie_, " were engrossed at their shops; innumerable fascinatingtrimmers of bonnets, who, like poor little "Dora, " religiously believedthe chief end of man consisted in "dancing continually ta la ra, ta lara, " sat busily plying the needle, elbow-deep in ribbons; theconsumptive-looking flute-player before the foot-lights trilled out hisspasmodic trickle of melody, and contemplated with melancholy pleasurethe excited audience; the lank danseuse ogled and smirked at it behindthem, and, with passionate gestures of her thin legs, implored itsapplause; men, women, and children, of all grades and degrees, crowdedinto the murky night; for a day was coming when the youths of theneck-ties would not agree to _mourir_ on any account; when theflute-player would cease to be contemplative; when the danseuse wouldforget her attenuated extremities; when the whole world, where the graceof the Redeemer is known, would believe that the chief end of the_hour_, at least, consisted in "dancing continually ta la ra, ta la ra. "

Shall "The Air" ring with the joyous notes of the carols, or breathe lowand soft with the sighs of the suffering?

Shall it burst into mad hilarity at the revelry, or wail with the sharpcries of the poor?

It was a painted house, but the paint had worn off; it had a garden, butthe garden was choked with weeds; its two rooms were once handsomelyfurnished, but the furniture was now common and old. It was once afashionable street; but fashion had fled before the victorious eagles oftrade. The tenants of that house were once happy and prosperous. Whatare they now?

The occupant of the back room was a man, and the occupants of the frontroom a woman and her children. 

He was sitting at a rude deal table; before him were scattered somedirty sheets of music, and around him the place was dreary and bare. Bythe light of a tallow dip he was playing, in screeching tones, thecommonest of ditties and polkas by note. His coat was once of therichest; but now it was old and threadbare. His hands were once whiteand elegantly shaped; now they were dirty, and blue with cold. His faceonce beamed with contentment; now it was worn with care and marked bythe hard lines of penury. 

The other room was darker, and, if possible, more dreary. There were twotrundle-beds in a corner, and four bright beings, oblivious to thediscomfort, in the happy sleep of childhood. There was a mattress inanother corner, with a pile of bedquilts and a sheet. 

The fire had burned down to a coal. It shone on the mantle with a sicklyglare; and this was the only light there was. 

To the mantle-piece were pinned four little stockings, each waitingopen-mouthed for a gift from Santa Claus. 

Below them crouched a woman, weeping bitterly. 

The woman was Clara Hague; and she was weeping because the Christmasdawn would find those little mouths unsatisfied. 

Our "Air" is getting mournful, --too mournful for this hour of great joy. The _Te Deum Laudamus_, not the _Miserere_, is for outbursts of gladnesslike these. 

Let it sing of the carriage that surprised the man from his fiddle andthe woman from her tears by its thunder in the quiet street. 

Let it sing of the warm-hearted brother, forgetting the bitterness ofthe past, his pockets replenished from a well-saved hoard, who rushedin, startling the little sleepers with his joyous greeting. Let it chantthe praises of the hampers of wine, and fowls, and dainties, and thebundles of toys, that same lumbering carriage contained. And last, butnot least, let it thrill with the glad shout of a little newsboy, who, frantic with delight, hurried on a new gray suit and a pair of bran-newboots, a present received that very day from his then unknown uncle, John Redfield. 

STORY OF A BEAST. 

It was a dirty, grasping little office, vile enough to have been builtby the Evil One; and the occupant was a dirty, grasping little man, cruel enough to have been made out of its scraps. It was a hard, remorseless little door, that took in a visitor at a gulp and closedafter him with a bite. If the luckless caller happened to be a debtor, the fantastic barbarity of his reception was positively infernal. Thejerk of grotesque ferocity that greeted him was like the "hoop la!" of ademonized gymnast. The straight-backed chair looked like a part of thestiff, angular man. The yellow-wash on the wall seemed to have caughtits reflex from the faded face, and stared grimly at deep lines ofavarice ironed into it. Even the mud on the floor, the dust on thetable, and the cobwebs on the ceiling maliciously conspired against him, and asserted themselves in every seam of his threadbare clothes. But theface, --stern, stony, relentless, an uncertain compromise between theghastly severity of a German etching and the constipated austerity ofold pictures of the saints, --in that, one fixed idea had blotted outevery other vestige of humanity. Each starting vein, bone, and muscleon the hungry visage had "stand and deliver" scarred all over it. Theeager metallic glitter of his eyes, the rigid harshness of his mouth, and the nameless craving that seemed to speak from his lean, attenuatedcheeks, united to make the name of Hardy Gripstone and Beast synonymous. He looked like a beast, he ate like a beast, he lived like a beast. 

Beast started out of every bristle on his unkempt head; it shone in theunhealthy gloss of his battered hat; it wallowed on the stock that clungaround his dirty neck; it glistened in the grease on his dingy clothes;it starved on his thin, claw-like hands; it flourished in the grimeimbedded under his nails; it creaked in his worn-out, down-troddenshoes. Men, as he shambled by on the streets, unconsciously muttered, "Beast!" women, shrinking from him, whispered, "Beast!" between theheart-throbs the terror of his presence created; children, hushing theircries in silent horror at his grimace, stared "Beast!" out of theirwonder-stricken eyes. You might bray him in a mortar and boil the powderin a caldron, yet amid all the envy, hatred, and malice that made up theingredients, Beast would have triumphantly floated on the top. Beast!Beast! Beast! Beast! The universal verdict clutched him like the shirtof Nessus. He actually grew proud of the title, and received the stigmawith a cluck of beastly joy, as though inspired with a certain beastlyambition to deserve it. The laugh with which he hailed any appeal to hischarity was monstrous. It commenced with a leathery wheeze like the puffof asthmatic bellows; it croaked with a grating chuckle, as if histhroat opened on rusty hinges; and then it broke out in a shrill vocalshudder, that sounded like the shriek of a hyena. 

It is an idiosyncrasy of mine to foster just such pet abominations; andI cultivated Hardy Gripstone. My advances were not encouraged by thatoverweening tenderness that indicates the possible victim of misplacedconfidence. Far from "wearing his heart upon his sleeve for daws to peckat, " it seemed to have been weaned years agone, and my milk of humankindness fell flat as any whipped syllabub. 

Felicitous as were the suggestions of his suspicious brain, it took mefully three months to descend in his bearish estimation from ahighwayman to a ninny. There was an incredibility in my apparent lack ofmotive that puzzled him. His dubious cordiality was doled out underprotest. As an exhibitor would clutch a vicious ape, he grabbed at everyshow of feeling, and almost throttled the most pitiful courtesy, in hisnervous dread of its doing him some bodily harm. There was a low cunningin his very acceptance of any little kindness. The sly way in which heinsinuated his withered face into my morning papers, and the smirk ofsatisfaction with which he gloated on the triumph of having gratuitouslygleaned their entire contents, was in keeping with every other ludicrousphase of his distorted nature. He looked upon me as a paragon ofstupidity; and I fear I considered him a piece of personal property, andfelt as much pride in the possession as did Barnum in his Aztecchildren. 

I do not think the acquaintance tended in any way to exaggerate my ideasof human purity. Though it extended through several years, no guilty actI ever heard of detracted from his deserved reputation for beastliness. My surmises never ventured to the hazardous period of infancy, or riskedthe doubtful thought that kith or kin _could_ have loved him; but I haveoften wondered if there ever _was_ a time when his rapacity foundemployment in the robbing of a hen's nest, or his grasping ambitionculminated in the swop of a jack-knife. I wondered if in all thegrotesque concomitants that congregated to make up the hideous whole, there existed a redeeming trait. Yes, there was _one_, --one I discoveredin the tears that sprung from his unrelenting eyes and rained on hiscadaverous cheeks. What was the anguish that shook his beastly frame?what the agony that tore his grasping nature? who was the Moses thatsmote water from this rock?

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

 * * * * *

Early one summer, the grasping little door bit to for good, and I missedits mangy proprietor for probably four months. Had he planted himself inthe earth and regerminated, he could not have been more freshened. Hisemaciated carcass fairly blossomed with magnificence; and gaudy ornamentsprouted all over him. It peeped through his shirt-front in flashystuds, it twined on his fingers in glittering rings, it trailed aroundhis waist in glowing velvet, and expanded over his thin legs and arms ina forest of broadcloth. 'Tis true, the shiny collar _would_ get over hisears, the coat-sleeves darkened every sparkle on his hands, and the hemsof his trowsers persisted in being trodden under heel; but what werepetty annoyances like these, in a renovation so complete? His face hadbeen shaved and polished until it approached in glistening amiabilitythe ivory head on a walking-stick; but there was an uncertainty in itsripples of merriment impressive of the belief that if once a genuine ha!ha! was ventured, the galvanized look of joy would instantly vanish. Itwas at a very uncertain gait he sidled into my office. He did not seemat all sure I would know him, or, in fact, _very_ intimately acquaintedwith himself. The mingled gruffness and cordiality of his greetingsuggested a dancing-master suffering with corns. It was a minute or twobefore his wonted calmness returned; but finally, with a piteous look ofblended tenderness and brutal exultation, he handed me a card. Itcontained the handsomely engraved compliments of Miss FlorenceGripstone, and a hope for the pleasure of my company at a soirée. Thiswas the magic wand that turned penury to wealth and made the sterilerock blossom with gorgeous flowers. The beast had a daughter, and withall the ardor of a distorted nature he loved her. 

If, a week before, Gripstone's soirée had been hinted, I think I wouldhave laughed; but if the assertion had been ventured that it would begiven in a stately house, with spacious grounds, on a fashionablestreet, and with "Gripstone" on the door-plate, I know I would haveshouted outright. Yet the house was stately, and the entertainmentsuperb. Carpets glowing with the gorgeous coloring of the Orient, pictures that had caught their delicate tinge in sacred Rome, furniturecarved from the solid heart of rose-wood, plate vying in richness withthe state service of a scion of nobility, abounded. Fluttering in thelight of many tinted lamps, rare flowers breathed daintiest odors; andfloating through the high arches, soft music whispered plaintiveecstasy. In the center of a throng of recently arrived guests, andpositively cropping with broadcloth and Marseilles, beamed the host. Close at his side, radiant in her beauty, faultless in its adornment, stood the daughter. In one, a magnificent swallow-tail, fleecyshirt-frill, and snowy gloves had stamped their wearer with a look ofhopeless absurdity; in the other, exquisite taste, gentle dignity, andtrue courtesy bore the impress of glorious womanhood. I was positivelybewildered. Could the father of that lovely girl be the wretch the worldhooted at? Could the owner of all this grandeur be the Beast I fanciedmy private property?

Carriage-loads of elegantly attired women crowded each other in thevestibule; dancing beaux congregated in the smoking-room; eminentmerchants, with their wives and daughters, wits of both sexes, women ofthe most exclusive _ton_, thronged the spacious _salons_. Each in theirturn was greeted with a smirk of ecstatic glee. To Gripstone thecourtesy seemed invested with a proprietary interest. A nod wasreceipted with a simper, a grasp of the hand with a scrape, the mostdistant recognition by the most obsequious acknowledgment. Thereappeared to be no doubt in his mind it was all bought and paid for, butit did no harm to be polite for _once_; and comically polite he was. 

I will not say he did not gradually begin to wear the look of a man whohad purchased an elephant; for he did. I found him late in the eveningposted behind a column and peering through the window at the assembledmerry-makers. It was evident he owned the whole party, and that everyringing laugh went with the property; but to him it was a novelinvestment, and perhaps more difficult to manage than any other articlehe possessed. Partly from a dim consciousness that he had wanderedbeyond his depth, and probably from the loneliness consequent to souncongenial a spectacle, a companion had become necessary; and, when Iapproached, his jump of cordiality was as uncouth as it was unexpected. So stunned were my senses by the extraordinary events, that, had hecried out, "Come to my arms, my long-lost brother!" or were astrawberry-mark actually found, I could not have been surprised. As itwas, his frenzied tugs at the lapel of my coat threatened its immediatedestruction, and my spinal column ached under his demoniac slaps on theback, before I gasped out my congratulations. 

Wine, excitement, or the society of one who at least had treated himwith common decency, warmed the little geniality that remained in him. 

With a jerk he thrust me into his study, and, while thrilling musicswept through the echoing halls, and the solid flooring swayed under thefeet of the dancers, the Beast opened his heart. Shrinking, as though'twere felony, from the penury of early life, flying from a brief hourof married happiness, in wild triumph he plunged into the dreariness ofthe upward struggle. Maddened with success, spurning all thought ofconcealment, with shocking exactness he entered into every detail of thecontest, every incident in the appalling history. The low cunning andmiserable privation that accumulated the first paltry hundreds, thetrickery that made them thousands, the heartless sacrifice ofself-respect that doubled and trebled the swelling store, were gloatedover with a grin of delight. Transactions imbued with a depravity thatmade me shudder, were narrated with a chuckle; chicaneries of a depthand maliciousness positively devilish, were touched with a smirk. For_this_ he had lied and cheated; for _this_ his wretched body grew leanfor want of food; for _this_ all the world loathed him. In _his_ youthpoverty _crushed_ him; but his little girl, away at school, never knewthe meaning of the word. Widows went portionless, but _she_ did notwant; orphans starved, _her_ platter was always full. _He_ had beenspattered by the coaches of the rich; but now his chariot, and _her_chariot, would take a drive. They had called him Beast; but _now_ theycalled him _gentleman_. 

The hundreds who drank his wine and trifled with his sweets called himgentleman, and hundreds more were ready to go down on their knees to hisown flesh and blood. Now was the time to enjoy, now the day ofhappiness. Money was a drug; in his abundance, he could never want. Hehad love, grandeur, troops of friends; _now_ he would live a monarch. Flushed with victory, his eyes blazed, his voice rang clear and loud inits exultation, and his lank form swelled with defiance. Springing tohis feet, and clutching up a decanter, he waved it wildly around hishead, and, challenging God or man to mar such peace, shivered it on thefloor. 

Wonder-stricken at the intensity of his vulgarity, and shocked at thesacrilege, I left; and from that moment Hardy Gripstone became a study. Every step in his tortuous course, every phase of his ostentation, everyenormity on good taste, was followed with ceaseless vigilance. Excessesthat would have startled the most thoughtless were pursued with restlessactivity; absurdities that drew forth a shout of ridicule were committedwith provoking good humor. No freak seemed exuberant, no follypreposterous, no extremity extravagance. The joy of paternity, sinkingdeep into his nature, made every peculiarity more glaringly apparent. Money had been his idol, its accumulation the summit of his ambition;its reckless sacrifice in his daughter's honor appeared the onlyadequate expression of his love. The intervals of his devotion werepassed in idle boasting, and to me he detailed every incident. There wassomething really touching in the abject way in which he mentioned eachtrifle concerning her. Little circumstances connected with her dailylife were described as one would describe the traits of some rareanimal. His career of degradation seemed to have blunted every idea ofresponsibility. He looked upon her as a superior being, and heradornment as a sacred duty. The richness of her toilet, the magnificenceof her equipage, the glory of her beauty, became an inexhaustiblesurprise and delight. The utter lack of congeniality, the barrier ofcaste that divided them, was indescribably sad. Rapturous admiration, gentle amazement, blind idolatry, meek bewilderment, the one twisted bybrutality to a living distortion, the other lifted by refinement to theembodiment of womanly grace; and yet they were father and daughter. Todo her justice, she strove in every way to testify her love andgratitude for her strange parent; the ties of blood asserted themselvesin her words and caresses, but they looked doubtfully out of her eyes. Educated far away from him, and amid other associations, she could notbe blind to his faults and shortcomings. The social gulf that dividedthem, though bridged by her sense of duty, was ever present in herthoughts. I mourned over the remorseless avarice that made him what hewas; I almost regretted the culture that placed her so far above him;but, knowing the rude shocks to her sensitive nature, the ruthlesstrampling on every womanly instinct, I mourned for her the most. 

Alas for the schemes of prosy men and women! when tender Lovelinessgoes airing herself through shady lanes, frank young Valor is seldom faroff. The Eurydice may be only a school-girl, and Orpheus a brave, manlyboy in a blue coat; but there is a world of heart-fluttering, for allthat. The flush of conscious beauty blooming on the cheek of one, isgenerally a shadow of the warm red that mantles the face of the other. While Eurydice Gripstone mused in quiet nooks, it was no fabled youth ofmagic lyre who sent the rhetoric and botany waltzing through her brain;and when the fierce cry of "Lights out!" hurried _Jane Eyre_ under thepillow, it was no dream of impossible mustaches that made her hear theclocks chime dismally and the cocks crow for midnight. 

When the long-looked-forward-to Commencement-day was at length looked_on_, and our heroine tripped up to the platform to read her Essay onFilial Affection, alas for its consistency! it was not the grin of PlutoGripstone staring stupidly at the show, but the smile of Orpheus, nowblessed with a strong beard, that set the recipient of undying fame atrembling. And now, when the farewell had been said, and Orpheus left tobreak his lyre and mourn, --when Pluto had carried home his prize and thedreary occupation of being as extravagant as possible hadcommenced, --they were no notes of weird pathos, but billets containingmany brave promises, that made strong coffee the most delectable ofdrinks. Of course all these changes from dreamy reverie to tremulous joycould not escape the searching eye of Pluto; and of course, whenquestioned, no Eurydice of spirit would think of denying the mate forwhom she pined. 

Oh, the consternation of the discovery! Oh, the thunders of remonstrancewith which Hades resounded! The wheel of Ixion might whirl, and thepitchy depths blaze with the fires of indignation, but all this did notdry the tears of the nymph, nor soothe her bitterness of woe. Everytenderness that could reconcile, every enjoyment that could wean, wasvainly essayed; mourning for her Orpheus, she would not be comforted. 

At last the Plutonian shadows opened to receive the matchless man. Itwas with no impossible burst of harmony he charmed away the terrors ofthis prison-house of injured innocence. Whatever might have been theOrpheus of the fabled "long ago, " our modern hero was a plain, business-like man. He thought a great deal of the daughter, but for herworn-out old hulk of a father he didn't care a button. Married he wasdetermined to be, _nolens volens_; and that was the long and the shortof it. To a piteous plea to remain and enjoy the old man's wealth, heturned the deafest of ears. Business required his presence at home;where business commanded, he obeyed; and that was the long and the shortof that. _He_ didn't propose to set up a museum of deformities, if thedaughter did; or stay to witness a burlesque on the society he wasbrought up in, were she never so dutiful. 

Oh, the misery of this reality! When shall I forget the anguish on thatcadaverous face, when the terror of the narration? For nineteen years hehad patiently plodded on, despised by the rich, hated by the poor, spurned by both. He had driven hard bargains that she might drive hercarriage; he had turned his wretched debtors houseless into the streetsthat she might be covered. With every spark of love in his heart, withevery instinct of tenderness in his soul, he had bowed down andworshiped her. She had him all: he would set to work anew, were itneedful, for her sake; he would go in rags for her; he would starve forher; and this was his reward!--his happiness filched from him by awhipster of a day's acquaintance!

When two people, like the frogs of Æsop, conclude to plunge down a wellfor the waters of happiness, it is generally the "weaker vessel" whodallies. Let no one suppose our Eurydice quitted the blissful innocenceof nymphhood without a struggle, or coolly deserted her battered oldfather without a regret. 

With all the golden halo that hung about the future, there were walkstaken in those gardens in which the claw-like hands and tapering fingersclutched each other very tightly, and there were sudden bursts ofemotion when the cadaverous cheeks were well-nigh smothered with kisses. If you or I had had an interview with the pillow that adorned herchamber, it would have told us of many a scalding tear that damped itspurity and many a smothered sob that fell on its feathery ears. If therewere red eyes and pallid cheeks at the breakfast-table on one side, there was a very dismal face on the other. Step by step the hard factsunk into it, and furrow after furrow marked the progress. It was veryglorious for Orpheus; but it was very gloomy for the Beast, and he knewit. Bravely did the old man hold out, and grim and silent was thesurrender. Perhaps a dawning light of their ill-assorted association, and a fear for its influence on her happiness, might have opened thesally-port to the conqueror; but he never admitted it. He laid down hisarms as coldly and quietly as ever any old Spanish knight gave up hiscitadel. 

Once more the stately house opened wide its doors to a statelygathering, and again there was music and dancing and feasting. Therewere scores of richly-dressed women to kiss the bride, and there werescores of brave men to congratulate the groom; but there was not one inall that fair company had a kindly word for Hardy Gripstone, and of allthe throng who feasted that night there was not one saw his brokenheart. 

From the hour the creaking steamer bore the happy pair to their Northernhome, he slunk out of society. The great house was closed, and thelittle office, dirtier and more grasping than ever, opened. Everywitness to his outburst, myself included, was studiously avoided. I methim often; but no sign of recognition escaped him. 

Some months afterward, in passing his filthy little street, I found theremorseless little door had gulped a policeman. Pulling apart itsferocious jaws, and peering in, I saw the straight-backed chair; but thebody which seemed a part of it was much stiffer and more angular. Theyellow-wash on the wall was a paltry reflex of the ghastly yellow of hisfaded visage; for the iron face was the face of a corpse. 

Men who stood vacantly staring in muttered, "Beast!" women, shrinkingfrom the unsightly spectacle, whispered, "Beast!" and children, gazingin silent horror with the rest, stared "Beast!" out of theirwonder-stricken eyes. So hard did they stare, so loud did they mutter, and so many instances did they rehearse of the foul wrongs he hadcommitted, that I am doubtful about the matter myself, and ask you, reader, Was he a Beast?

LEAVES IN THE LIFE OF AN IDLER. 

Leaf the First. 

When a man whom you have every reason to believe not only the coolest, but the most unimpressible, of beings, suddenly turns white as a ghostand shivers with a nervous spasm, it is safe to suppose he isfrightened. But when terror, turning into rage, changes one of the mostattentive and respectful of servants into a madman, it is scarcely safeto suppose anything. As it was, I stared in mute amazement, and heglared at me as though I had struck him. While waiting for a light, Icarelessly put my hand into a basket of hot-house vegetables. The smallegg-plant I took up certainly _did_ weigh twenty pounds, and when Iattempted to lift the basket the handle bent double; but why this shouldfrighten a man like Marcel, or provoke him to anger, is as inexplicableas it is surprising. 

He is pacing up and down the hall in a state of the wildest excitement;and I, with man's truest comfort, --tobacco, --am left to my meditations. 

What combination of circumstances reduced him to a porter, I cannot forthe life of me imagine. His hand is as soft as a woman's; and his browhas a breadth of brain that would dignify a Senator. Notwithstanding thescrupulous deference in his tone, his manner possesses the quiet ease ofa gentleman, to as great a degree as any I ever saw. 

The utter incongruity of his appearance and position struck me themoment I laid eyes on him. He flourished his napkin with the daintygrace of a courtier; and when he lifted my luggage to his shoulder, Iwas on the point of apologizing. He makes my bed, polishes my shoes, performs with fidelity the most menial offices; and yet I _cannot_ butlook upon him as an equal. Poor devil! His cheek may burn with thebluest blood in France. What a pity the world is not moral!

There is something enchanting to me in smoking. It is like a richcordial, --nerving every faculty to action. A draught from your_Cabanas_, the pulse quickens, the mind clears, and thought awakes, likea fine instrument under the magic touch of a master. The wind moansdrearily without, the rain beats dismally against the windows, thefagots flicker blue-flamed and weird in the dark recesses of thechimney-place; but what care I? The white walls are lurid in the flare, the great bed stands out in the darkness like a grotesque engine of theInquisition; but who suffers? _Au troisième, No. 30, Rue Lepelletier_, was never noted for its comforts; but who would ask a repose moresecure, a peace more perfect, than are enjoyed by the occupant of thisrambling old house? Blessed be the earth that bears this solace forweary brains! Its very odor is pregnant with dreams of the _VueltaAbajo_. You see the luxuriant foliage of the tropics, the dark-greenwaves curling on the coral beach, and the scarlet flamingoes that gathershell-fish in the marshes away off in the golden sunset. You hear thewild song of the Spanish fruit-man as he sculls his boat along thebroken wharves, and are soothed into utter listlessness by the thousandperfumes that come off with the land-breeze. A taste of the fragrantvapor, you recline in the odorous orange darkness of a dream-land, languidly breathing the smoke from your hookah, and the lustrous leavesmoving over you are bathed in the soft and melting sunshine. The daylingers luminously over far mountain-ranges, paling in brilliancy on thehill-side, where the blushing vine, bending with the clusters, is stillenlivened by the song of the vintagers; and in the valley, where thegrain sheds its gold under the sickle. You are lost in voluptuousreverie. You breathe the sunlight; intellect is thawed and mellowed;emotions take the place of thought; "your senses, sun-tranced, rise intothe sphere of soul. " You feel the heart of humanity throbbing throughall nature, and your own warms into quivering life. 

"It is not good for man to live alone;" and you dream of another toshare the rapture your wild fancy has created. 

_Your_ Haidee is pure. Her form has rather the statuesque roundness ofPsyche than the luxurious excess of Venus. Timid, yet not tremulous, graceful even to delicacy, coquettish in outline, _her_ beauty is formedfor smiles. She is a still-eyed Xenobi, but knows nothing of Passionwith disheveled locks, divine frenzy, and fiery grasp. She is yourfriend and comforter; and you are the strong rock her helplessnessclings to. Your uncouth manner softens as you behold her troubled look. You become kind and considerate. You watch with pity the pinched facesof anxiety that pass before you. You cheer the little beggar, and givehim of your abundance. Unhappy wanderer! he has started early on hiswretched pilgrimage for bread. "Your heart, enlarged by its new sympathywith one, grows bountiful to all. " The fragrant smoke curls in heavierclouds, and is wafted imperceptibly into the darkness. Ah, ArthurGranger! Arthur Granger! you are dreaming impossibilities, as the manathirst dreams of flowing waters. 

"Love has lost its wings of heavenly azure with which it soared light asa lark into the empyrean, and now grovels on the earth, weighed down bythe burden of red gold. "

How well I recollect that warm, balmy March morning! My mother had sentme to Paris about six months before, to read law with an old relative. Of course I was delighted; but that day I felt tired of the dull routineof my life, and longed for the green fields, waving trees, and wildmountain-torrents of my home. I was walking slowly down the street, thinking gloomily of the labors of another day, and she was standingnear a school-house door, intently occupied in giving some directions toan old soldier. In my whole life I do not think I ever saw a morebeautiful creature. The airiness of the lithe little figure, theplayfulness in the nod of the graceful head, the look of joyousinnocence on that perfect face, flitted through my mind like a brightray of sunshine during the entire day. Every morning, for years after, Imet that child; and every morning her beaming smile cheered my younglife like a glimpse of heaven. I never spoke to her; it was a long timebefore she even knew of my existence; but by-and-by I noticed aquizzical expression come over the old man's face, and I saw herfeatures warm with a faint flush of recognition. How many dreams I basedon that slight fabric! Of course I discovered her name; and of course Ilearned that her father was very rich; but what was that to me? Withwhat pride did I gaze at his name in huge gilt letters on a greatwarehouse near us, and what wonderful little gothic cottages did I buildon the strength of the "and Son" that would shortly be added to it! Thelong nights with my cousin became less wearisome. I could hear the dullcreaking of the letter-press, and see him sit poring over his writing, quite patiently. When the organ-grinder stopped on the corner and played"Make me no gaudy chaplet, " I did not long to rush into the streets, forI had _her_ to think about. When the clock struck eleven, and my cousin, with his peculiar "phew!" commenced another letter, I looked on quitecalmly, and began the construction of another cottage. Of course therewere rainy days, and Thursdays that were ages to me; and there wereChristmas holidays, and long, hot vacations, that she did not come; butSeptember brought back the radiant face, and I worshiped on. 

Gradually I noticed a change in her dress. She wore little lace collars, and bright ribbons I had not seen before; and sometimes she carried alittle bouquet of violets, with a white rosebud in the center. As shegrew older, I had many rivals. Gallant youths, brave in broadcloth andbeavers, followed by dozens the _Picciola_ I had watched so tenderly. How proudly I passed them by! and how I sneered at the thought of theirunderstanding _her_!

I saw her form grow fuller and expand into a more queenly beauty. I sawher eyes sparkle with a diviner light, and her bosom swell with new andstrange emotions. I watched her until she became a woman, and gloried inher matchless loveliness. 

At last the end came. One morning, the brown calico frock was changedfor an India silk, and the little school bonnet, with its blue veil, fora new one, covered with artificials. She was accompanied by an elderlylady, and looked nervous and excited. I was troubled at the tremulous, uncertain expression of her face. The next day I read her name in thelist of graduates. 

It does generally rain at picnics; but this time it didn't. When shall Iever forget that picnic? I stole a holiday to attend it. It was latewhen I arrived: the dinner was over, and I had one prepared expresslyfor me. Would you believe it? my fair attendant was the little BlueVeil. She was so kind and so gentle, and treated me in such a confiding, sisterly way. There was a tenderness in the soft depths of her eyes, apurity in the dazzling loveliness of her face, that my heart yielded towith the blind fervor of a devotee. When shall I ever forget thatevening walk under the trees? Oh! those buttercups and daisies, andlittle Quaker ladies! what recollections they bring back to me! Thepressure of that soft little hand on my arm, the timid grace of hermanner, the sound of her clear, girlish voice, with what emotions havethey stirred my soul! Heaven bless her! Thank God for that one gloriouspicture! It was years ago; she is married now, and the mother ofchildren; yet even now I sometimes catch myself standing on the cornersand gazing wistfully down the street for the bright image that stoleinto the morning of my young life like a soothing dream in a long, troubled sleep. 

Leaf the Second. 

Gardening in midwinter!--what new freak has taken possession of thateccentric man? The morning broke dank and drear, for the December airhad chilled the moisture into a fog. The wide verandas that opened onthe court-yard in rear were dripping with the rain, and the broadflag-stones covered with a greasy slime. The diminutive grass-plot wasbrown and soggy, but the withered blades rapidly disappeared under thesturdy plunges of Marcel's spade. I had gone out on the gallery to filla ewer with water--in his excitement of the previous evening, Marcel hadforgotten my morning bath--and saw him distinctly through the_jalousies_. He must have commenced at daylight; for, though it was thenearly, the ground was almost entirely dug up. Near him, on the pavement, was the basket over which he had displayed so much agitation. Heprepared six holes, each of which was carefully lined with straw, andthen deliberately commenced planting the egg-plants _whole_. 

An hour or two later, he came up with the coffee. I thought he turned ashade or two paler at seeing me up and dressed; but no vestige ofpetulance remained. Having really taken no offense at the outburst, Irallied him concerning it. 

"I was wrong, " said he, gravely; "but nature has left me destitute oftact. An artist was once ordered to paint a one-eyed princess: theartful man made the picture a profile. Devoid of his discernment, I sawonly my ruined treasures. "

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

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

"In other words, I am to endure patiently the taunts of an apron, because its wearer is worthy of a surtout?"

"The prompt nature of hunger is well known. Fifty years ago, I mighthave shrieked in the _Place de la Concorde_. France has degenerated; Ipolish your shoes. "

The assumption of inferiority was so defiant that I said, bluntly, "Thiscan never excuse the neglect of faculties bestowed by Heaven. "

He shrugged his shoulders, and answered, "There was a time when powersuccumbed to intellect. 'Stand out of my sunlight, ' said Diogenes toAlexander; and Alexander did so. This is Paris, M. Granger, and we areliving on the _Rue Lepelletier_. "

"And, frightened at its splendor, M. Marcel has prudently determined toput his brains under regimen. "

"M. Marcel has prudently determined to avoid in future a _tête-à-tête_with his superiors. "

He started abruptly to the door, and I called him back; determineddistance even in a servant is far from flattering, and I asked himfrankly if his visits to my apartments were as distasteful as his mannerwould lead me to infer. 

He answered, politely, "Were fickle Fortune waiting to conduct me to thesummit of my ambition, I would detain her a few hours to enjoy societyso charming; but M. Granger forgets he is addressing a domestic. "

"Stubborn in your pride to the last! What am I to think of one who holdsall sympathy in contempt?"

"_Basta!_" he fiercely exclaimed. "I am like a vagrant cur: flying fromthe sticks and stones of a vile rabble, I fawn with cringing servilityon the first hand that throws me a crust. "

"Wrong, Marcel; wrong, " I earnestly answered. "You are trying to warpyour nature, as you tried to force the fruits of summer to bloom andripen in midwinter. You _will_ be human, and your egg-plants will rot inthe earth. "

My words seemed to have taken away every particle of color there was inhim. His eyes contracted until they resembled those of a wild animal, and for a moment I thought he was going to spring at my throat. Hisvoice--when finally he regained it--sounded like that of anotherperson. 

"M. Granger, " said he, "a man visiting the _Jardin des Plantes_ onceundertook to stroke a leopard. Strange as it may appear, the animal wasmore pleased with petting than the inquiring mind imagined. The instantour naturalist attempted to desist, the creature raised his paw tostrike. There monsieur stood, for a whole night, gazing into his glaringeyes and smoothing his soft neck. Can you imagine his feelings?"

With a bow that would have graced the Duc de Beaumont, he left. I heardhim hastily packing his modest wardrobe; and in fifteen minutes atilbury had whirled him away--whither, Heaven only knows. 

Leaf the Third. 

I do not think his own mother would call him handsome; he is certainlynot young, nor particularly brilliant; and yet there is a fascinationabout the proprietor of this rambling old house that gave me anunaccountable desire to become his tenant. He is a wine-merchant, andoccupies, as his counting-room, the entire second floor. The place isdesolate-looking and dusty, and the furniture old with service; but, Iam told, no man in Paris controls more of the grand vintages than M. Pontalba. With a Frenchman, the _legality_ of a transaction depends onits being negotiated in a _café_; and it was in one of these I first sawhim. He was seated at a table near me, absorbed with the contents of abox of baby-clothes, while a rather pretty and exceedingly voluble_modiste_ harangued him on their beauty. The tenderness of hisexpression struck me. He took out the articles one by one, examiningeach with the interest of a woman. He ran his fingers through the tinysleeves, and smoothed out the ruffles and lace, with a care that wasalmost loving. Diminutive cambric shirts, snowy dresses, and silkyflannels, --all in their turn were inspected and replaced with a sigh ofsatisfaction. 

An ardent young friend and I had been discussing the merits of Comte'sphilosophy; but so attracted were we by the singular trait that bothstopped involuntarily, and watched him, until the woman was paid and amessenger carried the fairy wardrobe away. 

My friend was an enthusiastic metaphysician; and, resuming the subjectwith a zest, was soon plunged into the phenomena of thought, the actionof the brain, and the vitality of the blood that sustained it. As allconversant with the subject can readily believe, not many minuteselapsed before his artful sophistries proved the non-existence ofheaven, hell, and even God himself. 

M. Pontalba turned suddenly, and, drawing his chair close beside us, with an apology for the seeming intrusion, addressed the incipientskeptic:

"Behind the iron bars of that dreariest of studies, a prison, a littleweed once received the concentrated thought of a savant. The covering ofits stem, the first tender leaves, the development of the bud, theexpansion of the flower--each bewildering in its consummatepropriety--unfolded, in their turn, a system of laws in simplicitytranscendent. By the aid of a microscope, a 'gillyflower' was seenprotecting a chrysalis. Warm leaves cherished it, dainty juices aidedits digestion, wholesome offshoots nourished it to maturity. Eking out ascant existence between two granite flags, this insignificant waifreared a caterpillar. What man are you, who can say there is no God?"

There was a pathos in his voice, and a tone of simple fervor, which gavethat quiet old man the air of a priest. 

It was more than a year afterward I took these rooms; but myestablishment was of short duration ere I learned the history of aneventful morning which followed that incident:--of how the placid faceof the master peered among his people, beaming with a great joy; how asumptuous feast was fitted up in the private office for all in theemploy; of the two hundred francs, and a suit of clothes, presented toeach; and how every one, from the little messenger to the gray cashier, with the rarest wine in the cellar, drank prosperity to the new-born sonand heir, and much happiness to the mother, --"God bless her!"

Once I saw a pony-carriage, with an aged, semi-military driver, pull upat the door, and the flutter of a veil as the vehicle passed throughthe entrance; and this was the only glimpse I ever caught of the littlelady that dingy office called mistress. There was, however, a certainbriskness in the movement of the clerks, and a glow of pleasure on theirfaces, that always denoted a visit; and very frequent those visits were. Without in any way obstructing it, her pretty interest seemed to throw ahalo around the dull routine of trade; and, if there was anyunpleasantness, the arrival of Jean Palliot, coachman and ex-grenadier, with Madame Althie Pontalba, was sure to drive it away. 

Why _will_ my heart, like a hungry thing, gloat on the happiness ofothers? He has gone away--in the midst of the holidays--no one knowswhither; and his sweet wife and pleasant home are as dreary as I. Thereis a mystery about this house which I have not yet unraveled. Marcelleft in the morning, and M. Pontalba in the evening. That has been twoweeks ago. I thought he would have fainted when I told him of the_garçon's_ exodus. I attempted a history of the gardening; but he wouldnot listen to a word, and remained locked up in his private room duringthe entire day. Late in the evening a stranger called, and insisted onan interview. It resulted in a hasty consultation with the cashier, andan order for a coach. The two went off together, --whither, or for howlong, no one knows. 

Leaf the Fourth. 

To-day finds a man in the full glow of health, and strength, andhappiness; to-morrow comes death, cold, pitiless, irresistible; mockingall hope, freezing desire, crushing all effort with the eternal law oftime and human destiny, it strikes him down with the icy fury of afiend. Poetry, passion, humanity, are shivered at the touch. Theglorious creature who, an instant before, quivered with life and loveand energy, lies a shapeless mass, disgusting to the sight, loathsome tothe touch, revolting to every instinct of our nature. So, in itsceaseless routine, forever and forever, wheels on the world. Theplay-ground bully, the swindler of the corn exchange, who is the morevirtuous? dolls with life, babies with genius, which the more sensible?Even baby has its "pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, " and is lulled to sleep withvisions of a coach and six little ponies. Dreams, dreams of self, thatman wraps himself in like the swathing of a mummy. Who ever saw a cakemarked with "T, " who ever a "Valley of Tranquil Delight"?

The sun rises and sets on the weary diamond-digger of the South, thecrazed perfume-hunter in the East, the stifled hemp-curer in the fetidswamps of Russia, the shriveled iron-worker in the scorching furnaces ofEngland. Here, in Paris, amid that motley herd who feed on virtue, themoon shines down calmly on purblind embroiderers and peerless beauties, on worn-out _roués_ and squalid beggars. The breeze that wafts to heaventhe pure prayer of the maiden witnesses the fierce ribaldry of thecourtesan; it flutters the curls of a sleeping infant, and bears on itswings the whispered exchange of _chastity for bread_. And man goes on, devouring his three poor meals a day, and babbling the meaninglessnothings he has learned by rote. Oh, land of enlightenment! Oh, age ofChristianity! Oh, zenith of civilization!

The smoke-wreaths curl into thicker clouds. I have painted brightpictures, and they have faded. I have cherished fond dreams, and theyare vanished. "It is not good for man to live alone;" and I am mostsolitary. I can make another picture, --without the roses; but it will betrue. 

It's a merry Christmas, this Twenty-fifth of December, eighteen hundredand eighty-seven, --a very merry Christmas; times have scarcely changedat all in the last thirty years. The sun shines down brightly, and thefrosty air is fall of gladness; for Santa Claus, with his untoldwonders, has come and gone. Ecstasies over dolls and transports overtea-sets, screams of delight at hobby-horses and enthusiasticexclamations at humming-tops, have passed. Paint-boxes andwriting-desks, leaden soldiers and tin trumpets, at last, are reduced toblissful matters of course. The streets, which all the morning havebeen thronged with laughing groups of happy children, are now almostdeserted. Senators and cabmen, ministers of state and town constables, romping school-girls and worn-out actresses, _Lady Dedlock_ and herwasher-woman, men, women, and children of all degrees, have quietlyseated themselves to roasted turkey and plum-pudding. Even the littleboys who _will_ play marbles under the library windows, who areconstantly being "fat" and wanting "ups" and "roundings, " and who areinvariably ordered to "knuckle down and bore it hard, " are now intentlyoccupied with the succulent delights of "drum-sticks" and gizzards. Andyet the man whose fingers now form these letters _then_ sits alone. Timehas not passed lightly over _his_ head. The few hairs that straggle frombeneath his skull-cap are gray, and the faintest breath makes him wrapcloser in his thickly-wadded dressing-gown. His face is worn and pale, and the wrinkled hand, though it only holds a little cigarette, willsometimes tremble as it moves. The Christmas dinner is pushed awayuntasted. _Château-Margaux_ has lost its flavor, and silver and crystaldo not bring appetite now. Even the glowing sunshine, which plate-glassand silk damask cannot keep out, is unheeded. He gazes wearily at themagnificent furniture, and smokes. He has talked much to the world, andit has heard him. Flung into life without a friend, governed only bythe will of a race born to command, he has struggled through sneers andsarcasm to eminence. Men fear him now, women flatter, nearly all envy;yet he is alone. He knows this; he knows that in all the laughing groupswho enjoy this wine-drinking and turkey-eating day his name has not beenmentioned once. Nature allows no trifling with her laws; flowers do notbloom in deserts. He has crushed sentiment; he has stifled affection. With a heart by nature kindly, he sits now an image cut in steel. Hegazes calmly at his desolate hearth, at his joyless age, and smokes. Manhas no power to move him; fate condemned him to be a statue. 

Ah! the strongest, after all, are but weak, erring, human beings. Thelast of a race stands weary and old, trembling on the brink of eternity. Who will close the fading eye? Who will smooth the dying pillow? Withall his great wealth, with all his wondrous knowledge, what one deed ofcharity will that infirm old man take into the presence of his Creator?He looks dreamingly out at the window. The plate-glass and damask arenot there now; the sunshine is warm and the air balmy. A mild, breezyMarch morning, and he is standing on a corner, looking far down thestreet. "She is coming, coming;" the dark eyes beam on him, and theradiant face flushes the pallor of his cheek;--"come. " He gives onelingering, beseeching look at the passing figure, the cigarette dropsto the carpet, the withered hands clasp convulsively the arms of thechair, the gray head slowly falls on his breast, and one more frailhuman being, exhausted with the anxieties of a long and bitter life, isat rest forever. It's a merry Christmas, this Twenty-fifth of December, eighteen hundred and eighty-seven, --a very merry Christmas. Times havescarcely changed at all in the last thirty years. 

How he ever got there, or when, I do not now, nor will I ever, know, butwhen I looked up Marcel was standing before me. 

"M. Granger, " said he, abruptly, "it will be necessary for you to seekanother lodging. "

"Why?"

"I would do you a service. The proof lies in the future. This house isdoomed. "

"Poor Marcel, " said I, with genuine pity, "some recent trouble hasturned your brain!"

"Mad!" he replied, laughing bitterly. "The wonder is that I am not. Foryears I have been hunted, --hunted like a dog. Prisons have been mydwelling-place, disguises my only clothing. My pillow is a spy; the veryatmosphere I breathe is analyzed. "

"And what is your offense?"

"A desire to live as the great God intended an Italian should. A desireto lift to his place among the free-born the corrupt descendant ofCoriolanus, now nourishing his miserable body on the _scudi_ extortedfrom a stranger's patience. The vile crew whom our ancestors drovehowling and naked across the Danube, in undisturbed apathy gloat overour dearest treasures. Our people are ground into the dust; our women, stripped in the market-place, shriek under the pitiless lash of theoppressor. One man, sworn to protect Italy with his life, can save her, and has refused. That man dies. "

"And you are pledged to kill him?"

"I am pledged to see you safely without these walls by this dayfortnight. "

"And you?"

"I remain. "

"Marcel, you are crazy. "

"M. Granger, you are polite. "

That night fortnight I was away; and this was the message that sent me:

 "TO M. ARTHUR GRANGER:

 "Your fatal discovery on the morning of my departure makes you the only man to whom I can appeal. Let me pray the appeal be not in vain. In the folly of my youth, while sojourning in Italy, I joined a powerful secret order, whose demands cease only with death, and whose penalty for denial is a sudden and bloody end. You can judge, then, my anxiety on being compelled to admit to my establishment, disguised as a servant, one of its highest officers, and my horror at hearing of his abrupt departure. Since then I have learned the unhappy cause. My life is in another's hands. It is for him to command, and for me blindly to obey. There are two beings in this world dearer to me than my soul's salvation. To you, M. Granger, as a Christian gentleman, I commend them. The sealed note inclosed (the contents of which are a matter of life and death) I beg you will at once deliver to my wife; and let me conjure you, until the crisis is over, to make my house at Romainville your home. 

 "ÉDOUARD PONTALBA. "

Leaf the Last. 

This is the 15th of January, 1858. France is in a blaze of excitement. Last evening, in the _Rue Lepelletier_, an attempt was made toassassinate the Emperor, by throwing grenades filled with fulminatingmercury under the coach that bore the Imperial family to the ItalianOpera. Count Felice Orsini, the murderer, himself desperately wounded, has been arrested, and Paris is crying for his blood. 

For several days I have been the honored guest of Madame AlthiePontalba. It is a golden evening; the sky, an hour ago so clear andblue, is piled with golden clouds, and stretches out into golden rivers, with golden banks, flowing calmly down into a golden sea. The purpleslates on the church-steeple, the red tiles on the house-tops, thegardens with their evergreens and jonquils and little blue violetsshrinking out of the frosty air, are wrapped in a golden mist. The lightstreams through the windows in rays of pure gold, and trickles down thewalls in little golden currents. It is an enchanting little villa. Thesteep gables covered with variegated slate, the thin fluted columns ofthe verandas, the diminutive marble steps, the broad bow-windows withtheir transparent plate-glass, look more like a fairy picture than areality. The trim shrubbery, the airy little statues, and even the whitepalings, so frail and fanciful in their construction, are charminglyappropriate. 

It is an enchanting little room. The icy air is warmed by the brightcarpet and glowing curtains, and the trickling currents of golden lighton the walls are mellowed by the blazing sea-coals. It is a merry littlefire, an ardent, earnest, _home_ fire, that shoots out its whimsicallittle flames as if it meant to burn one to a cinder, and flutters andmurmurs to itself and scatters down the white feathery ashes in a veryecstasy of impetuous glee. The green porcelain tiles on the hearth, theoval-shaped chairs, the wonderful tables, and the little easy-chair, areall flushed up, and seem quite enlivened at its sportive tricks. Thesilver sewing-bird, with its glittering little garnet eyes, is peeringcuriously down at the painted fish-geranium on the teapot; and thegeranium, sweltering by the fire, seems almost wilted with the heat. The teapot pants and struggles under its steaming contents, and looksappealingly at the great china cup on the table; and now a lump ofsparkling sugar is dropped into its shiny recesses, and the fragrantodor of that gentlest soother of troubled thoughts pervades the room. 

How shall I describe the mistress of this fairy resting-place, as shesits in the softened light of this golden winter evening, with thetrickling golden currents and the quivering firelight playing on herdress, and the last rays of the sunshine melting into golden threads inher hair? How can I picture the look of girlish innocence on her face, the artless grace of her manner, her delicate feminine ways, and thedainty arrangement of her toilet? How can I tell of the irresistiblecharm that pervades every article about her, from the little French bootresting on the rug, to the ruffle that circles her white throat? Thebalmy morning of her young life has passed. The brown calico frock, andthe little school bonnet, with its blue veil, have been put awayforever. The lithe figure has grown matronly, the childish timidity isgone; the softened face tells of changes, --changes made by muchhappiness; changes also, alas! by trouble. 

The dark eyes beam with a deeper tenderness, with a wealth of maternaldevotion, with a world of maternal anxiety. The aurora, with its hazyglow, has disappeared, and now the sun shines brightly on the earlyday; yet through all the love, and all the care, and all the joy of herpure life, remains that radiant smile, the glorious creation of aglorious God, that awakens in man one sensation, --tranquillity. O man, with the joy of your _own_ young love, O woman blessed with aremembrance of earlier days, is it needful I should say, Madame AlthiePontalba is the Little Blue Veil?

There were two visitors here an hour ago, --a lady and a gentleman. Whatever their lack of ostentation, there was an air of distinctionabout both that would strike the most casual observer. 

The cabriolet was plain, but the horses showed the purest blood, and theharness and equipments a neatness one would not see in a day's ride. Thegentleman was tall and stately, with a well-shaped aquiline nose, and amustache and imperial pointed _à la militaire_; and the lady was petiteand graceful, with a face of rare loveliness. The features of both toldplainly of a great trial bravely endured. The lady entered alone. Hercarriage and demeanor possessed all that quiet elegance which is onlymet with in the society of the great; but it was with no courtly speechshe addressed the mistress of this quiet home. To twine her armslovingly around that dear form, to draw it close to her bosom, to pourout, in a voice broken with tears, a burst of gratitude, was themission. In moments when hearts are wrung, we do not practice our grandpoliteness. A noble life had been saved, a terrible calamity averted. The polished manner of the _salon_ was dropped. A _wife_ spoke, a_woman_ listened. The visit was already a long one when Jean Palliottook charge of the equipage, and, on leaving, it was into _his_ hand thegentleman thrust a roulette of Napoleons. 

"Sir, " cried the indignant coachman, "a soldier of the Grand Army is nota beggar. "

"It is not the gold, but the portraits of his commander I give thesoldier of the Grand Army. "

"_Mon Dieu!_" exclaimed the now affrighted veteran, "it isNapoleon!--_Vive l'Empereur!_"

 * * * * *

Of the history of that attempt on the life of Napoleon, the world isfully informed. That, thanks to a fortunate warning, the Imperial coachwas lined with boiler-iron, is well known. That warning, by direction ofher husband, was written by Madame Althie Pontalba, and delivered by me. 

That the destructive missiles were manufactured in Birmingham, England, our Minister Plenipotentiary has good cause to remember; but that theywere smuggled into Paris in the guise of egg-plants, and deposited inthe grass-plot in rear of house No. 30 of that now memorable street, Ibelieve is still a mystery. 

That Count Felice Orsini (the man executed) was concealed for weeks, ison record at the Prefecture; but that he assumed the position of aservant, and the name of Marcel, is not. 

As for me, I think a great deal, and say nothing; but if the youngPontalba, who now studies type-setting with the Prince Imperial, was notthe baby whose clothes I once saw examined at a _café_ there is no truthin these "Leaves of an Idler. "

MR. BUTTERBY RECORDS HIS CASE. [A]

J. Moses Butterby, aged 40 years; a licensed broker; nativity, American;temperament, sanguine; habit, slightly obese; constitution, robust. History of the case as related by himself. 

 * * * * *

I don't see how I ever came to _be_ married. It was certainly the lastthing my friends expected of me, and it was the last thing I everexpected of myself; but that I am married, Mrs. J. Moses Butterby, andMaster Alphonso Moses Butterby, are both here to testify. 

What so aristocratic a family found in me to admire is as much a secretnow as then. I don't think it was intellect; for I am afraid that whenNature designed me the "shining" element was left out. Somehow, atschool, the composition sent to the village journal was never mine; thedeclamation repeated at every fresh arrival of directors was alwaysanother's; and if, by any chance, a visitor asked to hear a recitation, under no circumstances was I ever invited to show off. My modest partin society was not crowned with greater success. Ma (dear heart!)objected to dancing, and I never learned; I didn't go to picnics, for Idon't know how to drive; I tried smoking, and it made me sick; if Idrank wine, I was sure to go to sleep: in fact, none of the amusementsof other young men ever amused me; and the result was, the money theyspent, I saved. 

Envious people have hinted at this as the attraction which first caughtthe respected mother of my Malinda Jane and the respected mother-in-lawof myself; but ideas so unbecoming I repel with proper scorn. 

I do not think myself more stupid than the average of mankind; but, somehow, while they walked through the middle of the streets, I soughtthe narrow alleys; and while others aspired to noise and distinction, Ifound retirement and Malinda Jane. (It _was_ in an alley I first metMrs. J. Moses Butterby--though this in no way concerns the presentnarrative. )

Malinda Jane (I trust I am not violating any matrimonial law in thusfamiliarly speaking of my respected helpmeet)--Malinda Jane, from thefirst time I beheld her, up to the present period of a long, and I maysay intimate, acquaintance, appears to me a paragon of all the modestand retiring virtues. If among her many attractions she is possessed ofa distinguishing trait, it lies in the power of her eyes. So muchlanguage do their depths contain, that to me, at least, any other is ina great measure a superfluity. I should be afraid to count up theconsecutive hours we have spent in this silent converse, reading eachother's hearts, as some pleasant poet has styled it, "through thewindows of the soul. " I would not have you suppose them almond-shaped orpiercing. No! Malinda Jane's eyes are round. It was their gentle bluethat enchanted me; and there I found the congeniality that cheered mydrooping spirit. 

Looking back now upon our courtship, I am inclined to think it must havebeen uninteresting to a third party; but there is no denying the factthat to us it was most soothing, and well calculated to develop ourmutual affection. 

I have no accurate recollection of the event vulgarly called "popping. "Fortunately, I congratulate myself on escaping that breach of decorum. If you join my friends in asking "how it came about, " I reply, "Naturally. " The morning Malinda Jane's mother asked me if I had decidedupon October the 24th or November the 24th, I unhesitatingly answered, "November the 24th, if you please;" and the whole affair wasaccomplished. 

I have said before, Malinda Jane is not of a demonstrative disposition, but thinks (if I may strain a point) ponderously. I have never known herto manifest any will in opposition to my own; and, since I come to thinkof it, I do not remember her ever manifesting a will in opposition toany one else. In this general term I of course include Master MosesAlphonso Butterby and my most highly respected mother-in-law. Such afamily, according to all rule precedent, should be superlatively happy;but there seems to be a disturbing element in all families, and mine, alas! proved no exception. It came about thus. 

Among the few parting words of my deceased ma were, "Mosie" (she alwayscalled me Mosie), "never live with your mother-in-law. " Treasuring thecommand, as I may say I treasured everything the dear old lady left, including the property, when finally the day _was_ fixed, I set aboutobeying it. On an occasion when Mrs. Mountchessington Lawk--the name ofmy respected mother-in-law--had described our imaginary bower, and herimaginary apartment adjoining, until she had worked herself into a feverof imaginary happiness, I mildly communicated the behest of my departedparent. 

The scene which followed I can only characterize as indescribablytouching. The look of blank despair on the face of Malinda Jane, and thetears of rage and mortification that suffused the aristocratic nose ofher ma, I frankly confess, went to the bottom of my heart. It was manymonths before I ceased to regret this rude banishment of their hopes;but, looking upon it from my present stand-point, I am compelled toadmit my dear dead ma was right. 

The only accident worthy of remark that happened to Malinda Jane on ourwedding-day was a fright. I have reason to congratulate myself at itsoccurring _on_ that day, instead of a few weeks subsequent. Theconsequences in the latter event, it is needless to say to marriedpeople, might have been serious. 

Passing out of the church-door, we were confronted by a drunken cobbler, who, in a wild and insane manner, proposed "three cheers for Jinny. " Theassembled crowd of dilapidated urchins hanging around the stepsproceeded to give them with a vim faintly suggestive of ridicule. Thesingle glance I obtained of the discourteous offender gave me an idea ofchimneys. His face was smoky, his clothes were fleecy, and his generalappearance was decidedly sooty throughout. A shock head, and more shockyeyebrows, bore a strange resemblance to the patent chimney-sweep; whilehis clothes seemed rich in past memories of the profession. I had beforecaught sight of this individual, in a tumble-down, rickety shop near theresidence of Mrs. Mountchessington Lawk. I had, in fact, seen her onmore than one occasion bestowing charity upon him in the form of brokenvictuals; but the recollection failed entirely to account for the effectof his cheers for "Jinny" upon the too tender nerves of my dear wife andher distinguished mother. I attributed the emotion to the trying natureof the ceremony we had just passed through. Reflecting that people donot get married every day, and appalled at the terrible conclusionswith which the mind would distract itself by pondering so alarming atopic, I shudderingly abandoned it, and assisted Malinda Jane and herma, in a fainting condition, to the carriage. 

It is needless to say that the cobbler was at once given in charge to apoliceman. The next morning, in consideration of a handsome fee, hemoved away. I accomplished this out of regard to the feelings of Mrs. Lawk; but, I must confess, I never regretted anything more. 

The commencement of married life (as many married men will bear me out)is even more consoling than the happiest days of courtship. The smell ofvarnish on new furniture is as delightfully novel as the odor of theorange-blossoms; the brightness of the new carpets and the crispness ofthe new curtains both mark an era, --even if the stove _is_ obstinateabout drawing or a man _is_ called out of bed to put up the coffee-mill. There was Malinda Jane's night-robe hanging on one side of the bed, andthere was my night-robe on the other. My clothes were in the upperdrawer of the bureau, hers were in the lower--in such delightful andloving proximity that I own to feeling a new man; I gloried in havingsome one dependent on me: in short, I was happy. 

I will not deny that there was some trouble about servants (I thinkMalinda Jane had seven the first ten days). True, the meals were notmodels of regularity; the chicken sometimes came on in too natural astate, --blue and pulpy, --and the beefsteak betrayed a volcanicappearance, as though reduced to lava by an irruption of gravy. Iremember one woman stole a keg of butter, and another went off with halfa dozen silver spoons. The former, Malinda Jane ascribed to the cat; thelatter, to a defective memory; but, then, Malinda Jane never learnedhousekeeping (I don't see why she should, poor dear!), and trifles likethese failed to mar _our_ household peace. 

I would mention the conduct of Mrs. Mountchessington Lawk as being, fornearly a year, really saintly. Even the rare intervals at which shevisited were marked by a manner the reverse of familiar. Almost everyevening she would stand on the opposite side of the street, gazingwistfully at us as we sat in the window; but no persuasion induced herto pay a formal visit more than once a fortnight. 

With this striking evidence of my wisdom before me, I grew worldly. Ithink that during that short year I possessed a better opinion of myselfand my capacity than ever before or since. 

Worse than this, I grew pharisaical. I ventured to pity my lessfortunate neighbors, bound hand and foot to the slavery ofmothers-in-law. I attempted to joke them, and poke them severely in theribs with my knuckles, when the magic name was mentioned. So often didI congratulate myself on the shrewd stroke of genius displayed, that Ifear even her respectability became sadly impaired in my mind, anddepreciated to such an extent that I was gradually led to think of herirreverently as an "old gal. "

"Too much for you, old gal, " got to be an exclamation so wonderfullyconsoling that, it crept into my sleep, and in those halcyon days Ioften waked up by the side of Malinda Jane, muttering the words, "Toomuch for you, old gal. " Waked up, I think I said. Ah! would I had neverwaked up, particularly on the dismal clouds which for a season darkenedmy domestic sunshine!

Scarce half a twelvemonth elapsed, ere the retiring disposition ofMalinda Jane seemed to shrink into even greater seclusion. I frequentlyfound her powerful mind wandering, and her eyes fixed on vacancy. In ourevening walks, which invariably preceded retiring for the night, sheleaned heavily on my arm. 

Although the appearance of our daily repasts did not seem to justify it, the cash demands for market-bills suddenly became enormous; and, when Iexpostulated, my reasonable objections only produced tears. Anapparently needless grief had crept into our quiet home, and a lack ofconfidence that pained me. For many weeks I helplessly pondered theunaccountable mystery. 

At last (oh that it had taken any shape but that!) the enigma developeditself. Returning home one day, I had straightened my collar andsmoothed my hair before opening the door (feeling a proper pride in mypersonal appearance, these preparations are usually a preliminary step), when suddenly, just as the portal moved on its hinges, my sense of smellwas saluted with the odorous fumes of gin. From the first suffocatingwhiff of this aromatic cordial do I date the commencement of my grief. Malinda Jane, I knew, never indulged in as much as a sip of Cologne: so, convinced that the breach of discipline was the guilty act of a servant, with all the offended dignity I could embody in my deportment, I wentstraight to the chamber of my wife. 

Without being deficient in moral courage, I am not a boisterous man. Ido not boast of an eye like Mars, to threaten and command, or glory inproducing a shudder with the creaking of my shoes. I mention this toshow that my manner, though rebuking, was not intended to be severe. Toawe by my authority, and soothe by my condescension, was the design; buteven in this limited effort I am conscious of a lamentable failure. 

Seated upon the floor, within an airy castle of dry-goods, whosebattlements of flannel and linen cambric frowningly encircled her, wasMalinda Jane. Before it, like an investing army, with colors flying, anda face radiant with defiant triumph, was Mrs. Mountchessington Lawk. She had complacently opened the siege with the mixture of a hotgin-toddy. My appearance upon this warlike scene was the signal for asalute both loud and watery (in short, tearful), entered into with amutual heartiness by besieger and besieged. It was, moreover, renderedimpressive by a waving spoon, which Mrs. Mountchessington Lawk movedsolemnly backward and forward in a warning, funereal manner, as thoughprotesting against some appalling fate. That she was in possession of myapartment, if not my house, I instinctively realized. She sat boltupright, firm and strong as a Hindoo idol on its altar; a nebulous glareinvested her head with a halo, through which bristling hair-pins stuckout in all directions, like lightning-rods with fitfully luminouspoints. The crystal wall of spectacles that bridged her nose seemedgraven with the cabalistic words, "I've got you. " A feeling of consciousguilt, of what an enfeebled mind failed to grasp, succumbed to theshock. 

From amid the joint chorus of sobs and tears which burst forth with thewail of a Scottish slogan or an Indian death-song, I heard--

"Oh, my poor darling! Oh, my poor dear angel! Oh, Mr. Butterby, how_could_ you?"

"Madam, " I inquired, in amazement, "how could I what?"

It may be well to state the endearing epithet was applied to MalindaJane. 

"Oh, dear! dear! and all this time she has been scrimping and saving, Iwas unconscious as a child unborn. Cruel, _cruel_ man!"

Mrs. Lawk, burying her hand in the depths of her pocket, drew forth anattenuated handkerchief, and carefully wiped her eyes. 

"Please, ma----" interrupted Malinda Jane. 

"Never, _never_ again shall you leave my protecting wing. Oh, inhumanmonster, how _could_ you be so heartless?"

"Monster" was given with a decidedly unpleasant bite, and recalled mycalmness. 

"Mrs. Mountchessington Lawk, " I placidly observed, "I have not theremotest idea what you are talking about. "

"Moses Butterby, you're a brute. "

She rose to her feet. A bundle, which, during the excitement, lay on herlap, broke open; and my mother-in-law, like Cleopatra in her roses, stood knee-deep in baby-clothes. In a moment the truth burst upon me. Iwas unmanned, limp, and disjointed. The shock was too much! A babyButterby!

It is needless for me to remark to married men that the era ofprospective paternity is an era of sacrifice. Why, in this time-honoredcustom, so much depends on one's mother-in-law, is a mystery I nevercould unravel. I look upon it as one of the unaccountable fatalities ofman, to be placed in the category of grievances with prickly heat. Letit not be understood that my conduct was absolutely lamb-like. It wasnot until solemnly assured the visit would not be prolonged anunnecessary hour that I finally yielded. I think during that time I hada meaner opinion of my own importance than at any other period of mylife. My domestic career resembled that of a child guilty of anirreparable wrong and tolerated only through dire necessity. Indeed, hadMrs. Mountchessington Lawk been a modern Rachel, and I the ruthlessdestroyer of her household, her conduct toward me could not haveexhibited more injured resignation. I somehow grew to _feel_ guilty, andit was only at rare intervals I mustered courage to look either her orMalinda Jane in the face. 

The anticipated addition to the family brought an immediate addition toour furniture. The way the chairs multiplied was marvelous, and thenumber of sofas that accumulated in our parlor would have beengratifying to a Grand Turk. We suddenly grew plethoric in wash-stands, and appeared to possess armoires and bureaus in quantities and varietiessufficient (as the advertisements say) to suit the most fastidioustaste. Even the bath-room did not seem to be neglected, and a modesteffort was made to furnish the back gallery. One day I was astonished tofind in the hall two hat-racks, and was nearly knocked down by the endof a great four-post bedstead that followed me in. I turned on theintruder, and discovered the little cobbler, apparently as much underthe influence of liquor as on the day of his previous eccentricity, stupidly endeavoring to push one post in the door while the other badefair to thrust itself through the ventilator. It was then I learned thatin the array consisted the entire household treasures of Mrs. Mountchessington Lawk. 

I may here mention that the cobbler had contracted a chronic habit ofhanging around my back gate, but slunk away whenever I happened toobserve him. 

Gradually (leaving out the patients) our house began to wear the aspectof a hospital. The doctor made his appearance three times daily. Anaged, red-faced nurse, smelling strong of whisky, wandered about like adisembodied spirit; and a lively young woman, her assistant, clatteredup and down stairs at all hours of the day and night. Had the entirecity concluded to multiply and replenish, the preparations could nothave been on a grander scale. 

Of the exact particulars of the event, I fear I am not altogether clear. I have an indistinct recollection of battling with a midnightthunder-storm, in a hopeless search for our medical man, and that, immediately on my return, that functionary (who had arrived during myabsence) dispatched me on an equally important errand. 

I remember pulling a great many night-bells and arousing an unlimitednumber of apothecaries; but the only act at all fresh in my recollectionwas slinking in the back gate at three o'clock A. M. (I had beenlocked out the front way), and finding the little cobbler, and asurrounding crowd of damp newsboys, cheering lustily for "Jinny. " Thecause of that commotion was also a mystery; but, when I entered thehouse, Master Moses Alphonso Butterby feebly echoed their shout oftriumph. 

Under different auspices, my paternal affection might have developedrapidly; but really, during the first few weeks of Moses Alphonso'sexistence, our intercourse was so exceedingly limited I scarcely knewhim. Any intrusion within his little horizon of flannel or atmosphere ofparegoric was so severe a tax on the nerves of Mrs. Lawk, that, out ofconsideration for her feelings, I rather avoided it. Indeed, had it notbeen for the activity of that eminently respectable lady, I would havefancied Moses Alphonso a brother-in-law instead of a son. 

Bolted in by flannel bandages, barred with a cambric shirt, locked up intowels, imprisoned in petticoats, and finally incarcerated in a dungeonof wrappers and shawls, --from the first he had the appearance of anunhappy little convict. Mrs. Lawk invariably acted as chief jailer, and, taking him into custody, changed his various places of confinement withthe austerity of a keeper of the Tower. My own position hourly becamemore ambiguous; indeed, had it not been for the monthly bills, I wouldhave scarcely believed myself possessed of a house at all. I impatientlyawaited the promised evacuation; and when Moses Alphonso reached histhird birthday (babies have these interesting periods monthly instead ofannually) I ventured a hint that our own furniture was ample for allrequirements. 

To my despair, Mrs. Lawk had rented her house. Malinda Jane'sconfinement (which in my simplicity I imagined was of short duration), it seemed, had been protracted from the day of her marriage. 

Society was essential to her happiness; and society Mrs. Lawk wasdetermined she should have. If through her illness my privilegesexperienced curtailment, her recovery brought annihilation itself. Notwithstanding my piteous petition, we suddenly expanded into eminentgentility. 

I am dimly conscious that to many of our guests my introduction was toMrs. Lawk a poignant mortification. Most of them I never did know. Several, however, seemed invited for my especial benefit; and this pieceof malignity will never cease to harrow. 

How could _I_ talk to Miss Rose Buddington Violet, when she let down herback hair and made eyes at the moon? _I_ had no back hair (in fact, noneat all to speak of), and scarcely knew there _was_ a moon. 

When Mrs. Jesse Hennessee of Tennessee (whose husband is interested iniron) persisted in making a blast-furnace of the kitchen stove, whatcould I say?

There was Miss Aurelia Wallflower, who believed the world hollow, anddolls stuffed with saw-dust, continually expatiating on the sufferingsof early Christians. _I_ have never read Fox's Book of Martyrs. WithMrs. Lucretia McSimpkins I had some relief. She was fond of operaticmusic, and, it is true, banged our piano out of tune at everyvisit, --indeed, her efforts resembled a boiler-maker's establishmentunder full headway; but, when she did subside, her perfect andrefreshing silence lasted for hours. 

Malinda Jane, for whose amusement all this was designed, did not seemmore enthusiastic than myself. Most of her time was spent in a corner, staring confusedly at the assembled company, and contemplating in silentamazement the volubility of her respected parent. 

In addition to toning down my exuberance with the softening influence ofladies' society, Mrs. Lawk decided on a course of restriction. Myallowance of clean linen suddenly diminished one-half and under nocircumstances was I to presume to take a fresh pocket-handkerchief morethan once in two days. She changed the dinner-hour, and declared supper(except for Malinda Jane, poor dear!) strictly prohibited. For a time Imitigated the last grievance by eating oysters; but, an unlucky burst ofconfidence having divulged the dissipation, a solemn lecture on my dutyto my family was its quietus. Every article of food was put under lockand key, the night-latch was changed, and Mrs. Lawk, in addition to herduties as jailer to Master Moses Alphonso, constituted herself turnkeyof the establishment. The parlor, except when we "received, " wasdeclared forbidden ground: her dismay at finding my papers there, oneevening, was perfectly heart-rending. There was a sudden inquiryconcerning my loose change, and I was furnished with a memorandum-bookin which to write down my daily disbursements. Frequent visits to theopera (oh, the torture of those evenings!) had been an invariable rulewith the Mountchessingtons; and, at the risk of rendering impotent thetympanum of both ears, I was compelled to continue that respectablecustom. Persons occupying our position should be careful with whom theyassociated; and the character of my companions underwent a severeinvestigation. She even interfered with my business, and declared thesoap brokerage (one of my most lucrative departments) utterly beneath agentleman. One by one my little personal comforts faded away. Symptomsof annoyance, persistently repeated, whenever I took off my coat or puton my slippers, kept me at all times prepared for the streets. Cabbage(a favorite dish) was quietly discarded from the dinner-table. Mylibrary was turned into a nursery for Master B. 

The mute, unresisting manner in which I surrendered my fading glory wassurprising. I was appalled in contemplating it; I am breathless now withindignation in referring to it. In short, like Daniel and the Hebrewchildren, I went up through much tribulation; but my deliverance (oh, how I daily and hourly thank Divine Providence for that blessed moment!)was at hand. 

It was the evening of an election for an alderman, I think; but, as inour retired portion of the city none but the lowest vagabonds gavepolitics a thought, there was comparatively no excitement. Mrs. Lawk, from the wide circle of society in which she moved, had invited a goodlynumber to an entertainment. Even our inordinate supply of sofas werefilled, and scarcely a chair in the house remained unoccupied. In a rashmoment I asked two or three of my own cronies; but not many minuteselapsed ere both my companions and myself were made to feel the folly ofthe temerity. 

Ignorant of dancing, unskilled in whist or the art of politeconversation, we were terminating our third hour of judicious snubbingin a corner. Mrs. McSimpkins had just concluded a battle-piece of greatlength and power, when the rehearsal of our shuddering comments wassuddenly banished by the deafening roll of a drum. I rushed to thewindow, and, to my horror, discovered a torchlight procession haltedimmediately in front of the house. Perhaps a hundred men, in all stagesof political enthusiasm and intoxication, surrounded by a crowd ofwretched women and girls, waved their lights with demoniac frenzy, and, apparently through a common throat, gurgled three hideous cheers. Therewas a charge of Mrs. Lawk's friends to the windows, and then a stampedeto the back parlor. In vain I expostulated; idly I insisted on my utterlack of interest in the questions of the day: the political party_would_ come in, and how was I to prevent it? The absence ofembarrassment and amiable indifference to form that characterized theintrusion was something unique. There was a difference in shape and modeof wearing, about the hats, really refreshing, and a variety of qualityand nauseousness in the cigars everybody smoked, that, if anything, added zest to the scene. 

Boots unconscious of the existence of a door-mat speedily graced thehall-floor with a perfect cushion of mud. Their wearers, rapidlydividing into groups, plunged into earnest conversation concerning theevents of the day. The candid manner in which my own character wasdiscussed, and their frankness in touching on my peculiarities, was notthe least gratifying feature of the visit. In the course of two or threeminutes, one would have supposed my residence a political club-room, andmy uninvited guests in the peaceful enjoyment of their inalienablerights. 

At length there was a cry of "Here he is! here he is!"

Every window on the square went up, and the neighborhood suddenlywhitened with night-capped heads. I heard a crash of glass, and feltconvinced that this time the ventilator had gone for certain. There wasa fresh rush from the street, and, finally, seated on a shutter (borneon the shoulders of four stout men) and complacently swinging his legs, appeared the little cobbler. A radiant joy in his face, and a knowingwink in his eye, told plainly the combined influence of triumph andunlimited libation. Reeling profoundly to the assembled company, andcasting a drunken leer at Mrs. Lawk, he exclaimed, "Mary Ann, --'s--nouse, I'm--'s--good--as--he--is. I'm--an (hic)--an--Alderman. Butterby--embrace--your poor ol'--father--'n--law. "

Of the conclusion of this episode, I fear I am somewhat confused. I havean indistinct recollection that Mrs. Lawk and Malinda Jane were bothcarried off in a fainting condition; and that my enthusiastic friendsgave three rousing cheers for Alderman Lawk, and three more for me. Iremember my father-in-law insisted on holding a meeting then and thereand nominating me for Governor. His constituents considered the ideamost judicious, and warmly applauded it. Mrs. Lawk's friends disappearedprecipitately through the back way, amid renewed sounds of crashingglass and breaking china, while I hovered around the unterrifiedDemocracy of the ---- ward, earnestly beseeching them to go into thestreet. My efforts were at last crowned with success. I was left aloneamid the wreck of my household gods; but for an hour afterward, as I laycowering on the sofa, I could hear disconnected speeches from mydoor-steps, encouraged from time to time with tremendous cheers forLawk, cheers for Butterby, and cheers for "Jinny. " The same generalmystification and uncertainty regarding my actions pervaded the entirenight; but morning brought relief, and in more ways than one. Mrs. Lawkhad disappeared, and her chattels were following. The victory was assudden as it was unexpected. 

Who would have thought that out of this storm of mortification was tospring the bow of promise? The day after witnessed the exit of my mostrespected mother-in-law and her amiable husband, for Cheyenne City; fromwhich place we have recently heard from them as ornamenting the firstComanche and Blackfeet circles. 

Her reason for concealing the relationship was never developed. Indeed, I was too much overcome with joy ever to inquire. Undisturbed bydiscordant elements, the fires of matrimonial affection burning asbrightly as when lighted upon my marriage morn, I now calmly survey there-establishment of a happy household, over which reign domestic blissand--Master Moses Alphonso Butterby. 

 * * * * *

Such is an accurate statement of the case, all of which is respectfullysubmitted. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: For many useful hints in this diagnosis, Mr. Butterby isindebted to Mr. E. C. Hancock, of New Orleans. ]

DIAMONDS AND HEARTS. 

A Sketch of Rio de Janeiro. 

CHAPTER I. 

The sun was setting on the Passeio Publico. On one side the fading lightgilded the delicate green of the palms, and on the other it shimmered onthe placid waters of the bay. 

It whitened the little lodges, nestling in the luxuriance of foliage, and glistened on the gaudy boats, lying motionless on the pearly bosomof the deep. It sparkled on the little lakes where troops of joyouschildren gathered around the swans, and lost itself in the blue miststhat circled the green and purple mountains in the distance. 

Past the clustered giants of the sea, whose banners told of mightynations that made war, past the forts where the sentries kept weary paceon the ramparts, it lighted up the "Pao de Assucar;" through thecrowded thoroughfares where the hum of traffic told of multitudes inpeace, it glowed on the Corcovado. 

Far into the golden west, past the islands that dotted the harbor, pastthe last villa of Sao Christovao, it burned and blazed among thehills, until shadowy peaks, that seemed but ghosts in the dimremoteness, burst resplendent on the view, gorgeous in their prodigalityof color. 

Rio de Janeiro had mustered her children in crowds. Long and broad aswas the promenade, its marble mosaics scarce contained room for themultitude. Anxious matrons, on one side, gathered on the granite stairsto watch their children in the garden beneath; heedless youngsters, onthe other, hung over the balustrades for a view of the tide swelling atthe foot of the wall; fair young _donnas_, bewildered at the throng ofadmirers, filled the air with peals of glad laughter; exquisite_senhors_, thrilled by the music, yielded themselves willing captives tothe seductive influences of the hour. 

Who but a Latin can understand the wild abandon of a _festa_? who but hecan enter into the spirit of the many fête-days sanctioned by hisancient Church?

Armand Dupleisis, in his seat over the sea, stared absently at thejocose revelers, for he was a stranger in a strange land. He leaned backon the granite railings with the easy indolence of an invalid, thoughhis frame was robust and sinewy as a mountaineer's. The hidden power ofhis bronzed and Moresque features, if developed, might inspire a certainamount of wonder; but _then_ you would as readily have soughtexpression in the statues below. His gaze was almost indifferent; yetthe unmoving eyes took a mental inventory of everything. Had their ownerbeen provided with a memorandum-book and a stubby pencil, the cataloguecould not have been more complete. 

Among the hundreds present, those eyes picked out one man and one woman. They followed them in their rambles through the dome-roofed shelters;they scrutinized them as they lingered near the band; they searched themout when mingled with the throngs on the promenade. They did not seem tobe watching, but they were; and their owner did not look interested, buthe was. 

The man, physically speaking, was a marvel; but there was an air offoppish elegance in his movements, and a silky kind of beauty, like thatof a leopard. His head was small, but finely formed, and covered withflossy hair black as ebony. His features, though clearly cut, wore, fromtheir extreme delicacy, an almost feminine expression. His hands weresmall and exquisitely shaped; his mustache curled gracefully from hislip; and, when speaking, he bit the ends of it in a nervous, almostembarrassed way. 

The woman was a proud, passionate daughter of the sun. The brown bloodof the sun burned in her veins, and the soul of the sun streamed shadedfrom her eyes. A sumptuous splendor mingled, moist and languid, withtheir light. She was clothed in the sunlight. It glistened in the softdarkness of her hair; it glowed in the rubies that clung to her swellingthroat; it flashed on her robe tremulous with radiance. From acoquettish little hat a long white plume fluttered over her curls, and afloating cloud of fleecy under-sleeve half concealed an arm of snowypurity. Her life, though in its spring, seemed goldened with the flushof summer; her morning flashed with the meridian luster of perfect day;and yet the eyes that scanned so closely remained undazzled. Their ownerhad heard of her, and of her conversation, sparkling with wit and humorand mocking irony; but he was not fascinated. He saw but a woman forwhom no surprises appear to survive. What see we?

Were you to question the crowd, they would tell you the man was EdgarFay; that, years before, his father brought him, a velvet-coated boy, toRio de Janeiro; that shortly afterward he died, leaving the son and ababy sister a small fortune; that the sister, being under the control ofa mother who had deserted her husband, was never heard of; and that theguardians, finding no coheir, had spent the money on Edgar's education, afterward securing him a position under the Imperial government. 

About the woman they would say, "She is Mademoiselle Milan, just arrivedon the French packet, to fill an engagement as leading lady at the_Alcasar_. "

Concerning Dupleisis, except that he had arrived recently on the Englishsteamer, that he seemed to be a man of leisure, and paid promptly forwhat he received, they could tell you nothing. 

The glowing sunshine faded entirely out of the sky, the thick-walledhouses flickered faintly through their staring casements, the lamps onthe streets glimmered dismally at the returning crowds, and one by onethe lights began to quiver on the water. The Passeio, an hour before toocramped for the multitude, was now deserted; but Dupleisis, nothingdaunted, smoked on. Disgusted at the necessity which compelled hispresence, and annoyed at the stupidity of the few people he had met, hecommented savagely on their peculiarities, and anathematized withmerciless ingenuity. 

"Pshaw, M. Dupleisis! you are only angry because you cannot havechicken-pie every day for dinner. What have the Brazilians done to you?"

Dupleisis gazed at the speaker in astonishment. 

"Their impudence, rather than degeneracy, perhaps should surprise. "

"Really, M. Dupleisis! I fear you are a cynic. In the gayest promenadein the empire, you are filled with violence. You are a spoiled childlooking in at a shop-window and admiring nothing. Are you going to crywith a mouth _full_ of sugar-plums?"

"Pardon me, " said the Frenchman, haughtily, "but it is an awkward habitof mine to feel curious concerning the _names_ of my associates. "

"Let me hasten to enlighten you:--Percy Reed, diamond-dealer, Rua doOuvidor, at your service. You brought me a letter of introduction; but, unluckily, I was out of town when you arrived. "

The dark eyes glanced at the speaker closely as they had watched the manand the woman. There was something in the face that commanded respect. The broad high forehead, the eyes flashing with scornful mirth, and thethin lips curling with such a whimsical mixture of kindliness andsarcasm, bespoke a man of mind. Since reaching Rio, Dupleisis hadsearched for these three, and he liked this one the best. Reed took outhis eye-glass, and, adjusting it carefully on his nose, surveyedDupleisis deliberately from head to foot. 

"You'll do, " he remarked, after some little thought; "but I stillbelieve that in your bread-and-butter days some friend thought yousarcastic. I knew a young girl once who was told she had a musicallaugh, and the consequence was she giggled the rest of her life. Now, ifyou don't wish to see us locked in here for the night, come along. "

CHAPTER II

The establishment of Percy Reed, diamond-dealer, Rua do Ouvidor, was acorner-building, almost the exact counterpart of a dozen edifices on thesame square. The basement was of polished blocks of black and whitemarble, and the upper portion faced with blue and white porcelain tiles. From above, the front rooms looked out through bow-windows at smallbalconies with brass-knobbed railings and thick glass floors; those inrear looked through glass doors at a flat roof, one story high, pavedwith black and white marble squares. This breathing-place of thehousehold was adorned with pots of flowers and evergreens and providedwith neat iron chairs. It was divided from the breathing-place of theadjoining household by a low brick wall. 

Below, pedestrians gazed in through rose-wood doors and French platewindows. The counting-room had rather the appearance of an elegantboudoir than of a place of business. The floor was of alternate stripsof satin-wood and ebony; the walls and ceiling were paneled withrose-wood, and rows of small glistening show-cases contained samples ofthe dazzling gems. In the rear--but so covered with the glossy finish asto be almost imperceptible--was a huge vault, containing preciousstones of a value almost sufficient to change the fate of an empire. Farther back, and opening on the side street, was a long, dark hall-way, from which a winding staircase led to the residence above. The secondfloor of the adjoining house was usually let furnished to members of thedramatic profession; and on this occasion it was occupied byMademoiselle Adrienne Milan, of the _Alcasar_. 

The day after the _festa_, the lady, in a simple morning toilet, hadmoved her table and sewing-chair into the open air. Instead of sewing, she was occupied in furbishing up some old stage jewelry, and hervisitor, stretched on an iron bench, calmly puffed a cigar. From hismanner, one would imagine him master rather than guest; but thatMademoiselle Milan and a female servant were the sole occupants there isnot a doubt. 

With the utmost nonchalance, he had ordered a pillow, and, his ambrosiallocks buried in its soft depths and his feet raised high above his head, he lounged a modern Apollo, scrutinizing with supercilious indifferencethe lady's work. If the cigar-ashes at his side were a criterion, he hadbeen lying there for hours; and if the nervous movements of Mademoisellewere significant, he had been lying there an hour too long. For someminutes the silence was broken only by the jingle of the gaudyornaments, and then the man exclaimed, "But, _ma chère_ Adrienne, I amshort--deuced short. Delay is ruin. How am I to live?"

"Work, " said the lady, curtly. 

"There you are again, with your cursed woman's wisdom! What are you here_for_? What am _I_ here for?"

Mademoiselle answered, with a shrug, "Judging from your position, Iwould say, to enjoy your ease; from your language, to annoy me. "

He raised himself to a sitting posture. "Adrienne Milan, do you take mefor an idiot?"

"Edgar Fay, you are insulting. "

"Prima donnas of the _Alcasar_ are not usually so sensitive, " broke outthe visitor, with a laugh. 

The woman sprang to her feet, and in the haste overturned the table withits glittering baubles. 

"Go! go!" she fiercely exclaimed. "The compact between you and me issacred. Another word, and I reveal all. "

White as any ghost, he started up, and, without uttering a sound, slunkaway. 

Trembling with rage and mortification, Mademoiselle Milan sunk into aseat; but hers was not a nature to dwell long on trouble. With a woman'sspirit of order, she commenced picking up the finery scattered aroundher, and putting it away. Among other things was a box of quartzdiamonds, which, being small, flew in all directions. All within viewwere collected, and she turned to go. 

"There are several lying near that flower-pot in the corner. "

The lady looked up. Standing on a chair on the other side, and leaninglazily over the wall, was Armand Dupleisis. 

CHAPTER III. 

 "Has Flora proved more attractive than Thalia?"

Armand Dupleisis, long since become acquainted, stood examining abouquet of roses and geraniums in the music-room of Mademoiselle Milan, and the lady was seated near him, trifling with the keys of her piano. 

"I gaze on beauty, mademoiselle, to accustom my eyes to divinity. "

"Really! Were it not for his gigantic proportions, one would suppose manwas reared in an atmosphere of compliment. "

"You mistake us. Though not a favorite diet, in Pekin we devour ricewith the gusto of the most polished Celestial. "

"I bow to your sincerity. Women, then, are to be talked to of birds, andflowers, and stars, and fed on water-cresses?"

"Women, mademoiselle, make men apt scholars in the art of pleasing. Ihave studied much. "

"How singular!" rejoined the lady. "I should never have detected it. "

"True art, mademoiselle, lies in its concealment. My life has been oneof concealment. "

"Now you pique my curiosity, " she replied. "Do let me learn the'veritable historie. '"

The smile on Mademoiselle Milan's face showed that the interest wasfeigned, but the grim look about Dupleisis' mouth proved him consciousof it. A man without an object would have changed the subject at once;but Dupleisis _had_ an object, and did not. 

"I was ushered into this land of hope and sunny smiles with scarcely anyother patrimony than a name. "

"What limited resources!" ejaculated the lady, with a slight sneer. 

"While blushing with the consciousness of my virgin cravat, I went toParis, that sacred ark, which saves from shipwreck all the wretched ofthe provinces if but crowned with a ray of intellect. "

"And which saved you, of course, " continued the lady. 

"Through the influence of my friends, I entered the _ÉcolePolytechnique_, and, after graduating, cut the army, and cast my fate, for better or for worse, in the flowery paths of literature. "

"Now, do not say it proved for worse. "

"It was for worse, " said Dupleisis. "My family were treated shabbily;'the muse is a maiden of good memory, ' but a _cocote_; my satiricefforts were rewarded by a _lettre de cachet_. "

"What a loss to France!"

"At the accession of the Emperor, I returned, a prodigal son of Mars, and now manage to sustain myself by----"

"By writing sonnets to Brazilian hospitality, " interrupted mademoiselle. 

Dupleisis bowed gravely. "Anxious to do so, mademoiselle, but I havenot, as yet, collected sufficient material. "

The retort crimsoned the lady's face, and Dupleisis adroitly covered herconfusion by asking her to sing. 

"What will you say to me, when you speak of yourself as though you werea block of wood?"

"The prosy geologist talks pedantically of a granite rock, and is mutewhen he sees the flower that blooms above it. "

"_Mon Dieu_, M. Dupleisis! I cannot sit by and hear _Chamfort_ soruthlessly robbed. "

"Mademoiselle, you are unkind. I say nothing complimentary but you cry, 'Stop thief!'"

The lady played a few sparkling bars, and sang. She had a magnificentvoice, but her music, like herself, was studied, faultless, but chillingas the north wind. It swelled deep and full, in rich, flute-like tones, now ringing clear and sweet in pure, rippling notes, now quivering lowin waves of enchanting melody. There were soft, gurgling sounds, thatflowed wild and free as a mountain-rivulet. It was brilliant, bewildering; but the dazzle was like the frozen glitter of an icicle. Suddenly, a look of unmitigated scorn swept across her face, and themusic ceased. 

She eyed Dupleisis for a moment half defiantly, and asked, "Would youreally like to hear me sing?"

Dupleisis answered, earnestly, "Yes. "

A plaintive prelude followed, and her voice mingled with it almostimperceptibly. It was one of those gloomy Spanish ballads, dramaticrather than harmonious, that poured forth its mournful strains in thefitful measure of an Æolian harp. There were bursts of pathos thatseemed to echo from her very soul. It was fierce, mocking, passionate;tender, wicked, terrible. It sank in sobs of melting compassion; itimplored pity and sympathy in words of thrilling entreaty; and then itrose, cold and calm, in sounds of withering derision and implacablehate. It trembled, it scorned, it pleaded, it taunted, it struggled, ithoped, it despaired; and then, as if for the dead, it wailed and died ina long, helpless cry of sorrow. 

Dupleisis sat listening to the dreary history entranced. There was love, and feeling, and fond womanly devotion; there was refined thought, gentle pity, and warm generous charity; and there was a neglected heart, a gloomy, embittered mind, a life lost in utter desolation. The gloriousbeing whom God had created to cheer and encourage man was a beautifulstatue. 

Who would teach that heart to feel again? Who turn to quivering fleshthat rigid marble? Yet the man of iron sat masking his features, controlling his emotions, with every muscle under his command. It was aflash of real feeling from a proud, sensitive woman, but it passedlightly as a snowdrift on a frozen river. 

CHAPTER IV. 

"Mr. Reed, you certainly are the most old-maidish man I ever saw in mylife. "

The room did appear old-maidish, as Mademoiselle Milan stood looking in. The balmy breeze fluttered pleasantly past the little French curtains, the glowing sunshine warmed the delicate tracery of the walls andlighted up the flowers on a huge rug spread on the bare floor. A tinybouquet of Spanish violets, in a wonderful little vase, filled the roomwith a dreamy perfume, such as one sometimes imagines he would find inthose far-off little islands in the South seas. There were crayonsketches hung between the windows, here and there a statuette filled aniche, and out on the glass-floored gallery was a perfect bower offlowers. There were several easy-chairs placed about in comfortablepositions, as if they were all made to sit on, and a great lounge, covered with green marine, stood, like a small grass-mound, under one ofthe windows. 

Percy Reed, seated near a table loaded with needle-books, silk-winders, and a hundred little trinkets, with a cigar in his mouth, and a sock, with a little round gourd shoved into the foot of it, in his hand, wasintently occupied in darning a hole in the toe. 

"There! don't throw away your cigar. _Mon Dieu!_ can a person never seeyou without being overpowered at your grand politeness?"

"Mademoiselle, I make no apologies. Buttons will come off, and stockingswill contract holes. Washer-women are heartless. The mountain will notcome to Mahomet: therefore I darn 'em myself. "

"A philosopher under all circumstances. And pray what have you done withyour pupil in morality and economy?"

"Oh, Dupleisis? I have started him out in a carriage to view the wondersof this 'River of January. ' By-the-by, if you ever hope to attract, don't dream of mentioning figures in the presence of our mysteriousFrenchman. "

"Why?"

"The branch of mathematics known as simple addition seems to be thecrowning glory of his intellect. He knows to a _milreis_ the value ofthis building, from chimney-pot to cellar. "

"Blessed with curiosity, " said Mademoiselle, significantly. 

"Mathematics entirely. If Armand Dupleisis were entering the pearlygates of Paradise, amid the resounding hallelujahs of cherubim andseraphim, he would deliberately count the cost of the entire wardrobe, before he thought of receiving the waters of eternal life. "

"Mr. Reed, " said Mademoiselle, earnestly, "who _did_ you ever see ofwhom you _could_ not speak lightly?"

"One person in the world--my mother. Sometimes in my dreams of the 'auldlang syne' I almost see that dear little lady; she had a window justlike that, with the foliage rustling over it just as this does. Never, mademoiselle, does that little morning-wrapper come up before my eyeswithout making me a better and a purer man. "

Both were silent for some minutes after this. Mademoiselle Milan satleaning her face against the crimson lining of her chair, apparentlylost in thought. 

At length she said, "Would to God that all men understood women as wellas you!"

"But _your_ mother; where is she, mademoiselle?"

The lady's face turned as pale as marble, and her little white handsgrasped the arms of her chair, until they seemed almost imbedded in theebony. She attempted an utterance, but her voice failed her, and therewas a dead silence. 

Reed was a man of feeling. He did not talk, nor persuade her to talk. Hedid not even sit doing nothing. He went out on the balcony to examinethe flowers. He climbed noiselessly up the lattice-work for jasminesfluttering in the evening breeze. Finally, he took up a violin andplayed. 

He always played well, but now the music was low and soft, --old Scotchballads, wild and mournful, touching little German songs, plaintiveromances full of subdued passion. Mademoiselle Milan did not notice him;but in her heart she felt grateful for his consideration. Gradually thecolor returned to her face, and, soothed by the sad, sweet strains, shesunk into dreamy reverie. 

"When we have reached another sphere, where emotion governs instead ofthought, I think that man will speak in splendid music. "

Reed looked at her earnestly for a moment, and then said, "Mademoiselle, why did you never write?"

"The public treats authors very much as drill-sergeants dorecruits, --drunk the first day, and beaten the rest of their lives. "

"Great minds _rule_ the public. "

"And yet I fear your courage would ooze away when you came to lay alance at rest against such a windmill as the common sense of thenineteenth century, whirling its rotary sails under the steady breezeof ridicule. I am a woman, and know a woman's place. I have had dreamsin my time, --'dreams like that flower that blooms in a single night, anddies at dawn;' but they are passed. You see, I carry the glare of thefoot-lights even here. " And a bitter smile curled from her lip. 

"Mademoiselle, " said Percy, solemnly, "the foot-lights enable you tomove man to a hundred passions. "

"Yes; it reduces me to the level of a harlequin, to be laughed with, andlaughed _at_. Who are _my_ friends? Are they the idle boys who send mebouquets and never mention my name without looking unutterable things?Have I no tastes, no likings, no feelings, no emotions? In the name ofGod, was I created only to memorize so many lines of Racine, Corneille, or Voltaire per diem?"

It was a tone of almost ferocity with which she spoke, and the tremblinglip, the flashing eye, and the swollen veins on her temple betrayed theself-scorn racking her heart within her. 

A bang at the hall-door, and heavy footsteps on the marble pavement, forced her to composure. 

"Old-maidish to the last!" (the lady commenced picking the dead leavesoff a geranium). "This geranium looks as if you had watched it a year;and this old gray hat, I suppose, you have hung above it for good luck. "

"The hat belongs to a friend abroad, and is not to be moved until hissafe return; but the geranium was presented not a week ago by myever-faithful money. You see the magic charm. Here are careful watching, weeks of anxiety, and, no doubt, a modicum of affection (for I _have_heard people say they loved flowers), bartered away for one _milreis_. "

"Apropos of money, --I thought I was to have a view of the treasures ofAladdin, locked up in the vaults below. "

"Of a surety you shall. "

Reed excused himself, and in a short time reappeared, bearing a largeiron casket. Mademoiselle Milan's face turned a shade or two paler whenshe saw him; for he was accompanied by Edgar Fay. It had now becomequite dark, and Percy Reed lighted the gas-jet before opening thecasket. It was made in imitation of the ordinary iron safe, but openingat the top. 

When the glare of the gas struck the dark recesses of the velvet lining, a gleam of radiance shot up that fairly dazzled. Great grains of light, large as peas, shimmered and glittered with an unearthly brilliancy. Blue, purple, violet, and a gorgeous white that combined the whole, sparkled in their turn with weird splendor. It looked like a flash fromheaven turned suddenly on a startled world. Both Mademoiselle Milan andFay stood breathless with astonishment, and it was many minutes beforethey regained their composure. 

Hearing the heavy rumbling caused by the lowering of the iron shuttersin the counting-room, Mademoiselle urged Mr. Reed to return the gems tothe vault before it closed. 

He assured her it was entirely unnecessary, saying that larceny was acrime unknown to Brazilians, and that he had provided for exigenciessuch as this. Moving the piles of thread and embroidery silk to the sideof the table, he touched a spring, and a lid flew up. The table, thoughpresenting the appearance of fragility itself, was really of iron, andcontained a vault that would puzzle the most expert of burglars. 

Just then Dupleisis called from the street, and both Reed and Edgar Faywent out on the gallery to see him. He had made arrangements to spendthe night with a friend, and the three stood chatting for some minutes, the Frenchman giving an amusing description of his adventures among the_Brazileiros_. 

Shortly afterward, Mademoiselle Milan and Fay took their leave. The windby this time was blowing so fiercely that no taper could live in thegusts; so both were compelled to grope their way through the hall, whichwas dark as Erebus. 

The door was faithfully bolted, and the casket carefully placed in thesecret vault; but when Percy Reed awoke in the morning he found bothopen, and the diamonds, worth a million, missing. 

CHAPTER V. 

"Mademoiselle Milan, I wish you good-evening. "

The lady bowed. She was reclining on a divan, before a large mirror, absently turning the rings on her finger; but in her simple négligée sheappeared more beautiful than ever. The long, dark ringlets gave the ovalface a look of earnestness, the fierce Italian blood glowed in hercheeks, and the flashing brilliancy of her eyes had a restlessness thatwas unusual. She was evidently suffering from nervous excitement; butthere was a fascinating grace in every movement, and even in the easyindolence of her position. 

"Take a seat on that sofa, by the side of my little dog. Is he notpretty?"

"Very, " replied Dupleisis; "but I am more interested in his mistress. Wehave not met for a week, --not, in fact, since two thieves robbed Mr. Reed of a fortune. "

Dupleisis said this with pointed significance; but the lady preservedthe coolest unconcern. 

"The muse of the foot-lights is the most jealous of mistresses. "

"True, " replied Dupleisis; "but in this case she has had rivals. "

"I choose to amuse myself with a crowd, who eat my suppers and make melaugh. "

"And among the jesters you number the Minister of War and Chief ofPolice. "

"I may need their aid. "

"Mademoiselle Milan, you _do_ need their aid; but, with all yourcharming courtesies, you have not secured it. "

"M. Dupleisis chooses to speak in enigmas. I am obtuse. "

"At our last most agreeable _tête-à-tête_, you were pleased to feelinterested in my somewhat sluggish history. Would you pardon a fewinquiries concerning yours?"

"M. Dupleisis, I am at your service. "

"Two months since, you resided in the Rue de Luxembourg, Paris. "

"This is an assertion. I expected an inquiry. "

Dupleisis took from a pocket-book a half-sheet of thin, closely-writtenletter-paper, and spread it out on the table before him. 

"It was about two months ago that this document was blown from yourwindow. Am I right, Mademoiselle Milan?"

"It _was_ blown from my writing-desk into the street. "

"I knew I was right; for 'twas I that picked it up. It is a letter, written in Rio de Janeiro, and contains the details of a plot to rob oneof the wealthiest diamond-dealers in this city. You may think myinterest singular, mademoiselle; but the merchant deals with everylarge jewelry-house in Paris. Their loss by a felony of this magnitudewould be immense. "

Mademoiselle Milan listened with an air of indifference that wasabsolutely freezing. 

"You may think it singular, also, that when, shortly afterward, youstarted for Bordeaux, I went by the same train; and that when youconcluded to prolong your journey to Brazil by the French packet, viaLisbon, it was _I_ who assisted with your luggage. "

"There is nothing low enough to be singular in M. Dupleisis. "

"Mademoiselle Milan, one week ago you and Edgar Fay went into thehall-way of Mr. Reed's house together, and you went _out_ alone. Denialis useless, for I _saw_ you. If you remember, the door was bangedviolently, and it was you who did it. A careless servant locked him in. He opened the secret vault in that table, and abstracted diamonds wortha million. You were wise in courting the Minister of War and Chief ofPolice, but your passports have been stopped. No power under heaven canget you out of Rio. "

For the first time her countenance changed, and she looked at Dupleisiswith a smile of contemptuous pity. 

"So I was not wrong in suspecting you to be an agent of the police. Howstrong an alloy of cunning exists in every fool! The man whom youbelieve to have stolen a million is my own brother. The letter whichcaused this display of sagacity was paid for out of my wretched weeklyearnings. At the sacrifice of every _sou_ I owned, I came here to thwartthe plot it spoke of. "

Dupleisis glanced at her with an incredulous sneer. 

"He wrote to Paris for a woman to assist him, --what weaklings you menare!--and, utterly unable to prevent the larceny, I pretended to be hisaccomplice. While you were exposing your ill-breeding by coarsecriticisms on a people in every way your superior, I substituted for thereal diamonds the paste gems you were so particular in noticing. Whatwas stolen is my property. Go back to Mr. Reed, and tell him hisdiamonds are bundled into an old hat that hangs on the wall of hissitting-room; and tell him, furthermore, it was I who put them there. Idid court the favor of the Minister of War, but it was to put that manin the army. I have watched over him for years, and, by the blessing ofGod, I will watch over him to the end. He has never known me, nor willhe----" Suddenly she turned livid, and nervously clasped her hands overher breast. 

"M. Dupleisis, I regret my inability to be present at the Assembly; but, really, I am engaged. "

Dupleisis looked at her in astonishment. 

Edgar Fay, pale and trembling, was standing behind them. He must haveheard every word; for he sunk helplessly and faint on the floor, hidinghis face in the depth of his degradation. 

Why should we follow them any further? _Can_ I tell how the miserableman, cringing at the feet of that pure woman, narrated his drearyhistory of folly, extravagance, and dishonor? Need it be said that, through all his dissipation, frivolity, and crime, his gentle sisterclung to him, and, smiling through her tears, bade him go and sin nomore? She stole upon him like a shadow in the night, and, her labor oflove ended, faded away. No entreaty of the generous diamond-dealerdissuaded her; no apology of the detective turned her from the one fixedpurpose. The star of the _Alcasar_ rose, culminated, and disappeared intwo weeks. 

O woman! I have seen you in the brilliant whirl of society, where allwas gayety, gallantry, and splendor. I have seen your eyes flashtriumphant, and daintily gaitered feet move fast and furious to themusic of _les pièces d'or_. I have seen brave men stand fascinated atyour side, and careless youth overflow the bumper of Johannisberger tohealth, and youth, and beauty. I have heard the stern cynic jingle hisNapoleons in unison with the frantic strains, and sneer out, "_Vive labagatelle!_" Daughters of marble! daughters of marble! Turn your snowyarms to the glittering gorgeous, scatter the golden heaps, deluge theworld with champagne. Diamonds, _diamonds_ must win hearts. I havewatched you in a deeper, darker, madder whirl, while I have seen fair, blooming flowers wither in the hot hands of drunken licentiousness. Oh, Becky Sharp! Oh, _Dame aux Camellias_! you are but single dandelions ina parterre of heliotropes!

 * * * * *

There was hurrying to and fro on the broad decks. Bustling cabin-boysrushed hither and thither with great baskets of stores; thejauntily-arrayed stewardess chatted saucily with her friends in theshore-boats; sailors slipped quietly over the bulwarks with theirsecretly-collected menageries of pets; watermen contended stoutly at thegangway for a landing near the steps; and dusky _cameradas_ cursed, inbroken French and Portuguese, at the weight of the trunks. Here anaturalist trembled with anxiety for the fate of a coral; there abird-fancier worked himself into a small frenzy at the jostling of bigparrots. Bones, fossils, plants, bottled fish, bananas, oranges, andmangoes, were mingled in one promiscuous heap. Monkeys of all tribes andshades of complexion, from the golden Mumasitte to the fierce Machaca, were crowded pell-mell into passages; and forcing them against thebulkheads were boxes of wine, jellies, and _doces_ in theirinfinitesimal variety. Men and women, crouching in retired places, hurried through their few broken words of parting, and eyes were driedfor the great heart-throb left for the very last. Off in the paintedboats, ship-chandlers smilingly bowed their _bon voyage_, and facespallid with grief gazed with swollen eyes at loved ones convulsed withemotion. The gorgeous custom-house officer has smoked his last cigaretteand taken his last "dispatch;" the belated passenger, whose agonizingshrieks and spasmodic contortions finally attracted the attention of thecaptain, is at length, carpet-bag in hand, on board, and the sharp crashof the gong severs the lingering groups. 

Who ever made an ocean voyage undismayed by the knell! It is thetrumpet-tongue of reality, awakening the mind from the lethargy of itsdistress. The woe of separation, the terror of the journey, the vagueapprehension of the future, meeting, burst upon you in the fullness oftheir stern reality. The bewildered mortal turns to gaze at thecompanions of his danger, casts a lingering look on those he has leftbehind; the groaning paddles, with reluctant plunges, begin their wearylabor; the faces of the cheering crowd, one by one, drop out of thepicture, until distance swallows the whole, and those nearer and dearerthan all earth beside become a memory. 

Far aft, under the waving tricolor, stood the woman of our story. Herfingers twined carelessly through the glittering necklace thrust intoher hand as Percy Reed clambered into his boat, and her eyes restedsadly on an ungainly transport, already freighting with its cargo ofmortality for the sacrifice at Humaita. The golden glow of the harborwas lost in the chilly mist; the bare mountain-tops loomed bleaklythrough the piles of cloudy haze. White waves curled dismally at thebase of the Pao de Assucar, and the weird shrieks of the sea-gulls onthe rocks that jutted around it made the dreariness more desolate. Farout in the trackless waste the sky lowered gloomily over the wearywaters. Fit emblem of her path through life--dark was the picture, threatening the surroundings. 

Pray for the woman doomed to a calling she cannot but despise! Pray forthe being overflowing with good thoughts toward all mankind, sentencedto "tread the wine-press alone!" God have mercy upon us miserablesinners!

THE END.