Chapter VI: Front Matter (6)

For the present, wells that were formerly pumped at a profit are biding their time; for at present prices of oil operations upon them would be ruinous. This renders the computation of the weekly yield of the Oil Creek region comparatively easy. There are at the present time not far from one hundred flowing wells along the valley of the creek, producing probably on an average about forty thousand barrels per week. A portion of this is refined in the county, but by far the largest part is shipped to a distance, either by the Alleghany River by way of Pittsburg, or by the Philadelphia and Erie or Atlantic and Great Western Railroads to the Eastern markets.

The necessities of the trade have given rise to many ingenious inventions in getting the oil to market. The wells extend along Oil Creek for a distance of about fourteen miles from its mouth. The ground is not favorable for land carriage, as the valley is narrow and the stream tortuous. The creek itself is too small for navigation under ordinary circumstances, and a railroad with steam power would be in the highest degree dangerous. To compensate for all these difficulties, a system of artificial navigation has been adopted. Throughout the whole distance, at intervals of perhaps a mile, dams have been constructed across the creek, with draws in the centre, that can be easily opened at the proper time. In this way 'pond freshets' are arranged one or two days in a week. By the appointed time, all persons having oil to run out of the creek have their boats ready, and as the water from the upper dam raises the creek below, the fleet of boats sets out. Each successive dam raises the water to a higher level, and as the fleet proceeds, small at first, it increases until, as it approaches the river, it often numbers two hundred boats, bearing with them not less than ten thousand barrels of petroleum.

The advent of this fleet of boats to the mouth of the creek is in the highest degree exciting. As boat after boat rushes into the river, there is the dashing to and fro of the boatmen, and the shouts of the multitude on the shore. Here and there a collision occurs that often results in the crushing of the feebler boat, and the indiscriminate mingling of boatmen, fragments of the broken craft, oil, and fixtures in one common ruin. In this fleet the form and variety of boats beggars all description. Sometimes there is the orthodox flatboat, filled with iron-bound barrels, with an air of respectability hovering around it. Next will follow a rude scow, and close upon it an unwieldy 'bulk,' into which the oil has been pumped at the well. After this, perhaps, may be seen a rude nondescript, that surely was never dreamed of outside the oil region. It consists of a series of rough ladders, constructed of tall saplings. Between each pair of rounds in these ladders is placed a barrel of oil, floating in the water, but kept in position by its hamper. A number of these ladders are lashed together, until the float contains two or three hundred barrels of oil.

The bulks spoken of are about sixteen feet square and two or three feet in depth, divided internally into bulk-heads of perhaps four feet square, to prevent any undue agitation of the oil by the motion of the boat, and are sometimes decked over. These unpromising boats, as well as the ladder floats, are, during favorable weather, often run to Pittsburg with entire safety. Steamboats, however, run up to the mouth of Oil Creek during the time of high water, and afford the safest and most expeditious means of transportation.

As to the abundance of the supply in this region, there can be but little doubt. Wells seem at times to become exhausted, but it is from local causes. At times a cavity may be tapped that has been supplied from a very small avenue, and may be readily exhausted, but exhausted only to be refilled again. The fact that wells do not interfere with each other, even when but fifty feet apart, is evidence that the supply is not confined to a limited stratum, but is drawn from the great deeps beneath. The existence of the ancient oil pits, before alluded to, assures us that the supply has been continued for centuries; and observation confirms this, as we have noticed the hitherto unused treasure bubbling up silently through the crevices in the rocks and gradually evaporating amid the sands, or arising in the beds of the streams and floating down upon their surface. The history of the petroleum trade in other lands encourages us as to the abundance of the supply in our own. In the northern part of Italy, petroleum has been collected for more than two hundred years, without any intimation that the supply is being exhausted. In Burmah a supply has been drawn from the earth for an unknown period, and so far are these wells from exhaustion that they yield at the present time over twenty-five millions of gallons per annum. We may well suppose, then, that the treasure brought to light in such abundance in our day will not be readily exhausted--that as the coals are found in illimitable abundance for fuel as the forests fail, petroleum for illuminating purposes will be found in like profusion.

We have said that the petroleum trade has known no infancy, but has sprung at once into maturity. The oil wells of Venango County alone produced, during the first year of their operation, more oil than the entire product of the whale fisheries during the most favorable and prosperous year in their history. At the present time, after a lapse of little more than two years, the daily product of the wells on Oil Creek alone is computed to be over six thousand barrels. And in this neighborhood the quantity might be wellnigh doubled, were it not for the low price the product commands.

Petroleum differs in its characteristics in different localities. It is usually heavier in the shallow wells than in those that are deeper. Ordinarily it is of a greenish hue, that changes to a reddish as the oil becomes lighter and more evaporative. It is all characterized by a strong and pungent odor peculiar to itself. The gravity of the various kinds of oil is ascertained by the oleometer. The lighter oils are found on Oil Creek, and are about 40° to 46° Baumé; at Franklin, from 30° to 32°.

It is difficult to speak of the uses of petroleum at the present time, for these uses have not yet been fully developed. In its refined state it is preëminent as an illuminator. In this character it yields the palm to gas in matters of convenience and neatness, but is superior to it on the score of general adaptation and economy. Besides, the quality of the light is superior to that of gas, being soft, mild, tranquil, and exceedingly white. In the rural districts, where coal gas is impracticable, it would be an intolerable calamity to be obliged to return to the use of the old tallow candle that was the main dependence in years gone by. As an article of fuel, it has been used to some extent in the oil regions, but the appliances have been so rude that its use has not been general. When proper machinery shall have been invented, no doubt it will be a most important item of fuel in ocean navigation as well as in railway travel, conducing alike to economy of space and to ease of manipulation.

In the manufacture of gas it has already been brought into successful use, both in this country and in England, and has been found most valuable alike in the quality of the product and in the economy of its production.

As a medicinal agent it has long been employed in this country. It was used by the Indians in this way when the country was first discovered. It was also held in high estimation by the early settlers in what are now called the oil regions, for the medication of cuts and bruises, as well as an internal curative. It formed the staple of the British and American oils that were sold largely and at high rates throughout the country. It is a remarkable fact that since the quantity has increased so largely the popular faith has been correspondingly weakened in its medical efficacy.

Further uses are developed in the process of refining. This latter is exceedingly simple. The crude oil is placed in an iron retort connected with a coil of pipe in a vessel of cold water. Heat is then applied to the retort, when the process of distillation commences. The first product is a light-colored, volatile substance, sometimes called naphtha, that is very explosive. This substance is used in the place of spirits of turpentine in the preparation of paints and varnishes, and, after further treatment, in removing paints and grease from clothing. The next product from the retort is the refined fluid for illumination. This is of a yellow color, with a bluish tinge and powerful odor, requiring further treatment before it is ready for the lamp. This treatment consists in placing it in a cistern lined with lead, and agitating it with a portion of sulphuric acid. The acid and impurities having subsided, the oil is drawn off, and further agitated with soda lye, and finally with water, when it is ready for use. After this a coarse oil for the lubrication of machinery is produced. Paraffine is another product resulting from this distillation. It is a white, tasteless, and inodorous substance, used in the manufacture of candles. The residuum in the retort may be applied to various useful purposes. It is sometimes used as fuel, and sometimes takes the place of coal tar in the arts, and by chemical processes is made to yield products useful in the laboratory and in the manufactory.

But the æsthetics connected with this distillation must not be passed by in silence. On a bright, sunshiny day we see a bright globule of petroleum rising from the bottom of the stream. As it reaches the surface of the water it disperses, and, as it glides away, all the colors of the rainbow are reflected from its undulating surface.

'What radiant changes strike th' astonished sight!
What glowing hues of mingled shade and light!
Not equal beauties gild the lucid west
With parting beams o'er all profusely drest,
Not lovelier colors paint the vernal dawn,
When Orient dews impearl th' enamelled lawn,
Than in its waves in bright suffusion flow,
That now with gold empyreal seem to glow;
Now in pellucid sapphires meet the view,
And emulate the soft celestial hue;
Now beams a flaming crimson on the eye,
And now assume the purple's deeper dye.
But here description clouds each shining ray--
What terms of art can Nature's powers display?'

We gaze upon those colors, ever changing in their lustre and variety, until imagination revels in its most delightful dreams, suggesting thoughts of the good and beautiful, and reminding how beauty lingers amid the most unpromising things of earth! And just as the bow that spans the mantling cloud reminds us of all beautiful things that glow around its antitype that spans the emerald throne on high, so, as we gaze upon the prismatic tints that are reflected from the oily surface, we dream of all that is beautiful in color and gorgeous in tinted radiance, as being hidden amid the elements of petroleum.

This dream has its fulfilment amid the processes of distillation and treatment. One product in these processes is called aniline, that is, the base of those beautiful colors so popular with ladies these last days--Mauve, Magenta, and Solferino. And in process of time, no doubt, the most delicate colors for flower and landscape painting will be educed, that will give a new impetus to the fine arts, and to the development of taste in our midst.

And now where shall we look for the origin of this treasure? From what elements is it elaborated? We cannot go with the great Chemist to his laboratory and look upon the ingredients, and notice the treatment used there. Science, although denominated the 'star eyed,' cannot penetrate the mighty strata of everlasting rocks that lie beneath us, and reveal to us these mysteries of nature. 'There is a path which no fowl knoweth, and which the vulture's eye hath not seen: the lion's whelps have not trodden it, nor the fierce lion passed by it. He putteth forth His hand upon the rock; he overturneth the mountains by the roots. He cutteth out rivers among the rocks; and His eye seeth every precious thing. He bindeth the floods from overflowing; and the thing that is hid, bringeth He forth to light.'

Nature has her mysteries. The earth has its great secrets. But over all, a God of wisdom and goodness presides. Age after age has rolled by--change after change has agitated the history of Time, as forms of beauty have been moulded and marred--as songs of joy have been sung, and requiems of sadness chanted in the great highways and quiet bypaths of life--the living of bygone ages are slumbering quietly in the dust, and the living of the present are hurrying to the same 'pale realms of shade.' The nations of antiquity have passed off the stage with all their grandeur and littleness, and the nations of more modern times are surging and dashing to and fro, like ships in the wild chaos of ocean's storms. God alone is great!

Changes, too, have been quietly going on beneath us in the earth's bosom. A great dream of science, but perhaps an earnest, glowing reality, suggests that when God's almighty power was rolling away the curtains of darkness from earth's chaotic state--forming channels for oceans and rivers, and heaving up as barriers the mountain chains of earth, His eternal prescience of man's coming need induced Him to bury deep down in subterranean recesses the imperfect vegetable organisms of a pre-Adamic state, that in the ages to come, coals and oils and gases might be drawn forth to supply his wants.

We find in the coal deposits traces of ferns and leaves of gigantic stature and proportions. Casts of huge boles of trees are found among our fossils, inducing the belief that in some bygone age quantities of vegetable matter, absolutely enormous, were produced on the earth's surface. And it is presumable that in some of the revolutions that have agitated our planet, renovating, improving, and fitting it for a higher order of life, mighty deposits of this vegetable matter were buried up amid the rocky strata, to be evolved in new forms and products. And it may be that since the days of Adam this vegetable deposit has been undergoing the process of destructive distillation in the hidden regions beneath. In this process heat would not be wanting: it is furnished by the natural constitution of the earth.

Says Professor Hitchcock:

'Wherever in Europe or America the temperature of the air, water,
rocks, in deep excavations, has been ascertained, it has been found
higher than the mean temperature of the climate at the surface, and
experiments have been made at hundreds of places; it is found that
the heat of the earth increases rapidly as we descend below that
point in the earth's crust to which the sun's heat extends. The
mean rate of increase of heat has been stated by the British
Association to be one degree of Fahrenheit's thermometer for every
forty-five feet: at this rate all the known rocks in the earth
would be melted at a depth of sixty miles.'

Here, then, are all the conditions necessary to the production of petroleum. The vegetable deposit was made amid the rocks--we know not when; internal heat has been decomposing that matter, and setting free its gases; these again have been condensed as they approached the surface, and have filled up the cavities, and accumulated amid the rocks, until in these last days the earth has literally poured us out rivers of oil.

Still all this is mere speculation. The hidden path yet remains unexplored. It may always remain so; but we have the great fact of Divine providence in the rich and copious supply, that is none the less valuable because it flows from an unknown source, and comes to us through unexplored channels.

THE ANGELS OF WAR.

Two angels sat on a war-cloud, watching the din of the fight,
One was an angel of darkness, and one was an angel of light.
The first looked down and smiled, with fearful, fiendish glee:
'Of all earth's sights,' he shouted, 'this is the one for me!
Where is your God in heaven? and where on earth is your Christ?
What have your laws and your gospels, your churches and sabbaths sufficed--
That here in this freest land, and now in this ripest age,
Men give up reason and manhood for brutal fury and rage?
Men who have prattled of peace, of brotherhood, freedom, and right!
Here is a thirst which is deeper! See how your Christians can fight!
Louder than savages' war-whoop, fiercer than savages' ire,
List to the din of their cannon, look on its murderous fire.
These be thy triumphs, O Freedom! Christendom, this is thy good!
Deadliest weapons of warfare, earth's reddest vintage of blood;
The fate of states and nations, the fate of freedom and right
Staked on the nerve of a man, poised on a cannon ball's flight;
A land of widows and orphans, a land of mourning and pain,
Whose air is heavy with sighs, whose soil is red with the slain.
Say, Earth, art thou drawing nearer that age, the promised of yore,
When swords shall be beaten to ploughshares, and war be learned no more?
Is the Prince of Peace appearing of whom your prophets tell?
Lo, here is the Prince of Darkness, and here is the reign of Hell.'

And the angel laughed in scorn, and said, in his fearful glee:
'Aha, of all earth's sights, this is the one for me.'

The other angel spake, and his face was fair and bright,
'And of all earth's sights to me this is the noblest sight.
At the touch of a hand profane laid on its sacred things,
Countless as heaven's bright army, to arms a nation springs.
Thousands of peaceful homes give up their cherished ones,
Young wives give up their bridegrooms, old mothers give their sons;
Manhood gives up its work, and eager youth its dream:
The reign of sense is over, the spirit rules supreme.
No victims of brute rage, no hirelings trained to fight,
But men in calmest manhood, fresh from the hearthstone's light.
This right arm, maimed and crippled, was dedicate to art;
All high and noble purpose beat with that pulseless heart;
Pure bridal kisses linger upon this gory brow;
On those fair curls a mother's blessing rested even now:
Such men,--the best and dearest, the very life of life,
Earth has no ransom for them,--have hastened to the strife.
'The nobler days have come when men must do and die,'
Methinks I hear them say, with calm, uplifted eye:
'Our human lives are nothing; thy will, great God, is all;
We come to work thy work, we have heard the heavenly call;

Thy right hand holdeth chance, thy strong arm ruleth fate,
To thee, the God of battles, our lives are consecrate.
Not at the foeman's call, not to the foeman's sword,
But we come at the disposal and the summons of the Lord.'

'This,' said the second angel, and his smile was fair to see,
'Of all the sights on earth is the noblest one to me;
No brutelike men are these, nay, rather to my eyes,
Men raised to angels' heights of calm self-sacrifice.'
Yet he wept, and weeping prayed, 'Oh, may these sons of men
Keep faith and strength and patience, till thou comest, Christ, again!'

A TRAGEDY OF ERROR.

I.

A low English phaeton was drawn up before the door of the post office of a French seaport town. In it was seated a lady, with her veil down and her parasol held closely over her face. My story begins with a gentleman coming out of the office and handing her a letter.

He stood beside the carriage a moment before getting in. She gave him her parasol to hold, and then lifted her veil, showing a very pretty face. This couple seemed to be full of interest for the passers by, most of whom stared hard and exchanged significant glances. Such persons as were looking on at the moment saw the lady turn very pale as her eyes fell on the direction of the letter. Her companion saw it too, and instantly stepping into the place beside her, took up the reins, and drove rapidly along the main street of the town, past the harbor, to an open road skirting the sea. Here he slackened pace. The lady was leaning back, with her veil down again, and the letter lying open in her lap. Her attitude was almost that of unconsciousness, and he could see that her eyes were closed. Having satisfied himself of this, he hastily possessed himself of the letter, and read as follows:

SOUTHAMPTON, _July 16th, 18--._

MY DEAR HORTENSE: You will see by my postmark that I am a thousand leagues nearer home than when I last wrote, but I have hardly time to explain the change. M. P---- has given me a most unlooked-for _congé_. After so many months of separation, we shall be able to spend a few weeks together. God be praised! We got in here from New York this morning, and I have had the good luck to find a vessel, the _Armorique_, which sails straight for H----. The mail leaves directly, but we shall probably be detained a few hours by the tide; so this will reach you a day before I arrive: the master calculates we shall get in early Thursday morning. Ah, Hortense! how the time drags! Three whole days. If I did not write from New York, it is because I was unwilling to torment you with an expectancy which, as it is, I venture to hope, you will find long enough. Farewell. To a warmer greeting! Your devoted C.B.

When the gentleman replaced the paper on his companion's lap, his face was almost as pale as hers. For a moment he gazed fixedly and vacantly before him, and a half-suppressed curse escaped his lips. Then his eyes reverted to his neighbor. After some hesitation, during which he allowed the reins to hang so loose that the horse lapsed into a walk, he touched her gently on the shoulder.

'Well, Hortense,' said he, in a very pleasant tone, 'what's the matter; have you fallen asleep?'

Hortense slowly opened her eyes, and, seeing that they had left the town behind them, raised her veil. Her features were stiffened with horror.

'Read that,' said she, holding out the open letter.

The gentleman took it, and pretended to read it again.

'Ah! M. Bernier returns. Delightful!' he exclaimed.

'How, delightful?' asked Hortense; 'we mustn't jest at so serious a crisis, my friend.'

'True,' said the other, 'it will be a solemn meeting. Two years of absence is a great deal.'

'O Heaven! I shall never dare to face him,' cried Hortense, bursting into tears.

Covering her face with one hand, she put out the other toward that of her friend. But he was plunged in so deep a reverie, that he did not perceive the movement. Suddenly he came to, aroused by her sobs.

'Come, come,' said he, in the tone of one who wishes to coax another into mistrust of a danger before which he does not himself feel so secure but that the sight of a companion's indifference will give him relief. 'What if he does come? He need learn nothing. He will stay but a short time, and sail away again as unsuspecting as he came.'

'Learn nothing! You surprise me. Every tongue that greets him, if only to say _bon jour_, will wag to the tune of a certain person's misconduct.'

'Bah! People don't think about us quite as much as you fancy. You and I, _n'est-ce-pas_? we have little time to concern ourselves about our neighbors' failings. Very well, other people are in the same box, better or worse. When a ship goes to pieces on those rocks out at sea, the poor devils who are pushing their way to land on a floating spar, don't bestow many glances on those who are battling with the waves beside them. Their eyes are fastened to the shore, and all their care is for their own safety. In life we are all afloat on a tumultuous sea; we are all struggling toward some _terra firma_ of wealth or love or leisure. The roaring of the waves we kick up about us and the spray we dash into our eyes deafen and blind us to the sayings and doings of our fellows. Provided we climb high and dry, what do we care for them?'

'Ay, but if we don't? When we've lost hope ourselves, we want to make others sink. We hang weights about their necks, and dive down into the dirtiest pools for stones to cast at them. My friend, you don't feel the shots which are not aimed at you. It isn't of you the town talks, but of me: a poor woman throws herself off the pier yonder, and drowns before a kind hand has time to restrain her, and her corpse floats over the water for all the world to look at. When her husband comes up to see what the crowd means, is there any lack of kind friends to give him the good news of his wife's death?'

'As long as a woman is light enough to float, Hortense, she is not counted drowned. It's only when she sinks out of sight that they give her up.'

Hortense was silent a moment, looking at the sea with swollen eyes.

'Louis,' she said at last, 'we were speaking metaphorically: I have half a mind to drown myself literally.'

'Nonsense!' replied Louis; 'an accused pleads 'not guilty,' and hangs himself in prison. What do the papers say? People talk, do they? Can't you talk as well as they? A woman is in the wrong from the moment she holds her tongue and refuses battle. And that you do too often. That pocket handkerchief is always more or less of a flag of truce.'

'I'm sure I don't know,' said Hortense indifferently; 'perhaps it is.'

There are moments of grief in which certain aspects of the subject of our distress seems as irrelevant as matters entirely foreign to it. Her eyes were still fastened on the sea. There was another silence. 'O my poor Charles!' she murmured, at length, 'to what a hearth do you return!'

'Hortense,' said the gentleman, as if he had not heard her, although, to a third person, it would have appeared that it was because he had done so that he spoke: 'I do not need to tell you that it will never happen to me to betray our secret. But I will answer for it that so long as M. Bernier is at home no mortal shall breathe a syllable of it.'

'What of that?' sighed Hortense. 'He will not be with me ten minutes without guessing it.'

'Oh, as for that,' said her companion, dryly, 'that's your own affair.'

'Monsieur de Meyrau!' cried the lady.

'It seems to me,' continued the other, 'that in making such a guarantee, I have done my part of the business.'

'Your part of the business!' sobbed Hortense.

M. de Meyrau made no reply, but with a great cut of the whip sent the horse bounding along the road. Nothing more was said. Hortense lay back in the carriage with her face buried in her handkerchief, moaning. Her companion sat upright, with contracted brows and firmly set teeth, looking straight before him, and by an occasional heavy lash keeping the horse at a furious pace. A wayfarer might have taken him for a ravisher escaping with a victim worn out with resistance. Travellers to whom they were known would perhaps have seen a deep meaning in this accidental analogy. So, by a _détour_, they returned to the town.

When Hortense reached home, she went straight up to a little boudoir on the second floor, and shut herself in. This room was at the back of the house, and her maid, who was at that moment walking in the long garden which stretched down to the water, where there was a landing place for small boats, saw her draw in the window blind and darken the room, still in her bonnet and cloak. She remained alone for a couple of hours. At five o'clock, some time after the hour at which she was usually summoned to dress her mistress for the evening, the maid knocked at Hortense's door, and offered her services. Madame called out, from within, that she had a _migraine_, and would not be dressed.

'Can I get anything for madame?' asked Josephine; 'a _tisane_, a warm drink, something?'

'Nothing, nothing.'

'Will madame dine?'

'No.'

'Madame had better not go wholly without eating.'

'Bring me a bottle of wine--of brandy.'

Josephine obeyed. When she returned, Hortense was standing in the doorway, and as one of the shutters had meanwhile been thrown open, the woman could see that, although her mistress's hat had been tossed upon the sofa, her cloak had not been removed, and that her face was very pale. Josephine felt that she might not offer sympathy nor ask questions.

'Will madame have nothing more?' she ventured to say, as she handed her the tray.

Madame shook her head, and closed and locked the door.

Josephine stood a moment vexed, irresolute, listening. She heard no sound. At last she deliberately stooped down and applied her eye to the key-hole.

This is what she saw:

Her mistress had gone to the open window, and stood with her back to the door, looking out at the sea. She held the bottle by the neck in one hand, which hung listlessly by her side; the other was resting on a glass half filled with water, standing, together with an open letter, on a table beside her. She kept this position until Josephine began to grow tired of waiting. But just as she was about to arise in despair of gratifying her curiosity, madame raised the bottle and glass, and filled the latter full. Josephine looked more eagerly. Hortense held it a moment against the light, and then drained it down.

Josephine could not restrain an involuntary whistle. But her surprise became amazement when she saw her mistress prepare to take a second glass. Hortense put it down, however, before its contents were half gone, as if struck by a sudden thought, and hurried across the room. She stooped down before a cabinet, and took out a small opera glass. With this she returned to the window, put it to her eyes, and again spent some moments in looking seaward. The purpose of this proceeding Josephine could not make out. The only result visible to her was that her mistress suddenly dropped the lorgnette on the table, and sank down on an armchair, covering her face with her hands.

Josephine could contain her wonderment no longer. She hurried down to the kitchen.

'Valentine,' said she to the cook, 'what on earth can be the matter with Madame? She will have no dinner, she is drinking brandy by the glassful, a moment ago she was looking out to sea with a lorgnette, and now she is crying dreadfully with an open letter in her lap.'

The cook looked up from her potato-peeling with a significant wink.

'What can it be,' said she, 'but that monsieur returns?'

II.

At six o'clock, Josephine and Valentine were still sitting together, discussing the probable causes and consequences of the event hinted at by the latter. Suddenly Madame Bernier's bell rang. Josephine was only too glad to answer it. She met her mistress descending the stairs, combed, cloaked, and veiled, with no traces of agitation, but a very pale face.

'I am going out,' said Madame Bernier; 'if M. le Vicomte comes, tell him I am at my mother-in-law's, and wish him to wait till I return.'

Josephine opened the door, and let her mistress pass; then stood watching her as she crossed the court.

'Her mother-in-law's,' muttered the maid; 'she has the face!'

When Hortense reached the street, she took her way, not through the town, to the ancient quarter where that ancient lady, her husband's mother, lived, but in a very different direction. She followed the course of the quay, beside the harbor, till she entered a crowded region, chiefly the residence of fishermen and boatmen. Here she raised her veil. Dusk was beginning to fall. She walked as if desirous to attract as little observation as possible, and yet to examine narrowly the population in the midst of which she found herself. Her dress was so plain that there was nothing in her appearance to solicit attention; yet, if for any reason a passer by had happened to notice her, he could not have helped being struck by the contained intensity with which she scrutinized every figure she met. Her manner was that of a person seeking to recognize a long-lost friend, or perhaps, rather, a long-lost enemy, in a crowd. At last she stopped before a flight of steps, at the foot of which was a landing place for half a dozen little boats, employed to carry passengers between the two sides of the port, at times when the drawbridge above was closed for the passage of vessels. While she stood she was witness of the following scene:

A man, in a red woollen fisherman's cap, was sitting on the top of the steps, smoking the short stump of a pipe, with his face to the water. Happening to turn about, his eye fell on a little child, hurrying along the quay toward a dingy tenement close at hand, with a jug in its arms.

'Hullo, youngster!' cried the man; 'what have you got there? Come here.'

The little child looked back, but, instead of obeying, only quickened its walk.

'The devil take you, come here!' repeated the man, angrily, 'or I'll wring your beggarly neck. You won't obey your own uncle, eh?'

The child stopped, and ruefully made its way to its relative, looking around several times toward the house, as if to appeal to some counter authority.

'Come, make haste!' pursued the man, 'or I shall go and fetch you. Move!'

The child advanced to within half a dozen paces of the steps, and then stood still, eyeing the man cautiously, and hugging the jug tight.

'Come on, you little beggar, come up close.'

The youngster kept a stolid silence, however, and did not budge. Suddenly its self-styled uncle leaned forward, swept out his arm, clutched hold of its little sunburnt wrist, and dragged it toward him.

'Why didn't you come when you were called?' he asked, running his disengaged hand into the infant's frowsy mop of hair, and shaking its head until it staggered. 'Why didn't you come, you unmannerly little brute, eh?--eh?--eh?' accompanying every interrogation with a renewed shake.

The child made no answer. It simply and vainly endeavored to twist its neck around under the man's grip, and transmit some call for succor to the house.

'Come, keep your head straight. Look at me, and answer me. What's in that jug? Don't lie.'

'Milk.'

'Who for?'

'Granny.'

'Granny be hanged.'

The man disengaged his hands, lifted the jug from the child's feeble grasp, tilted it toward the light, surveyed its contents, put it to his lips, and exhausted them. The child, although liberated, did not retreat. It stood watching its uncle drink until he lowered the jug. Then, as he met its eyes, it said:

'It was for the baby.'

For a moment the man was irresolute. But the child seemed to have a foresight of the parental resentment, for it had hardly spoken when it darted backward and scampered off, just in time to elude a blow from the jug, which the man sent clattering at its heels. When it was out of sight, he faced about to the water again, and replaced the pipe between his teeth with a heavy scowl and a murmur that sounded to Madame Bernier very like--'I wish the baby'd choke.'

Hortense was a mute spectator of this little drama. When it was over, she turned around, and retraced her steps twenty yards with her hand to her head. Then she walked straight back, and addressed the man.

'My good man,' she said, in a very pleasant voice, 'are you the master of one of these boats?'

He looked up at her. In a moment the pipe was out of his mouth, and a broad grin in its place. He rose, with his hand to his cap.

'I am, madame, at your service.'

'Will you take me to the other side?'

'You don't need a boat; the bridge is closed,' said one of his comrades at the foot of the steps, looking that way.

'I know it,' said Madame Bernier; 'but I wish to go to the cemetery, and a boat will save me half a mile walking.'

'The cemetery is shut at this hour.'

'_Allons_, leave madame alone,' said the man first spoken to. 'This way, my lady.'

Hortense seated herself in the stern of the boat. The man took the sculls.

'Straight across? ' he asked.

Hortense looked around her. 'It's a fine evening,' said she; 'suppose you row me out to the lighthouse, and leave me at the point nearest the cemetery on our way back.'

'Very well,' rejoined the boatman; 'fifteen sous,' and began to pull lustily.

'_Allez_, I'll pay you well,' said Madame.

'Fifteen sous is the fare,' insisted the man.

'Give me a pleasant row, and I'll give you a hundred,' said Hortense.

Her companion said nothing. He evidently wished to appear not to have heard her remark. Silence was probably the most dignified manner of receiving a promise too munificent to be anything but a jest.

For some time this silence was maintained, broken only by the trickling of the oars and the sounds from the neighboring shores and vessels. Madame Bernier was plunged in a sidelong scrutiny of her ferryman's countenance. He was a man of about thirty-five. His face was dogged, brutal, and sullen. These indications were perhaps exaggerated by the dull monotony of his exercise. The eyes lacked a certain rascally gleam which had appeared in them when he was so _empressé_ with the offer of his services. The face was better then--that is, if vice is better than ignorance. We say a countenance is 'lit up' by a smile; and indeed that momentary flicker does the office of a candle in a dark room. It sheds a ray upon the dim upholstery of our souls. The visages of poor men, generally, know few alternations. There is a large class of human beings whom fortune restricts to a single change of expression, or, perhaps, rather to a single expression. Ah me! the faces which wear either nakedness or rags; whose repose is stagnation, whose activity vice; ingorant at their worst, infamous at their best!

'Don't pull too hard,' said Hortense at last. 'Hadn't you better take breath a moment?'

'Madame is very good,' said the man, leaning upon his oars. 'But if you had taken me by the hour,' he added, with a return of the vicious grin, 'you wouldn't catch me loitering.'

'I suppose you work very hard,' said Madame Bernier.

The man gave a little toss of his head, as if to intimate the inadequacy of any supposition to grasp the extent of his labors.

'I've been up since four o'clock this morning, wheeling bales and boxes on the quay, and plying my little boat. Sweating without five minutes' intermission. _C'est comme ça_. Sometimes I tell my mate I think I'll take a plunge in the basin to dry myself. Ha! ha! ha!'

'And of course you gain little,' said Madame Bernier.

'Worse than nothing. Just what will keep me fat enough for starvation to feed on.'

'How? you go without your necessary food?'

'Necessary is a very elastic word, madame. You can narrow it down, so that in the degree above nothing it means luxury. My necessary food is sometimes thin air. If I don't deprive myself of that, it's because I can't.'

'Is it possible to be so unfortunate?'

'Shall I tell you what I have eaten to-day?'

'Do,' said Madame Bernier.

'A piece of black bread and a salt herring are all that have passed my lips for twelve hours.'

'Why don't you get some better work?'

'If I should die to-night,' pursued the boatman, heedless of the question, in the manner of a man whose impetus on the track of self-pity drives him past the signal flags of relief, 'what would there be left to bury me? These clothes I have on might buy me a long box. For the cost of this shabby old suit, that hasn't lasted me a twelve-month, I could get one that I wouldn't wear out in a thousand years. _La bonne idée!_'

'Why don't you get some work that pays better?' repeated Hortense.

The man dipped his oars again.

'Work that pays better? I must work for work. I must earn that too. Work is wages. I count the promise of the next week's employment the best part of my Saturday night's pocketings. Fifty casks rolled from the ship to the storehouse mean two things: thirty sous and fifty more to roll the next day. Just so a crushed hand, or a dislocated shoulder, mean twenty francs to the apothecary and _bon jour_ to my business.'

'Are you married?' asked Hortense.

'No, I thank you. I'm not cursed with that blessing. But I've an old mother, a sister, and three nephews, who look to me for support. The old woman's too old to work; the lass is too lazy, and the little ones are too young. But they're none of them too old or young to be hungry, _allez_. I'll be hanged if I'm not a father to them all.'

There was a pause. The man had resumed rowing. Madame Bernier sat motionless, still examining her neighbor's physiognomy. The sinking sun, striking full upon his face, covered it with an almost lurid glare. Her own features being darkened against the western sky, the direction of them was quite indistinguishable to her companion.

'Why don't you leave the place?' she said at last.

'Leave it! how?' he replied, looking up with the rough avidity with which people of his class receive proposals touching their interests, extending to the most philanthropic suggestions that mistrustful eagerness with which experience has taught them to defend their own side of a bargain--the only form of proposal that she has made them acquainted with.

'Go somewhere else,' said Hortense.

'Where, for instance!'

'To some new country--America.'

The man burst into a loud laugh. Madame Bernier's face bore more evidence of interest in the play of his features than of that discomfiture which generally accompanies the consciousness of ridicule.

'There's a lady's scheme for you! If you'll write for furnished apartments, _là-bas_, I don't desire anything better. But no leaps in the dark for me. America and Algeria are very fine words to cram into an empty stomach when you're lounging in the sun, out of work, just as you stuff tobacco into your pipe and let the smoke curl around your head. But they fade away before a cutlet and a bottle of wine. When the earth grows so smooth and the air so pure that you can see the American coast from the pier yonder, then I'll make up my bundle. Not before.'

'You're afraid, then, to risk anything?'

'I'm afraid of nothing, _moi_. But I am not a fool either. I don't want to kick away my _sabots_ till I am certain of a pair of shoes. I can go barefoot here. I don't want to find water where I counted on land. As for America, I've been there already.'

'Ah! you've been there?'

'I've been to Brazil and Mexico and California and the West Indies.'

'Ah!'

'I've been to Asia, too.'

'Ah!'

'_Pardio_, to China and India. Oh, I've seen the world! I've been three times around the Cape.'

'You've been a seaman then?'

'Yes, ma'am; fourteen years.'

'On what ship?'

'Bless your heart, on fifty ships.'

'French?'

'French and English and Spanish; mostly Spanish.'

'Ah?'

'Yes, and the more fool I was.'

'How so?'

'Oh, it was a dog's life. I'd drown any dog that would play half the mean tricks I used to see.'

'And you never had a hand in any yourself?'

'_Pardon_, I gave what I got. I was as good a Spaniard and as great a devil as any. I carried my knife with the best of them, and drew it as quickly, and plunged it as deep. I've got scars, if you weren't a lady. But I'd warrant to find you their mates on a dozen Spanish hides!'

He seemed to pull with renewed vigor at the recollection. There was a short silence.

'Do you suppose,' said Madame Bernier, in a few moments--'do you remember--that is, can you form any idea whether you ever killed a man?'

There was a momentary slackening of the boatman's oars. He gave a sharp glance at his passenger's countenance, which was still so shaded by her position, however, as to be indistinguishable. The tone of her interrogation had betrayed a simple, idle curiosity. He hesitated a moment, and then gave one of those conscious, cautious, dubious smiles, which may cover either a criminal assumption of more than the truth or a guilty repudiation of it.

'_Mon Dieu!_' said he, with a great shrug, 'there's a question!... I never killed one without a reason.'

'Of course not,' said Hortense.

'Though a reason in South America, _ma foi!_' added the boatman, 'wouldn't be a reason here.'

'I suppose not. What would be a reason there?'

'Well, if I killed a man in Valparaiso--I don't say I did, mind--it's because my knife went in farther than I intended.'

'But why did you use it at all?'

'I didn't. If I had, it would have been because he drew his against me.'

'And why should he have done so?'

'_Ventrebleu!_ for as many reasons as there are craft in the harbor.'

'For example?'

'Well, that I should have got a place in a ship's company that he was trying for.'

'Such things as that? is it possible?'

'Oh, for smaller things. That a lass should have given me a dozen oranges she had promised him.'

'How odd!' said Madame Bernier, with a shrill kind of laugh. 'A man who owed you a grudge of this kind would just come up and stab you, I suppose, and think nothing of it?'

'Precisely. Drive a knife up to the hilt into your back, with an oath, and slice open a melon with it, with a song, five minutes afterward.'

'And when a person is afraid, or ashamed, or in some way unable to take revenge himself, does he--or it may be a woman--does she, get some one else to do it for her?'

'_Parbleu!_ Poor devils on the lookout for such work are as plentiful all along the South American coast as _commissionaires_ on the street corners here.' The ferryman was evidently surprised at the fascination possessed by this infamous topic for so lady-like a person; but having, as you see, a very ready tongue, it is probable that his delight in being able to give her information and hear himself talk were still greater. 'And then down there,' he went on, 'they never forget a grudge. If a fellow doesn't serve you one day, he'll do it another. A Spaniard's hatred is like lost sleep--you can put it off for a time, but it will gripe you in the end. The rascals always keep their promises to themselves.... An enemy on shipboard is jolly fun. It's like bulls tethered in the same field. You can't stand still half a minute except against a wall. Even when he makes friends with you, his favors never taste right. Messing with him is like drinking out of a pewter mug. And so it is everywhere. Let your shadow once flit across a Spaniard's path, and he'll always see it there. If you've never lived in any but these damned clockworky European towns, you can't imagine the state of things in a South American seaport--one half the population waiting round the corner for the other half. But I don't see that it's so much better here, where every man's a spy on every other. There you meet an assassin at every turn, here a _sergent de ville_..... At all events, the life _là bas_ used to remind me, more than anything else, of sailing in a shallow channel, where you don't know what infernal rock you may ground on. Every man has a standing account with his neighbor, just as madame has at her _fournisseur's_; and, _ma foi_, those are the only accounts they settle. The master of the _Santiago_ may pay me one of these days for the pretty names I heaved after him when we parted company, but he'll never pay me my wages.'

A short pause followed this exposition of the virtues of the Spaniard.

'You yourself never put a man out of the world, then?' resumed Hortense.

'Oh, _que si_!.... Are you horrified?'

'Not at all. I know that the thing is often justifiable.'

The man was silent a moment, perhaps with surprise, for the next thing he said was:

'Madame is Spanish?'

'In that, perhaps, I am,' replied Hortense.

Again her companion was silent. The pause was prolonged. Madame Bernier broke it by a question which showed that she had been following the same train of thought.

'What is sufficient ground in this country for killing a man?'

The boatman sent a loud laugh over the water. Hortense drew her cloak closer about her.

'I'm afraid there is none.'

'Isn't there a right of self-defence?'

'To be sure there is--it's one I ought to know something about. But it's one that _ces messieurs_ at the Palais make short work with.'

'In South America and those countries, when a man makes life insupportable to you, what do you do?'

'_Mon Dieu_! I suppose you kill him.'

'And in France?'

'I suppose you kill yourself. Ha! ha! ha!'

By this time they had reached the end of the great breakwater, terminating in a lighthouse, the limit, on one side, of the inner harbor. The sun had set.

'Here we are at the lighthouse,' said the man; 'it's growing dark. Shall we turn?'

Hortense rose in her place a few moments, and stood looking out to sea. 'Yes,' she said at last, 'you may go back--slowly.' When the boat had headed round she resumed her old position, and put one of her hands over the side, drawing it through the water as they moved, and gazing into the long ripples.

At last she looked up at her companion. Now that her face caught some of the lingering light of the west, he could see that it was deathly pale.

'You find it hard to get along in the world,' said she; 'I shall be very glad to help you.'

The man started, and stared a moment. Was it because this remark jarred upon the expression which he was able faintly to discern in her eyes? The next, he put his hand to his cap.

'Madame is very kind. What will you do?'

Madame Bernier returned his gaze.

'I will trust you.'

'Ah!'

'And reward you.'

'Ah? Madame has a piece of work for me?'

'A piece of work,' Hortense nodded.

The man said nothing, waiting apparently for an explanation. His face wore the look of lowering irritation which low natures feel at being puzzled.

'Are you a bold man?'

Light seemed to come in this question. The quick expansion of his features answered it. You cannot touch upon certain subjects with an inferior but by the sacrifice of the barrier which separates you from him. There are thoughts and feelings and glimpses and foreshadowings of thoughts which level all inequalities of station.

'I'm bold enough,' said the boatman, 'for anything _you_ want me to do.'

'Are you bold enough to commit a crime?'

'Not for nothing.'

'If I ask you to endanger your peace of mind, to risk your personal safety for me, it is certainly not as a favor. I will give you ten times the weight in gold of every grain by which your conscience grows heavier in my service.'

The man gave her a long, hard look through the dim light.

'I know what you want me to do,' he said at last.

'Very well,' said Hortense; 'will you do it?'

He continued to gaze. She met his eyes like a woman who has nothing more to conceal.

'State your case.'

'Do you know a vessel named the _Armorique_, a steamer?'

'Yes; it runs from Southampton.'