Chapter VI (1)

CONGRATULATIONS.--RECONCILIATION.--TRUE LOVE TRIUMPHANT.--THE
WEDDING.--THE END.

One of the first of Mr. Cowdrick’s friends who called to congratulate him upon the result of the painful ordeal to which he had been subjected was Father Tunicle.

“It must have been,” said the faithful pastor, “a terrible strain upon a man of delicate sensibility to sit there, uncertain what your fate would be. I sympathize with you heartily, and rejoice that the end was not worse.”

“You are very kind,” said Mr. Cowdrick, smiling. “Life is full of sorrows and afflictions for all of us; and of course I cannot expect to escape bearing my share of them.”

“No; and it is a comfort to reflect that these troubles are sent to us for our good. I shall expect you now to be a more efficient worker than ever at St. Cadmus’s.”

“I don’t know,” replied Mr. Cowdrick reflectively. “Possibly it might be better, all things considered, if I should not resume my official position in the church.”

“But, really, you must,” answered Father Tunicle. “You are still a member of the vestry, and matters will move more smoothly now, for Yetts has resigned. He was the thorn in my side.”

“Where has Yetts gone?”

“I believe he has taken a pew at St. Sepulchre’s, which, you know, is extremely Low Church. Poor Yetts! He has fallen very far! Do you know that the rector of St. Sepulchre’s positively will not use a red altar-cloth on martyrs’ days; and that he walks to church with an umbrella upon the Festival of St. Swithin,--a positive insult to the memory of the saint.”

“Incredible!” exclaimed Mr. Cowdrick.

“I have it upon good authority. Such practices do much to hinder the progress of the work of evangelization.”

“I should think so,” said Mr. Cowdrick.

“And speaking of that work,” continued Father Tunicle, “I want to obtain a little pecuniary assistance from you. I have just prepared for circulation among the depraved poor a little tract upon the sufferings of St. Blasius of Cappadocia, but I have not money enough to print it. Can you help me?”

“Certainly. How much do you want?”

“Fifty dollars are all that I ought to ask for. That sum, I think, will enable me to increase the religious fervor of the poor in my parish to a notable extent.”

Mr. Cowdrick handed the money to the devoted clergyman, who thereupon withdrew.

Another early caller upon Mr. Cowdrick was an agent of the Widows’ and Orphans’ Life Assurance Company, in which the banker held a policy. This gentleman, representing a corporation which a week before was preparing to take legal measures to contest Mrs. Cowdrick’s claim, brought with him the Company’s last annual statement, and a formidable array of other documents, with an intent to persuade Mr. Cowdrick to have his life insured for an additional twenty thousand dollars.

Upon the second day after Mr. Cowdrick’s release, also, the De Flukes sent to Mrs. Cowdrick an invitation to a kettle-drum, together with a note explaining that a former unfortunate recall of an invitation was due to the colossal stupidity of a servant who had since been dismissed.

This very considerate behavior on the part of the De Flukes had a favorable effect upon Mrs. Cowdrick’s spirits. She brightened up in a wonderful manner, and there seemed to be every reason for believing that her load of sorrow was lifted at last.

Colonel Hoker, writing in the _Crab_ of the trial and its results, explained to his readers that the verdict was rather technical than indicative of intentional wrong-doing, and he congratulated the community that one of its most enterprising and valuable citizens had succeeded in escaping from the toils of complicated financial transactions in which he had been enveloped by injudicious friends.

Colonel Hoker was disposed to criticise with some degree of severity Coroner McSorley’s absurd, not to say wicked, performances with the unearthed bones; but the violence of the indignation with which he contemplated the phenomenal stupidity and the grasping avarice of the coroner, with respect to the remains in question, was greatly tempered by the consideration that Coroner McSorley’s brother was sheriff of the county, with an advertising patronage estimated by good judges to amount to not less than fifty thousand dollars a year.

When Mr. Cowdrick received the note addressed to him by Mr. Weems, he replied briefly, asking the artist to call upon him at his residence; and when Mr. Weems did so, Mr. Cowdrick received him with gravity, and with some degree of coolness.

“Mr. Weems,” said the banker, “I sent for you because I wished to discuss with you the matter referred to in your note. My first impulse was to take no notice of the communication, for I will not conceal from you that your treatment of my daughter had embittered me against you to such an extent, that I felt as if I could never forgive you. But my child’s happiness must be considered before my own feelings. It is my duty and my privilege so to consider them; and, to be frank with you, her sufferings have been so intense within the last few days, that I have felt myself willing to make almost any sacrifice in order to alleviate them.”

“Miss Leonie is not ill, I trust?” asked Mr. Weems, with an admirably simulated look of alarm upon his countenance.

“Mr. Weems,” said Mr. Cowdrick, seriously, “it may be injudicious for me to say so to you, because it will give you an unfair advantage at the outset; but Leonie has been deeply distressed at your treatment of her. If I were a sentimental man, I should say that her heart is breaking. She refuses food, she is continually downcast and melancholy, and in her broken sleep she babbles continually of you.”

“Poor thing!” said Mr. Weems, wiping his eyes.

“Mrs. Cowdrick and I have been much distressed because of her condition; but we should have been at a loss for a remedy if your note had not suggested one.”

“I have been equally unhappy myself,” said Mr. Weems. “I wrote because I could find relief for my feelings in no other manner.”

“Now that you are here,” continued Mr. Cowdrick, “we might as well have a complete understanding. Are you prepared to make a proposition of any kind?”

“I should like to offer a suggestion, if I dared.”

“You have my permission to speak freely; and I would add, in order to remove any misapprehension, that Leonie Cowdrick need not seek an alliance unless she chooses to do so, for her parents are well able to maintain her in luxury.”

“Well, Mr. Cowdrick,” replied Mr. Weems, “what I have to say is, that if Leonie can forgive and forget the past, it will give me the greatest happiness to renew my engagement with her, and to return to the conditions that existed before that miserable quarrel occurred. Do you think she will consent?”

“Under some pressure from me and from her mother, I think she will. For my part, I am willing to overlook what has happened, and to receive you once more into my family.”

Mr. Cowdrick extended his hand, and Mr. Weems shook it warmly.

“And now, Mr. Weems,” said Mr. Cowdrick, “there’s another matter, of which I wish to speak. I refer to your art. Pardon me for asking you, but although I shall make some provision for Leonie, you, of course, must do something also. What is the condition of your art--in a financial sense, I mean?”

“Well, business is a little dull just at this moment.”

“I thought so. The proportion of old masters in the market to the purchasing population is too great. Can’t you take up something else?”

Mr. Weems reflected for a moment upon the painful lack of opportunities to rob banks with impunity and profit, and then said,--

“No; I am afraid not. I am a painter and must live by painting.”

“Just so; but why not paint pictures that can be sold readily?”

“There is no money in landscapes, still-life, or figure-pieces, unless a man has genius. A painter of ordinary powers has no chance.”

“But why not imitate genius, just as you imitate the old masters?”

“How do you mean?”

“Genius is apt to be eccentric. If you make a show of eccentricity, most persons will accept that as a sure token of genius. You want to be odd, novel, peculiar, altogether different from other people.”

“There may be something in that.”

“Paint a Venus with feet like a fishwoman, and with a cast in her eye. Paint a Moses with a moustache and spectacles. Daub off a jet-black night-scene, in which you can perceive nothing but absolute, impenetrable gloom, and label it ‘A Meditation upon Darkness;’ cover a canvas with blots of white paint, with nothing but the bowsprit of a ship visible, and call it ‘A Misty Morning in the Harbor.’ That is the way to provoke criticism and discussion, to acquire notoriety, and to find purchasers.”

“It is a good idea,” replied Mr. Weems. “I am much obliged to you for it; I will accept it, and act upon it.”

“Would you like to see Leonie before you go?” asked Mr. Cowdrick.

“If she is willing, I should very much.”

“I will speak to her about it, and prepare her for the interview,” said Mr. Cowdrick, withdrawing from the room.

A moment later he returned with Leonie upon his arm. She had her handkerchief to her eyes.

“Leonie,” said Mr. Cowdrick, “this is Julius. He asks you to forgive him.”

Leonie lifted up her head, and the lovers looked at each other for an instant. Then she flew into his arms before a word had been spoken by either of them, and as he clasped her closely, she nestled her head upon his bosom.

Mr. Weems retained his self-possession so perfectly during this touching scene that he was conscious of the fracture of some cigars in his waistcoat pocket by the presence of Leonie’s shoulder; but he bore the disaster bravely, without flinching.

Before he released his hold of her, Mrs. Cowdrick entered the room, and was so much overcome by the intensity of her emotions when she saw the lovers, that she dropped upon the sofa, and remained in a hysterical condition for at least ten minutes, despite the efforts of Mr. Cowdrick to soothe her.

When Mrs. Cowdrick’s emotion had at last been brought to some extent under control, Mr. Cowdrick suggested that it might be as well to fix at once upon a day for the wedding, so that the two lovers, after all the sorrows and misunderstandings that had kept them apart, might enter the perfect bliss and the sure serenity of wedlock.

Mr. Cowdrick pressed for an early date, and although Mrs. Cowdrick betrayed new and alarming hysterical symptoms when her husband expressed the opinion that all the arrangements might be made within a week, she finally reconciled herself to the selection by Leonie of a day exactly three weeks distant.

Upon the very next morning Mrs. Cowdrick and Leonie began the work of preparation; and it is unnecessary to say that while the labor continued, both of them were in a state of nearly perfect felicity.

If earth is ever to a woman a little heaven here below, it is when she is called upon to go shopping upon a large scale with a long purse. The female mind experiences the purest joy when there are bonnets to be trimmed, fabrics to be matched, dresses to be made, underclothing to be stitched and frilled, pillow-cases and sheets to be made up, towels to be fringed and marked, furniture to be selected, crockery to be purchased, and a general fitting-out to be undertaken. Mrs. Cowdrick soon had a dozen sempstresses employed, and every day she and Leonie, in a frame of exquisite happiness, made the round of the shops, gathering huge heaps of parcels. One single touch of alloy came to mitigate the intensity of their enjoyment. The diamond merchant and the dealer in sealskin sacques, having learned from harsh experience the peril of Mrs. Cowdrick’s enthusiasm for nice things, unkindly insisted upon making their contributions to Leonie’s outfit upon a basis of cash in hand before delivery of the goods. But then we must not expect to have absolutely pure joy in this world.

Cards for the wedding were sent out at once to all of the friends of the bride and groom, and of Mr. and Mrs. Cowdrick. Of course, it can hardly be expected that the union of two lovers should excite very tender sympathy among disinterested persons; but it is rather melancholy to reflect that most of the individuals who received cards from the Cowdricks did not accept the compliment with unmixed satisfaction. The first thought that occurred to them upon reading the invitation was that they would be compelled to expend something for wedding presents, and many of them had a feeling, not clearly defined, but still strong, that the marriage of Cowdrick’s daughter was somehow a mean kind of an attempt on Cowdrick’s part to levy tribute upon them.

The presents, however, soon began to come in. Father Tunicle was heard from among the first. He sent a sweet little volume of his sermons (the lithographed discourse not being included among them). The book had been published at the cost of a few of the reverend gentleman’s admirers, whose expectations of the result were rather disappointed by the sale of no more than thirty-four copies within two years. Father Tunicle sent the book to Leonie, with a touching note, requesting her especial attention to the sermon upon Auricular Confession, upon page 75. Colonel Hoker, of the _Crab_, sent a handsome silver-plated tea-set, whose value to Leonie was not in any manner decreased by the circumstance, unknown to her, that the Colonel had taken it from a former advertiser in payment for a bad debt. The De Flukes sent a pair of elegant fish-knives quite large enough to have served at a dinner where a moderate-sized whale should follow the soup, and certainly utterly useless for the dissection and distribution of any fish of smaller dimensions than a sturgeon. The Higginses, who were not in very good circumstances, and who were trying hard to save up enough money to pay for a fortnight’s visit to the seaside in the summer, reluctantly sent a cake-basket, because Mr. Cowdrick had given one to Maria Higgins the year before, upon the occasion of her union with Dr. Turmeric. If Mr. Higgins had ventured, in the note he sent with the gift, to express his true feelings, the vehemence of his utterance would have made Leonie’s head swim; but, happily, he controlled himself.

A perfect outrage was, however, perpetrated by Mr. John Doubleday, who had lost heavily by the failure of Mr. Cowdrick’s bank. He positively had the impudence to enclose to Leonie, with his compliments, a cheque for one hundred dollars upon the aforesaid late financial institution. Mr. Cowdrick said that a man who was capable of doing a thing of that kind was not fit to live in civilized society.

Mr. Weems’s artist friends all sent pictures, evidently with an intent that Weems should begin his married life with the walls of his dwelling covered with “pot-boilers,” whose unsalable qualities made them as ineffective in that capacity as they were in their pretensions to be regarded as works of art. Weems felt, as he surveyed the collection, that there must have been among the brethren an organized conspiracy to unload upon him the corners of the studios.

Among the other presents received were travelling-cases, which held nothing that anybody ever wants upon a journey; cheap spoons put into a case marked with the name of a first-class silversmith, with an intent to create a wrong impression respecting the quality of the wares; and a host of trifles, most of them completely useless, and all of them accounted by the bride and groom as so much spoil collected under the duress of a custom which is idiotic when it requires anything that is not a genuine expression of affection or esteem.

At last, when every indignant friend had sent in a contribution, when all the dresses were made, the bonnets constructed, and the frippery and fiddle-faddle and frills arranged, the day of the wedding came. It must be described, of course. But why should an unpractised hand attempt to tell of it, when there is, within easy reach, the narrative written by the expert and dexterous fashion reporter of the _Daily Crab_? Far better would it be to transfer bodily to these pages that faithful and complete description.

(_From the “Daily Crab.”_)

A WEDDING IN HIGH LIFE.

“St. Cadmus’s Church, Perkiomen Square, yesterday was the scene
of one of the most brilliant weddings of the season. For some
weeks past the approaching event has been an absorbing topic
of conversation in fashionable circles, the loveliness of the
bride-elect, the popularity of the fortunate groom, and the high
social standing of all the interested parties having invested
the matter with more than ordinary importance. The bride was Miss
Leonie Cowdrick, only daughter of the well-known ex-banker and
philanthropist, Henry G. Cowdrick, Esq., and herself one of the
leading belles of the _bon ton_. The groom was Julius Weems, Esq.,
the artist, a man whose skill as a wielder of the brush, not less
than his qualities of head and heart, have made him the idol of a
large circle of friends.

“The wedding ceremony was announced for half-past four in the
afternoon; and long before that hour the streets in the vicinity of
St. Cadmus’s were thronged with equipages belonging to the _élite_
of our society. None were admitted to the church but those who were
so happy as to possess cards; the edifice, however, was densely
thronged, with the exception of the pews which were reserved in
the front for the immediate family and near relatives of the high
contracting parties.

“The ushers, who officiated with rare delicacy and discrimination,
were Messrs. Peter B. Thomas, Arthur McGinn Dabney, G. G. Parker,
and Daniel O’Huff--all of them brother artists of the groom’s, and
men well known in cultivated circles.

“Professor Peddle presided at the organ, and previous to the
arrival of the bridal party he discoursed most delicious music.

“Among the distinguished persons who graced the occasion with
their presence, we noted the following:--

“Major-Gen. Bung, Colonel Growler, Professor Boodle, Rev. Dr.
Wattles, Judge Potthinkle, Captain Dingus, Major Doolittle, Hon.
John Gigg, M.C., Judge Snoozer, of the Supreme Court; Miss Delilah
Hopper (Minnie Myrtle), the famous authoress of ‘The Bride of
an Evening,’ ‘A Broken Heart,’ etc., etc., Professor Blizzard,
State Entomologist; Governor Tilby, Ex-Governor Raffles, Dr.
Borer, U.S.A.; Rear-Admiral Mizzen, U.S.N.; Senator Smoot, Signor
Portulacca, the Venezuelan Ambassador, General Curculio, Minister
from Nicaragua; General Whisker, the railroad magnate; Colonel and
Mrs. Grabeau, Dr. Hummer, Thos. G. Witt, Esq., Hon. John Grubb,
Captain Mahoney, of the State Militia; Professor Smith, of the
University; Galusha M. Budd, President of the Board of Trade; Hon.
P. R. Bixby, Mayor of the City; and many others.

“At precisely five o’clock, Rev. Mr. Tunicle entered the church in
full ecclesiastical vestments, accompanied by Rev. Dr. Pillsbury,
and by Rev. John A. Stapleton, an uncle of the bride’s. At this
juncture the organ sounded the first notes of the Coronation March
from ‘Il Prophete,’ and the bride entered upon the arm of her
father. Following her came the groom, with Miss Lillie Whackle, the
first bridesmaid, and these were succeeded by the remainder of the
bridal party.

“The bride was dressed with exquisite taste, in a white satin
costume, which had creamy lace in jabots down the waist and sides,
mingled with pearl trimmings; while the sleeves coming only to the
elbow, were made entirely of lace. The back was left quite plain,
with waist and skirt in one. Upon her head she wore a dainty wreath
of orange blossoms, and, of course, the usual veil.

“Among other costumes in the bridal party, we noticed a Lyons
tulle, made up over satin, with flowing rosettes, and ribbons of
white satin for trimming.

“Attention was directed also to a white tarletan trimmed with
Breton lace and insertions, and covered with bows and loops and
ends of satin ribbon.

“One of the ladies of the party wore a distinguished costume of
cream-colored satin, with paniers of Pekin grenadine, with stripes
of white alternating with stripes of cream-color; there was a satin
corsage, plain, like a basque; and across the front-breadths of the
skirt there were soft puffs of satin and grenadine.

“Mrs. Cowdrick, the mother of the bride, appeared in a regal
toilette of black velvet and diamonds.

“The ceremony was read in a deeply impressive manner by Rev. Mr.
Tunicle, the bride being given away, of course, by her father.

“Mrs. Cowdrick was so strongly affected by the consciousness that
her daughter was being taken from her, that at the conclusion of
the ceremony she displayed some slight hysterical symptoms, which
for a moment threatened to create confusion. She became calmer,
however, and was led out from the church by one of the ushers,
weeping.

“Professor Peddle then began Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, and the
proud and happy groom, with his lovely wife upon his arm, turned to
lead the bridal party down the aisle.

“We learn that a magnificent entertainment was given later in the
day at the residence of Mr. Cowdrick, to his friends, and that the
festivities were prolonged until a late hour. It is understood that
the newly-married couple will spend their honeymoon at Saratoga.”

The reporter was not admitted to the entertainment, and so there is upon record no description of it. But we might, if we chose, safely guess at hot rooms, so crowded that motion was nearly impossible; at absurd attempts to dance within narrow spaces; at rows of wall-flowers along the sides of the rooms; at inane attempts at conversation between guests who were strangers to each other; of groups of uncomfortable people trying to appear as if they felt very happy; of a supper-table loaded with rich viands for which well-dressed men scrambled as if they had been fasting for weeks; of ices spilled upon costly dresses, and champagne glasses emptied upon fine coats; and, finally, of departing guests in the gentlemen’s dressing-rooms, saying unhandsome things to each other in sneering whispers of the man whose hospitality they had accepted.

We can imagine these things; and perhaps if we could have looked into the house at two o’clock in the morning when the last guest had said farewell, we might have heard Mr. Cowdrick say, as he threw himself weary and worn in an easy-chair,--

“Well, thank goodness, Louisa, Leonie is off of our hands at last!”

AN OLD FOGY.

“The good old times! And the old times _were_ good, my dear; better, much better, than the times that you live in. I know I am an old fogy, Nelly,” said Ephraim Batterby, refilling his pipe, and looking at his granddaughter, who sat with him in front of the fire, with her head bending over her sewing; “I know I am an old fogy, and I glory in it.”

“But you never will be for me, grandpa,” said Nelly, glancing at him with a smile.

“Yes, my dear, I am for everybody. I am a man of the past. Everything I ever cared for and ever loved, excepting you, belongs to the years that have gone, and my affections belong to those years. I liked the people of the old time better than I do those of the new. I loved their simpler ways, the ways that I knew in my boyhood, threescore and more years ago. I am sure the world is not so good as it was then. It is smarter, perhaps; it knows more, but its wisdom vexes and disgusts me. I am not certain, my dear, that, if I had my way, I would not sweep away, at one stroke, all the so-called ‘modern conveniences,’ and return to the ancient methods.”

“They were very slow, grandpa.”

“Yes, slow; and for that I liked them. We go too fast now; but our speed, I am afraid, is hurrying us in the wrong direction. We were satisfied in the old time with what we had. It was good enough. Are men contented now? No; they are still improving and improving; still reaching out for something that will be quicker, or easier, or cheaper than the things that are. We appear to have gained much; but really we have gained nothing. We are not a bit better off now than we were; not so well off, in my opinion.”

“But, grandpa, you must remember that you were young then, and perhaps looked at the world in a more hopeful way than you do now.”

“Yes, I allow for that, Nelly, I allow for that; I don’t deceive myself. My youth does not seem so very far off that I cannot remember it distinctly. I judge the time fairly, now in my old age, as I judge the present time, and my assured opinion is that it was superior in its ways, its life, and its people. Its people! Ah, Nelly, my dear, there were three persons in that past who alone would consecrate it to me. I am afraid there are not many women now like your mother and mine, and like my dear wife, whom you never saw. It seems to me, my child, that I would willingly live all my life over again, with its strifes and sorrows, if I could clasp again the hand of one of those angelic women, and hear a word from her sweet lips.”

As the old man wiped the gathering moisture from his eyes, Nelly remained silent, choosing not to disturb the reverie into which he had fallen. Presently Ephraim rose abruptly, and said, with a smile,--

“Come, Nelly dear, I guess it is time to go to bed. I must be up very early to-morrow morning.”

“At what hour do you want breakfast, grandpa?”

“Why, too soon for you, you sleepy puss. I shall breakfast by myself before you are up, or else I shall breakfast down town. I have a huge cargo of wheat in from Chicago, and I must arrange to have it shipped for Liverpool. There is one thing that remains to me from the old time, and that is some of the hard work of my youth; but even that seems a little harder than it used to. So, come now; to bed! to bed!”

While he was undressing, and long after he had crept beneath the blankets, Ephraim’s thoughts wandered back and back through the spent years; and, as the happiness he had known came freshly and strongly into his mind, he felt drawn more and more towards it; until the new and old mingled together in strange but placid confusion in his brain, and he fell asleep.

When he awoke it was still dark, for the winter was just begun; but he heard--or did he only dream that he heard?--a clock in some neighboring steeple strike _six_. He knew that he must get up, for his business upon that day demanded early attention.

He sat up in bed, yawned, stretched his arms once or twice, and then, flinging the covering aside, he leaped to the floor. He fell, and hurt his arm somewhat. Strange that he should have miscalculated the distance! The bed seemed more than twice as high from the floor as it should be. It was too dark to see distinctly, so he crept to the bed with extended hands, and felt it. Yes, it was at least four feet from the floor, and, very oddly, it had long, slim posts, such as bedsteads used to have, instead of the low, carved footboard, and the high, postless headboard, which belonged to the bedstead upon which he had slept in recent years. Ephraim resolved to strike a light. He groped his way to the table, and tried to find the match-box. It was not there; he could not discover it upon the bureau either. But he found something else, which he did not recognize at first, but which a more careful examination with his fingers told him was a flint and steel. He was vexed that any one should play such a trick upon him. How could he ever succeed in lighting the gas with a flint and steel!

But he resolved to try, and he moved over towards the gas-bracket by the bureau. It was not there! He passed his cold hand over a square yard of the wall, where the bracket used to be, but it had vanished. It actually seemed, too, as if there was no paper on the wall, for the whitewash scaled off beneath his fingers.

Perplexed and angry, Ephraim was about to replace the flint and steel upon the bureau, and to dress in the dark, when his hand encountered a candlestick. It contained a candle. He determined to try to light it. He struck the flint upon the steel at least a dozen times, in the way he remembered doing so often when he was a boy, but the sparks refused to catch the tinder. He struck again and again, until he became really warm with effort and indignation, and at last he succeeded.

It was only a poor, slim tallow candle, and Ephraim thought the light was not much better than the darkness, it was so dim and flickering and dismal. He was conscious then that the room was chill, although his body felt so warm; and, for fear he should catch cold, he thought he would open the register, and let in some warm air. The register had disappeared! There, right before him, was a vast old-fashioned fireplace filled with wood. By what means the transformation had been effected, he could not imagine. But he was not greatly displeased.

“I always did like an open wood fire,” he said, “and now I will have a roaring one.”

So he touched the flame of the candle to the light kindling-wood, and in a moment it was afire.

“I will wash while it is burning up,” said Ephraim.

He went to the place where he thought he should find the fixed wash-stand, with hot and cold water running from the pipes, but he was amazed to find that it had followed the strange fashion of the room, and had gone also! There was an old hand-basin, with a cracked china pitcher, standing upon a movable wash-stand, but the water in the pitcher had been turned to solid ice.

With an exclamation of impatience and indignation, Ephraim placed the pitcher between the andirons, close to the wood in the chimney-place; and he did so with smarting eyes, for the flue was cold, and volumes of smoke were pouring out into the room. In a few moments he felt that he should suffocate unless he could get some fresh air, so he resolved to open the upper sash of the window.

When he got to the window he perceived that the panes of glass were only a few inches square, and that the woodwork inclosing them was thrice thicker and heavier than it had been. He strove to pull down the upper sash, but the effort was vain; it would not move. He tried to lift the lower sash; it went up with difficulty; it seemed to weigh a hundred pounds; and, when he got it up, it would not stay. He succeeded, finally, in keeping it open by placing a chair beneath it.

When the ice in the pitcher was thawed, he finished his toilette, and then he descended the stairs. As nobody seemed to be moving in the house, he resolved to go out and get his breakfast at a restaurant. He unlocked the front door, and emerged into the street just as daylight fairly had begun.

As Ephraim descended the steps in front of his house, he had a distinct impression that something was wrong, and he was conscious of a feeling of irritation; but it seemed to him that his mind, for some reason, did not operate with its accustomed precision; and, while he realized the fact of a partial and very unexpected change of the conditions of his life, he found that when he tried, in a strangely feeble way, to grapple with the problem, the solution eluded him and baffled him.

The force of habit, rather than a very clearly defined purpose, led him to walk to the corner of the street, just below his dwelling, and to pause there, as usual, to await the coming of the horse-car which should carry him down town. Following a custom, too, he took from his waistcoat pocket two or three pennies (which, to his surprise, had swollen to the uncomfortable dimensions of the old copper cents), and looked around for the news-boy from whom he bought, every morning, the daily paper.

The lad, however, was not to be seen; and Ephraim was somewhat vexed at his absence, because he was especially anxious upon that morning to observe the quotations of the Chicago and Liverpool grain markets, and to ascertain what steamers were loading at the wharves.

The horse-car was delayed much longer than he expected, and, while he waited, a man passed by, dressed oddly, Ephraim noticed, in knee-breeches and very old-fashioned coat and hat. Ephraim said to him, politely,--

“Can you tell me, sir, where I can get a morning paper in this neighborhood? The lad I buy from, commonly, is not at his post this morning.”

The stranger, stopping, looked at Ephraim with a queer expression, and presently said,--

“I don’t think I understand you; a _morning_ paper, did you say?”

“Yes, one of the morning papers; the _Argus_ or _Commercial_--any of them.”

“Why, my dear sir, there is but one newspaper published in this city. It is the _Gazette_. It comes out on Saturday, and this, you know, is only Tuesday.”

“Do you mean to say that we have no daily papers?” exclaimed Ephraim, somewhat angrily.

“_Daily_ papers! Papers published every day! Why, sir, there is not such a newspaper in the world, and there never will be.”

“Pshaw!” said Ephraim, turning his back upon the man in disgust.

The stranger smiled, and, shaking his head as if he had serious doubts of Ephraim’s sanity, passed onward.

“The man is cracked,” said Ephraim, looking after him. “No daily papers! The fellow has just come from the interior of Africa, or else he is an escaped lunatic. It is very queer that car does not come,” and Ephraim glanced up the street anxiously. “There is not a car in sight. A fire somewhere, I suppose. Too bad that I should have lost so much time. I shall walk down.”

But, as Ephraim stepped into the highway, he was surprised to find that there were no rails there. The cobblestone pavement was unbroken.

“Well, upon my word! This is the strangest thing of all. What on earth has become of the street-cars? I must go afoot, I suppose, if the distance _is_ great. I am afraid I shall be too late for business, as it is.”

As he walked onward at a rapid pace, and his eyes fell upon the buildings along the route, he was queerly sensible that the city had undergone a certain process of transformation. It had a familiar appearance, too. He seemed to know it in its present aspect, and yet not to know it. The way was perfectly familiar to him, and he recognized all the prominent landmarks easily, and still he had an indefinable feeling that some other city had stood where this did; that he had known this very route under other conditions, and that the later conditions were those that had passed away, while those that he now saw belonged to a much earlier period.

He felt, too, that the change, whatever it was, had brought a loss with it. The buildings that lined the street now he thought very ugly. They were old, misshapen, having pent-roofs with absurdly high gables, and the shop-windows were small, dingy, and set with small panes of glass. He had known it as a handsome street, edged with noble edifices, and offering to the gaze of the pedestrian a succession of splendid windows filled with merchandise of the most brilliant description.

But Ephraim pressed on with a determination to seek his favorite restaurant, for he began to feel very hungry. In a little while he reached the corner where the restaurant should have been, but to his vexation he saw that the building there was a coffee-house of mean appearance, in front of which swung a blurred and faded sign.

He resolved to enter, for he could get a breakfast here, at least. He pushed through the low doorway and over the sanded floor into a narrow sort of box, where a table was spread; and, as he did so, he had a hazy feeling that this, too, was something that he was familiar with.

“It must be,” he said, “that my brain is producing a succession of those sensations that I have had sometimes before, which persuade the credulous that we move continually in a circle, and forever live our lives over again.”

As he took his seat a waiter approached him.

“Give me a bill of fare,” said Ephraim.

“Bill of fare, sir? Have no bill of fare, sir. Never have them, sir; no coffee-house has them, sir. Get you up a nice breakfast though, sir.”

“What have you got?”

“Ham, sir; steak, sir; boiled egg, sir; coffee, tea, muffins. Just in from furrin countries, sir, are you?”

“Never mind where I am from,” said Ephraim, testily. “Bring me a broiled steak, and egg, and some muffins and coffee, and bring them quickly.”

“Yes, sir; half a minute, sir. Anything else, sir?”

“Bring me a newspaper.”

“Yes, sir; here it is, sir, the very latest, sir.”

Ephraim took the paper, and glanced at it. It was the _Weekly Gazette_, four days old; a little sheet of yellow-brown paper, poorly printed, containing some fragments of news, and nothing later from Europe than November 6, although the _Gazette_ bore date December 19. So soon as Ephraim comprehended its worthlessness, he tossed it contemptuously upon the floor, and waited, almost sullenly, for his breakfast.

When it came in upon the tray, carried by the brisk waiter, it looked dainty and tempting enough, and the fumes that rose from it were so savory that he grew into better humor. As it was spread before him, he perceived that the waiter had given him a very coarse, two-pronged steel fork.

“Take that away,” said Ephraim, tossing it to the end of the table; “I want a silver fork.”

“Silver fork, sir! Bless my soul, sir! We haven’t got any; never heard of such a thing, sir.”

“Never heard of a silver fork, you idiot!” shouted Ephraim; “why, everybody uses them.”

“No, sir; I think not, sir. I’ve lived with first quality people, sir, and they all use this kind. Never saw any other kind, sir; didn’t know there was any. Do they have ’em in furrin parts, sir?”

“Get out!” said Ephraim, savagely. He was becoming somewhat annoyed and bewildered by the utter disappearance of so many familiar things.

But the breakfast was good, and he was hungry, so he fell to with hearty zest, and, although he found the steel fork clumsy, it did him good service. At the conclusion of the meal, Ephraim walked rapidly to his office--the office that he had occupied for nearly sixty years. As he opened the door, he expected to find his letters in the box wherein the postman thrust them twice or thrice a day. They were not there. The box itself was gone.

“Too bad! too bad!” exclaimed Ephraim. “Everything conspires to delay me to-day. I suppose I must sit here and wait for that lazy letter-carrier to come, and meantime my business must wait too.”

With the intent not to lose the time altogether, Ephraim resolved to write a letter or two. He took from the drawer a sheet of rough white paper, and opened his inkstand. He could not find his favorite steel pen anywhere, and there were no other pens in the drawer, only a bundle of quills. Ephraim determined to try to use one of these. He ruined four, and lost ten minutes before he could make with his knife a pen good enough to write with; but with this he finished his letter. Then he had another hunt for an envelope, but he could find one nowhere, and nothing was to be done but to fold the sheet in the fashion that he had known in his boyhood, and to seal it with sealing-wax. He burned his fingers badly while performing the last-named operation.

Still the postman had not arrived, and Ephraim, being very anxious to mail his letter, resolved to go out and drop it into the letter-box at the corner of the street. When he reached the corner, he found that the letter-box had disappeared as so many other things had done; so he resolved to push on to the post-office, where he could leave the letter and get his morning’s mail. As he approached what he had supposed was the post-office, he was dismayed to perceive that another building occupied the site. The post-office had vanished.

He turned to a man standing with a crowd which was observing him, and asked him where the post-office could be found. Obeying the direction, he sought the place and found it. Rushing to the single window, behind which a clerk stood, he asked,--

“Are there any letters for Ephraim Batterby?”

“I think not,” said the clerk; “there will be no mail in till to-morrow.”

“Till to-morrow!” shouted Ephraim. “What is the matter?”

“The matter! nothing at all. What’s the matter with you?”

“I am expecting letters from New York and Chicago. Are both mails delayed?”

“Chicago’s a place I never heard of, and the mail from New York comes in only three times a week. It came yesterday, and it will come in to-morrow.”

“Three times a week!” exclaimed Ephraim; “why, it comes four or five times a day, unless I am very much mistaken.”

The clerk turned to a fellow-clerk behind him and said in a low tone something at which both laughed.

“How do you suppose the mails get here four or five times a day?” asked the clerk.

“Upon the mail trains, of course,” replied Ephraim, tartly; and then the clerks laughed again.

“Well, sir,” said the man at the window, “we don’t appear to understand each other; but it may straighten things out if I tell you that the New York mails come here upon a stage-coach, which takes twenty-four hours to make the journey, and which reaches here on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

Ephraim was about to make an angry reply, but the clerk shut the window and made further discussion impossible. For a moment Ephraim was puzzled. He stopped to think what he should do next, and while he was standing there, he noticed a curious crowd gathering about him, a crowd which seemed to regard him with peculiar interest. And now and then a rude fellow would make facetious comments upon Ephraim’s dress, at which some of the vulgar would laugh. Ephraim was somewhat bewildered, and his confusion became greater when he observed that all of the bystanders wore knee-breeches and very ugly high collars and cravats, in which their chins were completely buried. Ephraim perceived near to him a gentleman who held in his hand a newspaper. Encouraged by his friendly countenance, Ephraim said to him,--

“I am rather confused, sir, by some unexpected changes that I have found about here this morning, will you be good enough to give me a little information?”

“With pleasure, sir.”

“I have missed some important letters that I looked for from New York and the West. I wish to communicate with my correspondents at once. Will you please tell me where I can find the telegraph office?”

“The telegraph office! I don’t understand you, sir.”

“I wish to send messages to my friends at those points.”

“Well, sir, I know of no other way to send them than through the post-office here.”

“Do you mean to say that there is no telegraph line from here to New York?”

“My dear sir, what do you mean by a telegraph line?”

“A telegraph line--a line of wire on which I can send messages by electricity.”

“I fear something is wrong with you, sir,” said the gentleman gravely. “No such thing exists. No such thing can exist.”

“Nonsense!” said Ephraim, waxing indignant. “How do you suppose the afternoon papers to-day will get the quotations of the Liverpool markets of to-day? How will the brokers learn to-day the price of securities at the meeting of the London Stock Exchange this morning?”

“You are speaking very wildly, sir,” said the gentleman, stepping close to Ephraim and using a low tone, while the crowd laughed. “You must be more careful, or persons will regard you as insane.”

“Insane! Why? Because I tell you, what everybody knows, that we get cable news from Europe every day.”

“Cable news! cable news! What does the old fool mean?” shouted the crowd.

“What do I mean!” exclaimed Ephraim, in a passion; “I mean that you are a pack of idiots for pretending to believe that there is no such thing as a telegraph, and no such thing as a telegraph cable to Europe.”

The crowd sent up a shout of derisive laughter and rushed at him as if to hustle him and use him roughly. The gentleman to whom he had spoken seized him by the arm and hurried him away. When they had turned the corner, the man stopped and said to Ephraim,--

“You appear to be a sane man, although you speak so strangely. Let me warn you to be more careful in the future. If you should be taken up as a madman and consigned to a madhouse, you would endure terrible suffering, and find it very difficult to secure release.”

“I _am_ perfectly sane,” said Ephraim, “and I cannot comprehend why you think what I have said strange. I wanted my letters, and I wished in their absence to correspond by telegraph, because I am expecting a cargo of wheat to-day, which I am to ship to Liverpool by steamer.”

“By steamer! There you go again. Nobody can know what you mean by ‘steamer.’”

“Steamer! Steamship! A ship that crosses the ocean by steam, without sails. You know what that is, certainly?”

“I have heard some talk about a rattle-trap invention which used steam to make a little boat paddle about on the river here; but as for crossing the ocean--well, my dear sir, that is a little too ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous! Why--”

“Pardon me,” said the man, “I see you are incorrigible; I must bid you good morning;” and he bowed politely and walked quickly away.

“Well, well!” said Ephraim, standing still and looking after him helplessly. “It’s queer, very queer. I don’t begin to understand it at all, I am half inclined to believe that the world has conspired to make game of me, or else that my poor wits really are astray. I don’t feel as certain of them as a clear-headed man should.”

While he spoke, the bells of the city rang out an alarm of fire with furious clangor, and in a few moments he saw, dashing past him, an old-fashioned hand-engine, pulled by a score or two of men who held a rope. The burning building was not many hundred yards distant from Ephraim, and he felt an inclination to see it. When he reached the scene, men with leathern buckets were pouring water into the engine, while other men were forcing the handles up and down, with the result that a thin stream fell upon the mass of flame.

He had an impulse to ask somebody why the steam fire-engines were not used, but every one seemed to be excited and busy, and he remembered what his friend had said to him about steamers.

So he expressed his disgust for the stupidity of these people in a few muttered ejaculations; and then, suddenly, bethought him of his business.

He resolved to go down to the wharf where he had expected to ship his cargo, and to ascertain what the situation was there.

As he came near to the place, he saw that it had changed since he last saw it, but a handsome ship lay in the dock, and men were carrying bags of grain aboard of her.

“That must be my cargo,” he said; “but what on earth do they mean by loading it in that manner, and upon a sailing vessel?”

He approached the man who seemed to be superintending the work, and said,--

“Is this Ephraim Batterby’s wheat?”

The man looked at him in surprise for a moment, and then, smiling, said,--

“No, sir; it is Brown and Martin’s.”

“When did it arrive?”

“Yesterday.”

“By rail?”

“By rail! What do you mean by that?”

“I say, did it come by rail?”

“Well, old man, I haven’t the least idea what you mean by ‘rail,’ but if you want to know, I’ll tell you the grain came by canal-boat.”

“From Chicago?”

“Never heard of Chicago. The wheat came from Pittsburg. What are you asking for, any way?”

“Why, I’m expecting some myself, by rail from Chicago, and I intend to ship it to Liverpool in a steamer--that is,” added Ephraim, hesitatingly, “if I can find one.”

“Chicago! rail! steamer! Old chap, I’m afraid you’re a little weak in the top story. What do you mean by Chicago?”

“Chicago! Why, it’s a city three or four hundred miles west of Pittsburg; a great centre for the western grain traffic. Certainly you must have heard of it.”

“Oh, come now, old man, you’re trying to guy me! I know well enough that the country is a howling wilderness, three hundred miles beyond Pittsburg. Grain market! That’s good!”

“I don’t know,” said Ephraim, somewhat feebly. “It used to be there. And I expected a cargo of wheat from Chicago to be here this morning, by railroad.”

“What kind of a railroad?”

“A railroad: iron rails, with cars propelled with steam! I expected to find an elevator here to put the grain on board of an iron vessel; to load the whole twenty thousand bushels to-day; but things have gone wrong somehow, and I don’t understand precisely why!”

“Bill,” said the man, turning to a young fellow, one of his assistants, near him, “trot this poor old chap up to the mayor’s office, so that he’ll be taken care of. He’s talking to me about bringing twenty thousand bushels of wheat on a rail, and loading it in an iron vessel--an iron vessel, mind you--in one day! It’s a shame for the old fellow’s relations to let him wander about alone.”

Before “Bill” had a chance to offer his assistance, Ephraim, alarmed, and more than ever bewildered, walked quickly away.

As he gained the street, a man of about middle age suddenly stopped in front of him, and said,--

“Good morning, Mr. Batterby.”

Ephraim had gotten into such a frame of mind, that he was almost startled at the sound of his own name.

He looked hard at the stranger, but, although the features were somewhat familiar, he could not really recognize the man.

“Don’t know me, Batterby? Impossible! Don’t know Tony Miller!”

“Bless my soul!” exclaimed Ephraim; “Tony Miller! so it is! Tony Miller! Not Tony Miller? Why--why--why, Miller, I thought you died thirty years ago!”

“Died! ha, ha! Not a bit of it, man. Why, it’s absurd! I saw you only two or three weeks since!”

“Strange, strange!” said Ephraim, almost sadly, in his mind trying to recall some fragments of the past. “I could have sworn that you were dead!”

“No, sir; just as hearty and lively as I ever was. By the way, Mr. Batterby, what has become of Ephraim? I don’t see him about any more.”

“Ephraim? Ephraim Batterby? Why, who do you think I am?”

“Joshua Batterby, of course; who else? You don’t seem very well to-day, I think.”

“He mistakes me for my father,” said Ephraim to himself. “When will all this wild, puzzling mystery end?” Then, addressing Miller, he said, “I would like to have some conversation with you, Miller; I am strangely confused and upset to-day.”

“Certainly; be glad to have a chat with you. I say, suppose you come home and dine with me? I am on my way to dinner now. Will you go?”

“Gladly,” replied Ephraim.

As they walked on, Miller, with intent to break the silence, said,--

“I think we shall have rain to-day, Mr. Batterby.”

“Perhaps; it looks like it. What does the signal service say?”

“What does the _what_ say?”

“The signal service. What are the indications?”

“I haven’t the least idea what you mean, Mr. Batterby.”

“Why,” said Ephraim, timidly, “were you not aware that a bureau in the War Department collects information which enables it to indicate approaching conditions of the weather, and that it gives this information to the newspapers?”

“Never heard of such a thing, Mr. Batterby, and I don’t believe it. Somebody has been joking with you. The only weather indications we have are in the almanacs, and they are not at all reliable.”