"The story throughout is intensely interesting and profoundly thoughtful. In point of originality it will rank with the best productions of American writers of fiction; and it may be well to inquire, in view of the power here displayed, whether the long-looked-for native American novelist who is to rival Dickens, and equal Thackeray, and yet imitate neither, has not been found. A romancist, sage, publicist, politician, and philosopher in one, is a rare combination."--Concord (N.H.) Monitor

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

        "Undoubtedly the chief of American writers."--TROY SENTINEL.

THE STORY OF AN EARNEST MAN.

        FIGS AND THISTLES: A ROMANCE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE. With Frontispiece Illustration. Handsome 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

        "Crowded with incident, populous with strong characters, simple but ingenious in plot, rich with the humor of the West, and from beginning to end alive with absorbing interest, this book cannot fail to sustain and extend the author's name as a popular writer of fiction."--Boston Commonwealth.

        BRICKS WITHOUT STRAW: A NOVEL. With Frontispiece Illustration. Handsome 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

        "It may be well to inquire, in view of the power here displayed [in A FOOL'S ERRAND], whether the long-looked-for native American novelist who is to rival Dickens, and equal Thackeray, and yet imitate neither, has not been found. A romancist, sage, publicist, politician, and philosopher in one, is a rare combination."--Concord (N.H.) Monitor.

FORDS, HOWARD,& HULBERT,

[Title Page Image]

[Title Page Verso Image]

A
FOOL'S ERRAND.
BY
ONE OF THE FOOLS.

VARR. SERV. Thou art not altogether a fool.
FOOL. Nor thou altogether a wise man: as much foolery As I have, so much wit thou lackest. Timon of Athens.

NEW YORK:
FORDS, HOWARD, & HULBERT.

COPYRIGHT, A.D. 1879, By FORDS, HOWARD, & HULBERT.

J. CAMPBELL,
PRINTER.
15 Vandewater St., N.Y.

J. FOWLER TROW,
BINDER,
NEW YORK.

TO THE
ANCIENT AND HONORABLE FAMILY OF
FOOLS
THIS BOOK IS RESPECTFULLY AND LOVINGLY
DEDICATED
BY ONE OF THEIR NUMBER.

LETTER TO THE PUBLISHERS.

        GENTLEMEN,--Your demand that I should write a "Preface to the book you have printed seems to me utterly preposterous. It is like a man introducing himself,--always an awkward, and generally a useless piece of business. What is the use of the "prologue to the epic coming on,"anyhow, unless it be a sort of advertisement? and in that case you ought to write it. Whoever does that should be

                         "Wise enough to play the fool;
                         And to do that well craves a sort of wit."

That is not the kind of Fool I am. All such work I delegate to you, and hereby authorize and empower you to say what you please of what I have written, only begging you keep in mind one clear distinction. There are two kinds of Fools. The real Fool is the most sincere of mortals: the Court Fool and his kind--the trifling, jesting buffoon--but simulate the family virtue, and steal the family name, for sordid purposes.

        The life of the Fool proper is full of the poetry of faith. He may run after a will-o'-the-wisp, while the Wise deride; but to him it is a veritable star of hope. He differs from his fellow-mortals chiefly in this, that he sees or believes what they do not, and consequently undertakes what they never attempt. If he succeed in his endeavor, the world stops laughing, and calls him a Genius: if he fail, it laughs the more, and derides his undertaking as A FOOL'S ERRAND.

        So the same individual is often both fool and genius,--a fool all his life and a genius after his death, or a fool to one century and a genius to the next, or a fool at home and a prodigy abroad. Watt was a fool while he watched the tea-kettle, but a genius when he had caught the imp that tilted

the lid. The gentle Genoese who wrested half the world from darkness was a fool to the age which sought for the Fountain of Youth; yet every succeeding one but multiplies his praises. These are but types. The poet has incorporated the recognized principle in the lines,--

                         "Great wits to madness, sure, are near allied,
                         And thin partitions do their walls divide."

It is, however, only in the element of simple, undoubting faith, that the kinship of genius and folly consists. One may be an unquestioned Fool without any chance of being taken for a Seer. This is, indeed, the case with most of the tribe. It is success alone that transforms the credulity of folly into acknowledged prophetic prevision.

        Noah was one of the earliest of the Fools thus vindicated. The Wise Men of his day sat around on the dry-goods boxes, and whittled and whistled, and quizzed the queer craft on which he kept his sons and sons-in-law at work, till the keel was as old as the frigate "Constitution" before he was ready to lay her upper decks. If the rain had not come at last, they would never have got over laughing at his folly. The Deluge saved his reputation, and made his Ark a success. But it is not often that a Fool has a heavenly voice to guide him, or a flood to help him out.

        This little tale is the narrative of one of Folly's failures. The hero can lay no claim to greatness. A believing Noah there is in it, a well-built ark, and an indubitable flood. But the waters prevailed, and the Fool went down, and many of the family with him. The Wise Men looked on and laughed.

        The one merit which the story claims is that of honest, uncompromising truthfulness of portraiture. Its pictures are from life. And even in this which he boasts as a virtue may be found, perhaps, the greatest folly yet committed by

ONE OF THE FOOLS
SEPTEMBER 1879.

CONTENTS.

• I. THE GENESIS OF FOLLY . . . . . 7
• II. LE PREMIER ACCÈS . . . . . 10
• III. SORROW COMETH WITH KNOWLEDGE . . . . . 13
• IV. FROM BAD TO WORSE . . . . . 17
• V. THE ORACLE IS CONSULTED . . . . . 21
• VI. ALL LOST BUT HONOR . . . . . 23
• VII. AN OLD "UNIONER". . . . . 26
• VIII. "THEIR EXITS AND THEIR ENTRANCES" . . . . . 33
• IX. THE NEW KINGDOM . . . . . 37
• X. POOR TRAY . . . . . 42
• XI. A CAT IN A STRANGE GARRET . . . . . 48
• XII. COMPELLED TO VOLUNTEER . . . . . 54
• XIII. A TWO-HANDED GAME . . . . . 57
• XIV. MURDER MOST FOUL . . . . . 65
• XV. "WHO IS MY NEIGHBOR?" . . . . . 70
• XVI. THE EDGE OF HOSPITALITY DULLED . . . . . 82
• XVII. THE SECOND MILE POST . . . . . 85
• XVIII. CONGRATULATION AND CONDOLENCE . . . . . 90
• XIX. CITIZENS IN EMBRYO . . . . . 98
• XX. OUT OF DUE SEASON . . . . . 112
• XXI. HOW THE WISE MEN BUILDED . . . . . 119
• XXII. COCK-CROW . . . . . 129
• XXIII. THE DIE IS CAST . . . . . 135
• XXIV. "WISDOM CRIETH IN THE STREETS" . . . . . 142

  ---

  Page 6

• XXV. A GRUMBLER'S FORECAST . . . . . 150
• XXVI. BALAK AND BALAAM . . . . . 154
• XXVII. A NEW INSTITUTION . . . . . 162
• XXVIII. A BUNDLE OF DRY STICKS . . . . . 172
• XXIX. FOOTING UP THE LEDGER . . . . . 176
• XXX. A THRICE-TOLD TALE . . . . . 184
• XXXI. THE FOLLY OF WISDOM . . . . . 201
• XXXII. "OUT OF THE ABUNDANCE OF THE HEART" . . . . . 208
• XXXIII. "LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG" . . . . . 216
• XXXIV. THE HARVEST OF WISDOM . . . . . 224
• XXXV. AN AWAKENING . . . . . 232
• XXXVI. A RACE AGAINST TIME . . . . . 246
• XXXVII. THE "REB" VIEW OF IT . . . . . 256
• XXXVIII. "AND ALL THE WORLD WAS IN A SEA" . . . . . 270
• XXXIX. "LIGHT SHINETH IN DARKNESS". . . . . 285
• XL. PRO BONO PUBLICO . . . . . 292
• XLI. "PEACE IN WARSAW" . . . . . 299
• XLII. A FRIENDLY MEDIATION . . . . . 308
• XLIII. UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER . . . . . 314
• XLIV. PRIDE OVERMATCHING PRIDE . . . . . 326
• XLV. WISDOM AND FOLLY MEET TOGETHER . . . . . 335
• XLVI. HOME AT LAST . . . . . 348
• XLVII. MONUMENTUM . . . . . 360

A FOOL'S ERRAND.

CHAPTER I.

THE GENESIS OF FOLLY.

        THE Fool's patronymic was Servosse; his Christian name, Comfort. His father was descended from one of those Gallic families who abandoned the luxuries of la belle France for an Arcadia which in these later days has become synonymous with bleakness, if not sterility. It is supposable that his ancestors, before they adventured on the delights of Canadian winters in exchange for the coast of Normandy or the plains of Bordeaux, may have belonged to some noble family, who drew their blood, clear and blue, from the veins of a Martelian progenitor.

        It is, perhaps, but fair to presume that the exchange of skies was made only for the glory of our gallant and good King Louis, and the advancement of the holy Catholic faith in the New World, rather than for the peace and quiet of the immediate vicinage in which the ancestor dwelt. However this may be, a later ancestor was among those, who, with that mixture of courage and suavity which enabled the voyageurs of that day so successfully to secure and hold the good will of the unsophisticated red-skin, pushed westward along the Great Lakes until they came to the Straits, where so many advantages of a trading-post were combined, that Detroit was there located and christened.

        The mutations of government, the lapse of time, and the anglicization of their surroundings had robbed the descendants

of the original Servosse of every trace of their Gallic ancestry except the name; and it is only mentioned here for the benefit of some curious student of mental phenomena with credence in hereditary traits, who may believe that an ancestor who could voluntarily abandon the champagnes of Burgundy for the Heights of Abraham, by whatever enticing name the same might be called, was quite capable of transmitting to his descendants such an accès de la folie as was manifested by our particular Fool.

        Certainly, no such defect can be attributed to his maternal line: they knew on which side their bread was buttered. Of the truest of Puritan stock, the mother's family had found a lodgment on a little hillside farm carved out of the Hop-Brook Grant in Berkshire, which seemed almost as precarious in its rocky ruggedness and inaccessibility as the barn-swallow's nest, clinging in some mysterious way to the steep slope under the eaves of the old hip-roofed barn against which it was built. Yet, like the nest, the little hillside home had sufficed for the raising of many a sturdy brood, who had flown away to the constantly receding West almost before they had grown to full-fledged man- and womanhood. Brave-hearted, strong-limbed, and clear-headed, or, as they would now be called, level-headed, were these children of the Berkshire hills. There was no trace of mental unsoundness about any of them. Especially free from such imputation was Eliza Hall, the golden-haired, brown-eyed, youngest of nine, who, with her saucily upturning nose, a few freckles on her round cheeks, which made their peach-bloom all the more noticeable,--despite the entreaties of friends, the prayers of lovers, and the protest of parents,-- would away to the West in her eighteenth year to become a Yankee schoolma'am in Michigan.

        That the young lumberman, Michael Servosse,--rich in the limitless possibilities of a future cast in the way which had been marked out by nature as the path of advancing empire, a brave heart and unquenchable energy, to whom thousands of acres of unrivaled pine-lands yielded tribute, and whose fleet of snug schooners was every year growing larger,--that

he should capture and mate with the fair bird from the New-England home-nest was as fitting as the most enthusiastic advocate of natural selection could desire. They were the fairest types of remote stocks of kindred races, invigorated by the fresh life of a new continent.

        The first fruit of such a union was the Fool, born on the first day of the month of flowers, in the year of grace one thousand eight hundred and thirty-four, on the very spot where the Iroquois met in council with the great chief Pontiac when the cunning plan was devised to gain entrance to the fort by playing a game of lacrosse on the parade-ground for the amusement of the garrison. The wife of a year, as the perils of maternity drew nigh in the absence of her husband, who was up the lake attending to his spring shipments, began to sigh for her far-away mountain home, and so named the new life, which brought consolation to her loneliness, Comfort.

        During his babyhood, boyhood, and youth, our hero manifested none of those characteristics from which he afterwards received the name by which he is known in these pages. He was reared with care. Though his father died while he was yet young, he left sufficient estate to enable the mother to give to her children every advantage of education, and divide a small surplus between them as each arrived at man's estate. The young Servosse, therefore, ate, drank, and slept, studied, played, and quarreled, like other boys. Like others who enter college, and have constitutions sufficiently robust to avoid dyspepsia arising from sedentary habits and the frying-pan, he left it at the end of four years, with a diploma properly signed and sealed, as well as very prettily printed on mock parchment, which was quite as good as veritable sheepskin for such a purpose. He studied law, as so many sensible men have done before his day, and with his first mustache was admitted under all the legal forms to sign himself "Attorney and Counselor at Law," and allowed to practice his art upon such clients as he could decoy into any of the courts of the Commonwealth of Michigan. Thereupon, putting in force the

"Circumspice" which appeared upon the seal attached to his license, he cast about for a place in which to set snares for the unwary, and pitched upon the town of Peru; hung out his shingle; obtained a fair business; married the pretty Metta Ward; and, in the summer of his twenty-seventh year, manifested the first symptoms of that mental weakness which led him to perform the task of unwisdom hereinafter narrated.

CHAPTER II.

LE PREMIER ACCÈS.

        IT was the 23d of July in his twenty-seventh year. He had been for several days in a very depressed state of mind, nervous and irritable, beset by gloomy forebodings, wakeful, and, when he did sleep, moaning as if in anguish of mind, talking in his sleep, or waking suddenly and crying out, as if in danger or distress. There was nothing in his social or business relations to justify any such state of mind. He was very warmly regarded by the little community in which he was settled,--a leader in its social life, an active member of the church in which he had been reared, and superintendent of its sabbath school. He had a good home, undistinguished by mortgage or incumbrance of any sort; a wife, whose energy and activity kept this home in the neatest possible condition, almost as it seemed without exertion, and certainly without the tyranny of servants; an office in the very center of the town, where it could not escape the search of the most unwilling or unobservant seeker; and a practice which yielded him more than he had any call to spend. All this should have made him the most contented and happy of men.

        Yet, in spite of all these comforting surroundings, he had for a considerable time neglected his business to a marked degree, and seemed to have little interest in those things which ought

most nearly to have concerned him. For the last few days he seemed to have had no heart or interest in any thing save the results of a battle, which was said to have been fought half a thousand miles away, in which neither he nor any one of his clients had an interest which could have been measured by the American unit of value or any fraction thereof. Yet this young attorney was refusing to eat or drink, because he did not know the results of said battle, or perhaps because he feared that it might not turn out to his notion.

        Metta, his young wife, was surprised and alarmed. Never before had there been any thing like trouble in the breast of her spouse, that he did not lighten his heart of at least half its load by at once revealing to her the cause of his annoyance. The difficulties of each puzzling case were talked over with her; and not unfrequently her pure unbiased heart had pointed out to him equities which his grosser nature had failed to perceive. Had he been cast in an action, he was sure to come home at night, perhaps dragging and weary with the story of his discomfiture, to receive consolation and encouragement from her lips; but this new trouble he had studiously concealed from her. At least he had refrained from all conversation in regard to it, and revealed its existence only by the involuntary symptoms which we have set forth. But who could conceal such symptoms from the eye of love? She had seen them, and wept and trembled at the evil that portended. She was no skilled student of mental phenomena; but, if she had been, she would have known that all these indications--insomnia, causeless apprehension, anxiety in regard to matters of no personal moment to him, moodiness, and studious concealment of the cause of his disquietude--were most infallible indications of mental disorder. Yet, although she did not know this as a scientific fact, her heart had diagnosed the symptoms; and the prescience of love had taught her with unerring accuracy to apprehend the evil which impended. With the self-forgetfulness of womanly devotion, she had concealed her sorrow from the purblind eyes of the dull mole whose heart was occupied only with the morbid fancies which

were eating their relentless way into his soul. She wept in secret over what she foresaw, and pressed her hands with tearful beseeching to her troubled heart, while her white lips uttered the prayer, which she felt could not be answered, "I pray Thee, let this cup pass from me!"

        Yet she met him, through whom she knew this affliction must come, ever with smiles and gladness. At morn she kissed him farewell, as he stood on the vine-covered porch of their little cottage, when he started for his office, while the balmy breath of the summer morning blew over them, and the bees hummed from flower to flower, sipping the honeyed dew from the throats of the unclosed morning-glories. At noon, when he came for the mid-day meal, the door flew open before his hand had touched the knob, and she stood before him in the little hall, draped in the neat, cool muslin which became her so well, a smile upon her lips, and inextinguishable lovelight in her eyes. And when he would sit in moody silence after their pleasant tea, while the evening shadows fell around,--brooding, ever brooding, over the evil which he would persist in making his own,--she would steal into his lap, and her soft arms would clasp his neck, while her lips would not rest from prattle or song until bribed into silence by kisses or laughter. Never had his home been so sweet. Never could home be sweeter. Yet all this seemed only to increase his melancholy, and make him even more moody and disconsolate.

        On the previous day he had come home before the tea-table had been set,--an hour before his usual time; but somehow she had expected that he would do so. She had peeped through the blinds of her little chamber, and seen him coming; so that, as he climbed wearily up the steps, he found her standing on the lower stair in the hall, her lips wreathed in smiles, and her head crowned with roses, as she waited to spring into his arms.

        "O Metta!" he said in an agonized voice, as he clasped her to his breast, and then put her away, and looked into her blushing face and into the eyes which were crowding back the tears she was determined should not flow,--"O Metta, we are beaten!"

        "In what case?" she asked, at once pretending to misunderstand the purport of his words.

        He saw the pretty little trick; but he was too sad, and melancholy had taken too firm a hold upon him, to allow him to reward it with a smile.

        "Alas!" he sighed, "this can be laughed away no longer. Blood has been shed. Not a few lives, but a thousand, have been lost. Our army has fought at a place called Bull Run, and been terribly defeated."

CHAPTER III.

SORROW COMETH WITH KNOWLEDGE.

        THERE were no more smiles in the cozy home after that announcement. He had brought with him a newspaper, whose horrible details absorbed his attention, and from which he read aloud to her, as with noiseless step and white lips and ashen cheeks she went about preparing the evening meal, of which they had partaken together for the last time alone. Another presence--grim and terrible--sat at the board with them that night, and imbittered all the sweet viands which her pretty hands had prepared with such loving care. The name of this presence was War. It sat opposite the wife, and over against the husband. Its shadow blighted his brain, and paralyzed her heart. She could not eat; and the Fool noticed dully, when he could lift his eyes from the paper beside his plate, that there were great black circles about her eyes, which were not there when he had first met her in the hall that morning.

        After supper he went out, which was another sign of mental alienation; since he had never before known a time when he would willingly leave his pretty home and gentle wife for the society of men. He stayed late, and she pretended to be asleep when he came in. She had been weeping in her loneliness;

and her heart was so sore that she could not venture to give him the good-night kiss, which she had never before omitted. In the morning there was the same heaviness; and the same Shadow sat with them at the breakfast-table and mocked at the Fool, as he read the morning's paper, and did not see the tears that rolled down the wife's cheeks.

        He did not come home to dine, but sent word that he was too busy to leave his office; and it was late when he came to supper. His melancholy seemed to have departed; and he was strangely, unnaturally cheerful and tender to his young wife. He came up the steps with a bound, took her lovingly from the lower stair, where she generally awaited him, and, when he had kissed her a dozen times or so, bore her in his arms to the dining-room, where the tea-table was already spread. Through the whole meal he rattled on of every thing except the fearful Shadow which sat opposite, and which he pretended not to see. When the meal was over, he led his wife into the sitting-room; and taking a seat by the window, over which clambered a rose-tree, some blossoms from which were in her hair, he seated her upon his lap, kissed her again and again, and finally said in tremulous tones,--

        "Metta, the governor has called for more troops."

        There was no response, except that the bowed head upon his breast nestled closer, and there was a sound of a sob choked down in the white throat.

        "Don't you think, Metta, that I--that is--we--ought to do something--for the country?"

        Then came a little wailing cry.

        "Didn't I pick lint for two whole days, and sew bandages, and roll them; and [a burst of tears] I'm sure I'm willing to do it every day--if--if--if it will do any good."

        Then the tears flowed in a torrent, and the slender form shook with successive sobs, as if a great deep had been suddenly broken up.

        "Oh, I didn't mean that!" said the Fool. "Don't you think I ought to do something?--that I ought to--to-- go?"

        "Go! where?" came the response in assumed wonder; for she would not understand.

        "To the war, dear,"he answered gently.

        "What!" she cried. "You! you! my husband! Oh, it is not, it can not be so! Surely there is no need of that. Can we not do enough--our share--without that? O darling, I should die!"

        She sobbed as if about to make good her words, and clung about his neck with kisses and tears mingled in distracted confusion.

        "Oh, if I should lose you! Darling, darling! think of our pretty home! your bright future, and--and," she whispered something in his ear. "Surely some must stay at home; and why not you?"

        "Nay, nay, darling," he said, "do not tempt me! I know it is hard; but I could not look you in the face, and know that I had shirked the call. Nay more, my darling! I could not gaze without a blush into the innocent face of that little child, if I should fail to take a man's part in the great struggle which the nation is waging with the wrong! I could not see your babe, and think that it might some time blush for its father's cowardice!"

        As if it could make any possible difference to the little one who was expected, whether its father continued a thrifty and prosperous attorney, as he had hitherto been, or became a red-handed slayer of men! or, indeed, whether the said heir expectant would not be better pleased, and his interests better served, by his father taking the former course rather than the latter!

        However, the young wife saw that it was useless to argue with a mind so evidently distorted in its apprehension of facts, and lay weeping and sobbing in his arms until he had fired her fancy with bright pictures of military glory and the sweets of the return home, when Peace should crown him with laurels, and spread a feast of all good things for the heroes who went forth to battle for the right.

        So, in a few days, he marched forth clad in the foolish

foppery of war, avoiding his wife's tearful gaze, and taking pride and credit to himself for so doing.

        He was the captain of the "Peru Invincibles," which constituted Company B of an infantry regiment, that did an incredible amount of boasting at the outset, a marvelous amount of running soon after, and a reasonable amount of fighting still later in the Civil War, which had then just begun.

        This species of mental alienation was then of such frequent occurrence that it might well be regarded as epidemic. It displayed itself chiefly in an irresistible inclination to the wearing of blue clothing and the carrying of dangerous weapons, together with a readiness to use them in a very unpleasant and reckless manner. There were many mild cases, in which the mania manifested itself in very loud and reckless talk about what ought to be done. These cases were not at all dangerous, as they never went beyond that point. The persons acutely affected received different names in different localities. In some they were called "Boys in Blue," "The Country's Hope," and "Our Brave Soldier-Boys;" while in others they were termed "Lincoln's Hirelings," "Abolition Hordes," and "Yankee Vandals." It may be observed, too, that the former methods of distinguishing them prevailed generally in the States lying to the north, and the latter in those lying to the south, of what used to be called "Mason and Dixon's line." Both meant the same thing. The difference was only in the form of expression peculiar to the respective regions. All these names, when properly translated, signified Fools.

CHAPTER IV.

FROM BAD TO WORSE.

        FOUR years have elapsed, and our Fool is lying on the greensward, under the clustering maples, in front of the little cottage from which he marched away in stoical disregard of his young wife's tears.

        A rollicking witch, whom he calls "Lil," is fighting a sham battle with the soldier-papa whom she has never seen until a week before, but whom she now tramples and punches and pelts with that sublime disregard for the feelings of the assaulted party which shows the confidence she has in his capacity to "endure hardness like a good soldier." Resting with her back against the tree-trunk, with a mass of fluffy white cloth overspreading the light dotted muslin which rises about her in cool profusion as she sits among the long grass, is Metta, the brave young wife, whose tears ceased to flow when she found they were powerless to detain the Fool away from war's alarms, and were all turned into smiles, and treasured up to await his return and restoration to his right mind.

        Ah! many a thousand times her heart has stood still with fear for him; and now, as she playfully watches the struggle going on, we can see that there is an older look upon her brow than we had marked there before. The gray eyes have a soberer light, though brimming over with joy; the lips, a trick of closing sharply, as if they would shut back the sob of fear; and the hand wanders often to the side, as if it would hush by its presence the wild beatings of a sad heart. No wonder; for the Shadow that sat at their table four years before had breakfasted, dined, and supped with her ever since, until the Fool came back a week ago. She knows that she has grown old,-- lived many a decade in those four years; but she has quite forgiven the unconscious cause of all her woe, and is busily engaged

in preparing garments which shall carry no hint of his unfortunate malady. Indeed, it may be said that she has some pardonable pride in the éclat with which he returns. He has been promoted and gazetted for gallant conduct, and general orders and reports have contained his name; while the newspapers have teemed with glowing accounts of his gallantry. He is colonel now; has been breveted a brigadier-general, but despises the honor which comes as a thing of course, instead of being won by hard knocks. He is over thirty; and, as he romps with their first-born, she looks forward to how many ages of ecstasy in the sweet seclusion of their pretty home.

        "There, there, Lily! go and play with Pedro," she says at length. "You will tire papa. He is not used to having such a sturdy little girl to romp with him."

        She is half jealous of the child, who shares her husband's attention which she has hungered for so long. The child goes over to the old Newfoundland who is stretched at ease on the other side of the tree; and, when the parents look again, her golden curls are spread upon his shaggy coat, and both are asleep. The wife draws her husband's hand upon her knee, lets fall her needle, and forgets the world in the joy of his presence and of communion with him.

        "Do you know, Metta," he said after a long silence, "that I have half a mind to go back?"

        "Back! where?" she asked in surprise.

        "Why, back to the South, whence I have just come," he answered.

        "What! to live?" she asked, with wide, wondering eyes.

        "Certainly: at least I hope so," he responded gayly.

        "But you are not in earnest, Comfort, surely," with an undertone of pain in her voice.

        "Indeed I am, dear!" he replied. "You see, this is the way I look at it. I have been gone four years. These other fellows, Gobard and Clarke, have come in, and got my practice all away. It could not be otherwise. If not they, it must have been some others. People must have lawyers as well as doctors. So I must start anew, even if I remain here."

        "But it will not be difficult," she interrupted. "You do not know how many of your old clients have asked about you, and were only waiting for your return to give you their business again."

        "Of course; but it will be slow work, and I have lost four years. Remember, I am over thirty now; and we have only our house and the surplus of my savings in the army,--not any thing like the competency I hoped to have secured by this time," he said somewhat gloomily.

        "But surely there is no haste. We are yet young, and have only Lily. We can live very snugly, and you will soon have a much better business than ever before. I am sure of that," she hastened to say.

        "But, darling, do you know I am half afraid to stay here? It is true I look brown and rugged from exposure,--as who that went to the sea with Sherman does not?-- and my beard, which has grown long and full, no doubt gives me a look of sturdiness and strength; but for several months I have been far from well. I weigh much less than when I left here; and this old wound in my lungs has been troubling me a deal of late. Dr. Burns told me that my only chance for length of days was a long rest in a genial climate. He says I am worn out; and of course it shows at the weak point, just like a chain. I am afraid I shall never practice my profession again. It hardly seems as if I could stand it to sit at the desk, or address a jury."

        "Is it so, darling?" she asked with trembling lips, while the happiness fled out of her face, and left the dull gray which had come to be its accustomed look during those long years of waiting.

        "Yes," he answered tenderly; "but do not be alarmed. It is nothing serious--at least not now. I was thinking, as we had to begin over after a fashion, whether, considering every thing, it would not be best to go South. We could buy a plantation, and settle down to country life for a few years; and I may get over all traces of this difficulty in that climate. This is what the doctor advises."

        "But will it be safe there? Can we live there among the rebels?" she inquired anxiously.

        "Oh," he responded promptly, "I have no fear of that! The war is over, and we who have been fighting each other are now the best of friends. I do not think there will be a particle of danger. For a few months there may be disorders in some sections; but they will be very rare, and will not last any time."

        "Well, dear," she said thoughtfully, "you know that I will always say as Ruth did, and most cheerfully too, 'Whither thou goest, I will go.' You know better than I; and, if your health demands it, no consideration can be put beside that. Yet I must own that I have serious apprehensions in regard to it."

        "Oh," he replied, "there must be great changes, of course! Slavery has been broken up, and things must turn into new grooves; but I think the country will settle up rapidly, now that slavery is out of the way. Manufactures will spring up, immigration will pour in, and it will be just the pleasantest part of the country. I believe one-fifth of our soldiers--and that the very best part of them too--will find homes in the South in less than two years, just as soon as they can clear out their old places, and find new ones there to their mind."

        So he talked, forgetful of the fact that the social conditions of three hundred years are not to be overthrown in a moment, and that differences which have outlasted generations, and finally ripened into war, are never healed by simple victory,-- that the broken link can not be securely joined by mere juxtaposition of the fragments, but must be fused and hammered before its fibers will really unite.

CHAPTER V.

THE ORACLE IS CONSULTED.

        THE doubt which Metta had expressed led the Fool, a few days afterwards, to address a grave, wise man, in whose judgment he had always placed much reliance, in order to obtain his views upon the proposed change of domicile. So he wrote to his former college-president, the Rev. Enos Martin, D.D.:--

        "MY DEAR OLD FRIEND,--The fact that I paid so little heed to your monitions when under your charge, is perhaps the reason why I prize your opinion upon any important matter now. I would like to have your views on the question following, promising to weigh them carefully, though I may not act upon them.

        "I am considering the idea of removing my household gods to Dixie. So far as my personal characteristics are concerned, you know them better than any one else probably, except myself, and would not take my own estimate of what you do not know. I can muster a few thousand dollars,--from eight to ten perhaps. I have come out of the war a little the worse for what I have been through; having some trouble in or about one lung, no one seems to know just where, and some other mementos of the affectionate regard of our rebel friends. I find my practice gone, of course, and am a bit afraid of our cold winters. As I desire your views, I will not give mine. Of course I must burn my bridges if I go. I am too old to face a future containing two upheavals.

"Yours ever,

"COMFORT SERVOSSE."

        In a few days there came this answer:--

        "MY DEAR COLONEL,--I am glad to hear you are considering the question stated in your letter. Of course I can not advise you, in the ordinary sense of that word; nor do I suppose you desire that I should. I can only give my general impressions in regard to the future of that part of the country to which you think of removing.

        "It is too soon to speculate as to what will be the course of the government in regard to the rebellious sections. A thousand plans

are proposed, all of them, as it seems to me, crude, incomplete, and weak. One thing is certain, I think: no one will be punished for rebellion. It is true, Davis and a few others may be invited to go abroad for a few years for the country's good, and perhaps at its expense; but it will end there. There will be no examples made, no reprisals, no confiscation. At the same time, if the results of the war are to be secured, and the nation protected against the recurrence of such a calamity, these States must be rebuilt from the very ground-sill. I am afraid this is not sufficiently realized by the country. I have no idea of any immediate trouble in the South. Such exhaustive revolutions as we have had do not break forth into new life readily. It is the smoldering embers which are to be feared, perhaps a score of years hence. And this can be prevented only by a thorough change in the tone and bent of the people. How much prospect there is of such change being wrought by the spontaneous action of the Southern people, I do not know: I fear, not much.

        "It seems to me that the only way to effect it is by the influence of Northern immigration. Of course the old economies of the plantation and the negro-quarters will have to give way. The labor of that section must be organized, or rather taught to manage itself, to become automatic in its operations. The former master is not prepared to do this: First, because he does not know how; and, secondly, because the freedman has no confidence in his old master's desire to promote his interests. There will be exceptions; but this will be the rule. In this re-organization, I think men who have been acquainted with free labor will be able to give valuable aid, and accomplish good results. I look and hope for considerable movements of population, both from the North to the South, and vice versa; because I think it is only by such intermingling of the people of the two sections that they can ever become one, and the danger of future evil be averted. Should the present controversy be concluded, and new States erected in the recently rebellious sections, without a large increase of the Northern element in their populations, I am confident that the result will be but temporary, and the future peace of the country insecure.

        "As to the social and financial prospects of persons removing there, I suppose it depends very much on the persons themselves, and the particular locality to which they go. I should say you were well fitted for such pioneer work; and, if you should conclude to go, I wish you all success and happiness in your new home, and trust that you may find there friends as devoted and sincere as you have hitherto secured by an upright and honorable life.

"May God bless you and yours!

"ENOS MARTIN."

        By this letter, both the notions of the Fool and the fears of his wife were strengthened. Metta, seeing him grow more and more settled in his determination, did not think it worth while to offer any further opposition; but consoled herself with the reflection that her husband's health was the thing of prime importance, and smothered her fear with a blind, baseless hope, that, because what the purposed doing was a thing born of good motive and kindly feeling, it would be prospered. Some people call that "faith;" and it is no doubt a great consolation, perhaps the only one, when reason and common sense are squarely opposed to the course one is taking.

CHAPTER VI.

ALL LOST BUT HONOR.

        WHILE the matter was in this unsettled state, the Fool received a letter from Colonel Ezekiel Vaughn of Pipersville, a town in which his command had been for some time quartered just before he had quitted the service, to which fact, among other things, he was indebted for the honor of Colonel Vaughn's, acquaintance.

        Some few days after the collapse of the Confederacy, a gentleman had presented himself at the headquarters of the Fool in Pipersville, and directed the orderly in attendance to announce that,--

        "Colonel Ezekiel Vaughn desired to surrender, and take the oath of allegiance."

        Thereupon he was ushered into the presence of our hero, and with considerable pomposity announced the fact again. Somehow he did not seem to the young soldier to have that air of one accustomed to camps and the usage of armies which was to be expected from a veteran of a four-years' war, who came in at the last moment to give up his sword, after all his comrades

had been paroled and had departed. It is true, he had on the regulation gray suit of "the enemy;" and the marks of rank upon the collar might at one time have been intended for the grade he had announced. He wore a light slouch hat, which, though not of any prescribed pattern, had evidently seen much service of some kind. But the surrender brought to light some queer specimens of uniform and equipments, so that Colonel Servosse would not have been surprised at any thing that an officer might have worn. There was something, however, in the loud and somewhat effusive greeting, which, even allowing all that it was possible should be credited to laxity of discipline, showed that the man before him was not accustomed to association with military men. So he asked quietly,--

        "Of what regiment, sir?"

        "Colonel Vaughn,--Colonel Vaughn," said that worthy, depositing himself upon a camp stool, as if in assertion of his familiarity with military surroundings. "Well, sir," he continued in a loud and somewhat assuming tone, "you've got us, overpowered us at last. It was the Irish and Germans that did it. I had no idea you could get so many of them. They just swarmed on your side. The Yankees never could have whipped us in the world by themselves,--never. But it's over. I surrender, --give up,--quit. I'm not one of those that want to keep up a fuss always. I've come in to give myself up, and go to work now to try and make bread and meat, sir,--bread and meat. You uns have freed all the niggers, so that we have nobody to work for us. Have to come to it ourselves. Haven't you got a mule you could let me have, Colonel? Hain't got no money; but Zek'le Vaughn's credit's tolerably good yet, I reckon. Lost forty odd niggers,--as likely ones, too, as ever stood 'twixt soil and sunshine,--and now have got to go to plowing--at my age. It's hard; but we've got to have bread and meat,--bread and meat, sir. Hard, but can't be helped. Did all I could agin ye; but here you are. Let me take the oath. I want to be sworn, and go to plowing before the sun gets too hot."

        "What regiment did you say, sir?" repeated the officer.

        "Oh, never mind the regiment!" said the other: "that's all over now. Just Say Colonel Ezekiel Vaughn: that's enough. Everybody knows Colonel Vaughn,--Zeke Vaughn. I shouldn't wonder if you should find they knew me up at headquarters."

        "It is necessary, sir, that I have the name and number of your regiment before you can be paroled," said the officer sharply.

        "Ah, yes! the regiment. Well, Colonel, you are mighty particular, it seems to me. What difference can it make now, I should like to know?" he asked.

        "It is necessary to identify you," was the reply.

        "Ay, yes! I see. You are afraid I might break my parole, and give you some trouble. I confess I have not been whipped; but I am overpowered,--overpowered, sir,--and I surrender in good faith. I give my honor, sir,--the honor of a Southern gentleman,--as well as my oath, sir!" he said, with a great show of offended dignity.

        "That may be, Colonel," responded the officer; "but our orders require that you shall be fully identified."

        "Well, well! that's very proper. Just say Colonel Vaughn of Pipersville: that will identify me. Everybody in the State knows me. No use of my trying to get away. I shall be right here, when you want to find me, ready to come up, and be hung, if that is to be the end of it. Oh, I meant it! I was one of the original 'Secesh,'--one of the immortal thirteen that voted for it in this county. I never would have stopped fightin' ye if I'd had my way. You'd never 'a' got here if I'd had my way! But that's all over now. I want my parole, so I can go home, and go to killin' grass!"

        "When I learn your regiment and command, I will fill out the blank," answered the officer decisively.

        "Oh, yes! the regiment. Well, Colonel, the fact is,-- ahem!--that I've,--ahem! I've done forgot what number it was."

        "What! forgotten the number of your regiment?"

        "Dog-goned if I hain't,--slick as you please. You see, wasn't in one of the regular regiments."

        "Well, what was your command? to what division or brigade were you attached?"

        "Well, I wa'n't exactly attached to any."

        "Did you have an independent command?"

        "No: not exactly."

        "Were you on staff duty?"

        "Not exactly."

        "Will you tell me what you were 'exactly'?"

        "Well, you see, Colonel, I was just sorter sloshin' around loose-like."

        "Orderly!"said the officer.

        A soldier entered the room, and, saluting his chief, stood waiting for orders.

        "Take that man to the guard-house!"

        "But--Colonel,--I,"--

        "Go on!"said the officer.

        "But--I protest, Colonel,--I,"--

        "Not a word, sir! Take him out!"

        The soldier took a gun which stood in the corner of the room, and motioned towards the door.

        Colonel Ezekiel Vaughn took his way through it without more ado, and was marched to the guard-house at the point of the bayonet, and in constant apprehension lest the orderly's gun might explode.

CHAPTER VII.

AN OLD "UNIONER."

        IN a little time another party was ushered into the colonel's quarters. He was a tall, lank countryman, clad in a suit of country jeans, which was at that time almost the exclusive wear. He had a long, scraggly beard, of a dull, sandy color, with streaks of gray; and, as he took off his hat and bowed deferentially, his head appeared quite bald. There was a

shrewd look in his small gray eyes, and he seemed to approach the officer as one who had a right to speak freely with him. He coughed slightly, and put a hand to his gray beard with a pathetic gesture as he said,--

        "Colonel Servosse, I reckon."

        "Yes, sir. What can I do for you?" was the answer.

        "Wal, I don't know ez any thin'. I jes' thought I'd drop in an' chat a little." He coughed again, and added apologetically, "I'll set down, ef you'll allow."

        "Oh, certainly!" said the officer; but the stranger had seated himself without waiting for a reply.

        "I reckon you don't know me, Colonel. No? Wal! my name's Brown,--Jayhu Brown."

        "Jehu Brown! Not the man who piloted the boys that escaped from Salisbury prison through the mountains in eighteen sixty-four?"

        "Yes," with another cough, "I'm that man. You weren't in the crowd; were ye, Colonel?"

        "No; but I had a friend who was, and he gave me an explicit injunction, if ever I came into this section to find you out, remember him to you, and, if I could serve you in any manner, to do so for his sake."

        "Thank ye. What might be his name?"

        "Edgarton--Captain Edgarton--of the Michigan Battery!"

        "Oh, yes! I mind him well now. A big-shouldered, likely man, with long hair curlin' in his neck. I cut it off, so that it shouldn't be a mark to foller us by. He's well, I hope." And the old man coughed again.

        "In excellent health. Is a colonel of artillery now, and chief of that arm, on the staff of General Davis of the Fourteenth Corps. He would be overjoyed to see you."

        "Thank ye, thank ye! So you'd heard of ole Jayhu before?" said he with another apologetic cough. "I thought I'd never seed ye. It's not often Jayhu Brown forgits a man he's once sot his eyes on, or his name either; an' I couldn't make out that I'd ever run across yours, though them prisoners was that thin an' wasted that the best man might forget to make

'em out arter they'd hed a few months of full feed." He coughed again, a sort of chuckling hack, which seemed to take the place of laughter with him.

        "You seem to be in bad health, Mr. Brown," remarked the colonel, alluding to his cough.

        "Wal, not partickelar," answered Brown. "[Hack, hack.] I never was very stout, though I've managed to pull through as many close places as most men. That was a monstrous close time going with them ar fellows from Salisbury. [Hack, hack.]"

        "Won't you have a little whiskey?" asked the colonel, mindful of what constituted hospitality in the region where he was.

        "Wal, now, Colonel, it's mighty kind of you to think on't I don't keer ef I du just drink the health of an old friend with ye [Hack, hack.]"

        The orderly was called, glasses set out, and liquor, sugar, and water placed before the old man.

        "No, I thank ye!" said he: "none of them fixin's fer me. I allers did like my liquor clar,--clar an' straight." And he poured out a brimming goblet of the fiery liquid. "I never drinks liquor, as some folks does, just for the fun of the thing; but I takes a full charge, an' means business. A man at my day hain't got no time to fool away mixin' drinks. [Hack, hack, hack.]"

        He placed his hand over his mouth, as he coughed, with a pathetic expression of countenance that suggested visions of the churchyard.

        "I don't often drink,--never, unless I need it, or feel a hankerin' fer it. Never was drunk in my life, and don't 'llow to be; but I've allers hearn that what was wuth doin' at all was wuth doin' well."

        Again he pressed his hand to his breast with that peculiar, hacking cough, which seemed to be an apology, chuckle, or explanation, as served. His tall, slender form and solemnity of manner gave it a strange, almost ghastly, effect.

        "You seem to have a very troublesome cough, Mr. Brown," said the colonel.

        "Wal [Hack, hack], I reckon, now, it mout seem so to ye. [Hack, hack.] But do you know, Colonel, it's jest about the handiest thing I ever hed? I've seen the time I wouldn't take no money fer that cough,--no money! [Hack, hack.]"

        "How is that? I don't understand you," said the colonel.

        "No, I 'spect not. Wal, that ar cough's my exemption-papers. [Hack, hack, hack.]"

        "Your 'exemption papers!' I am still in the dark."

        "Wal, you see [Hack, hack, hack, apologetically], the Confederates used to git a notion every now and then that nigh about everybody was fit fer duty in the army, ye know [Hack, hack]; an', among the rest, ole Jayhu. [Hack, hack.] An' them on us that couldn't handily leave home, or, leastways, them that thought they couldn't, was mighty hard put up for excuses. [Hack, hack.] An' I,--wal, you see, they couldn't never find a Board, no matter who they put on it, that wouldn't say 'twas jest a waste of transportation tu send a man tu the front in my con-di-di-tion. [Hack, hack, hack.]"

        And the old man coughed and groaned, and rolled his eyes as if the moment of dissolution could not be far off.

        "I never made no complaint, ye see; but they never wanted to hear my cough, when it was right holler, more'n once or twice, before they sent me home. [Hack, hack.] 'Twas a wonder, they said frequently, how I lived: an' so 'twas: but I've managed to pull through thus fer, tollable peart-like. [Hack, hack, hack, chucklingly.]"

        The colonel laughed heartily at this recital; and the old man hacked approvingly at his mirth, but did not show a smile.

        "Some on 'em," he continued, "hez laid aside ther exemption-papers now thet the war's over; but mine hez sarved me so well, I believe I'll hang on tu it. [Hack, hack.] It's been right handy, an' may come in play agin. They wasn't all ez handy ez mine. Thar's my neighbor Mastin, now: he hed a powerful good paper; but it was onhandy,--mighty so. He got it up in a hurry; but mine was home-made, an' no sort of inconvenience. Ye see, Mastin was stout as a b'ar,--didn't even look delicate, which is a great help in such a thing. But,

the mornin' of the day that he was ordered tu report fer examination, he come tu town with his head tied up ez if he'd hed the mullygrubs fer a coon's age. [Hack, hack.] Everybody asked him what was the matter, an' he told 'em he'd come in tu git the government doctors tu tell him. He'd been mighty bad off, he said, fer a long time, an' was tu pore to git a doctor hisself, an' was mighty glad he'd been draw'd, 'cause he 'llowed he'd git some treatment now, 'thout payin' for it. So, when they asked him afore the Board what was the matter, he said, arter some fussin', ez ef he couldn't hear good, that 'twas his ear was a troublin' him. An' one of the doctors pulled off the bandages, an' dug about half a bale o' cotting out; an', jest ez he pulled out the last plug, he turned away his head, an' hollered out, 'Git out o' here! yer head's rottener than Lazarus!' [Hack, hack.] Yer see, Mastin's wife hed dropped about half of a bad egg inter his ear that mornin'. [Hack, hack, hack.] 'Twas good papers enough, but onhandy. [Hack, hack.]"^*

        "I should think so," said the colonel, when he could subdue his laughter.

        "But they wasn't all so," continued the old man. "That man you hed in here this mornin', an' sent off so unceremonious, he had some mighty good papers; but I see he's laid 'em aside, an' that perhaps is the reason he's in the guard-house now."

        "Whom do you mean? Not Colonel Vaughn!" said the colonel.

        "Thet's what he calls himself; but we mostly calls him 'Zeke Vaughn,' or more ginerally jist 'Zeke,' or 'hollerin' Zeke.'"

        "What did he want of exemption papers?"

        "Wal,--mostly for the same purpose we all on us did, I reckon!"

        "Why, I thought he was an original Secesh, a regular fire-eater!"

        "So he was at the start, an' in fact all the way through

when it was a question of talkin' only; but when it come to fightin' he wa'n't fire-eater enough to want to deprive any one else of a fair show of the fire. [Hack, hack.] So he got on two sticks in the spring of sixty-two, an' hain't been off 'em sence, except to go to bed, till last week he went out on his legs into old Polly Richardson's field to keep the Yankees from gobblin' him up."

        "He hasn't been in the army, then?"

        "Been in the army! Why, bless yer soul! he hasn't seen a Yankee, alive or dead, since the thing begun, till he seed you; an' ef you treat him ez you hev to-day he's not like tu die tu git a sight of ye agin."

        "But isn't he a colonel?"

        "Wal,--not much, tu hurt. [Hack, hack.]"

        "Then how did he get the title?"

        "That would be hard tellin', Mister!"

        "A militia colonel, I suppose."

        "I doubt it. Never heard on't, ef he was. I think he jest picked it up ez about ten thousand more in the State hez. Got it by registerin' hisself ez sech at hotels, an' givin' fellers a drink tu holler fer 'Colonel Vaughn' at perlitical meetin's, an' then answerin' tu the call."

        "Well, what was his exemption-paper, as you call it?"

        "Oh! he jest hobbled around on two sticks, pretendin' tu be the worst drawd-up man with rheumatiz you ever seed, till you uns come. You served him right, an' I was glad on't."

        In the afternoon several of the leading citizens of the town dropped in, and confirmed indirectly the old Unioner's report in regard to the doughty colonel. They said he was loud-mouthed and imprudent; but there was not a bit of harm in him, and he was very much of a gentleman, and of a most respectable family.

        So, towards night, he sent an order for the prisoner's release, accompanied by this note addressed to him:--

        "SIR,--Having learned the origin of your title, I have ordered your release, and beg to say that the government of the United

States does not consider any parole necessary in your case. You are therefore at liberty to go anywhere you choose.

"Respectfully,

"COMFORT SERVOSSE,

"Colonel commanding Post."

        The colonel supposed he had seen the last of "Colonel" Vaughn: but in this he reckoned without the "colonel;" for that worthy at once attached himself to his headquarters as a sort of supernumerary orderly and chief volunteer adviser of the young officer. He managed to get a fine team, and made himself indispensable in planning and executing the daily drives into the surrounding country, which the colonel and his officers so much enjoyed as a pleasing contrast to the restraints of a long and arduous campaign. He was a man of great local knowledge, and a sort of good-natured persistency, which induced the impression that he was nothing worse than a well-meaning bore, who was to be endured at all times for the sake of his occasional usefulness and universal cheerfulness.

        Among other things talked of in these drives had been the subject of Northern immigration, the revival of business, and the re-organization of labor. On such occasions Vaughn had always clamorously contended that what the subjugated section most required was Northern capital, Northern energy, and Northern men to put it again on the high road to prosperity.

        In one of their drives they had often passed a plantation known as the "Warrington Place," which had particularly attracted the attention of our Fool, and he had frequently expressed his admiration for it. Indeed, he had more than once ridden over the grounds, and examined the premises with that air of remonstrant anger at its neglected state which betrays the incipient interest of the would-be owner. This fact had not been unnoted by the observant Vaughn; and he had determined, if possible, to coin an honest penny out of the young colonel's admiration. He was a keen observer of human nature, and knew that it would not do to flush his game too quickly. He reasoned rightly, that, when the freshness of his return to old associations had worn away, the young man's mind

would be sure to recur with something like longing to his recent surroundings. No active-minded man can settle down after four years of war to the every-day life of former years, without more than one twinge of restlessness and vague regret for the time when "boots and saddles" ushered in the ever-changing days.

        The months passed; and, as recorded in Chapter VI., our Fool had returned to his home. One day he received a brief letter, under date of Sept. 1, 1865, which was as follows:--

        "DEAR COLONEL,--The 'Warrington Place' is for sale, cheap as dirt. Five thousand dollars cash will take the whole place (six hundred acres); that is, five thousand dollars gold. Our folks haven't got to understand greenbacks much as yet. We have had paper money enough for four years. This is a grand chance for a gentleman of your stamp. We need just such. Northern men are crowding in here every day. One man is putting up a factory, and three have opened stores. Shall I tell Griswold, who has the property in charge, that you will take Warrington? I am very anxious you should have it. I know it will suit you so well. If you don't conclude to take it, let me know at once, as some other parties are offering.

"Yours truly,

"COLONEL EZEKIEL VAUGHN.

"P.S.--I can get it on better terms than anybody else, because of my relations with Griswold.

"E. V."

CHAPTER VIII.

"THEIR EXITS AND THEIR ENTRANCES."

        WARRINGTON had been the seat of an old family whose ancestor, many years before the Revolution, had erected the usual double log-house (or "two-decks-and-a-passage," as it is still called in that country), in the midst of a charming oak-grove, upon a gently sloping hill, which rose in the bend of as

fair a stream as ever babbled over the rocks in foolish haste towards the far-away sea. This log-house had in time given way to a more pretentious structure of brick; the grove had been thinned and trimmed, and avenues laid out in it; and the years which had made the house old and damp, worn the mortar from the bricks, and covered the cypress roof with a carpet of moss, had added glory to the forest monarchs which stood around it, and stretched, year by year, their great arms closer and closer about it, as if to hide its imperfections, and screen its decrepitude from the beholder.

        The Warringtons themselves were akin to some of the highest families in the State, and so prided themselves upon their opulence and position that they became chary of alliances with others. They intermarried until the vigor which had amassed great estates became weakened, and imbecility and vice succeeded. The estates were squandered, the revenues lessened, and one plantation after another absorbed, until finally Warrington itself, the family-seat, went to satisfy the demands of importunate creditors half a score of years before our story. Fortunately (or unfortunately, rather, for our Fool) the plantation fell into the hands of an eccentric Frenchman, a bachelor with an abundant fortune, and a taste for horticulture and pomology. He was struck with the beauty of the situation, and the quality of the fruits produced there; and building a neat lodge on one side of the grounds, almost overhanging a little waterfall, which he had improved until it became one of the chief attractions of the place, he shut up the great house, and devoted himself to the culture of fruits and flowers with a contented zeal which yielded marvelous results. All about the central grove of oak and hickory were orchards and vineyards of the rarest and most luscious fruits. Evergreens had been interspersed with deciduous varieties in the grove, and trees of quaint habit and striking foliage were grouped here and there through the grounds.

        Of the plantation beyond the immediate surroundings of the house--the six hundred acres of alternate hill and bottom, with woodland and old field interspersed--he had been less

careful, having left it in the hands of an overseer to be cultivated or left idle as the fancy or inclination of that worthy might dictate. All he wanted from that portion of his property was, that it should pay the expense of its own cultivation, and furnish enough corn, meat, and forage to subsist himself and the two "boys" (slaves) whom he kept to help him in his horticultural operations, together with the horses and mules employed on the plantation. This was easy, without cultivating more than one-half the arable land. The overseer consequently reduced his cares, and accomplished all his employer required, by "turning out" from year to year portions of the plantation, and failing to "take in" any new ground. The consequence was that when Mr. Noyotte died, in the second year of the war, the bulk of the farming-lands had grown up into pine and sassafras, with rank sedge-grass waving thickly between, and great red gullies stretching across towards every ravine and water-course. The lands which had been under actual cultivation had become very much worn and depreciated by slothful management, until the hillsides were washed, and the bottoms filled with the detritus, to the great detriment not only of the slopes above, but also of the rich alluvium beneath.

        The eccentric owner had died, so far as was known, without heirs. He had never been a favorite in the neighborhood, and very little was known of his affairs. His housekeeper, a quadroon woman, claimed his estate under a will duly executed; but as it was suggested that she was a slave and incapable of "taking" under it, and as she was unable to prove the contrary, the will was set aside, and an administrator appointed. It was found that the deceased had become indebted to an extent which his personal estate was insufficient to discharge, especially considering the very low prices which it brought at the sale which the administrator made for that purpose.

        Nearly every thing was bought by Colonel Vaughn at figures which would have amazed one who knew nothing of how such matters may be arranged. It was given out and believed that Colonel Vaughn had been authorized, by a letter which had

passed the blockade, to represent the heirs of the deceased,-- nephews and nieces who lived in France,--and that he was buying in the property just to hold for them. Therefore, when likely negro slaves were bid off by Colonel Vaughn for fifty dollars apiece in Confederate money, every one said it was all right, and there was no counter-bidding. The administrator made his report of sales, and, there being a deficiency of assets, obtained an order to sell the lands, which he was authorized to do either at public or private sale.

        Less than ten dollars an acre for such a plantation seemed to the Fool, who was accustomed to the high prices of land at the North, extravagantly cheap,--as perhaps it was in the abstract. He did not know that in its palmiest days the plantation would never have brought that price at a cash sale; while its condition had so deteriorated, that, by the same scale of prices, it would now hardly have been worth more than half that sum: besides which, the deleterious effects of the war upon the value of all property in that region were hardly to be estimated. Of all this he took no account. He answered at once that Colonel Vaughn might take the property at the price named, if he could get a good title. Of that he wished to be sure. Then there came an abstract of title from an attorney of the highest repute, as he well knew, and with it this note:--

        "Griswold was anxious to sell: so I bought, knowing that you would be sure to take the place when satisfied of the title, as you will be when you read this. I got it a trifle below the price I named to you; and you can have it for what I paid, any time within two months.

"COLONEL EZEKIEL VAUGHN."

        So the Fool sold his pretty home, packed up his household idols, took his wife and little daughter, and went to seek health, happiness, and fortune in Dixie. The trade which had been initiated by the persistent Vaughn was duly consummated, and Comfort Servosse became the owner in fee of the family-seat of the Warringtons. It took almost all of his little fortune to pay for it; but, when he had done so, he felt that he had accomplished a good work. He had made a fair bargain,

and had now a basis for future happiness and prosperity; and for this he felt himself under some obligation to Colonel Vaughn, and came to the conclusion, that, if that worthy was not gifted with a stomach for fight, he was at all events a good-hearted, obliging fellow. It was not till afterwards that he found out how many prices he had paid; for, when the heirs of Mr. Noyotte --the nephews and nieces in France--sent over to reclaim the residue of the property in the hands of the administrator, it appeared from the record that the land had been sold privately to Colonel Vaughn in 1863, and that there had been received in payment thereof a certain amount of Confederate money, which was duly filed by the administrator, and reported by him as having been lost by the events of the war.

        But these things were unknown to the Fool for several years; and Warrington came into his hands a new toy, unsmutched by any suspicion that he had paid too much for his whistle.

CHAPTER IX.

THE NEW KINGDOM.

        WHY attempt to paint the delights of that first winter at Warrington?

        Upon examining the place, it was found that the Frenchman's lodge had been used for purposes which prevented its present occupation as a dwelling, and they were forced to go into the old brick mansion. It needed much repairing, and at the best was worth more to look at than to occupy. Yet there was a certain charm about the great rooms, with their yawning fireplaces and dingy ceilings. Transportation was yet defective; and it was long before their furniture could arrive over railroads, worn and old, which had been the object of attack by both armies at different periods of the war.

        It was the middle of October when they entered upon their

new possession; and all was so new and so lovely to Metta and the little Lily, that no lack of creature-comforts could have checked their enthusiasm. The balmy air, the unfamiliar landscape, the strange sense of isolation which always marks the Southern plantation life, and, above all, the presence of the husband and father who had been absent so long, all united to make them superlatively happy.

        Metta rode with her husband all over the country, whose strange irregularity became every day more pleasing to them, --through the thick woods along the bridle-path, where the ground was covered with autumn foliage which had fallen from ripeness rather than from the effects of frost; past the little country farm-houses and the seats of wealthy planters; fording rivers, and crossing rude ferries; every one whom they met, whether of high or low degree or of whatever race, having something about him which was new and strange to one of Northern birth and education.

        A letter which Metta wrote to her sister shortly after they arrived will show the feelings of the young wife:--

        "MY DEAR JULIA,--I do not know how I can better employ a few hours of Thanksgiving Day than in writing you the promised letter of our new home and our journey here. While you are shivering with cold, perhaps looking out upon ice and snow, I am sitting upon a little veranda, over which clambers a rose-vine still wreathed with buds and blossoms. There has been a slight frost; and those on the outside are withered, but those within are yet as fresh as if it were but June. The sun shines warmly in, and every thing without is touched with that delicious haziness which characterizes the few peculiar autumn days of the North that we call Indian summer. There is the same soft, dreamy languor, and the same sense of infinite distance around us.

        "Every body and every thing is new to us; that is, to Lily and me. Comfort's four years of soldier life made him very familiar with similar scenes; and, I doubt not, a large part of our enjoyment comes from having him to explain all these wonders to us.

        "It did seem terribly lonely and desolate when we first arrived. You know Comfort had come before, and completed the purchase and made some preparations for our reception; that is, he had engaged somebody to make the preparations, and then returned for us.

We had a fearful journey,--rough seas and rickety boats, a rough country, and railroads which seemed to lack all that we have considered the essentials of such structures. The rails were worn and broken, the cross-ties sunken and decayed; while every now and then we would see where some raiding party had heated the rails, and twisted them around trees, and their places had been supplied with old rusty pieces taken from some less important track. Comfort said he believed they would run the train on the 'right of way' alone pretty soon. All through the country were the marks of war,--forts and earthworks and stockades. Army-wagons, ambulances, and mules are scattered everywhere, and seem to be about all the means of transportation that are left. The poor Confederacy must have been on its last legs when it gave up.

        "The last twelve hours of the trip it rained,--rained as you never saw it, as I think it never can rain except in this climate. To say that it poured, would give you but a faint idea of it. It did not beat or blow: there was not a particle of storm, or any thing like excitement or exertion about it. It only fell--steadily, quietly, and uninterruptedly. It seemed as if the dull, heavy atmosphere were shut in by an impenetrable canopy of clouds, and laden with an exhaustless amount of water, just sufficiently condensed to fall. There was no patter, but one ceaseless sound of falling water, almost like the sheet of a cascade in its weight and monotony, on the roof of the old leaky car. In the midst of this rain, at midnight, we reached the station nearest to Warrington. It is, in fact, a pretty little town two thousand or so inhabitants; but it was as dark as the catacombs, and as quiet, save for the rain falling, falling everywhere, without intermission. The conductor said there was a good hotel, if we could get to it; but there was no vehicle of any kind, and no light at the station except the conductor's lantern, and a tallow candle flickering in the little station-house.

        "Comfort got our baggage off, and stored in the station-house, after a deal of trouble; and with bags and boxes on our arms, and muffled up to the chin to keep out the rain (which seemed to come through an umbrella as if it scorned such an attempt to divert it from its course), we started for the hotel under the pilotage of the conductor with his lantern. Such a walk! As Comfort helped me out of the car, he said,"It's fearfully muddy."He need not have said it. Already I was sinking, sinking, into the soft, tenacious mass. Rubbers were of no avail, nor yet the high shoes I had put on in order to be expressly prepared for whatever might await me. I began to fear quicksand; and, if you had seen my clothing the next morning, you would not have wondered. Luckily it was dark, and

no one can ever more than guess what a drabbled procession we made that night.

        "And then the hotel; but I spare you that! Lily cried herself to sleep, and I came very near it.

        "The next morning the earth was as bright and smiling as if a deluge had not passed over it a few hours before. Comfort was all impatience to get out to Warrington, and we were as anxious to leave that horrible hotel. So he got an ambulance, and we started. He said he had no doubt our goods were already there, as they had been sent on three weeks before, and he had arranged with a party to take them out to the plantation. At least, he said, we could not be worse off than we were at that wretched hotel, in which I fully agreed with him; but he did not know what was in store for us!

        "Warrington is only six miles from the station; but we were two mortal hours in getting there with our trunks and the boxes we had brought with us. Think of riding through mud almost as red as blood, as sticky as pitch, and "deeper than plummet ever told," for two hours, after an almost sleepless night and a weary journey of seven days, and you may faintly guess with what feelings I came to Warrington. As we drove up the avenue under the grand old oaks, just ripening into a staid and sober brown, interspersed with hickories which were one blaze of gold from the lowest to the topmost branch, and saw the gray squirrels (which the former owner would not allow to be killed, and no one had had time to kill since) playing about, and the great brick house standing in silent grandeur amid this mimic forest, I could have kissed the trees, the squirrels, the weather-beaten porch, the muddy earth itself, with joy. It was home,--rest. Comfort saw the tears in my eyes, the first which I had shed in it all, and said tenderly,--

        "'There, there! It's almost over!' as if I had been a tired baby.

        "Lily was in rapture over the beauties of the old place, as indeed she had good right to be; but I was tired. I wanted rest. We drove to the house, and found it empty,--desolate. The doors were open; the water had run across the hall: and every thing was so barren, that I could only sit down and cry. After some trouble Comfort found the man who was to have made the repairs, and brought out the goods. He said the goods had not come, and he 'llowed there wa'n't no use fixin' things till they come.

        "Comfort sent the ambulance which brought us out to go back and get some provisions, a few cooking utensils, and some other absolute necessities. A colored woman was found, who came in, and, with the many willing hands which she soon summoned to her aid, made the old house (or one room of it) quite cozy. Our things

have been coming by piecemeal ever since, and we are now quite comfortable.

        "Comfort has bought me a riding-horse,--a beautiful blooded bay mare; and he has his old war-horse, Lollard, which he had left in this vicinity with an old man named Jehu Brown,--who, by the way, is a character,--having an impression that we might come here. So we ride a great deal. The roads are so rough that it is difficult to get about in any other way; and it is just delightful riding through the wood-paths, and the curious crooked country roads, by day or at night.

        "The people here seem very kind and attentive. A good many gentlemen have called to see Comfort. They are all colonels or squires, and very agreeable, pleasant men. A few ladies have called on me,--always with their husbands though; and I think they are inclined to be less gracious in their manner, and not so cordial in their welcome, as the gentlemen. I notice that none of them have been very pressing in their invitations for us to return their courtesy. Comfort says it is not at all to be wondered at, but that we ought rather to be surprised and pleased that they came at all; and I do not know but he is right.

        "Two or three countrymen came to see Comfort a few days after our arrival. They were all 'misters,' not 'colonels' and 'squires.' They said they were Union men; and it was wonderfully interesting to hear them tell, in their quaint provincialisms, what happened to them during the war.

        "We rode out to see one of them afterwards, and found him a thrifty farmer, with four or five hundred acres of good land, living in a log house, with a strange mixture of plainness and plenty about him. Somehow I think I shall like this class of people better than the other,--though they are rough and plain,--they seem so very good-hearted and honest.

        "We are going to have the teachers from the colored school at Verdenton here to dinner to-day to keep Thanksgiving. There are some half-dozen of them,--all Northern girls. I have not met them; but Comfort says they are very pleasant ladies. Of course they have no society except a few Northern people; and he has gone to bring them out to give them a treat as well as ourselves, I suppose.

"Yours ever, with love to all,

"METTA."

CHAPTER X.

POOR TRAY.

        THE next letter was during the week which succeeded Christmas Day, and explains itself:--

        "MY DEAR JULIA,--My last letter to you was written while I was waiting for the young ladies, who are teaching at Verdenton, to come and share our Thanksgiving dinner. That was a momentous day for us, and that dinner a most important affair. We were a little short of some things necessary for such an occasion; but we pieced and fitted, and, with the help of the willing hands of many colored girls (you must remember that all colored women are 'girls'), we made out to spread a very respectable table. Comfort had gone into town early with my little bridle-wise mare Jaca in leading for one of the young ladies to ride; and the ambulance followed for the others. Just as my letter was finished, they all came up the avenue to the house; and a merrier crowd I am sure I never saw in my life. Six sweeter girls could not be found. They are employed by the Missionary Association to teach in the colored schools that have sprung up all over the South like magic, and are real 'missionaries' in the very best sense of the word. They are from six different States, and never saw each other until they met here at the school in Verdenton, and are all cultivated, refined ladies of the best class of our Northern people, who have come here simply to do good. It was really charming to see them, so fresh and girlish, just from loving homes and tender friends, coming away down here on a noble errand, where they are despised and insulted for the very good they perform. Only the few Northern people who are here will have any thing to do with them. They are as much missionaries, and have as much to undergo, as if they were in Turkey; indeed more, if our old friend who is teaching in Beirût tells the whole truth in regard to her difficulties. We had a delightful day; and towards night both of us returned with them, and sending back the ambulance, and keeping only our saddle-horses, staid at the Mission House, as their abode is called, until after nine o'clock; and then Comfort and I rode home in the moonlight. I don't think I was ever happier in my life, or felt that I had been the

cause of more happiness to others, than on that day; and, when we knelt for our evening prayer, I did thank God with all my heart that he had directed our steps hitherward, for I believe we have a blessed work to do, and that our lives here will not be in vain.

        "A few days afterward I went to call on some of the ladies who had visited me. It was so far that Comfort went with me, and I persuaded him to let me go on horseback; for it is so unpleasant to ride in an ambulance, which is the only alternative. This would not be quite en règle at home, I know; but here it is a very general thing, and it is a mode of traveling too delightful ever to be abandoned. We called at three houses, and were received at all of them with a very marked restraint of manner, and with positive rudeness in one case. I felt as if I could cry from disappointment and chagrin. We wanted to be friendly, and avoided every subject of conversation which could give pain; and it seemed too bad to be met with such coolness. Comfort tried to console me as we rode home; but I could see that he felt it as well as I.

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