There was the law against Zoe taking this step, and against any one having any part in it. Still would it be known? I was content to wait for developments and meanwhile to put the whole thing behind me. Work helped me to do this.

I had Sarah's boy to interest me too. They had named him Amos. I had taken five twenty-dollar gold pieces and tied them in a package, bound them with a ribbon, and placed them in his tiny hand. I could not foresee the time when I should touch his hand on an occasion of very different import and with Zoe standing by. Zoe had made Amos some pretty little things and sent them by me. Sarah's only regret was that her grandmother could not see the boy. Her great happiness was wholly beautiful. And Reverdy seemed impressed with a greater dignity and a more gracious heart, if that were possible. I had found Mrs. Brown well adapted to my household. She liked the place; and the prospect was that she would be long in my service. Life was moving on.

I kept in touch with affairs in England and Europe through the London Times. I was also a subscriber to Greeley's New Yorker; and I did not slight the local paper, which belabored Douglas in proportion as he increased in popularity and power. I read many books as well.

For I felt the stir of a new age. I saw the North, the country around me, growing in wealth and dominance. I saw old despotisms giving way and new ones coming to take their place. The factory system was arising, due to machinery. Weaving and spinning processes had improved. The cry of women and children crowded in the factories of Pennsylvania began to be heard. The hours of toil were long. And if the whip descended upon the back of the negro in the South, the factory overseer in Philadelphia flogged the laborer who did not work enough to suit him, or who was tardy at the task. Women and children there were feeling the lash of the whip. Just now there was talk of a machine which would cut as much grain in a day as six men could cut with scythes. I ordered two of these machines for the next year, for I was farming more and more on a big scale. But what seemed most wonderful to me was an instrument now being talked about which sent messages by electricity. It was not perfected yet. It was treated with skepticism. But if it could be! If I could get a message from St. Louis, a distance of more than a hundred miles, in a few minutes or an hour!

Douglas came out to see me one night to tell me what was on his mind. He wanted to be the prosecuting attorney. Consider the straits of a young man who must make his way and get a place in the world! Is there anything more desperate at times? What was the law business in this community, divided, as it was, by eleven lawyers, shared in by visiting lawyers? Douglas had to live. Youth is forced to push ahead or be crushed. I know he has been accused of manipulation in having the law passed by which he could be appointed to the office and supplant a rival. Well, if he had not had the gifts and the energies to do such things, how could he have served the country and maintained himself? The next February before he was twenty-two, he was state's attorney for the district. No wonder that lesser men railed at him. But what one of them would not have done the same thing if he could?

And now I was seeing much of Dorothy. What did it mean? Was she only my friend? Reverdy, her brother, was my most intimate friend. Did she receive my attentions on account of the relations between him and me? If she knew anything about Zoe she never betrayed it to me. Surely she could not be in Jacksonville so long and be ignorant that Zoe was my half-sister. At last I decided to explore Dorothy's mind. I went at it forthrightly. Did she know that Zoe and I had the same father?

She had heard it. That was a common enough thing in the South; not common there, however, for a colored mother to be the wife of a white father. "I have suffered on account of this," said Dorothy. "You knew nothing about it and had nothing to do with it. It is too bad—too bad, Jimmy!"

There remained Zoe's misadventure. How could I approach that? But if Dorothy had heard of it would she continue to receive me? If she knew about it would not the present association of ideas bring it to mind and bespeak it to me by change of color or expression? I looked at Dorothy quizzically. I discovered nothing in her face. Then I began to think of the certain probability that some one had come to her breathing rumors upon her. So I said: "Promise me something, Dorothy. If any one ever tells you anything about me, say, for example, that I haven't been perfectly fair with Zoe in every way, and honorable as far as I know how to be, will you withhold belief until you give me a chance? Do you promise me that?" And Dorothy stretched her hand to me in a warm-hearted way. "You are Reverdy's friend, aren't you, and he is yours. Well, I promise you. But it isn't necessary, for it would have to be something that I could believe you capable of. Then Reverdy would have to believe it, and then I might have a mind of my own after all. Why, how could anyone say anything about you? You have been as good to Zoe as if she were as white as I."

And so Dorothy didn't know. I left the matter where it was. I could not go on. You see I was nineteen and Dorothy was eighteen and the year was 1834.

But Lamborn. I had made an enemy of him. Rather, he had turned himself into my enemy. He was running with a gang of rough fellows called the McCall boys. They drank and fought, using clubs or stones or knives. They were suspected of trying to rob the stage when it was driven by the poor wretch who had died of the cholera two summers before. That driver was noted for his courage, his ready use of the rifle; and he had frightened the marauders off, and had wounded one of them, who limped away until the trail of his blood was obscured.

Every time I came into town I was subjected to wolfish leers from some member of this gang. Evidently they had taken up Lamborn's cause. Something was preying upon him. He was drinking more heavily. Perhaps he was tormented with the thought that I knew his secret and abided some vengeance upon him. Perhaps his conscience tortured him. At any rate he had become a skulking figure of hatred, showing his teeth and snarling when he saw me and sidling away like a wolf. He had muttered curses as he hurried to one side. "Bloody Englishman" and the like were his remarks. Something told me to watch him, to watch the McCall boys. I began to take pains to guard my house in the country, sleeping always with my rifle by my side; and I had provided my men with rifles, instructing them to shoot if trespassers approached during suspicious hours or when warned away.

The autumn was the most delicious weather I had experienced since coming to America. Enough of the summer was carried over into October, and even November, to keep the days warm and full of sunlight, while the nights were clear and frosty, and always over this boundless prairie the far scattered stars. I had bought an astronomical chart and located the constellations, in which Zoe had joined me in increasing wonder. Then I had a taste of real hunting. Reverdy and I had gone to marshes a few miles away for wild geese and ducks; and we had come back loaded with game for ourselves and friends. There were many parties and what were called "shucking bees," where the company set to to assist the host in ridding the corn of its sheath; and quilting bees; and apple parings. These were occasions of festival, the local rituals of Dionysius. Earlier in the fall I had gone to a county fair and had seen the products of the field on display; and had studied the people: the tall angular gawks, the men carrying whips, the dust, the noise, the cheap fakirs and gamblers, the fights, the drunkenness, the women tired and perspiring carrying their babies and leading a brood. To me it was more like a cattle pen befogged with dust than an assemblage of human beings. And there was no happiness, no real joy; only barbaric breaking away from hard labor and the silence of the farms; only a reeling and a howling and a war dance; and only here and there a flash of breeding and fineness, and intelligent use of the occasion for sweeter joys and fuller life.

The winter came down; but I was better prepared for it than I was the year before. My house with its walls a foot thick of solid oak and tightly plastered against the penetrating winds kept out the cold. And my fireplaces built under my very eye threw a steady heat into the rooms. I was giving parties from time to time and attending them as well. Douglas always came. He was unfailingly the life of the party. He had reënforced his political successes with a genuine hold upon the hearts of the young people and the older people. He was attacked weekly by the Whig newspaper. But he was not without defense. Almost upon arriving at Jacksonville he had written a letter of praise to the editor of a newly started journal. The editor was greatly pleased at this spontaneous expression of interest and had become Douglas' friend and stanch champion. Ah! Douglas was only manipulating. He had written this letter to win a newspaper to his support. The wily schemer! "Genius has come into our midst," wrote the editor. "No one can doubt this who heard Mr. Douglas expound Democratic doctrine in his wonderful debate with John Wyatt. This country is richer for having attracted Douglas to it. He is here to stay. And he will be one of the great men of the country as President Jackson is now the greatest figure since Washington; and Illinois will send him forth as her son to speak and to act on the great questions that are already beginning to fill the minds of the people."

Douglas often came out to stay for the night or for a day or two. He had little law business, but his energies were always employed in shaping his powers toward a participation in the politics of the country. His superhuman energy was intensified by the fact that he had been deprived of an opportunity to educate himself. It was the gadfly that drove him forward with such restless industry. I could see that he had no patience for a detailed study of the law; that he might be ignorant of the technical steps to be taken in the collection of a promissory note, but he would know something about the resources of a treaty; that if he did not know how to settle the title to a farmer's field, he had considered ways to put at rest any claim of England to the territory of the Oregon. Yet he had to live as a lawyer before he could flourish as a statesman. And he had become the prosecuting attorney. His enemies said it was by a trick; that he had had the state law changed so that the legislature could appoint him state's attorney for the district of Jacksonville. The accusation proved too much. Douglas was not quite twenty-two when he reached this office. He had been in the state but two years, not quite that. How had such a youth first won the confidence of enough people who wished to give him this office and were able to do it; and then won the legislature to do the extraordinary thing of changing the law to give him the office, while at the same time supplanting a seasoned and experienced man in the place? How? Was every one corrupt, people and legislature? But it was February and he was the prosecuting attorney for the people.

He came out to see me, and we drank his health and fortune. It was on this occasion that Douglas talked to me with the greatest freedom about my own affairs. His frankness and sincerity, his friendship for me, relieved this broaching of my intimate interests of intrusiveness. I felt no inclination to resent it. He had glanced at Zoe who had come into the room once or twice, remarking that she was an unusual young woman. Then he said: "Your father must have been much of a man. I think his marriage worked upon his feelings ... and Zoe. Don't let this get on your imagination. You are handling it in the right way ... just go on. Let me warn you. The McCall gang is a desperate one. Do not on any account come to an issue with them. There are too many of them. They will sneak up upon you. They carry grudges ... and another thing, there's Lamborn ... as bad as the McCalls. He's been talking too, making threats against you. I tell you this for your own good. He has been boasting of Zoe's interest in him ... to speak euphemistically of the matter ... but just be careful." Whatever else he had in his mind he communicated it to me by the look of his speaking eyes, keen and blue. Then he arose and went.

Dorothy had returned to Nashville for the winter. She expected to take her place again in Reverdy's household in the spring. And we were writing. I had thought of proposing marriage to her the night before she left. But I could not bring myself to do so. I needed some one in my life. But I was just twenty, and Dorothy seemed so much more mature and wise than I. Then always there was this matter of Zoe. I lived in the expectation that something would come out of Zoe's misfortune; and if it did my name was bound to be connected with it. What would Dorothy say if in the midst of our engagement, if she engaged herself to me, the word should be brought to her that I was the father of Zoe's aborted child and that by some one, perhaps Mrs. Brown, Zoe had been saved the open shame of giving birth to the child and while an inmate of my house? I could see the probative force of these facts against me. This is what kept me from speaking to Dorothy on the subject of becoming my wife and having it settled before she went to Nashville. And then something happened that made my situation infinitely worse before it was any better.

The spring had come on early and I had much to do. I was buying machinery. The mowers that I had ordered were soon to be delivered and I had need to be in town almost daily. There were always loafers about the streets; and among them, not infrequently, the McCall boys or Lamborn. Reverdy had told me that Lamborn had been talking in the barber shop, saying that I was living in a state of adultery with my nigger sister. At the same time I knew, and Reverdy knew, that Lamborn was trying to get Zoe to meet him. He had sent her a note to that effect, which Zoe had turned over to me. Once he had accosted Zoe as she was coming from Reverdy's to join me at the courthouse preparatory to starting home. Reverdy thought that the fellow was eaten up with insane jealousy and had brought himself to the belief that I had taken Zoe from him, if he could be said ever to have had a right to her.

It is an April day and I have come into town and am rushing from place to place attending to many things. Reverdy has met me at the bank to tell me of another opportunity to buy a team of horses and some oxen; for we use the latter mostly to draw the plows that turn up the heavy sod of the prairie. Reverdy has just told me of Lamborn's threat to come to my farm and take Zoe: that when a girl was once his she was always his. He had said these things at the barber shop. Something came over me. I resolved that this intolerable state of affairs, of anxiety for Zoe, of misunderstanding for myself, of dread of the future, of a sort of brake on my life as of something holding me back and impeding my happiness and peace of mind ... all this had to end somehow and soon. I could not live and go on with things as they were.

We stepped from the bank. And there, not ten feet away, stood Lamborn. His mouth became a scrawl, he uttered a growl, he swayed with passion, he moved his hands at his side in a sort of twisting motion. And I thought: there are Zoe and Dorothy, and I may create a feud against me that will follow me for years ... yet this man must die. And I drew my pistol and fired ... Lamborn sank to the ground without a groan. Some of the McCall boys ran out. I fired at them. They fled. I walked forward a step or two. Then I asked Reverdy if he had seen Lamborn reach for his pistol. Reverdy had seen this. I had not. In fact, Lamborn did nothing of the sort. But if Reverdy saw this he could swear to it and help me. The excitement of the precise moment was now over. I felt weak and anxious. I wanted to see Douglas. As state's attorney he could help me. Douglas was soon on the scene. He had heard what I had done. I wanted to talk with him. He waved me off saying: "You must have counsel of your own. You must not talk to me. I would be compelled in the discharge of my duty to use against you anything you might tell me." With that he walked away.

He could not be my friend in this hour of need! What was I to do? Yes, there was Reverdy. But when it came to the matter of locking me up Douglas said: "If Mr. Clayton signs the bond ... make the bond $1000 ... don't lock him up. Get a coroner's jury."

There was not a member of this jury who had not been exposed to some of this vile talk about Zoe and me, in the general contagion of the village gossip. How should this examination be managed? Of course the single question, they told me, was the manner of Lamborn's meeting his death. But the coroner's jury had the power to bind me to the grand jury for an indictment, and that I wished to escape. Well, I had been threatened, to be sure. But why? If Lamborn wanted Zoe and I had her in my house and kept him from seeing her, was it for a good or a selfish reason? Were we not rivals for the same favor? Did one have her and one lose her? Had I killed Lamborn for jealousy, or in self-defense? The single fact that I had shot him stood against the background of all this gossip and village understanding, and was necessarily read into it for my undoing or my freedom.

There was the note that Lamborn had written Zoe! That proved that Lamborn was seeking her; but it might be used to prove that I resented his pursuit. And why? As Zoe's brother, or as her unnatural lover? My brain was in a whirl. I could not think for myself. I talked these subjects over with Reverdy and with Mr. Brooks, who was my counsel. All these things were done the day of the killing. The next morning, with the body of Lamborn lying in the room, I mounted the witness chair in my own behalf, after Reverdy had testified that he had seen Lamborn reach to his pocket, and that it was not until then that I drew my pistol and fired.

Was Douglas turned against me? He plunged into the matter of Zoe almost at once in his cross examination of me. And at last I told the whole story ... with but two exceptions: I did not produce Lamborn's note to Zoe and I did not tell of Zoe's illness and its cause; of returning from St. Louis and finding Zoe in tears, of what she had told me, of the embarrassment I then found myself in, of my perplexity, of my failure to invite Lamborn to my housewarming and the reason for it, of Lamborn's attitude toward me after that, his menacing looks, his growling insults when he saw me ... of all these things I told with full circumstantiality under the examination of the new state's attorney, and with the whole of the countryside looking on, Whigs and Democrats, and with the audience permeated with slavery and with slavery feeling, at least so far as the present case was concerned. What would Douglas now do? He rose and in his deep voice, with perfect command of himself, looking over the audience as if it was a great instrument whose keys he knew, he spoke these brief words: "Gentlemen, it makes no difference to me whether this girl is white or black; if you bind this young man over to the grand jury, I will do what I can to prevent an indictment; and if the grand jury indicts him I will do what I can to have him acquitted. This dead man here met his just fate."

The audience cheered. The jury acquitted me without leaving their seats. I walked a free man into the soft air of April. Douglas came out. His manner was changed. He spoke to me in freedom and in the old tone of friendship. "The boil is now open," he said. "The cut place will heal."

And he walked with me down the street followed by a cheering crowd. Douglas had won the people; and I was free!

I began to see myself as boring through opposition with lowered head and indomitable will. I was strengthened by the fact that I had never swerved from my duty to Zoe. And now that the beast was out of the way who had caused her so much agony, my whole life seemed cleared. The McCall gang might cause me trouble, but they would need to come prepared, or to catch me off my guard. The opening up of the whole case had had a wholesome effect upon my reputation. The brotherly innocence of my relation to Zoe was the generally accepted one. Reverdy assured me of this. Douglas was a valiant friend to me in this clarification of my nature and my character before the community. The whole atmosphere of my life was now freer; but it had cost Lamborn his life to make it so. It seemed best, however, that I should leave town for a while. I decided to go to Cincinnati and then to Nashville. I wanted to see Dorothy. I felt that I must make myself clear to her, and face to face.

Having made all arrangements for Zoe and Mrs. Brown to keep the house while I was gone and having laid out the work for my men, I set forth for Vandalia, the capital of Illinois, by stage. There I took the Cumberland Road, passed through Indianapolis, a small place; arrived in good time at Cincinnati, a city of more than 30,000 people; a busy place of manufacturers, distillers, and pork packers, since Kentucky, Ohio, and Indiana shipped their hogs to this market to be converted into hams and bacon and lard. I saw the town, the residence of the great Nicholas Longworth, who had grown fabulously rich by making wine. And at the hotel, this latter part of April being warm, I was treated to the spectacle of the men in the dining room taking off their coats and dining in their shirt sleeves amid the not inelegant appointments that surrounded the table. But I was becoming Americanized now and was not as sensitive as formerly to deportment of this sort.

The vastness of America came over me as I descended from Cincinnati to Nashville. Yet there was the southern territory still south of me; and beyond the Mississippi the unsettled empire of Louisiana. Cincinnati had something of the activity and the character of other northern cities; but as I passed through the domain of Kentucky and Tennessee I could not help but see that here was an agricultural country which owed its prosperity to slavery. But what was all that I saw here of industry and utilization of the resources of the land compared to what I saw growing up as a system around Jacksonville?

Yet the loveliness of the country around Nashville enchanted me. I was in a mood to be won, to be sure; for I was completely captivated by Dorothy and the delightful hospitality that was accorded me. Dorothy's mother treated me with such gentle and thoughtful attention, as if she received me not less upon the basis of my friendship to Reverdy than upon my own appeal to her. And as for Dorothy—she was as kind to me as a sister; and yet....

I loved the country and this little city of 6000 people on the hills above the Cumberland valley. Still, so many negroes. In this whole state of about 700,000 people, nearly 150,000 were slaves, so Dorothy told me. It amazed me. Negro slavery, so far as England was concerned, had never to me been a visible thing. But here in America, here in Tennessee, and in this city, it struck one at every turn. It entered into all the daily thinking and plans of every one. It was omnipresent. It touched every life.

This was the town of James K. Polk, whose name meant nothing to me; but Dorothy spoke of him as a leading man in Congress from Tennessee. Here also was the residence of President Jackson, a place called the "Hermitage," a few miles into the country. Dorothy and I drove to it. These were the places of interest to see; and everywhere the southern mansion: the upper and lower porch in front, the spacious windows, the Dorian or Ionic columns, as the case might be; the great entrance door set between mullioned panes at either side, and beneath a lunette of woodwork and glass. The Clayton house was like this, for Dorothy's father had been a man of wealth, a slave owner too in his prosperous days. He had failed and died, Reverdy had gone to the newer country of Illinois to seek his fortune, leaving Dorothy and the mother to the possession of the diminished property which Mr. Clayton had left.

But above everything in the way of delight, for the beauty of the prospect, for the opportunity it gave me to be with Dorothy, were the hills that overlooked the Cumberland valley and the river. We climbed here daily and sat beneath the lovely oaks that shaded the richness of the grass. To the west and north the river flowed to its confluence with the Ohio. Around us the hills. The valley between. The silence of nature, the intensity of unfolding life around us. Always on my mind was the thought of Dorothy as my wife. And why not speak my heart? I could not tell why. Was it Zoe; Dorothy's knowledge of Zoe? Was I investing Dorothy with my own thoughts, putting into her mouth the objections that I could make against myself? I could not tell what Zoe might bring into the life of the woman I married, as well as my own. Surely I was not very robust, very hearty in my speculations. For Dorothy had received me. There was nothing lacking in the warmth of her hospitality ... and yet I sensed at times such a temperate feeling in her glance, in her voice. Even her frankness had that character, or enhanced it perhaps.

And one afternoon as we were walking along the river I spoke what was in my heart. I had this competence. I had built the house. I could make a fortune in time. I was beginning to need some one to help me, to be with me. And no sooner had I spoken than I saw myself: Zoe was my half-sister and I was proposing marriage to a girl who had no feeling that did not bespeak to her the inferiority of the colored skin, no matter if it were lightened, no matter by whom. Dorothy's attitude was that of the high-bred and kindly southerner: the negroes must be kept in slavery as a solution of the social question and for the prosperity of the South; but at the same time the negro should be treated with kindness. And here was Zoe, the half-sister of the man who was asking her to be his companion for life. To what extent, then, the associate on a basis of equality with Zoe too? This was not all. My name had been coupled with Zoe's. Above all, I had killed a man, my rival or Zoe's hunter, as one might choose to believe.

Thus I saw myself. My very hair began to rise and to tingle. How had I dared to make this proposal to Dorothy? And as Dorothy was silent, and looked down as we walked, poking with her parasol at pebbles in the road, I was in a tense anxiety to know with what words she would break the oppressive pause between us. "I could see," she said, "that you liked me; and of course you wouldn't come so far to see me if you didn't. And you must know that Reverdy's friendship for you makes a difference. Do you know...?"

Dorothy lost her voice. The tears came out of her eyes. As she did not speak I began again, trying to say for her what she did not say for herself. "There's Zoe," I said. And then Dorothy quite lost control of herself. She wept piteously. And then she grew calmer. She had faced the reluctant fact when I spoke Zoe's name. We had stumbled up and over that roughness in the road. Any rut or obstacle in it might now be easier endured ... if worse was not to come.

Yes, these stories about me. Had Dorothy heard them? And the life I had taken for Zoe's sake. I was sure Dorothy had not heard of that. Even the first was a subject difficult to approach. I was twenty, Dorothy was nineteen. But the greatest obstacle was the age in which we lived. Women now draped themselves in mystery. There were whole realms of subjects that were not talked between the sexes. We managed things by mild indirections, by absurd circumlocutions.

I began to think of the letter that Lamborn had written Zoe. I was carrying it in my pocket. Did it not prove Lamborn's interest in Zoe? I handed it to Dorothy, thinking that it would disprove my interest in Zoe, of which I had been made self-conscious by the accusations; and not realizing that Dorothy probably knew nothing of all these charges. "Read this," I said, handing it to Dorothy.

Dorothy took it in at a glance, for it was only a few lines beginning "Dear Zoe." It was an invitation to Zoe to meet Lamborn again at the same place. Dorothy's face turned crimson. She handed the note back to me without a word. I had to struggle with the tough materials of the revelation that I wished to make. And I went on to tell Dorothy that the author of the note was Lamborn. "You remember him?" I asked. Dorothy nodded her head. "Well," I continued, "he is dead, thank God. I killed him."

Dorothy was overcome. She reeled. After a moment, in which she found her breath again, she faced about and began to walk toward the town.

I followed, hurt and crushed; for Dorothy had suddenly changed her whole manner. Her face was impenetrable; and it had paralyzed my hope with its expression of self-withdrawal, something almost of anger. I could not go on now and tell my story: that I had killed Lamborn because of his offense against Zoe, because of his menacing attitude toward me, because of the vile things he had said about Zoe. No! nothing I could say now would be in place. I had blundered, perhaps. We walked to the house, silent all the way.

Dorothy went to her room, leaving me in the hands of her mother. Mrs. Clayton, thinking that we had had a lovers' quarrel, endeavored by extra attention to me to overcome Dorothy's absence, and to say to me in this way that she did not share in Dorothy's attitude.

And so it was that Mrs. Clayton and I dined together; and I now had opportunity to tell her of little Amos, of my life in England, of my farm, my new house, my plans for the future. Mrs. Clayton was outspoken enough. She said that Reverdy admired my father for many things, and did not particularly censure his marriage. As for that it was a common enough thing in the South for the planters to have children by negro women, or by the prettier quadroons and octoroons. For herself she hated slavery, but did not know what would be done if the negroes were free.

Dorothy did not appear. We rose from the table and went out to sit under one of the great trees in the yard. I thought I saw an opportunity. Why not talk to Mrs. Clayton? She could tell Dorothy what I was unable to say to her. I set my will to the task.

"You seem to know about my father, Mrs. Clayton. And I want you to know about me. I want Dorothy for my wife. We had a kind of a flare-up this afternoon. I was trying to make my case clear, and Dorothy fell to crying. That's all. You see I came to America in ignorance of everything. No one had told me about my father's marriage; and I blame my grandmother that she did not tell me. Well, I got to Jacksonville and was terribly ill, almost died. Zoe took care of me. And that won me. But in addition to that she is as much my father's child as I am. I found that out as soon as I got up. Then I took her to live with me, to help me with the house, without thinking that there would be talk, not only by those who didn't know that she was my sister as well as by those who did know it. I went to St. Louis to buy furnishings for my new house. While I was gone a man named Lamborn wronged her. This made great trouble for me. And one thing led to another. He was saying vile things about me and about Zoe. And my life was getting more and more unendurable day by day on account of this fellow. And at last I was coming down the street with Reverdy one day, and this Lamborn suddenly confronted me. I drew and killed him. The state's attorney, Mr. Douglas, brought out all the facts before the coroner's jury. The jury acquitted me before leaving their seats. Mr. Douglas told the jury that he would not prosecute me if an indictment was found against me. And so..." I was about to say that I had come to Nashville to get away from the circumstances. But I caught myself and forebore.

Mrs. Clayton had followed me with rapt attention, leaning more and more toward me as my story progressed. She put out her hand to take mine. I could not tell whether it was the hand of pity or admiration. Her eyes were kindly, but they searched me. She seemed to say: "What difficulty in this boy's life is he trying to mingle with my daughter's life?" She spoke. "It is too bad. You are too young to have such tragedy." That was all. Then we went in.

As I arose the next morning I began to wonder what reception would be accorded me by Mrs. Clayton, not to say Dorothy. No one was astir but the colored butler and the maids. Yes, slavery was very well for them. I could see that all that was said in favor of the benevolence of the institution had verification in them and perhaps in all slaves doing like service. But what of the field hands, the heavier workers? I was thinking of these things, but mostly of the desperate situation I was in and of this day ahead of me. Would Dorothy see me again? Would I be the honored guest of yesterday? This silence of the mansion made me feel that its hospitality had cooled toward me. But in a little while Mrs. Clayton appeared on the stair and descended to find me rather restlessly pacing the room.

I could not specify any change in her manner. Perhaps as a matter of breeding I was to be bowed out with all possible courtesy. She smiled me a "Good morning," said that Dorothy would not be down until later. We two went in to breakfast.

I began to feel embarrassed. I could not be at ease. Mrs. Clayton sensed my diffidence. We managed the conversation in broken sentences and forced remarks. My pride asserted itself. I had done nothing myself for which I could be blamed. For the rest, if I was not wanted I should go my way. I asked Mrs. Clayton when I could get a boat to St. Louis. She did not know, but one ran almost every day either directly, or I could change boats at a place called Freesland on the Ohio River. Accordingly, after breakfast, I went to the steamboat landing to make inquiries ... and without seeing Dorothy.

A kind of rebellion and resentment were rising in me. Dorothy was Reverdy's sister; but surely she was of a different spirit if she disapproved of me for what I had done. Perhaps it would be well to be free of my love for Dorothy, to be once more without any feeling that my life needed completion by uniting it with a woman's life. I had offered myself. I was not accepted. My dignity, and place in the world, as I saw them, were dishonored.

When I returned to the house Dorothy had appeared. She smiled gently in recognition of me. I broke the silence by telling her that I could get a boat the next day, and that I must be off. She made no reply.

Later we went to the yard, under one of the great trees. Dorothy was evidently tortured in her mind and did not know what to say to me. She looked worn and as if she had not slept. I searched her face. A tear stole down her cheek. She averted her eyes and clasped her hands together nervously. I could endure the suspense no longer.

"It is best for me to go," I said. She made no reply. "I am sorry that I have made you suffer. Let me erase everything by withdrawing what I have said to you." "You can't," said Dorothy. "You are Reverdy's friend; you know how I love him. You couldn't suppose that anything that has affected you so deeply would not affect him and therefore me. I never believed that I could be so unhappy. You are going and that leaves me to think and think."

My heart took fire again. I stretched my hand to take Dorothy's. She removed hers gently out of reach. "Go your way, my friend," she said. "Later I may write you. You are only a boy yet ... and many things may happen. But be sure that I suffer, and that I remember and that I need help."

She arose and preceded me back to the house. Mrs. Clayton seemed to direct her influence toward smoothing our way. But nothing could be done. I had met defeat and I wished to depart.

The next day I was on the Ohio but not bound for St. Louis. I had decided to see New Orleans. Change of scene might allay my thoughts.

I did not tell Dorothy where I was going. I left her to suppose that I was returning to Jacksonville.

In passing to the boat landing I stumbled and fell, bruising myself painfully. I was hurrying to get away and in my haste and sorrow I was oblivious of my surroundings. As I limped along on the deck, I was approached by a kindly man who offered me some ointment which he said was made from the oil that escaped over the surface of the water in the salt wells of Kentucky and elsewhere, in spite of anything that could be done and much to the inconvenience of the business of getting salt. This man said that the oil was being subjected to experiments for use in illumination. As an ointment it was magical, and in a few days my lameness disappeared.

Both on the Ohio and the Mississippi we saw flatboats tied together heaped with coal, which had been loaded into them from the sides of the hills of the Alleghanies and elsewhere. They were being floated down to New Orleans. I had found coal in several places on my land in Illinois. Sometimes one could dig it out of the surface of the ground. But no expeditious means were yet in use in Illinois in mining it.

The Mississippi is a wonder scene to me. The river is full of islands and the boat winds about in endless turns of the stream. There are swamps, and melancholy cypress and funereal live oaks. There are the solitary huts of the woodcutters, and bars of sand covered with cane brake, and impenetrable forests, and the forbidding depths of the jungle. Farther on there are the sugar plantations, and the levees, and the great houses of the planters, and the huts of the negroes, and the vivid greens of fields of sugar cane standing many feet high; and around these the cypress swamp. And on every side in the midst of each plantation the tall white towers of the sugar mills. It is all novel and wonderful to me; and it helps me to forget my insistent thoughts of Dorothy.

The steamer stopped to get wood. It was at a creole plantation. There was a procession of carts here, each drawn by a team of mules, driven by negroes, laughing and joking with each other. They were slaves hauling wood to the sugar mills. We were soon off again on the silent river, which had now broadened to the dimensions of a great lake.

Then we saw steeples, a dome; then the masts of numerous vessels, and steamboats, and tall chimneys. Then we reached the levee of the city. The boat was fastened, and I walked upon the streets of New Orleans. The heat was no greater than I had felt in Illinois. And at night a breeze stirred briskly from the harbor and the gulf beyond. This city of 50,000 people had immediate fascination for me.

In the evening I went to the Place d'Armes where a military band was playing. There were races during the day just out of town. The cafés were filled with people smoking and drinking, playing billiards and dominoes. Ladies in gay costumes sat in the balconies, making observations on the scene, the players, the passersby. French was spoken everywhere. And everywhere was the creole beauty, with black eyes and long silken lashes, and light skin faintly suffused with rose. I plunged into these festivities in order to forget Dorothy.

I went to the Spanish Cathedral the next day, and saw on the porch groups of gray-haired negroes waiting for alms. There were candles on the altar, paintings of the stations of the cross on the pillars, and confessional closets near the door. And here the lovely creole knelt side by side with pure black descendants of the African negro.

Not anywhere did I see the negro treated worse than in Illinois, except on one occasion. I was loitering on the dock looking at the steamboats being loaded by slaves. A negro driving a wagon almost collided with a wagon being driven by a white man. I saw the whole of it. The white man was at fault. Yet he began to curse the negro, who laughingly spoke the truth, that the white man had suddenly veered. With that a man, apparently an officer of some sort, stepped from a patrol box carrying a rifle and with an oath and a vile epithet commanded the negro to drive on. And he did quickly and without returning a word. There was something about the injustice of this that aroused my resentment. It was a partiality that had nothing to do with the circumstances, but only with the persons.

I visited the slave market and again saw the auctioning of human beings, some as light of color as Zoe and of as much breeding. Again I began to speculate on Zoe's future. What would become of her? How would her fate tangle itself with mine? If Douglas had taken an impetus in life from his uncle's failure to educate him, what direction had my life been given by my father's marriage and Zoe? Already I had killed a man for Zoe's sake; and I had been rejected by Dorothy because of Zoe, or because of the circumstances which Zoe had created around my life.

Wherever I wandered on Canal Street, on the wharves, in the French quarter, out to the battlefield where Jackson had won a victory over Packenham, Dorothy was habitually in my thoughts. But always a door closed against any communication with her; anything to be done for her as a remembrance of her generosity; any step to be taken toward making whole what I conceived to be our wounded friendship. Should I write Dorothy? But what? So many exquisite things in the shop windows: jewels, artistries of silver and gold. How I longed to select something for Dorothy! But the door was closed against it. In the antique shops lovely tables, chests, writing desks! If I could only buy many of such things for our home—Dorothy's and mine. But was that home to be? The door softly closed.

And thus I went about the city. It was so colorful, so gay, so continental, so unlike anything I had ever dreamed of. And all the while I was trying to order my thoughts, wondering what I should do. And if ever Douglas in his political ambitions got entangled, to his own undoing, with this mass of human beings, white and black, moving about the carcass of life, what was to be my fate, both on the score of my individual lot, and as one of the units in this racial hostility, and the political and economic forces that generated it?

I tried several times to write a letter to Dorothy. I could not find the exact thing I wanted to say, or the words with which to express it. What should I say? Should I urge Dorothy to a marriage with me? Should I attempt to argue down her misgivings? Should I tell her that I would return to Jacksonville and send Zoe away? Should I write Dorothy that I relinquished any hope of making her my wife? I wrote letters of these various imports and then destroyed them. A kind of paralysis was upon my thinking. And then I would leave my room and wander into the streets, visit the cafés, and find temporary forgetfulness in lively scenes and gay faces.

And one night when I was in the French quarter at dinner I became alert to the conversation of two men sitting at a near table. They spoke familiarly to each other, almost as brothers. But I sensed that they had been separated for some time. At last one of them made references to France and England, and I concluded that he had been abroad. Both were typical planters, with goatees and broad hats, coats of elegant material but widely and loosely tailored. As I followed their words almost the whole condition of America unfolded itself to my understanding.

The tenor of the talk was concerning cotton, the demand for it abroad and at home, and the effect that that demand had upon the South and the whole social and political life of America. Within thirty years past all the Northern States but Delaware had abolished slavery. What would have kept slavery alive after all except for the cotton gin and Eli Whitney, what but England's great machinery development for spinning and weaving, which made the demand for cotton more and more?

The demand! Where there is a demand it must be supplied, and everything must give way to the processes of furnishing that supply: land, slavery, what not. Then there are general references to life and to labor. After all, all labor is slavery they say. Apprentices, farm hands, factory workers are slaves. All this struggling mass of toilers must, in the fate of life, be consumed in the great drama of furnishing clothes and food and roofs for those who can pay. But cotton needs more land. And is not the territory of the United States, the great commons and domains of all the states, North and South, to be used by them for their several and common benefit, for the intromission of property: slaves or cattle or utensils? It seems to me, now that I hear these men talk, that I am compelled to listen everywhere in America to schemes of trade, material progress, the accumulation of money. These planters go on to ask why lines should be drawn across the territory of the United States forbidding slavery north of the line and permitting it south of the line. This territory had been paid for equally by the treasure and blood of all the states. Blood for land! Then slavery on the land to raise cotton! And was not Jefferson prophetic when he wrote that the extension of this divisional line in 1820 alarmed him like a fire bell at midnight? It betokened sectional strife: the North against the South. And about trade! For as the Southern States grew richer they would have more political power, could dominate the North. Some one must dominate. There must be a supremacy. And what would this growing hostility lead to? What would future inventions do to exacerbate it? What of the steam engine, what of machinery, what of unknown developments?

I could not help but think of the bearing that all of this had on my own life.

But finally as they paid for their dinner, lighted cigars, and became less energetic of mood, one asked the other: "Have you ever heard from the girl?" The reply was: "Not a word. How could I? I didn't leave my name. It was best to close the matter by leaving no trace of myself." And the first asked: "Wasn't your name on the draft?" "I had gold, a bag of gold. I simply turned it over to the new husband and went my way."

I was all ears now, studying, too, the face of the man who was confessing to the bag of gold. Was there a trace of Zoe in him? I could not be sure. I seemed to see something about the eyes, but it faded under my scrutiny. At best this man was only Zoe's grandfather; and my father's blood was nearer to Zoe than his.

They started to arise from the table. I wished to follow them. But I had not paid for my meal. I beckoned to a waiter. While he was coming the two planters strolled leisurely from the café arm in arm and in intimate conversation.

I was hurrying to be away and to follow them—I scarcely knew why. They were gone when my waiter came. I asked him who the planters were. He didn't know their names; only knew them as rich planters who often visited the café. I left the café and tried to find them, but they had disappeared. And I stood on the curb watching the iridescent ooze of the sewage in a runnel of the street seep along like a sick snake.

Creole beauties, negroes, planters, roughs, gamblers, passed me. The streets were noisy with trucks. The air was hot and lifeless. The scene about me suspired like the brilliant and deadly scales of a poisonous reptile. I was sick at heart. I was overcome with terrible loneliness. I was in love with Dorothy and I was Zoe's brother. I was caught in this great dramatic ordeal of America without any fault on my part. What should I do? Yes, my ambition. To get rich. That was labor enough. And there was my farm back in Illinois. Why was I here after all? Was it some dream? I would wake myself. I would return to my place, my duty. What else could I do? I went to the wharf to find a boat to St. Louis.

I was listless all the way home. Passing through Jacksonville I seemed to sense a coldness in the manner of some of the people. Even where there was a smile and a bow, to which I could take no exception, I interpreted an attitude which said: "The Englishman: the fellow who killed Lamborn."

Was the town dividing as to me? I was sure of Reverdy and Sarah, and Douglas, and the president of the college and his wife, and some others; but for the rest I suspected that envy had seized upon a pretext for its exercise. For I was rich; I had availed myself of mowers and all the new machinery for farming and I was a competitor, a man possibly growing more and more in the way. My reception in many quarters seemed distant.

I went directly to the farm. There was my house which I had built with many hopes. There was the hearth to which I longed to bring a wife. But here it was, only for me, for my habitation and rest from labors in the ambition to be rich! Mrs. Brown opened the door and welcomed me with a diffidence. "Where is Zoe?" I asked. Mrs. Brown replied quickly: "Zoe has not been seen nor heard of for more than a week. I got up one morning, and as she didn't appear I went and called her. She was gone. I saw Mr. Clayton about it. The last I heard no one had seen her."

My feelings were mixed of regret and relief. I was fond of Zoe. My sense of justice was enlisted in her behalf. I was fearful for her future, both for the misfortune that might befall her and for the complications that might accrue to me in her living away from my guidance. For there was Zoe's property. But on the other hand, if Zoe were completely out of my life I might win Dorothy.

I walked reflectively toward the fireplace. Should I not write to Dorothy and tell her of Zoe's disappearance? For surely Zoe would not go away unless she meant to stay. She had roving, adventurous blood in her, and an English will. Could I rely upon the hope of her staying away, and that she would not figure in my life in the future except as to the land, the money? Yes, here my hands were stuck as in honey. And when could they be freed and cleaned of it? While I was reflecting upon these things Mrs. Brown walked to the mantle and taking a letter from it handed it to me. It was from Dorothy.

"Dear James," the letter read, "I was never more depressed in my life than I was after your departure; you must know that I would be. In the first place, Reverdy is so very fond of you and esteems you so much, and that counts with me. For he is the best and truest man I have ever known. And I am sure that you are honorable and kind; and you have asked me to be your wife, and any woman worth noticing is moved by a request like that if she has any respect for the man whatever. But this seems to me the most terrible situation that a girl could be placed in. I have thought it over until my mind goes around in a circle, and I cannot relate things clearly any more. And of course I have talked it all over with mother. You can be sure I would not take the pains to do this, nor the pains to write you in detail, if you had not entered my mind in a serious way. Frankly the only misgivings I have of you, and I beg you to forgive me for saying this, is the fact that your father would do such a thing. I cannot understand it, my mother can't. What was he that he could do such a thing with the prospect that he would injure you, his son by another marriage, in so many ways and so deeply? He could not have overlooked these things; nor the feeling that exists in America, particularly in the South, against such an alliance. But putting these things out of mind, you cannot possibly assure me, or any other woman, against the future. There are the property interests; but if these were out of the way there is the relationship. And I blame myself deeply, for I knew that Zoe was your sister almost as soon as I first came to Jacksonville. With this knowledge I should not have come to your parties or put myself in a way to be liked by you. I should have only been polite to you when you came to Reverdy's house. For any other association, I ask you to forgive me. I have written you many letters, and then torn them up. Perhaps I shall send this one. It is as good as I can do. It says everything now except that I am profoundly unhappy, that I shall never see you again—and to wish you happiness under the circumstances fills my throat with a kind of suffocation. And so I write farewell—and can hardly mean it—and yet it must be farewell."

A kind of calmness came over me as I read the last word. There are anxiety and fear, and stir and ministration while the sick are alive. But with death there is quiet in the house. Calmness comes to those who have striven to heal and to save. And with the words "farewell" before my eyes a dumb resignation came into my heart. Dorothy was gone from me and forever! But here was my life left to me to work out, and my ambition to pursue. I grew suddenly strong and full of will. I walked to the door and gazed for some minutes over the prairie. Then I saddled a horse and went to find Reverdy.

It was something to see the brother of the woman I loved; but I must find Zoe if possible.

Reverdy was off somewhere with Douglas. Douglas was working upon the plan of introducing the political convention system in Illinois, as it prevailed in New York. He wished to step from the state's attorneyship into the legislatureship. He had newspaper supporters; he had many friends, as well as many foes. But he was fighting his way.

I talked with Sarah of my trip to New Orleans and played with little Amos. I asked Sarah at last about Zoe. Reverdy had already done all he could to trace her. The stage driver had been questioned, but knew nothing. Some one had seen a girl, probably Zoe, walking north from town. Outside of that nothing had been heard. The facilities for finding her were so primitive. How could posters be sent around, how phrased? How could constables and sheriffs in the surrounding counties be notified? And if an advertisement should be published in the local newspaper where would it reach? Upon what basis could I seek to regain Zoe, if she did not wish to return? Sarah and I discussed these problems. But if she had met foul play how could that be discovered? I seemed quite helpless, yet since it was the best I could do I placed an advertisement with the newspaper. Then telling Sarah that I wished to see Reverdy, I returned to the farm.

I had much to do, and work kept me from brooding. It was three days after I had gone to find Reverdy that he came to see me, bringing Douglas. My first words to Reverdy were concerning Zoe; but Douglas at once took a hand in that subject. She would either turn up after a little wandering about the country or she was gone for good. If she had met her death it would be known by now, in all probability. I could be sure that she knew better than to go south. Her likely destination was Canada, or northern Illinois. There was much going on in Chicago to attract an adventurous girl. Should I not go there for her? But it was only a chance that I would find her. What of her property, her interests? Let them rest until an emergency arose.

In truth Reverdy and Douglas had not come to see me about Zoe, but to enlist my support in Douglas' ambition to go to the legislature. Douglas was now twenty-three years of age. He had been in Illinois just three years. During that time he had become a lawyer, had had the law changed so as to be appointed state's attorney. He had only held that office from February to April of this year, when he had organized a convention at Vandalia to choose delegates to the national convention for next year. He had fought down opposition to the convention system; he had successfully managed a county convention in which he had been nominated for the legislature. Now he was out upon the stump, speaking in behalf of state policies like canals and railroads; and there was the question too of removing the state capital from Vandalia to Springfield, which might constitute a leverage for a vote for internal improvements. Douglas was in favor of both. While slave interests were seeking land for cotton, the agrarian interests in Illinois were awake to the need of transportation facilities and markets. As I had wheat and corn to sell besides cattle and hogs, and would have them in increasing quantities, I should use my influence in behalf of these measures and in behalf of Douglas, who had a vision of their need and a practical mind for securing them. Douglas did not hesitate on the matter of internal improvements. He believed that they should be made by the state. That obviated the centralization flowing from national aid. Let Illinois use its own resources for building canals and railroads. Let the state's credit be pledged. What state had greater natural riches? The Illinois and Michigan canal must be completed. The rivers must be made navigable. At least two railroads must be constructed, which should cross the state from north to south, and from east to west. The credit of the state must be pledged for a loan of money; and the interest on the loan should be paid by the sales of the land, which Illinois had been granted by the Federal government for the canal.

Douglas was full of youthful enthusiasm for this work of building up the state. I could see his great energies moving like a restless tide through them as he talked these projects over with Reverdy and me. I was only too glad to lend him my help. It was to my interest. I trusted his judgment, too. I saw moderation and wisdom in his policies.

Already it was apparent that Douglas stood upon no idealistic immovability when the main thing was at stake. And hence, when the bill which was brought in on the subject of railroads, appropriated the money for eight railroads instead of Douglas' two, and bestowed consolations here and there to counties in order to get their support, Douglas showed his reluctance, but gave his vote. The state capital was moved to Springfield as a part of the give and take of logrolling.

But on the occasion of this call Douglas stood for a very moderate program, as I have already said. When he was elected and had legislative power he surrendered his moderation in order to get the railroads. In fact the people were moving in this direction; there was much magnificent dreaming and hazardous experimentation and the general result could not be prevented.

I had gone to see Reverdy, partly to inquire about Zoe, partly with the hope that I could gain help as to Dorothy. Now he had come to me with Douglas; and all the talk was of politics, with no chance to draw Reverdy aside for a private word. When they arose to leave Reverdy took my hand. His eyes grew wonderfully deep and sympathetic. Then with a slap upon my back and a congratulation that I would help Douglas, the two departed.

Then I began to think whether I should write Dorothy. Yes, her letter demanded some reply. As I sat down to write, Dorothy's view became mine in a flood of emotion of love's willingness to sacrifice. And I wrote:

"Dear Dorothy: The only thing I can say in my own behalf is that I found myself suddenly placed in this position as Zoe's brother, without understanding, or only understanding gradually what it meant to me, or would mean to any one else. I have been learning all of these things; and your letter makes them clear to me. I did not come straight home but went to New Orleans; and your letter had been here some days when I returned. I must tell you that Zoe disappeared in my absence. I don't know where and cannot learn. I am fearful for her; and there are many possible complications. But I am powerless to do anything at this time. She may never return. She may fall into strange hands and make some new relations which will come back upon me and upon any one I cared for with embarrassing results. I am in a position where I can make no assurances. I feel like asking you to forgive me for causing you any suffering or anxiety. I should not have asked you to marry me. It was thoughtless; but I could not with my experience and knowledge of things understand all that my request might mean. As you are Reverdy's sister I can't help but feel a tender and protecting interest in you, whatever may come of it. And I hope life may deal with both of us in such a way that any harm I have done you will be overcome by some good that I may be to you. And without asking to see you again I still keep the hope that fate will be good enough to let me meet you sometime when a clasp of the hand will be welcome to you and with no consequences that are not pleasant."

And then I sealed the letter for mailing and retired; but not to sleep, rather to turn restlessly for some hours in the night.

Fortunately for my peace of mind I had much to do and much to interest me. The country was developing rapidly under my eyes. Thousands of farms were coming into cultivation. The prairie grass was vanishing before the corn. Villages were springing up everywhere. Jacksonville was growing. A furor of land selling, the selling of lots and blocks in the newly formed towns, swept over the state. And my own farm had increased in value, both because of the care I had given it and because of the growing population. For in truth, while Illinois had about 160,000 inhabitants when I came to it, now as we approached the year 1837 it was estimated that there were nearly 400,000 souls within its borders.

Douglas had no sooner become a member of the legislature, as it seemed to me, than he resigned to take the office of register of land in Springfield, which was now the capital of the state. He was reported to me to be making a great deal of money now, sometimes as much as $100 a day. I saw him in the summer. He was a figure of dash, self-possession, energy and clear-headedness. He confided to me that he intended to run for Congress. He was now twenty-four, a political leader in his party, fearless, dreaded, and resourceful.

Douglas had advised me to read political history. Accordingly, during the long evenings at the farm, I had gone through Elliott's Debates and the Federalist. My grandmother sent me De Tocqueville's De la Démocratie en Amérique, which I read in French.

But now I began to see that abolition sentiment was growing. Societies were being formed and had been for about two years in the northern part of the state. Here in Jacksonville the agitation of the slavery question was frowned upon; but it was fermenting under the surface of southern sentiment.

I was now treated to an American panic, and times were hard. The East wanted a tariff to protect its manufacturers; the South wanted land and slaves. Texas had been filling up with Americans since 1820. She seceded from Mexico and declared her independence now; and General Houston, a Virginian by birth, a Tennesseean by residence, had taken command of the Texas troops, and after the Alamo massacre, had defeated the Mexicans with terrible slaughter in the battle of San Jacinto. The New England conscience excoriated these things and attributed them to the machinations of the slavocracy. But while Douglas had no mastery of the tariff question in its details, his mind shot through to the general philosophy of it. He often said to me that books and works of art should be admitted free of duty. He was wont to laugh at the New England conscience which could swallow the tariff and the growing factory system, and yet reject with such holy loathing cotton and slavery. He could not handle statistics, but he was a master of principles.

As my grandmother was writing me regularly of affairs in England, of the progress of events, of the building of railroads, of Charles Wheatstone's electric telegraph, and of the new books of moment, I on my part was attempting to keep her informed of my life, and of the swiftly moving panorama of Illinois life. And here I insert one of my letters to her because it covers so much of the ground of this time of my life.

"Dear Grandmama: I have before written you of my friend Mr. Douglas who came to Illinois just a little while before I did, and who has had such a phenomenal rise in life in this new country. He is now making ready to go to Congress, and I am to be one of the delegates to the convention which is expected to nominate him. Having resigned a very lucrative post in the Land Office, he has gone into the practice of law and the pursuit of politics. For the latter he has a positive genius, as his whole mind is taken up with visions and plans for the development of the country, and for the aggrandizement of the United States. He is honest and outspoken, courageous even to audacity; but he is sometimes accused of devious ways, and of taking up anything that has a stomach in it. But no one can say that he changes his principles; rather he avails himself of opportune conditions, which are many, to advance himself and the things he believes in. The country has no truer friend. Though I am an alien I am a resident, and therefore I can participate in political affairs and help him without being naturalized. At the present time Douglas is in Springfield, and is much in the office of one of the newspapers there, to which he contributes editorials sometimes. Recently the office was attacked by some men who had been accused of trickery of some sort by the newspaper. Douglas was present; and, though he is a little fellow, he helped to beat off the attacking parties; and in the general assault the sheriff was stabbed by one of the editors; but the matter has all blown over.

"My own unfortunate affair has the appearance now of dying down.

"A very terrible thing has happened in the killing the Reverend Lovejoy at Alton, a town not far from Jacksonville. He was running an abolition newspaper which was offensive to the slave interests or the peace interests, if you want to call them that. And persisting in his agitation of the slave question they undertook to destroy his press. In the altercation Lovejoy was shot. There is great feeling over the matter.

"It is impossible for me to convey to you the intellectual atmosphere of the country. It is so full of contradictions and cross currents. For example, you come to believe that a Whig is against slavery. Then some one comes forward to propose a certain General Harrison, a leading Whig, for President in 1840; and some one arises to show that when he was Governor of Indiana, when it was a territory, he tried to introduce slavery, contrary to the Ordinance of 1787. I wrote you of this Ordinance before. Then there are the most numerous groups of people of every sort of weird convictions; some organized to oppose Masonry; others to curb the Irish and the Catholics; others to prohibit the use of wine and all intoxicants; others to advance the cause of free love; others to socialize the state. There are also religious societies here of every description, such as the Millerites who are now preparing for the Second Advent of Christ which they believe will take place in 1843. They are already making ready to leave their business, get their white robes, and await the Epiphany. In this state, at Nauvoo, a group called Mormons, who came here from Missouri, founded their faith upon a new revelation brought to light by two miraculous stones, said to have been discovered by a man named Joseph Smith. They practice polygamy, as in patriarchal times. They are already stirring up opposition to themselves, for where every one is so good and in his own peculiar way, hostility must result. And in this Democracy, so-called, all the really good people are in the business of forcing others to their own way of thinking. I must tell you also of a branch of the Presbyterian church which separated from the old church on the question of predestination and infant damnation. Of Baptists, Methodists, and others there are numerous sects, which in England would be frowned upon as various forms of ludicrous non-conformism. De Tocqueville's book, for which my thanks to you, dear grandmama, will preserve a very faithful picture of America of this day.

"And it is refreshing, strengthening to the mind and clearing to the eye, to see Douglas and to hear him talk about all these things. He stands so clear, so pure of stock so to speak, amid all this variegated growth of political and social heresy. The other day when I was in Springfield I looked him up. Here he was talking of the Lovejoy matter, which led him into a cataloguing of the abolitionists, the anti-Masons, the Spiritualists, the Mormons, free lovers, old centralists, with the Whigs. I think he is proud that he has no hobby in the way of an ideal or ism. He seems unmagnetic to all such things. If he does not look with suspicion upon the reformer and accuse him of masking some selfish purpose, he is likely to think that the reformer is something of a fool. He gazes with an eagle's eye over the whole of American activity; he sees the South interested in cotton, the North concerned with its growing factories. Steam, iron, coal, and land figure in his deductions. He sees the country rising to power on them. And he sees men—whatever their professions—trying to advance their own interests. Hence he laughs down these queer political and religious groups; and while he deplores the death of Lovejoy, he takes it as a matter of course; the wringing of the nose brings forth blood. He is kindly and most loyal, fearless, clear-minded, and powerful; but he is unmoral. He sees the play of life. He sees the stronger getting more, Texas coming eventually to the United States, though blood be shed. The drift of things is impelled by great forces of ancient and world-wide origin. He believes with all his soul in the superiority of the white race, and that it must rule. At the same time Democracy is the thing, but Democracy let loose only after the philosophical channels have been cut. Notwithstanding his laughter at Mormonism, for example, he would not suppress it. He would let it work out its own fate. Free thought and free speech will kill it, or it will survive in spite of them because of its inherent strength, if at all. All together Douglas is very admirable to me. I think he is a genius; one of those human beings who was born old but who will always be young. And here he is in a country that is changing and growing like a village crowd upon a stage. Already Chicago has more than 4,000, and we are soon to have canals and railroads, thanks to Douglas more than to any other man in Illinois. 'The Great Northern Cross,' a railroad, is soon to be built starting at Meredosia on the Illinois River and running to Jacksonville.

"As to my own affairs, dear grandmama, I have nothing to wish for in the way of material progress. Upon my return from New Orleans, whither I went in order to think down an unfortunate love affair, I found that Zoe had run away. I do not know where she is, and cannot learn by any means at my present command. Though, if Douglas is nominated for Congress, I mean to go about with him through the state. That will give me opportunity to search for her, particularly if we go to Chicago. Do write when you can, as letters are especially welcome to me from you here in this somewhat lonely life."