WE had landed at the foot of Pine street, which I followed directly up into the city. I was just about to cross Third street, when my attention was irresistibly attracted to a very beautiful girl of eighteen, who came walking down Third, on the lower side, and turned to cross and go up Pine street but a few feet in advance of me. I was just thinking how happy a man her husband would be, in case she should ever take it into her head to get one, when, as she reached the opposite corner, a man standing in the door of a periodical store near the corner, called to his dog, which had strayed across the street. The dog was a fine, large, sleek, spotted, good-natured, intelligent-looking fellow, dressed in a burnished brass collar. He wore a pleasant smile on his sagacious face, and looked as though he wouldn’t harm a flea that was biting him. With all the ready obedience of the faithful animal, he came bounding toward his master just as the young lady in question arrived opposite the door. It appeared that she had not observed the owner of the dog, or heard him call to his property; and seeing the animal come bouncing toward her, she naturally imagined that the sagacious creature was “going for” her—and how did she know but that he was afflicted with chronic hydrophobia? On the impulse of the moment, she uttered a musical scream, whirled around to rush back across Third street, and came in direct contact with me. It was so sudden, and unexpected, that the shock came near knocking me down under a cart-wheel as the heavy vehicle went jogging by, near the curbstone; and, to make the matter worse, she slipped on a bit of orange-rind, and we came near falling down together, all mixed up. To prevent this catastrophe, I instinctively clasped her waist in my encircling arms, while she, on the spur of the moment, threw her plump arms confidingly around my manly neck! And there we stood, at one of the most public street-corners of Saint Louis, unconsciously embracing, like two gentle lovers that hadn’t seen each other for a month of Sundays.

“O!—O!—O-o-oo-oo!” she exclaimed; “excuse me! I was so afraid of that dog!”

“He shall not hurt you,” I gallantly replied, as I released her from my protecting arms, and picked up my cane, which had fallen in the confusion.

“I declare!” she said, blushing confusedly,—I have always thought this was because she perceived that I was young and handsome—“I might have pushed you over! I’m sorry! Did I hurt you?”

“O, no!” I replied warmly, wondering at the same time whether she meant she was sorry she hadn’t pushed me over; “I was only anxious on your account. I am happy that it was my privilege to save you from falling, when you slipped.”

“Thank you; but it wouldn’t have hurt me. If you had fallen, though—and you—you”—

She was going to allude to the trifling circumstance that I lacked one of the usual number of legs, but, with some delicacy, hesitated.

“O, it wouldn’t have hurt me,” I said, coming to her relief; “there isn’t so much of me to fall now and I, therefore, don’t fall so hard as others.”

As we were both going up Pine street, we walked on, side by side, and I had the pleasure of her company for four squares. We walked slowly, too. I could have walked four hundred squares, if she had kept on; but when we reached Seventh street, she told me she lived just around the corner. Thereupon, we bade each other an affectionate farewell and parted.

I crossed Seventh street and walked about half way to Eighth, when, thinking that the young lady had had time to get out of sight, I retraced my steps. After I had gone a little way below Seventh, I descried a card on a door, containing the following notice:

I rang the door-bell, was soon shown in, and, stating that I desired a lodging-room for three or four weeks, was shown a neat, well-furnished room on the second floor, which the landlady said was worth five dollars a week, and would be very suitable for a gentleman and wife. I stated that I would occupy it alone, gave the landlady twenty dollars for four weeks’ possession of the room, then went down to the boat and sent my trunk up by an express wagon.

I was again walking up Pine street, and once more crossing Third, when some one tapped me on the shoulder, and a voice behind me exclaimed,

“Why, Smith! is this you?”

I turned, stating that it was—for I never ignored my proud name—and beheld a familiar face. It was that of one whom I had known when a boy, but had not seen for some years. His history is somewhat remarkable. When I knew him in my youth, he was a young man of twenty years, and quite proverbial for his piety. He was often pointed out, to the profligate youth of the village I lived in, as a shining example of Christianity, and he was, in truth—or seemed—so sober, honest, and good, as to put ordinary young fellows to shame, by comparison.

His name was Albert Hague. His occupation was that of salesman in a dry-goods store; and such confidence did he ever command, that his employers trusted him implicitly with everything about their stores—safe keys, cash accounts, and the like. By and by, however, much to the astonishment and amazement of all who knew him, he actually stole ten thousand dollars from his employer, and absconded. From that time forth, nothing, to my knowledge, had been heard of him in the old neighborhood; and this was the man I unexpectedly met in Saint Louis.

“Why, Bert!” I exclaimed, shaking hands with him—for I was truly glad to meet any familiar face in a strange city—“is this you? Where do you come from?”

“I am living here,” he said. “I saw you crossing the street, and did not know whether to hail you or not. I fancied that, after what you know of me, you would not speak to me.”

“Then you do not know me,” I replied. “You never injured me, if you did commit a grievous offense. It is a great mistake to cast every one down as soon as he commits an error. It is no way to recover him. It only discourages him, and renders him indifferent about reforming.—I have just hired a room on Pine street. Come with me, and tell me all about it.”

We walked up Pine street, and were soon sitting in my room. There he told me all that had happened to him. He had eluded the law, and fled with his ill-gotten ten thousand dollars to California, where, he said, he saw no rest, day or night. He declared that when I knew him as a pious young man, he was all that he appeared to be; but said that, by and by, he began to be tempted to take advantage of the excellent opportunity he had to acquire a large amount of money; and, in an evil moment, yielded.

He did not remain in California three weeks, he said, before his conscience compelled him to return to Pennsylvania and restore the ill-gotten cash to its owner; which, he said, he had recently done.

He had now determined, he remarked, never to yield to temptation again, and was resolved to atone for the past by a future life of integrity and uprightness; he now had a position as salesman in a wholesale house in Saint Louis, and was doing well. He gave me the name of the house, and asked me to call and see him. He remarked that he could freely confide in one who had so readily overlooked his former disgrace.

I replied that, as a matter of course, it would injure him for his employers to know his past history, that I believed he was sincere in his good resolution, and that he need not feel apprehensive that I should ever cast a stumbling-block in his way.

The strictly “pious,” with the blindness that too often characterizes them, may censure me for not warning his employers; but let them do so. Do they think, that when a man commits one crime, he is necessarily lost, forever? Suppose I should have regarded it as a duty to go to his employers and tell them what I knew of Hague? He would have been discharged at once, because they could never have relied on him. He would then have despaired of recovering from the effects of that one error; and no matter how good his intentions might have been, while his prospects were bright, he would, probably, have turned a rogue again, on the first opportunity, because he had no other alternative.

It is a fearful mistake to thrust a man down at once, for his first crime, instead of taking him by the hand and lifting him up: it is that unchristian-like policy that fills our penitentiaries, and gives such frequent employment to the hangman. Frown on vice as much as you please; but do not frown on all who once yield to temptation. If you hope or wish to save them, display some forbearance. Remember we all have our faults. And we are all only too apt to

as Hudibras says.

“There is none good: no, not one.” We have all committed bad deeds, of some kind or other, whether they come within the pale of the law or not. If you demand strict justice, look to yourself. “Use every man after his desert,” says Hamlet, “and who shall ’scape whipping?”

My pious friends, remember that none of you are quite perfect. Remember, that if there is a God,—“And that there is, all Nature cries aloud!”—His eye is upon you; and if you cannot tolerate your fellow-creatures, simply because their sins happen to be of a different class from yours—though probably no worse—how can you expect Him to bear with you?

I did not remove from Saint Louis for four weeks, and during that time made a number of little excursions into the interior of the state, and also into the state of Illinois, which lies on the east side of the river.

I liked the “Mound City” very well. As it may not be generally known why Saint Louis is styled the “Mound City,” I will state that it is because the ground on which it is built was once occupied by numerous artificial mounds, supposed to have been built by the Indians.

It may not be out of place, either, to say a word regarding the pronunciation of the name of the city. I observed that all the citizens give it the old French pronunciation—that is, Saint Loo-ee—the final “s” not being sounded. It should be so pronounced by all, as the citizens of a place are generally accepted as authority in such matters. I observed the same fact in Louisville, Kentucky. The citizens there pronounce it Lou-ee-ville. It would sound harsh to them to hear it pronounced as it is spelled—Lou-is-ville. The sibilant sound of the “s” would make the drums of their ears quiver.

I was not at first favorably impressed with the water in Saint Louis; but I soon became fond even of that. The water is taken from the Mississippi river, and is always very muddy. Let an ordinary bucketful of it stand awhile, and an inch of “mire” will settle on the bottom. This muddy state of the fluid is owing to the turbid Missouri river, which empties into the Mississippi twenty miles above Saint Louis. Chemically, however, this water has been pronounced, by scientific men, the purest in the country. It is said to be perfectly free from all deleterious minerals, and, when the mud is taken from it, is as nearly pure water as can be produced.

The fire arrangements in Saint Louis, as in most western cities, are very imperfect. While there, it was my luck one day—and I had had the same luck in Louisville, where I made the same observations—to stand in the immediate presence of a destructive fire, when it first broke out. A heavy volume of black smoke rolled up toward the blue sky, the flames burst out through roofs and windows, and leaped for mad joy, walls crumbled down at their leisure, and I think that twenty-five minutes or half-an-hour elapsed before any steamer or hose-carriage made its appearance. I do not attach so much blame to the firemen themselves—although they are not so active as New York or Philadelphia firemen—as to the deficiency of the force. On this occasion I was told that the same firemen had been working all the afternoon, at a fire in a distant part of the city, and I could not wonder that they were a little tardy. Their force should be at least doubled—but I think they will realize this ere long. Louisville and Saint Louis are now fast recovering from the paralyzing effects of the recent unhappy war; they do not lack enterprise; and I predict that in a few years their arrangements for protecting property against the flames will be equal to those of the eastern cities.