The Continental Monthly, Vol. 1, No. 6, June, 1862

'It is such a blessed thing to have a fine appetite, and be able to eat half-a-dozen muffins for tea! Oh! by the way, Allen, I wish you would buy three or four more barrels of pale ale—we are nearly out.'

CHAPTER III

'Here ye are, gen-till-men! This fine de-tersive soap—on-ly thrippence a tab-let—takes stains out of all kinds of things. Step up while there air a few tab-lets left of this in-im-a-table art-tickle unsold.'

'Who's that guy in the soap-trade?' asked one policeman of another one as they passed along Lowther Arcade and saw the man whose conversation is reported above.

'He's a deep one, hi know,' said the one asked. ''Is name is Grayle, Louis Grayle. There's hodd stories 'bout 'im, werry hodd. 'E tries to work a werry wiry dodge on the johnny-raws, bout bein' ha 'undred hand ten years hold. Says 'e's got some kind o' water wot kips hun' from growink hold, My heye! strikes me if 'e 'ad, 'e wouldn't bein' sellin' soap 'bout 'ere. Go hup to 'im hand tell 'im to move hon, 'e's ben wurkin this lay long enough, I ham thinkin'.

Such, gentle reader, was the condition of Louis Grayle when I last saw him. By the assistance of confederates and other means, he had imposed on our good friend Doctor Fenwick, in former years, and nearly driven that poor gentleman crazy during his celibacy, especially as the doctor in all this period would smoke hasheesh and drink laudanum cocktails—two little facts neglected to be mentioned in 'A Strange Story.' Now, he was poor as a crow, this Louis Grayle, and was only too glad to turn the information he had learned of Haroun of Aleppo, to profitable account—the most valuable knowledge he had gained from that Oriental sage being the composition of a soap, good to erase stains from habits.

CHAPTER IV

Mrs. Colonel Poyntz having rendered herself generally disagreeable to even the London world of fashion, by her commanding presence, has been quietly put aside, and at latest accounts, every thing else having failed, had taken up fugitive American secessionists for subjects, and reports of revolvers and pokers (a slavish game of cards) were circulated as filling the air she ruled.

CHAPTER V

Doctor Fenwick is now the father of four small tow-headed children, who poss the long Australian days teasing a tame Kangaroo and stoning the loud-laughing great kingfisher and other birds, catalogue of which is mislaid. His wife has not had a single nervous attack for years, and probably never will have another. Doctor Faber married Mrs. Ashleigh!

Doctor Fenwick, it is needless to say, has thrown his library of Alchemists, Rosicrucianists, Mesmerists, Spiritualists, Transcendentalists, and all other trashy lists into the fire, together with several pounds of bang, hasheesh, cocculus indicus, and opium. He at this present time of writing, is an active, industrious, intelligent, and practical man, finding in the truthful working out THE great problem, Do unto others as you would have others do unto you, an exceeding great reward.

THE END

WHAT THEN?

BY J. HAL. ELLIOT

God's pity on them! Human souls, I mean,
Crushed down and hid 'neath squalid rags and dirt,
And bodies which no common sore can hurt;
All this between
Those souls, and life—corrupt, defiled, unclean.

And more—hard faces, pinched by starving years.
Cold, stolid, grimy faces—vacant eyes,
Wishful anon, as when one looks and dies;
But never tears!
Tears would not help them—battling constant jeers.

Forms, trained to bend and grovel from the first,
Crouching through life forever in the dark,
Aimlessly creeping toward an unseen mark;
And no one durst
Deny their horrid dream, that they are curst.

And life for them! dare we call life its name?
O God! an arid sea of burning sand,
Eternal blackness! death on every hand!
A smothered flame,
Writhing and blasting in the tortured frame.

And death! we shudder when we speak the word;
'Tis all the same to them—or life, or death;
They breathe them both with every fevered breath;
When have they heard,
That cool Bethesda's waters might be stirred!

They live among us—live and die to-day;
We brush them with our garments on the street,
And track their footsteps with our dainty feet;
'Poor common clay!'
We curl our lips—and that is what we say.

God's pity on them! and on us as well:
They live and die like brutes, and we like men:
Both go alone into the dark—what then?
Or heaven, or hell?
They suffered in this life! Stop! Who can tell?

The last stranger who visited Washington Irving, before his death, was Theodore Tilton, who published shortly afterward an account of the interview. Mr. Tilton wrote also a private letter to a friend, giving an interesting reminiscence, which he did not mention in his published account. The following is an extract from this letter, now first made public:

As I was about parting from Mr. Irving, at the door-step, he held my hand a few moments, and said:

'You know Henry Ward Beecher?

'Yes,' I replied, 'he is an intimate friend.'

'I have never seen him,' said he, 'tell me how he looks.'

I described, in a few words, Mr. Beecher's personal appearance; when Mr. Irving remarked:

'I take him to be a man always in fine health and cheery spirits.'

I replied that he was hale, vigorous, and full of life; that every drop of his blood bubbled with good humor.

'His writings,' said Knickerbocker, 'are full of human kindness. I think he must have a great power of enjoyment.'

'Yes,' I added, 'to hear him laugh is as if one had spilt over you a pitcher of wine.'

'It is a good thing for a man to laugh well,' returned the old gentleman, smiling. He then observed:

'I have read many of your friend's writings; he draws charming pictures; he inspires and elevates one's mind; I wish I could once take him by the hand.'

At which I instantly said:

'I will ask him to make you a visit.'

'Tell him I will give him a Scotch welcome; tell him that I love him, though I never have seen his face.'