He asked me if I had ever seen the "Remus Sentinel."
I replied that I had not, and would have added that I did not even know where Remus
was, when he continued by saying it was strange the hotel proprietor did not keep the
"Sentinel" on his files, and that he, himself, should write to the editor about it. He would
not have spoken about it, but he, himself, had been an humble member of the profession
to which I belonged, and had often written for its columns. Some friends of his--partial,
no doubt--had said that his style somewhat resembled Junius's; but of course, you know--
well, what he could say was that in the last campaign his articles were widely sought for.
He did not know but he had a copy of one. Here his hand dived into the breast-pocket of
his coat, with a certain deftness that indicated long habit, and, after depositing on his lap
a bundle of well-worn documents, every one of which was glaringly suggestive of
certificates and signatures, he concluded he had left it in his trunk.
I breathed more freely. We were sitting in the rotunda of a famous Washington hotel, and
only a few moments before had the speaker, an utter stranger to me, moved his chair
beside mine and opened a conversation. I noticed that he had that timid, lonely, helpless
air which invests the bucolic traveler who, for the first time, finds himself among
strangers, and his identity lost, in a world so much larger, so much colder, so much more
indifferent to him than he ever imagined. Indeed, I think that what we often attribute to
the impertinent familiarity of country-men and rustic travelers on railways or in cities is
largely due to their awful loneliness and nostalgia. I remember to have once met in a
smoking-car on a Kansas railway one of these lonely ones, who, after plying me with a
thousand useless questions, finally elicited the fact that I knew slightly a man who had
once dwelt in his native town in Illinois. During the rest of our journey the conversation
turned chiefly upon his fellow-townsman, whom it afterwards appeared that my Illinois
friend knew no better than I did. But he had established a link between himself and his
far-off home through me, and was happy.
While this was passing through my mind I took a fair look at him. He was a spare young
fellow, not more than thirty, with sandy hair and eyebrows, and eyelashes so white as to
be almost imperceptible. He was dressed in black, somewhat to the "rearward o' the
fashion," and I had an odd idea that it had been his wedding suit, and it afterwards
appeared I was right. His manner had the precision and much of the dogmatism of the
country schoolmaster, accustomed to wrestle with the feeblest intellects. From his
history, which he presently gave me, it appeared I was right here also.
He was born and bred in a Western State, and, as schoolmaster of Remus and Clerk of
Supervisors, had married one of his scholars, the daughter of a clergyman, and a man of
some little property. He had attracted some attention by his powers of declamation, and
was one of the principal members of the Remus Debating Society. The various questions
then agitating Remus,--"Is the doctrine of immortality consistent with an agricultural
life?" and, "Are round dances morally wrong?"--afforded him an opportunity of bringing
