eir faces but by their feet. A solitary tourist met me among the
ruins of Luxor; I knew his tread, though months had elapsed, among the
thousands on London Bridge. A gypsy family, whom I passed on the
Spanish sierras, went under my window in Paris, and I missed the feet
of the lad who had been hanged. Ten thieves were marched to the
pillory in Kiev; I counted the paces of the four who escaped, from a
closed diligence on the Simplon. I lost not one among the millions of
footfalls. But there were two which I distinguished every where. When
I pursued, they retreated; when I fled, they followed me. They were
like two echoes in different keys; and one of them I loved, the other
I hated. The first was soft, tinkling, harmonious, like a memory
rather than a sound; the other was firm, vigorous, and vehement, and
it kept time with the soft footstep, as if to drown it to my ears.
When I was fagged and wretched, the light footfall approached me; but
when, inspirited, I rose to behold its owner, it died away in the
thunder of its companion tread.

"At last I embarked for America, and when the land disappeared I said
to myself, 'At sea, at least, no footfalls can follow.' But one night,
when the clangor of the screw drove me upon deck, I heard, far astern,
through the deep fog, the sound of two haunting feet. Next morning a
swifter steamer overtook us. The waves revelled between, and the winds
were high, but above the bellow of our engines and the elements, those
thrilling footfalls rang out. I caught a glimpse of a familiar
something, as the rival craft went by, and reeled and fell upon the
deck.

"I found New York the noisiest city in the world, and felt that a
week's tenure would drive me mad. A fire occurred in Broadway the
night of my arrival, and the din of the mobs which ran to its relief
was greater than all the combined clamors of Europe. So I resorted to
a beautiful village called Wyoming, in the heart of the Susquehanna
mountains, and passed the month of September in comparative quiet. If
any place in the world is shut in from brawls and storms, it is this
historic valley. Its reminiscences were sad and painful to me, but its
scenes were like soft dreams.

"During a part of my tenure in the village I missed my shadowy
attendants; but when, one day, I ascended to Prospect Rock, I heard
amid the hum of farms and mines and mills, those same audible
repetitions floating up the sides of the mountain. The valley grew dim
up