at in the hotel was a Southern
lady who would not leave her trunks, in which there were all her diamonds
and other valuables, and that he could not find a porter to bring them
down. I was strong enough in those days. "What is the number of her
room?" "No. 22." I rushed up--it was scorching hot by this time--burst
into No. 22, and found a beautiful young lady in dire distress. I said
abruptly, "I come from Mr. --- ---; where are your trunks?" She began to
cry confusedly, "Oh, you can do _nothing_; they are very heavy."

Seeing the two large trunks, I at once, without a word, caught one by
each handle, dragged them after me bumping downstairs, the lady
following, to the door, where I found my friend, who had a carriage in
waiting. From the lady's subsequent account, it appeared that I had
occasioned her much more alarm than pleasure. She said that all at once
a great tall gentleman burst into her room, seized her trunks without a
word of apology, and dragged them downstairs like a giant; she was never
so startled in all her life! It was explained to me that, as in the
South only negroes handle trunks, the lady could not regard me exactly as
a gentleman. She was within a short ace of being burnt up, trunks and
all, but could not forget that she was from the "Sa-outh," and must needs
show it.

Apropos of this occurrence, I remember something odd which took place on
the night of the same day. There was a stylish drinking-place, kept by a
man named Guy, in Seventh Street. In the evening, when it was most
crowded, there entered a stranger, described as having been fully _seven_
feet high, and powerful in proportion, who kept very quiet, but who, on
being chaffed as the giant escaped from Barnum's Museum, grew angry, and
ended by clearing out the barroom--driving thirty men before him like
flies. Aghast at such a tremendous feat, one who remained, asked, "Who
in God's wrath are you?--haven't you a name?"

"Yes, I _have_ a name," replied the Berserker; "_I'm_ CHARLES LELAND!"
saying which he vanished.

The next day it was all over Philadelphia that I had cleared out John
Guy's the night before, _sans merci_. True, I am not seven feet high,
but some men (like stories) expand enormously when inflated or mad; so my
denial was attributed to sheer modesty. But I recognised in the Charles
Leland a mysterious cousin of mine, who was really seven feet high, who
had disappeared for many years, and of whom I have never h