he helpless
slave can call forth the terrible majesty of the law, and quicken to
action its sensitive quality. The city is shocked that Mr. Keepum is
subjected to a night in jail, notwithstanding he has the jailer's best
parlor, and a barricade of champaign bottles are strewn at his feet by
flattering friends, who make night jubilant with their carousal.

Southern society asks no repentance of him whose hands reek with the
blood of his poor victim; southern society has no pittance for that
family Keepum has made lick the dust in tears and sorrow. Even while we
write--while the corpse of the murdered man, followed by a few brother
craftsmen, is being borne to its last resting-place, the perpetrator,
released on a paltry bail, is being regaled at a festive board. Such is
our civilization! How had the case stood with a poor man! Could he have
stood up against the chivalry of South Carolina, scoffed at the law, or
bid good-natured justice close her eyes? No. He had been dragged to a
close cell, and long months had passed ere the tardy movements of the
law reached his case. Even then, popular opinion would have turned upon
him, pre-judged him, and held him up as dangerous to the peace of the
people. Yes, pliant justice would have affected great virtue, and
getting on her high throne, never ceased her demands until he had
expiated his crime at the gallows.

A few weeks pass: Keepum's reputation for courage is fully endorsed, the
Attorney-General finds nothing in the act to justify him in bringing it
before a Grand Jury, the law is satisfied (or ought to be satisfied),
and the rich murderer sleeps without a pang of remorse.

CHAPTER XLII.

IN WHICH SOME LIGHT IS THROWN ON THE PLOT OF THIS HISTORY.

June, July, and August are past away, and September, with all its
autumnal beauties, ushers in, without bringing anything to lighten the
cares of that girl whose father yet pines in prison. She looks forward,
hoping against hope, to the return of her lover (something tells her he
still lives), only to feel more keenly the pangs of hope deferred.

And now, once more, New York, we are in thy busy streets. It is a
pleasant evening in early September. The soft rays of an autumn sun are
tinging the western sky, and night is fast drawing her sable mantle over
the scene. In Washington Square, near where the tiny fountain jets its
stream into a round, grassy-bordered basin, there sits a man of middle
stature, apparently in dee