On a bright afternoon in the month of October, nearly
twenty years after the events we have just related, two
men got out of the cars at Martinsburg. The cars! this
single word will convey to the reader more completely
than a volume of description, the new scenes he is now
about to be introduced to. He has witnessed—if indeed,
he has followed us through the incidents of our brief
chronicle—the peculiar modes of life of the past in the
then border town: he has been present at a veritable
“running for the bottle,” he has found in the strongest
intellects, those traits of credulity and superstition which
advancing civilization, with its ever increasing radiance,
puts to rout.

The new age had inaugurated itself with literature for
its pass word, science for its battle-cry. Steam had revolutionized
the past: newspapers and journals were showered
down like a beneficent rain from heaven, on the long
parched earth: the land every where glowed and bloomed
with the new light and heat infused into its veins; in
one word (type of this great change), the cars had come,
arousing with their shrill scream, the long dormant echoes
of the quiet country side.

The two travelers we have mentioned, came from the
east; and standing on the platform of the dépôt now gazed
quietly at the long train as it sped on toward the west.

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The first was a man of about forty, manly and pleasing
in face, form, and carriage. A dark auburn beard very
full but carefully trimmed, covered his cheeks and joined
his short hair of the same color. A high forehead, piercing
eyes, and firm lips gave to his countenance great
force and elegance; but a buoyant, well-pleased smile removed
all traces of student-character from this face, so suggestive
of reflection and profound mental toil. Thought
had paled the forehead, and closed the firm lips; but
health had made the thinker cheerful and full of life.

His companion was a contrast to himself, in every particular.
In the first place he was young: apparently not
more than eighteen or nineteen, and his figure had none
of that well-knit strength and activity in every movement,
which that of the elder possessed. His hair long and very
fair, fell around a face almost feminine in its delicacy;
blue eyes, thoughtful, and vailed by heavy lashes, completed
the contrast; for those eyes, like the whole face,
were full of sadness and quiet melancholy. The cheerful
manly countenance of the elder, attracted and invited all
who approached its possessor: the dreamy and retiring
thoughtfulness of the young man's face repelled. But
one idea seemed to possess his mind, to the exclusion of
all other objects and reflections. Now to be an agreeable
person in society, above all to be “popular,” it is absolutely
necessary to have more than one idea.

They were both clad in the ordinary manner of gentlemen
at the period—the young man somewhat more elegantly
than the elder, whose form was enveloped in a
brown surtout with frogged buttons.

While the young man was calmly looking round him,
his companion with all the presence of mind of an old
traveler, was attending to his baggage, which consisted
of a pile of enormous trunks, bound heavily with iron
bands, such as are made use of by those who travel on
the sea. Nothing was missing, and soon two or three

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bustling porters were busy in removing them, to the “Globe.”
The Globe was now a hotel and had its porters.

“Come, Max,” said the elder traveler, cheerfully, “let
us get on. I am hungry, which is no doubt owing to the
fact that I have had no dinner.”

“So am I, sir,” said the young man, “I had very little
breakfast.”

“Eat heartily! eat heartily! it is a good rule, if not carried
too far. You are thin, I think, and don't look well.”

The young man sighed.

“I am very well though, sir,” he said.

“How are the spirits?”

“Excellent, sir,” said the young man, with a sad smile.

His companion shook his head; and looking at the
young man with great tenderness, sighed. Then taking
his arm, the traveler led the way on foot toward the hotel.

Every thing in Martinsburg had changed; the old
things had passed away, and all had become new. New
blood was in her veins, her streets were bustling; stores
gayly decked with rich carpets, and all descriptions of
bright-colored stuffs to attract the passer by, stood now
where once low dingy dwellings crouched, apathetic and
poverty stricken. The streets were thronged with wayfarers;
the bright October afternoon had, moreover,
brought forth the fairer portion of the community, and
the warm pleasant sunlight poured its joyful splendor
upon throngs of young girls and children, clad in a myriad
rainbow colors, and gamboling like variegated tulip blossoms,
shaken together by some merry summer's wind.

“Pretty,” said the elder traveler, “are they not, Max?”

“Yes, sir; I am fond of them.”

“Of what? The girls?”

“No, sir,” Max said, smiling gently, “of children.”

“Who is not? The man who dislikes them is worse
than the music-hater: and you know Shakspeare says
such are not to `be trusted.' Children—well behaved

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ones—and flowers, and poetry, and music, are among the
purest and most innocent recreations we have, my boy
They are all recreations—when they are good!”

“I can't bear some music, sir.”

“How so?”

“It affects me too much; I mean, makes me nervous.”

“Nervous?”

“The association is so strong,” murmured the young
man, bending down his head.

His companion looked at him a second time with that
tender yet piercing glance we have described, but made
no reply.

“I know this is wrong, sir; but I can not help it,”
the young man added, “I am too weak.”

“In God's name my child,” said the elder, “banish
this haunting memory. It is too exaggerated, too unreasonable;
have I no cause like yourself? Come, come!
let us dismiss the subject of music which afflicts you so:
though every thing you touch is food for your irrational
melancholy. Here we are at the Globe—my good old
Globe.”

And smiling cheerfully, he entered.

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