“The Sub-Editor of the Daily Copper,”
exclaimed the young man, “I am glad to see
you, sir. Your name sir is —”

“Slinkum Scissleby,” said the Sub-Editor
quickly.

“My business with you may be stated in a
few words,” continued the Unknown, as he
stood with his arms folded and leaned against
the mantle—“Do you remember a letter which
appeared in your paper about sixteen months
ago?”

Scissleby moved quickly in his chair, and
elevated his eyebrows.

“Remember a letter which appeared in our
paper sixteen months ago? Not a bit of it.
As well ask me if I remember all the advertisements
which have appeared in our columns,
from the marriages and deaths, down to the
quack notices in one corner.”

Having thus relieved his mind, Scissleby
relapsed into a sort of leaden stupor, with his
eyes fixed upon the cap of his knee.

“There appeared a letter in your paper,
signed with the initials P. X., and bearing the
name of a town in a western state at its head.
It was written from that town by some able
correspondent of yours, and inserted doubtless
in your paper, as a choice piece of news.
This you will say was all in the usual routine.
Your paper was printed, everybody read it in
this city, and a hundred copies found their way
to the town which I have mentioned. Be patient,
sir — in a moment I will have done.

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There was a young girl in that town, who,
beautiful and gifted, and just starting into
womanhood, was the angel of a household. A
father, a mother, and two brothers, regarded
the daughter and sister with an affection boundless
to idolatry. This seems rather a dull
story — does it not?”

Scissleby shifted in his chair, nodding his
head very violently.

“This girl then;”— there was a distortion
of the young man's features, and he paused as
if to gather command over his feelings—“This
young girl, living in the light of her father's
fireside, was a very happy thing; full of life
and hope, and having such a light and smile
about her face, that the very beggars who
wandered through the town — perchance they
were emigrants from other lands, who sick at
heart and very, very poor, had journeyed to
our country in search of the mere means of
life — were won by her cheerful look, and after
receiving bread from her hands, spoke of her
in their prayers in all their future life, as the
good angel, who had once upon a time lightened
the darkness of their desolate way. But,
Pshaw! This is all romance — is it not?”

Scissleby nodded, and arranged one of his
limbs upon two chairs.

“Well — well — this girl whose very innocence
was the seed of her undoing — this
child who every night knelt to receive her
father's blessing after the evening prayer —
was deceived by a wretch who came to that
happy home clad in all the externals of virtue
and honor. For a while the shame was
locked within her bosom; at last it was known
to father and brother, and the seducer on his
knees, begged for permission to seal his repentance
by a marriage. They were married —
lived very happily for two weeks when your
paper came to this far-off town”—

He paused and buried his face between his
hands which rested on the mantle; Scissleby
growing impatient, carefully removed his limb
from the chairs, and replaced it by the other
limb, which it may be proper to remark was
of the same length.

“Your paper came to town,” resumed the
young man, as he advanced a step, his brow
corrugated and his hands clenched, “and this
young wife — my sister sir — saw her own
name written there coupled with every epithet
of dishonor. `She had been a common thing
before her marriage — a precocious profligate
whose favors were bestowed upon libertines
more base than herself.' This was the story
of your paper, sir — my sister read it. The
whole town flung it in her face, by hints and
whispers. In the very Church of God she was
pointed at as the foul creature whose infamy
had been proclaimed in the `Daily Copper.' Do
you understand me, sir —”

“Don't hit me. You'd better not,” cried
Scissleby, bouncing from his chair and assuming
an attitude of lank dignity, as the young
man approached him with his hands clenched
and his brow darkened by emotion — “Observe,
sir, that when you strike me you strike
the Daily Copper.”

“This letter in your paper, written by a person
without a name, and published by you to
all the world, did its work in a very short time.
Two months after the paper reached our town
there was a funeral — people talked in whispers
round the grave, and those who had
sneered now began to pity, for she looked so
very sad and beautiful as she lay in her coffin.
I had been absent six months — a tour to
Europe took me from home — the whole story
of my sister's marriage and her broken heart—
was utterly unknown to me. I came home,
and sought my sister, and found her in the
graveyard. Her husband too was not there —
he too was away from his `home' — he had
left his dying wife on account of the charges
contained in your paper, that is, in your correspondent's
letter. Now, sir, this you will
say is a very pretty story —”

His voice fell, and he pressed his hand
against his throat, as though his agitation had
choked his utterance. Advancing toward
Scissleby he laid his hand upon his shoulder,
and bent down until his breath fanned the cheek
of the Sub-Editor—

“Now, Sir, I have sent for you in order to ask
you a simple question. Answer it or not, just
as you please. How much did your correspondent
pay you for the insertion of his
letter?”

“S-i-r-r!” ejaculated Scissleby horrified in
all his lengthy limbs at the idea of the Daily
Copper being a purchasable commodity.

p254-027

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