ever write to any one. Indeed, there was no evidence that he was able
to write. He never went to church, nor even to "meeting;" never
attended any public entertainment; never took any holidays. All his
time was spent either at the foundry where he worked, or at the
boarding-house where he lodged. In the latter place, the greater part
of his hours of relaxation were spent in looking either out of the
window or into the fire; thinking, apparently, about nothing
particular. All endeavours on the part of his fellow boarders to draw
him into conversation were utterly fruitless. No one in the place knew
anything about his past life, and when his fellow-journeymen in the
workshop attempted to inveigle him into any confidence on that subject,
he had a trick of calling up a harsh and sinister expression of
countenance which effectually nipped all such experiments in the bud.
Even his employers failed to elicit anything from him on this head,
beyond the somewhat vague piece of intelligence that he hailed from
"down east." The foreman of the establishment with a desperate attempt
at facetiousness, used to say of him, that no one knew who he was,
where he came from, where he was going to, or what he was going to do
when he got there.

And yet, this utter lack of sociability could scarcely have arisen from
positive surliness or unkindness of disposition. Instances were not
wanting in which he had given pretty strong evidence that he carried
beneath that rugged and uncouth exterior a kinder and more gentle heart
than is possessed by most men. Upon one occasion he had jumped at the
imminent peril of his life, from the bridge which spans the Illinois
river just above the entrance to the lake, and had fished up a drowning
child from its depths and borne it to the shore in safety. In doing so
he had been compelled to swim through a swift and strong current which
would have swamped any swimmer with one particle less strength,