“How so, Mr. Burton?”
“Because I have a very good picture of him, now, in my mind’s eye. He is about thirty years of age, rather short and broad-shouldered, muscular; has dark complexion and black eyes; the third finger of his right hand has been injured, so as to contract the muscles and leave it useless. He has some education, which he has acquired by hard study since he grew up to be his own master. His childhood was passed in ignorance, in the midst of the worst associations; and his own nature is almost utterly depraved. He is bad, from instinct, inheritance and bringing-up; and now, our blessed Redeemer, himself, would hardly find good enough in him to promise a hope of ultimate salvation. It is curious that he should ever have seen fit to study, so as to acquire even the smattering of knowledge which he has. He must have been led into it by some powerful passion. If I could decide what that passion was, I might have a key to unlock the gate into some other matters.”
I stared at the speaker in astonishment as he rapidly pronounced the above analysis of the personal appearance and character of the writer.
“Do you know him?” I asked.
“I do not know his name, and I have never met him. All the acquaintance I have with him, I have made through the medium of his chirography. It is sufficient for me; I can not mistake,”—then, observing my puzzled and incredulous look, he smiled, as he added, “By the way, Richard, you are not aware of my accomplishment in the art of reading men and women from a specimen of their handwriting. It is one of my greatest aids in the profession to which I have devoted myself. The results I obtain sometimes astonish my friends. But, I assure you, there is nothing marvelous in them. Patient study and unwearied observation, with naturally quick perceptions, are the only witchcraft I use. With moderate natural abilities, I assert that any other person could equal me in this art (black art, some of my acquaintances regard it,) by giving the same time to it that a musician would to master an instrument.”
“I do not know about that, Mr. Burton. I guess it would take a mind of the singular composition of your own to make much out of an art with no rules and no foundations.”
“It has its rules, for me. But as proof is better than argument, show me any letters or scraps of writing you may have about you. I would like to satisfy you, before we proceed further, for I do not wish you to feel that you are working with a crackbrained individual, who is riding a hobby at your expense.”
I emptied my inside coat-pocket of its contents, among which were several letters—one from my mother, a note from my uncle in Washington, an invitation from an old college-chum to attend his wedding in Boston, and two or three business epistles from casual acquaintances—one, I remember, an entreaty from a young man to get him something to do in that magnetic center of all unemployed particles—Washington. Of these, I revealed only to him the superscription and signature, with, perhaps, some unimportant sentence, which would, in no way, of itself, betray the characters or pursuits of the writers. I need not describe my surprise when, in each instance, he gave a careful and accurate description of the age, appearance, habits, profession and mental qualities of the person whose handwriting he had examined.
I could hardly credit my own senses; there must be some hocus-pocus about it, as in the tricks which jugglers play with cards. But my respect for the earnestness of my companion’s pursuits, and the indubitable nature of his proof, did not allow me to doubt any length of time. I became a believer in his facts, and I give these facts to my readers, at the risk of seeing the plain, sensible nose of the majority turned up with an expression of skepticism, mortifying to me. Mr. Burton’s character is a real one, and the truth of his wonderful achievements will become history.
The terrible interest of the subject which had brought us together did not permit us to spend much time in these interesting but irrelevant experiments. We discussed the past and present. Mr. Burton assured me that he had never, for a day, lost sight of the case—that his interest in it had deepened, rather than lessened; that he had not been idle during all this long period; but that he had already gathered up a fact or two of some importance, and had been on the point of sending for me, once or twice. He had refrained, waiting for some lights to culminate, and “now, he was glad enough to get hold of that letter.”
He informed me that Leesy Sullivan was living quietly in the city, subsisting mostly upon donations from himself, she being too far gone with consumption to exert herself much with the needle. The child was with her, healthy and pretty.
I made no inquiries after James Argyll, but he told me that the young man came frequently to the city; that, for a while, he had seemed dispirited, and gambled desperately, but that lately he was looking and behaving better.
“It is my impression,” added he, “that he is about to marry one of his cousins—probably the youngest. And as to his bad habits, I caused him to understand, indirectly, that if they were not reformed, he should be convicted of them, before his uncle. This I did (after I became convinced that he would marry one of the young ladies) out of compassion to the family.”
My head drooped on my hand. It was long since I had any tidings of the Argylls—death
