years afterwards, a long period of time reckoned humanly, a bent, grey, meanly clad figure, with stern, compressed face, was pointed at on the street as McDonogh the Miser.
So it came to be; McDonogh, nothing else that any one cared to remember, but McDonogh the Miser. In fact, everything else about him had been forgotten. As, during one period of his life every circumstance fawned to him, and suggested to his courtiers more and more titles of respectful, even loving, admiration, now every circumstance produced some discredit to turn upon him; and, from the highest to the lowest in the city, no one seemed ever to know him, except to hate his insufferable meanness; and all seemed conscience-free to spy upon him and report about him. The market-people would relate the miserable pittance he expended every two or three days upon soup-meat and potatoes; the ferryman how, for thirty years, summer and winter, in rain or shine, he had crossed the river in an open skiff, rather than pay five cents to the ferry, except once during a furious storm. The newspaper boys repeated that he was never known to buy a newspaper; the hackmen, that but once in the long thirty years he took the omnibus;—the day before his death, when he was seized with a faintness in the street. He sued a widow and an orphan on a note, and was vilipended in open court for it. He could never have been otherwise than of imposing appearance; his face, from mere feature effect, must ever have been fine . . . yet it was used as an abhorrent symbol of avarice and nothing but avarice. He had no blood in his veins, it was said, and as much heart as a ten-dollar gold piece. Most pathetic of all was the way the children knew him, despised him, and
