sufficient to burst open a McFarlane safe—and this for the purpose of giving a fictitious value to certain leather straps in which he had invested for speculative purposes. I fancy, however, as he turns the handle of the cab, preparatory to making a start, that there is an expression about the eyes of the doughty defender of my rights of property very like that which the hunter wears when he has bagged his game. When he comes to let me out at my destination it is evident that he has changed his whole moral nature. He demands an incredible sum for his services, and by no means in a tone of deference. In some way he contrived during the brief journey which I made under his direction, to lose all the respect which he had first manifested. It is a rapacious bird of prey that stands before me, bereft of natural affections and related to nobody. I talk of the law to him and the charges which he is privileged to make, but I am soon made to understand that mine is a special case, of which no municipal ordinance takes cognizance. There was an extra crack of the whip duly furnished during the trip for the express purpose of giving a new zest to my pursuit of happiness; or I had more packages than the law in its serene impartiality ever dreamt of allowing to one man; or a detour was made for my especial gratification; or it was earlier than the hour at which the law goes into operation; or full two hours after the law had retired torepose. Contemplating these facts from serenest heights of modern philosophy, I can give expression to nothing but the very keenest regrets. It is asad thing that our moral progress should not keep pace pari passu with our material. And then the scalping to which hackmen are especially addicted is as universal as civilization. I have an indistinct idea that here, in our own fond Utopia of California, persons engaged in the business of transporting travelers from steamboat
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or railroad to hotel do sometimes prey upon the unwary. The hackman is sz generis. He may be defined to be the very reverse of the poet. He is made, not born. We may take to ourselves great shame because no effort has been made to reclaim him. Mr. Stuart Mill, extensive though the range of his philosophy may be, has never once alluded to the subject. Beecher is also silent— likewise Sumner. The fact is, the reconstructed hackman is a personage of whom only the poet can form a conception.
But here in the wide halls of this firstclass hotel in Broadway the traveler may rest secure from all imposition. The bland proprietor meets him with such a smiling countenance that he is satisfied that he has fallen in rather with a philanthropist who manifests the singular faculty of appreciating all his good qualities at a glance, than a mere host ready to furnish a measure of lodgings and victuals for a stipulated price. It is more than likely that he would not have been half so affectionately received by his wife's relations. If, however, his late experience should lead him to be suspicious, the idea will occur to him that no matter what may be the private sentiments of that individual, there cannot be much room for scalping in an arrangement in which four dollars and fifty cents per day are to cover all expenses. His faith in the non-elastic character of his contract is destined to be shaken the moment he enters the dining-room. At least, I found that the silent, supercilious personages who hand around the plates, one and all regarded me as an unwelcome addition, and one to whom no facilities should be extended beyond the strictest line of duty. Receiving no attention, I advance to the first table, and am about to lay my hand on the chair but am anticipated by a sudden flank movement on the part of one of these despots, who orders me off with the words, uttered in a tone of compassion-
