We arrived at Harrisburg in the course of the evening, and attempted to find our way to the Jones House, to which we had been commended.  By some mistake, intentional on the part of somebody, as it may have been, or purely accidental, we went to the Herr House instead.  I entered my name in the book, with that of my companion.  A plain, middle-aged man stepped up, read it to himself in low tones, and coupled to it a literary title by which I have been sometimes known.  He proved to be a graduate of Brown University, and had heard a certain Phi Beta Kappa poem delivered there a good many years ago.  I remembered it, too; Professor Goddard, whose sudden and singular death left such lasting regret, was the Orator.  I recollect that while I was speaking a drum went by the church, and how I was disgusted to see all the heads near the windows thrust out of them, as if the building were on fire. Cedat armis toga. The clerk in the office, a mild, pensive, unassuming young man, was very polite in his manners, and did all he could to make us comfortable.  He was of a literary turn, and knew one of his guests in his character of author.  At tea, a mild old gentleman, with white hair and beard, sat next us.  He, too, had come hunting after his son, a lieutenant in a Pennsylvania regiment.  Of these, father and son, more presently.

After tea we went to look up Dr. Wilson, chief medical officer of the hospitals in the place, who was staying at the Brady House.  A magnificent old toddy-mixer, Bardolphian in hue and stern of aspect, as all grog-dispensers must be, accustomed as they are to dive through the features of men to the bottom of their souls and pockets to see whether they are solvent to the amount of sixpence, answered my question by a wave of one hand, the other being engaged in carrying a dram to his lips.  His superb indifference gratified my artistic feeling more than it wounded my personal sensibilities.  Anything really superior in its line claims my homage, and this man was the ideal bar-tender, above all vulgar passions, untouched by commonplace sympathies, himself a lover of the liquid happiness he dispenses, and filled with a fine scorn of all those lesser felicities conferred by love or fame or wealth or any of the roundabout agencies for which his fiery elixir is the cheap, all-powerful substitute.

Dr. Wilson was in bed, though it was early in the evening, not having slept for I don’t know how many nights.

“Take my card up to him, if you please.”

“This way, Sir.”

A man who has not slept for a fortnight or so is not expected to be as affable, when attacked in his bed, as a French princess of old time at her morning-receptions.  Dr. Wilson turned toward me, as I entered, without effusion, but without rudeness.  His thick, dark moustache was chopped off square at the lower edge of the upper lip, which implied a decisive, if not a peremptory, style of character.

I am Doctor So-and-So. of Hub-town, looking after my wounded son. (I gave my name and said Boston, of course, in reality.)