The Emperor never spoke of his early life.  The veil of mystery on this point increased the popular curiosity concerning him, and invested him with something of a romantic interest.  There was one thing that excited his disgust and indignation.  The Bohemians of the San Francisco press got into the practice of attaching his name to their satires and hits at current follies, knowing that the well-known “Norton I.” at the end would insure a reading.  This abuse of the liberty of the press he denounced with dignified severity, threatening extreme measures unless it were stopped.  But nowhere on earth did the press exhibit more audacity, or take a wider range, and it would have required a sterner heart and a stronger hand than that of Norton I. to put a hook into its jaws.

The end of all human grandeur, real or imaginary, comes at last.  The Emperor became thinner and more stooped as the years passed.  The humor of his hallucination retired more and more into the background, and its pathetic side came out more strongly.  His step was slow and feeble, and there was that look in his eyes so often seen in the old and sometimes in the young, just before the great change comes—­a rapt, far-away look, suggesting that the invisible is coming into view, the shadows vanishing and the realities appearing.  The familiar face and form were missed on the streets, and it was known that he was dead.  He had gone to his lonely lodging, and quietly lain down and died.  The newspapers spoke of him with pity and respect, and all San Francisco took time, in the midst of its roar-and-rush fever of perpetual excitement, to give a kind thought to the dead man who had passed over to the life where all delusions are laid aside, where the mystery of life shall be revealed, and where we shall see that through all its tangled web ran the golden thread of mercy.  His life was an illusion, and the thousands who sleep with him in Lone Mountain waiting the judgment-day were his brothers.

Camilla Cain.

She was from Baltimore, and had the fair face and gentle voice peculiar to most Baltimore women.  Her organization was delicate but elastic—­one of the sort that bends easily, but is hard to break.  In her eyes was that look of wistful sadness so often seen in holy women of her type.  Timid as a fawn, in the class-meeting she spoke of her love to Jesus and delight in his service in a voice low and a little hesitating, but with strangely thrilling effect.  The meetings were sometimes held in her own little parlor in the cottage on Dupont street, and then we always felt that we had met where the Master himself was a constant and welcome guest.  She was put into the crucible.  For more than fifteen years she suffered unceasing and intense bodily pain.  Imprisoned in her sick chamber, she fought her long, hard battle.  The pain-distorted limbs lost their use, the patient face waxed more wan, and the traces of agony were on it always; the soft, loving eyes were often tear washed.  The fires were hot, and they burned on through the long, long years without respite.  The mystery of it all was too deep for me; it was too deep for her.  But somehow it does seem that the highest suffer most: