“Stop, you—­maniac!” he roared.

Again answered Henry Monk:—­

“I’ve got my orders! Keep your seat, Horace!”

At Mud Springs, a village a few miles from Placerville, they met a large delegation of the citizens of Placerville, who had come out to meet the celebrated editor, and escort him into town.  There was a military company, a brass band, and a six-horse wagon-load of beautiful damsels in milk-white dresses, representing all the States in the Union.  It was nearly dark now, but the delegation was amply provided with torches, and bonfires blazed all along the road to Placerville.

The citizens met the coach in the outskirts of Mud Springs, and Mr. Monk reined in his foam-covered steeds.

“Is Mr. Greeley on board?” asked the chairman of the committee.

“He was, a few miles back!” said Mr. Monk.  “Yes,” he added, looking down through the hole which the fearful jolting had made in the coach-roof, “Yes, I can see him!  He is there!”

“Mr. Greeley,” said the chairman of the committee, presenting himself at the window of the coach, “Mr. Greeley, sir!  We are come to most cordially welcome you, sir!—­Why, God bless me, sir, you are bleeding at the nose!”

“I’ve got my orders!” cried Mr. Monk.  “My orders is as follows:  Git him there by seving!  It wants a quarter to seving.  Stand out of the way!”

“But, sir,” exclaimed the committee-man, seizing the off-leader by the reins, “Mr. Monk, we are come to escort him into town!  Look at the procession, sir, and the brass-band, and the people, and the young women, sir!”

“I’ve got my orders!” screamed Mr. Monk.  “My orders don’t say nothin’ about no brass bands and young women.  My orders says, ’Git him there by seving.’  Let go them lines!  Clear the way there!  Whoo-ep!  Keep your seat, Horace!” and the coach dashed wildly through the procession, upsetting a portion of the brass band, and violently grazing the wagon which contained the beautiful young women in white.

Years hence, gray-haired men who were little boys in this procession will tell their grandchildren how this stage tore through Mud Springs, and how Horace Greeley’s bald head ever and anon showed itself like a wild apparition above the coach-roof.

Mr. Monk was on time.  There is a tradition that Mr. Greeley was very indignant for a while:  then he laughed and finally presented Mr. Monk with a brand-new suit of clothes.  Mr. Monk himself is still in the employ of the California Stage Company, and is rather fond of relating a story that has made him famous all over the Pacific coast.  But he says he yields to no man in his admiration for Horace Greeley.

SIR THOMAS BROWNE

(1605-1682)

BY FRANCIS BACON