having an enormous circulation.  Greeley and Seward were not friends, but there was much of spiritual kinship between them.  We grew humorous over recounting the new movements:  Spiritualism, women’s rights, and temperance.  “Do you know what happened right here in New York?” said Yarnell.  “The Millerites got ready for the Second Advent of Christ, and there was a shop in the Bowery which displayed a large placard with the words ‘muslin for ascension robes.’”

“Don’t you see how clearly Douglas’ compact mind stands out against all this folly?” “Yes,” said Yarnell, “but how is Douglas going to stand out against it?  These various reformers never get tired, and they are so numerous that they will overwhelm any man.  Besides that, you find able minds like Seward and Greeley taking up with them.  Is it the same way out in Chicago?” “Not so much so,” I said.  “We have many foreigners out our way, and they give a different quality to the civilization.  Come out and see.”

Yarnell walked with me back to the Astor House, and we parted.

I found Dorothy in tears, almost hysterical.  Jenny, in her absence, had stepped from the room for a moment.  She had not returned.  She could not be found.  I went on the streets, I searched everywhere.  I drove to the open squares, to the Battery.  I enlisted the aid of policemen, but they were none too friendly.  I went to the Tribune and inserted an advertisement.  The hotel employees took a hand.  But no Jenny.  She was deeply attached to our boy.  She could not have willingly wandered away.  She must have been kidnapped.

Dorothy cried herself to sleep.  I sat through half the night at the window, looking out upon Broadway, listening, at last, to the stir and sounds of dawn.  Jenny had been in the Clayton family almost from her birth; an associate of Mammy’s for many years.  The affection that existed between Dorothy and Jenny was intimate and tender.  Dorothy depended upon her for everything.  I went to Dorothy and took her in my arms, trying to console her.  She was as deeply affected as if she had lost a sister.  All that day we searched for Jenny.  The days went by, and we did nothing but try to find her.  Our loss became the talk of the hotel.  The newspapers took up the story.  Where was Jenny; in whose hands; what fate had she met?  Our boy cried for her, and Mrs. Clayton was inconsolable.  But at last we had to move on to Chicago.  Was Jenny kidnapped?  We never knew.  We only knew that we never saw her again.  This was the sordidness of slavery, its temptation to the meanest passions, the lowest lusts.  The loss of Jenny made me hate it.

CHAPTER XL