History is one long, tragic recital of human sorrow and suffering; but there is far more unwritten history than has ever been recorded on the printed page. Along the march of civilization all that has come down to us are the lives and doings of great men; we know little of the heart agonies of the race--such as cannot be recorded--language is inadequate. Most of history is a record of man's inhumanity to man, but historians deal with these dark pages only on the higher levels. The greatest suffering, the bitterest cries of anguish, the deepest wails of despair are in the lowlands of human life: down where its pathos can never be known. The darkest tragedies of war are lost by the gallant heroism of some officer; the blood and carnage are overshadowed and forgotten by the heralds of victory. The real pathos of war remains unnoticed by the chroniclers and correspondents; it is found in the heart suffering of the dying in the trenches; the black pall that settles over the homes made desolate by the news from the front. The saddest stories of life will never be told; they are the voiceless agonies and smothered sobs from victims of human treachery and deceit. Millions are shambling on their weary way, waiting for the end, whose hearts are dead and buried in graves of misplaced confidence. More domestic lights have been extinguished, more love dreams turned from a sweet phantasy to an horrid nightmare, more bodies fished from the river, more shocking tragedies have resulted directly from this cause--misplaced and wrecked confidence--than from all other causes of human wretchedness. An illustration from actual life will serve to bring the caption of this chapter--the Confidence Man--out in bold relief. An honest old farmer, whose horizon had not extended beyond the obscure Indiana neighbourhood, sold his little home and started for Kansas, hoping to enlarge his possessions and give his sons and daughters a larger sphere of opportunity. That they might see the wonders of a great city, arrangements were secured for a three days' stop-over at St. Louis. The Confidence Man saw them pass through the iron gate into the lobby. He first noted the train on which they had come to the city. With great enthusiasm he greeted the old gentleman, introduced himself, extending a business card of his "firm." With cunning palaver, and the guilelessness of the farmer--item after item of information as to name and where they came from were obtained. The man who said he thought he recognized the old gentleman soon became satisfied of it--having an uncle living in the same county--and "I have often heard him speak of you, etc., etc."