I have not seen him since. I hope that the iron has at last entered his soul and will hold him steadfast. Ha! that sounds like him stumbling up the steps now. Hey! he has rolled back to the bottom! Here he comes again. That must be him. “Of course!” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ DOBBS! A THUMBNAIL SKETCH OF A MARTYR. ------- I AM proud of my acquaintance with Dobbs. He was a hero, whose deeds were not spread upon any of the books of men, but whose martyrdom I am sure illustrates a glowing page in God’s great life book. I met him late one night. The paper, with its burden of news and gossip, had just been put to press, and I strolled out of the hot, clanking room to catch a sight of the cool morning stars, and a whiff of the dew-laden breezes of the dawn. Silhouetted against the intercepted stars, I saw a tall and striking form, standing like a statue on the corner. As I came out of the door the figure approached. “Is this the _Herald_ office, sir?” “Yes, sir. Can I serve you in any way?” “Well—” hesitating for an instant, and then speaking boldly and sharply, “I wanted to know if you could not trust me for a few papers?” “I suppose so; walk in to the light.” I shall never forget the impression Dobbs made on me that night, as we two walked in from the starlight to the glare of the gas-burners. A BLAZE OF HONESTY. As I have said before, he had a tall and striking figure. His face was ugly. He was ungraceful, ragged, and uncouth. Yet there was a splendid glow of honesty that shone from every feature, and challenged your admiration. It was not that cheap honesty that suffuses the face of your average honest man; but a vivid burst of light that, fed by principle, sent its glow from the heart. It was not the passive honesty that is the portion of men who have no need to steal, but the triumphant honesty that has grappled with poverty, with disease, with despair, and conquered the whole devil’s brood of temptation; the honesty that has been sorely tried, the honesty of martyrdom; the honesty of heroism. He was the honestest man I ever knew. THE PATHOS OF INCONGRUITY. There was one feature of his dress that was pathetic in its uniqueness. He wore a superb swallow-tail dress-coat; a gorgeous coat, which was doubtless christened at some happy wedding (his father’s, I suppose); had walked side by side with dainty laces; been swept through stately quadrilles, pressed upon velvet, and to-night came to me upon a shirtless back, and asked “trust” for a half-dozen newspapers.