12 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE
- 53, to April, '58, be was doing time in
the Delaware State Penitentiary for the proved crimes of arson and assault with intent to kill. His poetic cell in Dela- ware was the nearest he ever, in his en- tire life, came to Greece. Yours, etc, Whitney Edgurton. The editor of "The Gonfalon" tele- graphed me the contents of the letter just too late for me to prevent its printing, and one hour later I was bound for Delaware, forgetting, I am afraid, that Quinta had invited me to dinner. I knew that I would "show up, 1 ' as my students say, this Edgerton, The warden of the penitentiary was interested. He helped me. Fie brought out old registers. We were thorough. We were too thorough. We read that Jason Sanders of Kennuit, Massachu- setts, married, profession sailmaker, was committed to the penitentiary in December, 1853, for arson and mur- derous assault, and that he was incar- cerated for over four years. In the Wilmington library, in the files of a newspaper long defunct, I found an item dated, November, 1853: What appears to have been a piece of wretched scoundrelism was perpetrated at the house of Mr. Palatinus, a highly esteemed farmer residing near Chris- tiansburg, last Thursday. Mr. Palatinus gave food and shelter to a tramp calling himself Sanders, in return for some slight labor. The second evening the fellow found some spirits concealed in the barn, became intoxicated, demanded money from Mr. Palatinus, struck him, cast the lamp upon the floor, and set fire to the dwelling. He has been ar- rested and is held for trial. He is be- lieved to have been a sailor on Cape Cod. Where are our officers of the peace that such dangerous criminals should roam unapprehended? I did not make any especial haste to communicate my discoveries. It was a New York "Gem" corre- spondent who did that. His account was copied rather widely. The pictures of Jason were taken down from school-room walls. I returned to the university, I was sustained only by Quinta's faith. As she sat by the fire, chin resting against fragile fingers, she asserted, "Perhaps there has been some mis- take." That inspired me. I left her, too hastily, it may be, but she is ever one to understand and forgive. I fled to my rooms, stopping only to telephone to my friend of the history department. He assured me that there was a common Greek family name, Palatainos. You will note its resemblance to Palatinus I At this I jiggled in the drug-store telephone- booth and joyfully beat on the re- sounding walls, and looked out to see one of my own students, purchasing a bar of chocolate, indecently grinning at me, I sought to stalk out, but I could not quiet my rejoicing feet. I began my new letter to "The Gon- falon*' at ten in the evening. I fin- ished it at five of a cold morning, I remember myself as prowling through the room with no dignity, balancing myself ridiculously on the brass bar at the foot of my bed, beating my desk with my fists, lighting and hurling down cigarettes. In my letter I pointed out — I virtu- ally proved — that the Delaware farm- er's name was not Palatinus, but Pala- tainos. He was a Greek. He could not have sheltered Jason "in return for some slight labor," because this was December, when farm-work was slackest. No, this Palatainos was an agent of the Greek revolutionists.
