agons of every description are
hurrying pell-mell in every direction. The automobile glides like
a thing of life in and out, snorting with vexation if blocked for
an instant.

"Soon we are out of the hurly-burly; the homes melt away into the
country; the road lengthens; we pass the old toll-gate and are
fairly on our way; farewell city of jewelled towers and gay
festivities.

"The day is bright, the air is sweet, and myriads of yellow
butterflies flutter about us, so thickly covering the ground in
places as to look like beds of yellow flowers.

"Corn-fields and pastures stretch along the roadsides; big red
barns and cosey white houses seem to go skurrying by, calling, 'I
spy,' then vanishing in a sort of cinematographic fashion as the
automobile rushes on."

As we sped onward I pointed out the places--only too well
remembered--where the Professor had worked so hard exactly two
weeks before to the day.

After luncheon, while riding about some of the less frequented
streets of Batavia, we came quite unexpectedly to an old cemetery.
In the corner close to the tracks of the New York Central, so
placed as to be in plain view of all persons passing on trains, is
a tall, gray, weather-beaten monument, with the life-size figure
of a man on the top of the square shaft. It is the monument to the
memory of William Morgan who was kidnapped near that spot in the
month of September, 1826, and whose fate is one of the mysteries
of the last century.

To read the inscriptions I climbed the rickety fence; the grass
was high, the weeds thick; the entire place showed signs of
neglect and decay.

The south side of the shaft, facing the railroad, was inscribed as
follows:

Sacred To The Memory Of
WILLIAM MORGAN,
A NATIVE OF VIRGINIA,
A CAPT. IN THE WAR OF 1812,
A RESPECTABLE CITIZEN OF
BATAVIA, AND A MARTYR
TO THE FREEDOM OF WRITING,
PRINTING, AND SPEAKING THE
TRUTH. HE WAS ABDUCTED
FROM NEAR THIS SPOT IN THE
YEAR 1826 BY FREEMASONS,
AND MURDERED FOR REVEALING
THE SECRETS OF THE ORDER.

The disappearance of Morgan is still a mystery,--a myth to most
people nowadays; a very stirring reality in central and western
New York seventy-five years ago; even now in the localities
concerned the old embers of bitter feeling show signs of life if
fanned by so much as a breath.

Six miles beyond Batavia, on the road to Le Roy, is the little
village of Stafford; some twenty or thirty houses bordering the