fixture as the sink itself, and belonged, like the suspended brush and

comb, to the traveling public. Philip managed to complete his toilet by

the use of his pocket-handkerchief, and declining the hospitality of the

landlord, implied in the remark, "You won'd dake notin'?" he went into

the open air to wait for breakfast.

The country he saw was wild but not picturesque. The mountain before him

might be eight hundred feet high, and was only a portion of a long

unbroken range, savagely wooded, which followed the stream. Behind the

hotel, and across the brawling brook, was another level-topped, wooded

range exactly like it. Ilium itself, seen at a glance, was old enough to

be dilapidated, and if it had gained anything by being made a wood and

water station of the new railroad, it was only a new sort of grime and

rawness. P. Dusenheimer, standing in the door of his uninviting

groggery, when the trains stopped for water; never received from the

traveling public any patronage except facetious remarks upon his personal

appearance. Perhaps a thousand times he had heard the remark, "Ilium

fuit," followed in most instances by a hail to himself as "AEneas," with

the inquiry "Where is old Anchises?" At first he had replied, "Dere

ain't no such man;" but irritated by its senseless repetition, he had

latterly dropped into the formula of, "You be dam."

Philip was recalled from the contemplation of Ilium by the rolling and

growling of the gong within the hotel, the din and clamor increasing till

the house was apparently unable to contain it; when it burst out of the

front door and informed the world that breakfast was on the table.

310

The Gilded Age